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jupiterpilgrim · 9 days ago

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Before the World Knew

Part 1

Yoo Jimin (Karina) x male reader

word count: 20K

The automatic glass doors hiss shut behind you, sealing you back into the humid chaos of a Seoul afternoon. You shove your hands deep into your pockets, shoulders slumped, the stiff collar of the button-down you wore specifically for this interview suddenly feeling like a noose. "Nailed it", you think. Yeah, right.

Nailed it like a coffin lid.

That interview was a fucking train wreck. Stuttering over standard questions, sweating through your shirt despite the blasting AC, pretty sure you called the interviewer by the wrong name at least once. You can practically feel the rejection email drafting itself in their system right now. Landing a decent PR job in this city is proving harder than cracking Fort Knox with a toothpick. You thought graduating with a Public Relations degree, even from a university abroad, would give you some kind of edge. Turns out, it just makes you another drop in an ocean teeming with overqualified, hyper-competitive graduates who probably know the right people (something you definitely lack).

It's been a few weeks since you touched down at Incheon, hauling two overweight suitcases and a boatload of naive optimism. Seoul. The big leagues. You figured, new city, new start, maybe finally shake off that aimless post-college dread. You found a shoebox apartment that costs a criminal amount of money and have been pounding the pavement, digitally and literally, trying to find something, anything, that doesn’t involve fetching coffee or making copies for peanuts. So far? Nothing. Zip. Zilch. Just a growing pile of polite "we'll keep your resume on file" emails and the soul-crushing realization that your savings account is evaporating faster than puddle water in August.

Only a divine miracle would be able to make you feel anything remotely close to happiness now.

You sigh, kicking at a loose pebble on the sidewalk. The city rushes around you, a blur of impeccably dressed office workers, delivery scooters weaving through traffic like suicidal insects, the distant thrum of k-pop blasting from a storefront. It’s overwhelming, vibrant, and right now, utterly indifferent to your dwindling prospects. You just want a decent meal and maybe to wallow in front of Netflix for twelve hours straight.

Lost in your pity party, you don't see the person turning the corner until it's too late. Thump. You stumble back, colliding shoulders hard enough to knock the phone clean out of their hand. It clatters onto the pavement with a sickening plastic crack.

"Oh, shit! Sorry, my bad!" you blurt out, scrambling to pick it up, praying the screen isn't spiderwebbed. You snatch the phone (miraculously intact) and look up to hand it back, apology ready on your lips.

And then your brain just… stops.

Everything stops. The noise of the city, the frantic rush, the self-pity spiral: it all evaporates. Because the person standing in front of you, rubbing their shoulder with a slight wince, eyes wide behind a pair of large, stylish sunglasses… No. It can't be.

She’s smaller than you remember, but the face… fuck, that face. The perfect, almost unreal symmetry, the sharp jawline softened by full cheeks, the distinctive curve of her lips, currently pressed into a thin line of surprise. Even with the sunglasses and a simple baseball cap pulled low, obscuring most of her hair, it's undeniably her. Years have passed, sure. She’s changed. She’s… Karina now, a name screamed by millions, plastered on billboards, dominating charts. But beneath the idol gloss, beneath the global fame, it’s still her.

It's still Jimin. Yoo Jimin. Your childhood best friend. The girl you haven't spoken to since she vanished into the K-Pop trainee vortex years ago.

She takes the phone, her fingers brushing yours for a split second, sending a jolt up your arm that has nothing to do with static electricity. Her gaze flicks up, meeting yours through the dark lenses. You see confusion flicker there, then a dawning recognition that mirrors your own shock.

Her lips part slightly. “No way…”

Her voice. It’s softer than you remember, maybe a bit huskier, but it’s still Jimin’s voice. Hearing her say your name after all this time feels like being struck by lightning. You just stare, dumbfounded, unable to form a coherent thought.

She pushes her sunglasses up onto her head, revealing those large, dark eyes you used to get lost in during boring classes back home. They widen further as she really looks at you.

“Holy shit, it is you! Oh my god! What the hell are you doing here?”

The sheer, unadulterated surprise in her voice snaps you back to reality. You manage a shaky laugh, running a hand through your hair. “Jimin? Wow. Uh, hi.” Eloquent, very eloquent.

She laughs, a bright, musical sound that cuts through the city noise. It’s the same laugh you remember, the one that always made your stomach do stupid flips. “Hi? That’s all you’ve got after, what, six years? Seven?”

“Something like that,” you say, still reeling. “Damn. You, uh… you look…” Famous? Untouchable? Like a goddess who accidentally stumbled onto a mortal sidewalk? “…different.” Lame. You mentally kick yourself.

Jimin grins, the expression lighting up her whole face. It’s that specific grin, the one that crinkles the corners of her eyes. God, you missed that. “Yeah, well, a few things have happened since middle school.” She gestures vaguely, a hint of playful understatement in her tone.

“Yeah, no kidding,” you say, finally finding your footing. “Saw you… everywhere, basically. Aespa, huh? That’s insane, Jimin. Congratulations.”

Her smile softens slightly at the use of her real name. “Thanks. It’s… been wild.” She glances around quickly, lowering her voice a fraction. “But seriously, what are you doing in Seoul? Last I heard, you were going to college somewhere overseas?”

“Yeah, I was,” you explain, stuffing your hands back in your pockets. “Finished up my PR degree a few months back. Moved here a few weeks ago to, you know, try and find a job. Join the rat race.” You grimace, thinking of the disastrous interview. “Not going great so far, but hey, Seoul’s cool.”

Her eyes light up, genuine happiness flashing across her features. “You live here now? That’s amazing! Oh my god, I can’t believe it!” She bounces slightly on the balls of her feet, looking genuinely thrilled. The reaction warms something inside you that the job rejection had chilled.

“Yeah, it’s… definitely a change of pace,” you admit. It hits you again: you’re standing on a random street corner, catching up with Karina from Aespa. One of the biggest names in K-Pop. Your childhood friend, the one who disappeared into SM Entertainment and became someone else entirely. What are the actual, statistical chances of this happening? It feels like the universe is fucking with you, dangling a piece of your past right in front of your face when you least expect it. Fate? Maybe. Or just Seoul being a surprisingly small world sometimes.

“We have to catch up properly,” Jimin says immediately, her excitement palpable. “Like, actually talk. Are you busy right now?”

You glance down at your slightly rumpled interview clothes. “Uh, not exactly. Just finished bombing a job interview, so my schedule’s wide open for existential dread and instant noodles.”

She winces sympathetically, then pulls out her phone again (the one you nearly shattered). “Okay, first, give me your number. Is it still the same old one?” You rattle off your new Korean number, and she quickly taps it in, sending you a test message immediately. Your phone buzzes in your pocket.

It’s really you!!!

You look up, grinning. “Got it.”

“Good.” She slides her phone away, pulling her cap down a bit lower. “Look, I’m kind of on my way to practice right now, but are you free later this week? Or maybe this weekend? We could grab coffee? Drinks? Food? Whatever works.”

Hanging out with Jimin again. After all these years. After… everything.

“Yeah,” you hear yourself say, maybe a little too quickly. “Yeah, definitely. Coffee sounds great. Or drinks. Whatever’s easier for you, I know you’re probably crazy busy.”

“Never too busy for you,” she says, and the way she smiles; warm, genuine, a flash of the girl you knew before the fame… makes your heart do that stupid flip again. “Seriously, text me when you’re free. We’ll figure it out. It’s… it’s really, really good to see you.”

“You too, Jimin,” you reply, meaning it more than you thought possible. “Like, really fucking good.”

She laughs again, shaking her head. “Okay, I actually have to run before my manager sends out a search party.” She steps back, adjusting her cap and sunglasses, the idol persona clicking back into place. But just before she turns away, her eyes meet yours one last time, and there’s a spark there; something familiar, something you both thought was long buried.

“Text me!” she calls over her shoulder, before disappearing into the flow of the crowd, leaving you standing there, blinking in the afternoon sun, wondering if any of that actually just happened.

—

The days following that almost-too-surreal-to-be-true bump-in on the street are a weird blur of text messages and tentative plans. You’re talking to Yoo Jimin. Karina. Actually talking. Not just a polite exchange, but actual back-and-forth, interspersed with smiley faces and those little KakaoTalk character reactions she always overused, even back then. You finally manage to nail down a time to meet properly, a casual stroll through one of Seoul’s sprawling, meticulously landscaped parks. Her idea. Probably safer for her, less chance of being mobbed.

You tell yourself the knot in your stomach is just… nerves. Normal, run-of-the-mill nerves. Anyone would be a little keyed up about meeting a global superstar, right? Especially one you used to share juice boxes and secrets with in your dorky pre-teen years. Yeah, that’s it. It’s the Karina factor. Definitely not the Jimin factor, not the sudden, unwelcome resurgence of that colossal, all-consuming crush you thought you’d successfully buried under six years of distance and a different continent.

Nope. Not at all.

But your brain, the traitorous bastard, keeps replaying flashes of the past. Jimin, with her scraped knees and fierce determination during school sports days. Jimin, laughing so hard milk nearly shot out her nose in the cafeteria. Jimin, biting her lip in concentration while trying to teach you a ridiculously complicated handshake. These images, once faded and dusty, are now vivid, almost painfully sharp, overlaid with the equally mind-boggling reality of who she is now. It’s a strange cocktail, this potent nostalgia mixed with the sheer absurdity of her current life. You feel like you’re about to meet two people at once: the girl next door and the untouchable idol.

—

You spot her near the park entrance, leaning against a cherry tree that’s probably in full, glorious bloom (though you barely register the flowers). She’s wearing a dress today, something new, light, and airy that dances around her knees when the breeze catches it. It's a soft, pastel color that makes her skin look even more luminous. Simple, yet on her, it looks like it walked straight off a runway. Her hair is down, long and dark, catching the sunlight. Even from a distance, she’s ridiculously, effortlessly beautiful.

“Hey,” you say, trying for casual, hoping your voice doesn’t crack.

She turns, and that smile (the one that could probably power a small city) spreads across her face. “Hey yourself! You found it okay?”

“Yeah, a park. Pretty hard to miss,” you joke, falling into step beside her as you start down a wide, tree-lined path. It’s surprisingly uncrowded for a weekend afternoon.

The conversation flows easier than you expected, or maybe feared. You start with the safe stuff: how crazy it is to see each other after so long, the "what are the odds" of it all. She’s a natural in front of a camera, even if it’s just her phone. Every few minutes, she’ll stop, pointing. “Ooh, here! The light’s perfect.” And you, feeling like an unqualified, suddenly very sweaty personal photographer, do your best to capture her. She poses with an easy grace, a slight tilt of her head, a playful smile, a candid laugh as a gust of wind messes with her hair. Each shot is stunning. She’s just…photogenic doesn’t even begin to cover it. She makes a random park bench look like a high-fashion editorial.

“So,” she says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear after a particularly enthusiastic mini-photoshoot by a koi pond, “tell me everything. College overseas must have been wild. Did you turn into some party animal I wouldn’t recognize?”

You laugh. “Hardly. Mostly just late-night study sessions fueled by questionable instant ramen and an unhealthy amount of caffeine. PR’s no joke. But it was good. Different. What about you? From quiet Jimin who was scared of the dark to… well, Karina, leader of Aespa, breaking records and being the it girl of this generation. How does that even happen?”

