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This wasn't a request or anything, it's just something I've been wanting to write for a long time now. It not explicitly stated what (Y/n) has, because also, I don't know what I have-presumably I have POTS, butttttt the American healthcare system sucks and it would be like $1K to get formally tested/diagnosed even with health insurance. Anywayyyyyyy, so this is just kind of a fic for myself lmaoooooo.
I will write a part 2 if yall want one :)
(Y/n) lies in her bed in the Huntr/x penthouse. She’s not asleep. She’s just lying there, staring at the ceiling.
She reaches over to her nightstand, pulling her water bottle towards her, and shifting up slightly to take a sip.
(Y/n) pulls herself up more on her bed, her cat, Venom, blinking at her. He looks unimpressed as always, but a soft purr rumbles in his throat as he nudges (Y/n)’s side fondly.
“It’s time then,” (Y/n) murmurs, running her finger through the cat’s fur.
He rumbles again in reply.
She swings her legs over the edge of her mattress. Her feet hit the cold hardwood. She leans forward, burying her face in her hands, her elbows resting heavily on her knees.
Her heart is pounding now, a violent, erratic fluttering that vibrated right through her ribs.
She braces her hands on the solid wood of the nightstand, digging her heels into the floor. One, two, three. She stands.
The world instantly goes gray at the edges. A swarm of dark, static pixels eat her peripheral vision, and the hum of the refrigerator down the hall faded into a distant, tinny echo. Her knees turned to wet cement.
For ten agonizing seconds, she hangs there, suspended between standing and fainting.Then, like a lens coming into focus, the static clears. The room rushes back in, loud and sharp. The cold sweat on her forehead feels freezing in the morning air.
She keeps one hand braced against the wall as she shuffles toward the bathroom. The hardwood floor feels freezing beneath her bare feet.
(Y/n) grips the marble counter and stares at herself in the mirror. The reflection waiting for her looks worn thin. There are shadows beneath her eyes, visible from underneath makeup she’d forgotten to remove from their show the night before.
(Y/n) turns on the faucet, letting the sound of the running water ground her.
Celene’s voice echoes in her head so clearly she almost flinches, Our thoughts and fears must never be seen.
“(Y/n)?” Rumi’s voice drifts sleepily down the hallway.
Rumi appears in the doorway a moment later.
And the sight of her nearly knocks the breath from (Y/n)’s lungs.
Her hair is messy from sleep, soft waves falling into her face, out of its normal braid. The hoodie she’s wearing—an oversized one of (Y/n)’s—hangs off her. Rumi’s eyes are still heavy with exhaustion.
Rumi leans lightly against the doorway, the hallway light behind her creating a soft halo around her silhouette. “You couldn’t sleep?”
(Y/n) shrugs a shoulder, “Something like that.” Not technically a lie.
Venom suddenly jumps down from the bed and trots into the bathroom, brushing against Rumi’s legs before winding around (Y/n)’s ankles.
Rumi smiles at (Y/n) fondly, she steps into the bathroom, planting a kiss on (Y/n)’s cheek. “I’m going to go make coffee and breakfast,” she cups (Y/n)’s cheek with her hand. “Come find me in the kitchen when you’re ready.”
“M’kay,” (Y/n) leans slightly into Rumi’s touch. “Do you flirt with all the girls like this?”
Rumi rolls her eyes fondly. “Only the ones I really, really like.”
. . .
The penthouse is dim in the early morning light, soft gray-blue filtering through the massive windows overlooking the city.
The kitchen island still has leftover takeout boxes from last night scattered across it.
(Y/n) lowers herself carefully onto one of the barstools. She rests her elbows against the cool marble countertop and exhales slowly.
There’s something strangely soft about watching Rumi this early in the morning.
Without cameras or choreography or the polished perfection expected for all of them every second of every day.
Rumi moves sleepily, rubbing at one eye.
Venom jumps gracefully onto the counter beside (Y/n), immediately loafing himself directly into her personal space.
“You only love me for my heating pad,” (Y/n) murmurs, scratching behind his ears.
The cat purrs loudly in agreement.
Rumi glances over her shoulder as she messes with the coffee pot, a tiny smile flickers across her face, “There’s worse reasons to love someone.”
(Y/n) smiles warmly at her girlfriend.
The coffee machine hums to life—rich, warm, and comforting.
Rumi opens the fridge, “You need actual food.”
“I eat actual food.”
“You ate half a granola bar yesterday.”
(Y/n) blinks.
Rumi pauses for a second, “You don’t eat much unless someone reminds you.”
“I’ve just been busy.”
Rumi gives her a look from across the kitchen as she pops some bread into the toaster, “Babe, we’re all busy.”
Exhaustion settles over (Y/n) like wet concrete.
Rumi glances over, “You should go back to bed after this.”
(Y/n) snorts faintly, “We have rehearsals in like three hours.”
“So?”
“So Celene would kill me.”
“She’d survive.”
“But I’d be the one dying, Ru-bear,” (Y/n) replies, her lips twitching slightly.
Rumi slides a plate gently across the counter toward her, “Eat.”
Rumi sets a mug beside her next.
Coffee with cream.
Exactly how (Y/n) likes it.
The gesture is so familiar and so gentle.
“Thank you,” (Y/n) murmurs.
Rumi leans against the opposite side of the island, cradling her own mug between both hands, “You don’t have to thank me for making you breakfast.”
Maybe (Y/n) doesn’t.
But nobody’s taken care of her in a long time—not since her parents passed away when she was eleven.
(Y/n) stares down into the coffee cup. The dark surface trembles slightly from the shaking in her hands. She hopes Rumi doesn’t notice.
Then Rumi says softly, “You know you can tell us if something’s wrong, right?”
And just like that, the exhaustion in (Y/n)’s body suddenly feels crushing. Her limbs feel weighted. Her thoughts feel slow and sticky.
“You literally closed your eyes while holding your coffee.”
(Y/n) opens her mouth to argue again. But then she stops, “That’s . . . dramatic.”
Rumi huffs the tiniest laugh.
Finally, (Y/n) thinks. The sound is soft and warm and unfairly comforting.
“It’s observational.”
(Y/n) tries to smile back, but it comes out weak around the edges.
Rumi watches her for another quiet moment before speaking again, “You should sleep before rehearsal.”
(Y/n) immediately shakes her head.
Bad idea.
The motion sends dizziness rolling unpleasantly through her skull.
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.”
“If I go back to sleep now, I’ll feel worse.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is for me,” (Y/n) replies without thinking.
Rumi goes quiet, studying her carefully again.
(Y/n) suddenly becomes hyperaware of everything.
The dark circles beneath her eyes.
The way she’s slumped forward.
(Y/n) straightens slightly.
Or tries to.
Her muscles protest immediately.
Rumi’s gaze softens, and then she says very quietly, “Honey, you look miserable.”
(Y/n) lets out a tired breath through her nose, “I’m just tired.”
“You said that already.”
“Because it’s true.”
Rumi tilts her head slightly, her hair slipping across her cheek. “When’s the last time you actually rested?”
(Y/n) opens her mouth. She doesn't reply, because she honestly doesn’t know anymore. Everything lately has blurred together into rehearsals and performances and exhaustion and hiding.
Rumi’s expression shifts almost imperceptibly at her silence, like that answered enough on its own. She sets her coffee down gently, “Come take a nap.”
(Y/n) blinks at her. The words feel strangely intimate. “I’m not a toddler,” (Y/n) replies softly.
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You’re bossy in the mornings.”
“You’re stubborn all the time.”
That almost earns a real smile.
(Y/n) rubs tiredly at one eye.
God, I’m so tired.
The couch suddenly looks tempting.
The floor looks tempting.
Honestly she thinks she could sleep standing up at this point.
But another problem curls uneasily in her chest.
If I lie down now—If I stop moving—I’m not entirely sure I’ll have the energy to get back up again for a while. The thought scares her enough that she immediately pushes it away. “I’ll be okay,” she says softly.
Rumi doesn’t answer right away. Instead she walks around the kitchen island until she’s standing directly beside (Y/n).
Close enough that (Y/n) catches the faint scent of jasmine and laundry detergent, and close enough that she can feel the warmth radiating gently from her.
“You don’t always have to push yourself so hard,” Rumi says quietly.
(Y/n)’s chest tightens painfully. She looks up before she can stop herself.
Rumi’s face is soft in the pale morning light filtering through the windows. She looks sleepy. Concerned. Beautiful. So beautiful, (Y/n) thinks.
And suddenly the exhaustion inside (Y/n) feels unbearable.
Rumi seems to notice the shift immediately. Her voice softens even more. “You don’t have to sleep long,” she murmurs. “Just a little bit. Maybe an hour.”
(Y/n)’s eyes sting unexpectedly. Embarrassing, she thinks. She looks away quickly. “I probably won’t even fall asleep.”
“That’s okay,” Rumi hesitates briefly. Then slightly quieter, “I can lay with you if you want.”
(Y/n)’s heartbeat stumbles strangely.
Rumi looks suddenly uncertain after saying it, like she’s worried she crossed a line. “We could just—” she gestures vaguely, awkward for once, “—lay there. Or whatever. Whatever would help.”
The image appears immediately in (Y/n)’s exhausted brain.
Warm blankets.
Rumi beside me.
Safe.
The thought alone nearly makes her emotional again.
Which is ridiculous. It’s just a nap.
(Y/n) swallows hard, “You’d cuddle me into submission?”
A faint blush creeps across Rumi’s face instantly, “I was trying to sound less obvious than that.”
Despite everything, a tiny laugh escapes (Y/n).
Rumi visibly relaxes at the sound. “There she is,” she murmurs softly. The fondness in her voice nearly ruins (Y/n) completely.
(Y/n) stares at the countertop for another few seconds. Eventually she whispers, “Okay.”
Rumi’s expression softens immediately.
Slowly, carefully, (Y/n) slides off the stool. Her knees wobble slightly on impact.
Rumi notices, but she doesn’t comment on it. What a hypocrite I’d be if I criticised her for hiding things, Rumi thinks. She places a hand lightly against the small of (Y/n)’s back as they walk down the hallway together.
Venom trots after them lazily, his tail held high.
Halfway down the hall, another wave of exhaustion crashes into (Y/n) so hard her steps falter.
Suddenly her limbs feel unbearably heavy.
Rumi’s hand presses slightly firmer against her back, “You okay?”
Celene is going to fucking kill me, (Y/n) thinks. ‘Hide it,’ their mentor had said. ‘It’s what’s best for you as an idol. It’s better for the other girls.’
(Y/n) almost says yes again. Instead she quietly admits, “Just tired.”
Rumi glances at her.
The bedroom is still dim when they step back inside. Soft gray morning light spills through the massive windows in muted strips, painting pale lines across the floorboards and tangled blankets.
The city outside has started waking up now; distant traffic hums faintly below. Somewhere far away, a siren wails briefly before fading again.
Inside the room, everything feels muffled.
Venom immediately hops back onto the bed like he’d been there the whole time.
He circles twice before dramatically collapsing into the exact center of the mattress.
(Y/n) stares at him tiredly, “You take up more space than physically possible.”
The cat blinks slowly.
Rumi snorts softly behind her.
The sound sends a warm ache through (Y/n)’s chest.
God.
That’s becoming a problem.
Everything about Rumi is becoming a problem.
The way her voice softens in the mornings.
The way she notices things nobody else does.
The way she keeps looking at (Y/n) like she’s trying to hold her together with concern alone.
It makes something fragile inside her want to lean into it. But leaning means depending, and depending means losing control.
(Y/n) carefully lowers herself onto the edge of the mattress. The movement alone drains another awful wave of energy from her body.
Her muscles ache immediately with relief once she’s sitting again.
Rumi notices. (Y/n) can feel her eyes lingering for half a second too long.
Then Rumi quietly reaches down and pulls back the blankets for her.
Like lying down finally gives it permission to stop pretending for a second. Her heartbeat still pounds too fast beneath her ribs, but at least gravity stops fighting her here.
Beside her, the mattress dips softly as Rumi climbs in too.
(Y/n)’s breath catches faintly.
Rumi settles cautiously beside her, leaving enough distance that (Y/n) could pull away easily if she wanted. “You can say no,” Rumi says quietly.
(Y/n) blinks sleepily at her, “To what?”
“To the cuddling thing,” Rumi says, visibly embarrassed now. “I know I kind of just invited myself into your bed.” Despite the exhaustion dragging at every inch of her body, (Y/n) smiles faintly.
“You’re really awkward for someone so cool on stage.”
Rumi groans softly, “Please never tell Zoey that.”
“Blackmail material noted.”
Rumi rolls her eyes fondly.
Neither of them moves, just Rumi lying on her side, watching her girlfriend.
(Y/n) becomes hyperaware of everything.
The sound of Rumi breathing.
The warmth radiating from her body beneath the blankets.
The faint smell of jasmine shampoo lingering in her hair.
And underneath all of it—the exhaustion.
God.
It feels endless.
Now that she’s lying down, she can feel how deeply it’s rooted inside her.
Her limbs throb with it and even her eyes ache.
It’s like her body has been running on empty for so long it no longer remembers what rested is supposed to feel like.
Rumi shifts slightly beside her. Then quietly, she asks, “Can I?”
(Y/n)’s throat feels oddly tight. She nods.
Very gently, Rumi moves closer. An arm slips carefully around (Y/n)’s waist beneath the blankets, and the other tucks beneath the pillow.
And suddenly—warmth.
Steady.
And safe.
(Y/n)’s entire body reacts instantly. The tension locked into her muscles loosens so abruptly it almost hurts. Her shoulders sag, and her breathing stutters unevenly.
She hadn’t realized how tightly she’d been holding herself together until someone touched her so gently.
Rumi goes still immediately. “You okay?” she whispers.
The question is so soft now.
Careful enough that it cracks something open inside (Y/n)’s chest. She nods weakly against the pillow, “Mhm.” Her voice comes out small.
Rumi’s thumb brushes lightly once against her side through the fabric of her shirt.
(Y/n) closes her eyes.
Instantly, the exhaustion surges forward harder.
Without distractions, she can finally feel all of it.
The pounding in her chest.
The heaviness in her limbs.
The deep ache threaded through her bones.
The awful exhaustion that sleep never fixes but constantly demands anyway.
Her body feels wrong.
And she’s so tired of fighting it alone. Celene’s going to kill me.
Beside her, Rumi stays quiet.
And maybe that’s why the fear slips out before (Y/n) can stop it, “I’m trying really hard.”
Rumi’s arm tightens slightly around her waist. “I know,” she whispers immediately.
(Y/n)’s throat burns unexpectedly. “I don’t want everyone worrying about me,” she admits softly.
Rumi is quiet for a second. Then, “That’s not really your choice.”
A weak laugh escapes (Y/n), “She says while actively worrying about me.”
“I’m serious,” Rumi’s voice stays gentle. She shifts slightly beside her. “You take care of everyone else constantly,” she murmurs. “You’re allowed to let people take care of you too.”
(Y/n) stares at the wall silently. Her vision blurs faintly. She feels frighteningly close to crying over being held gently in her own bed.
Eventually Rumi speaks again, “What does it feel like?” Her voice is quieter now.
(Y/n)’s heartbeat stumbles.
But then Rumi clarifies softly, “Being that tired all the time.”
(Y/n) stares unfocused at the pale morning light stretching across the wall, trying to find words for something that’s become her entire existence. “It’s . . .” Her voice catches slightly. “It’s like . . .” She swallows. “Like everyone else got a normal amount of gravity and I got extra.” (Y/n) keeps going quietly. “Everything feels heavier than it should.” Her eyes burn again. “Standing up. Talking. Eating. Thinking.” She lets out a tiny humorless laugh. “Sometimes even holding my head up feels difficult.”
Rumi’s arm tightens around her slightly again.
(Y/n) hovers in that strange space between awake and unconscious for a long time, aware of just enough to feel how tired she is.
Rumi’s comforting warmth is behind her, and Venom is purring somewhere near her knees. She feels Rumi shift faintly behind her at one point, fingers brushing gently through the ends of her hair.
. . .
When she wakes again, the room is brighter.
For one blissful, disoriented second, she doesn’t move.
She just exists in warmth, and blankets, and her soft mattress, and Rumi curled up behind her.
Rumi’s arm is still wrapped around her waist.
(Y/n) wants to bask in this warmth for the rest of the day.
Then reality settles back in piece by piece.
Rehearsal meant Celene.
Her stomach twists immediately.
Beside her, Rumi stirs faintly as (Y/n) carefully shifts away.
“You should sleep longer,” Rumi mumbles sleepily.
“I can’t, baby,” (Y/n) murmurs. “We have rehearsal.”
. . .
By the time they arrive at rehearsal, her body already feels wrong.
Every heartbeat lands hard and uneven inside her chest.
The studio lights make everything worse.
They’re bright and hot.
Music pounds through the rehearsal room loud enough to vibrate the floor beneath her shoes.
Usually she loves that feeling.
Usually drums are the one place her body makes sense.
Today, however, even lifting her sticks feels exhausting.
The others seem to notice immediately.
Every movement from (Y/n) is slightly delayed, like her body is buffering before responding.
Mira catches her staring blankly at her drum kit for nearly thirty seconds before rehearsal even starts.
“You with us?” Mira asks carefully, studying (Y/n) closely.
(Y/n) blinks, and for a second she genuinely forgot where she was. “I—Yeah.”
Lie.
Zoey tosses her a bottled water, “Drink.”
(Y/n) catches it awkwardly.
Her reflexes feel slow today too. Everything feels slow except her heart.
“Thanks.”
“You look dead.”
“Your concern is inspiring,” (Y/n) deadpans.
“I’m serious.”
(Y/n) twists the bottle open carefully.
Even her fingers feel weak.
The cold water helps slightly as it goes down.
Across the room, Celene claps sharply once, “Positions.”
Immediately, the atmosphere in the room shifts as tension settles over the group instinctively. They should be in professional mode.
Performance mode.
Showing no weakness.
No mistakes.
(Y/n) settles behind her drum kit. The stool beneath her feels like heaven. Relief washes through her body so intensely she almost closes her eyes.
God.
The feeling alone should probably scare her more than it does.
The music starts.
The first few songs are manageable.
She falls into rhythm through muscle memory more than actual energy.
Her arms lift.
The sticks strike.
The kick pedal pounds beneath her right foot.
The repetition helps distract (Y/n) from how terrible she feels.
At first.
And then slowly, the exhaustion catches up with her.
Sometimes her timing drags by half a beat.
Sweat gathers on the back of her neck despite the air conditioning blasting through the studio.
The lights overhead seem to be getting hotter and hotter.
Her pulse won’t slow down.
Every song leaves (Y/n) more exhausted than the last.
By the fourth run-through, even breathing feels difficult, like her body was manually performing every automatic function.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Breathe.
Lift arms.
Hit cymbal.
Hit snare.
Stay upright.
Pretend.
Pretend harder.
“Again,” Celene says.
There’s no argument, but (Y/n) can feel her girlfriend’s gaze on her.
(Y/n) flexes her fingers around her drumsticks.
Halfway through the song, her vision flickers strangely.
It doesn’t go fully black, just warped around the edges, like static crawling across a screen.
(Y/n) blinks hard.
Focus.
The bass vibrates through the floor beneath her feet.
Her heartbeat stumbles violently out of rhythm with it.
A horrible sinking sensation opens in her stomach.
No.
Not now.
She grips her sticks together.
The room tilts slightly.
Her next hit lands weak against the snare.
Rumi glances back immediately, concern flashing across her face mid-performance.
(Y/n) forces herself to nod once.
I’m okay.
The lie feels automatic now.
Heat crawls beneath her skin.
The studio lights blur together overhead.
The voices around her start sounding distant, like everything was underwater.
Her chest feels tight.
She misses another beat.
This time everyone notices.
The music stutters apart awkwardly.
Silence crashes into the room.
“Sorry,” (Y/n) croaks immediately.
Her voice sounds far away.
Celene’s expression sharpens, “You need to focus.”
“I am focused.”
“Then why are you dragging?” Celene snaps.
Because I can barely fucking see, (Y/n) swallows back her irritation, “I’m fine. Let’s just go again.”
Rumi steps forward immediately, “No.”
The word cuts through the room.
Everyone looks at her.
Rumi’s eyes stay locked on her, dark with worry now, “You need a break.”
“I don’t.”
“You can barely hold your sticks.”
Heat floods instantly into (Y/n)’s face.
Humiliation twists sharply beneath her ribs, because now everyone’s looking at her.
At her shaking hands.
Her pale face.
The sweat clinging to her hairline.
“I said I’m okay,” the frustration in her voice comes out harsher than intended as another wave of nausea crashes over her.
Rumi’s expression falters slightly, hurt flickers in her gaze briefly before concern overtakes her again.
(Y/n) instantly feels awful.
Mira steps closer carefully. “Hey,” she says softly, “maybe just sit for a minute?”
“I am sitting.”
Nobody laughs.
Zoey crouches slightly beside the drum kit now, eyes scanning over (Y/n)’s face, “You’re really pale.”
“I’m always pale.”
“Not like this, you walnut,” Zoey scolds.
