BeAmazing

Her breath caught, the sound cutting through her like glass. The ache in the melody, it wasn’t just familiar. It was identical.

Identical to the way Jennie’s voice used to tremble at 2 AM when exhaustion pressed too heavily on her bones. Identical to the way she used to hum mindlessly between practice sessions, back when they were just kids chasing a dream too big for their hands.

Identical to the way she had sounded the night Y/N walked away. A phantom pain bloomed in her chest, sharp and unforgiving.

Jennie.

The name echoed through her mind like an unfinished lyric.

Before she could stop herself, Y/N’s fingers twitched against the console and pressed pause. The silence that followed was deafening. A deep, suffocating kind of silence, the kind that filled the spaces where words were never said.

The kind Jennie had left behind.

Y/N swallowed hard, blinking rapidly as if it would push back the burn in her eyes. She had spent years perfecting the art of walking away, leaving the past where it belonged.

But some things, no matter how much time passed, never really left.

Y/N exhaled slowly, her pulse still uneven from the song that had been playing just moments ago. The weight in her chest hadn’t lifted, it had only settled deeper, like an anchor dragging her down.

Without thinking, she turned away from the soundboard, her gaze landing on the wooden desk drawer beside her. A familiar habit. A dangerous one.

Her fingers hesitated for only a second before curling around the handle.

The drawer creaked open.

Inside, a neat stack of envelopes lay in quiet confession. The edges were worn, yellowing slightly with age, some folded so many times the creases had nearly torn through the paper. A graveyard of words left unsaid.

Letters.

Dozens of them, written in moments of weakness. Moments when the silence was too loud. When she had wanted to reach out but couldn’t. When she had almost broken her promise to stay gone.

Her fingertips ghosted over the stack, tracing the curves of her own handwriting on the front of each envelope. Always addressed to the same person.

Back then, writing had been the only thing that kept her from drowning. Because if she wrote to Jennie, she could pretend, just for a little while, that Jennie was still listening.

Her hand wavered before settling on the letter at the very top.

The first one.

She had written it the night she left. Alone in a hotel room, the city lights blurring through the rain-streaked window, the world outside moving forward while she sat frozen in place.

She lifted the fragile paper, its corners slightly curled, the ink smudged in places where her hands had gripped it too tightly. Her handwriting was smaller than usual, hesitant. As if even the letters had known they weren’t meant to reach their destination.

But she didn’t need to open it. She already knew what it said.

Jennie, I don’t know if you’ll ever read this, but I need you to know. I never wanted to leave you…

Her chest tightened.

The words had felt like a confession then. Now, they felt like a wound that never fully healed.

She squeezed her eyes shut, gripping the letter so tightly it crumpled slightly between her fingers. How pathetic was this? After all these years, Jennie’s name still had this power over her.

A sharp knock at the door shattered the moment. 

Y/N inhaled sharply, stuffing the letter back into the drawer, slamming it shut before turning around. Like nothing had happened. Like she hadn’t just been holding the past in her hands.

The knock had barely faded when the door creaked open.

“Y/N, you in here?”

Minhyuk stood in the doorway, a tablet in one hand, a takeout coffee in the other. His usual easygoing expression was tinged with something more hesitant today, like he wasn’t sure if he should be here.

“You didn’t answer my messages,” he said, stepping inside and placing the coffee on the desk. “Figured you were drowning in work again.”

Y/N forced a small smile. “Lost track of time.”

“Figured.” He gestured to the screens. “You working on the final mix for the new soloist?”

“Yeah, just tightening up the chorus.” She reached for the coffee, grateful for the excuse to keep her hands busy. The warmth seeped through the cup, grounding her.

Minhyuk hummed in approval, but then his gaze flickered, just for a second, toward the drawer she had shut only moments ago. He didn’t say anything, but she could tell he’d noticed her tension.

And then, just as she was about to steer the conversation back to work, he said it.

“Oh, have you heard? Jennie Kim is releasing an album.”

Y/N froze, just for a fraction of a second, but it was enough.

Minhyuk didn’t notice, or maybe he did and chose to ignore it. “You must’ve heard about it. Everyone’s been talking about it since Mantra dropped. But there are rumors that the album includes a really personal song.”

Her stomach twisted.

She pressed her lips together, keeping her expression neutral. “Good for her.”

Minhyuk took a sip of his coffee, watching her over the rim of the cup. “Looks like it’s gonna be a big one.”

Y/N nodded, forcing herself to appear indifferent. “She always does well.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, but there was something searching in his gaze, something cautious. “It’s just… a lot of people are saying it’s different this time. That it’s, like, deeply personal.” He paused, as if debating whether to say more. “Some fans think that one of the songs is about someone specific. Her ex to be exact.”

The words hit her somewhere deep, but she refused to let them show. Instead, she let out a small, dry laugh. “Fans say a lot of things.”

Minhyuk studied her for a moment longer before shaking his head with a smirk. “You really never crack, huh?”

She only shrugged.

Minhyuk hesitated but didn’t push further. Instead, he tapped his tablet against his palm. “Anyway, we have a meeting in twenty. Thought I’d remind you before you bury yourself in work again.”

“I’ll be there,” she assured him.

With that, he nodded and stepped back into the hallway, leaving the door slightly ajar. 

The room fell silent again.

Y/N let out a slow breath, turning back to the desk. Her gaze fell to the drawer, the one that held years of words she never said, years of pain she never let herself feel.

She didn’t reach for it this time.

Instead, she grabbed her headphones and pressed play on the track she had been working on. She drowned out the silence with music.

The track she had been working on filled the studio, soft yet aching, each note stretching like a half-formed memory. It was a good song, melancholic, intentional, but something about it felt unfinished. Like a letter that trailed off before the final words.

She leaned back in her chair, eyes flickering to the coffee Minhyuk had left behind. The steam had faded, but the scent still lingered, warm, familiar. It reminded her of another time, another studio.

A different cup of coffee, set beside a messy pile of lyric sheets. Fingers wrapped around hers, a quiet giggle in the dimly lit room.

"Here, try mine. You’ll like it better."

A decade had passed, but the memory was still sharp. Y/N let her eyes close, just for a moment, letting it pull her under.

And just like that, she was back.

The YG practice rooms were never truly quiet.

Even at 3 AM, the building still pulsed with life. Music drifted through the halls, some tracks half-finished, others playing on a loop as trainees pushed through exhaustion. Sneakers scuffed against polished floors. Distant voices hummed unfinished melodies, notes blending into the steady hum of the air conditioning.

Inside one of those rooms, Y/N sat with her back against the mirror, legs stretched out in front of her, damp strands of hair clinging to her skin. Her limbs were sore, but it was the kind of ache that felt good. The kind that reminded her she was getting closer.

Across from her, Jennie lay sprawled on the floor, arms stretched wide, her chest rising and falling in deep, measured breaths. She was still catching her breath from their last run-through, sweat glistening at her temples.

“We’re insane,” Y/N muttered, tilting her head against the cool glass. “It’s literally the middle of the night.”

Jennie turned her head, dark eyes glinting under the fluorescent lights. “So? You’re still here.”

Y/N huffed, but a small smile tugged at her lips. 

“Yeah, well. Someone has to make sure you don’t pass out from overworking yourself.”

Jennie grinned, slow and lazy, rolling onto her side to face her. “That’s cute. You think you’re the responsible one.”

Y/N nudged her shin with the tip of her shoe. “Shut up.”

Jennie laughed, that soft, breathy sound that Y/N had grown to love. It wasn’t the polished laugh Jennie used for cameras, nor the teasing one she shared with their members in training. No, this was different, quieter, realer, something only meant for moments like this.

The room settled into silence, the kind that stretched without pressure.The track they had been practicing to had ended long ago, but neither of them moved to play another.

With Jennie, silence never felt empty. It wasn’t the kind that begged to be filled with meaningless words or restless movements. Instead, it settled around them like a familiar melody, unspoken, but understood.

Jennie shifted beside her, pushing herself up onto her elbows, her gaze drifting toward the ceiling. 

"Do you ever think about it?"

Y/N turned her head slightly, studying the way Jennie’s expression softened in thought. "Think about what?"

Jennie let out a slow breath, her voice quieter now. "The future. What it’s going to be like when we debut."

Y/N smirked, tilting her head. 

"When, huh? Not if?"

Jennie turned to her then, one brow arched, eyes sharp despite her exhaustion. "Are you planning to fail?"

Y/N chuckled, lifting her hands in mock surrender. "Fair point."

Jennie rolled her eyes but didn’t hide the small smile playing at her lips. "Come on, just humor me."

Y/N sighed, leaning her head back against the mirror, pretending to think. “Alright. Let’s see… We debut, obviously. Become the biggest girl group in Korea. You’ll be the ace. Rap, vocals, visuals, everything. I’ll be the chaotic fan favorite.”

Jennie let out a quiet snort, shaking her head in amusement. 

"Obviously."

Y/N’s grin widened. "We’ll travel the world, win Daesangs, perform at Coachella… make history." She said it like it was inevitable, like the universe had already carved their names into the stars.

Jennie’s smile softened, the teasing glint in her eyes fading into something quieter, something more fragile. She hesitated, just for a second, before murmuring, "Together?"

Y/N’s breath caught.

It was one word, simple, almost careless. But it wasn’t casual. Not when Jennie was looking at her like that, like the answer meant everything. Like Jennie was asking about more than just debuting.

Y/N swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. The air between them felt heavier, warmer, charged with something unspoken.

She wet her lips. “Yeah,” she murmured. “Together.”

Jennie held her gaze for a second longer before dropping her head back against the floor with a soft sigh.

“Good,” she whispered.

For a while, neither of them spoke. Their bodies were exhausted, but their hearts felt light. They were young, stupid, reckless, and completely convinced they could take on the world.

The countdown to debut should have been the most exciting time of their lives. Instead, it was suffocating.

Every morning began with a weigh-in. The number on the scale determined everything, how much they ate, how much they trained, how much they were worth in the eyes of the company. If it wasn’t low enough, there were consequences. Extra hours of cardio. Meals taken away. A warning that they were replaceable.

“Idols don’t have baby fat,” the trainers would sneer. “You either lose it, or you lose your spot.”

Y/N quickly learned how to quiet her hunger, how to sip on ice water until the gnawing in her stomach became something distant, something easier to ignore. Jennie was better at pretending it didn’t bother her, but Y/N saw the way she gripped the sink each morning, waiting for the dizziness to pass.

Then came the rehearsals.

16-hour training days that stretched long into the night. Choreographers drilled them relentlessly, barking corrections that burned like lashes across their skin.

“Again. Again. Again.”

It didn’t matter if their legs shook from exhaustion, if their bodies screamed for rest, they weren’t allowed to stop. Mistakes weren’t tolerated. Trainees who couldn’t keep up disappeared without warning.

Evaluations were worse.

Every month, they stood in a cold, silent room while executives picked them apart like livestock at an auction. Their singing, their dancing, their faces, their bodies, everything was up for scrutiny.

“Your voice lacks color.” “Your expressions are lifeless.” “Your thighs are still too thick.”

Each critique carved into them, piece by piece, until they were hollow enough to be filled with whatever the company wanted them to be.

Privacy was a luxury they no longer had. Cameras watched their every move, managers monitored their diets, and every word they spoke felt like it could be overheard. They weren’t just trainees, they were investments, carefully molded into perfection. People stopped seeing them as girls with dreams and started seeing them as future idols, marketable and polished.

At first, Y/N convinced herself it was all part of the process. The exhaustion, the hunger, the bruises, just stepping stones on the path to success. Endure it now, and the reward will come later.

Jennie believed that, too.

“It’s just for now,” she’d murmur against Y/N’s temple in the quiet hours of the night, when the world outside the practice room ceased to exist. “Once we debut, it’ll get better.”

In those stolen moments, half-asleep, bodies aching, they allowed themselves to dream. They whispered about the future, about the world tours they’d conquer, the awards they’d win, the music they’d make together.

"Just a little longer," Jennie would say, fingers brushing against Y/N’s wrist, grounding them both. "We’re so close."

And Y/N wanted, desperately, to believe her.

But it didn’t get better.

The closer they got to debut, the worse it became. Training days stretched into sleepless nights, their bodies pushed beyond their limits, their minds fraying at the edges. Hunger settled in their bones, exhaustion blurred the weeks together, and there was no room to stop, no space to breathe.

Speaking out wasn’t an option. Complaining wasn’t tolerated. Refusing wasn’t allowed. Instead, they were met with the same cold reminder.

“Do you know how many girls would kill for this opportunity?”

So Y/N forced herself to keep going. She swallowed down her doubts, shoved away her exhaustion, ignored the nagging voice in her head that whispered, “Are you sure this is what you want?”

And then the rumors started.

Trainees gossiping in hushed voices, stolen glances from staff members, managers suddenly checking their phones more often when Jennie and Y/N were around.

At first, they ignored it.

Rumors were always circulating in YG. Someone was dating. Someone was getting kicked out. Someone had secretly undergone plastic surgery. It was just noise, the kind that came with living under constant surveillance.

But this time, the whispers followed them wherever they went.

“Did you hear?” “I thought they were just close, but…” “They’re reckless. Don’t they know how strict the company is?”

Jennie brushed it off, insisting it would pass. But Y/N saw the way she glanced over her shoulder more often, how her fingers hesitated before reaching for Y/N’s hand when no one was looking.

Then, the instructors started watching them more closely.

At first, it was just glances, lingering a second too long, a shift in tone, corrections that felt more like warnings. Then, it became something else. Their critiques grew sharper, no longer about technique but about image. Something had changed. Someone had been watching.

One night, as they were gathering their things after practice, a voice cut through the air.

"Jennie. Y/N. The executives want to see you."

A slow, sinking feeling settled in Y/N’s stomach, heavy and inescapable.

They knew.

The office was eerily silent when they stepped inside, the kind of silence that made it impossible to breathe. A long table stretched before them, lined with YG’s higher-ups, their faces blank, detached, impossible to read. The air was thick with something unspoken, pressing against Y/N’s ribs like a weight she couldn’t shake.

Jennie sat beside her, back rigid, hands clenched so tightly in her lap that her knuckles turned white. Neither of them spoke. Neither of them had to.

One of the executives leaned forward, threading his fingers together, his voice slow and measured, as if he were delivering nothing more than a routine business report. "We’ve been hearing things."

Y/N felt her pulse quicken, the cold weight in her stomach turning to ice.

"Things that cannot be tolerated."

The words were devoid of emotion, as if everything they had given, the sleepless nights, the injuries, the sacrifices, meant nothing in the face of company policy. It didn’t matter that they had spent years molding themselves into perfection, shaping every breath, every movement, every thought to fit into the carefully curated image of an idol.

As if they were disposable. As if they hadn’t bled for this dream.

"You know the rules."

No dating. No distractions. No personal lives. The meaning was clear. Idols belonged to the company. Not to themselves.

Jennie inhaled sharply beside her, the sound barely audible, but Y/N could feel the way she tensed, her fingers twitching slightly before curling into fists.

She already knew what they were going to say, but still, when the words came, they hit like a knife straight to the gut.

"End it."

Jennie didn’t move. She didn’t argue, didn’t beg, didn’t fight, not here, not in front of them, but Y/N could feel the way her body locked beside her, the way her breath turned unsteady, the way her silence screamed louder than any words ever could.

"If this continues, there will be consequences."

It wasn’t a warning. It was a command.

Silence stretched between them, suffocating, unyielding. Y/N forced herself to lift her gaze, to meet their eyes even as her throat burned with the weight of everything she couldn’t say.

Debut or love.

They weren’t allowed to have both.

The practice room was empty, yet the air felt thick, pressing down on them like a weight neither of them could shake. The mirrors stretched endlessly around them, reflecting back the ghosts of everything they had been, everything they were about to lose.

Jennie sat cross legged on the floor, her head bowed, strands of dark hair falling over her face like a curtain. Her hands were clasped in her lap, fingers curled too tightly, as if she were trying to hold herself together. Y/N stood a few feet away, arms wrapped around herself, but it did nothing to stop the unraveling.

It was almost cruel.

This room had been their sanctuary once. The place where late night practices blurred into whispered dreams, where exhaustion faded into laughter, where stolen moments made all the suffering feel worthwhile. Now, it would be the place where it all ended.

Jennie exhaled slowly, but Y/N could hear the tremble in it.

"Stay with me."

The words were soft, barely more than a breath, but they struck like a blade, sharp and unforgiving.

Y/N’s hands curled into fists at her sides. She wanted to stay. God, she wanted to.

But she couldn’t.

She couldn’t keep starving, breaking, hiding. Couldn’t keep swallowing herself whole just to fit inside someone else’s mold. Couldn’t keep hoping for a future that had never really been theirs to begin with.

Jennie lifted her gaze then, eyes glossy, filled with something raw and desperate.

"Just a little longer."

Her voice cracked, splintering at the edges, and Y/N felt something inside her shatter along with it.

That was all Jennie had ever asked of her. Just a little longer. Just a little more pain. Just a little more sacrifice. Just a little more of herself.

But what was left of her to give?

Jennie was built for this world. Born to endure. Made to shine. She could withstand the pain, the hunger, the scrutiny, because she saw something beyond it, something worth all the suffering. Y/N didn’t. Not anymore.

Her throat tightened. She forced herself to swallow, to breathe, to push past the ache clawing at her ribs.

"I can’t."

Jennie flinched, a sharp inhale, like she’d been struck.

Silence stretched between them, heavy, unbearable. Y/N’s body screamed at her to take it back, to say anything to ease the hurt in Jennie’s eyes, to promise that they would find a way to survive this.

But Jennie said nothing.

Her lips parted, as if she wanted to fight, to beg, to convince Y/N to hold on just a little longer, but the words never came. Slowly, her shoulders dropped, her fingers loosened, her posture crumbled just enough for Y/N to see the heartbreak bleeding through the cracks.

And Y/N knew.

Jennie would never beg. Not for this. Not even for her.

Even with unshed tears clinging to her lashes, Jennie was still Jennie Kim. Poised, composed, unshakable. The girl who was meant to stand beneath the brightest lights, adored by millions.

Y/N had never felt smaller. She took a step back. Then another.

Jennie’s breath hitched, but she didn’t move. She wouldn’t stop her. Not because she didn’t want to, but because she loved her too much to make her stay.

At the door, Y/N hesitated. She looked back at the girl who had been her best friend, her first love, her home. She wanted to say something, anything, to make this hurt less.

But there was nothing.

So she turned and walked away. Jennie didn’t call after her.

The memory lived in the back of her mind, untouched for years, buried beneath time and distance. But some things never truly fade. Some moments linger, surfacing when least expected, like now, as she stood in her apartment, heart pounding, breath unsteady.

Y/N wasn’t running. Not really.

She told herself that over and over again as she threw a few essentials into a duffel bag, grabbed her headphones, and booked the earliest train out of the city. This wasn’t avoidance. It was just… space. A temporary retreat. A weekend to breathe.

But even as the train pulled out of Seoul Station, she could still feel it, the weight of the day pressing against her chest, the buzz of the city trailing after her like a shadow. It was inescapable.

Jennie Kim had finally released her first full-length solo album, and the world was losing its mind.

Seoul had been unbearable today, an electric storm of flashing billboards, trending hashtags, and endless conversations orbiting around one person. It didn’t matter where she went, studios, streets, every screen, every voice, every radio station played the same name on repeat.

Jennie. Jennie. Jennie.

The Jennie Kim. Global icon. Record breaking artist. The kind of star who didn’t just shine, she burned, leaving an imprint on everything she touched.

The album had dropped at midnight, and the industry had erupted.

Critics were already calling it a masterpiece, the kind of project that defined not just a career, but an era. Fans flooded social media, dissecting every track, every lyric, every hidden meaning buried in Jennie’s music. Industry giants were hailing it as one of the most important albums of the decade.

Y/N had spent years in the industry herself, just on the other side of it. She knew exactly what today meant.

And she wanted no part of it.

For years, she had kept her head down, working behind the scenes as a producer, crafting music for idols who still had stars in their eyes. She had built a name for herself in a different way, one that didn’t demand cameras flashing in her face, one that let her create without suffocating under the expectations that came with it.

She had done everything right. She had moved forward. She had left that life, that dream, that person behind.

And yet, no matter how much distance she put between herself and the past, some things never really let go.

So she left.

Booked a train ticket to Busan, let Seoul shrink behind her, let the rhythmic hum of the tracks drown out the noise in her head. Maybe, if she was lucky, a different sky, a different city would quiet the ache that still refused to fade.

The waves stretched lazily toward her feet before slipping away again, their rhythm steady, hypnotic. The scent of salt lingered in the air, mingling with the faint traces of grilled seafood and coffee drifting from the boardwalk behind her. Somewhere in the distance, the city hummed, soft, unobtrusive, distant enough to fade into the background.

Busan was quieter than Seoul, but even here, life pulsed on. Couples wandered along the shore, their laughter carried by the wind. A few kids chased each other near the water, their shrieks of joy rising over the waves.

Y/N stayed where she was, hoodie pulled low over her face, sneakers half buried in the cool sand. She had been sitting here for hours, watching the sky melt from soft blue to gold, then to dusky pink.

Her phone lay beside her, screen dim, playing through an old-school R&B playlist. The kind of music that had always been a comfort. Something soft. Something familiar. Something that didn’t hurt.

Ashanti’s voice drifted through her earbuds, blending seamlessly with the crash of the tide. She wasn’t really listening. The songs bled together, fading into the background, nothing more than a quiet hum to fill the silence.

She let her mind drift, let the wind pull at the loose strands of her hair, let herself breathe. For the first time in a long time, there was nothing pressing down on her chest.

And then.

"It’s like I’m writing a letter And I put in a twelve-ounce bottle of Heineken…"

Y/N’s breath stilled. 

A quiet tension gripped her muscles before her mind could even process why. Something about the voice, the melody, the way the words settled in the air around her, it struck like a presence she hadn’t expected, hadn’t prepared for.

Then, recognition crashed into her, swift and unforgiving.

Jennie.

She jolted upright so fast that her hands slipped against the sand, sending grains spilling over her jeans. Her heart pounded as she fumbled for her phone, barely registering the cold metal beneath her fingers. The screen lit up in the dimming light, and there it was, staring back at her.

twin – JENNIE

The world tilted slightly.

