Chapter Text
If someone were to ask Rumi how she would be spending her summer after graduation, she definitely wouldn’t even be thinking of working night shifts at a drive-through. Why a cat café even has a drive-through is beyond her.
She adjusts her headset in a pitiful attempt to prevent the plastic from chafing her ear. She really needs to ask Bobby if they can invest in some better equipment. Her hair accidentally snags onto the crevice beneath her microphone and nearly sends the entire device toppling off her head. Rumi prays to whatever deity out there that no one pulls up to the menu board as she fumbles with the headset.
By the time she finally fixes it back in place, someone’s fuzzy voice buzzes back like a cruel joke, already midway through their order. She scrambles to remember the rest of the woman’s order as she slowly works up the courage to ask her to repeat herself. She mentally prepares herself for the frustrated sigh and possible verbal assault that may rain down on her at the devil’s hour.
With a deep, controlled breath, she bites the bullet, “Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that first part. Could you please repeat that?”
Nothing but static echoes back at her. She closes her eyes and slowly drags a hand across her face. Her shoulders droop slightly from their rigid position as she sighs softly. The screech of brakes sounds eerily close enough for her to jolt and glance at the window.
Oh god, she thinks as the driver rolls down their window. Rumi must look like a deer in headlights as she stands there waiting for the glass to inch down. The thought of death by stagnation beside beef grease spurs her into motion. She searches for the closest makeshift weapon she can possibly get her hands on in case things get ugly. A resounding tap on her window has her brandishing her weapon.
“Hey?” The woman’s words are noticeably muffled by the glass barrier separating them. Rumi darts her eyes to the woman’s hands on the steering wheel, frantically trying to survey the scene. There’s no clenched fist or booming voice, causing her to loosen her grip. The innocent wave of another woman in the passenger’s seat has her creeping towards the window. She inhales slowly, only now wondering if she’s making the stupidest decision in the world as she opens it.
“Nice of you to finally lift that thing up,” Rumi assumes the driver jokes. It’s hard to tell with the plain dryness it’s delivered with. She smiles just in case, albeit a bit stiffly around the corners.
“Why are you holding that spatula?”
Rumi coughs into her elbow as she not so discreetly slides it out of view and onto a shelf full of mysterious condiments. Secret family recipe, or whatever Celine labeled it as. Rumi would organize them to give some semblance of neatness in their hazardous kitchen, but she isn’t even half-sure what’s in those bottles. She supposes she could order them by color.
“Hello?”
She jolts before smoothening out the wrinkles on her apron. “Sorry, how can I help you?”
Rumi nearly shrinks behind the counter at the almost impressively high raised eyebrow she receives. She fights the urge to check her wristwatch for the time left before she can stare mortifyingly at the ceiling about this encounter later.
“Our order?”
Rumi finally achieves some common ground of understanding until she realizes their said order doesn’t even exist to the rest of the kitchen crew yet. She really misses the days when she only had to care for the cats for the night. Derpy eats the same can of wet food twice a day without complaint. Humans really need to follow his example.
“I apologize for the delay. I didn’t catch your order before.” Rumi rubs at the worn sleeves of her uniform after one too many times forgetting to use fabric softener. She shuffles in place, loafers creasing ever so slightly against checkered tiles.
“I know. What do you think I’m here for?”
The passenger nudges the other woman with a huff. “Play nice, Mira.”
The driver, Mira, only shrugs before leaning over the car’s door. Rumi stares a beat too long as slender fingers tap rhythmetically against the hard leather of her steering wheel. She hopes and prays it can pass off as admiring the car’s sleek interior. To be fair, it is a pretty nice design. A shame Rumi isn’t in the slightest interested about cars outside of their mileage.
“Anyway, I thought it would be easier to hear what I was saying here instead of through that thing of yours.”
Rumi doesn’t even get a chance to thank her for the unexpected thoughtfulness before the other woman’s detailing their order at breakneck speed. She silently thanks her years of experience in customer service allowing her to follow along as she taps away at the kiosk.
“Will that be all for today?” Rumi asks after finishing catching up with the rest of the duo’s order.
“Depends.”
Rumi tilts her head slightly, waiting for some elaboration. There’s a long pause, prompting her to risk a glance out the window. She thinks she hears a cricket chirp somewhere near them as they engage in some variation of a staring contest. Rumi’s blinking in confusion far too often for it to be a proper match, but then again no one taught her what to do in such a situation. She can’t exactly print the receipt and send the order to the others without some sort of confirmation.
(Rumi’s really missing her peaceful and uncomplicated ceiling right about now.)
“Sorry, is that a yes or no?” She fumbles with her words in a haste to get whatever’s going on done with. She’s too busy analyzing the curvature of her shoes to notice the bemused expression on Mira’s face.