(Y/n)’s stomach churns harder; her heartbeat slams violently against her ribs.
She suddenly becomes terrifyingly aware of how hard it is to pull air fully into her lungs.
The room sways again.
“(Y/n)?” fear creeps into Rumi’s voice fully for the first time.
“I’m okay,” (Y/n) whispers automatically.
Then her vision blacks out completely.
. . .
The world returns in fragments.
First noise; panicked voices overlapping too fast to understand; footsteps.
Then feeling: the cold against her cheek; the arms around her shoulders; the hand cradling the back of her head.
And underneath all of it—her heart: still racing; still pounding so violently it feels impossible that nobody else can hear it.
(Y/n) tries to inhale, her breath catches halfway.
Her chest flutters horribly.
“Hey—hey, there you are,” Rumi’s voice, very close, very shaky.
(Y/n)’s eyelids feel impossibly heavy when she finally is able to force them open.
Everything is blurry: the bright studio lights smear together overhead; Rumi kneeling on the floor beside her; Mira pacing; Zoey crouching nearby with her phone clutched tightly in her hand.
All three of them look terrified.
The realization sends a wave of shame crashing through (Y/n)’s chest. “Oh God,” she whispers hoarsely.
Rumi immediately leans closer, “Don’t move.”
“I’m okay.” Even barely conscious on the rehearsal floor, the lie comes automatically.
Rumi’s expression crumples, just enough that (Y/n)’s stomach twists painfully.
The second her body shifts upright, nausea crashes through her violently.
Black spots explode across her vision, and a horrible rushing fills her ears.
Rumi catches her immediately, “Nope. Nope, lie back down.” Warm, soft hands steady her shoulders carefully back towards the floor.
(Y/n) hates how weak her own body feels.
“You’re calling the ambulance, right?”
At that word, fear slices clean through the haze in (Y/n)’s brain.
Ambulance.
Hospital.
Tests.
“No,” (Y/n) says immediately.
Everyone freezes.
(Y/n) swallows hard, fighting through the dizziness clawing at her skull, “I don’t need an ambulance.”
Rumi stares at her like she’s lost her mind, “You literally collapsed.”
“I’m fine now.”
“You were unconscious!” Mira deadpans in her normal tone, but her eyes show her worry.
Guilt twists viciously in (Y/n)’s stomach. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” she murmurs weakly.
(Y/n) squeezes her eyes shut briefly.
God.
Everything feels awful.
Her body feels both too heavy and completely disconnected.
Cold sweat sticks uncomfortably to the back of her neck.
And underneath it all, exhaustion drags at her so deeply that it feels endless.
Someone kneels beside them suddenly.
Celene.
Perfectly composed as always, (Y/n) thinks warily.
“What happened?” Celene asks sharply.
Zoey looks at her like the answer should be obvious, “She passed out!”
Celene studies (Y/n) clinically: assessing, calculating, and she doesn’t look worried at all.
That hurts more than the shoulder she’d fallen on.
“She’s just tired,” Celene says after a moment.
Rumi looks at her in disbelief, “She needs a doctor.”
“She needs rest.” Celene’s expression hardens slightly. “And an ambulance showing up at our rehearsal studio creates exactly the kind of attention we do not need right now.”
Zoey slowly lowers her phone from where she’d clearly been about to dial emergency services.
Mira looks furious, “What the hell?”
Celene doesn’t even look at her, “She overworked herself. That’s all.”
“That’s ALL?” Zoey snaps. “She fainted!”
“She needs hydration and rest.”
Rumi’s arm tightens instinctively around (Y/n)’s shoulders. The motion is so immediate it almost feels unconscious. “No,” she says quietly.
The single word slices through the room again.
Celene finally looks directly at her, because Rumi rarely openly challenged her.
“She can barely breathe,” Rumi says.
(Y/n) wants to protest automatically.
Wants to insist she’s fine. But the truth is—breathing does feel difficult right now.
Celene folds her arms, “She’s awake now.”
“She’s still shaking,” Mira says softly.
Everyone looks at (Y/n) again, and only then does she realize how violently her hands are trembling in her lap.
She curls them inward immediately.
Very gently, Rumi reaches down and wraps her hands around (Y/n)’s cold fingers.
(Y/n)’s chest tightens painfully.
Exhaustion lowers every wall she has left.
She’s too tired to hold herself together properly anymore.
Too tired to pretend collapsing didn’t terrify her too.
Too tired of pretending everything was okay.
Rumi notices the shift in her expression immediately. Her voice softens into something almost unbearably gentle. “Hey,” she whispers.
(Y/n) looks away quickly. Humiliation burns hot beneath her skin. “I’m sorry,” the words slip out before she can stop them.
Rumi looks devastated, “Why are you apologizing?”
Because I’m ruining everything.
Because I’m becoming a problem.
Because now everyone’s scared and staring and worried and—
Zoey focuses her attention on her phone again.
Celene steps forward again, “We’re not turning this into a scandal.”
Mira actually stares at her in disbelief.
“People faint from overworking all the time,” Celene says matter-of-factly.
“No,” Rumi snaps suddenly. “She’s been exhausted for weeks,” Rumi says quietly. “She gets dizzy constantly. She can barely eat. She’s freezing all the time and her hands shake and she looks like she’s going to pass out every time she stands up.”
“You should’ve told us,” Zoey says softly.
(Y/n)’s gaze flickers to Celene for a moment. “I—Our faults and fears must never be seen,” she murmurs. “I didn’t want—” Her voice cracks. She swallows hard. “I didn’t want to be a problem.”
“Oh, honey,” Rumi says quietly before she can stop herself.
The nickname makes heat rush into (Y/n)’s face.
Rumi’s arm tightens around (Y/n)’s shoulders automatically, almost protective without her even seeming to realize she’s doing it. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” Rumi says softly.
The gentleness in her voice almost makes (Y/n) cry right there on the floor.
Mira crouches down beside them carefully. “How long has this been going on?” she asks.
(Y/n) swallows.
Too long.
Way too long.
But saying that out loud feels impossible.
So instead she shrugs weakly and mutters, “Just lately.”
Nobody seems to buy it.
Rumi lets out this tiny, disbelieving breath, “You’re such a bad liar.” There’s no anger in her voice.
Celene folds her arms. “She pushed herself too hard. That’s all this is.”
“No,” Rumi repeats quietly. Rumi looks down at (Y/n), and her expression softens immediately. “She looks scared all the time lately,” she says softly.
(Y/n)’s throat tightens.
Mira squeezes her shoulder gently, “You should’ve told us.”
“We would’ve helped,” Zoey says quietly.
Rumi brushes her thumb lightly over the back of (Y/n)’s hand.
“I didn’t know how to stop pretending,” (Y/n) admits quietly.
This wasn't a request or anything, it's just something I've been wanting to write for a long time now. It not explicitly stated what (Y/n) has, because also, I don't know what I have-presumably I have POTS, butttttt the American healthcare system sucks and it would be like $1K to get formally tested/diagnosed even with health insurance. Anywayyyyyyy, so this is just kind of a fic for myself lmaoooooo.
I will write a part 2 if yall want one :)
(Y/n) lies in her bed in the Huntr/x penthouse. She’s not asleep. She’s just lying there, staring at the ceiling.
She reaches over to her nightstand, pulling her water bottle towards her, and shifting up slightly to take a sip.
(Y/n) pulls herself up more on her bed, her cat, Venom, blinking at her. He looks unimpressed as always, but a soft purr rumbles in his throat as he nudges (Y/n)’s side fondly.
“It’s time then,” (Y/n) murmurs, running her finger through the cat’s fur.
He rumbles again in reply.
She swings her legs over the edge of her mattress. Her feet hit the cold hardwood. She leans forward, burying her face in her hands, her elbows resting heavily on her knees.
Her heart is pounding now, a violent, erratic fluttering that vibrated right through her ribs.
She braces her hands on the solid wood of the nightstand, digging her heels into the floor. One, two, three. She stands.
The world instantly goes gray at the edges. A swarm of dark, static pixels eat her peripheral vision, and the hum of the refrigerator down the hall faded into a distant, tinny echo. Her knees turned to wet cement.
For ten agonizing seconds, she hangs there, suspended between standing and fainting.Then, like a lens coming into focus, the static clears. The room rushes back in, loud and sharp. The cold sweat on her forehead feels freezing in the morning air.
She keeps one hand braced against the wall as she shuffles toward the bathroom. The hardwood floor feels freezing beneath her bare feet.
(Y/n) grips the marble counter and stares at herself in the mirror. The reflection waiting for her looks worn thin. There are shadows beneath her eyes, visible from underneath makeup she’d forgotten to remove from their show the night before.
(Y/n) turns on the faucet, letting the sound of the running water ground her.
Celene’s voice echoes in her head so clearly she almost flinches, Our thoughts and fears must never be seen.
“(Y/n)?” Rumi’s voice drifts sleepily down the hallway.
Rumi appears in the doorway a moment later.
And the sight of her nearly knocks the breath from (Y/n)’s lungs.
Her hair is messy from sleep, soft waves falling into her face, out of its normal braid. The hoodie she’s wearing—an oversized one of (Y/n)’s—hangs off her. Rumi’s eyes are still heavy with exhaustion.
Rumi leans lightly against the doorway, the hallway light behind her creating a soft halo around her silhouette. “You couldn’t sleep?”
(Y/n) shrugs a shoulder, “Something like that.” Not technically a lie.
Venom suddenly jumps down from the bed and trots into the bathroom, brushing against Rumi’s legs before winding around (Y/n)’s ankles.
Rumi smiles at (Y/n) fondly, she steps into the bathroom, planting a kiss on (Y/n)’s cheek. “I’m going to go make coffee and breakfast,” she cups (Y/n)’s cheek with her hand. “Come find me in the kitchen when you’re ready.”
“M’kay,” (Y/n) leans slightly into Rumi’s touch. “Do you flirt with all the girls like this?”
Rumi rolls her eyes fondly. “Only the ones I really, really like.”
. . .
The penthouse is dim in the early morning light, soft gray-blue filtering through the massive windows overlooking the city.
The kitchen island still has leftover takeout boxes from last night scattered across it.
(Y/n) lowers herself carefully onto one of the barstools. She rests her elbows against the cool marble countertop and exhales slowly.
There’s something strangely soft about watching Rumi this early in the morning.
Without cameras or choreography or the polished perfection expected for all of them every second of every day.
Rumi moves sleepily, rubbing at one eye.
Venom jumps gracefully onto the counter beside (Y/n), immediately loafing himself directly into her personal space.
“You only love me for my heating pad,” (Y/n) murmurs, scratching behind his ears.
The cat purrs loudly in agreement.
Rumi glances over her shoulder as she messes with the coffee pot, a tiny smile flickers across her face, “There’s worse reasons to love someone.”
(Y/n) smiles warmly at her girlfriend.
The coffee machine hums to life—rich, warm, and comforting.
Rumi opens the fridge, “You need actual food.”
“I eat actual food.”
“You ate half a granola bar yesterday.”
(Y/n) blinks.
Rumi pauses for a second, “You don’t eat much unless someone reminds you.”
“I’ve just been busy.”
Rumi gives her a look from across the kitchen as she pops some bread into the toaster, “Babe, we’re all busy.”
Exhaustion settles over (Y/n) like wet concrete.
Rumi glances over, “You should go back to bed after this.”
(Y/n) snorts faintly, “We have rehearsals in like three hours.”
“So?”
“So Celene would kill me.”
“She’d survive.”
“But I’d be the one dying, Ru-bear,” (Y/n) replies, her lips twitching slightly.
Rumi slides a plate gently across the counter toward her, “Eat.”
Rumi sets a mug beside her next.
Coffee with cream.
Exactly how (Y/n) likes it.
The gesture is so familiar and so gentle.
“Thank you,” (Y/n) murmurs.
Rumi leans against the opposite side of the island, cradling her own mug between both hands, “You don’t have to thank me for making you breakfast.”
Maybe (Y/n) doesn’t.
But nobody’s taken care of her in a long time—not since her parents passed away when she was eleven.
(Y/n) stares down into the coffee cup. The dark surface trembles slightly from the shaking in her hands. She hopes Rumi doesn’t notice.
Then Rumi says softly, “You know you can tell us if something’s wrong, right?”
And just like that, the exhaustion in (Y/n)’s body suddenly feels crushing. Her limbs feel weighted. Her thoughts feel slow and sticky.
“You literally closed your eyes while holding your coffee.”
(Y/n) opens her mouth to argue again. But then she stops, “That’s . . . dramatic.”
Rumi huffs the tiniest laugh.
Finally, (Y/n) thinks. The sound is soft and warm and unfairly comforting.
“It’s observational.”
(Y/n) tries to smile back, but it comes out weak around the edges.
Rumi watches her for another quiet moment before speaking again, “You should sleep before rehearsal.”
(Y/n) immediately shakes her head.
Bad idea.
The motion sends dizziness rolling unpleasantly through her skull.
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.”
“If I go back to sleep now, I’ll feel worse.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is for me,” (Y/n) replies without thinking.
Rumi goes quiet, studying her carefully again.
(Y/n) suddenly becomes hyperaware of everything.
The dark circles beneath her eyes.
The way she’s slumped forward.
(Y/n) straightens slightly.
Or tries to.
Her muscles protest immediately.
Rumi’s gaze softens, and then she says very quietly, “Honey, you look miserable.”
(Y/n) lets out a tired breath through her nose, “I’m just tired.”
“You said that already.”
“Because it’s true.”
Rumi tilts her head slightly, her hair slipping across her cheek. “When’s the last time you actually rested?”
(Y/n) opens her mouth. She doesn't reply, because she honestly doesn’t know anymore. Everything lately has blurred together into rehearsals and performances and exhaustion and hiding.
Rumi’s expression shifts almost imperceptibly at her silence, like that answered enough on its own. She sets her coffee down gently, “Come take a nap.”
(Y/n) blinks at her. The words feel strangely intimate. “I’m not a toddler,” (Y/n) replies softly.
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You’re bossy in the mornings.”
“You’re stubborn all the time.”
That almost earns a real smile.
(Y/n) rubs tiredly at one eye.
God, I’m so tired.
The couch suddenly looks tempting.
The floor looks tempting.
Honestly she thinks she could sleep standing up at this point.
But another problem curls uneasily in her chest.
If I lie down now—If I stop moving—I’m not entirely sure I’ll have the energy to get back up again for a while. The thought scares her enough that she immediately pushes it away. “I’ll be okay,” she says softly.
Rumi doesn’t answer right away. Instead she walks around the kitchen island until she’s standing directly beside (Y/n).
Close enough that (Y/n) catches the faint scent of jasmine and laundry detergent, and close enough that she can feel the warmth radiating gently from her.
“You don’t always have to push yourself so hard,” Rumi says quietly.
(Y/n)’s chest tightens painfully. She looks up before she can stop herself.
Rumi’s face is soft in the pale morning light filtering through the windows. She looks sleepy. Concerned. Beautiful. So beautiful, (Y/n) thinks.
And suddenly the exhaustion inside (Y/n) feels unbearable.
Rumi seems to notice the shift immediately. Her voice softens even more. “You don’t have to sleep long,” she murmurs. “Just a little bit. Maybe an hour.”
(Y/n)’s eyes sting unexpectedly. Embarrassing, she thinks. She looks away quickly. “I probably won’t even fall asleep.”
“That’s okay,” Rumi hesitates briefly. Then slightly quieter, “I can lay with you if you want.”
(Y/n)’s heartbeat stumbles strangely.
Rumi looks suddenly uncertain after saying it, like she’s worried she crossed a line. “We could just—” she gestures vaguely, awkward for once, “—lay there. Or whatever. Whatever would help.”
The image appears immediately in (Y/n)’s exhausted brain.
Warm blankets.
Rumi beside me.
Safe.
The thought alone nearly makes her emotional again.
Which is ridiculous. It’s just a nap.
(Y/n) swallows hard, “You’d cuddle me into submission?”
A faint blush creeps across Rumi’s face instantly, “I was trying to sound less obvious than that.”
Despite everything, a tiny laugh escapes (Y/n).
Rumi visibly relaxes at the sound. “There she is,” she murmurs softly. The fondness in her voice nearly ruins (Y/n) completely.
(Y/n) stares at the countertop for another few seconds. Eventually she whispers, “Okay.”
Rumi’s expression softens immediately.
Slowly, carefully, (Y/n) slides off the stool. Her knees wobble slightly on impact.
Rumi notices, but she doesn’t comment on it. What a hypocrite I’d be if I criticised her for hiding things, Rumi thinks. She places a hand lightly against the small of (Y/n)’s back as they walk down the hallway together.
Venom trots after them lazily, his tail held high.
Halfway down the hall, another wave of exhaustion crashes into (Y/n) so hard her steps falter.
Suddenly her limbs feel unbearably heavy.
Rumi’s hand presses slightly firmer against her back, “You okay?”
Celene is going to fucking kill me, (Y/n) thinks. ‘Hide it,’ their mentor had said. ‘It’s what’s best for you as an idol. It’s better for the other girls.’
(Y/n) almost says yes again. Instead she quietly admits, “Just tired.”
Rumi glances at her.
The bedroom is still dim when they step back inside. Soft gray morning light spills through the massive windows in muted strips, painting pale lines across the floorboards and tangled blankets.
The city outside has started waking up now; distant traffic hums faintly below. Somewhere far away, a siren wails briefly before fading again.
Inside the room, everything feels muffled.
Venom immediately hops back onto the bed like he’d been there the whole time.
He circles twice before dramatically collapsing into the exact center of the mattress.
(Y/n) stares at him tiredly, “You take up more space than physically possible.”
The cat blinks slowly.
Rumi snorts softly behind her.
The sound sends a warm ache through (Y/n)’s chest.
God.
That’s becoming a problem.
Everything about Rumi is becoming a problem.
The way her voice softens in the mornings.
The way she notices things nobody else does.
The way she keeps looking at (Y/n) like she’s trying to hold her together with concern alone.
It makes something fragile inside her want to lean into it. But leaning means depending, and depending means losing control.
(Y/n) carefully lowers herself onto the edge of the mattress. The movement alone drains another awful wave of energy from her body.
Her muscles ache immediately with relief once she’s sitting again.
Rumi notices. (Y/n) can feel her eyes lingering for half a second too long.
Then Rumi quietly reaches down and pulls back the blankets for her.
Like lying down finally gives it permission to stop pretending for a second. Her heartbeat still pounds too fast beneath her ribs, but at least gravity stops fighting her here.
Beside her, the mattress dips softly as Rumi climbs in too.
(Y/n)’s breath catches faintly.
Rumi settles cautiously beside her, leaving enough distance that (Y/n) could pull away easily if she wanted. “You can say no,” Rumi says quietly.
(Y/n) blinks sleepily at her, “To what?”
“To the cuddling thing,” Rumi says, visibly embarrassed now. “I know I kind of just invited myself into your bed.” Despite the exhaustion dragging at every inch of her body, (Y/n) smiles faintly.
“You’re really awkward for someone so cool on stage.”
Rumi groans softly, “Please never tell Zoey that.”
“Blackmail material noted.”
Rumi rolls her eyes fondly.
Neither of them moves, just Rumi lying on her side, watching her girlfriend.
(Y/n) becomes hyperaware of everything.
The sound of Rumi breathing.
The warmth radiating from her body beneath the blankets.
The faint smell of jasmine shampoo lingering in her hair.
And underneath all of it—the exhaustion.
God.
It feels endless.
Now that she’s lying down, she can feel how deeply it’s rooted inside her.
Her limbs throb with it and even her eyes ache.
It’s like her body has been running on empty for so long it no longer remembers what rested is supposed to feel like.
Rumi shifts slightly beside her. Then quietly, she asks, “Can I?”
(Y/n)’s throat feels oddly tight. She nods.
Very gently, Rumi moves closer. An arm slips carefully around (Y/n)’s waist beneath the blankets, and the other tucks beneath the pillow.
And suddenly—warmth.
Steady.
And safe.
(Y/n)’s entire body reacts instantly. The tension locked into her muscles loosens so abruptly it almost hurts. Her shoulders sag, and her breathing stutters unevenly.
She hadn’t realized how tightly she’d been holding herself together until someone touched her so gently.
Rumi goes still immediately. “You okay?” she whispers.
The question is so soft now.
Careful enough that it cracks something open inside (Y/n)’s chest. She nods weakly against the pillow, “Mhm.” Her voice comes out small.
Rumi’s thumb brushes lightly once against her side through the fabric of her shirt.
(Y/n) closes her eyes.
Instantly, the exhaustion surges forward harder.
Without distractions, she can finally feel all of it.
The pounding in her chest.
The heaviness in her limbs.
The deep ache threaded through her bones.
The awful exhaustion that sleep never fixes but constantly demands anyway.
Her body feels wrong.
And she’s so tired of fighting it alone. Celene’s going to kill me.
Beside her, Rumi stays quiet.
And maybe that’s why the fear slips out before (Y/n) can stop it, “I’m trying really hard.”
Rumi’s arm tightens slightly around her waist. “I know,” she whispers immediately.