She chuckles, a soft, genuine sound. “It’s… a lot. Still feels unreal sometimes. The training was brutal, no lie. There were days I wanted to quit, thought I wasn’t good enough.” Her voice drops a little, a hint of vulnerability seeping through. “But then… we debuted, and suddenly everything changed. The fans, the music, performing… it’s a different kind of magic, you know?”

You nod, trying to imagine it. The Jimin you knew was fiercely talented, Always singing and dancing at school talent shows, but this level of fame? It’s on another planet. “I can’t even picture it. Standing on those huge stages, millions of people screaming your name.”

“It’s terrifying and amazing all at once,” she admits. “But enough about me. What about your job hunt? Any better luck since… the sidewalk incident?” She grins, and you groan.

“Marginally. Had a couple more interviews. One was for a junior PR role at a gaming company, actually sounded pretty cool, but I think I fumbled the ‘what’s your five-year plan?’ question. Said something about ‘not starving’ which, in hindsight, maybe wasn’t the power move I thought it was.”

Jimin laughs, bumping your shoulder playfully. “Hey, honesty is a virtue. Besides, gaming PR? You’d be great at that. You practically lived in arcades back in the day.”

“True. But ‘great at Street Fighter’ doesn’t exactly scream ‘hire me’ on a resume.” You sigh. “It’s tough out here, man. Competition’s insane.”

She nods, her expression turning more serious. “How are you managing? Like, financially? Seoul’s not cheap.”

You shrug, trying to keep it light. “Oh, you know. Freelance gigs here and there. Been doing some weekend shifts at a department store in Myeongdong, in the electronics section. Surprisingly good for people-watching. And it pays the bills. Barely.” You force a smile. “It’s fine. Temporary. Just until something in PR lands.”

Jimin stops walking, turning to face you properly. She’s biting her lip, a thoughtful expression in her eyes. “Send me your resume.”

“What?”

“Your resume,” she repeats, more firmly this time. “And your portfolio, if you have one. Anything that shows off your PR skills. I’ll send it to the team at SM.”

You can’t help it; a laugh bursts out of you, loud and incredulous. “Jimin, no. Come on.” You even raise your hands in a placating gesture. “I appreciate it, seriously, that’s incredibly sweet of you, but… SM Entertainment? They’re not going to hire some random, inexperienced guy who just rolled into the country. Especially not for their PR team. They probably have a waiting list a mile long of geniuses with connections.”

Her expression doesn’t waver. If anything, it becomes more determined. “Don’t doubt me. And don’t doubt yourself. You’re smart, you’re good with people, you get how things work. Just send it to me. What’s the worst that can happen? They say no? Big deal. You’re already getting that.”

There’s a conviction in her voice that’s hard to argue with, even though every rational part of your brain is screaming that this is a pipe dream. “I… I don’t want you to go out on a limb for me, Jimin. Especially if it’s for nothing.”

“It’s not for nothing if I believe in you, is it?” she says softly, and damn her, that hits you right in the feelings. “Just promise me you’ll send it. Please?”

You let out a long breath, rubbing the back of your neck. She’s looking at you with that earnest, hopeful expression, and you know you’re going to cave. “Okay, okay. I promise. I’ll send it tonight.” You still think it’s a snowball’s chance in hell, but for her? You’ll try.

She beams, her good mood instantly restored. “Good! It would be so crazy if we ended up working at the same place, wouldn’t it? Like fate, again!”

“Yeah,” you agree, a small, hesitant smile on your own face. “Completely insane.” But the thought, as outlandish as it seems, sparks a tiny, traitorous flicker of hope. It’s nice, you realize, to have someone in your corner. Someone who, despite the years and the fame, still seems to genuinely care.

“Ice cream break?” she suggests, pointing towards a small vendor cart surrounded by happy kids. “My treat. To celebrate your future employment at SM.”

“Don’t jinx it,” you groan, but you’re already following her, the weight on your shoulders feeling a little lighter than it did before.

The ice cream is sweet, cold, and a welcome distraction. You talk about lighter things: terrible movies you’ve both seen, the weirdest food trends in Seoul, the time you both tried to dye your hair with Kool-Aid in eighth grade and ended up looking like deranged parrots. It’s easy, comfortable, like no time has passed at all.

As the sun begins to dip lower, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, you find yourselves back near the park entrance.

“This was… really great, Jimin,” you say, meaning it. “Thanks for today.”

“I had fun too,” she replies, her smile soft. “We definitely need to do this again. And sooner than another six years, okay?”

“Deal.”

She pulls out her phone. “Okay, one more photo. But this time, you have to be in it.”

You instinctively start to protest. “Oh, no, I’m good. I’ll just–”

“Nope! Non-negotiable,” she says, already switching to the front-facing camera. She grabs your arm, pulling you closer until your shoulders are pressed together. You’re acutely aware of her warmth, the faint scent of her perfume, the way her hair tickles your cheek. She holds the phone up, angling it for the perfect shot. “Okay, smile! Or… try not to look like you’re being held hostage.”

You manage a slightly stiff, awkward smile as she snaps a few pictures. She scrolls through them, a pleased expression on her face. “Cute! See? Not so bad.” She shows you one where you’re both actually smiling, the city lights just starting to twinkle in the background. It is cute. This crazy, unexpected reunion, now captured in a small digital frame.

She sends the photo to you, and as you look at it on your own screen, a feeling of… something warm, something hopeful, settles in your chest. Okay, maybe this move to Seoul wasn't a complete disaster after all. Maybe fate really does have a weird sense of humor. And maybe that spark you both felt isn't just a relic of the past.

—

You’re elbow-deep in a tangled mess of headphones and Bluetooth speakers at your soul-crushing electronics store job a few days later, trying to explain to a very persistent customer why his twenty-year-old MP3 player probably isn’t compatible with the latest Bose noise-cancelling monstrosities, when your phone buzzes in your pocket. You almost ignore it (probably another scam likely call) but the insistent vibration continues. Excusing yourself with a strained smile, you fish it out.

Unknown number.

You almost swipe it away, but something makes you answer. “Hello?”

A clear female voice speaks your name.

“Uh, yes, it’s me,” you reply, already bracing for a sales pitch.

“This is Kim Hana from SM Entertainment’s Human Resources department. We received your resume regarding a potential opening in our Artist Relations team, specifically working with Aespa. Are you available for an interview later this week?”

Your brain short-circuits. SM Entertainment? Aespa? You almost swallow your tongue. The headphones in your hand slip, clattering onto the counter. The customer gives you a weird look. You try to speak, but only a strangled squeak comes out. Clearing your throat violently, you manage, “Excuse me? SM… Entertainment?”

“Yes,” Ms. Kim says, her voice betraying no hint of surprise at your shock. “Yoo Jimin forwarded your details. She spoke very highly of you. We have an opening for a Junior PR and Communications liaison for Aespa’s team. It involves assisting with press releases, social media coordination, and general support for the group's public-facing activities. Would Thursday at 2 PM work for you?”

Yoo Jimin. Holy shit. She actually did it. Your head is spinning. This has to be a prank. But the voice on the other end sounds far too official, far too… SM.

“Uh, yes! Yes, Thursday at 2 PM is… perfect,” you stammer, your mind racing a mile a minute. Junior PR liaison. For aespa. Working with Jimin. This is insane.

“Excellent. We’ll send a confirmation email with the details and address. Please bring a physical copy of your resume. We look forward to meeting you.”

“Thank you! I mean, yes, looking forward to it too!”

The line clicks dead. You stare at your phone, then at the annoyed customer, then back at your phone. Your first instinct is to call Jimin. You dial her number before you even consciously decide to, heart hammering against your ribs.

She picks up on the third ring. “Hey! What’s up?” Her voice is bright, cheerful.

“Jimin! You… you actually sent my resume to SM?” you blurt out, pacing behind the counter.

She laughs, that easy, musical sound. “Of course, I did. I told you I would, didn’t I? So, did they call you?” There’s a playful, knowing tone in her voice. She knew.

“They just called! I have an interview on Thursday! For a PR liaison role with Aespa! Jimin, this is… I don’t even know what to say. Thank you isn’t enough.”

“Hey, no need to thank me,” she says, her voice warm. “You’re qualified. You just needed a foot in the door. Now go ace that interview. I know you can.”

“But… SM? And working with your team? That’s… that’s insane.”

“Is it?” she teases. “Or is it fate? Again?” You can practically hear her smiling. “Just be yourself. They’ll love you. And hey,” her voice drops a little, becoming softer, more personal, “it would be pretty cool to see you around the office.”

“Yeah,” you manage, your voice a little breathless. “Yeah, it really would.”

—

Two days later, you’re standing in front of the imposing SM Entertainment building, dressed in your only decent suit, clutching your resume like they’re religious relics. The place is even more intimidating from the inside. Sleek, modern, buzzing with an undercurrent of focused energy. You see trainees rushing by, staff members with headsets, snippets of music drifting from behind closed doors. It’s a whole other world.

The interview itself is a blur. You meet with Ms. Kim from HR and a stern-faced senior manager from the Artist Relations department. They grill you on your PR experience (minimal, aside from college projects), your knowledge of the K-Pop industry (decent, from a fan perspective), and your ability to handle pressure (questionable, judging by the sweat currently soaking your palms). You try your best, channeling every ounce of professionalism you can muster, talking about your degree, your adaptability, your passion for creative communication. You highlight your international college experience, hoping it sounds impressive. You don’t mention Jimin, not directly, but you talk about your admiration for Aespa’s innovative concepts and global appeal.

When it’s over, you’re convinced you’ve blown it. You thank them, shake their hands, and walk out feeling a familiar wave of disappointment. Well, at least you got to see the inside of SM. That’s something, right?

You’re about to head for the exit, already composing a ‘thanks anyway’ text to Jimin, when you spot her. She’s further down the hallway, talking to someone who looks like a choreographer, dressed in stylish dance practice gear. Your heart does a nervous leap. You almost don’t approach her, but then she turns, her eyes meeting yours. A bright smile instantly lights up her face.

“Hey! How did it go?” she asks, excusing herself from the choreographer and walking towards you.

You can’t help but smile back, despite the lingering anxiety. “Hey. It was… an experience.”

She tilts her head, searching your face. “That doesn’t sound too enthusiastic.”

You sigh. “Honestly, Jimin, I think I tanked it. I was a nervous wreck. Pretty sure I forgot my own name at one point.”

Jimin just laughs, lightly punching your arm. “Oh, stop it. I’m sure you were great.” Then, her eyes sparkling with mischief, she asks, “So, did they offer you the job on the spot? Did they weep with joy at finding such a PR prodigy?”

“Hardly. They said they’d be in touch. Which is corporate speak for ‘don’t call us, we’ll call you, and by ‘we’ll call you,’ we mean never.’”

Just as you say it, your phone buzzes. You glance down. It’s Ms. Kim from SM. Your blood runs cold. Jimin peers at your screen, her eyes widening. “Well? Answer it!”

With trembling fingers, you swipe to answer. “Hello?”

“Hello,” Ms. Kim’s voice says. “We were very impressed with your interview. The team feels your background and enthusiasm would be a great asset. We’d like to offer you the Junior PR and Communications Liaison position for Aespa. Congratulations.”

