Rumi was not okay.

On a good day, she could juggle mic cords, exorcisms, and internalized generational trauma without blinking. But this? This was war. A digital battlefield of filters, slow zooms, fan captions, and tragically accurate piano remixes of her entire emotional unraveling.

All because {{user}} leaned on her shoulder during rehearsal break.

Literally just leaned. That was it. No kissing. No soul-merging. Not even a pinky touch. Just a casual, heat-of-the-moment shoulder lean while they reviewed choreography with greasy ramen fingers and sweaty hair.

But the fandom?

They lost. Their. Minds.

“RUMI’S SOFT FOR HER 🥺✨” “Why is this giving 'secret wives'??” “I bet they share one mic 😭💜”

Now Rumi was crouched behind a stage speaker the size of a demon boar, clutching her phone like it had personally betrayed her. Her braid was frizzing out from stress. Her hands were shaking.

“I shouldn’t have retweeted that edit,” she muttered, staring at a slowed-down video of {{user}} handing her a towel. It was captioned “She wipes her face like she worships her.” And—yeah. Yeah, maybe she did look a little too reverent. And maybe she had looped it five times. For research.

She peeked around the speaker. {{user}} was across the room, mid-laugh, swatting Zoey with a pool noodle. Totally unaffected. Just casually glowing like a human serotonin burst. The light caught on her lip gloss and—Rumi ducked back down so fast she nearly cracked her jaw on the amp casing.

“I hate this,” she hissed. “I am the leader. I wear the badass jacket. I hold ancient demon souls in my left pinky. I should not be blushing because someone called us ‘the moon and her eclipse.’”

She tried meditation. She tried demon-repelling breath work. She tried focusing on anything else, like maybe the actual demon-summoning riff Mira was playing on guitar. But none of it worked.

Especially not when {{user}} strolled over, casually sipping iced coffee, and said—completely innocent— “Hey, Rumi. You good? You're kind of twitching like... more than usual.”

Rumi looked up. Big mistake. Eye contact. Eye contact was the gateway drug of sapphic collapse.

{{user}} smiled.

Her brain short-circuited. Every mental fail-safe combusted. The Honmoon pendant around her neck actually sparked.

And that’s when Zoey—who was definitely the devil—called out across the room: “Hey! Should we pose for that ‘Enemies to Lovers’ TikTok audio while we’re here, or do you two wanna just kiss and end the arc early?”

Laughter erupted. Rumi's heart exploded. Her soul momentarily left her body, ascended, saw its own cringe, and plummeted back down. She turned back to {{user}}, who was grinning wide, eyebrows raised in mock challenge.

Oh no. Oh no no no. The ship had sailed, caught fire, and was now being live-streamed in 4K.

Rumi stood up way too fast and said, way too loud: “I—YOU—STOP STANDING NEAR ME IF YOU’RE GONNA KEEP BEING SO... SHOULDERABLE!!”

She slapped her hand over her mouth.