(Y/n)’s throat burns unexpectedly. “I don’t want everyone worrying about me,” she admits softly.
Rumi is quiet for a second. Then, “That’s not really your choice.”
A weak laugh escapes (Y/n), “She says while actively worrying about me.”
“I’m serious,” Rumi’s voice stays gentle. She shifts slightly beside her. “You take care of everyone else constantly,” she murmurs. “You’re allowed to let people take care of you too.”
(Y/n) stares at the wall silently. Her vision blurs faintly. She feels frighteningly close to crying over being held gently in her own bed.
Eventually Rumi speaks again, “What does it feel like?” Her voice is quieter now.
(Y/n)’s heartbeat stumbles.
But then Rumi clarifies softly, “Being that tired all the time.”
(Y/n) stares unfocused at the pale morning light stretching across the wall, trying to find words for something that’s become her entire existence. “It’s . . .” Her voice catches slightly. “It’s like . . .” She swallows. “Like everyone else got a normal amount of gravity and I got extra.” (Y/n) keeps going quietly. “Everything feels heavier than it should.” Her eyes burn again. “Standing up. Talking. Eating. Thinking.” She lets out a tiny humorless laugh. “Sometimes even holding my head up feels difficult.”
Rumi’s arm tightens around her slightly again.
(Y/n) hovers in that strange space between awake and unconscious for a long time, aware of just enough to feel how tired she is.
Rumi’s comforting warmth is behind her, and Venom is purring somewhere near her knees. She feels Rumi shift faintly behind her at one point, fingers brushing gently through the ends of her hair.
. . .
When she wakes again, the room is brighter.
For one blissful, disoriented second, she doesn’t move.
She just exists in warmth, and blankets, and her soft mattress, and Rumi curled up behind her.
Rumi’s arm is still wrapped around her waist.
(Y/n) wants to bask in this warmth for the rest of the day.
Then reality settles back in piece by piece.
Rehearsal meant Celene.
Her stomach twists immediately.
Beside her, Rumi stirs faintly as (Y/n) carefully shifts away.
“You should sleep longer,” Rumi mumbles sleepily.
“I can’t, baby,” (Y/n) murmurs. “We have rehearsal.”
. . .
By the time they arrive at rehearsal, her body already feels wrong.
Every heartbeat lands hard and uneven inside her chest.
The studio lights make everything worse.
They’re bright and hot.
Music pounds through the rehearsal room loud enough to vibrate the floor beneath her shoes.
Usually she loves that feeling.
Usually drums are the one place her body makes sense.
Today, however, even lifting her sticks feels exhausting.
The others seem to notice immediately.
Every movement from (Y/n) is slightly delayed, like her body is buffering before responding.
Mira catches her staring blankly at her drum kit for nearly thirty seconds before rehearsal even starts.
“You with us?” Mira asks carefully, studying (Y/n) closely.
(Y/n) blinks, and for a second she genuinely forgot where she was. “I—Yeah.”
Lie.
Zoey tosses her a bottled water, “Drink.”
(Y/n) catches it awkwardly.
Her reflexes feel slow today too. Everything feels slow except her heart.
“Thanks.”
“You look dead.”
“Your concern is inspiring,” (Y/n) deadpans.
“I’m serious.”
(Y/n) twists the bottle open carefully.
Even her fingers feel weak.
The cold water helps slightly as it goes down.
Across the room, Celene claps sharply once, “Positions.”
Immediately, the atmosphere in the room shifts as tension settles over the group instinctively. They should be in professional mode.
Performance mode.
Showing no weakness.
No mistakes.
(Y/n) settles behind her drum kit. The stool beneath her feels like heaven. Relief washes through her body so intensely she almost closes her eyes.
God.
The feeling alone should probably scare her more than it does.
The music starts.
The first few songs are manageable.
She falls into rhythm through muscle memory more than actual energy.
Her arms lift.
The sticks strike.
The kick pedal pounds beneath her right foot.
The repetition helps distract (Y/n) from how terrible she feels.
At first.
And then slowly, the exhaustion catches up with her.
Sometimes her timing drags by half a beat.
Sweat gathers on the back of her neck despite the air conditioning blasting through the studio.
The lights overhead seem to be getting hotter and hotter.
Her pulse won’t slow down.
Every song leaves (Y/n) more exhausted than the last.
By the fourth run-through, even breathing feels difficult, like her body was manually performing every automatic function.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Breathe.
Lift arms.
Hit cymbal.
Hit snare.
Stay upright.
Pretend.
Pretend harder.
“Again,” Celene says.
There’s no argument, but (Y/n) can feel her girlfriend’s gaze on her.
(Y/n) flexes her fingers around her drumsticks.
Halfway through the song, her vision flickers strangely.
It doesn’t go fully black, just warped around the edges, like static crawling across a screen.
(Y/n) blinks hard.
Focus.
The bass vibrates through the floor beneath her feet.
Her heartbeat stumbles violently out of rhythm with it.
A horrible sinking sensation opens in her stomach.
No.
Not now.
She grips her sticks together.
The room tilts slightly.
Her next hit lands weak against the snare.
Rumi glances back immediately, concern flashing across her face mid-performance.
(Y/n) forces herself to nod once.
I’m okay.
The lie feels automatic now.
Heat crawls beneath her skin.
The studio lights blur together overhead.
The voices around her start sounding distant, like everything was underwater.
Her chest feels tight.
She misses another beat.
This time everyone notices.
The music stutters apart awkwardly.
Silence crashes into the room.
“Sorry,” (Y/n) croaks immediately.
Her voice sounds far away.
Celene’s expression sharpens, “You need to focus.”
“I am focused.”
“Then why are you dragging?” Celene snaps.
Because I can barely fucking see, (Y/n) swallows back her irritation, “I’m fine. Let’s just go again.”
Rumi steps forward immediately, “No.”
The word cuts through the room.
Everyone looks at her.
Rumi’s eyes stay locked on her, dark with worry now, “You need a break.”
“I don’t.”
“You can barely hold your sticks.”
Heat floods instantly into (Y/n)’s face.
Humiliation twists sharply beneath her ribs, because now everyone’s looking at her.
At her shaking hands.
Her pale face.
The sweat clinging to her hairline.
“I said I’m okay,” the frustration in her voice comes out harsher than intended as another wave of nausea crashes over her.
Rumi’s expression falters slightly, hurt flickers in her gaze briefly before concern overtakes her again.
(Y/n) instantly feels awful.
Mira steps closer carefully. “Hey,” she says softly, “maybe just sit for a minute?”
“I am sitting.”
Nobody laughs.
Zoey crouches slightly beside the drum kit now, eyes scanning over (Y/n)’s face, “You’re really pale.”
“I’m always pale.”
“Not like this, you walnut,” Zoey scolds.
(Y/n)’s stomach churns harder; her heartbeat slams violently against her ribs.
She suddenly becomes terrifyingly aware of how hard it is to pull air fully into her lungs.
The room sways again.
“(Y/n)?” fear creeps into Rumi’s voice fully for the first time.
“I’m okay,” (Y/n) whispers automatically.
Then her vision blacks out completely.
. . .
The world returns in fragments.
First noise; panicked voices overlapping too fast to understand; footsteps.
Then feeling: the cold against her cheek; the arms around her shoulders; the hand cradling the back of her head.
And underneath all of it—her heart: still racing; still pounding so violently it feels impossible that nobody else can hear it.
(Y/n) tries to inhale, her breath catches halfway.
Her chest flutters horribly.
“Hey—hey, there you are,” Rumi’s voice, very close, very shaky.
(Y/n)’s eyelids feel impossibly heavy when she finally is able to force them open.
Everything is blurry: the bright studio lights smear together overhead; Rumi kneeling on the floor beside her; Mira pacing; Zoey crouching nearby with her phone clutched tightly in her hand.
All three of them look terrified.
The realization sends a wave of shame crashing through (Y/n)’s chest. “Oh God,” she whispers hoarsely.
Rumi immediately leans closer, “Don’t move.”
“I’m okay.” Even barely conscious on the rehearsal floor, the lie comes automatically.
Rumi’s expression crumples, just enough that (Y/n)’s stomach twists painfully.
The second her body shifts upright, nausea crashes through her violently.
Black spots explode across her vision, and a horrible rushing fills her ears.
Rumi catches her immediately, “Nope. Nope, lie back down.” Warm, soft hands steady her shoulders carefully back towards the floor.
(Y/n) hates how weak her own body feels.
“You’re calling the ambulance, right?”
At that word, fear slices clean through the haze in (Y/n)’s brain.
Ambulance.
Hospital.
Tests.
“No,” (Y/n) says immediately.
Everyone freezes.
(Y/n) swallows hard, fighting through the dizziness clawing at her skull, “I don’t need an ambulance.”
Rumi stares at her like she’s lost her mind, “You literally collapsed.”
“I’m fine now.”
“You were unconscious!” Mira deadpans in her normal tone, but her eyes show her worry.
Guilt twists viciously in (Y/n)’s stomach. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” she murmurs weakly.
(Y/n) squeezes her eyes shut briefly.
God.
Everything feels awful.
Her body feels both too heavy and completely disconnected.
Cold sweat sticks uncomfortably to the back of her neck.
And underneath it all, exhaustion drags at her so deeply that it feels endless.
Someone kneels beside them suddenly.
Celene.
Perfectly composed as always, (Y/n) thinks warily.
“What happened?” Celene asks sharply.
Zoey looks at her like the answer should be obvious, “She passed out!”
Celene studies (Y/n) clinically: assessing, calculating, and she doesn’t look worried at all.
That hurts more than the shoulder she’d fallen on.
“She’s just tired,” Celene says after a moment.
Rumi looks at her in disbelief, “She needs a doctor.”
“She needs rest.” Celene’s expression hardens slightly. “And an ambulance showing up at our rehearsal studio creates exactly the kind of attention we do not need right now.”
Zoey slowly lowers her phone from where she’d clearly been about to dial emergency services.
Mira looks furious, “What the hell?”
Celene doesn’t even look at her, “She overworked herself. That’s all.”
“That’s ALL?” Zoey snaps. “She fainted!”
“She needs hydration and rest.”
Rumi’s arm tightens instinctively around (Y/n)’s shoulders. The motion is so immediate it almost feels unconscious. “No,” she says quietly.
The single word slices through the room again.
Celene finally looks directly at her, because Rumi rarely openly challenged her.
“She can barely breathe,” Rumi says.
(Y/n) wants to protest automatically.
Wants to insist she’s fine. But the truth is—breathing does feel difficult right now.
Celene folds her arms, “She’s awake now.”
“She’s still shaking,” Mira says softly.
Everyone looks at (Y/n) again, and only then does she realize how violently her hands are trembling in her lap.
She curls them inward immediately.
Very gently, Rumi reaches down and wraps her hands around (Y/n)’s cold fingers.
(Y/n)’s chest tightens painfully.
Exhaustion lowers every wall she has left.
She’s too tired to hold herself together properly anymore.
Too tired to pretend collapsing didn’t terrify her too.
Too tired of pretending everything was okay.
Rumi notices the shift in her expression immediately. Her voice softens into something almost unbearably gentle. “Hey,” she whispers.
(Y/n) looks away quickly. Humiliation burns hot beneath her skin. “I’m sorry,” the words slip out before she can stop them.
Rumi looks devastated, “Why are you apologizing?”
Because I’m ruining everything.
Because I’m becoming a problem.
Because now everyone’s scared and staring and worried and—
Zoey focuses her attention on her phone again.
Celene steps forward again, “We’re not turning this into a scandal.”
Mira actually stares at her in disbelief.
“People faint from overworking all the time,” Celene says matter-of-factly.
“No,” Rumi snaps suddenly. “She’s been exhausted for weeks,” Rumi says quietly. “She gets dizzy constantly. She can barely eat. She’s freezing all the time and her hands shake and she looks like she’s going to pass out every time she stands up.”
“You should’ve told us,” Zoey says softly.
(Y/n)’s gaze flickers to Celene for a moment. “I—Our faults and fears must never be seen,” she murmurs. “I didn’t want—” Her voice cracks. She swallows hard. “I didn’t want to be a problem.”
“Oh, honey,” Rumi says quietly before she can stop herself.
The nickname makes heat rush into (Y/n)’s face.
Rumi’s arm tightens around (Y/n)’s shoulders automatically, almost protective without her even seeming to realize she’s doing it. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” Rumi says softly.
The gentleness in her voice almost makes (Y/n) cry right there on the floor.
Mira crouches down beside them carefully. “How long has this been going on?” she asks.
(Y/n) swallows.
Too long.
Way too long.
But saying that out loud feels impossible.
So instead she shrugs weakly and mutters, “Just lately.”
Nobody seems to buy it.
Rumi lets out this tiny, disbelieving breath, “You’re such a bad liar.” There’s no anger in her voice.
Celene folds her arms. “She pushed herself too hard. That’s all this is.”
“No,” Rumi repeats quietly. Rumi looks down at (Y/n), and her expression softens immediately. “She looks scared all the time lately,” she says softly.
(Y/n)’s throat tightens.
Mira squeezes her shoulder gently, “You should’ve told us.”
“We would’ve helped,” Zoey says quietly.
Rumi brushes her thumb lightly over the back of (Y/n)’s hand.
“I didn’t know how to stop pretending,” (Y/n) admits quietly.
This Used to Be an Even Battlefield (Lena Luthor x Fem!Reader)
Main Masterlist
Lena Luthor Masterlist
Anonymous asked:
Is this where I send in requests? I've never done it before, but I loved/totally recommended your Lena Luthor fics.
Could you do a Lena fic where Reader meets Lena for the first time, and sees that she seems really lonely or sad. Ever since meeting, Reader tries to make her smile by using these really dorky pick up lines. Lena is at first a bit hesitant/cautious, but with time she opens up and becomes a bit shy or flustered.
Eventually, they both fall for eachother, but neither of them confess. Until Lena decides to flirt back and Reader just cannot function.
And...honestly, that's all I got, you can change whatever you like, I just like how you write Lena!
Rain taps softly against the windows of L-Corp, turning the glass walls of Lena Luthor’s office into mirrors streaked with silver.
Below, National city glows underneath the storm—headlights smeared across wet streets, and people hurrying beneath umbrellas.
The city is alive, though in a way Lena feels strangely detached from.
She leans against her desk, one hand wrapped around a glass of scotch she hadn’t touched.
Another failed meeting.
Another donor who’d withdrawn his support after a journalist had dredged up Lex’s name for the ten-thousandth time.
Another reminder for Lena that no matter what she built, no matter how hard she worked, she would always still be in the shadow of her family.
Her assistant, Jess, and left nearly an hour ago after gently suggesting that Lena should go home.
Lena hadn’t moved.
The office is silent, except for the rain and the faint hum of the city below.
Usually, she prefers silence, but tonight, it just feels empty.
Her phone buzzes again.
It’s another article.
LUTHOR LEGACY: CAN PEOPLE REALLY CHANGE?
Lena stares at the notification without opening it.
Then, with a quiet sigh, she sets the untouched drink aside and then reaches for her coat.
Maybe fresh air will help, she thinks.
. . .
The cafe across from L-Corp is still open, despite the late hour.
Lena hesitates outside for a moment before stepping in.
Immediately, heat wraps around her from the scent of espresso and cinnamon. Conversations murmur softly around her. What Lena thinks is Girl in Red hums low through hidden speakers.
No one notices her at first and she moves towards the counter.
“Hi,” a voice comes from behind the espresso machine. The barista staring back at her looks about her age, maybe a little younger. She’s wearing a slightly oversized hoodie beneath her apron. She has tired eyes, but a kind expression. “I’ll be right with ya,” she finishes the cappuccino she’d been working on, and then handing it off to its owner with a smile. “What can I get for you?” she’d stepped back up to the register.
“Just a black coffee, please,” Lena replies.
“Comin’ right up,” she turns towards the coffee machine and starts a new pot of coffee.
Lena watches her for a moment before looking away.
That’s another thing Lena had learned over the years—people noticed when Lena Luthor paid attention to them.
“What’s the name for the order?” the barista asks, pulling a marker from the pocket of her apron.
“Lena.”
There’s a pause, and then recognition flares in her eyes. Lena can see it happen in the slight widening of her eyes. Here it comes, Lena thinks.
But instead of excitement or suspicion, the woman says quiet, “That’s a really pretty name.”
Lena stills.
They were simple, harmless words, but something about the sincerity catches her off guard.
The woman seems to realize what she’d said a few moments later, and seems to visibly die inside.
“Sorry. That sounded smoother in my head,” she apologises.
Lena looks at her for a long moment, “You should stop trusting your instincts.”
The woman laughs unexpectedly, warm and slightly crooked.
Lena accepts the coffee when it’s handed over. Their fingers brush accidentally. The woman jerks back like she touched a live wire. “Sorry.”
Lena studies her for another second before giving a small nod and turning toward the door.
. . .
The next morning, Lena tells herself she’s stopping at this cafe for convenience and nothing more.
Definitely not because she’d caught herself wondering if the woman from last night also worked mornings.
That would be ridiculous, Lena thought.
Still, when she steps inside and sees the same woman behind the counter, something in her chest loosens unexpectedly.
The woman looks up, and her face lights up with recognition, and then restraint.
The woman smiles politely, “Good morning.”
Lena finds herself almost disappointed by that too. “Good morning,” she replies. She considers Lena’s face.
“Well?” Lena sighs softly, though her lips twitch slightly.
The woman brightens cautiously. “Are you made of copper and tellurium?”
Lena stares, “. . . What?”
“Because you’re Cu-Te.”
Against her will, the corners of Lena’s mouth twitches upwards.
The woman notices instantly, her expression softens in quiet triumph.
“You’re terrible at this,” Lena informs her as she takes her coffee.
The woman grins. “I know.”
. . .
Lena did not intend to come back the next day.
But around eleven that morning, halfway through a meeting about renewable energy expansion, she catches herself staring at a presentation slide while thinking about an objectively terrible chemistry pickup line.
Ridiculous.
Ridiculous.
She has billion-dollar contracts waiting for approval, three separate interviews were scheduled, a mountain of emails, and an active PR nightmare involving a senator accusing L-Corp of technological outreach.
And somehow her brain decided on Cu-Te.
Lena presses two fingers against her temple.
Across the conference table, a board member keeps talking, “. . . public trust is still fragile after the—”
“Excuse me,” Lena interrupts smoothly, already standing. The room falls silent. “I need coffee.”
No one questions her.
. . .
The bell above the café door rings softly when Lena walks in.
Warm air brushes against her face almost immediately.
The lunchtime rush is in full swing.
And behind the counter, “There she is.” The words slip out of her mouth before she can stop them, and she freezes.
Lena pauses too.
The woman looks horrified with herself, “I mean—hi. Welcome back.”
“You sound surprised,” Lena says.
The woman blinks. “Well,” she says carefully, “you kind of seem like the type of woman who disappears mysteriously after emotionally devastating someone with a single smile.”
Lena gives her a flat look, “You’re very dramatic.”
“I work for tips,” the woman replies, grinning.
That almost earns another smile.
“Black coffee?” the barista asks.
“Please,” Lena says.
“You know,” the woman says while pouring the coffee, “I never got your opinion on my pickup line rating system.”
“You have a rating system?” Lena asks.
“Obviously,” the barista replies.
Lena accepts the coffee. “And how exactly are they graded?”
“Emotionally impact,” the woman places a hand over her heart.
“I see.”
“For example, yesterday’s was scientifically excellent.”
“It was awful.”
“But memorable.”
Lena hates that she can’t argue with that.
The woman leans lightly against the counter. “I’m trying to work my way up to one that actually makes you laugh.”
A strange warmth settles briefly in her chest before instinct immediately cools it.
“What’s your name?”
The woman straights, slightly surprised, “(Y/n).”
Lena repeats it quietly before she can stop herself, “(Y/n)”.
The woman goes very still.
Something unreadable flashes across her face. Then she recovers quickly. “Well,” she says faintly, “that sounds significantly more attractive when you say it.”
Lena picks up her coffee from the counter she’d set it down on. “You should really stop saying everything that comes into your head.”
“That’s fair.”
And yet Lena notices the smile she’s trying to hide afterward.
. . .
(Y/n) has a new pickup line most mornings.
Lena pretends to hate them.
“Are you a keyboard?” (Y/n) asks one Tuesday morning.
Lena doesn’t even look up from her phone. “No.”
“Because you’re just my type.”
There’s a silence, and then Lena says, “That one was particularly bad.”
(Y/n) gasps dramatically. “You wound me.”
. . .
“Do you like Star Wars?”
Lena sighs softly. “No.”
(Y/n)’s face falls in genuine disappointment. “Oh.”
Lena pauses, “. . . I’ve just never had time to watch it.”
“Perfect. That means I can fix this.”
Lena blinks slowly, “You say that like it’s a crisis.”
“It is a crisis.”
Something dangerously close to amusement flickers across Lena’s face before she suppresses it again.
(Y/n)’s lips twitch slightly.
. . .
The first real crack in Lena’s armor happens on a Thursday.
She walks into the cafe looking exhausted.
The previous night had ended with another argument over the phone involving Lex.
