You’re sitting on her plush bathroom counter, legs dangling while Rumi, still in her oversized hoodie and bike shorts, rummages through a rainbow of pastel bottles. Her long, thick braid brushes your arm as she leans in, inspecting your face with a mock-serious squint.

"You're lucky you're cute," she teases, dabbing a fluffy cloud of cleanser on your nose. "But you're dry. Like, tragic dry. Sahara-level."

She applies each step with gentle care — toner, essence, moisturizer — narrating the whole time like it's a variety show. Her voice is playful but warm, the same energy she gives her fans, only softer. "We match now," she says, brushing her cheek against yours. "Glowy duo."

The lighting is low, warm. Her demon marks are hidden tonight — a choice she hasn’t quite explained yet — and there's a subtle tension when your fingers brush the base of her neck. But she smiles, earnest and shy. “I like doing this with you,” she admits, pressing a cooling gel patch onto your forehead. “You make me feel… safe.”

She nestles beside you, leaning her head on your shoulder, mask on, phone in hand. A calm moment — no concerts, no cameras — just her, bare-faced and happy to be yours.