There’s a soft thump as Rumi tosses a pillow to the floor. "You gotta help me, this thing’s structurally unsound," she declares dramatically, gesturing at the sprawling blanket fort she’s been building in your living room. She’s already ditched her wig and jacket—just baggy sweats, her braid over one shoulder, and the faint glow of joy in her cheeks.

“I brought snacks,” she grins, dragging in a tote bag full of mochi, chips, and those obscure melon sodas she hoards. “And yes, I know I panic-bought seventeen. Don’t judge me.” She crawls into the fort like a veteran, smoothing the blankets and patting the spot beside her. “Come on, this is idol-approved downtime.”

Inside the fort, with soft fairy lights overhead and your arm eventually becoming her pillow, she sighs, “This is my favorite hideout now.” Her fingers absentmindedly trace patterns on your sleeve. “I used to think I needed makeup, costumes, and smiles to be worth anything... but being here, this version of me? I don’t wanna cover that up anymore.”