“Stop laughing, Zoey.” There’s no real heat behind her words which almost makes Rumi raise a brow. Childhood friends maybe? She glances at their conjoined hands resting over the console between them. Ah.
(Rumi’s maybe had a grand total of one actual partner over her decades of living, and even then she wasn’t too sure they were in a relationship at all. He was the heir of Celine’s business rival. Go figure. Things were bound to go astray.)
“She’s trying to hit on you, ma’am. Well, we are.” Zoey smiles at her like Rumi has any clue what she’s on about. It must show on her face, because Zoey reinforces, “Y’know, like make a move on you.”
So, Rumi officially has no idea what’s going on. Mira averts her eyes, a shade darker than before. A trick of the light? Rumi quickly checks her wristwatch. There’s a comforting possibility the two are merely drunk out of their minds. If she really wants to maintain some fragments of her sanity, she’d ignore how Mira’s driving was perfectly orderly and how there isn’t even the slightest scent of alcohol surrounding the lot.
(And Rumi has a fairly sensitive nose, which isn’t comforting at all in her current predicament.)
“Court you?” Zoey tries again in a posh accent, and Rumi laughs despite herself. She can’t help it when Zoey’s tipping her imaginary fedora like a true gentleman.
“I get it,” she finally says between breaths.
(She really doesn’t, but for the sake of saving herself from any further awkward silences, telling a single white lie doesn’t seem all that bad. Unfortunately, she doesn’t plan for what that response garners.)
“So?”
“So…” Rumi trails off. It’s her turn to hastily avoid Mira’s searching gaze.
(The rational part of her knows she’s on the clock and this is probably, most definitely, a HR violation somewhere in Celine’s lists—yes, lists—but there’s a wicked demon on her shoulder whispering for her to live her life a little. She’s sure her ears are cycling through different shades of red as words stubbornly stick to the sides of her throat, refusing to express themselves in any coherent manner. God, was she always this pathetic with pretty women hitting on her at a dimly lit drive-through? Well, not that Rumi has any other occurrences to compare to, but she thinks once is enough. Plenty, even.)
Zoey suddenly giggles, body slumping forward as air escapes her lungs. She rests her head on the crook of her elbow over the dashboard, and Rumi starts to wonder if her hair’s as soft as it looks. Wonders if she could ever hear that sweet sound again before she dedicates her years trying to rediscover it. Rumi’s no archaeologist, but for a beautiful stranger? She might just be.
“Sorry, you don’t even know our names yet. I’m—”
“Zoey,” she says abruptly as if trying to prove something, “and Mira.”
That gets Mira to lean forward a little with a barely noticeable tilt to her lips. Too bad Rumi’s looking exactly where she shouldn’t be. She desperately needs to learn when to open and shut her mouth before she digs herself into an impossibly deeper hole.
Her hands absentmindedly play with the stray seams coming undone from her apron with every harsh tug of her fingers as she waits for something to swoop in and save her. Anything. Perhaps one of the cats at their café will hear her pleas and parkour their way to her.
“Hm,” Mira hums with a slight lilt that sends bundles of nerves buzzing beneath Rumi’s skin.
What the hell does that mean? Rumi’s not versed well enough in the cadence department to decode Mira’s riddles. She clears her throat habitually.
“I really do need to know if that’s all to your order though.”
“Oh! Uh, yes. That’ll be it, thank you.” Zoey grins at her in a way that has Rumi questioning if the sun has already risen in the form of soft flesh and dotted freckles.
“Alright. You can pull up to the…” Rumi trails off as she stares at the car already parked at the window. She glances at the empty lot. “I guess you two can just stay where you are.”
Zoey sends her a thumbs up as Rumi takes the bills from Mira’s hand. She’s painstakingly careful to avoid any point of contact between their fingers. She takes her time sorting the bills in the right place as she calculates the change.
(She knows she’s stalling, but Rumi’s still very much entertaining the possibility this is all a test set up by no other than her aunt. She steals a glance at the two almost instinctively. Celine sure hired some attractive actors, Rumi will give her that.)
Alas, she can only recount their change so many times before she gets called out. She mourns the loss of the fleeting simplicity she was graced with. She straightens her shoulders before turning back to the window. No contact, she repeats to herself as she outstretches her hand with their receipt poking out the corners. All hope flies out the window when Mira pushes her fist back with a surprisingly warm hand. It’s honest-to-god humiliating how easily Rumi’s breath gets whisked away just like that. She’s never been good with unexpected contact. She has half a mind to ask Bobby to switch her to day shifts before she subjects herself to any further embarrassment.