You actually sway on your feet. Jimin grabs your arm, her eyes wide and questioning. You just stare at her, speechless, a slow, disbelieving grin spreading across your face. You manage to stammer out a “Thank you, I accept!” to Ms. Kim, who tells you HR will be in touch with the contract and start date details.

As soon as you hang up, Jimin is practically bouncing. “You got it?! You actually got the job?!”

You nod, still in shock, then burst out laughing. “I got the job! Holy shit, Jimin, I actually got the job!”

“I told you!” she exclaims, throwing her arms around you in a spontaneous, ecstatic hug. You hug her back, lifting her off the ground slightly, both of you laughing like idiots in the middle of an SM Entertainment hallway. When you finally set her down, you look at her, your heart full. “Thank you, Jimin. Seriously. This… this is because of you. I owe you big time.”

She waves her hand dismissively, but her smile is radiant. “You owed me for that time I covered for you when you broke Mrs. Lee’s prize-winning bonsai tree in fifth grade. Now we’re even.” She winks. “Besides, it’s going to be awesome having you here. Just try not to be too starstruck all the time, okay?”

“No promises,” you say, still grinning like a fool. Working at SM. With Jimin. This is actually happening.

—

Your first day is a whirlwind. You’re officially part of Aespa’s core PR team. The office is a hive of activity, a stark contrast to the quiet desperation of your job hunt. You meet your direct supervisor, a sharp, no-nonsense woman named Ms. Park, who walks you through your responsibilities: drafting social media posts, liaising with journalists (under strict supervision, of course), helping coordinate schedules for interviews and appearances, and generally being an all-hands-on-deck support for the group’s public image. It’s a lot to take in, but it’s exciting. You’re actually doing PR, not just theorizing about it in a classroom. And the best part? Your desk is in the same wing as Aespa’s dedicated team rooms. You can hear snippets of their music, see them occasionally passing in the hallways. It’s surreal.

During a much-needed lunch break, you’re trying to decipher the SM cafeteria menu when Jimin appears at your elbow, a mischievous glint in her eye.

“Lost, newbie?” she teases.

“Completely,” you admit. “This place is a maze. And I think I accidentally ordered fermented skate for lunch.”

Jimin laughs, shaking her head. “Rookie mistake. Come on, I’ll show you the good stuff. And then there are some people I want you to meet.”

She leads you through the bustling cafeteria to a slightly quieter corner where three other girls are already seated, chatting animatedly. Your breath catches. Ningning. Giselle. Winter. The Aespa. In the flesh. Eating bibimbap.

Jimin grins, pulling you forward. “Girls, here he is. He’s the new PR liaison for our team. And also my super old, super dorky childhood friend.”

All three of them look up, their expressions ranging from curious to friendly.

Ningning, with bright, expressive eyes, offers a wide smile. “Oh, you’re the friend Jimin’s been talking about! Welcome to the chaos! I’m Ning Yizhuo.” Her energy is infectious.

Giselle, looking effortlessly chic even in casual clothes, gives you a cool, appraising nod. “Hey. Aeri Uchinaga. Or Giselle, whichever you prefer. Nice to finally meet you. Jimin’s been… enthusiastic about you joining.”

Winter, with her softer, almost ethereal beauty, offers a shy smile. “Hi. I’m Kim Minjeong. It’s nice to have you on the team.”

You manage to stammer out hellos, feeling completely out of your depth. You’re shaking hands with idols, people you’ve seen on giant screens and in glossy magazines. And they’re just… eating lunch. Talking. Laughing. It’s the most normal, yet utterly abnormal, situation you’ve ever been in.

The conversation is surprisingly easy. They ask you about yourself, where you’re from, how you know Jimin. You keep your answers vague about the ‘how you know Jimin’ part, sticking to the ‘childhood friends’ line. They talk about their upcoming schedule, a new music video concept, the usual idol banter. They’re all incredibly nice, welcoming, and you find yourself relaxing, actually enjoying their company. It’s still hard to reconcile these friendly, down-to-earth girls with the powerhouse performers they are on stage.

After lunch, as you’re heading back to your desk, Jimin falls into step beside you.

“So? What did you think?” she asks. “They’re pretty cool, right?”

“Yeah,” you say, still a little dazed. “They’re… amazing. And this whole thing is still kind of blowing my mind, to be honest. Working here, meeting them, seeing you…”

She bumps your shoulder playfully. “See? Told you it would be fun. It’s really good to have you here. Like, really good.” There’s an undercurrent to her words, a warmth that makes your chest feel tight.

“It’s good to be here, Jimin,” you reply. You look at her, and her presence so close to you makes you feel a mix of strange sensations; your childhood friend, now a global superstar, who somehow pulled strings to get you a job at one of the biggest entertainment companies in the world, just so you could be close. The thought is overwhelming, terrifying, and exhilarating all at once.

The dynamic between you is already shifting, the old, forgotten feelings bubbling closer to the surface now that you’re in her orbit again. And as you walk back to your new desk, you wonder if she is also feeling the same way as you.

—

It’s been a couple of weeks since you officially became Junior PR and Communications Liaison for Aespa, and that initial feeling (the one that hit you walking back to your desk after Jimin’s introduction to her members, that premonition of everything changing) hasn’t faded. If anything, it’s intensified.

You try to shove it down, to compartmentalize. You’re here to work, to prove Ms. Park, your sharp-as-a-tack supervisor, right for hiring you (even if Jimin’s recommendation was the battering ram that got your resume through the door). You spend your days buried in spreadsheets tracking social media engagement, drafting press release snippets that get dissected and reassembled ten times over, and fetching coffee more often than you’d care to admit. It’s grunt work, mostly, the bottom rung of the PR ladder, but it’s real. You’re in the game. And every so often, you catch a glimpse of the glittering prize: a quick, positive comment from Ms. Park on a draft, a nod of approval from the senior team members, the quiet satisfaction of a task completed efficiently.

Your attempts to maintain an air of cool professionalism around Jimin are… a work in progress. A fucking daily battle, if you’re being honest with yourself. She, on the other hand, seems to have no such internal conflict. Jimin is clearly, unequivocally, incandescently happy you’re there. It’s in the way her eyes light up when she spots you across the bustling open-plan office, the way she makes a beeline for your desk pretending to need a paperclip or ask about a non-existent email, her shoulder brushing yours a little too long as she leans in. It’s in the extra-bright "Morning!" that cuts through the general office murmur, often accompanied by a smuggled pastry from some high-end bakery she “just happened to pass.”

You try to reciprocate with a polite, colleague-appropriate smile and a "Morning, Jimin-ssi," emphasizing the honorific, a subtle reminder of the professional context. Sometimes. Other times, when she winks, or her smile is just for you, that old, familiar warmth floods your chest, and "Jimin-ah" slips out before you can catch it, a relic from a time before honorifics and idol personas mattered between you two. Her answering grin on those occasions is like a shot of pure sunshine, potent and dangerously addictive.

The other Aespa members are great. Ningning often swings by your desk to ask about some new Western slang she’s heard or to show you funny videos on her phone. She’s easy to talk to, her curiosity genuine, and you find yourself quickly falling into a comfortable banter with her. Giselle is cooler, more reserved initially, but possesses a dry wit that catches you off guard and makes you laugh out loud. She’s sharp, observant, and you get the feeling not much gets past her. Winter is quieter, often observing with a gentle smile, but when she does speak, it’s thoughtful and kind. You make a point of being equally friendly and professional with all of them, mindful of your role. You’re part of their team, here to support them, not to be a distraction or play favorites.

It's during one of these interactions with Ningning, about a week into your third week, that you notice it for the first time. You’re both hunched over your monitor, Ningning giggling as you try to explain the nuances of a particularly baffling English meme that’s gone viral. You’re leaning back in your chair, pointing at the screen, and she’s close, peering over your shoulder, her hair tickling your ear. It's an innocent, work-adjacent moment.

"Ah! So that's what it means!" Ningning exclaims, clapping her hands together. "Okay, okay, I get it now. You have a future as an official idol translator."

You chuckle. "Modesty aside, I am really well versed in the nuances of the English language, especially when it comes to memes."

"Apparently!”

The weeks bleed into a month, then two. You’re no longer the wide-eyed newbie fumbling with the coffee machine or getting lost on the way to the third-floor dance studios. You’ve found your rhythm in the relentless pulse of SM Entertainment. Your PR drafts for Aespa are getting fewer red marks from Ms. Park, you’ve memorized the building’s labyrinthine layout (mostly), and you actually feel like you’re contributing something more than just an extra body in meetings. You’ve even started to differentiate between the dozen slightly different shades of black that seem to constitute 90% of the staff’s wardrobe.

The other members of Aespa have become familiar, friendly faces. You’re careful, always. Professionalism is your mantra. You’re staff. They’re idols. But in those stolen moments, the casual chats in the quieter corners of the building, a genuine camaraderie is forming.

Jimin, though… Jimin is another story. She’s undeniably, overtly thrilled to have you around. Her smiles are brighter when directed at you, her laughter louder. She seeks you out for “work-related questions” that could have easily been answered by anyone else, her hand lingering a fraction too long on your arm when she makes a point. She brings you your favorite coffee "just because she was passing by the good place." While a part of you, the part that still remembers sweaty palms and a racing heart from your teenage years, basks in that focused attention, the professional, adult part of you is on high alert.

You’ve seen the glances. The whispers that die down when you approach a group of staff members. The subtle, almost imperceptible raising of eyebrows from some of the senior managers when Jimin’s interactions with you are a little too familiar, a little too warm for a global superstar and a junior PR guy. Idols, especially female idols at the top of their game, aren’t supposed to be this close, this visibly chummy, with male staff. It’s a dangerous line, and you’re terrified she’s either blissfully unaware of it or, worse, doesn't care. You try to dial back your own responses, keeping things friendly but more reserved, adding the honorific "Jimin-ssi" more consistently, hoping she’ll take the hint. Sometimes she does, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes before her professional mask slips on. Other times, she just bulldozes past it with that radiant grin, leaving you feeling like you’re walking a tightrope over a pit of vipers.

Her thing with the other members… that’s new. And it’s weird, kinda unsettling if you’re being honest with yourself. It’s never anything, like, obvious. She never says anything. But you see it.

Or you think you do.

It’s in the little things. Like when you’re cracking up with Ningning, sharing some stupid meme, and you catch a glimpse of Karina out of the corner of your eye. There’s a flicker of something in her expression, a barely-there tightening around her mouth before it smooths out into a small, polite smile. It’s so fast you question if you even saw it.

Or when Giselle gets all close, leaning into your space to show you a video on her phone, and Karina’s eyes just seem to… stick. They linger on you for a beat too long, her gaze heavy in a way you can’t quite decipher before she blinks and looks away, suddenly engrossed in her own phone.

Maybe you’re just making it up, projecting or something. But then she’ll walk over when you and Winter are in the middle of a conversation, laughing and vibing, and it’s like the temperature drops a few degrees. Her posture shifts, just a fraction, but she seems

One late afternoon, you find yourself in one of the smaller, less-used lounges on Aespa’s floor. It’s a comfortable space, rarely occupied, with a couple of plush sofas, a low table littered with old magazines, and a window overlooking a surprisingly green courtyard. You’d ducked in to escape the main office buzz for a few minutes, intending to just scroll through your phone and decompress. Ningning had found you first, plopping down beside you to complain good-naturedly about a particularly grueling choreography session. Soon after, Giselle and Winter had wandered in, drawn by Ningning’s animated voice, and the three of them were now comfortably arrayed on the sofas opposite you.