She orders automatically and reaches for her card.
(Y/n) doesn’t take it immediately. Instead, she studies Lena carefully for half a second. “Long day?” she asks softly.
Lena’s instinctive answer rises immediately.
I’m fine.
But she’s tired. Too tired to perform properly. “. . . Something like that.”
(Y/n) nods once.
Then she turns around and grabs something from the pastry case.
When Lena looks down, there’s a blueberry muffin beside her coffee.
“I didn’t order this,”
“You looked upset,” (Y/n) replies.
Lena’s expression cools automatically at the word.
(Y/n) notices the shift immediately and steps back emotionally just as quickly. “Sorry,” she says lightly. “You looked like someone who might overthrow a government if they skipped breakfast.”
The tension eases a fraction.
Then Lena realizes suddenly that (Y/n) was adjusting herself around Lena’s boundaries in real time.
“. . .Thank you,” Lena says finally.
(Y/n) smiles slightly, “There it is.”
Lena’s brows knit faintly. “There what is?”
“You saying thank you instead of glaring at me like I committed a federal crime.”
Despite herself, Lena lets out a breath of laughter.
. . .
After that, things shift.
Lena starts lingering longer after getting her coffee.
A few minutes at first.
And then ten.
Sometimes fifteen.
(Y/n) talks when she’s nervous, Lena discovers.
About programming classes.
Customers.
Books.
Random facts.
Once, for nearly seven uninterrupted minutes, about how octopuses can recognize individual humans.
Lena listens quietly while pretending not to enjoy it.
. . .
“You think I talk too much,” (Y/n) says suddenly one evening.
Lena looks up from her coffee.
The cafe is nearly empty now, soft music humming in the background.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You had the face.”
“I have many faces.”
(Y/n) snorts softly. Then she leans against the counter. “For the record,” she says, quieter now, “you don’t have to keep coming here if you don’t want to.”
Lena stills slightly, “I know.”
“I just—” (Y/n) hesitates. “I don’t want you feeling obligated to humor me.”
Lena can hear the uncertainty in her voice.
“I wouldn’t come if I didn’t want to,” she says before she can reconsider.
(Y/n) goes very quiet.
Lena immediately regrets how honest that sounded.
But then she sees the way (Y/n)’s expression softens.
. . .
The next morning, Lena arrives earlier than usual.
The cafe is mostly empty.
(Y/n) is standing on a chair trying to change something on the menu board.
“Are you dying?” Lena asks from the doorway.
(Y/n) startles violently.
The chair wobbles.
Lena’s heart jumps before she can stop it, “Careful—”
“I’m okay!”
The chair tilts harder.
(Y/n) makes a deeply concerning noise as gravity completely abandons her.
Lena moves before thinking.
By the time the chair clatters sideways, Lena has caught her.
One arm around her waist.
The other gripping her forearm.
Everything stops.
(Y/n) stares at her.
Lena suddenly becomes acutely aware of the warmth pressed against her.
The instinctive way (Y/n)’s hand grabbed her shoulder.
The fact that neither of them are moving.
“You should sue whoever designed that death trap,” Lena says quietly.
(Y/n) continues staring, “. . . I think I just forgot every programming language.”
Lena feels heat rise unexpectedly into her face.
She helps steady her before stepping back immediately.
(Y/n), meanwhile, still looks completely dazed.
Then, because apparently her brain cannot survive emotional tension without self-destructing, she blurts, “Did it hurt?”
Lena blinks once, “Did what hurt?”
“When you fell from heaven.”
Then Lena slowly covers her face with one hand, “That was catastrophic.”
(Y/n) groans loudly, “I panicked.”
. . .
Three days after the chair incident, Lena still can’t think about it properly.
Every time she tries, her brain would supply the image of (Y/n) looking up at her all wide-eyed while Lena’s arm was around her waist.
That was profoundly unhelpful during meetings.
Jess notices immediately, of course. “You seem distracted,” she says while handing Lena a tablet between meetings.
“I’m not,” Lena replies automatically.
Jess gives her a look.
Lena pointedly signs the document without elaborating.
Unfortunately, Jess has worked for her too long to be deterred by silence. “Is this about the cafe?”
Lena’s pen pauses for half a second.
“I knew it,” Jess smiles triumphantly.
“There is nothing to know.”
“Mm.”
Lena narrows her eyes. “You’re being smug.”
“I’m being observant.”
Lena returns the tablet with slightly more force than necessary.
Jess smiles faintly before leaving the office.
Lena stares after her. Then she sighs and leans back in her chair.
Because the truly irritating part is that Jess is right. Lena is distracted.
Distracted by the fact that she hasn’t seen (Y/n) in two days.
Not because anything had happened.
But because apparently (Y/n) doesn’t work Tuesdays or Wednesdays.
Lena only knows that because she walked into the café Tuesday morning, saw someone else behind the counter, and felt an immediate, irrational wave of disappointment.
She’d recovered quickly, obviously.
But still, it was annoying.
Worse, she’d caught herself glancing toward the door while waiting for her coffee, like maybe (Y/n) would appear anyway.
She hadn’t.
Which is why Lena finds herself walking into the café again Thursday morning despite having a schedule packed so tightly she realistically should not be here.
The bell above the door rings softly.
Lena feels an unexpected flicker low in her chest. “I was here Tuesday,” she says before thinking.
(Y/n) blinks, “You were?”
“I had a meeting nearby.”
That part is technically true, Lena thinks.
(Y/n)’s expression softens immediately in a way that makes Lena wish she hadn’t admitted it, Because now she looks pleased, “You came in on my days off?” She smiles cheekily, “Who were you lookin’ for?”
“I was getting coffee.”
“Mmhm.”
Lena narrows her eyes. “You’re very smug for someone who fell off a chair this week.”
(Y/n) gasps dramatically. “You said we’d never speak of that again.”
“I said no such thing.”
“That feels legally questionable.”
Against all better judgment, Lena laughs softly.
And there it is again.
That look.
God.
“Your usual?” (Y/n) asks softly.
“What if you made me a drink you like?”
(Y/n)’s expression lights up. “Are you sure?”
Lena watches her for a moment before speaking again. “Yeah.”
Then, because apparently that activates her fight-or-flight response, (Y/n) blurts, “Are you a time traveler?”
Lena closes her eyes briefly, “Oh no.”
“Because I can absolutely see you in my future.”
A customer nearby snorts into their coffee.
(Y/n) immediately hides her face behind her hands, “I’m so sorry. That was horrible.”
Lena should probably encourage some sort of shame here. Instead, she feels laughter pushing at her chest again. “You’re impossible,” she murmurs.
. . .
That evening, Lena comes back again.
(Y/n) looks up from wiping down the counter and freezes, “You came back.”
“I was nearby.”
(Y/n)’s mouth twitches, “Sure.”
Lena narrows her eyes slightly. “You’re getting bold.”
“You laughed at my pickup lines. That’s changed me as a person.”
The cafe is nearly empty now, except for her and Lena, lights low and warm around them.
(Y/n) finishes cleaning the espresso machine before leaning lightly against the counter across from Lena. “You know,” she says carefully, “I’ve been trying very hard not to ask you something.”
“That sounds ominous.”
Lena studies her, watching as (Y/n) fidgets with her sleeve.
“You can ask,” Lena says after a moment.
(Y/n) exhales once like she’s gathering courage. “Would you maybe want to have dinner with me sometime?” (Y/n) immediately rushes onward. “As a date,” she says quickly. “Preferably. But if you don’t want that, I can absolutely pretend I meant something casual and non-romantic.”
(Y/n) is trying very hard to seem calm, but Lena can see the nerves underneath it.
“Yes,” Lena hears herself say.
(Y/n) blinks, “. . . Yes?”
“I would like to go to dinner with you.”
For one full second, (Y/n) just stares at her.
Then her entire face lights up so brightly that Lena actually feels her breath catch.
“I thought there was at least a 70% chance I’d pass out before finishing the question,” (Y/n) admits.
“That seems low,” Lena says, and (Y/n) laughs helplessly.
The sound settles warmly into the space between them.
And before Lena can think better of it, she finds herself smiling back openly this time.
(Y/n) goes completely silent.
Lena notices immediately, “What?”
(Y/n) looks almost dazed. “That,” she says softly, “might actually be the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Lena feels heat rise unexpectedly into her face.
And to her horror, (Y/n) seems to notice that too.
. . .
The restaurant (Y/n) had chosen was small and quiet.
It’s private enough that Lena immediately understands why she picked it.
It wasn’t flashy or expensive for the sake of being expensive.
Just warm lighting, soft music, and an atmosphere intimate enough to make Lena’s pulse jump the second she walks inside.
Then she sees (Y/n).
And for one horrifying moment, Lena forgets how to breathe properly. Because apparently seeing someone in hoodies and coffee-stained aprons every day had not prepared her for this.
(Y/n) stands awkwardly near the host stand, clearly trying not to fidget. She’s wearing a dark, button-up shirt, sleeves rolled up to her forearms, and her hair is fixed properly.
Pretty. God, she’s pretty.
Then (Y/n) notices her, and immediately looks equally as devastated.
“Well,” she says weakly as Lena approaches. “This feels unfair.”
Lena raises a brow.
“You can’t just show up looking like that,” (Y/n)’s cheeks are dark.
Despite herself, warmth rises into Lena’s cheeks. Interesting. She hadn’t realized she could still blush this much.
“You look lovely,” Lena says carefully.
(Y/n) stares at her like she just hung the moon. “Cool,” she says after a full second. “I’m never recovering from that.”
Lena laughs softly before she can stop herself.
The tension breaks immediately.
Thank god. Because underneath all the flirting and warmth, Lena had been nervous.
Actually, genuinely nervous.
What if things feel different outside the cafe? she’d thought.What if the connection disappears once we’re are alone together like this?
But then dinner starts.
Conversation flows naturally.
(Y/n) talks animatedly with her hands when she gets excited.
Lena catches herself watching her mouth while she speaks.
At one point, (Y/n) accidentally knocks over her water glass while explaining something about her programming class.
“Oh my god.”
Water spills everywhere.
(Y/n) looks genuinely horrified, “I swear I’m usually capable of functioning.”
Lena laughs quietly as she helps move the plates out of the way, “I’m beginning to doubt that.”
“I’m distracted.”
“By what?” The question leaves Lena’s mouth before she thinks better of it.
(Y/n) looks up.
Their eyes meet across the table.
And softly—far softer than the pickup lines—she says, “You.”
Lena looks down briefly toward the tablecloth, suddenly very aware of her heartbeat.
It’s been a long time since someone made her feel like this.
When she looks back up, (Y/n) is watching her carefully.
Nervous now. Like maybe she said too much.
Lena surprises herself again. She reaches across the table, just enough for her fingers to brush lightly against (Y/n)’s wrist.
The contact is brief, but Lena realizes she likes having this effect on (Y/n) far more than she should.
. . .
The truly catastrophic development—for (Y/n)—comes about two months into their relationship.
(Y/n) is sitting on Lena’s couch one evening in worn sweatpants and one of Lena’s oversized sweaters, squinting at her laptop while trying to fix a bug in her code.
Lena walks back into the living room carrying tea, and pauses.
There’s something deeply domestic about the scene.
(Y/n) looks up immediately and smiles, “There you are.”
They were just words, but they hit Lena unexpectedly hard.
There you are.
Lena crosses the room slowly and hands over the mug, and (Y/n) takes it carefully.
Their fingers brush.
Then Lena hears herself say, “You look very pretty in my clothes.”
(Y/n) stares at her.
Lena blinks once, because she hadn’t meant to say that out loud.
Apparently her brain had simply abandoned her entirely.
Lena feels warmth rise into her cheeks, “I said you look pretty.”
(Y/n) makes a sound that cannot legally be classified as language.
Lena watches, fascinated, as her girlfriend visibly short-circuits.
“You can’t just—” (Y/n) gestures helplessly. “You don’t usually do that.”
“Do what?”
“Flirt with me!”
Lena tilts her head slightly, “I thought you liked when I flirted with you.”
“I do,” (Y/n) says immediately. “That’s the problem.”
Lena laughs softly.
And god—Lena suddenly feels almost dizzy with affection.
. . .
After that, it escalates quickly.
Lena learns something about herself, she enjoys flustering (Y/n).
One afternoon, Lena stops by the café during a lull between meetings.
(Y/n) looks up immediately from behind the counter and brightens so instinctively that Lena’s chest aches, “There’s my favorite customer.”
Lena leans lightly against the counter, “Just customer?”
(Y/n) freezes.
Immediate panic.
Lena watches it happen in real time.
“Oh my god,” (Y/n) whispers. “You’re doing it on purpose now.”
Lena hums thoughtfully. “Doing what?”
“That thing where you say emotionally devastating things in a very calm voice.”
“I have no idea what you mean.”
Liar, (Y/n) thinks. My beautiful, terrifying liar. (Y/n) narrows her eyes weakly.
Then visibly loses the battle the second Lena smiles.
“You’re evil.”
“And yet,” Lena says softly, “you seem very fond of me.”
(Y/n) covers her face immediately.
Lena, to her own horror, starts laughing hard enough that her shoulders shake.
. . .
(Y/n) is in Lena’s kitchen making grilled cheese at one in the morning because apparently “sadness requires carbohydrates,” and Lena is sitting at the counter still wearing part of her suit after a brutal fourteen-hour day.
The apartment is quiet except for the soft hissing of butter in a pan.
“You know,” (Y/n) says while squinting critically at the stove, “I think rich people underestimate the emotional healing properties of a grilled cheese.”
Lena watches her fondly over the rim of a wine glass, “That’s a fascinating scientific claim.”
“I’m serious.”
“You’ve nearly burnt the bread.”
“Extra flavor,” (Y/n) counters immediately.
Lena laughs softly.
(Y/n) glances over immediately at the sound.
There it is again. That look.
And with horrifying, breathtaking clarity, she realizes that she could picture this for years to come.
The late nights. The terrible cooking.
And warmth filling spaces in Lena that had been cold for so long that she’d stopped noticing it.
Home, the realization hits Lena so hard that she goes very still.
“Honey, you okay?” (Y/n) asks, noticing immediately that something was off.
Lena looks at her standing there in her socks and one of Lena’s old sweaters, hair messy, cheeks warm from the stove.
“Yes,” she says quietly.
(Y/n)’s expression softens even more—somehthing Lena didn’t know was possible.
(Y/n) turns the stove off before walking over quietly.
Warmth settles beside Lena’s chair.
Gentle fingers slide carefully through hers.
Lena looks up slowly.
(Y/n) is already watching her with that same open expression she’s had from the very beginning.
The vulnerability of it almost steals the breath from Lena’s lungs. So naturally, she deflects. “You know,” she says softly, thumb brushing across (Y/n)’s knuckles, “you’re very pretty when you’re worried about me.”
(Y/n) immediately short-circuits. “There it is,” she mutters weakly.
Lena’s lips twitch upward, “There what is?”
“That thing you do now.”
“What thing?”
“You say what most be the emotionally devastating sentence and then act innocent afterward.”
Lena hums thoughtfully. “I still don’t know what you mean.”
“You’re flirting with me again.”
“Am I?”
(Y/n) stares at her. Then points accusingly, “You know exactly what you’re doing now. This used to be an even battlefield.”
Lena actually smiles at that, “Did you truly think you could spend months flirting with me and not face consequences?”
(Y/n) groans dramatically, dropping her forehead against Lena’s shoulder.
Lena slides a hand automatically into (Y/n)’s hair.
After a moment, (Y/n) looks up.
“You’re smiling again,” (Y/n) says quietly.
Lena hadn’t realized she was, “That seems to happen around you.”
(Y/n)’s entire expression melts instantly, “You can’t keep saying things like that.”
“And yet,” Lena murmurs, “I think I will.”
(Y/n) makes the tiniest wounded noise.
“You enjoy making me flustered.”
Lena takes a slow sip of wine, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You are a menace.”
“And you,” Lena says softly, setting the glass down, “are very easy to fluster.”
(Y/n) looks personally betrayed.
Lena leans closer slightly, “Especially when you blush like that.”
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Is this where I send in requests? I've never done it before, but I loved/totally recommended your Lena Luthor fics.
Could you do a Lena fic where Reader meets Lena for the first time, and sees that she seems really lonely or sad. Ever since meeting, Reader tries to make her smile by using these really dorky pick up lines. Lena is at first a bit hesitant/cautious, but with time she opens up and becomes a bit shy or flustered.
Eventually, they both fall for eachother, but neither of them confess. Until Lena decides to flirt back and Reader just cannot function.
And...honestly, that's all I got, you can change whatever you like, I just like how you write Lena!
Inside is somehow worse, Zoey thinks. But in a good way, somehow.
Rumi doesn't let go of (Y/n) for a solid moment.
Mira circles them, like she’s inspecting them.
Zoey just stands there, arms crossed, trying—and failing—not to smile.
“She’s so cute,” Rumi says matter-of-factly, turning to Zoey.
“I know,” Zoey replies immediately.
(Y/n) looks between them, amused. “Hi. I’m right here.”
Mira points at her. “We watched the stream.”
“Oh no.”
“Multiple times,” Rumi adds.
“Oh no.”
Zoey presses her lips together, shoulders shaking slightly.
“You’re enjoying this,” (Y/n) accuses.
“A little,” Zoey admits, grinning happily.
. . .
They settle eventually.
(Y/n) ends up on the couch between Zoey and Rumi, while Mira sits across from them, still very clearly observing.
“So,” Mira says, leaning forward. “How long have you been dealing with our Zo again?”
“Hey,” Zoey protests.
(Y/n) grins. “About two years.”
Rumi gasps. “And you stayed that long?” she asks jokingly.
“Barely,” (Y/n) plays into the teasing.
Zoey nudges her side immediately. “Wow.”
(Y/n) leans into her, smiling. “I’m kidding, honey.”
“You better be.”
Mira and Rumi exchange a grin.
“What?” (Y/n) asks, noticing their look.
“Oh, nothing,” Mira says, way too casually.
“Wait—we should tell her about—”
“No!” Zoey cuts in quickly.
“Yes,” Mira and Rumi say at the same time.
(Y/n) straightens slightly, immediately invested. “Tell me what?”
Zoey leans back into the couch, covering her face with one hand. “Don’t.”
Rumi ignores her completely.
“So,” she begins, turning to (Y/n) with a conspiratorial grin, “did you know Zoey cried over a stray cat for three hours once?”
“Nooooo—”
“It was raining,” Zoey mumbles from behind her hand.
Mira nods seriously, “She tried to bring it home.”
“I did bring it home,” Zoey argues.
“And then it scratched you and ran away,” Mira finishes.
(Y/n) lets out a soft, delighted laugh, turning to Zoey. “You cried over a cat?”
“It was a baby,” Zoey defends.
Rumi leans closer to (Y/n), stage whispering, “She named it.”
“I had to call it something!” Zoey protests.
“What was its name?” (Y/n) asks, grinning now.
Zoey hesitates. “. . . Midnight.”
(Y/n)’s smile softens immediately. “That’s cute.”
Zoey pauses, glancing over at her—like she’s trying to figure out if (Y/n) was teasing her or not.
“I think you’re supposed to be making fun of me,” Zoey mutters.
“I could never,” (Y/n) replies. “You’re too cute for that.”
. . .
“Wait,” Mira says suddenly, snapping her fingers. “No—tell her about the dance incident.”
Zoey sits up immediately. “Absolutely not.”
“The what?” (Y/n) asks, turning towards Mira.
Rumi is already laughing.
“So,” Mira starts, clearly enjoying herself, “we had this performance when we were younger, right? It must’ve been right after we’d debuted. And Zoey—”
“Stoppppp,” Zoey pleads.
“—was so confident,” Mira continues. “Like, she practiced nonstop—”
“I was good!”
“—and then,” Rumi cuts in, barely holding it together, “she tripped. On nothing. On stage.”
(Y/n) slaps a hand over her mouth. “No—”
Zoey points at them. “There was a wire!”
“There was not a wire,” Mira counters immediately.
“You just—” Rumi makes a little falling motion with her hand.
(Y/n) is trying so hard not to laugh.
Zoey crosses her arms. “I recovered.”
Mira nods. “Oh yeah, she got right back up.”
“And then,” Rumi adds, “she did the rest of the routine like nothing happened.”
(Y/n) turns to Zoey, eyes soft now. “Okay, that’s actually kind of impressive.”
Zoey pauses.
“I . . . Thank you.”
Mira leans back. “We still have the video.”
Zoey’s head snaps toward her. “Delete it.”
“Never.”
At some point, Rumi pulls out her phone. “We need a picture,” she says, smiling.
“No we don’t,” Zoey says immediately.
“Yes we do,” Mira counters.
(Y/n) laughs. “I’m okay with a picture.”
Zoey looks at her. Traitor, her eyes said.
. . .
The picture is chaos.
Rumi is half-hugging (Y/n). Mira is making a peace sign, and also leaning way too far into frame. Zoey is reluctantly there—but not really—her hand resting gently on (Y/n)’s knee, her thumb absentmindedly tracing circles there.
(Y/n) smiles more at the gesture.
