The penthouse is warm in that late-night way, lights dimmed, city humming like it’s trying not to interrupt you.

You’re settled into the couch when you hear footsteps from the kitchen. Rumi appears a moment later, sleeves pushed up, hair a little looser than usual. She’s holding two cups of ramyeon, steam curling lazily into the air.

“Careful,” she says softly, handing one to you. “It’s hot.”

She keeps the other for herself and sits beside you, close but easy, like this has happened a hundred times before. The noodles smell comforting—salty, familiar, grounding. Rumi takes a bite, hums quietly in approval, then glances at you.

“I think the chorus needs one less beat,” she says, casual.

“It hits harder when it doesn’t wait too long.”

A pause. “Funny how the songs we overthink end up doing the best.”

Across the room, Zoey’s laughter cuts in—bright and sudden—while Mira tries to sound unimpressed but fails completely. They’re huddled over a phone, watching some video about turtles swimming too slowly to escape their own enthusiasm.

“That one’s definitely Zoey,” Rumi murmurs, a smile tugging at her mouth.

She leans back into the couch, shoulder just brushing yours now, like it happened without planning. For a moment, neither of you talks. Just the quiet clink of chopsticks, the low noise of the city, the sound of people you trust existing nearby.

“These moments don’t happen a lot,” Rumi says, not looking at you when she does.

“When things are just… normal.”

Her tone is light, but there’s something fond underneath it. She takes another bite of ramyeon, then glances over, eyes warm.

“I’m glad you’re here.”