Of all the songs in the world, of all the tracks that could have shuffled into her playlist, it had to be this one. Out of the millions of possibilities, it had to be her.

Jennie’s voice poured through the speakers, smooth and deliberate, carrying a weight that settled deep in Y/N’s chest. There was something sharp beneath it, something quiet and unrelenting, threading itself between her ribs like a whisper she couldn’t ignore.

"I didn’t leave ya, I still see ya When I’m bumping Ashanti, yeah, on the beach, yeah."

A slow, unsteady breath left Y/N’s lips, but it wasn’t enough to steady her. The air caught in her throat, tangled somewhere between disbelief and something heavier, something dangerous.

Her grip tightened around the phone, fingers pressing into the edges as if grounding herself would make a difference. But the truth was, it wouldn’t. Because this wasn’t just a song. It wasn’t some distant, abstract heartbreak ballad written for a faceless love lost to time.

It was them.

Every lyric, every pause, every aching note, it was a story, and she was in it. Jennie wasn’t just singing about the past. She wasn’t just weaving a melody out of old wounds and untold confessions.

She was remembering. She was reliving it.

And now, so was Y/N.

Y/N’s nails dug into her palm, the sharp bite of pain a desperate attempt to keep herself anchored, to keep the past from crashing into her all at once. It was a losing battle. The memories rose too fast, too strong, slipping through the cracks she had spent years sealing shut.

She had told herself that she won’t think about that night anymore, that time had softened it, blurred the edges, made it something distant, something she could acknowledge without feeling.

But music had a way of unearthing things.

And this wasn’t just music.

The practice room flickered to life behind her eyelids, the weight of silence pressing down like it had all those years ago. The air had been thick, stifling, full of things neither of them knew how to say. Jennie’s voice had been so small, so unlike her usual sharp confidence, just a whisper, but it had wrecked her.

Stay with me.

Y/N squeezed her eyes shut, as if that could erase the memory, as if she could unhear the way Jennie’s voice had cracked, as if she could unfeel the unbearable pull in her chest that had begged her to say yes.

But she hadn’t.

She had walked away.

And now, years later, sitting on a quiet beach miles away from the life she had once fought to escape, it didn’t matter how much distance she had put between them. The ache still lived inside her, dormant but never gone.

She had left Seoul to avoid this, to escape the inevitability of Jennie’s voice reaching her, pulling her back into a storm she had spent a decade outrunning.

And yet, here she was, sitting on the sand, staring at a name on her screen, heart breaking open like it was that night all over again.

The ocean stretched endlessly before her, waves lapping in a steady rhythm, unbothered, indifferent. She wished she could feel the same. But no amount of distance, no amount of salt air, could drown out the weight pressing against her ribs.

Two more days. That’s what she told herself. Just two more before she returned to Seoul, to reality, to the mess she had abandoned in her wake.

She should have known better.

Because the past had a way of finding her, no matter how far she ran.

The message came on an otherwise uneventful Tuesday, arriving with the kind of casual audacity that only Wendy and Irene could manage. Y/N had been lost in work, headphones slipping from her ears as she focused on layering harmonies, smoothing imperfections, and details only she would notice. It was muscle memory by now, adjust, refine, perfect. A process that left little room for distractions.

Her phone vibrated against the desk.

She ignored it at first, fingers still moving over the controls, mind still tethered to the track. But the messages kept coming, insistent, persistent. With a sigh, she reached for her phone, expecting nothing more than another dinner invite, another inside joke.

Group Chat.

Wendy: “Guess who has an extra VVIP pass for The Ruby Experience?”

Y/N frowned, the words not quite sinking in at first. The Ruby Experience. She had heard the name countless times in the past days, but never aloud, never in direct relation to herself. The realization settled slowly, creeping in at the edges before striking all at once.

Jennie’s concert.

The first solo concert. The one that had sold out in minutes. The one that was already being hailed as historic before the stage lights had even been tested. The one the entire industry had been waiting for.

A second message followed before she could even process the first.

Irene: “No excuses. You’re coming.”

Wendy: “It’s been years, Y/N.”

Years.

The word lingered longer than it should have, wrapping around her like an unwelcome echo.

She should say no. She wanted to say no. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, a response forming on instinct.

Y/N: “I don’t think,”

Another message cut her off.

Irene: “You owe me dinner if you decline.”

Wendy: “And drinks.”

Y/N huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. Cowards. They weren’t even pretending this was about the concert itself. They weren’t pushing just because it was an event, they were pushing because of her.

Because no one had to say Jennie’s name for her presence to be felt. Because no matter how much time had passed, Jennie Kim’s name still carried weight in her chest, still felt dangerous in her mouth.

Like something sacred. Like something broken. Like something she had never really learned to live without.

Y/N: “Fine. But if it gets weird, I’m leaving.”

Her fingers hesitated for the briefest second before pressing send, but it was too late. The message was out, irreversible, the decision made. And yet, as the confirmation flashed on her screen, a sharp knot twisted in her stomach, the finality of it settling in too quickly, too heavily.

She told herself it was just an event. Just one night. A fleeting moment in a crowded venue, nothing more.

But deep down, she knew better.

Because the past had never been content to stay buried, especially not when Jennie Kim was a part of it.

The venue pulsed with energy, an undercurrent of anticipation vibrating through the walls. Even from the seclusion of the VIP lounge, Y/N could feel it, the unmistakable electricity of a sold-out arena, the collective breath of thousands waiting for one woman to take the stage.

Ruby’s signature red bathed the space in a warm glow, a stark contrast to the sleek black leather couches and glasses balanced on polished tables. The industry’s elite moved around her, exchanging handshakes and half-empty compliments, but Y/N barely heard them.

She tried to focus on Irene and Wendy’s conversation, nodding at the right moments, laughing when expected. It should have been easy, pretending, performing. She’d spent years perfecting the art.

But then, the sound of her name, spoken with a mixture of disbelief and something softer, made her shoulders stiffen.

"Y/N?"

She turned.

Rosé stood just a few feet away, a champagne flute hanging loosely from her fingers, forgotten. Her blonde hair framed her face in soft waves, and despite the dim lighting, there was no missing the flicker of recognition in her gaze.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Years.

That’s how long it had been since they had last stood face to face. Since they had last spoken without a stage, a screen, or a continent between them. But there was no hesitation in Rosé’s expression. No bitterness. Just quiet surprise.

"You’re here," she said, as if confirming it for herself.

Y/N swallowed, forcing a small, knowing smile. "So are you."

Rosé let out a breath, shaking her head with a quiet huff. "Flew in from LA yesterday. There was no way I’d miss this."

Of course not. 

This was Jennie’s night, the kind of moment no one who had ever truly known her would dare to miss, and they both understood that without needing to say it.

Rosé studied her for a moment, head tilting slightly, something curious, maybe even cautious, flickering in her eyes.

"I didn’t know you’d come," she admitted, her voice softer now, like she was searching for something unspoken in Y/N’s expression.

There were countless ways she could answer, a hundred variations of the truth sitting on the tip of her tongue, each one easier than the one before. But in the end, honesty slipped through before she could stop it. 

"Neither did I."

Rosé stilled, lips parting just slightly, something shifting in her gaze, not quite surprise, not quite understanding, but something close to both. Y/N hadn’t planned to be here. She had spent years avoiding moments like this, convincing herself that distance was the only thing keeping her upright.

And yet, despite every reason not to, she had come anyway.

A beat passed, the noise around them fading into something distant, inconsequential. Then, as if remembering herself, Rosé straightened, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "You know, I was going to say something smug about how you finally decided to show your face, but…" She hesitated, eyes softening. "I’m just glad to see you."

The sincerity in her voice caught Y/N off guard, settling uncomfortably in her chest. She exhaled, looking down briefly before meeting Rosé’s gaze again.

"Congratulations, by the way."

Rosé blinked, caught off guard for just a second.

"For Rosie," Y/N clarified, her voice even, measured. "And for APT."

For a moment, Rosé said nothing, but something flickered in her expression, first surprise, then warmth, settling into something quieter, something understanding.

"You kept up."

Y/N didn’t respond, but she didn’t have to. The silence between them spoke louder than any words could, carrying years of history, of distance, of things left unsaid.

Slowly, Rosé’s lips curved into a knowing smile, her voice light but edged with something fond. "You’re still terrible at pretending you don’t care."

Y/N exhaled, rolling her eyes, but there was no real bite behind it. She shook her head, already regretting this conversation. "Shut up."

Rosé chuckled, and just like that, the years between them felt a little less heavy. There was still distance, still space carved out by time and choices, but in this moment, neither of them were looking at the past.

Only at what remained.

The moment the lights dimmed, the stadium roared to life. A wall of sound crashed over Y/N, the force of it rattling in her chest, reverberating in her bones. It wasn’t just excitement, it was worship. The kind of adoration reserved for legends.

Thousands of voices called her name.

"Jennie! Jennie! Jennie!"

The ground vibrated beneath her feet, the sheer magnitude of it swallowing the VIP lounge in its wake. And then a single note cut through the chaos.

Low. Resounding.

The stage bathed in red, and Jennie rose.

She emerged from the floor in a slow, deliberate ascent, bathed in crimson light, a vision against the darkness. The opening chords wove through the air like a spell, wrapping around the crowd, pulling them into her world.

The moment she lifted the mic to her lips, the stadium erupted again, the sound near deafening.

And still, she remained untouched by it.

Effortless. Untouchable. A force of nature.

From the lounge, Y/N sat frozen.

She had told herself she was prepared for this. That she was here as a producer, an industry professional watching a fellow artist perform. It was just a concert. Just music.

But as Jennie moved, fluid, commanding, every step measured, every glance deliberate, Y/N felt the slow, creeping realization settle deep in her stomach.

She wasn’t ready.

Not for this. Not for the way Jennie’s voice curled around the lyrics, each note rich and powerful, each song a declaration of who she had become. Not for the way she owned the stage like it had been built for her.

And certainly not for the way she still looked like the same girl Y/N had once loved.

And lost.

Y/N’s fingers tightened around the glass in her hands. She forced herself to focus on the technicalities, the impeccable production, the seamless transitions, the live band swelling beneath Jennie’s vocals.

But it didn’t help.

Not when the stage lights cast shadows along Jennie’s face in a way that felt achingly familiar. Not when the rasp in her voice dragged up memories Y/N had spent years trying to bury.

Jennie was everywhere.

In the way the crowd moved in unison, hanging onto every syllable she uttered. In the way the cameras captured the curve of her smirk, the flicker of something dark and playful in her eyes. In the way she carried herself, not as an idol, not as a performer, but as someone who knew she had already won.

This was the Jennie Kim the world saw. Untouchable. Limitless. A star so bright it was impossible to look away.

But Y/N knew better.

She knew the Jennie behind closed doors. The one who had once held her hand like she was afraid to let go. The one who whispered secrets into the hollow of her throat late at night, voice small and uncertain. The one who had begged her to stay.

Y/N blinked, inhaling sharply, pushing the memory away before it could fully form.

She was fine. She had to be.

This was just music. Just a concert. Nothing more.

And yet, as Jennie’s voice carried through the air, wrapping around the stadium like something tangible, Y/N couldn’t shake the feeling that, somehow, she had already lost all over again.

It should have been over.

The hardest part was over, song after song, each a reminder of everything Jennie had become, everything she had achieved. Y/N had watched from a distance, hands curled into fists beneath the table, heartbeat steady even when it shouldn’t have been. She had endured the spectacle, the flashing lights, the deafening cheers that followed Jennie’s every move.

She had made it through. 

But then, the arena went dark.

A hush swept through the crowd, anticipation thick in the air. Even before the first note played, something inside Y/N twisted, coiling tight like a premonition she wasn’t ready to face. The silence stretched, unbearably long, until a single beam of light pierced through the darkness.

Jennie stood alone.

Gone was the grand production, the dancers, the elaborate staging that had framed her for the past hour. Now, it was just her, a lone figure bathed in silver, shadows stretching long behind her. No distractions. No escape.

Y/N barely had a moment to exhale, to convince herself that it was over, that she had made it through the night without falling apart. 

But then, the first few notes filled the stadium.

Soft, slow, unmistakable.

Her entire body tensed, breath stalling in her chest as a sharp, invisible thread coiled tight around her ribs, pulling mercilessly. She knew this melody. She knew it in the way one knows an old scar, in the way a phantom pain lingers long after the wound has closed.

No. 

Not this song.

Not the one that had been theirs before either of them had the words to admit it. Not the one that carried every memory she had tried to outrun.

Her fingers curled into fists, nails pressing hard against her palms, as if she could ground herself, as if she could stop the way the past was crashing over her like a tidal wave.

The crowd erupted in recognition, thousands of voices gasping, screaming, chanting Jennie’s name. But Y/N barely heard them. The first lyric was already slipping through the air, delicate yet devastating.

"It’s like I’m writing a letter…"

It hit like a fist to the ribs. Her nails dug into her palms.

Jennie’s voice carried through the vast arena, rich and aching, wrapping around every syllable like a confession. This wasn’t just a song. It never had been.

Y/N had spent the past week trying to avoid it, switching the radio station, leaving cafes when it played, pretending she didn’t recognize the melody. But here, now, there was no running.

Her lungs tightened, her body refusing to move, as if any small motion would shatter the fragile hold she had on herself.

Jennie stood beneath the spotlight, singing their story to an audience that would never understand what it meant. The lyrics unraveled between them, each word unearthing things Y/N had buried deep, late night conversations whispered between shared breaths, fingers laced together beneath trembling city lights, the weight of a promise that had never been kept.

"I didn’t leave ya, I still see ya..."

A flicker of something passed through Jennie’s expression.

She wasn’t just performing. She was remembering.

The weight of it hit Y/N all at once, a force so sudden and overwhelming that it felt like the air had been stolen from her lungs.

This wasn’t for the fans. It wasn’t for the press or the charts. No, this was something else entirely, something raw, something intimate, something meant for one person alone.

For her.

Her pulse pounded in her ears, drowning out the roar of the crowd, the lights, the thousands of eyes watching Jennie pour her heart into every note. A hand brushed against her arm, Wendy, a quiet attempt to steady her, but the touch barely registered. Y/N was already slipping, already spiraling, already being pulled back into a place she had sworn she would never go again.

The memories bled into her vision, sharp and vivid, slipping through the cracks she had tried so desperately to seal. Jennie laughing, head thrown back, warmth curling at the edges of her smile. Jennie whispering her name like it was something sacred. Jennie standing in the practice room, eyes wide, voice breaking on the words asking her to stay.

Her throat burned.

She clenched her jaw, willing herself to keep it together, but it was impossible when Jennie stood there, putting every ounce of herself into a song that had never stopped belonging to them.

The final chorus rose, a wave of sound crashing over the arena, but it was Jennie’s voice that cut through everything else. It wasn’t perfect, not in the way it usually was. There was something raw in it, a slight tremble hidden between the notes, a crack so faint that most wouldn’t notice. But Y/N did.

She felt it like a ripple in her chest, a pull deep in her ribs, as if the weight of Jennie’s voice alone was enough to unravel something she had fought to keep buried. It was in the way Jennie held herself, poised, effortless to anyone who wasn’t looking too closely, but Y/N saw the tension in her shoulders, the flicker of emotion in her gaze, the way her fingers curled ever so slightly around the microphone like she was holding on to something unseen.

And in that instant, every carefully constructed lie Y/N had told herself over the years began to crumble.

The distance she had put between them, the silence she had forced herself to accept, the belief that time would dull the ache, it had all been for nothing. Because no matter how far she had run, no matter how much she had tried to convince herself that she had moved on, the truth was right there, woven into every note Jennie sang.

Jennie Kim had never let her go.

The realization struck hard, pressing against her ribs, making it difficult to breathe. Y/N’s fingers tightened in her lap, nails digging into her palm, as if grounding herself could stop the way her pulse pounded against her skin. The weight of it was suffocating, terrifying, undeniable.

And worst of all, it wasn’t one sided.

Because as much as she had wanted to believe otherwise, as much as she had tried to move forward, as much as she had convinced herself that she had done the right thing, her body betrayed her. Her heart, hammering against her chest. Her hands, trembling where they rested. Her eyes, locked on the woman she had spent years trying to forget.

She had never let Jennie go either.

And now, with the music still ringing in her ears, with the memories clawing their way back to the surface, she wasn’t sure she ever would.

Y/N sits stiffly on the couch, fingers curled around the glass in her hands, the condensation damp against her skin. The ice has melted, pooling around her fingertips, but she barely notices. Her grip is tight, almost too tight, as if the glass is the only thing anchoring her in place. Around her, the room hums with energy, laughter, clinking drinks, the lingering excitement that always follows a concert of this scale. Voices rise and fall in waves, but they feel muffled, like she’s submerged underwater, like she’s observing the scene from behind glass rather than truly existing in it.

Irene and Wendy are still buzzing, animated in their conversation, their voices threaded with unfiltered joy. They’re already making plans, talking about heading backstage, about their turn to go see Jennie, about how incredible she was tonight. Y/N should join in, should laugh along, should pretend that she belongs in this space. Pretend that being here doesn’t make her feel like she’s standing at the edge of something dangerously steep.

She should go with them.

She should walk into that room, lift her chin, and pretend that time hasn’t twisted things between them. That she isn’t haunted by the past. That Jennie’s name doesn’t taste like nostalgia and regret every time it passes through her lips.

But the thought of it, of stepping into the same space as Jennie, of seeing her up close, of hearing her voice directed at someone else, warm and familiar, like Y/N was never a part of it, makes something in her stomach twist so violently she feels almost sick.

“I’ll stay here,” she says, forcing a smile that feels too tight, too rehearsed. “You guys go ahead.”

Irene hesitates. Wendy’s brows knit together. They don’t buy it.

“You sure?” Irene asks, already glancing toward the entrance leading backstage. “I mean, we can all—”

“I’m fine,” Y/N cuts in, light and easy, as if this is nothing. As if she isn’t unraveling at the edges just thinking about what waits on the other side of that door. She waves them off before they can argue, pasting on a look that she hopes is convincing. “Really. Go.”

They exchange a look, clearly unconvinced, but eventually, they relent.

Y/N watches them disappear into the crowd, their excitement carrying them forward. She waits, stomach tight, pulse steady and controlled. She keeps her posture relaxed, keeps her gaze focused on the swirl of bodies moving around the lounge, keeps herself still just long enough to be sure they won’t turn back.

Backstage is alive with the high of the concert, the air electric with celebration. The energy is infectious, staff members exchanging high-fives, dancers still breathless and exhilarated, the lingering echoes of the final song reverberating in their bones. Jennie should be basking in it, soaking in the afterglow of another unforgettable night.

“Y/N was here.” Rosé’s voice is quiet, almost careful, but it cuts through the noise like a blade.

Jennie freezes.

The world around her distorts, the sounds, the movement, everything suddenly muffled as if she’s been thrown underwater. Her pulse slams against her ribs, erratic and unsteady.

The words take a moment to register, but when they do, they land like a punch to the gut.

“What?” The word barely makes it past her lips.

Rosé looks at her, gaze searching, cautious. “She was here,” she repeats, voice gentle but firm, as if she already knows the impact this is about to have. “I saw her at the lounge. She didn’t come backstage, though. I think she left.”

Left.

Jennie swallows hard, but her throat is suddenly dry, the weight in her chest pressing down with something sharp, something almost unbearable. Y/N was here. She was here, in the same crowd, in the same space, breathing the same air. And she left.

Y/N left.

Jennie doesn’t remember making the decision to move. One second, she’s standing there, frozen, heart stuttering in her chest. Next, she’s pushing past people, slipping through the sea of bodies with single minded determination. Someone calls her name, congratulatory and bright, but she barely hears it.

There are things she’s supposed to do, press photos, a post-show debrief, a room full of people waiting to celebrate. But none of it matters.

She doesn’t care. She needs to know.

Her body moves on instinct, urgency propelling her forward, past the dressing rooms, past the equipment cases, past the dimly lit hallways that stretch toward the exit. Every step feels too slow, every second a widening gap between her and the answer she’s chasing.

She doesn’t stop to think. Doesn’t stop to consider what she’ll say, what she’ll do, if she even has the right.

She just runs.

The hallway is quiet.

Not the comforting kind of quiet, the kind that settles gently, that allows space to breathe. No, this quiet is sharp, heavy, pressing against Y/N’s skin like an unseen force, wrapping around her throat, making each breath feel just a little too shallow. The muffled hum of the arena lingers somewhere in the distance, but here, in this dimly lit corridor stretching toward the exit, there is nothing but the sound of her own footsteps.

She moves quickly, purposefully. One step, then another. Just a little further. She tells herself she won’t look back.

She almost makes it.

"And after all this time, you can’t even come say hi to me?"

The voice slices through the silence, smooth but edged, laced with something unmistakable, hurt, disbelief, something dangerously close to anger.

Y/N stops.

Her breath stutters, chest tightening as if invisible hands have reached inside, curling around her ribs. Her fingers twitch at her sides, a reflex, a tell.

Slowly, because she knows she has no choice, she turns.

Jennie stands a few feet away, still in her stage outfit, the remnants of performance clinging to her in the form of sweat-dampened hair and the subtle rise and fall of her breath. The stage lights may be gone, but they might as well still be shining on her, because she looks stunning, untouchable, every inch the Jennie Kim the world adores.

But Y/N doesn’t see the idol.

She sees the girl beneath it, the one whose eyes burn, dark and deep and brimming with something unspoken. The weight of that gaze settles over her like a storm, pressing against every carefully constructed barrier, seeping into the cracks she thought she had long since sealed shut.

The air between them is thick, charged, unstable. Years of silence, of distance, of unfinished conversations stretch out between them, coiling tight like a wire ready to snap.

Y/N swallows hard. Forces her spine to stay straight, her face unreadable. Tells herself to stay composed, to keep the past buried where it belongs.

But Jennie isn’t letting this go.

Not this time.

Y/N exhales sharply, pressing her nails into her palms as if the dull sting can ground her, keep her steady against the storm building in front of her. She forces herself to meet Jennie’s eyes, even as every instinct screams at her to look away.