. . .
Later, things seem to calm down.
At one point, Zoey had glanced over at her—really looking at her—and something in her chest settles, warm and certain.
Rumi was in the middle of telling some dramatic story about Zoey from when they were teenagers—with Mira butting in to add details Rumi had forgotten—and (Y/n) was laughing, relaxed, leaning slightly into Zoey’s shoulder without really thinking about it.
Zoey reaches over, lacing their fingers together.
(Y/n) squeezes back automatically, not even needing to look down.
As they’re leaving, Rumi hugs (Y/n) again.
“Come back soon,” she says.
“You’ve survived,” Mira says to Zoey, grinning.
Zoey laughs. “Barely.”
Back in the car, it’s quiet for a moment.
(Y/n) reaches over, taking and squeezing Zoey’s hand. “I love you.”
Zoey cracks a smile. “And I love you.”
. . .
(Y/n) hadn’t been planning to stream that day.
Her birthdays were usually quiet.
Just her, Zoey, a movie, takeout—soft and easy.
But then the chat had found out.
And suddenly—
“Okay, okay, calm down guys,” (Y/n) laughs, adjusting her camera for the third time.
crescentcore: “BIRTHDAY STREAM!!!”
EchosEdge: “WE MADE IT HAPPEN”
TwinkAndTwinkInc: “WHAT ARE WE DOING???”
(Y/n) glances down at the counter, where ingredients were already spread out: flour, sugar, eggs, and way too many bowls.
“Baking stream!” (Y/n) grins.
She’s wearing one of Zoey's hoodies—stolen again—the sleeves rolled up just enough to keep them out of the way.
“Before anyone asks—yes, I’m aware this can go horribly wrong,” (Y/n) says, grinning at the camera.
whiskzard: “Do you even know how to bake”
chef99: “this is going to be a disaster”
(Y/n) points at the camera. “I can follow instructions. That’s all baking is.”
From just off-screen—“That’s not entirely true.”
(Y/n) freezes. “Zoey,” she says flatly.
Zoey leans into frame, smiling. “Hi, guys!”
The chat loses it
kpopfan_aria: “she’s hereeeeeee!!!!”
midnightviewer: “ZOEY SPOTTED”
streamsimp101: “We winnnnnnnnn!”
“I didn’t say you could backseat bake,” (Y/n) narrows her eyes at her girlfriend, but she was smiling.
“I’m supervising.”
“That’s worse,” (Y/n) teases. “Okay, step one—preheat the oven.”
Zoey nods. “Good start.”
“No commentary.”
“Silent support.”
“You’re already failing.”
Five minutes later, flour is everywhere.
“There is no way that’s the right amount,” Zoey wonders aloudd.
“It says one cup.”
“That’s more than one cup.”
“It’s a generous cup,” (Y/n) replies
mgt_bandit: “GENEROUS CUP???”
flourpower77: “HELP HER”
zoeydefender: “ZOEY SAVE THE CAKE”
“I don’t need saving,” (Y/n) insists.
“You absolutely do.”
Then chat starts moving faster.
Zoey notices first, “Oh no.”
“What?” (Y/n) questions, Zoey’s hoodie dusted with flour.
Zoey leans closer to (Y/n)’s laptop screen, “Hi, guys.”
(Y/n) looks, and immediately lights up.
rumi_glows: “HI BIRTHDAY GIRL!!!!!!”
mira.exe: “we are here for moral support”
rumi_glows: “AND SUPERVISION”
(Y/n) laughs. “Hi!!”
Zoey shakes her head, but she’s smiling.
rumi_glows: “YOURE DOING GREAT SWEETIE”
rumi_glows: “I BELIEVE IN YOU”
rumi_glows: “. . . mostly”
mira.exe: “that is not one cup”
mira.exe: “it’s fine, probably”
“You guys are supposed to be supportiveeeee,” (Y/n) complains, her smile wide despite her words.
“We are, I just don’t want the apartment to explode,” Zoey teases, grinning.
“Okay, fine,” (Y/n) points at the camera. “What do I do next?”
Big mistake.
The chat floods again.
rumi_glows: “ADD MORE SUGAR”
mira.exe: “do not listen to her”
eggcellent_eggs: “MIX FIRST PLEASE”
chaosbaker: “NO JUST VIBE”
(Y/n) looks overwhelmed. “I’m scared.”
“You should be,” Zoey jokes, nudging her with her hip.
. . .
Eventually, the cake is in the oven.
The kitchen is a disaster.
(Y/n) leans against the counter. “Okay. That wasn’t terrible.”
Zoey raises an eyebrow. “Debatable.”
“It’s in the oven. That’s success.”
. . .
They wait.
Chat calms a little.
Still fast—but just a bit calmer.
(Y/n) glances at it, smiling.
“Thanks for being here, guys.”
rumi_glows: “ALWAYS”
mira.exe: “of course”
softboi_sam: “WE LOVE YOU”
Zoey nudges her shoulder gently.
“You’re loved, you know.”
(Y/n)’s smile softens. “Yeah.”
. . .
When the cake comes out of the oven, it’s a little lopsided.
But it’s cake.
“Moment of truth.”
Zoey leans closer. “So brave.”
(Y/n) cuts a slice.
Takes a bite.
Pauses.
“It’s actually really good.”
The chat explodes again
cakegremlin42: “SHE DID IT”
pixelpeachy: “WE’RE SO PROUD”
rumi_glows: “I NEVER DOUBTED YOU”
mira.exe: “that is a lie”
(Y/n) laughs, holding out the fork to Zoey. “Try?”
Zoey leans in, taking a bite off (Y/n)’s fork. She hums, “It’s good.”
(Y/n)’s smile softens. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
A few minutes later, (Y/n) turns to her camera.
“Alright, guys,” (Y/n) says, tired but happy. “I’m gonna go enjoy the rest of my birthday. Say bye, Zo.”
“Bye, Zo,” Zoey grins
rumi_glows: “HAPPY BIRTHDAYYYYY”
mira.exe: “happy birthday :)”
everyone_elses_mom: “HAPPY BIRTHDAY (Y/N)”
(Y/n) ends the stream.
The kitchen was a mess.
The cake was crooked.
(Y/n) cups Zoey’s cheeks and presses a kiss to her lips, “That was fun,” she murmurs, pulling back slightly.
Could i get a KPop Demon Hunters fan fiction with Zoey x Female!Civilian!Streamer!R? Maybe it's one where (Y/n) has been streaming for a while, talking about her girlfriend in a lot of the streams, but they haven't seen her, and they start to say that (Y/n)'s girlfriend doesn't exist. (Y/n) calls for her, and Zoey pops into frame
The first time (Y/n) mentions her girlfriend on stream, it’s casual.
She’s halfway through an early-evening gaming stream, her legs tucked under her in her deck chair, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands. The glow of her monitor paints her face in soft blues as the chat scrolls endlessly on the side.
“Yeah, I can’t stay on super late tonight, chat,” she says clicking through a menu on the game absentmindedly. “I promised my girlfriend I’d watch a movie with her.”
The chat explodes.
“WAIT GIRLFRIEND???”
“YOU NEVER SAID YOU WERE TAKEN???”
“PROOF???”
“SINCE WHEN?!”
(Y/n) laughs softly, ducking her head a little, a shy smile tugging at her lips.
“I mean . . . yeah?” (Y/n) says. “I didn’t think it was like . . . in need of a big announcement. And I’ve definitely mentioned her before. You guys just don’t listen to me.”
. . .
When the stream ends, (Y/n) stretches, groaning softly as she leans back—and immediately feels arms wrapping around her waist from behind.
“Hi,” Zoey murmurs, her voice warm.
(Y/n) smiles instantly. “Hi, baby.” (Y/n) tilts her head back just enough to look at her. “Movie night?”
Zoey pretends to think about it. “. . . Depends. Do I get to pick?”
(Y/n)’s couch is small—barely big enough for two people to stretch out comfortably—but they make it work. (Y/n) had sat first, leaning back into the cushions, Zoey’s smaller form practically melting into her side.
The movie starts.
Five minutes in, Zoey is talking.“This is the part where something bad happens,” she says.
(Y/n) hums fondly, “You say that about every movie.”
“Because it’s always true.”
(Y/n) smiles, resting her cheek lightly against the top of Zoey’s head. “Or maybe you just like ruining suspense.”
Zoey gasps softly. “I would never.” She snuggles closer.
Halfway through, (Y/n)’s not even watching anymore. She’s tracing absent-minded patterns on Zoey’s arm, her voice soft as she rambles about her stream, about chat, about something stupid someone said that made her laugh earlier.
Zoey listens.
Every time.
Even when she’s exhausted from rehearsals or performances, even when her schedule’s been insane—Zoey listens like it’s the most important thing in the world.
Because to her, it was.
. . .
It becomes a running joke.
Every stream.
“Girlfriend reveal when?”
“She’s imaginary.”
“We don’t believe you.”
(Y/n) would lean into it every time.
“Oh yeah, totally,” she says one day. “I made her up. Full hallucination. Very committed to the bit.”
From just off-screen, a voice calls, “Hey!”
The chat explodes.
(Y/n) immediately grins, looking to her right where Zoey was sitting, writing lyrics in one of her many notebooks. “Shhhh! You’re not real, remember?”
. . .
On the next strem there is a very clear: “Babyyyy, you stole my hoodie!”
(Y/n) freezes mid-sentence.
The chat goes feral.
(Y/n) slowly turns back towards the camera, whispering, “Chat, I didn’t! I would never.”
“You’re literally wearing it!” Zoey calls back.
“IS SHE WATCHING THE STREAM?!”
“thats so precious”
. . .
One night, after a stream, (Y/n) flops dramatically onto the couch. “I think they’re forming conspiracy theories now,” she says.
Zoey sits beside her, immediately curling into her side. “About what?”
“That you’re not real, that you’re AI, that I hired a voice actor—”
Zoey laughs. “Wait, I like that one.”
(Y/n) grins down at her. “Right? Like, wow, I wish I had that kind of budget.”
Zoey pokes her side. “Rude. I’m expensive.”
“You are expensive,” (Y/n) agrees immediately.
“Hey!” It was actually quite the opposite—it didn’t matter how much (Y/n) complained about Zoey spending money on her, Zoey always did (and probably would never stop).
. . .
The reveal happens on accident.
Kind of.
(Y/n) is streaming, just chatting, completely relaxed. “They’re still saying you don’t exist, by the way,” she mutters, reading chat.
Zoey, somewhere off-screen, goes, “That’s crazy.”
Chat SPIRALS.
“WE HEARD HER AGAIN”
“PROOF???”
(Y/n) laughs, shaking her head. “Hey, Zoey, baby, come here!”
Zoey immediately comes into the room.
She leans down, resting her chin on (Y/n)’s shoulder.
(Y/n) cradles Zoey’s face with a hand. (Y/n) is already laughing, a little giddy now. “Guys, this is my very fake girlfriend.”
Zoey nods seriously. “Completely imaginary.”
“Paid actor,” (Y/n) grins.
“Very expensive,” Zoey agrees.
“IS THAT ZOEY FROM HUNTR/X?!?!”
“DOES (Y/N) KNOW RUMIRA TOO?!?!”
. . .
The next stream starts like normal—(Y/n) sitting in her chair, adjusting her headset, sipping from her water bottle like nothing life-altering happened the night before.
“Hi,” she says casually. “How are we—”
“WHERE IS SHE.”
“BRING HER BACK.”
“WE MISS ZOEY?!?”
(Y/n) pauses mid-sip, slowly lowering the bottle. “ . . . You guys met her once.”
“NOT ENOUGH”
“WE NEED MORE CONTENTTTTTT"
“COUPLE STREAM WHEN???”
(Y/n) squints at the chat like it personally offended her.
“This is my stream,” she says. “You’re supposed to be here for me.”
“we are”
“WE WANT BOTH!”
“PACKAGE DEAL”
(Y/n) tries not to smile.
“Wow,” she mutters. “Fake fans.”
From somewhere beside her, there’s a soft laugh.
(Y/n)’s eyes flick off-screen for half a second.
Chat notices immediately.
. . .
Zoey doesn’t come on stream that day.
But she does linger.
She’s in the chair by the wall just out of frame, watching the stream on her phone.
. . .
“Babyyyyyyy,” (Y/n) collapses onto the couch. “I think they like you more than me now,” she says into a pillow.
Zoey walks over, amused, and gently pries the pillow away from her face.
“That’s not true.”
“They literally asked for you the entire stream.”
Zoey shrugs, sitting beside her. “Can you blame them?”
(Y/n) narrows her eyes. “Wow.”
“I’m kidding,” Zoey laughs, nudging her shoulder. “Mostly.”
(Y/n) huffs, though there’s no heat in it. She shifts closer, and Zoey tucks herself into her side.
Then Zoey says, a little more thoughtful this time—“. . . Do you want me to be on your streams more?”
(Y/n) blinks, caught off guard. “What?”
Zoey looks up at her, expression soft but a little unsure now. “Like—not all the time. I know it’s your space. But . . . I don’t know. It looked fun.”
(Y/n) pushes herself up slightly, turning to face her fully, “You want to stream with me?”
Zoey shrugs, just a little. “Yeah. If that’s okay?”
There’s a beat.
Then (Y/n)’s entire face lights up. “Are you kidding?” she says. “That would be so fun.”
Zoey’s smile grows, relieved. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” (Y/n) laughs. “You’re gonna get roasted by chat, though.”
“I can handle it.”
(Y/n) leans in, bumping their foreheads together. “We’ll see.”
. . .
The first official “couple stream” is chaos.
Pure chaos.
(Y/n) spends ten minutes just trying to set everything up while Zoey sits beside her, watching curiously.
“Okay, don’t touch anything,” (Y/n) says, adjusting something on her screen.
“I’m not touching anything.”
“You’re hovering.”
“I’m observing.”
“You’re distracting.”
Zoey grins. “You said that yesterday too.”
“Because it’s still true!”
Finally, everything is ready.
(Y/n) hits “Go Live.”
Instant regret.
Chat erupts.
“SHE’S BACK”
“HI ZOEY???”
“COUPLE STREAM LET’S GO”
“THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE”
Zoey leans slightly toward the mic, raising a hand in a small wave. “Hi.”
(Y/n) snorts. “That’s all you have to say?”
“I’m pacing myself.”
(Y/n) rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling, adjusting her headset as she glances at chat, which is now moving so fast it’s barely readable.
“Okay, calm down,” she laughs. “She’s not going anywhere—probably.”
Zoey hums beside her, tilting her head. “Probably?”
(Y/n) grins. “No promises. Chat might scare you off.”
“I doubt it,” Zoey says easily, leaning a little closer to the desk, eyes scanning the messages. “They seem nice.”
“WE ARE NICE”
“WE LOVE YOU <3”
“we must protect zoey at all costs”
(Y/n) snorts. “Yeah, give it ten minutes.”
. . .
They start the game.
“Okay, so you just—no, other way,” (Y/n) says, trying not to laugh as Zoey confidently walks her character straight into a wall.
“I’m exploring,” Zoey insists.
“You’re stuck.”
“I’m strategizing.”
“You’re in a corner.”
Zoey glances over at her, trying—and failing—to look serious before she cracks a smile. “Okay, maybe a little stuck.”
Chat is absolutely loving it.
“SHE’S TRYING HER BEST SOB”
“LET HER COOKKKKK”
“Don’t bully the queen!”
“I’m not bullying her!” (Y/n) protests, laughing. “I’m helping.”
“You’re judging,” Zoey counters lightly.
“I’m judging lovingly.”
Zoey bumps her shoulder. “Sure.”
. . .
A few minutes later, Zoey leans closer again—this time to actually see better—but it still completely throws (Y/n) off.
“. . . Zo.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re in my space again.”
Zoey glances at her, then at the screen. “. . . I need to see.”
“You have your own screen.”
“I like yours better.”
(Y/n) turns her head slightly.
They’re close.
Very close.
Just for a second.
The chat loses it.
“OH MY GOD???”
“HELLO???”
“THEY’RE SO CLOSE”
“kisssssss!!!”
(Y/n) immediately turns back to her monitor, cheeks just a little pink. “Okay, nope. Personal space.”
Zoey just smiles, completely unbothered, but she leans back . . . slightly.
. . .
Halfway through the stream, Zoey disappears for a few minutes.
(Y/n) doesn’t even comment on it at first—she’s too focused on the game, talking to chat, laughing at something dumb—
Until a hand appears in frame, holding out a drink.
(Y/n) pauses mid-sentence.
Looks at it.
Then up.
Zoey is standing just behind her, smiling softly. “You forgot to hydrate,” Zoey says.
Chat immediately explodes again.
“SHE CAME BACK!!!!!!”
“THAT’S SO CUTE???”
“HYDRATION CHECK”
(Y/n) takes the drink, smiling without even realizing it. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Zoey lingers for a second, her fingers brushing lightly against (Y/n)’s as she lets go.
It’s small.
Barely noticeable.
But (Y/n) notices.
She always does.
“Are you coming back?” (Y/n) asks quietly, glancing up at her.
Zoey shrugs a little. “Do you want me to?”
The chat is flooded instantly.
“YES”
“pleaseeeeeeeee”
“WE LOVE YOU”
(Y/n) laughs. “Okay, ignore them. I’m asking.”
Zoey’s expression softens just a bit. “Then yeah. I’ll come back.”
. . .
By the end of the stream, they’ve somehow accomplished . . . almost nothing in the game.
But no one cares.
“Alright,” (Y/n) says, leaning back in her chair, stretching a little. “I think that’s enough chaos for today.”
“Speak for yourself,” Zoey murmurs.
(Y/n) glances at her. “You had fun?”
“I did,” Zoey admits easily.
Chat is already begging.
“AGAIN TOMORROW???”
“MORE COUPLE STREAMS PLEASE”
“my comfort lesbians <3”
(Y/n) smiles softly at that, shaking her head. “You guys are so dramatic.”
She reaches over without thinking, her hand finding Zoey’s and squeezing lightly.
“Say bye, Zo.”
Zoey leans a little toward the mic again. “Bye, Zo.”
Later that night, long after the movie had been paused—and restarted—and paused again—Zoey’s phone won’t stop buzzing
At first, she ignores it.
She’s curled up on the couch, half under (Y/n), who is very comfortably using her as a pillow, one arm wrapped loosely around Zoey’s waist.
The TV is playing.
Neither of them are really watching.
Zoey’s fingers are absentmindedly tracing slow circles against (Y/n)’s side when—
buzz buzz buzz buzz
She exhales softly through her nose.
(Y/n) hums sleepily against her. “You gonna get that?”
Zoey glances down at her, brushing a piece of hair out of her face. “It’s probably nothing.”
buzz buzz
(Y/n) smiles, eyes still closed. “It’s not nothing.”
Zoey sighs, but there’s no real annoyance in it. Carefully, she shifts just enough to grab her phone from the coffee table without disturbing (Y/n) too much.
Big mistake.
The second she unlocks it—
Rumiiiiii 💜: OH MY GOD????
Mirrrrrr 🩷: HELLO???
Rumiiiiii 💜: WE JUST WATCHED THE STREAM
Mirrrrrr 🩷: YOU DID NOT TELL US IT WAS LIKE THAT
Zoey blinks.
Then she snorts quietly.
(Y/n) peeks one eye open. “What?”
Zoey tilts the phone slightly so she can see. “I think I’m in trouble.”
(Y/n) shifts up just enough to read, her smile growing immediately. “Oh no.”
buzz buzz buzz
Rumiiiiii 💜: YOU WERE SO CLOSE TO HER FACE???
Mirrrrrr 🩷: THE WAY YOU LOOKED AT HER???
Rumiiiiii 💜: I’M SICKKKKKKKK
Zoey rolls her eyes, but there’s a faint blush creeping up her neck now. “They’re being sooooo dramatic,” she mutters.
(Y/n) laughs softly, propping her chin on Zoey’s shoulder so she can read better. “No, no, they’re right. You were kind of obvious.”
Zoey turns her head slightly. “Obvious? About what?”
(Y/n) grins. “That you love me.”
Zoey narrows her eyes—then nudges her gently. “I do. But you were worse.”
“I was not!”
“You literally stared at me like—” Zoey cuts herself off, gesturing vaguely.
“Like what?” (Y/n) challenges, amused.
Zoey just huffs, looking back at her phone.
buzz
Mirrrrrr 🩷: ALSO???
Rumiiiiii 💜: THE HYDRATION THING???
Mirrrrrr 🩷: I’M NEVER RECOVERING
(Y/n) makes a small noise. “Okay, that wasssssss cute.”
“You forgot to drink water,” Zoey defends immediately.
“I always forget to drink water.”
“Exactly.”
(Y/n) smiles, softer this time.
Zoey types back.
Zoey 🐢: you guys are insane
The response is instant.
Rumiiiiii 💜: nooooooooooo
Mirrrrrr 🩷: girl, you’re sooooooooo in loveeeeeeee
Zoey grins.
Zoey 🐢: yeah
buzz
Mirrrrrr 🩷: WHEN ARE WE MEETING HER
Rumiiiiii 💜: DOUBLE DATE?!?!?
