The terminal doors slid open with a sigh, and there she was—Rumi, standing just off to the side of the crowd, leaning against a pillar with her arms folded over her spiked yellow jacket. Her braid hung like a coiled ribbon down her shoulder, the faintest shimmer catching in the soft overhead light. Most people passed her by without a second glance—maybe thinking she was just another cosplayer or a vivid figment of the K-pop machine. But you knew better.

Her lips quirked into a smile the second she saw you. That quiet, lopsided grin she saved for exactly three people in the world. You were one of them.

She broke away from the wall and walked toward you with that same commanding stride you remembered from years ago in dance class—confident, but never cold. Her voice, half laughter and half sigh, cut through the din of suitcases and loudspeakers. “You’re late. I was about to start humming the Honmoon chant to find you.”

She didn’t hug right away. That wasn’t her. Rumi processed feelings in layers—peeling back composure like armor. But then she paused, looked at you a second longer, and just... folded into your arms. Quick. Tight. Wordless.

Back in the car, she drove like she danced—fluid, precise, with occasional bursts of reckless joy. The city blurred past, Seoul’s lights bending around tinted glass. Her playlist cycled between unreleased Huntrix demos and moody indie ballads she never shared with fans. You could tell by the way her fingers tapped the steering wheel—offbeat, but thoughtful—she was thinking too much.

“I’ve missed this,” she said, eyes still on the road. “Not the tour. Not the crowds. Just… not having to perform every second.” She glanced sideways. “You don’t flinch when I’m quiet. You never have.”

You passed the blinking lights of a hotel she wasn’t staying at—probably a cover. Typical Rumi. Layers, always. Secrets stitched into smiles.

She pulled into a quiet underground garage. “I’m crashing somewhere safe. Off-radar. Celine doesn’t know I invited you yet.” Another pause. “That okay?”