You’re in the middle of recounting a truly disastrous blind date your college roommate had dragged you on years ago (a story involving a mistaken identity, an escaped ferret, and a very public argument with a mime). You’re hamming it up, using voices, expansive gestures, and the girls are in stitches. Ningning is practically falling off the sofa, tears of laughter streaming down her face. Giselle, usually so composed, is clutching her stomach, her shoulders shaking. Even Winter keeps asking you for more details about the story, and for a moment, you forget the pressures of the job, the complexities of your situation with Jimin, everything. You’re just a guy, shooting the shit with friends.

"...so then the mime starts gesturing wildly, right? And my roommate, bless his clueless heart, thinks the ferret belongs to the mime and is trying to give it back!" you say, trying to catch your breath between laughs. "And the mime is getting more and more agitated because, apparently, he's deathly afraid of rodents..."

Ningning lets out another shriek of laughter. "No! Oh my god, a mime afraid of ferrets! That’s too much!"

Giselle wipes a tear from the corner of her eye. "Okay, that’s actually the funniest thing I’ve heard all week. Poor ferret, though. And poor mime!"

"The ferret was fine!" you assure them, grinning. "Made a clean getaway into a nearby bakery. The mime needed therapy, probably."

Winter shakes her head, still chuckling softly. "You always have the craziest stories."

"It's a gift," you say with a mock bow, eliciting another round of giggles. "Or a curse. Depends on whether you're the one living through it or just hearing about it."

It’s at this moment, surrounded by their genuine laughter, that the door to the lounge creaks open. You don’t even register it at first, too caught up in the shared mirth. But then a shadow falls across the room, and a new voice, cool and distinct, cuts through the air.

"Having fun?"

Your laughter catches in your throat. The shift in atmosphere is instantaneous, like a cold front rolling in. Ningning, Giselle, and Winter all visibly react; their smiles falter, their postures subtly stiffen. You turn, your heart giving a sudden, uncomfortable thump against your ribs.

Jimin is standing in the doorway, one hand resting on the doorframe. She’s dressed in sleek black leggings and an oversized hoodie, her practice gear, her hair pulled back in a high ponytail. Her expression is unreadable, a carefully blank mask, but her eyes… her eyes are fixed on you, sharp and intense. There’s no smile, no warmth, just that unwavering, assessing stare.

You scramble to your feet, a little too quickly. "Oh, hey, Jimin-ssi. We were just, uh..."

Ningning, recovering first, offers a slightly strained smile. "Jimin-unnie! We were just listening to his hilarious story."

"Yeah, unnie," Giselle adds, her voice a little less effusive than it was moments before. "He was telling us about his old roommate’s disastrous date."

Jimin’s gaze doesn’t leave yours. She takes a slow step into the room, her presence suddenly dominating the small space.

"A disastrous date?" Jimin repeats, her voice still devoid of any discernible emotion. Her eyes finally flick towards the other girls, then back to you. "Sounds captivating. You seem to have them quite entertained."

There’s an edge to her words, a subtle accusation. You can feel a prickle of sweat on your palms. This is exactly the kind of situation you’ve been dreading, her finding you in a moment of unguarded ease with her members, their laughter clearly for you, excluding her.

Winter shifts uncomfortably on the sofa, her earlier smile completely gone. Ningning is fiddling with the drawstrings of her hoodie, avoiding eye contact. Giselle maintains a neutral expression, but her eyes dart between you and Jimin. You feel like you're under a fucking microscope, and Jimin is the one holding the lens, her gaze burning into you, searching for… something.

"Well," you begin, clearing your throat, the sound unnaturally loud in the sudden quiet. You force a casualness you don't feel, gesturing vaguely towards the door. "I should probably, uh, get going. Got that report Ms. Park wanted… needs finishing." It’s a flimsy excuse; the report isn’t due until tomorrow afternoon, but escape is paramount.

You offer a quick, slightly strained smile to the other girls, who are still looking like they wish the floor would swallow them. "Was fun chatting, though. See you guys later."

Ningning manages a small, "Bye." Giselle gives a curt nod, her eyes still flickering towards Jimin. Winter offers a tiny, almost imperceptible wave.

As you turn to leave, Jimin’s voice stops you again. "I'll walk with you."

It’s not a question. It’s a statement. Your mind screams No, absolutely fucking not, bad idea, abort mission! but your mouth, like a traitor, says, "Oh. Uh, sure. Okay." Because what else can you say? Arguing would only make it worse, draw more attention, confirm whatever suspicions are brewing in her mind.

The walk from the lounge down the hallway towards the main office area feels like miles. The silence stretches between you, taut and uncomfortable. You can feel her presence beside you, a subtle tension in the air that wasn't there before. You risk a quick glance at her. Her expression is still set, jaw tight, eyes fixed straight ahead. You can practically hear the gears turning in her head. You brace yourself.

Finally, as you round a corner into a less populated corridor, she speaks, her voice low.

"You and the others seem to be getting along really well."

It’s a neutral observation on the surface, but you hear the undercurrent. You try to keep your own tone light, even. "Yeah, they’re great. Easy to talk to." You pause, then add, trying to steer the conversation onto safer ground, "Isn't that good? They're your members, your friends. I'm your friend, working with your team. It’s good that we all… you know, get along."

Jimin doesn’t look at you. Her gaze remains fixed on some indeterminate point down the hallway. "It depends."

"Depends on what?" you ask, afraid of what will come next.

"Depends if you start ditching me for them," she says. "Because lately, it feels like you’re avoiding me."

Your step falters for a split second. "Avoiding you? Jimin, that’s… that’s not true." The denial is automatic, but even as you say it, a flash of guilt hits you. You have been more reserved, more careful.

She finally turns her head, her eyes, dark and intense, meeting yours. There’s a flicker of hurt in them that makes your chest ache. "Isn't it? What about yesterday, in the cafeteria? I waved, you just nodded and hurried off with your tray. And Monday, when I asked if you wanted to grab a coffee after that marketing meeting, you said you were swamped. I saw you five minutes later scrolling through your phone at your desk." Her voice isn't accusatory now; it's quieter, tinged with a genuine bewilderment and that raw hurt. She remembers specific instances, and fuck, she’s not wrong. You were being short, deliberately creating distance.

Your throat feels tight. You glance quickly up and down the corridor. It’s relatively empty, just a couple of junior staffers disappearing around a distant corner. This isn't a conversation for public consumption. You stop, turning to face her more directly, lowering your own voice.

"Okay, look," you begin, trying to choose your words carefully. "Can we just… can we be real for a second?"

She watches you, waiting, her arms crossed over her chest now, a defensive posture.

"Jimin," you say, your voice earnest, "you know I’m happy to be here. And I’m happy you’re here, obviously. But you have to understand… this isn't like before. You’re Karina. You’re one of the biggest idols in the world. I’m… just a guy who works for the company. Your PR guy, technically."

Her brow furrows slightly, a hint of confusion. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"It has everything to do with it," you insist. "Don’t you see how it looks? How we look? You being so… openly friendly with me, all the time? The little extra things, the way you seek me out? People notice that stuff, Jimin. Staff talk. Hell, fans would lose their minds if they saw half of it. This industry… it’s brutal. One wrong rumor, one misinterpreted photo, and it could be disastrous. For you, especially. For Aespa."

You run a hand through your hair, feeling the stress of it all. "I haven’t been avoiding you, Jimin. I’ve been trying to be careful. Trying to protect you. Trying to protect us from… from that. From the bullshit that could come from it. When I seem distant, or 'short' as you put it, it's not because I want to be. It's because I’m trying to keep a professional boundary in public, for both our sakes. I’m worried about your career, about you getting dragged into some stupid scandal because people misunderstand."

You let out a breath, the words tumbling out, a weight lifting slightly now that it’s said. You search her face, hoping she understands, hoping she doesn’t see it as a rejection.

Jimin stares at you, her expression slowly shifting as your words sink in. The defensiveness in her posture softens. The intensity in her eyes dims, then something akin to… embarrassment. Her gaze drops from yours to the floor, a faint blush creeping up her neck, painting the apples of her cheeks. She uncrosses her arms, fiddling with the sleeve of her hoodie.

When she finally looks up, her eyes are wide, a little watery, and full of a vulnerability that punches you right in the gut.

"Oh," she says. "Oh my god. You’re… you’re right." She winces, biting her lip. "I didn’t… I wasn’t thinking about it like that. At all." She shakes her head, looking genuinely mortified. "I'm so sorry. I’ve been… God, I’ve been acting like such an idiot. Paranoid." She lets out a shaky little laugh that has no humor in it. "I don’t even know why I’ve been like this. So… clingy or weird. It’s just…" She trails off, looking lost.

Seeing her like this, so exposed and contrite, melts away any lingering frustration you felt. All you want to do is reassure her.

"Hey," you say softly, taking a hesitant step closer. "It’s okay. Seriously. Don't beat yourself up about it." You offer a small, gentle smile. "It’s a weird situation for both of us, right? We’re figuring it out."

You pause, then add, you add, your tone surprisingly gentle, imbued with all the sincerity you feel, "And for what it’s worth, Jimin… you know how much I like having you around. How much I like you. Being near you, talking to you… it’s the best part of this whole crazy thing. I wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for you. I haven’t forgotten that. Not for a second."

Her eyes, still glistening, meet yours. The blush on her cheeks deepens, but there’s a flicker of relief, of gratitude, in her gaze now. "Thank you," she murmurs. "For… for saying that. And for being honest. And for, you know, looking out for me even when I’m being a dumbass."

"Always," you say, and the word feels solid, true.

A comfortable silence settles between you for a moment. "So," you say, breaking the quiet gently, "how about this? To make up for my perceived avoidance, and your… non-dumbass-ness…" You grin, and she lets out a small, watery chuckle. "Later this week, or whenever you’re free from practice and schedules, we do something. Properly. Just you and me. No work, no office, no other members. Like old times, but… new times."

Her face lights up, a genuine, brilliant smile chasing away the last of her embarrassment. It’s the Jimin you remember, the one whose happiness is infectious. "Just us?"

"Just us," you confirm, your own heart feeling a little lighter, a hopeful anticipation bubbling up.

"I’d really like that," she says. "A lot." She tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, her eyes sparkling again, this time not with suspicion, but with something that looks a lot like the excitement you’re suddenly feeling too.

—

The relief that flooded you after that honest, vulnerable conversation with Jimin in the hallway lingers for days. It’s like a heavy weight you didn’t even realize you were carrying has been lifted. There’s a new lightness in your interactions, a shared understanding that makes the stolen glances and brief smiles across the busy office feel less fraught with anxiety and more like thrilling little secrets.

True to her word, before you part ways that day, Jimin’s eyes sparkle with that familiar mischief.

"So, about that 'just us' time," she says, leaning against the wall, a playful smirk on her lips. "My place. Dinner. I’ll cook. Don’t look so surprised, I can actually make more than instant ramen."

You raise an eyebrow, feigning skepticism. "Oh really? Color me intrigued. Are we talking a five-star gourmet experience or something that might involve a fire extinguisher?"

She swats your arm playfully. "Hey! I’ll have you know my kimchi jjigae is legendary. Or, at least, edible. You in?"

