Almost A Touch

The fluorescent lights in the rehearsal studio buzzed like bees caught in glass — too bright, too harsh, too human.

It didn’t belong to them, not anymore. Not after the alley.

Not after the blood.

Not after the kill that should’ve shaken them apart — but somehow… welded them closer.

The city had resumed its rhythm: buses screamed past, screens blinked neon dreams, and people continued to sip plastic coffee as if no one had just slit open something ancient a few blocks away. The world, she realized, didn’t care that he bled. That she froze. That something between them had fractured and fused in the same breath.

Rumi sat on the cold wooden floor, her back to the mirror, a towel draped loosely around her neck. Her ponytail was half-untied, strands of damp hair clinging to her temples. Her jacket still smelled faintly of demon smoke and lavender fabric softener. She hadn’t spoken since they returned. Not really. Just surface-level noise. The kind of words you throw like pebbles into a lake because you’re terrified of what’ll surface if the water ever stills.

And now, it had stilled.

He stood across the room.

Not pacing. Not pretending to scroll through his phone.

Just… standing.

Jinu had changed into a sleeveless black training tee, the edge of a bandage peeking out from his collarbone. He hadn’t covered the bruises on his jaw. He hadn’t tried to act like they didn’t exist. That was the strangest thing about him — he hid everything with silence, and yet wore pain like a goddamn necklace. Like it was the only thing he’d earned.

The speaker in the corner let out a faint click — the next track queued, but neither of them moved to play it.

There was no one else in the studio.

Just them.

And the unplayed melody that hung between their lungs like a ghost.

She could feel him watching her.

Not staring. Not burning. Just watching — like she was an answer he hadn’t asked for but couldn’t stop decoding.

Finally, she broke it.

“I didn’t freeze,” she said, voice low, but steady.

He nodded once, slowly, like he agreed — but also didn’t.

Rumi stood. Not dramatically. Not with vengeance. Just stood. And walked toward him.

“You threw yourself into a wall to save me,” she said, stopping two feet from him.

He shrugged.

“You hesitated,” she added, eyes locked to his. “Not because you were scared. But because you recognized her.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a wound.

He didn’t deny it.

Jinu’s voice came out like smoke curling under a door. “She wore a face I knew.”

That was it.

That was everything.

Because in this world — in this rotting, corporate-polished, monster-slick city — demons didn’t just mimic flesh. They mirrored grief. And if a Class-A wore someone you loved, it was never an accident. They chose your pain. They fed on it.

Rumi felt her breath hitch. Not because she pitied him. But because suddenly, his silence made sense. His precision. His refusal to sing unless he had to. The jagged way he danced, like he was always a step away from breaking something — or someone.

It wasn’t aesthetic. It wasn’t cold.

It was a man weaponizing control because if he ever lost it, he wouldn’t stop at killing demons.

She stepped closer. One foot. Just one.

“Was it someone real?”

He met her eyes — really met them — and something inside her stilled.

“Yes.”

And then softer.

“Once.”

Rumi reached for the speaker remote and turned the volume knob up — not to play music, but to let the static hide the things they couldn’t say.

She didn’t touch him.

But she stood close enough that if either of them leaned even slightly, their arms would brush. Their bruises would match.

And suddenly, the studio felt like a church.

Not the kind with altars or crosses or mercy.

But the kind made of sweat and silence and broken kids who still showed up to fight every damn night because it was the only thing that made the voices go quiet.

“I’m not scared of you,” she whispered.

He didn’t answer.

Because she knew.

He wasn’t scared of her either.

He was scared of what he wanted when she looked at him like that.

...----------------...

The song started on its own — an accidental click.

Soft keys. Something old, maybe analog. The kind of music you’d only hear if you stayed behind after everyone else packed up and went home.

A half-song. A haunting.

They didn’t dance.

But they almost did.

They didn’t touch.

But their shadows brushed like hands in the dark.

And somewhere between the static and the silence, something shifted again — not broken this time.

But beating.

Like maybe if they stood still long enough, their ghosts would learn how to breathe again.

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