"What do you want me to say?" she finally mutters, voice tight, brittle.

Jennie laughs, but there’s no warmth in it, just something hollow, something sharp enough to cut. "Maybe start with why you even came," she says, tilting her head, her expression unreadable. "If you were just going to leave again, why bother?"

"It was a mistake," Y/N blurts out, too quickly, too defensive. She hears it the moment it leaves her lips, the way it rings false, and from the flicker in Jennie’s gaze, she knows Jennie hears it too.

Jennie’s jaw tightens. "Right," she echoes, voice quieter now, but somehow heavier. "A mistake."

The word lingers between them, bitter and unforgiving.

Jennie shakes her head, her jaw tightening as something dark flickers across her face. “You always find a way to leave,” she says, her voice steady, but there’s something raw beneath it, something that cracks at the edges. “You show up just long enough to remind me you’re still out there, and then you disappear again like none of it ever mattered.”

Y/N flinches.

Because it’s not fair, but it’s not wrong either.

"It’s not like that," she says, but even she can hear the weakness in her own voice.

"Then tell me what it’s like," Jennie presses, stepping closer. The hallway feels smaller now, suffocating, as if the walls themselves are caving in. "Because from where I’m standing, it looks a hell of a lot like running away."

Silence.

Y/N’s breath shudders out of her. "I didn’t—"

"Coward."

The word is soft, almost a whisper. But it cuts deeper than any scream ever could.

Y/N’s chest tightens, a fresh wave of something painful curling in her stomach. She should leave. She should end this before it spirals into something neither of them can take back.

Jennie’s gaze shifts, just barely, something unreadable flickering in the depths of her eyes. And when she speaks again, her voice, her voice is different. Softer. Frayed at the edges, laced with something dangerously close to breaking.

"Do you know why none of my relationships ever worked out?"

Y/N doesn’t answer. She doesn’t think she can.

Jennie exhales sharply, shaking her head like she hates herself for saying it, like she already knows it’s too much, too late.

"Because none of them were you."

Y/N stops breathing.

Jennie lets out a quiet, shaky laugh, one that barely conceals the weight of the words that just shattered the last of the distance between them. "You’re my first love, Y/N. The one that still lingers in my heart. The one I never really let go of." Her voice wavers, but she doesn’t stop. 

She can’t.

"Every time I tried, I just ended up leaving them. Because they weren’t you."

The confession settles between them like shattered glass, too sharp to step over, too painful to ignore.

Y/N’s throat closes, something clawing its way up her chest, something she doesn’t know how to contain.

Because this? This is what she always feared. This is what she never wanted to hear. Because there is no fixing this.

And they both know it.

Jennie isn’t done though.

She takes a step forward, and suddenly, the air shifts, crackling with something volatile, something just waiting to combust.

"You don’t even care, do you?" Jennie’s voice trembles, but not with sadness, this is something else. Something furious. "You stand there, acting like this is nothing to you. Like you didn’t just rip open a wound I’ve spent years trying to close."

Y/N swallows, but the lump in her throat refuses to go down. "I never wanted—"

"Don’t," Jennie cuts in, eyes burning. "Don’t tell me you never wanted to hurt me. You knew you would. You always knew. And you still left."

Y/N flinches, but Jennie presses on, the words tumbling out now, reckless and unrestrained. "Do you even feel anything, Y/N? Do you even care that I spent years wondering what the hell I did wrong? Why nothing was enough for you to stay?"

"Jennie"

"Do you know what it’s like to love someone who won’t even look at you?" Jennie’s voice breaks, but she doesn’t stop. She’s too far gone now. "To spend years convincing yourself they were just a dream, just a stupid, reckless mistake you were never meant to have?"

Y/N’s breath shudders out of her.

Because she does know. She knows all of it. She just never let herself say it.

"I looked at you," Y/N says, voice barely above a whisper. "More than you ever knew."

Jennie lets out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. "Right. And that’s supposed to mean something now? After everything?"

Y/N exhales, shaking her head. "I didn’t know how to stay."

Jennie’s eyes darken, disbelief flashing across her face, her frustration spilling over, unchecked. “Didn’t know how?” Her voice is sharp, cutting through the space between them like a blade. “That’s bullshit. You knew how to leave. You knew how to disappear. You just never tried to stay.”

She takes a step closer, the weight of years pressing down on every word. “We could’ve found a way. We could’ve figured it out, been together without them knowing. But you never even gave us a chance.”

Y/N clenches her jaw, her own frustration rising to the surface, raw and messy. "You think it was easy for me?"

"You made it look easy," Jennie spits back, arms crossing over her chest, a poor shield for the way she’s unraveling. "You walked away like I was nothing. And now what? You show up after all these years and act like you’re some tragic ghost, like we’re just unfinished business and not a fucking disaster you caused?"

Silence.

Heavy. Unforgiving.

Y/N inhales sharply, hands shaking at her sides. She could say something cruel. She could end this right here, throw up every wall she’s spent years building. But none of that would be true.

Jennie exhales, some of the fight leaving her, but none of the fire. "Would you have stayed if I asked you to?"

The words cut through the tension, raw and unguarded.

For a second, Y/N almost lets herself lie. She almost reaches for something soft, something that could make this hurt less.

But there’s only one truth left to give.

"You did."

Jennie goes still. Her lips part slightly, like she wants to argue, like she needs to, but the answer is already there, carved into the silence between them.

She had asked and Y/N still left.

Jennie blinks, and for the first time since this confrontation started, the fight drains out of her. She looks at Y/N like she’s seeing her for the last time.

Maybe she is.

The silence between them is suffocating. Final. Jennie doesn’t stop her this time. Maybe she’s too tired. Maybe she finally understands that Y/N won’t stay.

This time, she doesn’t even ask her to.

Y/N walks away, and Jennie doesn’t watch her go. She just stands there, rooted in place, listening to the quiet click of the door shutting behind Y/N, the finality of it settling into her bones like an ache she’s long since learned to live with.

The gift bags sit untouched in the corner of Jennie’s house, an afterthought amid the soft glow of the dimmed lights and the quiet hum of the city beyond her windows.

The night stretches on, heavy and unrelenting, pressing into the spaces between her ribs, curling around the edges of her exhaustion. The adrenaline that had once surged through her veins, keeping her upright, keeping her moving, has long since faded. The roar of the crowd, the flashing stage lights, the euphoria of performing, it’s all nothing more than a distant echo now, swallowed by the vast, suffocating silence that fills the room.

And yet, despite the quiet, despite the stillness, something lingers, something she can’t shake. A weight in her chest, a dull ache that refuses to ease, a ghost of something she thought she had buried years ago.

She tells herself it’s nothing. That she’s just tired, that the concert drained her, that the remnants of the night are clinging to her skin like dust. She tells herself she won’t look inside the bags, that there’s nothing in it worth her attention, nothing worth losing sleep over. Just gifts. Just the usual things. Just meaningless tokens of appreciation, wrapped up in pretty paper and tied with silk ribbons.

And yet.

The hours drag on, the stillness stretching thin, fragile. She remains on the couch, motionless, her mind a battlefield of warring impulses. She shouldn’t care. She shouldn’t want to look. But the longer she sits there, the harder it becomes to ignore the way her gaze keeps drifting to that corner, to the forgotten bags sitting patiently in the shadows, waiting.

Eventually, she exhales, a slow, quiet surrender, and reaches for it.

Her fingers brush over the smooth edges, slipping past expensive perfumes, delicate jewelry, handwritten notes from friends who adore her. Everything feels distant, impersonal, nothing more than what she expected. 

But then. Something different.

Not the weight of a designer box or the crispness of a formal letter. Something softer, thinner. Her brows knit together as her hand moves instinctively, fingers finding the texture of old paper tucked between folds of tissue. She freezes.

A thin envelope, barely noticeable, buried beneath the rest.

Her breath catches in her throat.

The handwriting, she recognizes it instantly.

A sharp, involuntary inhale.

Her chest tightens, her grip faltering as a tremor runs through her fingers. It feels impossible, like some cruel trick of the universe, like a fragment of the past has broken through time and landed in her hands. 

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just stares down at the letters scrawled across the front, her pulse pounding so loudly that it drowns out everything else. And for a long moment, she doesn’t dare touch it. Because she knows. She knows what this is. Knows who it’s from.

And she knows that whatever’s inside will change everything.

A wound that had never quite closed threatens to split open all over again. She tells herself to put it down, to forget she ever saw it, to leave it buried in the past where it belongs. But her body betrays her.

Her fingers tighten around the edges.

And, against every ounce of self-preservation left in her, she unfolds the paper.

Jennie reads it once.

Then again. And again.

Her eyes trace the familiar curves of the handwriting, the ink pressed into the page by a hand she once knew better than her own. The words blur together, not because she doesn’t understand them, but because she understands them too well. They pull her under, deeper and deeper, until she’s drowning in memory, past and present colliding so violently she can no longer tell them apart.

She grips the letter tighter, as if holding it firmly enough might stop the ache rising in her chest, might keep her from unraveling completely. But it doesn’t. It only makes it worse.

Because this letter, it’s not just words on a page. It’s Y/N. It’s every unspoken conversation, every almost, every what if. It’s the version of them that never got the chance to exist, a piece of a love that never truly ended, just stretched thin over the years, frayed at the edges but never severed.

Her vision blurs, but one sentence stands out through the haze, clear and sharp as a blade. The last one.

"We will make up, make things right when we get older."

A promise. A belief that there would be more time, that eventually, one day, they would find their way back to each other. That what was broken could be fixed, that the love between them could withstand the years, the distance, the choices that pulled them apart.

Jennie’s breath shudders out of her, ragged and uneven, as if her body is struggling under the weight of the truth she’s tried so hard to avoid. Her fingers tremble, the delicate edges of the letter crinkling under her grip, but she doesn’t loosen her hold. She clutches it to her chest, pressing it against her heart like it’s the only thing keeping her together, like if she holds it tightly enough, she can stop herself from falling apart completely.

Like if she holds it tightly enough, maybe, just maybe, she won’t feel the empty space Y/N left behind. Maybe it won’t hurt so much. Maybe she’ll stop waiting for a door to open that was locked long ago.

But the truth settles in her bones, heavy and unyielding. There is no making up. No fixing things. No someday.

Only this. Only a letter written in a time when they still believed in second chances.

The night outside is still, heavy with the kind of quiet that settles deep into your bones. The city is alive somewhere in the distance, but in Jennie’s apartment, there is only silence.

Only the sound of her own breathing, uneven, too fast.

She sits on the edge of her couch, shoulders hunched forward, elbows pressing into her knees, the letter clutched so tightly in her hands that the paper is starting to curl beneath her fingers. The ink has smudged slightly from the heat of her grip, but it doesn’t matter. The words are already burned into her mind, impossible to forget.

A bitter laugh bubbles up in her throat, but it dies before it can escape.

Older was supposed to mean a future. A someday. A second chance waiting on the other side of all the things that had once stood between them. But the years had passed, the world had kept spinning, and Y/N had never come back.

Jennie had spent so long trying to forget, burying the ache beneath sold out shows, flashing cameras, voices calling her name. She had told herself it didn’t matter anymore, that some things are meant to be left behind.

But now, here it is. Unfolded in her hands. A wound torn back open, and Y/N is gone. Again.

Jennie exhales sharply, chest tightening as she stares down at the letter like it might suddenly rewrite itself, like it might change into something she can handle. But it doesn’t.

She feels sick.

Not because of what Y/N wrote. But because Y/N never said it. Never gave her a chance to fight. Never told her the truth when it mattered, when it could’ve changed things. She had just… left.

Like she always did.

Jennie squeezes her eyes shut, jaw locking, trying to breathe through the frustration clawing at her ribs. It doesn’t work. The silence is suffocating, pressing in on her, thick with all the words Y/N never said.

Then, before she can stop herself, before she can think, she grabs her phone. Her fingers move on instinct, opening her contacts, scrolling fast. She already knows what she’s looking for, who she’s looking for. But the moment she reaches the end of the list, her stomach drops.

Y/N’s name isn’t there.

Of course, it isn’t.

Jennie swallows against the lump in her throat, gripping her phone tighter. It shouldn’t surprise her, not after all these years. But somehow, it does. Somehow, the reality of it, the fact that Y/N is so far removed from her life that she doesn’t even have her number anymore, hits harder than she expects.

Her heart pounds in her ears, too loud, too much. She stares at her screen, fingers hesitating over the empty space, over nothing.

Then her jaw clenches.

Fine. There’s another way.

She flicks back to her contacts with renewed purpose, scrolling with intent. She stops at one name, barely even registers the hesitation before she presses call.

The line rings once.

Twice.

A rustling sound, then a groggy voice, hoarse with sleep, thick with confusion. “...Hello?”

Jennie doesn’t waste time. “Irene.” Her voice is sharp, controlled, but there’s a demand woven into it. A raw edge she can’t soften. “Give me Y/N’s address.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, Irene sighs, and Jennie can already hear the exhaustion in it. “Jennie, it’s late.”

“I don’t care.” She’s already standing, already grabbing her keys, yanking a hoodie over her head with jerky, impatient movements. She feels like she might combust if she stays still. “You knew, didn’t you? About the letter.”

Another pause. Irene doesn’t confirm it, but she doesn’t deny it either. That’s all Jennie needs to know.

She exhales harshly, fingers tightening around her phone. “Then you know I need to see her.”

A long silence stretches between them. Jennie waits, her pulse drumming against her ribs.

Then, finally, Irene speaks. Her voice is careful, slow. Like she’s bracing herself for what might happen next.

She gives Jennie the address, and Jennie doesn’t thank her. She doesn’t even say goodbye. She’s already moving, already shoving her feet into her shoes, already reaching for the door.

Outside, the city waits. But Jennie isn’t thinking about the streets stretching ahead of her, or the distance between them.

She’s only thinking about one thing.

This time, Y/N doesn’t get to run. This time, Jennie won’t let her.

Y/N stands by the window, arms wrapped around herself, staring out at the endless sprawl of the city. The lights shimmer below, stretching far beyond what her eyes can take in, a thousand lives moving at once, laughing, talking, living.

But inside this apartment, there is only silence.

She should feel lighter. Should feel relief. The letter is gone now, sitting in the hands it was meant for. The weight of it, the words she never had the courage to say out loud, should have lifted.

But it hasn’t.

If anything, it’s heavier now, sinking deep into her chest, pressing against her ribs like something clawing to get out. Because no matter how many times she tells herself she did the right thing, that she walked away so Jennie wouldn’t have to, so Jennie could move on, so Jennie could hate her and finally be free of this. It still feels like she’s suffocating.

Her gaze flickers toward the table, where her phone sits untouched, the screen dark. She hasn’t checked it in hours.

She could. She could pick it up, unlock it, see if there’s a message, a missed call, something.

But she doesn’t.

Maybe because she already knows the truth. That there won’t be anything there. That this is done. Or maybe, just maybe, because she’s afraid that there will be something.

That Jennie won’t let her go so easily.

She exhales sharply and turns away from the window, blinking against the burn in her eyes. Enough. She made her choice. She has to live with it.

Her feet move slowly, dragging across the wooden floor, each step heavier than the last. She is so, so tired.

But the night doesn’t stay silent for long.

The sharp, unrelenting knocks cut through the silence, sending a jolt straight down Y/N’s spine. The sound echoes through the apartment, rattling through the stillness, too loud, too sudden, too desperate.

She freezes.

The air shifts, thickens, pressing in on her from all sides. The walls feel smaller, the floor unsteady beneath her feet. Her heart lurches against her ribs, hammering so hard she can hear it in her ears, a frantic, uneven rhythm.

Another knock, louder this time, harder, shaking the door on its hinges. There is no hesitation in it, no patience left.

Her breath catches. She doesn’t need to check. Doesn’t need to move, doesn’t even need to think. She already knows who it is.

The knocking comes again, forceful, demanding, a silent refusal to be ignored.

And that’s when she hears it.  A voice. 

Low. Rough. Angry.

“Y/N.”

Not a question. Not a plea.

A demand.

Her breath catches, her fingers twitching at her sides. She could pretend she isn’t here. Let Jennie stand outside, let her knock until she gets tired, let this moment slip away like all the others.

But she knows Jennie. Jennie doesn’t let things go.

The space between them feels thin, like something fragile holding back the inevitable.

Y/N forces herself forward, each step slow, uncertain, the air growing heavier the closer she gets to the door. Her fingers wrap around the handle, tight, too tight. She hesitates. Just for a second.

Just long enough to wonder if she’s making another mistake.

She pulls it open, and there she is. Standing in the dim glow of the hallway, hoodie rumpled, hair messy, chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. Her hands are clenched at her sides. Her eyes are dark, stormy, burning. But it’s not just anger. 

It’s betrayal. It’s hurt. It’s something else, something deeper, something breaking wide open right in front of Y/N’s eyes.

Jennie swallows hard, her jaw tight, the muscles in her throat working like she’s trying to hold something back. Her breath is sharp, her hands shaking where they curl into fists.

For a long, stretched moment, neither of them speak. The air crackles, charged with everything unsaid, with every word that was written in ink instead of spoken aloud.

Jennie exhales, sharp and unsteady.

“Say it to my face.”

A challenge.

Jennie opens the cabinet below the sink and finds the pipe creating a puddle of water. She had contacted the landlord about the issue, but he was no help. All he said was to call a plumber to have them fix it, and when she told her husband about it, he adamantly denied having a plumber over. 

Her husband—the most insecure man on Earth—did not want a stranger, especially another man, inside their home. Jennie argued with him that either he fixes it or someone else does. The whole debate ended in an argument that resulted in him sleeping on the couch. 

Jennie stomps over to the dining table where her husband sits, eating the breakfast she had cooked for him. He doesn’t acknowledge her until his phone is ripped out of his hands. 

“What now, Jennie?” He huffs out an annoyed breath.

“Mino, we need to get the damn sink fixed! It’s been leaking for the past three days, and super glue won’t fix it!” 

“It’s what the internet said.” Mino shrugs his shoulders like he has no fault in it.

“The internet is not reliable!” Jennie shouts.

“Fine, if you don’t want me to fix shit around here, call someone!”

“I’ve tried but you don’t want a man to come in here!”

“He could do something to you while I’m gone!” 

“The plumber is just going to fix the stupid pipe! And stop being so insecure! If you’re here while a plumber is here, he won’t do anything to me.” 

Mino sighs as he throws his fork on the plate. He removes the napkin from his lap and wipes his mouth clean. “I’m going to be late for work.” He tosses the dirty napkin onto the plate and retrieves his phone from Jennie’s hand. 

“Why do you always do this?” 

“Do what?” 

“When we get into arguments, you always run away! You never want to finish it. Why do you keep running away from your problems?” Jennie accuses. 

Shaking his head, Mino goes to the coat rack and grabs his jacket. “I’ll see you later. I might not come home for dinner, so don’t wait up.” 

“What about the leaking faucet?!” 

“Fix it yourself.” 

The door slams shut. 

Their marriage has been downhill lately. The first couple of years were great. They were young, energetic, and crazy in love. The lovebirds first met in middle school. Then, they became high school sweethearts. They even attended the same college, and shortly after, they tied the knot. 

Jennie has been wanting to take it to the next level by wanting children. Mino does want kids, but not right now. He’s been saying that for the past three years. He wants to focus on his career more than ever. He claims that he needs to earn enough money to maintain kids because raising one in this economy is expensive. There’s a reason why they moved into this house: so they could have more space to expand their family. But there hasn’t been any progress. 

Nowadays, it feels like a prison.

It feels like living with a stranger. The house is quiet and cold. Their sex life isn’t fun anymore. She can’t remember the last time she wore her wedding ring. 

Jennie doesn’t know where it all went wrong. 

She can mull over her failed marriage later. Right now, she needs to fix this damn faucet.

—

[9:20 am]

Since her landlord is no hope, Jennie takes it upon herself and goes online to research the best plumbing services in the area. She reads every positive review and terrible complaint to see which company appeals to her. Many of them provide excellent service and get the job done, with hardly any negative feedback except for those complaining about the plumbers taking too much time. She rolls her eyes at that. Not everything can be done in the blink of an eye, as much as she wants it to. 

Jennie spins the wheel and selects a random plumbing company. This one seems trustworthy, and it has a lot of five-star reviews with the best customer satisfaction. She dials their phone number and hears the call ring for a couple of beats before they pick up on the spot.

“Hello! Thank you for calling [L/N]’s Elite Plumbers. How may I help you?” 

“Um, hi.” Jennie quickly clears her throat. “I have a leaking pipe in my kitchen sink. It’s been like this for the past few days. Can you send someone over to fix it?” 

“Yes, of course! Is it urgent? Or would you like to set the appointment for another day?” 

“It would be great if you could come by later today.” 

“Perfect. Just tell me your location, and I’ll send one of my employees over shortly.” 

“That’s perfect, thank you.” 

“You’re very welcome! It’s a pleasure helping you.” 

Before she hangs up, Jennie provides them the house’s address and necessary information. 

She has time to clean the house and make it look presentable before the plumber arrives. 

Soon enough, the doorbell rings. 

That must be the plumber… 

When she opened the door, she expected a middle-aged man with a big gut and a thick beard. 

However, she meets one of the prettiest women she has ever seen. The first thing she notices are her [e/c] eyes.

“Hello, ma’am,” the woman greets in a low, husky voice.

Jennie can only blink her eyes in silence. The woman is far younger and prettier than she had expected. Her [h/c] hair is tied back in a low ponytail, and her straight bangs frame her face, shadowed by the baseball cap. She wears a fitted white t-shirt and dark-washed, worn jeans. A utility belt is strapped to her hips, and a heavy toolbox is held by her slender hand. 

And good lord, she is tall. 

Taller than her husband. 

She’s not the maintenance person, is she? 

She’s too pretty for this job. 

“My boss told me you had a broken faucet,” she informs. The deep timbre of her voice sends shivers down Jennie’s spine. Her [e/c] eyes narrow at the shorter woman for her long silence. “You’re Kim Jennie, right?”

No way. 