The thought of it: Jimin, cooking for you, in her apartment, away from the relentless scrutiny of SM, it feels intimate, a significant step. "Absolutely in," you say. "When?"

She pulls out her phone, already scrolling through her calendar app, a frown of concentration on her face. "Hmm, schedule’s insane next week… What about… Friday? A week from today? I think I have that evening clear. For now, anyway."

"Friday it is," you confirm, a grin spreading across your face. "I’ll even bring dessert. To, you know, potentially counteract the legendary kimchi jjigae."

"You wound me! But deal." She winks, then with a quick, "Gotta run, practice!" she’s off, leaving you feeling a ridiculous sense of anticipation for a dinner that’s still a full week away.

The following days pass in a blur of work, punctuated by those small, shared moments with Jimin. A quick coffee break where you actually sit together for ten minutes, talking about nothing and everything. Her dropping by your desk with a new song recommendation, leaning in close so you can share an earbud, her hair brushing your cheek. The professional boundaries are still there, especially when others are around, but the fear and awkwardness have been replaced by a conspiratorial warmth. You’re both more careful, more aware, but the connection feels stronger, deeper.

Friday arrives, and you spend most of the day in a state of low-level excitement, replaying your outfit choices in your head, wondering what her apartment is like, what it will feel like to just be with her, without the roles of "idol" and "staff." You even bought an expensive cake from that fancy bakery she likes.

Then, around 3 PM, your work phone buzzes with a message from Jimin:

NOOOO! I’m SOOOO sorry! Next week's photoshoot was brought forward to today. I'll be tied up until late. They just told us. I was really looking forward to it. Stupid schedules. Can we reschedule? Please say yes!

Disappointment settles in your chest, but you push it down. This is idol life. This is what you signed up for, being in her orbit.

You text: Of course. No worries at all, totally understand. We’ll find another night. Good luck with the shoot! You’ll kill it.

You’re the best. Raincheck for sure!!! Next week? I’ll make it up to you!

But "next week" turns into a series of near misses. An unexpected variety show filming crops up for her. A last-minute fan sign event gets added. You have a late night at the office handling a minor PR flare-up for another group. The universe, it seems, is conspiring against your private dinner. The expensive cake sits in your fridge, a sad, delicious monument to your thwarted plans.

And as the days turn into another week, something else starts to creep into your awareness, a subtle, unwelcome shift in your own internal landscape. You’re part of aespa’s PR team, which means you’re privy to schedules, collaborations, and the general buzz around them. You see Jimin interacting with other people in the company, naturally. She’s the leader, charismatic and friendly. It’s her job, her personality.

But it’s her interactions with some of the male idols that start to… prickle.

It begins subtly. You’re in a meeting discussing upcoming cross-promotional content, and one of the senior members from a popular SM boy group, a guy known for his sharp looks and easy charm, casually mentions how he and Jimin were just laughing about a shared embarrassing trainee story the other day in the practice rooms. A tiny, almost imperceptible muscle tightens in your jaw. They just happened to be in the practice rooms? Laughing? You tell yourself it’s nothing. Colleagues. Friends.

Then, a few days later, you’re walking past one of the recording studios and you see Jimin through the soundproof glass, headphones on, talking animatedly with a well-known producer, also male, also handsome. He leans in close to adjust something on the mixing board, his hand brushing hers. She throws her head back and laughs at something he says, a bright, unrestrained sound. The knot in your stomach tightens a little more. You find yourself lingering a second too long, watching them, a sour taste creeping into your mouth. You force yourself to walk away, chiding yourself internally. She’s working. He’s a producer. This is normal. Get a grip.

The worst is when you’re scrolling through internal staff memos or even semi-public social media feeds from other idols. A candid behind-the-scenes shot from a music show, and there’s Jimin in the background, deep in conversation with a member of a rival boy group, both of them smiling. A congratulatory post from another male idol for am Aespa’s latest achievement, with a throwback photo of him and Jimin making silly faces from some past event. Each instance is like a small papercut, insignificant on its own, but collectively, they start to bleed.

You start to question yourself, this ugly feeling coiling in your gut. Am I actually… jealous? The thought is mortifying. You have no right. You’re her friend, her colleague. You buried that teenage crush years ago, didn’t you? This is different. This is… possessiveness. It’s irrational, and you hate it. You tell yourself it’s just protectiveness, the same kind you talked to her about, you’re worried about her image. But who are you kidding? That’s bullshit. This isn’t about her image. This is about that tight, angry clench in your chest when you see another guy make her laugh that specific way, the way her eyes crinkle at the corners. The way she only laughs with you. Or so you thought.

You try to subdue it, to crush the feeling down with logic. She’s an idol. Her circle is full of other idols, producers, industry people. Male, female, it doesn’t matter. She’s allowed to have friends. You are being a fucking psycho. You try to focus on your work, burying yourself in spreadsheets and press drafts, but your gaze keeps drifting, your ears straining for any mention of her name, your mind replaying those brief, observed moments, dissecting them, looking for… you don’t even know what. Reassurance? Confirmation of your fears?

This slow burn of jealousy is exhausting. It simmers beneath the surface of your carefully constructed professionalism, a toxic undercurrent poisoning your thoughts. You haven’t said anything to Jimin. You haven’t changed your outward behavior towards her, not in any way she’d notice, you hope. You’re still friendly, still supportive, still the guy she relies on. But inside, you’re a mess, increasingly tangled in a knot of feelings you don’t want and can’t seem to shake, this unwelcome, undeniable jealousy taking root, growing stronger with each passing day, with each shared smile she gives to someone who isn’t you.

—

Most of the nine-to-fivers have already made their escape, and even the usual thrum of idol activity has quieted to a muted pulse. You’re tucked away in a small, blessedly empty meeting room on one of the upper floors, nursing a lukewarm cup of instant coffee. You’re supposed to be reviewing social media analytics (riveting stuff, truly) but mostly you’re just staring out the window at the sprawling grey expanse of Seoul, lost in the delightful internal monologue of your own burgeoning, and entirely irrational, jealousy. It’s becoming quite the hobby, this mental self-flagellation.

The click of the door opening barely registers until a familiar, melodic voice cuts through your brooding.

"Hiding out?"

You nearly jump out of your skin, sloshing coffee onto a stack of decidedly unimportant papers. Turning, you see Jimin leaning against the doorframe, a soft smile playing on her lips. And just like that, the carefully constructed wall of your professional cynicism crumbles into pathetic, lovestruck dust.

She’s not in practice gear today. She’s wearing a simple, cream-colored knit sweater that looks ridiculously soft and some dark, well-fitted jeans. Her hair is down, cascading over her shoulders in those perfect, effortless waves that probably take a team of stylists two hours to achieve. Her makeup is minimal, making her look younger, softer, more like the Jimin you knew before she became Karina, global phenomenon and recurring star of your anxiety dreams.

"Hey," you manage, trying for nonchalant and probably landing somewhere near 'startled chipmunk.' "Didn't hear you come in."

She pushes off the doorframe and ambles further into the room, her presence instantly making the generic corporate space feel… smaller, somehow. More charged. "Sorry to interrupt your very important… paper-staring session."

"It's a critical part of my process," you say, attempting a dry wit that she, thankfully, seems to appreciate with a small laugh. "Deep contemplation of spreadsheet ergonomics."

"Right." She perches on the edge of the ridiculously oversized conference table, her legs crossed casually. "Look, I just wanted to say sorry if I’ve been a bit MIA the last few days. Schedules have been… well, you know. Insane."

"Ah, the glamorous life," you quip, though the relief at her explanation is a palpable thing easing the tension in your shoulders. So, it wasn’t you. Or, not just you. Probably. "No worries. Figured you were off conquering another continent or something equally mundane."

She smiles, a genuine, tired-around-the-edges smile. "Something like that. Endless meetings about tour logistics, new endorsement shoots, trying to learn choreography when every muscle in your body screams for rest." She sighs, then her gaze softens as it meets yours. "It’s just… been a lot. Haven't had much chance to just… breathe. Or talk."

"I get it," you say, and you do. The pace here is relentless. "You look…" You pause, searching for the right word, because 'good' feels like an insult to whatever cosmic alignment is happening with her features right now. "You look beautiful today, Jimin." The words are out before you can second-guess them, honest and a little too raw. You quickly try to backtrack, to lessen the impact, lest you sound like a complete lovesick fool (which, of course, you are). "I mean, you always look beautiful, obviously. It’s kind of your brand. But today… there’s something. Extra. You’re glowing. Or maybe it’s just the cheap office lighting playing tricks on my caffeine-addled eyes."

A delicate blush, the color of a summer peach, rises on her cheeks. She ducks her head for a moment, a shy gesture that feels impossibly endearing. "Thank you," she says softly, looking up at you through her lashes. The directness of her gaze, coupled with that blush. "That’s… really nice to hear. Especially today."

You should probably say something about those analytics. Or the weather. Anything but stare at her like she’s the only source of oxygen in the room.

Then, her expression shifts. A wistful, almost faraway look enters her eyes. "Hey," she says, her tone quieter now, thoughtful. "Do you remember… do you remember that time, we must have been, what, thirteen? When we biked all the way out to old Haeundae beach, even though our parents would have skinned us alive if they knew?"

The question catches you off guard. The sudden shift to such a specific, distant memory throws you. But of course, you remember. How could you forget? Your mind immediately conjures the scene: the reckless thrill of that forbidden adventure, the salty spray on your faces, the cheap, borrowed bikes threatening to fall apart beneath you.

"Yeah," you say, a slow smile spreading across your face as the details flood back. "With those ridiculously ancient bikes we 'borrowed' from your uncle’s shed? The ones where the brakes only worked if you prayed really, really hard?"

Her answering smile is luminous. "Exactly! And then that insane storm blew in out of nowhere. One minute it was sunny, the next it was like the sky just… cracked open."

"Torrential," you agree, a chuckle escaping you. "We were soaked to the bone in about ten seconds. I thought my sneakers would never dry out."

"And we found that tiny, busted-up old bus stop shelter way up on the coastal road," she continues, her eyes sparkling with the recollection, lost in the memory with you. "It was leaking, there were probably spiders the size of my fist in there, but it felt like a palace."

"We were freezing," you remember, "shivering like crazy. And all we had to eat was that one squashed packet of stale crackers I’d forgotten in my backpack."

Jimin laughs. "And we split it, didn’t we? Crouched in that damp, smelly shelter, rain hammering down outside, sharing those awful crackers like it was a feast." She looks at you then. "We talked for hours, waiting for it to stop. About everything. Stupid stuff, serious stuff."

"Our grand plans to escape our boring town," you supply, the memory so vivid now it feels like you could reach out and touch it. "Your dreams of being famous, my dreams of… well, probably something equally ridiculous I’ve thankfully forgotten."

"It wasn't ridiculous," she says softly, her gaze holding yours. "It was just… us. Just talking. It felt like we were the only two people in the world for a few hours."

You know what she means. It was more than just getting caught in the rain. It was a moment of unvarnished connection, of shared vulnerability, of feeling utterly, completely understood by another person, a feeling so rare and precious, especially at that tumultuous age. You remember the damp chill, yes, but more clearly, you remember the warmth of her shoulder pressed against yours as you huddled together, the easy rhythm of your conversation, the feeling that, for a little while, all the complexities of the world had fallen away, leaving just the two of you and the roaring storm.