(Y/n) immediately perks up. “Ooooh?”
Zoey groans. “Don’t encourage them.”
“You’re not curious?” (Y/n) teases.
Zoey side-eyes her. “I know exactly what they’re like.”
“Yeah?”
“They’re worse than chat.”
(Y/n) laughs. “I don’t believe you.”
Zoey smiles, tucking her phone away and pulling (Y/n) closer again.
“You will.”
A quiet settles back in.
The TV is still playing.
The room is dim, warm, comfortable.
(Y/n) relaxes against her again, her hand slipping into Zoey’s hoodie pocket.
“Your friends are cute,” (Y/n) murmurs.
Zoey hums. “They like you.”
“I hope so.”
“They will,” Zoey says easily.
A pause.
Then, softer—
“They already do.”
(Y/n)’s smile lingers, slow and content. She tilts her head up just enough to press a gentle kiss to Zoey’s jaw. “Good.”
I know it's been a while (i'll post some fanfics soon, I promise!), but I was wondering if I could ask a favor.
I had to make the piece above for a music composition class, and I was wondering if-if any of yall had a few free minutes-if you would mind listening to it and just letting me know what you think!
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When I Let You In (A Polytrix College AU): Chapter 3
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Outside Rumi’s door, someone laughs—Zoey. Rumi could tell the difference between her laugh and Mira’s now.
She wonder, briefly, why neither of them told her that they were dating.
Do they think I’d be weird about it? Or disapprove?
The thought makes her frown.
Rumi sits up, shifting until her back rests against the pillows propped neatly against her headboard. She pulls her guitar back into her lap, her fingers finding the strings.
She begins to play mindlessly.
Rumi hadn’t thought much about any of this. Not really.
Sure, she finds women attractive. Who doesn’t, really? she reasons.
And she’d always had crushes on boys.
Right?
The chord she’d been playing falters.
Rumi slows, her fingers hovering over the strings.
Right?
There had been—
And—
Her hand stills completely.
She sets the guitar back down on the bed, gentle, as though it might break by setting it down at her side.
Oh.
. . .
Mira’s room is darker than the rest of the apartment, lit only by a small lamp on her nightstand and the faint glow from the streetlamps outside. The clothes prepped for the next day are folded over her desk chair.
Zoey lies half on top of her, half tangled in the comforter, one arm draped comfortably across Mira’s waist. Mira’s back is against the pillows propped against her headboard, her legs stretched out, Zoey’s socked feet tucked between Mira’s calves to keep warm.
Zoey shifts, pressing her face briefly into Mira’s shoulder. “Your room smells like you.”
Mira snorts softly. “Cause it’s my room, babes.”
“Yeah,” Zoey says softly, smiling into the fabric of Mira’s hoodie she was wearing. “I like it.”
Mira lets her fingers trace lazy patterns along Zoey’s hoodied arm, not really thinking about it too much. Touch had always been easier to her than words. With Zoey, it never felt like something she had to ration.
“You tired?” Mira asks Zoey softly.
“Always,” is Zoey’s reply. “Class was a nightmare. I swear, my professor hates joy.”
“Bold of you to assume professors have feelings at all.” Mira jokes in reply.
Zoey laughs quietly, the sound vibrating against Mira’s chest. She tilts her head to look up into Mira’s face. “You’re so pretty, baby,” she murmurs.
Mira raises an eyebrow. “Have you seen me?”
“Mhmmm,” Zoey hums softly. “And you’re the most gorgeous girl I’ve ever seen.”
Mira exhales softly. This was something Mira had always been bad at—receiving complements.
Mira smiles gently, wrapping her arms gently around Zoey.
They lapse into a comfortable silence again.
After a few minutes, Zoey murmurs, “Rumi seems to be settling in pretty well.”
Mira hums, “Yeah, from what I can tell.”
“She cooked for us again,” Zoey says. “That’s dangerous. I’ll grow dependent,” she jokes.
Mira smiles again. “I think she likes doing things for people.”
There’s a pause.
“I hope she doesn’t feel like she has to,” Zoey says, sounding more thoughtful now.
Mira tightens her arm around her slightly. “She doesn’t. I think . . . I think she just likes being here.”
Zoey hums, seemingly content with that answer. “She’s good. Quiet, but good.”
“Yeah,” Mira agrees. “I’m glad she’s moved in.”
Zoey shifts again, setting more comfortably against her. “We should probably tell her. About us, you know.”
Mira considers this. “I think she already knows.”
“Really?” Zoey looks up.
“She’s observant,” Mira says simply. “And if she has noticed, she hasn’t made it weird or anything.”
Zoey sighs, melting more into Mira. “That’s good.”
They stay like that, limbs tangled, the world reduced to the soft rhythm of breathing and the faint sounds of the apartment settling around them.
Through the wall, they can hear Rumi playing her guitar.
Mira smiles, and closes her eyes.
. . .
Zoey wakes up to light instead of an alarm.
It takes her a second to register where she is—Mira’s room, Mira’s bed, Mira breathing softly beside her. Zoey doesn’t move right away. She just stays there, half-awake, watching the way sunlight slips through the blinds and lands across Mira’s face.
Mira stirs when Zoey shifts, mumbling something unintelligible and tucking her face closer to Zoey’s neck. Zoey smiles, pressing a quick kiss to her hairline, and carefully untangling herself from the sheets—and Mira.
Zoey grabs her—well Mira’s—hoodie from the floor, slips it on, and pads out into the kitchen.
The apartment is quiet. It was early enough that no one else was awake.
She grabs her phone, keys, and wallet, then hesitates.
Rumi had cooked dinner last night, and breakfast yesterday morning.
Zoey chews on her lip for a moment then nods to herself.
. . .
The cafe down the street is already busy, all clatter and steam amidst the low hum of conversation.
Zoey orders without really thinking—two coffees she knows she and Mira like, and something sweet and warm for Rumi, whom Zoey had noticed tended to drink more sweet drinks.
She balances the tray and bag carefully on the walk back, the morning air cool against her face. By the time she reaches the apartment, her fingers ache a little from the weight of the three drinks and the food.
Worth it, Zoey thinks.
. . .
When she gets back, Mira is in the kitchen, hair still messy from sleep, stretching one arm over her head.
“You disappeared,” Mira says sleepily.
“I went on a mission,” Zoey replies, setting everything on the counter. “Sit.”
Mira obeys without argument. “You didn't have to do this,” Mira says.
Zoey shrugs, “Rumi’s been doing alot. Figured she could have a morning off.”
Mira smiles softly. “You’re so sweet.”
“I know,” Zoey says, then grins.
They’re halfway through unpackaging everything zoey had bought when Rumi appears in the doorway, her eyes still havey with sleep.
“Oh, I was gonna make breakfast,” Rumi says, stopping short.
Zoey turns, "Absolutely not.”
“What?” Rumi blinks.
“You cooked enough this week,” Zoey scolds, but her tone was teasing. “You’re off duty,” Zoey says, pushing Rumi’s cup toward her. “Sit. Drink. Eat.”
Rumi hesitates, then with an encouraging smile from Mira, takes the offered cup, her fingers curling around it. “Thanks.”
Zoey watches the tension leave Rumi’s shoulder as she takes a sip.
Good, Zoey thinks.
They eat together in the comfortable silence.
. . .
Rumi doesn’t say much as she heads out for the day.
She thanks Zoey again–soft, feeling almost embarrassed—and Mira nudges her shoulder gently on her way past, murmuring a casual “Have a good class.”
It’s all very normal.
And that’s what sticks with Rumi as she heads out of the apartment building and as she walks towards campus.
Outside, the air is cool and clean. Rumi adjusts a strap of her backpack on her shoulders, the remainder of her coffee still warm in her hands.
She doesn’t even put on music as she walks to class, that’s how distracted she is.
Rumi was used to being useful.
Productive.
If she was cooking, or writing, or playing, then she was fine.
Then she’d earned the place she took up.
This morning, Rumi hadn’t earned anything.
They’d just . . . given.
The thought makes her chest ache in a way she doesn’t know how to explain.
Rumi slows a little as she crosses the quad, her steps drifting out of sync with everyone else’s. Students past her in clusters, laughing, complaining about early classes, most about half-asleep still. She barely registers them.
They’d just . . . given.
The thought circles in Rumi’s head again, gentler this time.
Rumi presses the lid of her coffee cup with her thumb, grounding herself in it’s warmth. She thinks of Zoey’s easy insistence. Of Mira’s encouraging smile.
Just kindness, offered like it was an obvious thing.
Like it didn’t need to be earned.
She isn’t really sure what to do about that.
Rumi reaches the steps of the building and stops for a moment, staring into the glass doors. Her reflection looks back at her—her hair a little messy, shoulders slightly hunched.
Rumi exhales.
The hallway inside is bright and echoing, already filled with voices. Rumi blends into the crowd.
She heads towards her classroom, she realizes something.
For the first time since maybe ever, she isn’t really thinking about what she needs to do to deserve the rest of her day.
. . .
Rumi really didn’t want to be here. Her history class.
She slides into a seat near the back of the classroom, setting her coffee cup carefully on the floor beside her chair. The room hums with low conversation, the scrape of chairs, the rustle of laptops and notebooks opening.
Rumi barely notices.
When her professor starts talking, something about history—Rumi could actually care less about this class—her pencil is already moving.
Not notes.
Words.
The melody hums quietly in her head, familiar to her now, but also changing. Softer around the edges.
She scribbles a line, crosses it out, writes another in the margins.
The professor’s voice faces in and out as Rumi writes.
. . .
Zoey spots Rumi first.
She’s tucked at one of the outdoor tables near the student center, poking at her feed like she was thinking more than she was eating. Zoey weaves through teh crowd and drops into the seat across from her.
Rumi looks up, startled. “Oh, hey Zoey.”
They eat in silence for a few minutes.
Then Zoey starts complaining about a project that she was already finding insane.
Zoey notices it before Rumi does.
A girl with long black hair shows as she passes their table. Doubles back.
Then pretends to check her phone before stopping just a little close to Rumi’s side.
“Hey,” the girl says, bright and confident. “Sorry—are you in Songwriting 204?”
Rumi looks up, startled. “Uh—yeah?”
Zoey tries to keep her face neutral.
The girl smiles wider. “You played something yesterday, right? I loved it. The melody was—” She gestures vaguely, like the word is stuck somewhere in her chest. “Really good.”
Rumi’s cheeks dust a soft pink. “Oh. Thank you. I—uh—thanks.”
Zoey bites the inside of her cheek.
The girl focuses on Rumi’s face again. “Do you play outside of class? Like . . . gigs or anything?”
“Mostly just . . . writing,” Rumi says. She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, suddenly seems very interested in the edge of her tray.
Zoey leans back, watching as though she was watching a tennis match.
The girl nods, then hesitates. “Well. If you ever wanna like—I’m usually on the cafe on Fifth. I’m Kate.”
She scribbles something on a napkin and slides it towards Rumi.
Rumi stares at it for half a second too long. “I’m—Rumi. And, um. Yeah. Maybe.”
Kate grins. “Cool,” she glances at Zoey. “Nice meeting you.”
“Likewise,” Zoey says, entirely honest.
Kate walks off, and Zoey gives it exactly three seconds before she speaks, “Soooooo.”
Rumi groans softly, dropping her forehead to the table. “Please don’t.”
Zoey grins. “Please do explain why a very cute girl just gave you her number and you looked like you were about to die.”
Rumi lifts her head, cheeks still flushed. “I didn’t know she was—”
“Flirting?” Zoey grins wider.
“Yes!” Rumi huffs. “I thought she just liked the song.”
When I Let You In (A Polytrix College AU): Chapter 2
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Rumi pockets her phone and heads towards the student union, guitar case bumping lightly against her leg. The campus is louder now—clusters of students spilling out of buildings, laughter and half-heard conversations weaving together into something messy, and something that seems alive.
Rumi spots Mira near the entrance almost immediately.
She’s standing off the side, near one of the benches, earbuds dangling around her neck. She’s dressed in loose jeans and a faded hoodie.
“Hey,” greets Rumi as she approaches.
Mira straightens, a small smile spreading across her face. “Hey, you made it out alive?”
“Barely,” Rumi replies, amused. “I think my professor can smell fear.”
Mira laughs, and it’s soft and genuine. “That tracks. I genuinely think most can.”
They fall into step together, heading inside. The student union smells like fries and coffee and something sweet Rumi can’t quite place. It’s crowded, but not overwhelming. Mira navigates the room easily, weaving through tables like she’s done it a thousand times—she probably has, Rumi thinks.
They settle at a quieter corner table with trays of food—Rumi with bibimbap, and Mira with kimchi.
“So,” Mira begins casually. “How was class?”
“It was good,” Rumi replies. “Pretty good.”
Mira hums, like she expected that answer. “Songwriting, yeah?”
“Mhmm,” Rumi replies.
They eat for a while, Rumi listening to Mira complain about one of the rehearsal room that smelled like old socks. Mira listens to Rumi talk about her last class, and how he seemed to overuse the word intention.
At one point, Mira nods towards Rumi’s guitar case leaning against a chair. “You carry that everywhere?”
“Most places,” is Rumi’s reply.
“Fair,” Mira says. “I’d bring the studio floor with me if I could.”
Rumi laughs quietly. “That sounds like it would be painful.”
“It probably would be,” Mira replies.
They fall into another stretch of comfortable silence, until Mira checks her phone and sighs, “I’ve got another rehearsal in ten.”
“Yeah, and I should be heading back to the apartment,” Rumi says. “I want to go to the gym later.”
They gather their things, tossing away their trash and sliding their chairs back into place.
“Well, I’ll see you later,” Mira says.
“Yeah, see you,” Rumi replies, giving Mira a small wave.
Mira gives Rumi a small wave in reply and heads off towards the Arts building.
. . .
“Howdy, Rumi,” Zoey says cheerfully as the apartment door opens.
“Hi, Zoey,” Rumi replies, smiling at Zoey.
“I’m very happy for you,” Zoey says once Rumi comes back from her room after dropping off her guitar.
“Thanks, Zoey,” Rumi says, plopping down on the couch adjacent to the one Zoey was lounging on.
“Was it—” Zoey begins.
“The one you helped me with?” Rumi asks. “Yep. And then I came up with some new chords before class that I added too.”
“That’s great, Rumi!” Zoey says happily.
Zoey fixes her gaze back on the TV, focusing on some game she’d told Rumi was called Hollow Knight.
Rumi watches Zoey for a few moments, without really meaning to. She’s sprawled across the couch, one leg hooked over the armrest, her controller loose in her hands. The soft glow of the sunlight across her face as she plays the game, her brows knit in concentration. Every now and then, she mutters something under her breath—half-complaint, half encouragement to the little character running across the screen.
“So,” Zoey says, eyes still on the TV. “Any notes from the professor? Or did you just casually smoke everyone in the class?”
“It wasn’t really like that,” Rumi says. “He just told me to keep up with it.”
Zoey hums.
Rumi shifts on the couch, tucking a leg under herself.
Zoey’s character dies and she groans in exasperation. “That’s bullshit.”
Rumi laughs softly, “You want help?”
“With a game you’ve never played?” Zoey asks, glancing over at her. “Bold, Rums.”
Rumi just grins. Zoey snorts, then she pauses the game. “You wanna try, then?”
Rumi hesitates, sure, she’d offered, but she hadn’t really been serious. “Sure.”
Zoey scoots over, handling her the controller and launching into a rapid explanation of the controls that makes absolutely no sense to Rumi. Rumi listens anyway, her thumbs tentative on the buttons.
And Rumi dies almost immediately.
“Wow,” Zoey says, looking almost impressed. “That was impressively fast.”
Rumi passes the controller back, laughing. “I think I’m more of a music person.”
“Fair,” Zoey replies, unpausing her game. “Every team needs one.”
They fall into an easy quiet again. Zoey plays her game. Rumi listens to the game’s soundtrack, fingers absently tapping against her knee, as if filing it away for later.
It’s not exciting.
Nothing really happens.
But it feels nice—at least to Rumi.
. . .
Rumi ends up cooking dinner.
The apartment is warm now, dusk settling in through the windows, the kind of light that turns everything it touches gold. Rumi’s got something simple going—pasta, meat, and sauce from a jar.
Nothing fancy.
The living room hums with low sound. Zoey’s game is still on, though she’d paused it, controller resting on her stomach. Mira had come back from rehearsal, bag dropped by the door, hair pulled back.
They’re talking quietly.
About nothing really that important.
“—I’m just saying,” Zoey says, “if the hitbox is that bad, it’s not a skill issue.”
Mira huffs a laugh. “You say that about everything.”
“Because I’m always right,” Zoey retorts.
Rumi stirs the pot of noodles. Out of the corner of her eye, she catches the way Mira leans a little closer to Zoey when she laughs. The way Zoey’s foot nudges Mira’s ankle absentmindedly. The way they sit, maybe a little too close for two people who were ‘only’ friends.
Rumi smiles to herself. “Dinner’s almost ready,” she calls out.
“Bless you, Rumi,” Zoey replies almost immediately.
Mira stands up and wanders into the kitchen, leaning against the counter across from Rumi. “You don’t have to keep cooking for us, you know.”
“I know,” Rumi replies. “I love cooking,” she says honestly.
Mira nods, accepting the answer easily. “Smells good.”
Rumi glances up in time to see Zoey nudging Mira affectionately as she crosses to grab plates from the cabinet.
Rumi looks back down at the pot. Definitely not imaging it.
They eat together at the table Zoey had cleared off while home alone. Zoey and Mira sit next to each other, knees brushing once or twice under the table.
. . .
Zoey and Mira offer to clean up after dinner, and Rumi retreats to her room to work on her song.
The door clicks behind her gently. The room is dim except for all the little lamps scattered around the room, warm light pooling over scattered notebooks and loose sheets of paper. She sits on the edge of her bed for a moment, listening—to the muffled sounds of Zoey and Mira in the living room and the distant noise of traffic inside.
Rumi takes off her hoodie, then she picks up her notebook.
She reaches for a pencil.
The words come slowly at first. A line.
Then it’s crossed out.
Another, written in the margin.
She writes:
Why does it feel right every time I let you in?
Why does it feel like I can tell you anything?
Rumi stops, considering the lines, then leaves it there.
She plays the guitar until her fingers ache a little, until the day loosens its grip on her shoulders. Eventually, she sets the guitar aside and lies back on her bed, staring up at the ceiling.
When I Let You In (A Polytrix College AU): Chapter 1 - Moving In
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Rumi learns she’s being rehoused via a mass email sent at 7:42 AM—what a thing to wake up to, she had thought.
Due to ongoing housing overcrowding, you have been reassigned to off-campus university-affiliated housing effective immediately.
She deletes the rest without reading it, groaning as she rolls onto her back and stares at the cracked dorm ceiling.
Her dorm is barely big enough for her bed, her desk, and her guitar case wedged between them. She’d only been here for three weeks, but it had already felt like a temporary place—like she’d never unpacked fully because some part of her knew she wouldn’t stay.
Down the hall, someone is already practising their scales on a trumpet.
Someone else is crying.
The radiator hisses.
Overcapacity was a polite word for too many people, too many dreams, not enough space.
The university had accepted more students than it could hold, and now it was reshuffling people like chess pieces, hoping no one would notice the board was warped.
Her phone buzzes again.
RELOCATION REQUIRED. MOVE-IN DATE: TOMORROW
Rumi sits up so fast she nearly falls off her twin-XL bed.
. . .
The apartment complex is off-campus, but close enough to hear the campus breathing nearby.
A low hum beneath traffic and footfalls, like something watching from behind a glass.
The building seems old. Brick instead of concrete. Wide windows. The lobby smells faintly of incense and burnt coffee.
Rumi drags her suitcase inside, her guitar case knocking gently against her leg with each step.
Of course the elevator is broken, Rumi thinks. By the time she reaches the third floor, her arms ache and her patience is frayed thin enough to snap.
Apartment 3B is at the end of the hall.
She knocks.
The door swings open immediately, like whoever inside was waiting for her—which they probably were, Rumi figures.
“Hi,” says the girl standing in the doorway. She was cute—dark hair pulled into two space buns, sleeves rolled up, and hands faintly smudged with what Rumi guesses is ink or paint. She blinks, then smiles, “Hi, you must be Rumi.”
“Yeah,” Rumi adjusts her grip on her guitar case. “I—uh. They told me yesterday that I was moving in today,” Rumi says.
“Yep,” the girl says. “I’m Zoey,” she steps back inside the apartment, already reaching for one of Rumi’s bags. “Come in before the hallway eats you.”
Rumi feels as though this was a joke.
Probably.
Rumi allows herself to be ushered inside.
The apartment is bigger than she expects. Sunlight spills across hardwood floors; plants crowd the windowsills—some real, some suspiciously fake looking. There’s art taped to the walls—prints, sketches, half-finished designs. A projector hangs from the ceiling in the living room, cables neatly zip-tied and trailing towards a desk burdened by computer monitors and sketchbooks.
On the far side of the room, someone is stretching.
She’s tall, pretty, wearing sweats and socks on the wooden floor. Her raspberry pink hair is set in twin pigtails, to keep her hair out of her face.