Jennie clears her throat and snaps herself out of a daze before she creeps out the pretty plumber with her shameless ogling. “Uh, hello—yes, I am. Um, please come in,” she stammers, suddenly at a loss for coherent words. She steps aside and allows the [h/c]-haired woman to enter her home. 

The tall plumber follows the brunette to the kitchen while looking around the modern and sleek decor of the living room.

“What’s your name?” Jennie asks. 

“[Y/N] [L/N].” 

In the kitchen, Jennie opens the cabinet where the culprit hides under the sink. “I’m not sure the exact problem that caused it. My husband tried fixing it with tape and super glue, but obviously, he’s an idiot,” she explains with a roll of her eyes. 

[Y/N] chuckles as she sets the toolbox on the ground and kneels down to inspect the problem more closely. Water drips from the gaps formed in the pipe, which isn’t too much of a hassle to fix. “I can do it.” 

When she looks up at Jennie, the brunette hitches her breath at the sudden position. Her heart skips a beat at the curious puppy eyes as her cheeks ablaze in furious red, and she has to look away before the plumber questions it.

“Y-You can start whenever you feel like it,” Jennie says, walking towards the breakfast bar. “I’ll be here in case you have any questions. I’ll be doing stuff on my laptop.”  

[Y/N] hums as she twists the baseball cap around so the bill won’t get in the way of her work. 

Jennie mindlessly surfs through the internet, all while a certain woman occupies her thoughts. She steals occasional peaks at the plumber over the edge of her laptop, studying how her long arms flex as they twist and turn the bolts on the pipe. She wishes to run her palms across the contours of her lean muscles and feel the bulging veins on her hands. 

“Would you like anything to drink?” Jennie asks to distract her mind from turning something so nonchalant into something more dirty. 

“Um, water is okay, please.” 

Jennie grabs a cool water bottle from the fridge and hands it to the plumber, who takes it and flashes her a soft smile of gratitude. She stares back at [Y/N]’s face, which is lightly sweaty. And she is glowing, thanks to the sun ray from the living room window. 

Her face is too pretty to not be on the cover of Vogue. 

What the hell is she doing wasting that face card in a plumbing company?

She would love to have the honor to sit on her—

“So, uh… how long have you been doing this?” Jennie asks, aiming to make small talk to fill the silence. 

“A year,” [Y/N] replies, sparing a glance at the brunette over her shoulder before she opens the water bottle and takes large gulps of it. 

Jennie’s eyes are transfixed on [Y/N]’s throat bobbing as she drinks water. “Uh, where… where are you from? I’ve noticed you pronounce some words too different.” 

“I’m originally from [place],” [Y/N] replies after wiping her mouth. “I moved here last year to help my father with his business. He owns the plumbing service company.” 

“Do you have other dreams?”

“No. I’m only good for fixing pipes and providing other services,” [Y/N] answers with a smile. 

Other services?

What does she mean by that?

Ugh, don’t overthink it, Jennie. You horny motherfucker.

Jennie swallows the saliva pooling in her mouth and clears her throat. “I’d assume you’d speak fluent Korean.” 

[Y/N] hums in thought as she removes the broken pipe.

“Not exactly. My father wants me to practice, so he hired me as an apprentice to go to people’s houses and speak to them in Korean only.” 

“Do you like your job?”

“It’s all I know what to do.” 

Uh, no?

You can definitely be a full-time model.

About ten minutes later, [Y/N] pulls out from under the sink and tosses her tools in the box. She stands up and turns on the faucet to ensure no water leaks through the pipe. Once it’s cleared, she closes the cabinets and grabs her toolbox. 

“There you go, Miss Kim. It should work.”

“Already?” Jennie questions, failing to mask her dejection as she sees the plumber preparing to leave.

Luckily, [Y/N] doesn’t catch on as she fixes her baseball cap and heads toward the front door. “It wasn’t going to take long.“

Jennie follows after her to the door. “Thank you for fixing it. I really appreciate you taking the time to come over here on short notice,” she says. 

“No problem.” 

“How much do I pay you?”

“You’ll get a bill in the mail later from the company.” [Y/N] bows her head. “If you have any more problems, please contact the company. Thank you.” 

Oh, I will. 

Jennie bids her farewell as she watches the plumber jump in the white van with the company’s logo plastered on the side of it. The van drives down the street, and Jennie is left with a master plan brewing in her head. 

—

Jennie has never paid attention to how many problems her house had regarding pipes and electricity. The faucet in the kitchen was the main problem, but now that was fixed, Jennie tried to find other issues as an excuse to bring the plumber back.

She went on a hunt. 

And boy, did she find plenty. 

For starters, summer is around the corner, which means they will be using the air conditioner to keep the house cool. She turned it on briefly to see how cold the air could get. Not as cold as she wanted, and the damn thing would make weird noises like it was going to explode. 

So, there’s one. 

Another issue was the shower’s water pressure. It’s a little picky of her because it works just fine, but not at the level she wants. By the time she would finish showering, the water would take forever to drain. 

Two for two. 

It just so happens that the refrigerator keeps shutting down. 

Going for three. 

Finally, the last one was the washing machine. It’s not entirely dysfunctional, but it’s on the verge of breaking down. 

Jackpot. 

There are so many maintenance requests to keep the hot plumber visiting her home while her husband is gone. 

It’s borderline dangerous for both Jennie and [Y/N]. 

For starters, Jennie can’t keep her hormones in check and wants to keep drooling over [Y/N] as she fixes her home. She’s like a cat in heat, playing with her prey before she goes in for the kill. Her marriage is already down the road for divorce, so why not have a little fun? 

But then it has her thinking about whether [Y/N] is comfortable with being ogled like some piece of meat. Jennie has never had a thought of flirting with an employee and throwing suggestive comments here and there. She really hopes that [Y/N] won’t send another plumber in her place if she does get uncomfortable. 

The last thing she wants is to be sued for sexual harassment and a restraining order on her records. 

Oh, well. 

If she has to serve time in jail to be away from her lazy husband, then so be it. 

Or maybe [Y/N] won’t act upon it since she’s afraid of Jennie filing a complaint for unprofessional behavior and getting her fired. 

But that won’t happen. 

Unable to shake off the excitement in her bones, Jennie dials the plumbing company’s phone number again. After two rings, someone picks up and Jennie informs them about the air conditioner’s inability to cool the room. The employee lets her know that their plumber will be on their way.

Jennie prays to whoever is up there that it’ll be the [h/c]-haired female plumber.

A few knocks on the door interrupt her daydream. 

Skipping over to the door, she looks through the peephole and sighs in relief. 

Thank the lord!

Jennie opens the door and flashes her best smile. “Hi, good to see you again.” 

“Likewise. What seems to be the problem this time, ma’am?” [Y/N] asks in her usual monotone voice. 

My sex life. 

“The shower head isn’t working properly,” Jennie replies. “And please call me ‘Jennie.’ I feel old when you call me ma’am.” 

[Y/N] nods her head. “Understood.” 

Jennie leads the plumber to the personal bathroom in her bedroom. She suddenly becomes hyperaware of how messy it is, thanks to her lazy husband’s morning routine. Dried specks of water and toothpaste cover the mirror, his shaving gel is thrown carelessly by the sink, his razor has bits of hair stuck to it, and his used towels and dirty clothes scatter the tiled floor.  

Not a good impression. 

Jennie’s face burns in embarrassment as she starts cleaning up the place to make room for the plumber. “I’m so sorry for the mess. It’s my husband. I swear I’m cleaner.” 

[Y/N] purses her lips and awkwardly nods in reassurance. “It’s fine.” 

Jennie throws the garments in the hamper and tries to clean the best she can. It won’t matter since [Y/N] isn’t here to critique her bathroom interior; she’s here to fix the drains. 

“What part of the shower head is bothering you?”

“The pressure isn’t the best, and the tub fills up too quickly. It takes forever for the water to drain.”

[Y/N] nods and opens her toolbox. “Okay. I can fix it.” 

“In the meantime, do you want water and snacks?” Jennie offers. 

“You don’t have to, but I’d appreciate it,” she replies. 

Say less. 

In the kitchen, Jennie goes through a routine of making the best snack plate for her plumber. She cuts up fruits, adds crackers and cookies, and organizes them like they’re from a five-star restaurant. When she returns to the bedroom, [Y/N] is setting out the tools she needs for this task on the sink counter. 

“I’ll leave them on the bed since I don’t think you’d want to eat in the bathroom,” Jennie says. 

[Y/N] chuckles. “Yeah, that’s fine. I’ll eat them once I’m done here.” 

“And here’s some water in case you get thirsty,” Jennie adds as she hands her a plastic bottle. 

“Thank you.” [Y/N] smiles and sets the water bottle aside. 

Jennie watches intently from the bed as the plumber works on the shower, completely oblivious to the shameless eye-fucking. [Y/N] reaches over her head to work on unscrewing the bolts on the shower head, which causes her shirt to ride up. The glorious sight of her toned stomach is exposed for Jennie to admire like a schoolgirl crushing on her. 

Imagine grinding against those…

As Jennie sparks up another conversation, she learns a lot more about the plumber in a short amount of time. [Y/N] grew up as an only child and was raised by her father. Her mother disappeared when she was barely a toddler for unknown reasons. Her father moved to South Korea, but she stayed back an extra few years in [place] since she wasn’t ready to leave her hometown. However, when there was nothing left to do there, she moved here to help her father with his plumbing company. 

Jennie tries to pry more into [Y/N]’s interests and hobbies, especially her dating life. [Y/N] claims she doesn’t have a lot of pastimes. She is normal like everyone else: she stays at home, watches some television, and sleeps. As for her love life, she says she doesn’t have time for relationships. She’s not opposed to hooking up with other people once in a while, but her job is her priority.

Bingo.

That’s all Jennie needed to know. 

She focuses exclusively on her slender hands, especially her long fingers. The muscles on her arms flex as she tightens the bolts to reattach the shower head. 

All Jennie can think about is pushing the plumber against the wall and kissing her. She wants to grab [Y/N]’s calloused hand and shove it down her pants. She wants [Y/N] to play with her pussy and cover her beautiful fingers in her slick. 

Curiously, her eyes drift down to her jeans and notice a slight bulge around the crotch area. It’s not like [Y/N] is wearing the tightest jeans ever to exist, but they’re also not too loose on her either; almost like a perfect fit. And she knows for a fact that it’s not a wrench in her pocket. 

This sick game has gotten so much better. 

[Y/N] is the key to granting her wish. 

As sick as it sounds, she’s going to become a mother one way or another, even if it involves a stranger. 

Eventually, [Y/N] finishes her task much quicker than Jennie thought. Jennie doesn’t question it when she watches [Y/N] pour some weird liquid down the bathtub and the sink drain. The plumber quickly cleans up her mess and puts her tools back in the box. 

Fun time is over…

[Y/N] leaves the bathroom and heads for the snack plate. “Miss—uh,” she clears her throat and corrects herself, “Jennie, I’m all done here. Don’t use the shower or the bathroom sink for about an hour. The liquid I used is breaking down whatever is blocking the drains.” 

“Okay.” Jennie smiles, watching her devour the snacks. 

“I know it’s inevitable, but try not to let all the hair down the drain,” [Y/N] advises as she eyes the razor on the sink. “Clean up what you can and throw them in the trash.” 

“Gotcha, thank you.” 

“You’re welcome. I hope you had a good experience.” [Y/N] bends her body forward into a bow. 

You have no idea.

[Y/N] is about to head toward the front door when the brunette calls out her name. 

“Oh, I almost forgot!” Jennie exclaims. 

[Y/N] raises her eyebrow at her.

“Do you have time? If you don’t, you can come back another day.” 

“What’s the problem?”

“My fridge—it keeps shutting down. I don’t know if it’s the electricity or the whole thing isn’t working, but I’m worried about the food. I don’t want anything to spoil if the fridge won’t keep it cool.” 

Please stay, please stay, please stay. 

[Y/N] glances at the clock on the stove and makes a quick decision. “I have time.” 

Perfect. 

Time to play chess. 

—

After that day, Jennie asked to exchange numbers with the plumber so she wouldn’t have to keep calling the company all the time, and she could have [Y/N] on speed dial. Finding no issue, [Y/N] agreed and shared contact info with the kind brunette. She’s already acquainted with Jennie, so it’s no big deal. Besides, she doesn’t want any other plumber to steal her client.

Then, [Y/N] started wondering if it was a good idea to exchange phone numbers. 

Jennie would find any minor thing to have the female plumber come to her house. She would say lights keep flickering, the kitchen drawers can’t open, the garden hose keeps spurting brown water, the oven light won’t turn on, the microwave won’t beep when the food is ready, and the television has turned into different shades of colors. 

While the excuses are silly and easily fixable, [Y/N] doesn’t find any harm. She’ll grab her toolbox, put on her baseball cap, and drive to Jennie’s house in no time. Her bank account is soaring, and she gets to spend time with the friendly brunette. 

[Y/N] doesn’t have a lot of friends here, so it’s nice to chat with Jennie to make up for the loneliness back home. A lot of her clients don’t spark conversation with her. They leave her alone so she can work in peace and kick her out once the job’s done. 

But Jennie is very kind. She’s always asking about her personal life and what she likes to do in her free time. Jennie even offers to make snacks and accompany her as [Y/N] fixes her broken home. She figures Jennie must also be lonely since her husband is always at work. She mentioned that she barely gets to go out with her friends because her husband is skeptical about them. 

[Y/N] doesn’t know a lot about her husband since Jennie hardly ever talks about him, besides the fact that he’s a ‘lazy ass motherfucker’ who prefers to be at work or drink at the nearest bar to avoid his wife. She gets the feeling that Jennie isn’t loved or appreciated as much as she wants to be. She barely knows what he looks like, as little to no picture frames hang around the house.  

Sounds like a lonely, one-sided marriage.    

At some point, she thought Jennie was flirting with her. Maybe she is, and [Y/N] is too oblivious to it. Jennie would throw some comments with innuendos here and there. Each time Jennie opened the door, her outfits became more and more revealing to the eye. But, of course, [Y/N] wouldn’t think much of it as she worked on her tasks. 

The sun is starting to make its way up the sky, and it’s already blazing the whole town. Today is supposed to be the hottest day of the summer. There’s a long list of clients who need their a/c fixed by noon, so the company has sent all their maintenance men to work. 

Jennie is lucky to be the first on that list since she had sent her request much earlier—to [Y/N], specifically. 

[Y/N] is about to raise her hand to knock on the door, but it opens before her fist can touch it. 

And it’s not Jennie. 

It’s a man in a suit just on his way out. 

“Um, hey? Who are you?” he asks, looking at her skeptically. “Wait, are you the plumber? The one that’s been fixing things?” 

The tall girl nods her head. “Yes.” 

“A woman, finally!” Mino exasperates. “In that case, I’m heading to work. I’m kinda running late. My wife is gonna be home if you have any questions, and she can pay you once you’re done.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Thanks!” Mino briskly walks past her and jumps in his car. 

So, that’s the sleazy husband. 

How did that pull Jennie?

[Y/N] shouldn’t be quick to judge. He must have a high-paying job with a good reputation. But why the hell are they living in this janky home in this part of town?

“Thank God you’re here!” 

[Y/N] faces forward again and widens her eyes at what welcomes her. 

Oh, Jesus, indeed. 

The sight before her is something [Y/N] never thought she’d be prepared for. 

Jennie looks like she had rolled out of bed and sprinted to the door without a second thought. The v-line of her tank top is low enough to show her cleavage—no bra whatsoever. She didn’t even bother to put on a pair of shorts over her black panties. A sliver of her stomach peeks through as the hem of her tank top rides up when she ties her hair back in a high ponytail. 

[Y/N] swallows hard and forces herself to rip her eyes away from her chest. “Uh, hello, Jennie. W-What seems to be the problem today?” She already knows why she’s here, but her brain is going into overdrive, forcing itself into customer service mode as she says her lines automatically. 

“It’s going to get hot later, and I want to use the a/c before the house becomes an oven, but the stupid thing won’t work. Can you fix it?” Jennie asks coyly, pouting her lips and batting her eyelashes at the plumber. 

“Uh-huh… I-I mean—” [Y/N] snaps out of her daze and puts on her nonchalant facade. “Yeah, okay. I’ll get to work.” 

That’s the first time she has ever heard [Y/N] stutter. 

It’s cute. 

She wants to hear [Y/N] become flustered and a whiny mess. 

Later, Jen. 

Foreplay first. 

Jennie brings her to the living room’s window, where the air conditioner is struggling to blow air while leaking at the same time. [Y/N] grabs the remote and pushes some buttons, but the noises sound even worse. 

“You’re overworking the system. You set the temperature too low, and it’s too hot outside, which overwhelms the machine,” [Y/N] explains in her professional voice. “You also need to turn it off once in a while so it doesn’t overheat. Plus, the power in your house will go out if it’s being used too much.” 

Jennie nods along, even though she doesn’t know what the hell she is talking about. 

“I’ll clean up here and fix the AC quickly.” 

Jennie rakes her eyes over the plumber and chews on her bottom lip, liking what she sees. Since it’s hot today, [Y/N] is wearing a loose muscle tee tucked in her jean shorts. Her long legs look gorgeous and definitely model-like. She can picture this (not so) little loser strutting down the runways, captivating the whole world into the palm of her hand. 

Anyways, before her mind can go off the rails, she recomposes herself and plasters a warm smile. “You want some snacks and water?” Jennie asks like she always does. 

“I’d appreciate it, thank you.” [Y/N] nods her head and proceeds to work on the AC.

Before she does that, Jennie goes to the bedroom to touch up on her appearance. 

It’s been hot all week, so she’s been wearing little to no clothing. Their a/c broke down last night, engulfing them in an overwhelming, thick blanket of humidity. It almost drove Jennie insane to the point she was about to give a quick call to [Y/N] at two in the morning, but she held back. 

Jennie adds some makeup to make herself look more presentable and eye-catching. She decides to her hair down again and tousles it to bring out its volume. Even though it’s very hot, the AC will turn on again soon. She looks at her stomach and unconsciously holds it, imagining how a pregnancy belly would look on her. 

Soon, Jennie. 

You’ll have it soon…

She turns her body in the mirror and approves of her ass looking great in these panties. 

Is it bad to say that she bought these with [Y/N] in mind? 

Seriously, she went online shopping and added a whole new collection to her closet in hopes of seducing the younger girl. Every time the plumber visited, she would wear her clothes and ask for her opinions. [Y/N] would compliment them and all, but they weren’t enough to make her jump Jennie’s bones. 

Those plans failed, as expected. 

It also doesn’t help that her husband has been begging for sex, but she hasn’t been in the mood for it—with him, more specifically. 

Jennie retrieves a plate of snacks and a cool water bottle for the maintenance woman. “How’s it going?” she asks after joining the scene by the window.

“Doing alright,” [Y/N] answers quietly without bothering to turn her head like she always does when Jennie directs a question at her. 

“When do you think this will be done?”

“Um, hopefully in less than an hour.”

“It’s okay. I don’t want to rush you, so take your time. After all, I enjoy your company,” Jennie flirts as her voice drops low and sultry, causing the younger girl to stiffen. She giggles when she notices [Y/N]’s hands shake and the tip of her ears burn red. That lets her know she’s having a great effect on her. 

[Y/N] swallows hard and bobs her head. “Uh, thank you…” 

[Y/N] fixes the air conditioner in silence while Jennie sits by the couch in a posture that makes her gaze linger. She quickly shakes her head and redirects her concentration on the window unit. Jennie catches a bead of sweat dripping down the slope of [Y/N]’s neck, and she oh so badly wants to lick it away. 

God, she needs to fuck this plumber today. 

She has been pent up all week that she’s desperate for a release.

Not just an orgasm but some mind-blowing sex, too. 

Eventually, [Y/N] grabs the remote and presses the button. The air conditioner doesn’t make a sound of protest as it starts to blow refreshing cool air. The living room starts to cool down, but the heat in Jennie’s body is still simmering. 

“All good, Jennie,” [Y/N] says, looking everywhere but in Jennie’s direction. “Remember what I told you?”

“Yeah, yeah. How about you take a break for a minute? You’ve been working so hard,” Jennie pleads, prancing over to the taller girl. “Do you have somewhere to be?”

[Y/N] has to go to other clients’ homes to fix their ACs, but she’s pretty sure her coworkers have it under control. “Not necessarily,” she mutters, scratching her warm cheek. 

“Then, sit.” Jennie grabs [Y/N]’s hand and pulls her toward the couch. She spins her around and pushes her down to sit by her shoulders. She’s being assertive and needy, but she could care less. “Stay here. I’ll get you more snacks.” 

[Y/N] obliges and stays put like an obedient dog, her fingers nervously playing with each other. She glances toward the kitchen and finds Jennie at the fridge, bending down and providing an unforgettable view of her ass. Gulping, [Y/N] hastily looks away and focuses on her bouncing knee instead. The cold air in the room is doing nothing to calm down the rising heat in her core. 

Jennie returns with another bottle of water and a second plate full of snacks. She sets them on the coffee table and plops down right next to [Y/N].

So close that she can smell her Chanel perfume. 

Clearing her throat, [Y/N] grabs the water and twists the cap open. Some of it spills on her lap from how hard she squeezes the plastic bottle. Jennie notices her hand trembling as [Y/N] drinks the water. 

She’s making her nervous. 

Good.

“I-It’s getting cold here. Don’t you… don’t you want to, uh… put more clothes on?” [Y/N] stammers, setting the water bottle back on the coffee table. She grabs a couple of snacks to throw into her mouth. 

“Why would I?” Jennie inquires, a bit too stern than she had intended. “It’s my house.” 

[Y/N] exhales a shaky breath. “Right, s-sorry. I didn’t mean to sound rude...” 

“It’s okay, baby.”

As the pet name slips from her mouth, [Y/N] crosses one leg over the other and continuously scratches at a spot behind her ear.

“How are you feeling, [Y/N]?” 

“Hot…” [Y/N] mumbles absentmindedly, and then she perks her head up in surprise. “I-I mean, it’s hot in here. Actually, no. It was hot, but it’s cold now. My body’s still getting used to the temperature.” 

Jennie giggles uncontrollably at her nervous rambling. She puts her hand on [Y/N]’s bare knee and rubs her thumb along her skin, which has [Y/N] zeroing her gaze on it. “Calm down. I’m not gonna bite you.” 