“You guys take tips?” There’s a teasing smirk on Mira’s lips that nearly drives Rumi mad. Rumi realizes she’s supposed to respond far too many beats late. Her expression shifts into a faint grimace. She should probably say something. Better late than never, right?
(She ends up turning away to set the money elsewhere without a word. Seriously, she needs to get some extra help during her shifts at this point.)
Manners eventually push her to mumble her gratitude with a light blush. Quiet, but sincere. She turns her head to make sure they heard her. Mira gives her a softer smile as if not to scare her off somehow.
(Rumi doesn’t think she’d even run if Mira were to brandish a blade at her. There’s an invisible force gluing her shoes to the ground, stopping her from doing the sensible thing and turning away.)
The harsh chime of someone entering the drive-through has her scrambling back in position in an instant. She glances apologetically at the two as she presses the headset closer to her ears for better quality. She uncharacteristically fumbles with the kiosk as a voice drones through the speaker. There’s a prickling sensation running down her spine, reminding her of the eyes following every twitch of her fingers.
(It’s oddly flattering, if not a bit wolfish the way she’s pinned in place and open for scrutiny. It’s even stranger how a part of Rumi wants their unwavering attention.)
Though, all good things must come to an end. Someone hands her a takeout bag far quicker than she’d like. Her mouth twists into a frown as she reads Mira’s name on the receipt stapled to the bag. She sighs quietly as she slowly lifts the bag towards the window.
Now, Rumi’s usually a think before she acts type of girl, but she’s precisely not thinking as she abruptly changes course and snatches the nearest pen off the counter. She starts to scribble her number on the receipt, crumpling it slightly with the force she’s using. It’s almost laughable how she tries to talk herself out of it as she’s transcribing the last digit with shaky hands. With a deep breath, she double-checks her handwriting’s legibility before clicking the pen shut.
There’s a thin sheen of sweat coating her palms as she hands the bag to the two. She barely has the courage to look them in the eye, but the sound of a strained grunt has her risking a glance for better or for worse. The sight of Zoey awkwardly bent over the center console to get her hands on the bag before Mira has her giggling all over again.
“Get back in your seat,” Mira grumbles half-heartedly as Zoey uses her as a stabilizing pillar.
“Not a chance,” Zoey cheerfully chirps back. Her hand pushes against the side of Mira’s unfortunately placed head undeterred. Zoey absolutely beams at Rumi as if she’s supplying her with a winning ticket. Rumi doesn’t know how she’s supposed to continue with her life after seeing the soft slant of Zoey’s mouth up close. When the bag’s finally in Zoey’s arms, she does a small fist pump before settling back in her seat with the silliest smile.
(Rumi doesn’t think she’s ever laughed so much on the job besides the time Derpy got stuck in his tunnel after one too many second dinners from a certain someone. She really needs to talk to Bobby about that, actually.)
“My name’s Rumi.” She glances down at her nametag before adding with a slight stutter, “In case you didn’t know.”
Rumi barely has time to admire the quirk of Mira’s lips before a blaring honk sounds behind them. She winces at the noise travelling through the empty streets. Mira’s moments away from sticking a crude gesture out the window before Rumi pushes her outstretched finger back in. Mira blinks at the sudden contact between them, sending Rumi reeling back. She awkwardly clenches and unclenches her hand before dropping it back to her side.
“So… I’ll see you guys later?” Rumi hates how hopeful she sounds, but the growing grins on their faces makes it all worth it.
“Yeah. See you later, pretty girl.”
“Bye, Rumi!”
(Rumi just about dies the second they pull out the drive-through. She begs her face to somehow return to a healthy shade before the next customer pulls up.)
(He asks her if she’s drunk the second he sees her.)
Rumi barely finishes handing off his order before her phone buzzes in her pocket. Her heart promptly jumps to her throat at a dizzying pace. She’d dial an ambulance if she didn’t know any better. It’s lamentable how predictable she can be. Rumi doesn’t even know who’s texting her yet, and she’s already getting all her hopes up.
+1 (888) 392-449
are you free to grab lunch with us tomorrow?
this is zoey btw lol
Rumi nearly starts giggling like a schoolgirl at her own phone as she saves her contact within a blink of an eye. God, she needs to get herself together.
(The thing is, Rumi has absolutely never called in sick for work a day in her life, but she might just make an exception tonight. Today? It is morning already. Well, either way she’s compelled to text Bobby whatever elaborate excuse she can come up with before she realizes he’d agree even without any concrete reasoning from her. He’s only the best manager in the world like that.)
Rumi
I think I might be going on a date tomorrow. Could I get tomorrow off? Jinu can probably sub for me. He owes me.
Bobby
Hello? Is this still Rumi’s number???