The girl notices her mid-stretch and straightens, offering a small, polite smile. “You’re our new roommate.” It isn’t a question.
“Yeah, I’m Rumi,” Rumi smiles back.
“Mira,” Mira wipes her hands on her pants.
“Mira’s not as icy as she acts,” Zoey says cheerfully, lips slipping into an affectionate smile.
“Shove it,” Mira says, but she smiles—a real one this time.
Rumi laughs—and she’s surprised at how easily it comes.
. . .
Rumi’s new room is modest—but clean.
The walls are bare, and her boxes are stacked in a corner of the room—Rumi supposed the housing people had dropped them off.
A single window looks out over the street. There’s a burning sensation in the air, like static before a storm, but it fades as soon as she steps inside.
Probably nothing.
She sets her guitar case against the wall, fingers lingering on the handle.
From the living room, she can hear Zoey and Mira talking—soft, overlapping, familiar in a way that makes Rumi's chest ache a little. She’s been alone a lot since coming to college. Dorm rooms weren’t built for connection, not really. They were built for survival.
But this place—it feels different to Rumi.
Grounded.
. . .
Rumi starts unpacking, folding clothes, organizing her desk. She sets her stuffed teddy bear on her bed, patting his head.
When she pulls off her hoodie to change, she pauses. Her forearms are marked with faint, uneven lines—old scars, pale against her skin. Not fresh. Just . . . there. A forever-reminder of a time she didn’t want to remember.
She pulls on a clean hoodie.
. . .
They order takeout that night and eat on the couches in the living room, because the table was buried under Mira’s notebooks and Zoey’s equipment.
Mira talked about rehearsals.
Zoey complains about her most recently assigned project.
Rumi just listens, warm and quiet, fingers tapping unconsciously against a knee, as if she were counting beats.
“What’s your major?” Mira asks Rumi eventually.
“Songwriting,” Rumi replies. “Music comp.”
Zoey’s eyebrows lift. “Oooh, that’s so cool, Rumi!” she says happily.
“Music’s easier than talking,” Rumi says.
Mira just nods. As if that made perfect sense.
. . .
That night, after they’d all retreated to their rooms, Rumi sits on her bed with her guitar balanced across her lap. She plays softly—nothing in particular.
The sound fills the room, gentle and steady.
. . .
“I like Rumi,” Zoey says to Mira as she opens Netflix on the TV in her room, the soft sounds of Rumi’s guitar playing muffled from the wall between them.
“Yeah?” Mira asks, turning to study her girlfriend’s face.
“Yeah,” Zoey replies happily. “She seems cool.”
She seems cool, Zoey’s words echo in Mira’s head. And she agreed. Rumi did seem cool.
. . .
Zoey wakes up to the smell of something warm.
Not burning.
Not smoke.
Just . . . food.
Real food.
Butter and something else, maybe eggs. It takes her a second to register it because the apartment is usually quiet in the mornings—Mira was usually gone early for rehearsals, and Zoey usually survived the morning on coffee.
She blinks at the ceiling, confused, then pushes herself up and pads down the hallway.
The kitchen light is on.
Rumi stands at the stove in shorts and an oversized hoodie, hair still a little messy from sleep. A pan hisses softly on the stove.
There’s a bowl of cut fruit on the counter.
Three plates set out.
Zoey stops short in the doorway.
“Oh—I’m so sorry,” Rumi says immediately, glancing over her shoulder. “I hope that’s okay. I just couldn’t sleep, and I didn’t want to just . . . sit in my room.”
Zoey stares at the plates.
Then at the stove.
Then back at Rumi.
And then she speaks. “No one has cooked breakfast in this apartment for like a year,” Zoey says honestly. “I think Mira cried the last time she tried.”
“Hey,” Mira’s voice says sleepily from behind her. “I can hear you.”
Mira appears a second later, hair pulled back messily, her eyes half-closed. She takes in the scene—the food, the plates, Rumi at the stove—and freezes.
“Is this . . . real?” Mira asks.
Rumi smiles, looking a little unsure of herself. “I think so.”
They sit at the table—clear just enough to make space—while Rumi finishes putting things on plates.
Eggs, toast, fruit, sausage.
Nothing fancy.
Mira takes a bite and visibly relaxes. “Oh wow. This is—yeah. This is good.”
Zoey hums in agreement, already halfway through her plate. “You didn’t have to do this, you know.”
“I know,” Rumi replies. “I just wanted to.”
Mira watches her over the rim of her mug. “You a morning person?”
Rumi laughs quietly. “No, I just always find it pretty hard to stay asleep.”
Zoey nods like she understands.
. . .
“Class sucked,” Zoey exclaims as she re-enters their apartment a few hours later.
Rumi looks up from the couch, amusement flickering in her gaze. “What happened?”
Zoey grins, “Nothing in particular, I just really hate going to class. I’d rather do it myself.”
Rumi lets out a snort of laughter.
“Whatcha workin on, roomie?” Zoey asks. Rumi raises an eyebrow at the unintentional pun. “That was not on purpose,” Zoey replies, grinning.
“Just a song,” Rumi replies. Zoey raises an eyebrow this time.
“I coulda guessed that, Rumi,” Zoey says, waving a hand towards the guitar propped in Rumi’s lap. “I heard you playing last night, it was pretty.”
Rumi’s fingers dance over the strings, and she shrugs, “It wasn’t finished.”
“Some of the best ones never are,” Zoey replies, plopping down at the opposite end of the couch, turning in her spot so she could watch Rumi. “What was it about?”
Rumi hesitates, “Not really sure yet.”
Zoey hums in reply.
Rumi plays a few more quiet notes, the same progression as before, testing it like she’s checking to make sure it feels right. The sound settles into the room, gentle and soft.
Zoey listens without interruption. “Can I see?” Zoey asks after a moment, nodding towards the open notebook on the coffee table.
Rumi shrugs, “It’s pretty messy.”
Zoey grins, “My specialty.” Zoey’s eyes skim the page–half-formed lyrics, lines crossed out and rewritten in the margins, little arrows pointing every which way. She sets the notebook back down. “I’m working on a game. It’d be so cool to have music played by someone I know,” she grins happily at Rumi.
“Yeah. Yeah, okay,” Rumi smiles at Zoey. “That sounds cool!” Rumi rests her chin lightly against the top of her guitar, her shoulders relaxing.
. . .
Rumi sits in her seat in her songwriting class, her legs tucked under her chair, her guitar sits in its case near her feet.
The classroom smells faintly of old wood. There are only twelve students, arranged in a loose semicircle, all of them clutching notebooks or tablets. Professor Hale leans against the deck at the front of the room, sleeves rolled up, listening as someone fumbles through a half-finished verse.
Rumi keeps her eyes on the floor.
She’s learned the rhythm of this class: listen, absorb, and she would never answer anything until asked. Let other people talk. Safer that way.
The word intention makes Rumi’s fingers twitch.
She writes that word at the top of her notebook, underlines it twice, then circles it for good measure. Intention is always the part she struggles to explain. She can feel it—like pressure behind her ribs—but translating it into something other people can understand feels like striping a wire bare.
The class moves on. Notes are given. Gentle critiques.
When Professor Hale’s gaze flicks towards her, Rumi stiffens. “Rumi,” he says, voice kind but expectant. “You’ve been quiet today.”
A few heads turn towards her.
Rumi swallows, “I’m still working on mine.”
He nods. “Want to play what you have?”
Her first instinct is to say no. The word sits heavily on her tongue.
Then she hears Zoey’s voice in her head—some of the best ones never are.
She exhales. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”
She pulls her guitar out of its case. Her hands are steady, even if her chest isn’t.
The plays softly at first, a progression she’d been working on for a while now. Halfway through, she shifts—adding a few more chords she’d considered adding this morning on the couch.
When she finishes, the silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable.
Professor Hale nods slowly. “That’s very good, Rumi,” he says.
Rumi’s shoulders loosen.
Professor Hale considers her for a moment. “It sounds like you’re not writing to be impressive, but to survive.”
Rumi’s throat tightens. She looks back down at the guitar, blinking fast.
“Keep with that one,” he tells her. “Wherever it leads.”
. . .
When class ends, Rumi lingers, packing her things carefully. She steps into the hallway, sunlight streaming through tall windows.
Her phone buzzes in her pocket.
Zoeyyyyyy: how was classssss
Rumi: it was okayRumi: i played something today
Three dots appear almost immediately.
Zoeyyyyyy: ?!?!?!?!
Zoeyyyyyy: AND YOU DIDN”T TELL ME
Zoeyyyyyy: proud of you though <3
Rumi grins, tucking her phone back into her pocket.
Her phone buzzes again.
She pulls it out again.
Miraaaaa: hey hey
Miraaaaa: im on campus today if you wanna get lunch
Rumi considers the offer.
Rumi: yeah, yeah that sounds fun
------------------
Alrightyyyyy, here's my first chapter of my new seriesssss
I really hope that the stereotype of the first lesbian relationship ending horribly is wrong. I've been with my girlfriend for almost two years now-we're each other's first relationship too-and I think I would literally never recover if we broke up.
She's literally the sweetest, kindest, most amazing person I've ever met.
This long distance relationship-we're away from college (where we met) for summer break-is already pushing me to the limit lol
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Five (Max Mayfield x Fem!Byers!Reader) - Chapter 7
Series Masterlist
Main Masterlist
Blood runs from (Y/n)’s nose, dark against her skin, dripping onto the red-and-black flannel she’s wearing.
“C’mon,” Dustin says, hauling her to her feet. She sways, dizzy, and he steadies her before she can fall.
. . .
Mike sits slumped on the couch in his basement, staring across the room at the blanket fort. It’s empty now—collapsed in places—where (Y/n) had fallen asleep earlier, completely wiped out after summoning that tiny, suppressed crackle of lightning that jolted Lucas awake.
His eyes drift to the door, lingering there, willing it to open. Wishing—hoping—that Eleven will be standing on the other side.
. . .
“I just . . .” (Y/n) blinks, waking fully at the sound of Mike’s voice. “I can’t believe she didn’t come back.” She pushes herself upright, studying Mike and Dustin’s faces.
“She’s gotta be close,” Dustin insists.
“She said it wasn’t safe,” Mike murmurs, pacing now. “She messed up the compasses because she was trying to protect us. She didn’t betray us.”
“Mike, calm down,” Dustin says as Mike wears a path into the basement floor.
“I shouldn’t have yelled at her. I never should’ve done that,” Mike rambles, words tumbling out faster and faster.
“Mike, this isn’t your fault,” Dustin cuts in.
“Yeah, it’s Lucas’s,” Mike shoots back.
“It wasn’t his fault either,” Dustin says, and Mike freezes mid-step.
“It wasn’t his fault?!”
“No.”
“So you’re saying he wasn’t totally out of line?” Mike demands.
“Totally,” Dustin says. “But so were you.”
“What?”
“And so was Eleven,” Dustin adds.
“Oh, give me a break!”
“No, Mike, you give me a break,” Dustin snaps. “All three of you were being a bunch of little assholes.” He gestures toward (Y/n), who’d been watching silently. “We were the only reasonable ones. But the bottom line is—you pushed first. And you know the rule. You draw first blood . . .”
“No! No way. I’m not shaking his hand,” Mike protests.
“You’re shaking his hand.”
“No, I’m not!”
“This isn’t a discussion. This is the rule of law,” Dustin says firmly. “Obey, or be banished from the party. You wanna be banished?”
Mike groans. “No.”
“Good.” Dustin grabs his jacket.
“Where are we going?” Mike asks, standing as (Y/n) rises behind him.
“Where do you think?” Dustin says, shoving Mike’s jacket into his hands. “We’re getting Lucas. Then we’re finding Eleven.”
. . .
They arrive at Lucas’s house, and Dustin rings the doorbell.
After a long minute, the door opens. Lucas looks between the three of them before fixing his gaze on Mike. “What do you want?”
Mike hesitates. Dustin swats his arm.
Mike sighs. “I drew first blood, so . . .” He holds out his hand.
Lucas ignores it, turning away as he lets them inside. He paces in front of the fireplace before finally stopping. “Okay. I’ll shake.” Mike’s hand snaps forward. “On one condition,” Lucas adds. “We forget the weirdo and go straight for the gate.”
(Y/n) frowns but stays quiet. She wants to find Eleven—but she also needs to save her brother. Not that any of them knew Will was her brother.
“Then the deal’s off,” Mike says immediately.
“Fine!” Lucas snaps.
“Fine!” Mike echoes.
“No, no, not fine,” Dustin interrupts. He grabs Mike’s shoulder and spins him around. “Do you remember what happened on the Bloodstone Pass?”
Both boys shrug. (Y/n) tilts her head, completely lost.
Dustin sighs. “We couldn’t agree on which path to take, so we split up the party. And the trolls took us out one by one. It all went to shit. We were all disabled!”
“Yeah,” Lucas says, glancing briefly at (Y/n). “But this is the party. Right here. Me, you,” he points at Dustin, “Mike.”
“They’re one of us now,” Mike says firmly.
“No, they’re not. Not even close,” Lucas snaps. “Never will be. Eleven’s a liar, a traitor—”
(Y/n)’s frown deepens.
“She was trying to keep us safe!” Mike shouts. “She didn’t mean to hurt you. It was an accident!”
“An accident—” Lucas starts.
“All right, accident or not,” Dustin cuts in, “you have to admit—it was awesome.”
“Awesome?!”
“Yeah! She threw you into the air with her mind!”
“I could’ve been killed!” Lucas yells.
“And that’s exactly why we need her,” Mike says. “She’s a weapon! You really wanna fight the Demogorgon with your wrist rocket? That’s like R2-D2 fighting Darth Vader. We’re no use to Will if we’re dead.”
“If you wanna waste your time chasing a traitor, go ahead,” Lucas snaps. “But I’m done with her. No way.”
“She,” Dustin points at (Y/n), “woke you up with her powers. They’re not traitors.”
Lucas exhales sharply. “I’m going to the gate. I’m gonna find Will.” He pushes past Mike and Dustin, brushing between them.
. . .
(Y/n) runs alongside Mike and Dustin in the form of an Australian Shepherd, paws pounding the pavement as the boys pedal hard down the road.
“This feels so weird without Lucas,” Dustin finally says, breaking the silence.
“He should’ve shaken my hand,” Mike mutters.
“He’s just jealous.”
Mike frowns at him. “What are you talking about?”
Dustin exhales sharply. “Sometimes your total obliviousness just blows my mind.” He glances over at Mike. “He’s your best friend, right?”
“Yeah . . . I mean—” Mike hesitates. “I don’t know.”
Dustin sighs. “I get it. I didn’t get here until fourth grade. Lucas had the advantage—lived next door. But that’s not the point. The point is, he is your best friend. And then these girls show up, start living in your basement, and suddenly all you care about is one of them.”
“That’s not true,” Mike protests.
“Yes, it is,” Dustin says flatly. “You know it. He knows it. Nobody says anything until you’re both yelling and throwing punches like goblins with intelligence scores of zero. Now everything’s weird.”
After a long moment, Mike says quietly, “He’s not my best friend.”
Dustin snorts. “Yeah, right.”
“I mean—” Mike sighs. “He is. But so are you. And so is Will.”
“You can’t have more than one best friend.”
“Says who?”
“Says logic.”
“Well, I call bullshit on your logic,” Mike says. “Because you’re my best friend too.”
Dustin smiles. “Okay.”
(Y/n) suddenly barks, skidding to a halt. The boys brake hard.
“Holy shit,” Mike breathes.
Police cars crowd the front of a store. Glass litters the sidewalk, flashing blue and red in the sirens’ glow.
“You don’t think—” Dustin starts.
“Yeah,” Mike says immediately. “I do.”
They take off again, (Y/n) racing beside them.
. . .
“Eleven!” Mike shouts. “El!”
“El!” Dustin calls.
“El!” (Y/n) has shifted back, running between them now, breathless.
They slow, panting.
“Stop,” (Y/n) says suddenly. “Do you hear that?”
“What?” Mike asks. “El?”
Troy and James crest the hill.
“Well, well,” Troy sneers, flicking open a switchblade. “Frog Face. Toothless.”
“Shit—run!” Dustin yells.
They drop their bikes and bolt.
“You’re dead, Wheeler!” Troy shouts after them.
“Move!” Dustin gasps.
. . .
They don’t stop until the quarry looms ahead of them.
“Cramp!” Dustin groans.
“Keep going,” (Y/n) urges, lagging just enough to push him forward.
They skid to a halt as Troy and James cut them off—James blocking the path, Troy closing in behind.
Dustin grabs a stick. Mike and (Y/n) snatch jagged rocks from the ground.
“Stay back!” Dustin yells.
“Don’t come any closer,” Mike adds.
Mike hurls his rock. It misses James by several feet.
“Nice throw, numbnuts,” James smirks.
Dustin charges, swinging wildly. Troy sidesteps, grabbing the back of Dustin’s jacket and yanking him close. The blade presses to Dustin’s throat.
Mike and (Y/n) gasp.
“Get off me!” Dustin struggles.
“Let him go!” Mike screams.
“Stay back or I cut him,” Troy warns, the knife biting closer.
“What do you want?” Mike demands.
“I wanna know how you did it!” Troy snarls.
“How I did what?”
“I know you did something to me,” Troy says. “Or the fag—”
He jerks the blade toward (Y/n).
(Y/n) steps back—but James grabs her, slamming her against him. His knife presses harder into her neck. Blood beads instantly along the blade’s edge.
“I know you did some nerdy science shit,” Troy continues. “Made me do that.”
“You mean piss yourself?” Mike snaps.
“Our friend has superpowers,” Dustin blurts. “She squeezed your tiny bladder with her mind.”
“Shut up!” Troy snaps, shoving the knife toward Dustin’s mouth. “Maybe I save Toothless a trip to the dentist.”
“Let him go!” (Y/n) shouts.
“Let him go!” Mike echoes, voice cracking.
“I will,” Troy says slowly. “But first—it’s your turn.”
“My turn for what?”
“Wet yourself,” Troy smirks. “Jump . . . or James stabs your little fag friend and Toothless loses some teeth.”
“Mike, don’t—” (Y/n) cries out.
James flicks his wrist. The blade slices her cheek. Blood spills warm and fast.
“Stop!” Dustin sobs as Troy’s knife creeps closer to his mouth.
Blood soaks into (Y/n)’s borrowed flannel.
“I’ll do it,” Troy warns. James’s blade shifts dangerously close to (Y/n)’s eye.
Mike swallows hard. “Okay.” He steps toward the cliff. “Just—just hold on.”
“Mike, don’t!” (Y/n) screams.
“I don’t need my baby teeth!” Dustin pleads.
Mike reaches the edge.
(Y/n) shoves James away and lunges for Mike—ready to jump after him or pull him back.
Neither happens.
James throws the knife.
(Y/n) hits the ground screaming as it buries itself in the back of her thigh.
Mike sees James step toward her.
And then Mike steps off the cliff.
Dustin screams.
They rush to the edge as (Y/n) drags herself upright, limping after them.
“Holy shit,” she breathes through clenched teeth.
Mike is falling—arms spread—then suddenly he stops.
He rises.
“Whoa—whoa—whoa—” Mike yelps as he’s lifted back onto solid ground, collapsing in a heap.
(Y/n) laughs weakly, wrenching the knife from her leg and tying the flannel tight around the wound.
Eleven stands behind them.
She snaps her head toward James. He drops hard onto his ass. She twists again—Troy’s arm bends the wrong way.
He screams.
“Go!” Eleven orders.
They don’t hesitate.
Dustin whoops shakily as they run. “Yeah! Run! She’s our friend and she’s crazy!” Then he catches (Y/n) as her leg gives out.
Eleven sways—and collapses.
“El!” Mike rushes forward as Dustin and (Y/n) follow.
“I’m sorry,” Eleven sobs. “The gatw . . . I opened it. I’m the monster.”
“No,” Mike says fiercely. “You’re not. You saved me. You saved us.”
He pulls her into a hug. Dustin and (Y/n) join them.
Eleven pulls back, cupping (Y/n)’s face gently. “Your face . . . your leg . . .”
“We need to get you both home,” Mike says, voice tight with worry.
. . .
“Thanks,” (Y/n) says quietly as Dustin wipes the dried blood from her face and neck.
“You were about to throw yourself off a cliff for Mike,” Dustin replies, dabbing her skin dry with a cloth. “So yeah. Thanks.”
“I didn’t get very far,” she mutters, loosening the flannel tied around her thigh. She exhales sharply at the sight of the blood-soaked fabric.
“Here,” Mike says, handing her rubbing alcohol and gauze. He helps her to her feet and into the bathroom.
“Need help?” Eleven asks, following them inside.
“Yeah,” (Y/n) says with a small smile. She tugs her jeans down to her knees. “Hold this?”
Eleven nods, stepping forward to grip the gauze while (Y/n) wraps it carefully around her leg.
After a moment, Eleven speaks softly. “Are you . . . mad?”
(Y/n) looks up, surprised. “Why would I be?”
“I left,” Eleven says simply.