Unless you want me to. 

Jennie scoots closer until their shoulders touch, and she can hear [Y/N] struggling to steady her heavy breaths. She slowly trails her long nails over [Y/N]’s thigh but doesn’t go too far as she brings them back down her knee. She can feel her skin rise, and it’s definitely not from the cold air.

“Are you uncomfortable with me, [Y/N]?” Jennie gradually leans into her space. 

[Y/N] gulps hard. “…no.” 

Good, good. 

This is progressing just how Jennie expected it to. 

“Do you think I’m attractive?” 

“You are pretty, yes.” 

Jennie grabs her hand and places it on her own thigh, a little too close to her ass. [Y/N] hitches her breath and bites on her tongue. “Don’t be shy. You can touch me.” 

“O-Okay…”

Jennie drags her finger from [Y/N]’s jawline down to her chin, only to have her grab it and force [Y/N] to face her. But her [e/c] eyes are directed somewhere else, still intimidated to meet the brunette’s gaze.

“Look at me,” Jennie demands in a soft whisper. 

“Ma’am, you’re married.”

She grips the back of [Y/N]’s neck and leans in until the tip of their noses are centimeters apart. “I don’t care. And I told you to stop calling me that, didn’t I?” Jennie reprimands with an arched brow, digging her nails into the nape. A twisted grin quirks her lips when [Y/N] tries to silence her little whimper of pain. 

“I-I’m sorry…” [Y/N] stammers, her eyes snapping forward to finally connect with Jennie’s fiery feline eyes. 

“There we go, puppy,” Jennie praises in delight. 

[Y/N] eases a little bit as the older woman softens her hold. 

“Can I kiss you?” Jennie asks, tucking a loose strand of [h/c] hair behind her ear. 

Her [e/c] eyes flit down to her glossy, plump lips, puffs of hot air slipping past the seam. [Y/N] nibbles on the inside of her mouth, eager to find out what Jennie tastes like and how it feels.  

“A-Are you sure? What about your husband?”

“I’ve told you that I don’t give a fuck about him anymore.” 

“But he—”

“He won’t be home until five, and since it’s Friday, he’ll spend it at the bar.” 

The reassurance somewhat calms [Y/N]’s nerves, yet she is still scared to make a move. 

“I-I don’t want to… want to, umm… risk my—” 

“You don’t want to lose your job?” Jennie finishes for her with a fake pout. 

[Y/N] meekly nods.

“Don’t worry, baby. I don’t kiss and tell.” Jennie quickly straddles her lap and settles her clothed core on the tent in her jean shorts, causing the latter’s hips to instinctively buck at the mere contact. Her hooded eyes stare at the jittery plumber as she feels her breathing get heavier. “So, can I?”

Blinking rapidly, [Y/N] answers softly, “Yes, please.” 

Jennie melts at her gentle tone.

So polite. 

Wasting no time, Jennie presses her lips over hers in a soft kiss. [Y/N] tastes better than she thought—feels so much softer than her imagination depicted. She can taste the sweet snacks she ate earlier and her cherry chapstick. Craving for more, Jennie prods her tongue against the seam of her mouth, asking to be let in. 

Like the good puppy she is, [Y/N] opens her mouth and allows Jennie’s tongue to slip inside and explore every inch of it. Her trembling palms roam up her thighs and come around to grope her ass; they’re cold against her warmth. 

Jennie crosses her fingers behind [Y/N]’s nape to keep her locked in place. “You have no idea how long I’ve been wanting to do this,” she moans into her mouth. 

“M-Me too,” [Y/N] replies between kisses. 

Jennie pulls away after a minute, staring intently at the panting girl whose pupils are blown wide and cheeks are burning red. “Every time I touch myself, I think of you. I imagine you fucking my pussy with your cock. Even when I cum, I say your name out loud.”

[Y/N]’s mind goes haywire at her vulgar words, the throbbing in her shorts intensifying to the point of pain.

“Do you think about me?” Jennie asks cutely, her fingers playing with [Y/N]’s hair on the back of her neck. 

“All the time,” [Y/N] replies breathlessly, squeezing her ass again. A moan punches out of her when Jennie calculates a hard roll against her cock. 

Satisfied with her answer, Jennie softly bites the column of her neck and scrapes her teeth over her sensitive skin, hard enough to induce reddened lines. Her cute puppy squirms underneath her, feeling the vibrations of her whine bubbling out of her throat as she sucks a deep mark to brand her. The hands on her thighs tighten at the harsh suction, unable to hold back her noises when Jennie’s tongue drags along her neck. It isn’t as sweaty as before, but Jennie can still taste the saltiness, which drives her a little mad. 

Jennie grinds her panty-clad pussy onto her aching cock and moans heavily on the ticklish spot on the younger girl’s neck. She rubs her hand down [Y/N]’s chest, and she can feel her heart pounding at least three times faster than usual. Her cunt lets out a huge amount of slick that seeps through her panties and smears all over [Y/N]’s shorts. The friction becomes smoother as she grinds harder and faster to chase her own pleasure. 

Growling under her breath, [Y/N] grabs her hips and guides her movements by moving her faster and pressing her down further. Jennie is such a tiny little thing—so easy to manhandle. But the dominance radiating off this woman would bring the biggest and toughest wrestlers to their knees.

“You’re so big. I can feel it,” Jennie moans hotly, applying more pressure on the bulge. 

[Y/N]’s lips quiver as whines spill out of her throat. 

Jennie can tell she wants to say something but is too shy to spit it out. “What is it? What’s on your mind?” she encourages.

[Y/N] shifts under her intense gaze, trying to relieve some of the tension in her shorts. “Can I… can I, um…?” Her speech is broken, interrupted by breathy sighs. 

“Tell me, puppy,” Jennie probes with a gentle hum, pulling back to look at her. 

[Y/N] swallows hard and mumbles out in one breath, “CanIeatyouout?”

Jennie giggles and rakes a hand through her [h/c] hair. “Say it one more time, and do it properly.” 

“Can I eat you out, please?” [Y/N] asks, not forgetting to add a ‘please’ at the end, just in case Jennie reprimands her for being rude. 

“See? That wasn’t so hard, puppy. And you’re so polite, too.” Jennie scratches behind her ear like she would do to a dog. She grins wickedly when [Y/N] naturally turns her head and leans into her touch, begging for more scratches. “Get on your knees.” 

On command, [Y/N] slides off the couch and kneels before the brunette between her spread legs. Her hands are politely placed on her knees as she looks up at her with her adorably wide puppy eyes. Her chest rises as she anticipates Jennie’s next command. 

So freaking adorable. 

Jennie makes a mental reminder to go online and buy a collar with a personalized tag and a leash for her new plaything. 

“Go ahead, puppy. Make Mommy feel good.” 

Jennie grins widely at the guttural whine squeezing past [Y/N]’s throat at the new title. 

“And take your time. I don’t want you to rush anything.” 

[Y/N] nods in compliance, licking her lips in anticipation. 

Taking a deep breath, [Y/N] leans forward and starts to trail soft kisses on Jennie’s inner thigh, slowly making her way up to her core. The closer she gets, the stronger her scent gets, which leaves her mouth salivating. The tip of her nose nudges against her clothed clit as she breathes in the smell of pure sex and citrus body wash. 

[Y/N] peels down her panties and becomes mesmerized by the way her slick sticks between the fabric and her pussy. Once she pulls them off her legs, she stares at her glistening folds with her clit peeking out. 

“Do you like what you see?” Jennie hums as she reaches down and spreads her puffy lips with her fingers. 

“Very much.” [Y/N] licks her lips hungrily. “Why are you so wet?” 

“Because I like you,” she giggles. She coats her fingers in her wetness and spreads it across the younger girl’s lips. [Y/N] immediately opens her mouth and takes them in, licking and sucking them clean. 

“Tastes so good,” [Y/N] moans once the older woman takes out her fingers. 

“C’mon, puppy. Your treat is waiting for you.” Jennie spreads her legs even further for her viewing pleasure. 

[Y/N] places Jennie’s leg over her shoulder to keep her wide open and strokes her other leg with her free hand. She dives forward and gives an experimental lick across her wet slit, moaning lowly at the addicting taste from the source. 

Jennie lets out a torrent of moans at [Y/N]’s eager actions, lapping and kissing her pussy like she hasn’t eaten in forever. Her tongue would tease her clenching hole before licking back up to draw patterns on her swollen clit. 

“Mmmm, so good, baby…” Jennie mewls, her toes curling.

Spurred by the endless praises, [Y/N] sticks her tongue into her sopping hole and lightly grazes the hard nub with her teeth, moaning against her cunt when her walls squeeze around the pink muscle. Above her, the brunette arches her back as another high-pitched moan breaks into the air. Jennie’s hand digs into her [h/c] hair and holds onto it as leverage, nails scratching at her scalp.

[Y/N] wraps her big hands around her tiny waist and yanks Jennie closer until her ass is on the edge of the couch. She sucks the sensitive nub between her lips and flicks at it will her tongue. 

“Ohh, fuck! That’s sooo good, puppy… so, so good, hah… fuck, like that… God—fuck!” Jennie chants like a mantra, tugging on her hair with each lick. The heels of her feet prod at [Y/N]’s shoulder blades, urging her impossibly closer as she brings her to the edge of glory. 

[Y/N] sticks two longer fingers into her tight cunt and pumps them in and out diligently while sucking on her clit. She nips on her folds and adds a third finger once Jennie loosens a little for her. She’s glad her fingers are long because she’s able to reach the deepest part of her cunt and abuse her g-spot with each thrust. 

Jennie writhes as her head falls back, her eyes rolling to the back of her skull. Her thighs threaten to clamp around [Y/N]’s head, but the latter has a firm hand on the back of her knee to keep her spread open. 

“Fuck, fuck, [Y/N]—fuck, I’m gonna—God!” 

The sounds Jennie makes only encourage her to keep eating her out while finger-fucking her. [Y/N] ignores the cramp in her jaw and the pain in her wrist as she focuses on bringing Jennie over the edge. 

“M’so close, puppy,” Jennie whines, grinding her pussy against her face. 

When her gaze flits down to look at the younger girl, the coil in her stomach tightens at the sight alone. One hard flick of her wrist and a rough suction on her clit has Jennie seeing stars. A shriek breaks through the air as her body tenses before the band in her core snaps. Her sweet taste squirts into [Y/N]’s mouth as her body convulses against the couch, her hips bucking uncontrollably. 

[Y/N] suckles on her clit and slows down the pace of her fingers as she fucks her through the remainder of her orgasm, slowly grounding her. When she pulls back entirely from her pussy, she peers at the older woman while rubbing her thighs to soothe her. Her cat eyes are unfocused and half-lidded, and her bottom lip is swollen from all the biting. 

As she recovers, Jennie looks down at her puppy, the lower half of her face glistening in her sticky juices and saliva. Her twitchy hand falls from her hair and moves to cup her cheek, softly giggling when [Y/N] rubs against her palm. Her thumb trails over [Y/N]’s cheekbone in a loving gesture.  

“You’re such a good puppy for Mommy, you know that? You did so well,” she murmurs. “A messy eater, too, but I like that.” 

The younger girl beams at her paise, her imaginary tail wagging like crazy behind her. 

Her husband is never attentive like that. He’s too sloppy and rushes things to get to his turn quicker. Not to mention that he also busts a nut in less than two minutes flat, leaving Jennie disappointed and dry. 

Jennie tugs [Y/N]’s muscle tee over her head and uses it as a rag to clean her face from her release. [Y/N] blushes at the motherly gesture, sitting patiently while Jennie coos at her. “There, all clean.” 

“Thank you, mmm… mmmooo—fuck…” [Y/N] curses under her breath, embarrassment assaulting her cheeks. She waits for the older woman to reprimand her, but instead, Jennie giggles at her pathetic attempt. 

“You’re still too shy to call me that, huh?” 

[Y/N] nods meekly. “S-Sorry…”

“Don’t worry, puppy. We’ll take it slow. I’ll break you in little by little,” Jennie says. “Stand up.” 

In half a second, [Y/N] scrambles to her feet. She stands much taller than Jennie had anticipated. Her eye level matches with her crotch. 

Her soft palms run them up and down [Y/N]’s lean torso, feeling the grooves of her gaunt ribcage and the tight muscles of her fit abdomen. Jennie spreads her fingers over her breasts, which are still covered by her bra. It’s a nice massage as a reward for pleasing her so well, and she learns that [Y/N] isn’t too ticklish either.

“Do you work out a lot? Or were you just blessed by genetics?” Jennie quips. 

“Um, my job requires a lot of activity... and I’m naturally like this, so both, I guess,” [Y/N] answers, scratching her cheek. 

Soon, Jennie’s hands skim down to the waistband of her jean shorts, where the elastic band of her underwear peeks out. Of course, her hungry eyes can’t miss the straining erection that’s begging to be freed. She rubs the shape of her cock over the rough fabric and gives it a firm squeeze. [Y/N] hisses as her hips jerk at the touch. There’s a damp spot where the tip of her cock shoulder, the material darker than usual. 

“Let’s get you out of these, hm?” Jennie unbuckles the utility belt first and tosses it to the side. Then, she unbuttons her shorts and pulls down the zipper so slowly that [Y/N] starts to breathe faster. 

Jennie’s palm rubs her clothed dick slowly. She can feel it grow impossibly harder and bigger. Her mouth is producing an excessive amount of saliva like some pervert. It’s so thick and heavy. She can’t wait to have it inside her. 

“How often do you fuck around?” Jennie asks, her eyes glancing up at the flushed plumber. 

[Y/N]’s eyebrows meet in the middle, her eyes becoming unfocused and glazed at the pleasure building up in her core. “I-I don’t know… once in a while…” 

Jennie gives an impassive hum. When she yanks her briefs down, her weeping cock slaps against her stomach. It’s a deep shade of red, so close to exploding. The longer Jennie stares at it, the more fidgety [Y/N] gets. The flushed tip produces endless beads of precum, drooling down her length as it throbs violently. 

“Ooh, baby. You’re leaking,” Jennie teases with a sly giggle. She spits in her hand and wraps her small fingers around her thick girth. “I guess it’s my turn to fix that.”

“No, you don’t have to…” [Y/N] mutters, choking on a moan when Jennie squeezes her shaft. 

“But I want to,” Jennie presses sternly. “That’s why Mommy’s here, to help you.” 

[Y/N] gulps harshly and bites on the thin skin behind her hand, flushing at the way her cock looks bigger in Jennie’s small hold. Jennie uses her other hand to massage the mushroom tip with her palm while stroking her shaft. She teases the slit, and [Y/N] impatiently fucks herself into Jennie’s fist. She watches the way her cockhead peeks out every time she thrusts forward. 

“Do you like that, pup?” 

[Y/N] nods rapidly, her hands gripping her [h/c] hair at the scalp. “Yes… It feels—ah, feels so good.” 

When Jennie gives a kitten lick to the sensitive head, [Y/N] doubles over and wheezes. Her hand shoots out to grip onto the back of the couch before she loses her balance. A deep groan rips out of her as the brunette starts to fondle with her balls.

[Y/N] is getting dangerously close to her orgasm. 

“W-Wait, Jen, stop—I want to, God—want to…” 

“Want to what, pup?” Jennie questions, gently squeezing the twin sacks. 

“I want to fuck you, please…” [Y/N] whines out, her eyebrows arched up. “Don’t wanna cum like this…” 

“C’mere.” Jennie lays down on the couch as [Y/N] moves on top of her, occupying the space between her legs. She loops her arms around [Y/N]’s neck and forces her down, mashing her lips against hers for another needy kiss. 

[Y/N] reaches down between them and holds her dick to position it right at her entrance. She rubs the tip against her clenching hole, shallowly prodding at it before sliding up and down her slit. 

Jennie throws her head back and groans exasperatedly, “[Y/N]…! Hurry up!” 

“Umm, what about protection?”

“It’s fine, I’m on the pill,” Jennie babbles hastily, lifting her hips to push her cock in. Technically, she stopped taking those pills last month, but [Y/N] doesn’t need to know that.

“A-Ah, okay…”

“Unless… can you get someone pregnant?”

[Y/N] scrunches her eyebrows in the cutest way possible; it makes Jennie’s heart explode. “M-Maybe? I don’t know… I haven’t gotten checked in a while, but I’m clean.”

Good enough.

She’ll get the answer to that later.

“If you’re still worried, I can take a morning-after pill.”

[Y/N] angles herself into her and pushes in a little too hasty, gasping at how her tight pussy envelops the tip. Jennie winces at the thickness stretching her so deliciously. She hasn’t felt like this in ages. The pain isn’t unbearable, but it’s a reminder that she hasn’t had a decent fucking in a long time. 

“Does it hurt?” [Y/N] asks in concern, checking her face for any discomfort. 

“A little…” 

“I’m sorry. I’ll go slower.” [Y/N] kisses her cheek. “When’s the last time you got fucked?”

Jennie’s mouth parts as the rest of her cock sheathes inside her wet heat. “Soooo long ago.” 

Once [Y/N] bottoms out, she groans, “You feel really good.” 

“I’m glad to hear,” Jennie chuckles mirthfully. “Don’t keep me waiting, puppy. I need to cum again.” 

Nodding in compliance, [Y/N] watches the length of her cock disappearing between her folds as she starts rolling her hips to get used to the feeling. As much as Jennie wants her to ram into her, she goes for a steady approach to not hurt her. 

Once she’s comfortable with her rhythm and the older woman relaxes in her hold, the [h/c]-haired plumber drills into her in precise and deep thrusts. Jennie buries her face into the crook of [Y/N]’s neck and inhales the natural scent mixed with a small layer of jasmine perfume. She enjoys the way the veins on her cock graze her inner walls. The thick head manages to repeatedly prod at the deepest part that she forgot existed. 

Every nerve in her body trembles in excitement.

The fantasy of fucking her maintenance woman is far better than she had imagined. 

[Y/N] fucks into her with such fervor, addicted to the feeling of her tight pussy fluttering around her cock and the way her nails scratch down her back and shoulders. Jennie can only moan and scream as the fire grows bigger in her core. The wet slapping of their skins resonates in the living room. 

“Keep going, don’t stop. I’m almost there,” Jennie pants, bucking her pelvis to meet her forward thrusts. 

The desire to make Jennie cum first motivates [Y/N] to move faster and rougher. Jennie tightens her hold around the younger girl, trying so hard to hold it in for another minute so they can cum together, but she can’t. 

A scream gets stuck in her throat. 

Her vision goes white. 

Paradise welcomes her. 

Jennie isn’t allowed to fully enjoy her orgasm as the plumber ignores her cries of overstimulation. [Y/N] can move more fluidly now that her pussy has gotten slicker thanks to her release. She keeps abusing her hole until she feels her peak approaching her dangerously fast. 

Jennie picks up on the stutter in her rhythm. “A-Are you gonna cum?”

[Y/N] nods eagerly. 

Jennie tangles her legs around [Y/N]’s hips and locks her ankles behind her tailbone so she can’t pull out. “Go on, puppy. Knock me up, fill me with your babies,” she whispers sensually by her ear, hot breaths of air puffing against her sweaty skin. “Breed me.” 

[Y/N] holds her tighter, squishing their bodies together until they’re molded as one. Her hips squeeze in a couple more thrusts before she stills. Her cock throbs violently as endless ropes of her seed fill her completely. 

Jennie knows she won’t get pregnant on the first try.

They’ll have to keep trying until their little miracle forms. 

The prospect of doing it again in the future causes a flutter in her heart. 

[Y/N] is panting above her, utterly ruined by her orgasm. Jennie’s hips have a mind of their own as they flex uncontrollably against hers, milking out every drop of her release into her womb. Their movements eventually cease, and they come to a stop, laying still on the couch as heavy breaths occupy the silence in the living room. 

Jennie moans lowly at the thought of getting knocked up by this young plumber who she’s known for less than two weeks compared to her husband of thirteen years. 

“You did such a good job, puppy. Mommy is so proud of you.” 

The younger girl whines into her neck, obviously overstimulated by the praise and orgasm. Jennie hugs her tightly and shushes her, massaging her scalp to help her calm down. Then, Jennie feels [Y/N] try to cover up a yawn by smothering her mouth against her shoulder. 

“Are you tired?”

[Y/N] replies with a hum, her eyes drooping closed.

“Go ahead, baby. Take a nap; you’ve been working so hard. I’ll be here when you wake up.” 

Jennie maneuvers them to lie on their sides, with [Y/N]’s head tucked under her jaw. She holds the younger girl tightly in her arms, rubbing her back in comforting circles. 

Soon enough, Jennie feels [Y/N]’s body go lax as her breathing turns into light snoring. The older woman presses her lips to her hairline and kisses it softly. “Mommy will take good care of you,” she whispers. 

Mommy will never let you go. 

Shadow (1) - Rebel Girl (5.2k; 💔💙⚠️)

Shadow (2) - What's Up (7.7k;💙❤️‍🩹)

Shadow (3) - Team (6.3k; 💙❤️‍🩹)

Shadow (4) - Before The Winter (6.6k; 💙❤️‍🩹)

Shadow (5) - Crash (5.8k; 💔💙⚠️)

Shadow (6) - If I Fall (6.2k; 💙❤️‍🩹)

Shadow (7) - Wonderwall (8.5k; ❤️‍🩹💙)

Shadow (8) - Weapon (7k; ❤️‍🩹)

Shadow (9) - Carousel (5.5k; ❤️‍🩹💙)

Shadow (10) - Waking Up The Ghost (5.8k; ❤️‍🩹)

Tara Carpenter

Series:

He Hung Up - “Ooh,” you said excited, jumping up from the couch. You reached out making a grabby hand already. “Give me the phone, I’m great at pissing people off.” - Complete

This isn't Your Fault - “Tara,” you said, the calmness of your voice surprising you. “This isn’t you fault.” - Complete

A Legacies Secret - You just wanted a happy life with your girlfriend but then Ghostface attacks, revealing long thought to be buried family secrets. - Complete

A Legacies Regret - You were living in New York with your girlfriend, trying to forget about last year and just enjoy life, but that was easier said than done. (Sequel to A Legacies Secret) - Complete

Mabel (Finestkind)

Series:

Luck Runs Out - When your luck runs out you unknowingly drag Mabel back into the life, she's so desperate to escape. - Complete

Sam Carpenter

Series:

No Man's Land - Sam can’t help but be drawn to the cute stranger from her gym, even if everything about them makes them the perfect suspect, just when Ghostface has returned. - Complete

Joey (Abigail)

Series:

A Beacon in the Dark - Joey likes helping people, it's what she's best at. Hunting down the monsters of myth and legend might be the best way to save people. - In Progress

Clarisse La Rue

Series:

Your parents had taken you to the doctor for every fever, bump, and cough, like they were scared you might slip away the second they looked away.

