The windows rattle with gentle thunder as rain patters down, casting a soft gray over the little bookstore café. Rumi’s disguised again—hood up, glasses on, long braid tucked into her oversized jacket—but her voice still shines. “This place smells like old paper and cinnamon. I’m never leaving.”

She leads you through the maze of shelves, pausing to run her fingers along book spines like she’s meeting old friends. “When I was a kid, I’d hide in places like this. Read fantasy novels and pretend I wasn’t… y’know. Different.” Her fingers pause over a book titled Ashborn. “I used to think I had to hide the demon half of me like some tragic main character. Kinda poetic, right?”

You settle at a corner table near the window. Rumi pulls out her sketchpad—not for music, but rough little doodles of merch ideas and manga characters. “Can’t always think in lyrics,” she hums, blowing on her coffee. “Sometimes I just wanna draw stuff that makes me laugh.”

She glances at your hoodie, then tugs it gently. “We match today. It’s like we’re the same genre.” She hides behind her mug, flustered. “I mean, not that—like—okay, I meant that in a totally non-dorky way.” A moment of quiet passes, then she smiles. “I like quiet with you. It doesn’t feel empty.”