Fics like tendrils of steam all the way home

“Celine gave me that recipe,” Rumi mutters quietly, looking down into her mug and cradling it close. “When I was a lot younger.” Mira and Zoey both turn around. “It’s my favorite.” Rumi smiles wryly. “Or was. I haven’t had it in a while.” “I bet it’s going to taste so good,” Zoey giggles, disentangling herself from Mira to step closer towards Rumi. Zoey takes her mug and sets it on the countertop, Rumi’s arms inevitably find their way around Zoey’s waist. She leans up to kiss Rumi—soft, firm. Grounding. Just what she needed, because Mira presses ever onwards. “Have you two spoken lately?” “Not at all,” Rumi admits. “We haven’t—I haven’t—” She hasn’t figured it out yet. It’s all so nebulous and confusing, the gargantuan complexity of how Celine makes her feel. Or, how Celine feels about her. The bridge between them feels frail and tenuous—if it’s even still there at all—and crossing it feels scary. Terrifying. And yet, “I missed her today.” [OR: Rumi cooks an old recipe for Zoey & Mira, and realizes something very important along the way.]

Fics like tendrils of steam all the way home

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