Back then, hospitals had felt safe. Bright. Full of solutions.

There was always someone who knew what to do, someone with soft hands and a clipboard, someone who smiled when you cried and told you it was okay to be scared.

You used to think hospitals were where things got better. You used to believe that nothing truly bad could happen once you were inside.

But that feeling didn't last forever.

You couldn't pinpoint when it changed. Maybe sometime in high school, when appointments started meaning test results and waiting rooms started feeling colder. Maybe when you realized that some things didn't get fixed just because you showed up and asked for help. Maybe it was slower than that—just a quiet shift, year after year, until the smell of disinfectant started making your stomach twist instead of settle.

And by the time you met Tara, that belief—that soft, childish trust in hospitals—was already gone.

You weren't looking for anyone when she stumbled into your life, which was funny, considering she rarely walked into any room without immediately drawing every eye. She was sharp. A little guarded. Beautiful, of course—but not in that loud, unreachable way. Her beauty had corners, shadows, things you only noticed after staring too long. And maybe that was why you stared.

You didn't fall for her right away. Not exactly. It was slower than that, quieter. A series of long conversations that bled into longer silences. A shared look across a couch when everyone else was talking. That first night she called you at 2 a.m., not because anything was wrong, but because she just "couldn't sleep and thought of you." You weren't sure what you were to her then, but you knew what she already was to you.

Tara had problems. Everyone knew that—even people who only knew her through the headlines. Woodsboro survivor. Ghostface victim. There was always something sharp in the way people said it, like they weren't sure whether to pity her or fear her.

And Tara didn't really help that confusion. She had a temper. A habit of brushing off concern with a smile that didn't always reach her eyes. You learned quickly that she hated being asked how she was doing, and that "fine" could mean anything from I'm tired to I want to disappear.

But she was also—God—she was so nice to you. Unfairly kind. Protective in ways she didn't even realize. She'd bring you your favorite drink without asking. She'd remember the stupidest details, like the name of your third grade math teacher or how you always tapped your foot during scary movies. She'd wrap her pinky around yours in crowded places, like a promise that she was still there.

You knew what she'd been through. You'd read about it before you even really knew her. The attacks. The betrayal. The best friend who wasn't a best friend at all. The sister who left. The house. The blood. The mask.

And you also knew she was still healing, even if she didn't admit it. Even if sometimes she pretended there was nothing left to fix.

She hadn't always been that good at pretending, though. In the beginning, she was softer with you. More open. There were nights she'd sit on your floor in a hoodie that smelled like your detergent and talk for hours—real talking, the kind that made you feel like maybe she trusted you with the parts of herself no one else was allowed to see. You thought that meant something. You thought it meant everything.

But something had shifted.

You weren't sure when it started, and maybe that's what hurt the most—that there wasn't a moment you could point to, no specific night where everything changed. She just started pulling away. She stopped explaining why she was upset. Started skipping the small acts of affection she used to give so freely. She could still be sweet—god, could she be sweet—but it came in shorter bursts now. Flickers of warmth that vanished the second you reached for them.

And you told yourself not to take it personally. You reminded yourself what she'd been through. How trauma rewires everything—relationships, reactions, even memory. But some nights, it was harder to hold onto that perspective. Especially when she came home smelling like vodka and cheap weed and refused to talk about where she'd been.

It wasn't that she drank. Or smoked. Or tried things she shouldn't. You weren't exactly innocent yourself. There were parties you both stumbled home from, laughing too loudly, falling into bed still dressed. There were nights where you passed a joint back and forth on the roof, her head on your shoulder, the world soft and stupidly quiet.

But the difference was... she didn't stop.

Tara didn't know how to measure herself. You learned that the hard way. When you were buzzing, she was gone. Blackout gone. And it scared you—more than you ever admitted out loud. She'd tell you she was fine, that she had it under control, that she deserved to let loose after everything she'd been through. And maybe she did. But it didn't feel like letting loose anymore. It felt like losing her, piece by piece, to something you didn't know how to fight.

It didn't help that she'd tried everything else, too.

Weed. Pills. A line of something powdered at a party you hadn't even been invited to. Cigarettes when she was nervous. Vapes when she was bored. Sometimes she offered you some, and sometimes you said yes—more out of wanting to stay close to her than anything else. But the difference was, you could stop. Tara couldn't. Or maybe she didn't want to.

There was something about the way she looked when she was wasted that made you ache in a way you didn't know how to explain. Because even though she slurred and stumbled and laughed too loudly, her eyes always looked sad. Like whatever she was running from had followed her there, too.

And you knew what she'd say if you ever really pushed it: that she was fine. That she was allowed to blow off steam. That everyone drinks. That you worry too much.

But that was the thing—you had to worry. Because if you didn't, no one else would.

But it wasn't just the alcohol.

There were other ghosts in your relationship. One in particular. One with sharp eyeliner and a name you couldn't say out loud without watching Tara's whole expression change.

Amber.

She never had to be brought up to be present. She was already there—in the silences, in the glances, in the way Tara sometimes looked at you like she was trying to find something that wasn't quite there. You didn't know all the details. Tara never told you much, and you didn't ask. Not really. Every time you got close, she shut down or brushed it off or changed the subject entirely.

And so you let it go.

Because it made her sad. Because you loved her. Because you wanted to believe that if you gave her enough time, she'd let go of whatever was still tangled between her ribs.

But sometimes, in the quiet moments—when her head was on your chest and you thought maybe she'd fallen asleep—she'd whisper things. Names. Apologies. Things you weren't supposed to hear.

You didn't even know if they had dated. She never said they had. She just called Amber her best friend. Her ride-or-die. Her first real anchor after everything that happened in Woodsboro. But it wasn't hard to connect the dots. The way her voice dropped when she talked about her. The way she still flinched if a scene in a movie even resembled the fire.

Maybe they didn't get the chance to be together. Maybe that made it worse.

Because sometimes, the almosts linger longer than the real things.

And you... well. You weren't her almost. You were her after. You were the one who showed up when the world had already caved in. 

And you told yourself that still meant something—that it meant everything—but there were nights when it didn't feel like it. 

Nights when you'd kiss her and wonder if, for a second, she was pretending it was someone else. Nights when you'd see a flicker in her eye and wonder if you were the stand-in.

The replacement.

The girl who showed up too late.

That's what you were, most days—watching Tara drift through something you couldn't reach, clinging to pieces of someone she never talked about but clearly missed.

But you didn't understand how someone could miss a person who tried to kill them.

You'd asked yourself that a hundred times. Whispered it in your own head late at night when Tara was asleep beside you, her arm thrown across your waist, peaceful in a way that never seemed to last. You knew what Amber had done. Everyone did. Ghostface, manipulative, cruel—dangerous. The kind of person you were supposed to run from, not cry over.

And still, Amber never really left your relationship.

She lingered in the silences, in the too-long stares, in the way Tara never quite laughed the same when someone brought up high school. You never talked about her—not really. It was an unspoken rule, the kind of subject that made Tara's whole body go tense if it even brushed the edge of conversation. And maybe it was better that way. Maybe there was nothing you could say that wouldn't hurt her or you.

But there were signs. Quiet ones.

The photos she didn't delete. The shirts she still wore. The name she never said out loud but always seemed to echo between the walls anyway.

You didn't know what they were—what they had been. Tara never told you, and you never asked. You didn't want to hear her say it. That she'd loved someone like that. That she still did, in some way.

And that was the thing. Amber hadn't just been a bad person. She'd been Tara's person. At some point. And part of you always wondered if that was the part of Tara that kept slipping through your fingers—something you could never compete with, because it was carved into her in ways you weren't allowed to touch.

You didn't try to bring it up. Not often. You'd learned the hard way that pushing her—about Amber, about the drinking, about anything she didn't want to name—only made her shut down faster. The first time you tried, it was late. She'd come home sloppy and giggly, her mascara smudged like bruises around her eyes, still wearing someone else's jacket. You were scared. You were angry. But you'd kept your voice calm, quiet, stupidly careful when you asked if she was okay. If she wanted to talk.

She didn't answer at first. She just pulled off her shoes and flopped into bed face-down, like she hadn't heard you at all.

And then, right when you thought maybe she'd fallen asleep, she muttered, "God, not tonight."

Like your concern was exhausting. Like you were the one making things hard.

After that, you stopped trying to fix it. You started doing what she did—pretending everything was fine, even when it wasn't. Laughing at jokes that made your stomach turn. Kissing her when she tasted like vodka and someone else's perfume. Letting it go.

But it never really went anywhere.

You carried it around with you. The ache of it. The questions. The slow, bitter way it chipped away at how safe you felt with her. You were still hers—still in this relationship, still choosing her every day—but some days it felt like you were loving her from the outside.

There was one night—weeks ago, maybe longer—that still stuck to you like wet skin. She didn't tell you she was going out. Just vanished, phone on silent, until nearly 3 a.m. When she finally came stumbling through the front door, her shirt was wrinkled and she had a scratch on her cheek she didn't explain. You helped her into bed, tucked her hair behind her ear, asked if she'd eaten.

And she looked at you, dazed and glassy-eyed, and whispered, "You're so sweet. I don't deserve you."

She passed out before you could say anything back.

And you didn't say anything in the morning, either.

You just watched her brush her teeth. Pretend nothing had happened. Laugh at something on her phone like she hadn't scared the hell out of you the night before. You made her coffee. You told her you loved her. And then you went to work with your chest aching and your hands shaking like you were the one who'd been drinking all night.

There was this kind of grief in it. A quiet one. Like mourning someone who was still alive.

Because she was still there—in the bed beside you, in the pictures on your phone, in the casual I love yous before sleep—but she was never really with you anymore. Not like she used to be.

And the worst part?

You couldn't even be angry.

Because you knew what she'd been through. You knew what fear did to people, what survival looked like when it was held together with teeth and tape. You knew what it meant when she said she didn't remember parts of that night in Woodsboro. What it meant that she never wanted to talk about it, even when she was crying in her sleep.

But still—you were tired.

Tired of being the one who held steady. Tired of waking up first to check if she was breathing. Tired of wondering if there would ever be a version of her that didn't run headfirst toward the edge of everything, just to see if you'd chase her.

And you always did.

You always did.

Until tonight.

Tonight was different.

It wasn't just another party. It wasn't just another 3 a.m. door creaking open, or another round of whispered apologies soaked in cheap liquor and clumsy kisses. It was worse. So much worse.

You hadn't known where she was. For hours.

Not the kind of "where" that meant she wasn't texting back—the kind that meant no one could find her. Not her friends, not her roommate, not even Chad, who she usually clung to like a brother when things got messy.

Your phone kept lighting up with messages you didn't know how to answer.

Have you heard from her?

She left the party a while ago but no one saw who she was with. She didn't look good.

And for a while you just sat there—on the couch, your leg bouncing, staring at your phone like the right answer might appear if you waited long enough. You weren't even sure what you were waiting for.

A ping. A location drop. A miracle.

But what came was a call. From a number you didn't recognize.

A nurse. Calm, professional, almost robotic. She said Tara had been brought in. Said there had been... substances. Alcohol. Other things, maybe. They didn't know yet. She was stable now, but unconscious when they found her. Alone. Slumped outside someone's building with no ID, no phone, just your name—written on a crumpled receipt in her back pocket.

And you remembered just staring at the wall for a full minute after the call ended. You didn't cry. Not then. You didn't speak. You just moved. Shoes, keys, jacket. The kind of movement that didn't need thought. Just instinct. Just panic disguised as purpose.

The drive there was a blur. The waiting room even more so. But what you remembered—what stuck with you even now, like a film you couldn't scrub from your mind—was the first glimpse of her in that hospital bed.

Pale. Hooked up to fluids. Her hair matted to her forehead. An oxygen monitor clipped to her finger like something out of a nightmare.

You didn't breathe. Not really. Not until the nurse said she'd be okay.

And even then—it didn't feel like okay.

Because this wasn't like the other times. This wasn't some wild night ending in giggles and messy kisses and a hangover. This was a warning. A line.

This was the part where something had to give.

You stood beside her bed and looked at her—really looked at her—and it hit you, in a way it never had before, that she didn't even know how close she'd come to disappearing. Ä

She didn't know what it had done to you. What it had taken to keep loving someone who was trying so hard not to stay. 

And still, your hand reached for hers.

Because you always did.

You didn't even know if she'd feel it. Her skin was cold, a little damp, like her body was still trying to fight its way back from wherever she'd taken it. Her lashes barely moved. Her breathing was steady, but shallow—the kind of quiet inhale that made you hold your own without meaning to, just waiting to see if the next one would come.

A nurse had said she'd wake up soon. That it could take some time for the worst of it to wear off. That her body needed rest. Fluids. Monitoring. The doctor had talked to you gently, like you were family, like maybe you'd been through this before—and the worst part was, you had. Just never this bad.

So you waited.

You sat in the chair beside her bed and watched the numbers blink on the monitor. You stared at the scab on her knuckle, the faded smudges of glitter on her wrist, the curve of her lip pressed against the pillow like she'd just said something and fallen asleep in the middle of it.

And your mind wouldn't stop circling.

What had she taken?

Where had she been?

Who had let her get that far?

Why hadn't she called you?

You didn't realize you'd been crying until a tear slipped down onto her hand.

You wiped it away fast.

The nurse came back once to check her vitals. Offered you a bottle of water. A blanket. You shook your head. You didn't want comfort. You wanted her to open her eyes. You wanted her to look at you like she understood what she'd done. You wanted her to act like it mattered.

When she finally stirred—just slightly—it didn't feel like relief. It felt like bracing for impact.

Her eyelids fluttered open, unfocused and slow. Her head turned barely an inch toward you before she winced.

You leaned forward. "Tara?"

She blinked. Winced again. Her hand twitched under yours. "What the fuck..."

She tried to sit up, but the IV pulled and she froze, eyes darting around, confused.

"You're at the hospital," you said, as gently as you could. "They brought you in last night. You passed out—outside someone's building. Do you remember that?"

She made a face. "No. I... I don't—was it Chad's?”

You didn't answer that. Because it wasn't the point.

"I've been here all night," you said instead, and your voice sounded so much smaller than you meant it to. "They didn't know what you took. They just found you like that. Tara, do you even know what you took?"

She rolled her head to the side, eyes closing again. "Just drank a little. I think. Some guy had gummies. Or something. I don't—God, why is the light so bright?"

You just stared at her.

She didn't look scared. She didn't even look concerned. She looked hungover. Like this was some shitty morning-after, and all she needed was a glass of water and a cold shower.

"Tara," you said quietly. "You were unconscious. You were alone. You didn't have your phone. They didn't even know your name."

She let out a breath. "I'm fine. You don't have to—" She rubbed her forehead. "You're always making a big deal out of shit."

Your chest tightened. "This is a big deal." IS

She didn't respond.

Just turned her face toward the wall.

Like she didn't have the energy to argue. Like maybe it was easier to pretend it wasn't happening if she didn't have to look at you while it was.

You sat back in the chair slowly. Let your hands fall into your lap.

You didn't say anything for a while.

And she didn't ask what was wrong.

She never really did.

Instead, she let out this breathy, almost amused sound. Like a laugh—but softer. Unstable. You couldn't tell if it was from relief or leftover high, or if her body just didn't know what to do with itself yet.

She rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand. "They gave me something," she mumbled, her voice dragging slightly. "I think. Like fluids or painkillers or something."

You watched the way her hand swayed back down to the bed. The way her fingers missed the blanket the first time, then corrected themselves like she was still trying to catch up with her own movements. It was subtle—but it was enough.

She wasn't all the way back yet.

There was something off in the way she blinked, how long it took her to respond. Like her brain was still rebooting and she was floating somewhere above the actual consequences. Still slightly slurred, still too relaxed for someone who had woken up in a hospital bed with an IV in her arm and no memory of getting there.

She turned her head to look at you again, slower this time. "You look pissed."

You blinked. "I'm not."

She gave you this lazy, uneven grin. "You do this thing with your jaw when you're mad. It's like—" She made an exaggerated clench with her teeth, snickering at her own impression. "Like that."

It should've been funny.

If this were any other situation—if you weren't sitting in a hospital room at 7 a.m. with a nurse promising to come back and explain the full toxicology report—it might've been funny.

But it wasn't.

It was terrifying.

Because she wasn't sober. Because she wasn't scared. Because something in her body had crashed and shut down and still she was smiling like it was a goddamn joke.

"Tara," you said, and your voice cracked a little just from how tightly you were holding everything in. "This is serious."

She squinted at you like she didn't understand the word.

So you said it again. "Serious. You didn't come home. You weren't answering your phone. No one knew where you were. And then the hospital calls me at three in the morning to tell me they found you unresponsive in some parking lot and—"

You stopped yourself.

She was watching you now, but the grin was still there, faint at the corners of her mouth. Not quite fully aware.

And somehow, that hurt more.

Because you wanted her to be scared. You wanted her to get it. You wanted her to sit up and say she was sorry and ask you how long you'd been here and if you were okay and how she didn't mean for any of this to happen. You wanted her to feel something close to the hell you'd felt all night.

But she didn't.

She just reached up weakly and tugged at the hospital bracelet around her wrist.

"They spelled my name wrong," she murmured, almost like a joke. "Again."

You looked away.

You couldn't keep staring at her when she looked like that—when her mouth moved like everything was still just some light, passing inconvenience. Like her body hadn't nearly given out. Like her heart hadn't scared the shit out of you.

You leaned forward again, quieter this time. "What did you take?"

She blinked slowly. "I don't... I don't know."

"Tara."

"I said I don't know." A slight edge there—sharp but clumsy. Defensive. "It was just stuff. Like gummies and whatever. Maybe a pill. I didn't check."

You sat back again, exhaling through your nose.

Your throat felt tight. Your chest, tighter.

She looked back up at the ceiling, blinking in that detached, faraway way she got when she was high—when she wasn't all here. When it was easier for her to be floating than present.

And suddenly you couldn't stop thinking about all the things the nurse didn't say. About how lucky it was that someone had found her at all. That it hadn't rained. That she hadn't been somewhere darker, more hidden. That no one had hurt her while she was out cold and completely defenseless.

Your eyes stung again.

You bit down on your lip.

And still—still—she didn't seem to understand why your hand wouldn't reach for hers this time.

You both sat in it—whatever this was—for a few long, dragging seconds. Her gaze drifting somewhere over your shoulder. The hum of the hospital hallway leaking in through the partially closed door. Machines blinking behind her like distant stars, quiet and rhythmic and wrong in their steadiness.

She was staring somewhere just past you, her face lit with the distant haze of someone not quite there. Her body was here—tethered to the thin sheets, the wires trailing from her arm, the pale blue hospital gown—but her mind was floating. Caught in the thick fog that followed nights like these.

You didn't speak. You didn't ask again where she'd been, or what she'd taken, or why she hadn't called you sooner. Because none of those questions would land. Not now. Not when her pupils still looked too big, and her smile flickered without reason, and she kept giggling softly to herself every few seconds like she was chasing the tail end of some joke that only existed in her head.

Then, the door creaked open.

You didn't turn right away. You were still watching Tara—watching the way her fingers absentmindedly pulled at a loose thread in the blanket, like she didn't fully realize you were in the room. Like she thought this was just another come-down in her bedroom or on a friend's couch, not a hospital bed with IVs and vital monitors and the acrid smell of bleach that clung to the walls like old smoke.

"Hi there," a soft voice said.

You glanced up.

The nurse who stepped in had that end-of-shift softness about her—puffy eyes and a lukewarm coffee in one hand, her ID badge slightly crooked. Her scrubs were baby pink with tiny printed hearts and thermometers, and she wore mismatched crocs—one purple, one white. Tired, but kind. Like someone who smiled even when they didn't feel like it.

She gave you both a small nod and tucked her clipboard under her arm. "I'm just going to check a few things, alright? Won't take long."

Tara blinked slowly, turning her head toward the sound. "Okay," she mumbled, still smiling for no reason at all.

The nurse gave a patient nod and set the clipboard down. You could tell she'd done this dozens of times before, maybe even hundreds. There was something careful in her movements. Gentle. Rehearsed in a way that didn't feel cold—just necessary. The kind of professionalism you only got from experience.

She moved to Tara's side and reached for the blood pressure cuff hanging from the wall. "First, I'm going to get your blood pressure, then check your heart rate, breathing, and a few reflexes. Sound good?"

Tara hummed something that might've been a yes. Her head lolled slightly to the side, eyelids fluttering.

The nurse wrapped the cuff around Tara's arm with practiced ease. "You might feel a little tightness here."

The cuff inflated with a soft hiss. You watched as Tara flinched, her face scrunching up a little in confusion. The nurse didn't react—she just kept her eyes on the dial, silent and focused. A beat passed. Then another. The cuff released with a small click.

She made a note on the chart.

Then, the nurse reached for her stethoscope, warming the tip between her hands before pressing it gently against Tara's chest.

"Deep breath in," she said.

Tara inhaled too quickly, like she was trying to prove something. The nurse waited. "And out."

Tara exhaled with a laugh. Not because anything was funny. Just because something in her brain hadn't quite reconnected yet.

You crossed your arms, trying to stay still. Trying not to show how your leg was bouncing under the chair. Because this—this—was the part that always felt the most helpless. Watching someone else check the damage. Watching someone else decide how bad it really was.

The nurse didn't flinch.

She moved to the other side of the bed, pressed her fingers to the inside of Tara's wrist again, feeling for her pulse.

She was quiet for a while.

The kind of quiet you didn't like.