"I still think about that day sometimes," Jimin says, her eyes still locked on yours, searching, questioning. "A lot, actually."

Your carefully constructed composure, already teetering, threatens to shatter. All the air seems to have been sucked out of the small room. The irony isn't lost on you; here you are, a grown man, unraveled by a shared memory of stale crackers and a rainstorm from over a decade ago. Pathetic, really.

"Why?" The question slips out, hushed, almost involuntary. Your mind is racing. Why now? Why bring this up? What does it mean?

Jimin holds your gaze for another long moment, and you can see a universe of unspoken emotions swirling in the depths of her dark eyes. Then, she looks away, her gaze drifting towards the window, towards the distant, indifferent city. A tiny, almost imperceptible sigh escapes her lips.

"Actually, I don't know," she says, so quietly you almost miss it. "I really don't know."

It's an answer that's not an answer, a perfectly crafted piece of ambiguity designed, it seems, to send your already overthinking brain into a full-blown spiral. You watch her, this enigma you’ve known your whole life, and feel a familiar, frustrating helplessness. All those years, all that shared history, and she can still reduce you to a state of dumbfounded confusion with three little words.

She pushes herself off the conference table, the movement fluid and graceful. "Well," she says, her voice regaining a sliver of its usual brightness, though her eyes still hold that distant, thoughtful quality. "Maybe it’s better if I go. Don’t want to keep bothering you with… ancient history. And I actually do have that choreography meeting. Can't keep the dance monster waiting."

She turns and walks towards the door, each step feeling like a countdown timer on your chance to say something, anything, to pierce through this sudden, unbearable tension.

She reaches the door, her hand on the knob. It’s now or never, brainiac.

"Jimin," you call out.

She pauses, her back still to you, hand frozen on the doorknob. This is it. Your moment to say something profound, something that clarifies everything, something that bridges the gap of years and fame and unspoken feelings. Your mind races, a frantic slideshow of possibilities. 'What did you mean?' 'Do you feel it too?' 'That day meant something to me too, you know.'

And then, like a cold splash of reality, the internal killjoy (the one that pays the bills and reminds you of your precarious position) pipes up: She’s an idol, you idiot. Global superstar. You’re staff. This is how you lose your job and become a cautionary tale. Don’t be a walking, talking HR violation.

The grand, sweeping declaration dies on your lips, replaced by a pathetic little puff of air. When she finally turns her head slightly, looking back at you with a questioning gaze, all that comes out is a lame, "It's… uh… nothing. Never mind.”

A small, enigmatic smile plays on her lips. It’s impossible to tell if it’s knowing, amused, or just polite. With Jimin, it could be all three. "Okay," she says softly. "See you around."

And then she’s gone, the door clicking shut behind her with a gentle finality, leaving you alone once more with your lukewarm coffee, your useless analytics, and the fresh, agonizing weight of all the things you didn't say.

Hours later, the office has thinned out almost completely. You’re packing up your bag, ready to call it a day and go home to stare meaningfully at your ceiling, when Ningning bounces over to your desk.

"Heading out?" she asks, perching on the corner of your desk like an overgrown, incredibly cheerful pixie.

"Yep. Day is done. My brain feels like overcooked jjigae."

She giggles. "Mine too! We had vocal training for three hours straight. My throat is screaming." She leans in a little. "So, work stuff aside… how are things?"

You raise an eyebrow. "Things? Vague. But… okay, I guess? Survived another day in the K-Pop trenches. You?"

"Good, good!" she says, then her eyes get that tell-tale sparkle of curiosity you’re beginning to recognize all too well. "Actually… I was wondering. About, you know…" She gestures vaguely between herself and an imaginary Jimin. "You two."

Ah. Here we go. The subtle interrogation phase. You try to keep your expression neutral, a Herculean effort. "Us two? Do you mean Jimin? We’re… old friends. Colleagues. As previously established in multiple official and unofficial briefings."

Ningning tilts her head, her smile a little too knowing. "Riiight. Old friends. But, like… how old? What’s the real story there? Unnie can be… a little selective with details sometimes."

Before you can even begin to formulate a suitably evasive yet charmingly informative answer, footsteps approach. Giselle and Winter appear, looking equally ready to bolt for the day.

"What are you two whispering about over here?" Giselle asks. Winter offers a quiet smile from beside her.

Ningning beams at them. "Perfect timing! I was just asking about him," she points a thumb at you, "and our dear leader. The true story."

Giselle’s perfectly sculpted eyebrow arches. "Oh? The origin story? Spill it. We’ve only heard Jimin-unnie’s version, which, let's be honest, is probably heavily romanticized."

Winter chuckles softly. "She did mention something about a very dramatic rainstorm once."

Now all three of them are looking at you, expectant and clearly ready for some prime gossip, or at least, your side of the folklore. You’re surrounded. There’s no escape.

"Okay, okay," you say, raising your hands in mock surrender, trying to buy yourself some thinking time. "There’s nothing really interesting in our story. Mostly just a lot of questionable teenage fashion choices and an unhealthy obsession with the same five boy bands."

"Details, details!" Ningning urges, leaning forward. "What were you like in school? Was she always… Karina-like? Or was she a secret dork?"

"Definitely a secret dork," you say, a genuine smile touching your lips as you think back.

This gets a laugh from all of them.

"And you?" Giselle prompts. "What was your role in this dynamic duo?"

"Chief instigator of dumb ideas, probably," you admit. "And expert in procuring illicit snacks for movie marathons. We spent a ridiculous amount of time watching terrible action movies and critiquing them like we were seasoned film critics." You share a few more harmless anecdotes: the time you both tried to bake a cake that ended up looking like a volcanic eruption, the disastrous school play where you both forgot your lines, the endless summers spent biking around the city, dreaming of bigger things. It’s easy to talk about the past, the safe, sepia-toned memories. It makes the present, with all its unspoken tensions and Jimin’s idol status, feel momentarily distant.

As you’re talking, weaving these tales of your shared youth, you see your opening. It’s a long shot, and your attempt at casualness will probably be about as convincing as a politician's promise, but you have to try.

"Speaking of Jimin," you say, aiming for a nonchalant tone that you’re pretty sure misses the mark by a country mile, "she’s, you know, so busy and in the public eye all the time. Must be tough to… have a personal life. Is she… seeing anyone? Or, you know, hanging out with anyone in particular? Just curious, as a friend. Worried about her, you know. Safety, happiness, all that good stuff."

You try to make it sound like a casual afterthought, a fleeting concern from a dear old platonic pal. You think you almost pulled it off, right up until you see the looks on their faces.

Ningning’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly, and she exchanges a lightning-fast glance with Giselle. Giselle’s lips twitch, a smirk threatening to break free. Winter just smiles like she knows what's going on in your head. Oh, you are so transparent. They see right through your flimsy "concerned friend" charade.

"Hmm, 'seeing anyone'?" Giselle repeats slowly, drawing out the words. "Nope. Can't say that she is. Unnie's pretty much married to her work these days. And us, of course."

"Yeah," Ningning chimes in, a little too brightly. "No mysterious romantic entanglements that we know of! Our leader is a free agent!"

"Why do you ask?" Winter asks her gaze lifting to meet yours.

"Oh, you know," you say, waving a dismissive hand, trying to project an air of breezy indifference. "Just… she’s an old friend. You worry about your friends, right? Want them to be happy, not get mixed up with… undesirables. Standard friend protocol."

The three of them share another look. This one is longer, more laden with unspoken understanding. It’s the kind of look that says, “Oh, honey, you are so delightfully screwed.”

"Right," Giselle says. "Undesirables. Of course."

Ningning nods vigorously. "Totally. Friend protocol. We get it."

"So," Giselle starts, "all these shared memories, the dorky school days… was there ever, you know, anything more? Between you two back then?"

You can feel the heat rising up your neck. Your brain is frantically sifting through a thousand possible deflections, each one more unconvincing than the last. This is where your PR training truly shines, in the art of saying absolutely nothing while appearing to consider something deeply. A true masterclass in verbal evasion is about to unfold, you can just feel it.

"I mean, the bond between you two is… remarkable," Ningning adds, helpfully twisting the knife. "Unnie was so, so excited when she found out you were coming to work here. Like, beyond normal 'old friend joining the company' excited. More like 'rare Pokémon spotted in the wild' excited."

Giselle snorts delicately. "Eloquent, Ningning. But she’s right. There’s definitely… a vibe."

Just as you’re about to launch into what would undoubtedly be a completely disastrous attempt at a nonchalant denial, a voice cuts through the charged atmosphere.

"There you guys are! I’ve been looking all over for you."

Jimin. Of course. Her timing is, as always, impeccably dramatic. She steps into the lounge, her gaze sweeping over her members, then landing on you, a slight question in her eyes. She’s still in her practice clothes, a light sheen of perspiration on her forehead, making her look both ethereal and remarkably real. The girls, bless their meddling, gossipy hearts, snap into action with the practiced ease of seasoned operatives.

"Oh, hey, Unnie!" Ningning chirps. "We were just… talking."

"About what?" Jimin asks, stepping further into the room, her gaze lingering on you for a fraction of a second longer than strictly necessary. Or maybe you’re just imagining that part. Your imagination has been working overtime lately, particularly where she’s concerned.

"Nothing major," Giselle says smoothly, waving a dismissive hand. "Silly things. Random office gossip. You know how it is." She stands, stretching languidly. "Actually, we should probably head out. It’s getting seriously late.”

"Yeah, same," Ningning agrees, bouncing to her feet. Winter nods, already halfway to the door. "My everything aches."

You seize the opportunity, a drowning man grasping at a life raft made of convenient excuses. "Me too, actually. Long day. Lots of… spreadsheets." You try for a weary, put-upon sigh. You’re not sure it lands.

The girls offer quick goodbyes, a chorus of "See ya!" and "Night, Unnie!" and then they’re gone, leaving you and Jimin standing in the sudden quiet of the empty lounge. She turns to you. "They keeping you entertained?"

"They’re… a force of nature," you admit. "Never a dull moment."

"Tell me about it," she says with a sigh that seems to carry the weight of a thousand schedules. "Well, I guess I should let you escape too." She gestures towards the door. "I’m heading out as well. Want to walk?"

And just like that, you’re accompanying her again, the two of you falling into step as you navigate the increasingly deserted corridors of SM Entertainment. You find yourself acutely aware of the space between you, of the subtle scent of her perfume, of the way her hair catches the low evening light filtering through the hallway windows. It’s all terribly poetic and deeply unhelpful for your already addled state of mind.

As you approach the main lobby, her voice, soft and a little melancholic, breaks the quiet. "Have you ever wondered," she begins, not looking at you, her gaze fixed on the gleaming marble floor, "what might have happened? If… if things had been different? If I hadn’t gone into training when I did, if you hadn’t gone off to study in another country? If we hadn't… you know, gone our separate ways back then?"

The question, so similar to the one that started your recent emotional tailspin with her, catches you off guard. It’s a "what if" laden with years of distance and change, a path untaken, a story unwritten. You glance at her profile, the perfect line of her jaw, the slight furrow in her brow. She looks so much like the fierce, determined girl you knew, yet also like someone entirely new, someone shaped by experiences you can only guess at.