“It’s—” (Y/n) hisses as she presses alcohol to the wound, then exhales. “—okay. I promise.” She ties the gauze tight and stands, pulling her jeans back up.
“I’m still sorry,” Eleven whispers.
“Me too,” (Y/n) admits, pulling her into a hug.
The bathroom door slams open. “Guys,” Dustin pants. “It’s Lucas. I think he’s in trouble.”
(Y/n) and Eleven exchange a look before following him back into the basement.
“Remember how he said he was looking for the gate?” Dustin asks.
“Yeah?” Mike says.
Shouting crackles through the radio.
“What’s he saying?” Mike asks.
“He’s out of range,” Dustin replies.
“ . . . son of a bitch!” Lucas’s voice cuts through.
“Lucas, slow down,” Mike says urgently into the radio. “We can’t understand you.”
“Yes—py! Do—know—‘ven—’ve! The bad—hear me—coming!”
“Mad hen?” Dustin frowns. “Is that a code?”
“The bad men are coming!” Lucas shouts, clearer now.
“Bad men,” Mike repeats.
“Shit,” Dustin mutters, glancing at Eleven and (Y/n).
. . .
They burst outside, (Y/n) shifting into another dog form to keep weight off her injured leg.
Mike, Dustin, and Eleven jump on their bikes—Eleven clinging to Mike’s waist as (Y/n) races alongside.
They pass an old man with white hair standing in front of Hawkins Energy vans.
“Go, go, go, go, go!” Dustin chants.
The men sprint for the vans.
“Oh my god,” Dustin mutters as engines roar behind them.
“Dustin, do you copy?” Lucas’s voice crackles through the radio.
“They’re on us,” Dustin says breathlessly.
“Where are you?”
“Cornwallis!”
“Meet me at Elm and Cherry!”
“Copy!”
They cut through yards, down driveways—
“Shit!” Dustin yells as the vans turn with them.
Mike barrels through a backyard, two girls scattering as they pass.
“Move!” Dustin shouts.
They skid to a stop beside Lucas.
“Lucas!” Mike breathes.
“Where are they?” Lucas asks.
“I think—we lost them,” Dustin says.
Tires screech.
“Hop on!” Lucas shouts.
(Y/n) shifts back, limping onto Lucas’s bike.
“Go!” Dustin yells.
The vans close in.
And then Eleven moves.
She snaps her head—the van in front lifts, flips, and crashes upside down in the road.
They don’t stop pedaling.
. . .
They collapse at the junkyard. Eleven nearly slides off Mike’s bike.
“Holy shit,” Dustin breathes. “Did you see that?”
“No, Dustin,” Mike deadpans. “We missed it.”
“That was . . .” Dustin trails off.
“Awesome,” Lucas says. “It was awesome.”
He kneels in front of Eleven and (Y/n). “Everything I said before—I was wrong. I’m sorry.”
Lucas sketches the lab in the dirt. “Fence here. Lab here.” He drops a rusted can in the center. “The gate’s in there. It has to be.”
“Who owns it?” Dustin asks.
“Department of Energy.”
“Government,” Mike says. “Military.”
“Weapons,” Lucas adds, glancing at the girls.
“Oh, this is bad,” Dustin mutters.
“Really bad,” Lucas agrees.
“We can’t go home,” Mike says. “We’re fugitives.”
A helicopter hum cuts through the air.
“Guys?” Dustin whispers.
They dive under a bus as it passes overhead.
“Mental,” Dustin breathes.
Mike’s walkie crackles. “Mike? Mike, it’s Nancy.”
They huddle close, (Y/n) sitting on the floor to keep weight off her injured leg.
“Is that your sister?” Lucas asks.
“This is an emergency,” Nancy says. “Answer.”
“Don’t,” Mike whispers.
“What if it’s a trick?” Dustin says.
“Why would it be?” Lucas argues.
“Mike,” Hopper’s voice replaces hers. “We know about the girls. We can help.”
Mike looks at Eleven. At (Y/n).
“Yes,” he says. “We copy.”
. . .
Dustin’s pacing is making (Y/n) nauseous.
“Will you stop pacing?” Mike snaps finally, lifting a hand in exasperation.
(Y/n) glances across the bus at Lucas, slouched on one of the disconnected seats. His eyes flick—just once—to her leg, propped awkwardly in front of her, resting on a bent knee. He looks away just as quickly.
“It’s been way too long,” Dustin says, still moving. “You know what? Maybe you’re right. Maybe this is a trap, and the bad men are coming to get us right now.”
“It’s not a trap!” Lucas throws his hands up. “Why would the chief set us up? Nancy, maybe—”
“Hey!” Mike bristles.
“—but the chief?” Lucas finishes.
“Lando Calrissian,” Dustin says, pointing at him.
“Would you shut up about Lando?” Lucas snaps.
(Y/n) watches Eleven turn slightly, exchanging a quiet look with Mike.
“I don’t feel good about this,” Dustin mutters, resuming his pacing. “I don’t feel good about this.”
“When do you ever feel good about anything?” Lucas fires back.
“Hey,” (Y/n) says suddenly, her head snapping up. “Cars.”
The boys sprint to the front of the bus.
“Shit,” Dustin hisses, rushing back toward her.
All of them dive behind the seats. (Y/n) sucks in a sharp breath as pain lances through her leg when she shifts her weight.
“Do you think they saw us?” Lucas whispers.
“Both of you, shut up,” Mike snaps just before Dustin can answer.
The bus door slides open.
(Y/n)’s breath catches in her throat. She could shift—run—but she won’t leave them. Not Mike. Not Dustin. Not Lucas. Not Eleven.
A body slams into the door with a dull thud, then crumples.
The door creaks wider.
Slowly, they rise to their feet, staring at the front of the bus.
“All right,” the man says calmly. “Let’s go.”
(Y/n) meets Dustin’s eyes. He nods.
“Let’s go,” Dustin echoes.
They rush forward—Lucas and Dustin bracing (Y/n) between them as they hurry off the bus.
. . .
The car squeals to a stop outside the Byers house.
The front door flies open.
Joyce, Nancy, and Jonathan rush out.
Joyce doesn’t hesitate. She crosses the distance in seconds and pulls (Y/n) into a fierce, shaking hug.
“Hi,” (Y/n) murmurs, arms wrapping around her instinctively.
Nancy throws herself at Mike, hugging him tight.
“Mom, who—” Jonathan starts.
Then Joyce pulls back.
Jonathan freezes.
The eyes hit him first.
(E/c), familiar, hauntingly familiar.
His breath leaves him all at once.
Seven years vanish in a heartbeat.
“ . . . (Y/n)?”
Everyone freezes, staring at the girl who had ‘died’ seven years ago.
“Why didn’t—” Lucas begins, but (Y/n) fixes her gaze on him.
“Not enough time,” (Y/n) replies, and the others nod, seemingly in understanding.
. . .
(Y/n) lets out a hiss of pain, as the gauze tightens around her bloody leg.
“Sorry,” Joyce murmurs, her eyes flickering up to her daughter’s face.
“Okay, just hurts,” (Y/n) replies softly.
. . .
“Okay, so, in this example, we’re the acrobat,” Mike explains, drawing out a tightrope and a stick figure onto a piece of notebook paper. He then adds a little dot, representing a flea. “Will and Barbara, and that monster, they’re this flea,” he gestures to it with his orange marker. “And this is the Upside Down, where Will is hiding,” he continues. “Mr. Clarke said the only way to get there is through a rip of time and space.”
“A gate,” (Y/n) supplies.
“That we tracked to Hawkins Lab,” Lucas adds.
“With our compasses,” Dustin throws in. At the confused looks from Johnathan, Joyce, and Nancy, he explains; “Okay, so the gate has a really strong electromagnetic field, and that can change the directions of a compass needle.”
“Is this gate underground?” Hopper asks.
“Yes,” El breathes, meeting his gaze.
“Near a large water tank?” He questions.
El looks scared, and (Y/n) takes her hand, squeezing it gently. El nods. “Yes.”
“H—How do you know all that?” Dustin stutters.
“He’s seen it,” Mike guesses.
El swallows thickly.
“Is there any way that you could . . .” Joyce begins, and that catches El’s attention, “. . . that you could reach Will? That you could talk to him in this—”
“The Upside Down?” El finishes.
“Down,” Joyce whispers. “Yeah.”
(Y/n) and El exchange a look. They nod. “Yes,” (Y/n) says.
“And my friend, Barbara,” Nancy begins. “Can you find her, too?” she leans forward slightly.
. . .
Static buzzes from the walkie, pictures of Will and Barbara sitting in front of them.
Everyone—but Hopper, who’s leaning against the doorway—crowds around the table, watching (Y/n) and El closely. Nancy’s arms are wrapped tightly around herself; Joyce barely seems to be breathing.
Then the lights begin to flicker.
Once.
Twice.
Then the dining room light goes out completely.
Joyce gasps.
A second later, the lights flicker back on—dim, unstable.
The static from the walkie splutters, thinning, stretching into a low hiss.
Then—nothing.
Silence.
(Y/n)’s eyes open first. Her shoulders sag.
El follows a heartbeat later.
“I’m sorry,” (Y/n) murmurs.
“What?” Joyce asks, grasping her oldest son’s hand as he stands behind her. “What’s wrong? What’s happening?”
(Y/n) swallows thickly, exchanges another look with El. “I—we can’t find them,” El’s voice breaks.
. . .
“Whenever they use their powers, they get weak,” Mike explains.
“The more energy used, the more tired they get,” Dustin adds.
“Like, Eleven flipped the van earlier,” Lucas says.
“It was awesome,” Dustin grins.
“But she’s drained,” Mike says, in reference to Eleven.
“Like a bad battery,” Dustin supplies.
“Well . . .” Joyce stutters. “How do we make them better?”
“We don’t,” Mike replies. “We just have to wait and try again.”
“How long?” Nancy asks.
“I don’t know,” Mike admits.
“The bath,” Eleven’s voice startles them. She and (Y/n) had just returned from the bathroom, where’d they’d just splashed cold water on their faces.
“What?” Joyce asks, all of them turning around to face the girls.
“We can find them,” Eleven says. “In the bath.”
. . .
“Mr. Clarke?” Dustin says into the phone, voice pitched a little too high. (Y/n) sits curled in an armchair near him, her injured leg propped carefully on a cushion, watching his expression. “It’s Dustin.”
A pause.
“Yeah, yeah. I just, I . . .” He falters, eyes flicking around the room. He meets (Y/n)’s gaze; she gives him an encouraging smile, small but steady.
“I have a science question,” he finishes.
Another pause. Dustin listens, nodding along exaggeratedly before cutting in again. “Do you know anything about sensory deprivation tanks? Specifically… how to build one?”
The pause on the other end is longer this time.
Dustin’s face tightens. “Fun.”
(Y/n) presses her lips together, her eyes crinkling as she fights a laugh.
“You always say we should never stop being curious,” Dustin says earnestly into the phone. “To always open any curiosity door we find.” He frowns. “So why are you keeping this curiosity door locked?”
There’s silence. Then—Dustin’s eyes widen.
He snatches up a notepad from the coffee table and starts scribbling furiously.
“Uh-huh,” he says, nodding. “Uh-huh. How much?” He glances down, writing faster. “Uh-huh. Yep, okay. Yeah, we’ll be careful.”
(Y/n) leans forward, trying to read upside-down numbers and diagrams.
“Definitely,” Dustin adds quickly. “All right, Mr. Clarke. Yeah, I’ll see you on Monday.” He pauses, then repeats it, like a promise. “I’ll see you on Monday, Mr. Clarke.”
“Do you still have that kiddie pool we bobbed for apples in?” he asks Joyce.
Joyce blinks, then nods. “I think so. Yeah.” She looks to Jonathan, who shrugs and nods back.
“Good,” Dustin says. “Then we just need salt. Lots of it,” he adds, more ominously.
Hopper crosses his arms. “How much is ‘lots’?”
Dustin checks the notepad. Swallows. “Fifteen-hundred pounds.”
The room goes very quiet.
Nancy stares at him. “Where are we going to get that much salt?”
. . .
The vehicles skid to a halt in the parking lot of the middle school.
“Damn it,” Dustin says, rolling the kiddie pool through the gym. “This thing’s heavy.
He and Lucas untie the pool, after a few minutes of struggling and swearing—and (Y/n)’s help—they get the pool standing upright.
. . .
“What did they eat?” Nancy asks as she and Mike walk back towards the gym from the supply shed.
“What?” Mike asks, one of the hoses draped over his shoulder.
“(Y/n) and Eleven,” Nancy says.
“Oh,” Mike says. “Candy. Leftovers. Eggos. El really likes Eggos.”
Nancy pushes the wheelbarrow a few more feet. “I knew you were acting weird,” she pauses a moment. “I just though it was because of Will.”
“I knew you were acting weird, too,” Mike replies. “I though it was ‘cause of Steve.”
Nancy stops, and Mike stops a step or two later.
“Hey,” Nancy drops the wheelbarrow to the ground, studying her brother for a moment. “No more secrets, okay?” she says firmly. “From now on we tell each other everything.”
“Okay,” Mike looks at Nancy. “Do you like Jonathan now?” he asks.
“What? No.” Nancy replies. “No, it’s . . . it’s not . . . it’s not like that.” Mike looks at her, then nods slowly. “Do you like Eleven?” she asks.
“What?!” Mike exclaims. “No. Ew! Gross.”
Nancy raises an eyebrow at Mike’s reaction, but shrugs it off, picking up the wheelbarrow handles again.
. . .
“This will keep it dark for you,” Joyce says, putting some duck tape on some goggles. “Just like in your bathtub,” she says.
El looks up at Joyce, and then nods.
“You’re a very brave girl,” Joyce tells her. “You know that, don’t you?”
El looks away.
“Everything you’re doing for my boy . . .” Joyce continues, “. . . for Will . . . for my family . . .” she lets out a sigh. “Thank you,” she says softly.
El swallows thickly, blinking back tears, looking back down at her hands.
Joyce takes El’s hands on her own.
“Listen,” Joyce says softly. “I am gonna be there with you the whole time. And if it ever gets too scary . . . in–in that place, you just let me know, okay?”
El looks up into Joyce’s face. After a moment, she nods, “Yes,” she murmurs.
“Ready?” Joyce asks.
El lets out a trembling breath, and then nods. “Ready.”
. . . .
El stands near the pool, removing her socks. She then removes Mike’s watch, handing it to him—who in return, puts it back on.
Joyce hands El the goggles, but before she can put them on.
(Y/n) rests a hand on El’s arm. “I’ll be right with you,” she murmurs. “Helping.”
El nods, smiling weakly at (Y/n).
El then puts the goggles on, fitting them snugly over her eyes. She lets out a sigh, her breath stuttering in her chest.
Joyce and Mike take her hand and help her step into the pool.
(Y/n) sits nearby, between Jonathan and Mike, in a chair Lucas had pulled from a nearby classroom.
She closes her eyes.
She breathes in.
And then out.
And then, the lights flicker dramatically, and everyone looks up towards the ceiling of the gym.
El opens her eyes, breathing heavily.
(Y/n) is standing in front of her. She looks around. She had always hated this void thing they were in.
“Barb?” El asks, her eyes focusing on something to her right. (Y/n) looks over.
(Y/n) takes El’s hand, and they move closer to the figure on the ground.
(Y/n)’s breath stutters in her chest as she gasps.
She watches as some sort of slug–vine-y thing comes out of the girls mouth.
El gasps, pulling (Y/n) back a step.
The lights flicker again. Electricity pulsating in the room.
“What’s going on?” Nancy asks.
“I don’t know,” Mike replies, looking worried.
“Is Barb okay?” Nancy asks, scooting closer to the edge of the pool. “Is she okay?”
“Gone! Gone!” El screams, turning to bury her face into (Y/n)’s chest. (Y/n) turns away, not wanting to see it anymore, and shielding El from the horrible sight.
“Gone,” El’s voice comes from the center of the pool. “Gone.”
A sob chokes from Nancy’s throat.
“Gone,” Eleven repeats.
“It’s okay,” Joyce says softly. “It’s okay.” She reaches out, taking El’s arms in her hands.
“Gone!” El shrieks again.
“Hey, it’s okay,” Joyce says again.
Then Joyce’s voice echoes in the void. It’s okay, the voice says. It’s okay. We’re right here with you. Don’t be afraid.
El pulls away, looking into (Y/n)’s face.
A breath escapes (Y/n)’s lips, and then she nods.
They close their eyes.
And after a moment, they open them again.
“Castle Byers,” (Y/n) murmurs, seeing the structure in the distance.
El pushes aside the fabric, and they step inside of the structure.
(Y/n) and El look down, and then kneel next to the body of the small boy.
“Will,” El murmurs.
“Will?” El asks.
Joyce gasps. After a moment, she speaks, “You tell him . . . tell him I’m coming.”
“Mom’s coming,” (Y/n) murmurs. She reaches out and grips Will’s hand tightly.
“H–h–hurry,” Will’s voice crackles from the walkie.
“Okay,” Joyce says quickly. “Listen, you tell him to . . . to stay where he is. We’re coming. We’re coming, okay? We’re coming, honey.”
“Just hold on a little longer,” El says softly. “Will. Will.”
And then Castle Byers dissolves into mist around them. And then so does Will.
El sits bolt upright, scooting towards the edge of the pool, her eyes wide.
(Y/n)’s eyes snap open, and she looks at Lucas and Dustin across from her. She feels something wet on her face and wipes away the blood trailing down from her nose with her hand.
. . .
A few minutes later, all five kids—(Y/n), Mike, Dustin, Lucas, and El—are sitting on the bleachers a few feet away.
El is wrapped in a towel, and Lucas rubs her shoulder, trying to bring back some of her body heat.
Hopper sighs, shrugging on his coat. “So this fort. Where’s it at?” he asks.
“Uh, it’s–it’s in the woods behind our house,” Joyce says.
“Yeah, he used to go there to hide,” Jonathan says.
Hopper doesn’t answer, heading towards the door. After a second, Joyce and Jonathan follow him.
They make it through the door before Hopper turns back to them. “Hey, get back inside,” Hopper says.
“What, are you insane?” Joyce says loudly. “No, I’m—”
“Look, if something happens to me, I don’t make it back—” Hopper begins but Joyce interrupts.
“Yeah, but then I’ll go. You stay. Are you kidding me?” Joyce yells. “He’s my son, Hop. My son. I’m going.” Joyce turns to her son when Hopper doesn’t answer. “Now, listen, I need you to stay here . . .”
“No,” Jonathan protests.
“. . . and watch over the kids. Especially (Y/n).”
“No, Mom,” Jonathan says. “I can help.”
“Please, I need you to stay, Jonathan,” Joyce hugs her son.
“Joyce!” Hopper says loudly, opening the door to his truck.
“Please,” Joyce says softly, her arms tightening around Jonathan.
A breath leaves Jonathan’s throat as his mother moves away to get into the truck.
The engine revs, and the truck backs out of the spot, tires screeching against the pavement as it shifts into drive. After a moment, the truck—and Hopper and Joyce—are gone, Jonathan just standing there.
After a moment, he goes back inside.
. . .
“They’re gone,” Mike walks back towards his friends—who were still sitting on the bleachers.
“What?” Lucas asks.
“Nancy and Jonathan,” Mike replies. “His car’s gone.”
“They’re probably just sucking face somewhere,” Dustin says, and a disgusted look flickers across (Y/n)’s face.
“Gross,” Lucas says, seemingly agreeing with (Y/n)’s expression.
“No!” Mike protests. “No way!”
“Did they go with the Chief?” Dustin asks Mike.
“I don’t know,” MIke replies, shrugging.
“No,” El says suddenly, startling the others.
“What?” Mike looks at her. “Did you see them? Do you know where they went?”
After a second, El nods. “Yes.”
“Where? Where did they go?” Mike asks.
There’s another pause. “Demogorgon.”
Mike’s eyes widen, and he looks between Lucas and Dustin.
. . .
“Guys, guys! This is crazy,” Mike protests. “We can’t just wait around.”
“Mike, in case you forgot,” Lucas says, “we’re still fugitives. The bad men are still looking for us.”
“Yeah, and we don’t even know where your sister is,” Dustin adds.
“El and (Y/n) can find them,” Mike replies, gesturing to them.
“Mike, look at them,” Dustin gestures to the two girls. “I think we should stick to the Chief’s plan.”
“Exactly. We stay here, keep them out of sight and keep them safe. That’s the most important thing, remember?” Lucas reminds Mike. “Besides, she’s okay. She’s with Jonathan.”
“Yeah, and she’s kind of a badass now, so . . . “ Dustin adds. He turns to walk away.
“Well, where are you going?” Mike asks. “You just said to stick to the plan.”
“I am,” Dustin replies. “I’m just gonna go get El and (Y/n) some chocolate pudding. I’m telling you, Lunch Lady Phyllis hoards that shit.”
“Are you serious?” Mike yells at Dustin’s retreating figure.
“They need to be recharged,” Dustin replies.
El and (Y/n) get to their feet, and—with Lucas helping (Y/n) due to her leg—all four follow Dustin.