Then she clicked her pen. Made another note. Smoothed her hand over Tara's forearm.

"You're doing good," she said gently, like she could sense the swirl of things bubbling just beneath the surface—even if Tara couldn't. "I just have a few more to go. Let me know if anything feels uncomfortable, alright?"

Tara gave a thumbs-up like she was kidding. But you weren't laughing.

The nurse moved toward the bottom of the bed next, carefully lifting the blanket and testing for reflexes—tapping gently along her shin, then at the bend of her knee.

You watched every movement. Every flick of her eyes. The way she glanced back at the chart, back at Tara, then—briefly—at you.

And it hit you, then, just how long you'd been learning to read expressions on other people's faces—nurses, EMTs, friends at parties, roommates you barely knew. All of them trying not to say something out loud. And you, quietly translating what silence meant.

The nurse clicked her pen once more. Rested her hand lightly on the bed rail. "Just one more thing."

She reached into her pocket.

You saw the small penlight before she even spoke.

She held it up between two fingers like it was nothing—like it was routine. A little plastic tool, harmless on its own. But your chest still tightened. You knew what came next.

Tara didn't seem to register it. She was still playing with the edge of the blanket, thumb brushing over the fabric in slow, lazy circles.

The nurse glanced at you once—just long enough to catch the shift in your posture, the way your arms had locked a little tighter around your ribs—then turned back to Tara with that same practiced calm.

"Alright, Tara," she said gently, her voice low and even. "Last thing I'm gonna do is check how your pupils are responding. It's just standard, nothing to worry about. You'll feel a little light in your eyes, but it won't hurt. Just follow my instructions, okay?"

Tara nodded slowly. Too slowly. Like her head was underwater.

The nurse clicked the penlight on. A thin beam cut through the dim room, almost too bright against the soft yellow glow of the overheads.

"I'm going to shine this in your eyes, one at a time," the nurse explained. "Just look straight ahead at me for now."

Tara squinted as the light moved in front of her. Her eyes fluttered, lashes twitching, but she didn't pull away. Didn't ask questions. You weren't sure she even understood what was happening—only that something was expected of her, so she was trying to comply.

The nurse leaned in slightly, her hand resting lightly against Tara's cheek to steady her head. She moved the beam across each eye slowly, precisely, watching carefully.

You didn't breathe.

"Good," the nurse murmured. "Now I want you to look up for me."

Tara's gaze drifted up.

"Now down."

Then left. Then right.

She followed each direction with the vague sluggishness of someone not quite tethered to their own body. Her focus kept drifting off, landing somewhere behind the nurse's shoulder. Her mouth parted like she might say something, but nothing came out.

"Try to keep your head still," the nurse said gently. "Eyes only."

Tara blinked slowly. Smiled like she was trying to be cooperative.

The nurse nodded, still watching closely. Her brows pulled just slightly together—only for a second—before her face returned to neutral.

"Now diagonals," she said softly. "Up to the right."

Tara's eyes moved. The light followed.

"Down to the left."

Again.

Your foot tapped soundlessly against the tile.

The nurse straightened just slightly and moved to Tara's other side. "Okay, now I'm going to repeat on this side. Keep looking where I tell you. You're doing fine."

She switched hands with the light, used the other to gently turn Tara's face toward her.

"Look up. Now down. Look to the left—good. And right."

Tara giggled.

You didn't know why. Neither did she.

The nurse gave her a patient smile. "Almost done."

She shifted her stance slightly, double-checked something on her watch, then looked back at Tara,

"Alright," the nurse said, soft and steady. "One more thing for me."

Tara blinked slowly. She still looked pale, but a bit more alert than before—though whether that was clarity or just the last flickers of whatever was still in her system, you couldn't say.

"Go ahead and turn your eyes to the right," the nurse instructed, pointing vaguely toward the window. "Tell me something you see."

Tara's eyes slid in that direction. Her brows knit together in concentration.

"...Window," she said after a beat. "And the curtain. It's ugly."

The nurse smiled. "Perfect."

You let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh, though it barely made it out. You just watched her. Watched how she moved her head back to center like nothing was wrong at all.

"Now," the nurse said, her tone still calm—still just a nurse doing her job—"move your eyes to the left, towards that pretty girl over there."

Tara turned her head slightly. Her gaze followed.

She looked at you.

And you smiled—softly, gently, in that way you always did when you didn't know what else to do but wanted her to feel safe. You weren't sure she even deserved the comfort you were offering in that moment, but that never stopped you before. This was Tara. And you'd spent so long loving her that kindness came on instinct. You wanted her to see that you were here. That you weren't angry. That she didn't have to be scared.

The nurse didn't rush the moment.

She waited a second. Let Tara settle.

Then: "Do you know her name?"

Tara's face didn't change at first.

She just kept looking at you. Calm. Blinking. Brows slightly furrowed—like the question hadn't quite registered, or like it had, but she wasn't sure if it was a trick.

You saw the way her eyes moved then—not away from you, but through you. Like she was searching for something in your face. Something that was just barely out of reach.

Her lips parted slightly. Then pressed together again.

Her eyes narrowed—not cruelly, not confused. Just... focused. Like she was trying to solve a puzzle. Like she knew the answer was close.

You watched her head tilt, just a little. A crease formed between her brows. Critical, almost.

And your heart climbed higher into your throat.

But then—her face softened.

Slowly, like a wave pulling back from the shore.

Her eyes went wide with something like recognition, something bright and deeply warm. Her lips pulled into the smallest smile. Not her teasing one. Not the cocky, crooked one she used when she wanted to get away with something.

This one was different.

It was sincere. Open. Gentle in a way you didn't see often anymore.

The kind of smile you used to see every morning when she woke up beside you. The kind that made you forget about everything else, even for just a moment.

There it was.

That was her.

The girl you loved. The one who once held your face in both hands like it was something fragile. The one who used to kiss you like she couldn't believe she was allowed to. The one who made you believe—despite everything—that maybe love could be enough.

Your smile grew, without meaning to.

You felt it in your whole body. Because this, this, was what you were still fighting for.

And for a second, you let yourself believe you were winning.

That she saw you. That she knew you.

That something inside her was still intact—that even through whatever she'd taken, even through the haze and the damage and the pieces of herself she'd been slowly drinking away—you were still somewhere in there. Reachable.

She didn't stop smiling. That soft, warm expression stayed on her face as she opened her mouth to speak. Still looking right at you.

And then she said it.

"Amber."

Your stomach dropped.

Just one word. Gentle. Light. Like it came from a place of safety. A place of home.

You didn't move. Didn't breathe.

And Tara—still watching you, still smiling—repeated herself, this time with even more certainty.

"Amber Freeman."

Like it was the right answer. Like she was proud she'd gotten it right.

And your heart split open in a way that felt unfixable.

You felt your face change before you could stop it. Everything in you cracked at once—your expression, your posture, your grip on whatever shred of hope had been left in your hands.

But you smiled.

God, you still smiled.

A tiny, trembling thing that didn't reach your eyes. That shook at the corners. That was built entirely on habit and instinct, like your body couldn't let go of comforting her even now.

Even after this.

Even when it hurt more than anything ever had.

You blinked. Hard. And again.

You looked up toward the ceiling, like maybe if you aimed your eyes high enough, the tears wouldn't fall. You looked down right after, shielding your face so she couldn't see the rest of it—the mess of it.

The betrayal stung like heat under your skin. Like humiliation.

Because she wasn't trying to hurt you. That was the worst part.

She wasn't mocking you. She wasn't weaponizing anything.

She'd just forgotten.

Seen wrong.

And not forgotten some small, fleeting moment. Not a date. Not a joke. Not something forgivable.

She'd looked at you with love in her eyes—real love, that deep-open-vulnerability kind of love—and attached someone else's name to it.

And not just anyone's.

Amber Freeman.

The girl who'd held Tara hostage in her own home. The girl who stabbed her. The girl who tried to kill her. The girl who made you swear to never bring her name up unless Tara did first, because you knew what it cost her to even think about it.

But now?

Now that same name rolled off her tongue with ease.

With affection.

Like it meant something good.

You weren't even sure Tara realized what she'd said. She just kept looking at you like she expected praise. Like she'd answered a question correctly on a test. Her face still soft. Her shoulders still loose. So at peace.

And you—meanwhile—were falling apart so quietly that no one in the room even noticed.

You clenched your jaw.

Tried not to let your chin tremble. Not to let your eyes spill. Not to let that bitter, collapsing feeling inside your chest take hold.

But god, it was already there.

Because the girl who had nearly destroyed her was the name that surfaced first.

Not yours.

Not the girl who stayed.

Not the one who sat beside hospital beds and held her hair and answered the phone at 2 a.m. when she was too drunk to find her way home.

Not the one who loved her through everything.

Through all of it.

You pressed your hand to your mouth, discreetly, trying to collect yourself. You didn't want to cry in front of her. You didn't want this moment—this unfixable thing—to live in her memory, assuming she'd even remember it later.

But your chest felt like it had been hollowed out.

And you didn't know how to breathe around it.

But your chest felt like it had been hollowed out.

And you didn't know how to breathe around it.

The nurse—maybe her name was Clara, maybe you just imagined softness into her—paused mid-step. You saw it in her face, just barely. A twitch in her brow. A brief, flickering glance between the two of you. Like she felt the shift in the room. Like she'd heard the wrong name and knew it was wrong.

But she didn't say anything. Maybe she was trained not to. Maybe it wasn't her place.

Still, the silence thickened like it had weight.

You cleared your throat.

Tried again, gentler. But your voice came out too thin, too cracked. "I'll... I'll be right back."

It didn't sound convincing.

You stood before either of them could respond—your hands stiff, your shoulders locked, your whole body moving like it was held together by threads. You kept your eyes off Tara. You didn't think you could take another look at that smile if it was still there.

And as you turned to leave, as you reached the door and wrapped your fingers around the cold metal handle—

You heard it.

A mumble behind you, half-laugh, half-dreamy slur.

"She's the prettiest girl in the world."

You stopped moving.

The nurse said something low in response, maybe a hum, maybe just a gentle cue to rest. But you didn't catch it. You were too busy staring ahead, frozen in place.

Because you knew who she meant.

Amber.

That name. That ghost. That haunt.

And you weren't her. You weren't anything like her. Not in the way you spoke. Not in the way you looked. You didn't have her sharpness, her smug confidence, her soft-then-sudden cruelty. You'd spent months comforting Tara through the nightmares she left behind. Through the panic attacks and the trust issues and the paranoia. You'd loved her through all of it.

And now?

Now she thought you were her.

You blinked, and it didn't work this time. The tears fell. Fast, quiet, hot on your cheeks. You wiped them away quickly, angrily, like maybe if you moved fast enough it would stop mattering. Like you could undo it.

You stepped out into the hallway.

Didn't breathe. Didn't think. Just kept walking.

And right as the door began to swing closed behind you, your eyes flicked back—just one last time.

Tara was still sitting up in the bed, head tilted slightly, brow furrowed now. The fog in her eyes was clearing. That dazed, dreamy look had fractured into confusion. Like something finally clicked.

Like she saw you. Really saw you.

And maybe she didn't know what she'd said. Maybe she didn't even understand why you were leaving. But for the first time all night, her smile had vanished.

And her mouth parted like she wanted to stop you.

But you didn't wait.

You let the door fall shut.

And in the small, aching silence that followed, all you could think was:

You hadn't even wanted her to say your name.

You just wanted her to know it wasn't hers.

You didn't remember walking through the hall. Just the distant murmur of voices in the waiting room. Someone flipping through a magazine. A cough. The low whir of a vending machine.

Nobody looked at you.

Which was good—because your eyes were red, your hands were shaking, and you were holding yourself like you might fall apart if anything so much as brushed your shoulder.

You found the bathrooms and went straight for the handicap stall, shutting the door behind you like it was the only way to keep yourself from unraveling.

And when you finally looked up at the mirror, it didn't feel like your own face staring back.

It felt like the ghost of someone close to who she wanted.

Someone who had loved her with everything, and still wasn't enough to be remembered right.

You stared at yourself for a long time before the first sob made it past your throat. It started quiet—just a breath that got stuck—and then your whole body folded in like it couldn't carry the weight anymore.

Because the truth was brutal in its simplicity.

She hadn't seen you when she looked at you.

She'd seen the person she wished was still here.

And maybe that was the worst part.

That somewhere, buried under everything, there was still a version of her who thought Amber Freeman was the love of her life.

And that version of her...

From dream academy to debuting in katseye, people just kind of assumed you and Manon were together.

Not because you said anything. Not because she did either. It was just… obvious.

Manon waited on you without even realizing she was doing it. If you mentioned needing water, she was already halfway to the cooler.

If you forgot something in the practice room, she’d grab it before you even stood up. You never had to ask twice. Half the time, you didn’t ask at all.

Physical touch came naturally to her. She always needed to be close, shoulder pressed to yours during breaks, legs tangled when you sat on the floor, her head ending up in your lap like it belonged there.

If she wasn’t touching you somehow, she looked uncomfortable, like she didn’t know what to do with herself.

What really gave her away was how she listened. When you talked, Manon paid attention. Like, actually paid attention.

She remembered things you said in passing, brought them up days later, checked in without making it a big deal.

Sophia noticed it first, the way Manon’s face softened whenever you walked into the room, the way her eyes followed you without trying to be subtle about it.

“You’re so obvious,” Lara muttered once, poking Manon’s side while you practiced across the room.

Manon didn’t even look away. “What?”

Lara just laughed. “You look like you’re watching your favorite person breathe.”

Daniela snorted from the floor. “She does.”

Manon finally glanced down, frowning. “I’m just… paying attention.”

“Sure,” Megan said. “To only one person.”

You, meanwhile, were completely unaware. You just thought Manon was affectionate. Friendly. Maybe a little clingy, but that was just how she was, right?

One day during a break, you leaned back against the wall, exhausted. Manon immediately slid down next to you, her arm hooking around yours like muscle memory.

“You good?” she asked quietly.

“Yeah. Just tired.”

She nodded and stayed there, thumb absentmindedly tracing over your knuckles. When you didn’t pull away, her grip tightened just a little, like she’d won something.

Sophia watched from across the room and shook her head. “I don’t know how they don’t see it.”

“See what?” you asked later, grabbing your water bottle.

Manon stiffened beside you.

“Nothing,” Sophia said quickly. “Just… vibes.”

Manon avoided your eyes after that, suddenly hyper-aware of every time she leaned in, every time her hand found yours. But the moment you laughed at something she said, she forgot all of it, smiling like she couldn’t help herself.

And that was the problem.

She really couldn’t.

Manon went live by herself, just to talk with fans for a bit.

“Tour’s been really fun,” she said, leaning closer to the camera. “I love meeting you guys. Soundcheck and barricade have probably been my favorite parts. And my mom’s been coming to some shows, which has been really nice.”

user01: we love you

user02: wish i could go 😭 tickets sold out

user03: say hi to your mom for me!!

Manon laughed. “I will, I promise.”

She glanced down at the screen again. “Also, why do so many of you keep giving me LA Dodgers hats? I swear I’ve gotten like five alrea—”

The door to her hotel room opened.

She looked up just as you dropped down beside her on the bed.

“Manon!” you said, way too excited. “I got my septum pierced. Look, now we match.”

You wrapped an arm around her waist without thinking, pressing into her side. Manon froze for half a second, then relaxed into you automatically.

“But, y/n,” she said softly, trying to keep her voice steady, “I left mine in LA.”

You pouted immediately. “You did?”

She nodded. You were close enough that she could feel your breath against her cheek, and she had to stop herself from doing anything stupid, like pinching your face or pulling you closer.

“Whatever,” you said. “When we get back, we’ll match for real.”

You leaned in, grinning, your noses almost touching. Manon’s eyes dropped to your mouth without meaning to. She forgot about the phone in front of her. Forgot about the comments exploding. For a split second, she thought you might actually—

Then you pulled back.

Manon blinked, heart racing, and only then remembered she was live.

“Oh,” she said quickly, clearing her throat. “Uh, guys. y/n is here….”

user04: ?????

user05: HELLO???

user06: why are they so close

user07: manon’s face 😭

You finally noticed the phone. “Wait, are you live?”

Manon nodded, trying not to look embarrassed. “Yeah.”

“Oh.” You laughed, not moving away at all. “Hi, guys.”

Manon could feel her ears getting warm.

“Anyway,” she rushed, “we were just, talking.”

Sophia’s voice suddenly called from the hallway, “Manon, are you done? We’re leaving in five.”

Manon groaned. “Yeah, yeah.”

She looked back at the camera. “I should go. Love you guys. Thank you for everything.”

She ended the live and let her phone drop onto the bed.

The silence that followed was… loud.

“You okay?” you asked, nudging her shoulder.

Manon swallowed, finally looking at you again. “Yeah. Just, surprised me, that’s all.”

You smiled, completely unaware. “You should’ve seen your face.”

She laughed weakly. “Yeah. Guess I need to work on that.”

What she didn’t say was that the comments weren’t wrong.

And neither was Lara.

It didn’t hit you all at once.

It started small.

At rehearsals, you noticed Manon was affectionate with everyone, sure. She hugged the girls, leaned on shoulders, linked arms when she laughed.

That was just her. But it was different when it came to you.

You caught it during a break one afternoon.

You were sitting on the floor, scrolling on your phone, when Manon dropped down next to you like she always did.

Her thigh pressed against yours, her arm automatically settling across your back.

A minute later, Lara came over and plopped down on Manon’s other side.

Manon didn’t move closer.

She didn’t lean into Lara, didn’t rest her head on her shoulder. She stayed exactly where she was against you.

You frowned slightly, not moving, just… noticing.

Later, Daniela asked Manon to help her with a part of the choreo.

Manon got up immediately, of course, but before she stood, her fingers brushed your wrist, lingering for half a second longer than necessary.

“I’ll be right back,” she said to you. Not to the group. To you.

That was new.

The real moment came a few days later, backstage before a show.

Everyone was tired. Loud in that way people get when they’re running on adrenaline and caffeine.

Megan was complaining about her boots, Sophia was fixing someone’s mic pack, and you were sitting on a folding chair, retying your laces.

Manon was standing behind you, hands resting on your shoulders, absentmindedly kneading like it was second nature.

“Manon,” Megan said, walking past. “Can you do that for me later? My shoulders are killing me.”

Manon smiled. “Yeah, later.”

But she didn’t move her hands.

Didn’t even look away from you.

You glanced up at her, confused. She met your eyes, soft smile already there, like that was where it lived.

A few minutes later, Lara tried to sit in the chair next to you.

Manon shifted before Lara even finished lowering herself, stepping closer to you instead, one knee brushing yours.

Lara paused.

Then slowly looked between the two of you.

“Oh,” she said under her breath.

You didn’t hear it, but you felt it. The way the air changed. The way Manon’s thumb traced a small circle on your shoulder, grounding, familiar.

That night, back at the hotel, you lay in bed staring at the ceiling.

You replayed things. Little things.

How Manon always saved the seat next to her for you.

How she waited for you before leaving rooms. How she checked in when you were quiet.

How she watched you when you weren’t looking, and looked away when you caught her.

She was affectionate with everyone.

But she was intentional with you.

The next morning, at breakfast, Manon slid into the chair beside you without asking. Her knee knocked into yours under the table and stayed there.

You didn’t move it away.

Instead, you leaned in slightly and asked, “Hey… do you do this with everyone?”

Manon stilled.

“What do you mean?”

You gestured vaguely between the two of you. The closeness. The touching. The way she hadn’t pulled back once.

She swallowed. “I—”

You looked at her then. Really looked.

And suddenly, it was clear.

“Oh,” you said quietly.

Manon’s eyes searched your face, nervous now, hopeful in a way that made your chest tighten.

“Oh,” you repeated.

Manon didn’t say anything right away.

She just stared at her hands on the table like they might give her the right words if she waited long enough.

The breakfast noise around you suddenly felt too loud, so she stood up abruptly.

“Can we—” she started, then stopped. “Can we talk somewhere else?”

You nodded immediately. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

She led you out to the hotel hallway, quiet this early in the morning.

She stopped near the window at the end, arms crossing over her chest like she didn’t know what to do with them if they were free.

There was a long pause.

“I’m bad at this,” Manon said finally, letting out a nervous laugh. “Like… really bad.”

You smiled a little. “Me too.”

She glanced at you, then away again. “I didn’t mean for it to be so obvious. I swear I tried to be normal.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That was you trying?”

She huffed. “See? This is what I mean.”

Another pause. She took a breath.

“I like you,” she said quickly, like ripping off a bandage.

“I’ve liked you for a long time. Probably longer than I should’ve. I kept telling myself it was just how I am, that I’m touchy and affectionate, and that it didn’t mean anything.”

Her voice dropped. “But it does. With you, it does.”

Your chest tightened.

“I don’t do that with everyone,” she continued, quieter now. “Not like that. I don’t notice everyone the way I notice you. I don’t wait for everyone. And I don’t… feel weird when they get close.”

She finally looked at you, eyes nervous but steady. “I didn’t want to make things uncomfortable. Or mess anything up. So I figured it was better to just be there. However you needed.”

You swallowed, heart racing. “Manon…”

“I know if you don’t feel the same, that’s okay,” she rushed.

“I really mean that. I just didn’t want you thinking I was pretending or messing with you or—”

“Hey,” you said softly, stepping closer. “It’s okay.”

She stopped talking immediately.

You took a breath, trying to organize your thoughts and failing a little.

“I didn’t realize it at first,” you admitted. “I just thought you were… you. And I liked being around you. A lot. I liked how safe it felt.”

Manon’s shoulders relaxed slightly.

“But then I started paying attention,” you continued. “And I realized you don’t look at other people the way you look at me. You don’t stay the way you stay.”

You laughed quietly, a little nervous. “And I think part of me knew before I let myself admit it.”

Her eyes softened.

“I like you too,” you said. “I just didn’t think it was allowed. Or smart. Or real.”

Manon blinked. “Wait really?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Really.”

She let out a shaky breath, half laugh, half disbelief. “Wow. Okay. I… wow.”

For a second, neither of you moved. Then she asked, tentative, “Can I…?”

You smiled. “Yeah.”