"I don't know," you say honestly, the words feeling inadequate but true. It’s your go-to answer for her profound, soul-searching question, apparently. "It’s… hard to predict those kinds of things, isn’t it? One tiny change back then could have led to a million different todays." You try for a philosophical shrug, as if you ponder alternate timelines on a regular basis. You mostly ponder what to have for dinner.

She nods slowly, still not meeting your eyes. "You’re right. It’s impossible to know." A beat of silence, then she adds, almost to herself, "Still. Sometimes I wonder."

Before you can overthink it, before your internal HR department can issue a cease-and-desist, you find yourself saying, "But, Jimin… whatever those other million todays might have looked like, this one? This is the one where we’re both here. You, me, in this crazy building, against some pretty insane odds when you think about it." You meet her gaze then, hoping she sees the sincerity in yours. "That’s got to be worth something, right?"

A slow smile spreads across her face, a genuine, heart-stoppingly beautiful smile that reaches her eyes and chases away some of the weariness you saw there earlier. "Yeah," she says. "Yeah, I think it is." She finally looks directly at you, and there's a warmth there, a shared acknowledgement of the strange, unlikely thread that still connects you.

"Thank you for saying that."

"Just stating the facts," you reply, though your heart is doing a fair impression of a hummingbird’s wings. You pause, then, emboldened by the moment, you ask, "Are you okay, though? You seem… a little tired." A masterful understatement, considering the grueling life she leads.

She lets out a soft sigh. "Yeah, I’m okay. Just… tired is my default setting these days, I think." She manages a wry smile. "This week has been particularly brutal. But it’s okay. It’s part of it."

"I’ve been seeing it up close, you know," you say, your tone earnest. "You, the girls… the amount of work you all put in, the sheer dedication… it’s actually insane. I had no idea, not really, before I started working here. It’s… genuinely incredible. You’re all amazing." You hesitate, then add, "Just… don’t overdo it, okay? Take care of yourself. Seriously."

Her smile widens, softens. The appreciation in her eyes is unmistakable, and it makes you feel ridiculously warm inside. "Thank you," she says again. "That means a lot. I will. I promise."

You reach the main exit, the cool night air of Seoul beckoning from beyond the glass doors. This feels like another one of those moments, a pause before the story shifts again.

"Well," you say, "my chariot awaits. Or, you know, the subway."

She laughs, a light, easy sound. "Same here. My manager’s probably already sent out a search party." She turns to you, and for a moment, it feels like there’s something more she wants to say, something hovering on the edge of her words. But then she just smiles that enigmatic smile again. "Good night. And… thanks. For the walk. And the concern."

"Anytime," you reply. "Goodnight, Jimin."

And with that, she’s gone, disappearing into the waiting black van that always seems to materialize out of nowhere. You watch her go, a strange mix of hope and confusion and that ever-present, damnably persistent affection swirling inside you.

—

The weekend arrives with all the fanfare of a damp squib. You spend Saturday mostly alternating between staring blankly at your laptop screen, pretending to job-hunt for something that isn’t your current, emotionally hazardous employment, and replaying every single micro-expression Jimin has made in your vicinity for the past two weeks. It’s a productive, well-adjusted way to live, you tell yourself with a hefty dose of irony. You’re bored, tired of your own internal monologue, and a little bit adrift.

You’re cleaning your room, contemplating mentally the profound existential question of whether to order jjajangmyeon or just eat cereal for dinner for the third night in a row, when your phone buzzes on the coffee table. You almost ignore it, expecting another spam text about a crypto scam or a discount on air fryers. But then it buzzes again, insistent. With a groan, you reach for it.

It’s a message. From Jimin.

Hey! Are you by any chance, miraculously, incredibly, unbelievably… free tonight? My schedule just cleared up like magic (don’t ask, it’s a K-Pop miracle). That dinner we talked about… still interested? My legendary kimchi jjigae awaits its challenger! Let me know! Fingers crossed! ✨🍜🤞

You stare at the message, reading it once, twice, a third time just to make sure your sleep-deprived brain isn’t hallucinating. Her schedule cleared? She’s asking tonight? After all the cancellations, all the near-misses? A slow grin, a genuine, uncomplicated, shit-eating grin, spreads across your face. All the weariness, the boredom, the overthinking from the past few days, evaporates like morning mist.

You type back, your thumbs flying across the screen, a surge of adrenaline making your hands shake slightly.

Tonight? Miracles do happen! Yes, absolutely, 100% still interested. My taste buds are primed and ready for legendary status. Send me the address. I’ll even brave rush hour for this.

Her reply is almost instantaneous. A string of happy emojis, followed by her address and a time.

It’s set. It’s actually, finally, set.

A laugh bubbles up from your chest, loud and unrestrained in the quiet of your small apartment. Suddenly, your weekend isn’t looking so bleak. Suddenly, you’re not tired at all. Suddenly, the only thing that matters is that in a few short hours, you’re going to Jimin’s apartment for dinner. Just the two of you.

—

The hours leading up to your dinner with Jimin are a masterclass in controlled chaos, existing primarily within the confines of your own skull. You tell yourself, with the stern authority of someone trying to wrangle a particularly unruly toddler, not to overthink it. It’s just dinner. A casual meal between old friends. One of whom just happens to be a globally recognized K-Pop sensation who occupies a significant, and frankly unhealthy, amount of your daily thought processes.

Yes, perfectly normal.

Your attempt not to overthink manifests as a meticulous, hour-long deconstruction of your entire wardrobe, a frantic search for an outfit that screams "effortlessly cool and put-together" while simultaneously whispering "I definitely didn't try too hard, but please notice I tried a little." You settle on dark jeans that actually fit well and a soft, unassuming button-down shirt (casual, yet hinting at the possibility that you own an iron).

On your way to her neighborhood, a sudden pang of "don't show up empty-handed, you heathen" strikes you. You duck into a small, upscale market, ostensibly for a bottle of wine or some trendy artisanal sparkling water. As you’re Browse, your eyes snag on a particular brand of imported Swiss chocolate, a rich, dark hazelnut bar. It’s a lightning bolt from the past. Jimin used to be absolutely obsessed with this exact chocolate back in your school days. She’d save up her allowance for it, savoring each square like it was a precious jewel. It’s a ridiculous, sentimental impulse, but you grab it, along with a respectable bottle of white wine that looks like it knows what it’s doing. The chocolate feels like a small, secret handshake with the past, a nod to the girl she was… a girl you knew before the world did.

Her apartment building is sleek and modern, nestled in a quiet, affluent part of Seoul. You buzz her apartment number, your voice sounding surprisingly steady through the intercom when you announce your arrival. A moment later, the lock clicks, and you’re granted access to the inner sanctum. So far, so good. No alarms triggered.

Standing outside her actual apartment door, a fresh wave of nerves – oh, hello again, old friend – washes over you. You perform the sacred pre-door-knock ritual: a quick, surreptitious sniff of your own breath (minty, check), a frantic adjustment of your shirt cuffs, and a final, desperate smooth-down of your hair. You take a deep breath, then you knock.

The door swings open, and there she is. And just like that, your carefully constructed composure evaporates. Jimin. Even in simple, dark lounge pants and a ridiculously soft-looking, oversized grey sweater that swallows her frame, she looks… breathtaking. Her hair is tied up in a loose, messy bun, tendrils escaping to frame her face. Her makeup is so light it’s almost non-existent, just a hint of color on her lips and a subtle definition to her incredible eyes, making her appear more close to you, more vulnerable, more… Jimin. The effect is devastatingly beautiful, far more so than any stage costume or red-carpet glamour. This is her, unvarnished, in her own space.

You just sort of… stare for a beat, your brain temporarily short-circuiting. She offers a small, slightly shy smile. "Hey. You made it."

"Yeah," you manage. "Traffic was… surprisingly cooperative. For once." You then remember the social contract requires more than just grunting acknowledgment. "You, uh… you look amazing, Jimin. Really." There, you said it. Not as smooth as you’d hoped, but honest.

Her smile widens, a genuine, pleased crinkle around her eyes. "Thanks. You clean up pretty nice yourself." She steps back, holding the door open wider. "Come on in. Don’t mind the mess, I was literally in the middle of a creative explosion in the kitchen."

You step inside, and as you do, you present your offerings. "Brought some wine," you say, handing her the bottle. "And, uh, this." You pull out the chocolate bar. "Not sure if you still… but I remembered."

Her eyes widen when she sees the familiar wrapper, a gasp of pure, unadulterated delight escaping her. "Oh my god!" she exclaims, taking the chocolate from you with an almost reverent care. "This! I haven’t had this in ages! How did you even remember?" Her face is alight with genuine happiness. "This is… this is the best. Thank you." That she’s happier about the relatively cheap chocolate bar than the expensive wine says everything. It’s a direct hit to the heart, that shared memory made tangible.

"My memory retains crucial information," you say, trying for a light, teasing tone to cover the sudden thickness in your throat.

She laughs, clutching the chocolate bar like a long-lost treasure. "Apparently so." She gestures around. "Well, this is it. Karina's home. Or, you know, Jimin’s slightly-less-glamorous-than-you’d-expect-for-an-idol-but-still-pretty-nice apartment."

You take a proper look around as she leads you further in. It is beautiful. Definitely what you’d expect for someone of her status – spacious, with high ceilings, large windows offering a glittering panorama of the Seoul skyline. The furniture is modern and stylish, a palette of soft neutrals and rich textures. But threaded throughout the obvious expense are unmistakable touches of her. A shelf overflowing with books, a worn acoustic guitar propped in a corner, a collection of quirky art prints that are more charming than high-concept, a ridiculously fluffy throw blanket draped over a plush sofa that just begs for someone to curl up on it. It’s a home, not just a showpiece. It’s… Jimin. And you’re in it.

The aroma filling Jimin’s apartment is genuinely incredible, a rich, spicy, and deeply comforting scent that immediately makes your stomach rumble in anticipation. She’s bustling between the small, open-plan kitchen counter and the dining table as she places steaming bowls and an array of colourful banchan (pickled radish, seasoned spinach, glistening myeolchi bokkeum) onto the table. You try to offer help, a classic "can I do anything?" gesture, but she waves you off with a smile, directing you to simply take a seat.

"Guest of honor tonight," she declares, "your only job is to eat and, hopefully, not require medical attention afterwards." It's a joke, but there's a hint of nervous pride in her eyes as she surveys her culinary efforts. It's endearing, this glimpse of her outside the polished perfection of Karina, the idol. This is Jimin, hoping you like her cooking.

You settle into a chair at the intimate wooden table, which is perfectly sized for two and positioned to offer a breathtaking view of the city lights beginning to ignite the deepening twilight outside. She slides a bowl of rice in front of you, then the centerpiece: a bubbling, vibrant red earthenware pot of kimchi jjigae, the steam carrying its potent, delicious fragrance. She serves herself, then gestures for you to dig in. "Well," she says, a little breathlessly, "moment of truth."

You pick up your chopsticks, you take a careful spoonful of the jjigae, the rich broth warming your tongue, the tender pork and tangy kimchi a perfect balance. It’s not just edible; it’s genuinely, profoundly good. Your eyes widen in honest surprise.

"Jimin," you say, after a moment of appreciative silence, letting the warmth spread through you. "This is… seriously incredible. You weren't kidding about the legendary status. This is restaurant-quality stuff." You’re not just being polite; it’s the best kimchi jjigae you’ve had in a long, long time. Maybe ever.