She reached out slowly, fingers brushing yours like she was making sure it was okay.

When you didn’t pull away, she laced them together, grip warm and a little tight.

“This is happening,” she said, stunned.

You squeezed her hand. “I think it is.”

There was another pause.

Not the heavy kind. Just the kind where neither of you knew what the next step was supposed to be.

Manon shifted her weight, still holding your hand. “So… um.”

“So,” you echoed.

She glanced at your joined hands, then back up at you.

“I don’t usually rush things,” she said, immediately contradicting her entire existence. “But I also don’t want to just… stand here.”

You smiled, nervous. “Yeah. Standing feels wrong.”

She laughed quietly, then went still. “Can I kiss you?”

The question came out rushed, like she’d been holding it in.

Your heart jumped. “Yeah. You can.”

Manon nodded once, like she was bracing herself, then leaned in

and stopped.

“Wait,” she said suddenly.

You blinked. “What?”

“I—” she sighed. “I don’t want to make it weird.”

You couldn’t help it. You laughed. “I think it’s already weird.”

She smiled at that, relieved. “Okay. Good.”

This time she leaned in again, slower. You both tilted your heads the same way and bumped noses.

“Ow sorry,” she said immediately.

You laughed again. “It’s okay.”

She adjusted, hesitating just long enough for you to wonder if she’d back out, then she kissed you.

It was soft. Slightly off. Her lips pressed against yours like she was afraid of doing too much.

You kissed back, tentative, and she froze for half a second before relaxing into it.

When you pulled away, you were both smiling like idiots.

Manon pressed her forehead against yours. “Was that okay?”

You nodded. “Yeah. It was really okay.”

She exhaled, laughing under her breath. “Thank god.”

Her thumb brushed your cheek, gentle, familiar already.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” she admitted.

You leaned in again, just barely. “You should’ve said something.”

She smiled, eyes soft. “I know.”

The war was full of battles won almost before being fought, but there were also gruesome losses. Lara knew that well, and that was the reason why she went onto the battlefield as a healer.

Most of the time she had to tend to young kids, warriors far too eager to prove themselves on the battlefield, used as bait by the older officials. It was rare to see Commanders, or even Captains. They weren't on the front field, they weren't the ones really risking their lives.

Or so she thought until you were brought to her. Captain Y/LN, barely hanging onto life after the siege of Ba Sing Se.

“Fought on her own ten earth benders so the rest of her battalion could retire. If not for her... They were important, so many losses would've made it more difficult.” One of the officers who brought the Captain spoke

“And what happened to her?” Lara asked as she started taking off the crushed parts of the armor.

“Rocks, big ones I'd say. Crushed her like an insect. We thought she was dead if not for the fire line she was drawing with her fingers.” The other official spoke, turning around in disgust as soon as he saw how the armor seemed to be fusing with her body.

“So she's alive.”

“Or was.”

If the Captain was alive, she didn't have a lot of time, so she quickly dismissed the warriors and got to work on it. There was a faint pulse, and an attempt at breathing. Y/N was alive, now Lara had to make sure to keep it that way.

Lara learned in the next few hours enough of Y/N, and she was sure she was learning even more than she could have if the Captain was awake. The warrior had used her own firebending skills to get a layer of magma on her body. It had burned her, leaving a red scar all over, but it had saved her, it had been what burnt the boulder into not crushing her completely. That layer of magma had been the difference between a heroic death or a battle for staying alive.

Now all healer and Y/N had to do was wait. Wait for her to come back alive, for her to heal.

Lara got a routine now that she had to take care of Y/N. She'd take care of all the other patients first, knowing there'd be no chance in the Captain, however once she was done with others, she'd go take care of the warrior laying in bed. She'd change her bandages, she'd treat her other wounds, and even look at the old scars the Captain had on her. There were many, and most of them were old.

At some point, they were moved from the tent on the outskirts of Ba Sing Se. The infirmary was set in a hospital belonging to the people of the Earth Kingdom, forced to give a wing for those injured in war. Lara was put in charge of said wing, and she still paid attention to all the people, slowly recovering.

People started to come to Y/N's room with time. All of them were people from the army, superiors, people you commanded, even those too young and too cocky came and even worried.

That's when Lara knew who Y/N was outside war. A girl born in the fire islands, family of warriors, of fire benders. None of them cared, or at least, no one who knew her well thought they did. Her military path was the only thing you've chosen, the only thing that would push her away from them. Y/N liked it that way.

All of the people she called friends knew she'd leave the infirmary and Ba Sing Se the second she could. The Captain was not someone who sought a place to call home, she wanted to keep serving, to be loved and cheered in a way that was hollow, but filled a void her family carved.

Many stories followed after that, and Lara got to hear many things about the abilities of Captain Y/LN. Great at war, a wonderful friend, kind to kids and elders, always making sure no civilian was harmed, only the warriors. Everything she heard about the Captain was so good she was starting to doubt why she was told so many good things.

“We swear she is like that, even if she'd get her ego in the sky if she heard us speaking so well of her.” Changbin was quick to speak, as if he had messed up some sort of plan.

“We're just expecting you to know that she's so good and caring that she'll launch herself to war at any second if you allow her.” Felix continued where Changbin left the phrase, trying to steer it into the path the trio wanted it to.

“And we don't want you to allow it so easily.” Karina, the commander and close friend of the Captain, finally stopped beating around the bush.

Lara understood the trio in front of her and Y/N were close, or at least as close as one could be in an army where anyone could die at any battle. But that didn't mean she would do what they wanted instead of just doing her job.

“I'll allow it when I see it fit.”

“Just... Make sure she's completely fit for it.” Changbin tried once again.

“Are you implying I should stop her from leaving?” Lara asked, the surprise in her voice not lost to the trio of warriors.

“Would you be willing to marry her for it?” Felix asked, making Lara take a step back in shock.

“Ignore them... They're always this crazy.”

The raspy voice was one Lara hadn't known yet, but it was still obvious who was speaking. It came from the bed Y/N had been, and by the difficulty of it, there was no question it was from her.

The four people in the room looked back at the Captain, who was already trying to sit down. Lara could now understand why she was told to retain Y/N, as it was obvious they were trying to convince everyone she was well enough to go.

Lara went to aid her, sitting her down carefully, not wanting to touch the ribs or any injury. The trio looked at her as if waiting for Lara to give them the get go, yet she only looked back at them with a look that admitted no more visitors from that moment.

“I think this visit is over, I need to check on her, and I need her quiet.”

Karina looked at Lara offended, as if she couldn't believe she was given orders. Yet, the dark skinned woman held her gaze, not allowing any argument.

“Yes, of course, she needs rest after all” Karina spoke like she was the one who gave the order.

The trio walked out, and as soon as they did so, Y/N tried to stand, stopped by Lara's hand.

“Captain Y/LN, you're in no shape to stand, you shouldn't even be sitting after what happened.”

Y/N knew that well, the pain shot up her spine worse than the feeling of the rock colliding against her. But pain was all she knew ever since her first battle against the Earth Kingdom, and pain was all she would know until there were no more earth benders in the world. Or maybe until she died in battle. Both things were equally possible.

“Miss, I think...”

“You can't speak either, you're still healing, and you have a lot of healing to do before you can speak again. So I'd advise you to be smart in which battles you are picking.”

Y/N would've said she was smart on that, she had led battles, real ones, and there had been many lives saved by her choices. However, with the way her body hurt she was going to also not choose that battle. She didn't need to speak at all.

Lara seemed to notice the reticence to keep herself quiet. But Lara didn't need to worry about Y/N moving or speaking, since she seemed to understand there was no need for her to do so.

Taking care of the Captain while she was awake wasn't as nice as it had been to take care of her when she was unconscious. She had far too many opinions, and tried far too many times to do things her way. Lara could now understand why other healers were so quick to let her go, and it was because Y/N was probably everyone's worst patient. However, Lara was not about to be part of that, much less when the Captain had broken ribs.

In the following days, Lara had to start relying on other healers to take care of other patients, realizing the Captain was an all time trouble. The healer wasn't sure if her watching the exits meant paranoia or the warrior planning an escape, and she noticed how Y/N clenched her jaw when the pain hit.

Lara decided she could work with the way the Captain seemed to bite her tongue each time she instructed her something, and how Y/N silently hated to be there. That didn't mean the Captain became an easier patient, she still waited for Lara to go out of her room to try to move, only to stop in the middle of it because it was too painful. She tried to ignore the fact that her body was too weak, that she needed help, but it wasn't as easy.

The healer learned to take care of her in silence, to look at the scars and burnt marks and not say a word, even if Y/N could see everything she wanted to say just through words. And even then, her hands lingered while she changed the bandage, while she helped without words to sit her, or even when Y/N went into coughing fits.

They barely even spoke, yet Y/N felt the room colder when Lara wasn't around, and the time passing quicker when she was around. Sometimes Y/N held onto Lara's sleeve when she coughed, when her still broken ribs felt like they were piercing her lungs. It was normal, Lara had told her, it'd pass with time as she healed.

Lara had also offered her different things to drink, it'll lessen the pain, it'd get her on some sort of unconsciousness that would prevent her from feeling pain. Y/N accepted none. She wanted to be awake, she was willing to accept the pain. Even if it meant having to stand the people close to her trying to convince her to stay in Ba Sing Se. She was even told the higher ups were planning to make her a commander, which made her even more antsy to get back to the battlefield. Even if some of her friends had asked her to stay in the capital.

“So, Commander Y/LN now?” Lara asked in a cheerful tone, knowing that would put Y/N in a good mood.

“Commander Y/N is fine.”

While Lara had expected the good mood to only go as far as to not try to fight her with the help, she hadn't expected the attempt at dropping formalities. And she wasn't about to refuse.

“Commander Y/N it is.”

Lara didn't say anything else, thinking it was one of those times where Y/N decided to test her lung strength by speaking more than two words. However, she didn't notice the now-Commander's frown on her face, almost finding it offensive that Lara didn't say anything else.

“You know, where I come from people tend to...”

The warrior started coughing almost violently, her amber eyes watering both from pain and the coughing. Lara quickly walked forward, not rushing, but worried nevertheless. She put a hand on Y/N's back and chest, making sure to not press but also keep her still.

“Nine words are all your body can handle. That's improvement.” It was not an encouragement from Lara, but rather just a statement of the development.

“I want to know your name.”

After those words had been said, Lara saw Y/N's eyes. For the first time, they lingered on her without studying her. Her eyes never lingered. They scanned, calculated, moved on. Whatever softness they might have held had been burned away long before the war reached Ba Sing Se. Maybe they never were warm, but always meant to be a fire that burnt everyone with its intensity.

Now, however, they weren't as threatening. They still had its fire, yes, but not the kind of fire of a person who broke into cities with ease.

It took her a few seconds to notice Y/N hadn't asked about her name, and no one who came into that room had either. She was called ma'am, Miss Healer, and the now Commander hadn't even tried to get her attention by calling her in any way. Each time she had spoken, Lara had heard. Y/N didn't really need to know her name, she could've kept on speaking like she was trying to give orders. For some reason, she didn't want to.

And she didn't need to give her a name, she could just tell her “Miss Raj is okay.” like she did with every other patient. But with a patient as stubborn as the commander, someone who spoke like she was giving orders, it felt almost like a personal victory to be on a first name basis. Especially if the commander had asked to be called by her name.

“I'm Lara.” After a small silence, one full of thoughts and eyes unwavering, Lara had answered.

“Lara.”

The name was said like she was committing that sound to memory, even if there was a ghost of a smile on her face.

That day there's something that changes. Before, they were simply following a routine, a routine Y/N allowed, now it was more like a dance. A battle, the Commander would say. A battle she was apparently losing because Lara could anticipate her movements, when she felt like she was being useless and needed to try to regain her strength. Those went especially bad, both because of the pain and the feeling that was left in her. Somehow, Lara knew how to soothe that.

Lara also knew Y/N would start pushing too hard someday, she'd hit the breaking point with her being named Commander unofficially, with the news of her battalion possibly being reassigned somewhere else, wherever the next stage of the war would be taken. She even knew the reason they both were still there was because Y/N wasn't fully healed, otherwise they'd both be wherever they were needed.

However, there was only enough she could stand while being quiet before it was too much.

It came down the day the Commander had tried to stand, unsupported, with no one there to see. The solitude had been a choice, as she knew Lara wouldn't agree. Lara had the idea of a long recovery, a slow one. One that would be good for her body, but not for the war outside. The type of recovery she should accept, but refused every time just to go back to the battlefield half recovered.

But as if she had a sixth sense with it, Lara had gotten in by the time Y/N was sliding out of bed, her feet almost touching the ground and face in between pain and concentration.

Lara got closer, slowly, just because she didn't want to scare Y/N into falling. But the Commander had seen her, had felt her presence even before she walked to her or even spoke.

“Get back into bed, you know this isn't doing you any good.” Lara's tone was sharp, despite the volume not raising at all

Y/N's eyes went to Lara, as if she was trying to decide her next movement. But as pain shot up her body, it was obvious she wouldn't be able to do anything but to get back to bed. She was still too weak to even stand, there would be no other option than to go back to the bed, being aided by Lara. Somehow, it felt more shameful than losing to earth benders.

“Ba Sing Se has fallen, the princess took out the Earth King, there's nothing you need to worry about. The war will be there by the time you recover.”

Lara knew it wasn't completely true, with Ba Sing Se falling, there was nothing stopping the Fire Nation from world domination, but there was probably some new war waiting to break as soon as that one finished.

“The Water Tribe can barely be called a threat, the war will be over by the time I'm out of here” Y/N was quick to call her out, even if her voice was barely there from the exertion.

Lara raised an eyebrow after hearing her, as if she wanted to point out she wouldn't even be able to make it into the barracks in the state she was in. Yes, now she could sit on her own, yes, now she could speak a few words, but there was a big jump between the progress she had made and the ability to stand up. And she was even further away from walking without being in pain and able to properly breath. Her lung was still not well enough, and her ribs were definitely not healed at all.

“And if you get out of here right now, you'll have a dozen battles that'll barely be worth being in, and then the war will be over, and then you'll have no war to fight. In either case, war is almost over.” And Lara was being optimistic with the dozen of battles. She'd probably fall even before the battle started, and she'd be left there to be counted as a loss in battle.

“Exactly, almost over, and I have to be there until it's over, it's my duty as a Commander, as part of the Fire Nation's Army.”

“And once there's no war? What's of you then? Half healed scars and some important wins at your hands.”

Lara could see the way Y/N swallowed, her words landing far too close to a truth she apparently didn't want to see.

“There's always a new fight, a new war. There's the Avatar, and there are rebels, there's always people.”

“So what? You charge into battle until you die? Because yes, there's always the next battle, but when are you allowed to be yourself and not a weapon serving the fire nation?” Only then she raised her voice, worry and anger mixing to make her voice crack.

Y/N looked at her, the way her eyes seemed to shine differently, like lone stars in the middle of a troubled night, showing feelings the Commander wasn't ready to face.

“You don't know anything about war.”

Lara moved away, as if those words had hurt her, and Y/N saw it on her face, something the woman quickly hid and masked with something akin to anger.

“I don't know war like you, that's true. But I know the aftermath of it. I've seen many people die, so many young people chasing glory, to serve Ozai right. I've seen so many people mourn their children, their parents, their siblings. I've seen what war causes, I've had to walk through battlefields before they went fully cold to try to save lives. So I'm sorry if I don't want to know or understand war, but I'd never treat it with respect when they've killed people on both sides.”

Y/N hadn't thought of it until that point, what Lara could have seen of war. Only then it dawned on the Commander that she hadn't been her only patient, and that she saved her because she had treated thousands of people on the brink of death before.

Only then, she realized that she had blood on her hands from killing people, and Lara had to stand seeing people die in her hands because she tried to save them. And only Lara lived with the guilty of the dead.

So far, Y/N never felt guilty, she never even thought about death, either hers or others. After all, all she knew was war, about having to kill or be killed, surviving by any means. That was all she knew, and what she never questioned. A family of warriors, military people who went back to even before Fire Lord Sozin decided to start expending the Nation. Even if she had intended to escape her family, she ended up doing everything they would have expected her to.

Before she could even say sorry to Lara, to offer her a sincere apology for being an idiot, Lara was already out of the room, leaving her alone to think about all the things she had done wrong, and all the things she shouldn't have said.

After that, Lara seemed to have found a new routine in the care of the Commander. She made sure her burnt scar healed, her ribs were healing well too, and even started to make sure to track the progress on what Y/N could do on her own. It all became too clinical, she didn't stay longer than needed, and neither engaged in anything outside of medical reports.

It was a complete withdrawal, one Y/N felt too deeply, and hurt more than her body ever hurt. Even when she started doing big steps in her recovery, it felt hollow, as Lara wasn't there. Or rather, she was there physically, but didn't react other than correcting something or telling her when it was enough.

The Commander felt there was not even space for her to ask for forgiveness, as Lara barely looked at her when she called her name, only to ask if the woman needed something and shut her down as soon as she realized the topic wasn't about the recovery.

Perhaps, Y/N had lost the chance to apologize, if she ever had, the moment Lara walked out after the argument.

By the time Y/N fully recovered, the eclipse had passed, and Omashu had fallen back into the Earth Kingdom's hands. Y/N knew everyone would be sent there, even herself, and her battalion. She was finally getting everything she wanted ever since she woke up, and yet... It didn't feel the same.

Lara watched her walk away with her hair braided by herself, and a tunic that looked too much like other martial tunics she had seen, the same red with the gold lining in the collar. The commander looked just like all the other warriors, so different from the body left in the stretcher for the gods to decide her fate.

And yet, Lara couldn't help but feel some kind of ache deep in her soul from seeing her go.

She was one of those higher ups she hated because they never cared about what war took from others, and somehow, she was deep inside her heart already.

Lara went back to work after Y/N. There were still people injured, especially since Ba Sing Se was revolting against the Fire Nation's regime, and there were small pockets of rebellion everywhere. She hadn't heard from Y/N ever again, like she had vanished into the war. The healer simply continued with her life, thinking the Commander was in some part of the Earth Kingdom, in the middle of the battlefield.

She didn't know how wrong she was until the truth came knocking on her door.

It had been a normal day, with the only patients there being some softly injured from revolts inside Ba Sing Se. Some young people who didn't even need to stay at the hospital after being taken care of. Lara thought it was one of those many warriors when she saw Y/N at the door.

“Why are you here?” Lara frowned, but there was no anger in it, but rather the surprise of seeing someone who she hadn't expected to see ever again.

“Commander Y/N Y/LN, in Charge of the security of Ba Sing Se.”

That made her freeze, almost as if she needed to process those words with all her body, and even her soul.

“May I come in?” Y/N asked, standing at the door with perfect posture, almost as if she was there to deliver militar orders.

“Yes, of course, please have a seat.”

The commander walked in almost shyly, completely different to the way she had spoken to Lara, and Lara was quick to close the door, still trying to piece together the new information with what she knew of Y/N. How could the girl who was trying to run back to battle with broken ribs stay in Ba Sing Se when war was getting harder everywhere? She could be in Omashu taking it back for the Fire Nation, or be back at the Capital, where the Avatar could burst in at any second. And yet, she was still in Ba Sing Se.

“I owe you an apology for what I've said the last time we spoke. You were right, you knew of war, and you knew even better than myself.”

“It's...” Lara had to quickly try to find her words, as this was starting to sound like a lie. “It's okay, we just knew war from different perspectives, you just never tried to see it a different way.”

”Well, yes. Which leads to the other thing you were right on.” Y/N spoke timidly, evidently not used to saying she was wrong.

“Is this your way to tell me you're dying, because I never thought I'd see the day you'd tell me you're right twice in a conversation, or apologize to me.”

“Seeing the worry in your eyes that day made me realize quite a few things. Before you, no one ever cared.”

Y/N's eyes dropped to the floor, the weight of the admission being bigger now that she had said it out loud. She knew her family didn't care, they would even see it as honor for her to die in battle, as they would've thought of their own deaths in the battlefield. Yet she hadn't even accepted out loud, that those she called her friends didn't care about their own lives, much less about hers.

“Yes, Karina, Changbin, and Felix were trying to get me to stay, but only because they knew I'd go back to the battlefield without even being able to stand.” There was another pause, a breath that came out staggered, and Lara couldn't help but get one of her hands over Y/N's “But in the end, they didn't have fear to lose me, like they just expected me my days to end in a battlefield.”

The Commander looked up, not looking at Lara in the eyes, but running over her face, like she was trying to not feel the truth by letting her mind wander in the woman in front of her.

“And I never had to worry about dying until you were scared for me, because before you, I could've died against those earthbenders and I would've been just another tomb.” Y/N sighed, but turned her arm around to hold Lara's hand. “I can't say I'm not the same warrior anymore, because a part of me will always be the firebender who throws herself to battle, but... I'm trying to not let it define myself, to be more than just a weapon for war.”

Lara stood up, letting go of the Commander's hand softly, yet the warrior expected her to now say she wouldn't forgive her right away. However, what she did surprised the woman, as Lara hugged her.

“I care about you. Not about Commander Y/LN, or about the mythical Ashen Fang, it's just Y/N for me.”

It felt like being born again. Not the moment where she woke up after being on the brink of death, but right there, when someone had made her be seen as a person, and not a weapon. She had believed earning the title of Ashen Fang would mean something, would give her some sense of self. None of what she felt compared to hearing Lara say she cared about her.

She didn't know what being Y/N meant, she was still figuring out what she was outside of being a warrior, but what she knew was that she wanted Lara in whatever it meant to live as herself.

“Miss Lara Raj?” Y/N spoke as she put her arms awkwardly around the healer, not knowing if interrupting the calmness was a good idea.

“Woah, full name, back to martial Y/N I see.”

Lara felt something new happen under her jab, and that was the laugh she heard from Y/N coming from her chest.

“Lara is still okay then?”

“I'm hugging you, having you call me Lara wouldn't be strange.”

“Alright then, Lara, I wanted to invite you to come with me to a nice tea house I've found near. They serve what I've come to think of as the best Oolong and Orange Blossom tea.”

“Y/N is a tea master, that was unexpected. I'll accept, but only so I can judge your taste better.”