A pleased, slightly flustered blush colors her cheeks. She ducks her head, stirring her own bowl a little too intently. "Oh, stop," she says, but her smile is radiant. "It’s just an old family recipe. My grandmother taught me. I don’t get to make it that often, so… I’m glad it turned out okay." She takes a tentative bite herself, then nods, a little surprised. "Huh. Not bad, if I do say so myself."

You both eat in a comfortable, almost reverent silence for a few minutes. You try some of the banchan she gestures towards, a crisp, spicy cucumber salad, some savory pan-fried tofu. Everything is meticulously prepared, bursting with flavor. It's clear she put a lot of effort into this, and that knowledge warms you even more than the jjigae.

It's as you’re both reaching for the water glasses at the same time, your fingers brushing for a fleeting, electric instant, that the full weight of the situation seems to properly land. You pull your hand back a little too quickly, a jolt going up your arm. You look up, and she’s looking at you, her eyes wide, a similar awareness dawning in them. Here you are. Alone. In her apartment, a space few outside her closest circle probably ever see. Sharing a home-cooked meal. It’s not uncomfortable, not exactly, but it’s undeniably there: a potent mix of history and the sheer, unadulterated weirdness of your lives having converged like this again.

A small, nervous chuckle escapes her lips, a delicate, airy sound. Almost instantly, a similar laugh bubbles up from your own chest; a little shaky, a little breathless, but a genuine release of the mounting tension. It’s a shared acknowledgment of the elephant.

"Okay," she says, setting down her chopsticks and picking up her water glass. "This is… this is a little bit weird, isn't it?" She takes a sip of water, her gaze still holding yours over the rim of the glass. "Not bad-weird," she clarifies quickly, perhaps sensing your own internal monologue already composing a list of polite escape routes, "definitely good-weird. But still… wonderfully, ridiculously weird."

"Good-weird is my favorite kind of weird," you manage. The shared laughter, the naming of the awkwardness, has somehow made it less… awkward. "And yes, 'wonderfully, ridiculously weird' pretty much sums up my entire existence since moving to Seoul and, you know," you gesture vaguely to encompass her, the apartment, the situation, "all of this." You take another mouthful of jjigae, savoring the spice, buying yourself a moment. "Honestly, if you’d told fourteen-year-old me, the one convinced that high fashion was wearing a band t-shirt without holes in it, that one day I'd be having homemade kimchi jjigae in global K-Pop superstar Karina's apartment…" You shake your head, a wry smile playing on your lips. "Well, let's just say his tiny, angst-ridden brain would have imploded. He probably would have assumed it was a very elaborate prank involving hidden cameras."

Jimin laughs, a bright, clear sound that seems to chase away some of the shadows in the room. "Oh, please. Fourteen-year-old you was far too cynical for hidden camera pranks. You’d have assumed it was a stress-induced hallucination brought on by too many all-night gaming sessions." She pauses, her smile softening into something more reflective as she looks around her living space, then back at you, her dinner guest, the boy from her past sitting so improbably in her present. "But look at us now, huh? Actually sitting here, eating dinner, in my own place. Talking about nothing relevant… and just being. Like two reasonably functioning adults who manage to feed themselves without burning the building down." She takes a slow, deliberate bite of rice, her gaze drifting towards the window, towards the vast, glittering expanse of Seoul spread out below them. "Who would have thought any of this was possible back then?" She turns back to you, a wistful, almost tender smile on her lips. "Time flies, doesn’t it? Feels like a lifetime ago, and yesterday, all at once.”

There's a shared melancholy in the air, a sweet ache for the irretrievable past, but it's also undercut by the sheer, vibrating improbability of your present. You nod slowly, swirling the last of the spicy jjigae broth in your bowl, the warmth of it seeping into you, mirroring the warmth spreading through your chest from just… being here, with her.

"It really does," you agree. "One minute you're plotting how to get out of gym class, the next you're… well, you're an international icon, and I'm marveling at your exceptional kimchi jjigae skills and wondering if adulting comes with a manual they forgot to give me." You offer a small, self-deprecating smile, which she returns with a knowing one of her own.

"Tell me about it," she sighs, pushing her empty bowl away slightly. "Sometimes I look in the mirror and I'm still half expecting to see that gangly teenager with the terrible bangs staring back, wondering how on earth I’m supposed to lead a group and remember lyrics in different languages." She pauses, then a playful spark ignites in her eyes, chasing away the momentary wistfulness. "Speaking of adulting… that wine you brought isn't going to drink itself, is it?”

"An excellent point."

"Yeah," she says, already rising from the table. "Let me just wash these dishes and then we can relocate. My couch is significantly more comfortable for serious wine contemplation than these dining chairs. And you haven't even seen my prized collection of questionable drama movies yet, a true adult indulgence."

She begins clearing the table with an efficient grace, and you quickly stand to help, gathering bowls and chopsticks. "Questionable dramas, huh? I'm almost afraid to ask."

"Oh, you should be. We're talking peak early 2000s angst."

While she rinses the dishes (a task you offer to do but are again cheerfully waved off from) you retrieve the bottle of white wine from the counter where you’d left it. You find a corkscrew in a drawer after a brief, the satisfying pop of the cork feels like a small, official commencement of the evening’s next, less formal, chapter. Jimin reappears with two elegant, long-stemmed wine glasses.

Soon, you're both settled on her ridiculously plush sofa. It’s U-shaped, large enough that you’re not exactly pressed against each other, but close enough that you’re acutely aware of her presence, the subtle scent of her shampoo, the way the soft lamplight catches the curve of her cheek. She curls her legs up beneath her, looking impossibly small and cozy, and takes a grateful sip from her wine glass.

"Mmm," she hums, her eyes closing for a moment. "Okay, this is good. Way better than the soju bombs from our trainee day survival kits, that’s for sure."

You take a sip yourself. The wine is crisp and cool, a pleasant counterpoint to the lingering spice of the jjigae. "Glad it meets the approval of your sophisticated palate," you tease, settling back into the cushions. The sofa really is incredibly comfortable. Dangerously so. "Though I have a feeling even drain cleaner would taste good after some of the trainee stories I’ve heard."

She laughs, a full, unrestrained sound this time, and the warmth of it, combined with the wine already beginning to hum pleasantly in your veins, makes you feel… good. Really good. Relaxed in a way you haven’t been in weeks, maybe months.

"You have no idea," she says, shaking her head, a smile still playing on her lips. "There was this one time, during our first evaluation prep, we were all so stressed and sleep-deprived, Ningning tried to microwave a banana. The whole banana. Peel and all."

You snort with laughter, nearly choking on your wine. "No! What happened?"

"Let’s just say the dorm smelled like radioactive fruit for a week, and we were banned from unsupervised microwave usage," Jimin recounts, her eyes sparkling with shared amusement. "Our manager almost had a conniption. Good times. Peak adulting, right there."

The wine flows easily, and with it, the conversation. You find yourselves reminiscing more about those "good old days," the stories becoming funnier, sillier, with each glass. You remind her of the time she tried to dye her own hair blue using a questionable internet tutorial and ended up with three distinctly different shades of swamp green. She counters with the story of your spectacularly failed attempt to build a skateboard ramp in your backyard, which resulted in more bruises than airtime. The laughter comes more frequently now, less self-conscious, more open. There's a comfortable intimacy in revisiting these shared embarrassments.

With the second glass of wine, a subtle shift occurs. The silliness is still there, but it’s becoming tinged with a more playful, flirtatious edge. Maybe it’s the alcohol lowering inhibitions, or maybe it’s the cozy proximity on the sofa, or maybe it’s just the inevitable result of two people with a mountain of buried feelings finally being in a private, relaxed space together. You find yourself watching the way her lips curve when she smiles, the way she gestures animatedly when she’s telling a particularly outrageous story, the way her eyes seem to catch and hold yours for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary.

"You know," she says, swirling the wine in her glass, her gaze a little unfocused, a little dreamy, "you were always surprisingly good at listening. Even when I was rambling about the most ridiculous, angsty teenage dramas. You’d just sit there and nod, like it was the most profound stuff you’d ever heard."

"Hey, your angst was top-tier," you reply. "It deserved a captive audience. Besides, someone had to make sure you didn't actually follow through on your threat to run away and join the circus after that disastrous school talent show audition." You lean a little closer, lowering your voice conspiratorially. "Though, for the record, I still think your interpretive dance to that heavy metal song was… creatively ambitious."

She throws her head back and laughs, a genuine, unrestrained peal that makes your chest ache with a strange, sweet tenderness. When she sobers, she lightly punches your arm. "Oh, shut up! That was performance art! You just didn't understand my vision!" Her eyes are bright, cheeks flushed from the wine and the laughter, and she’s looking at you with an open, unguarded expression that makes your breath catch. "But seriously," she adds, "you were a good friend. Still are."

The compliment, simple as it is, lands with surprising weight. "You too, Jimin," you say, your voice equally soft, meeting her gaze. "Always."

Her eyes search yours, and you feel like she can see right through your carefully constructed facade, right down to the terrified, hopeful teenager still lurking somewhere inside. The wine has definitely done its job; the world feels a little softer around the edges, your inhibitions are pleasantly fuzzy, and the desire to just reach out, to bridge that small remaining distance on the couch, is becoming overwhelmingly, dangerously strong.

The wine, crisp and cool, continues its delightful work, unspooling the tightly wound threads of formality and apprehension that had clung to the early evening. Each sip seems to loosen your tongue a little more, and Jimin’s too. The comfortable U-shaped sofa, initially a vast expanse, feels like it’s subtly shrinking, or perhaps you’re both just… gravitating. Her laughter, when you recount another particularly embarrassing anecdote from your shared school days, is no longer just a polite chuckle. It’s a full-bodied, unrestrained peal of mirth that makes her lean back against the cushions, her eyes squeezed shut, one hand playfully batting at your arm.

You find yourself grinning like an idiot, the warmth spreading through your chest having very little to do with the alcohol content of the wine and everything to do with the sound of her unbridled joy.

"It’s funny, isn’t it? All those little things we obsessed over back then, thinking they were the most important things in the world." She swirls the wine in her glass, watching the pale liquid catch the light. "Who you sat with at lunch, whether you got picked for the team, if that one person looked at you in the hallway…"

Her voice trails off on that last phrase, and there’s a subtle shift in her tone, a new layer of something… emerging from beneath the playful banter. She takes a breath, then turns to you, her eyes, luminous in the dim light, searching yours. The playful glint is gone.

"Can I… can I tell you something? Something really stupid I used to think back then?"

Your heart gives a little thump. "Of course," you say. "My lips are sealed. And my capacity for judging stupid teenage thoughts is, believe me, at an all-time low, considering my own track record."

She offers a small, grateful smile, then her gaze drops to her wine glass, her fingers tracing the rim. "Okay, well… don’t laugh." A pause, then, so softly you almost miss it, "I… I used to have the biggest crush on you."

Your brain, already pleasantly fuzzy from the wine, seems to stall for a moment, trying to process. Jimin. Had a crush. On you. The fourteen-year-old version of you, the one with the questionable sense of humor and the complete inability to talk to girls he actually liked without sounding like a malfunctioning robot, would have spontaneously combusted from sheer disbelief and elation. Even now, the adult, slightly-more-composed version of you is struggling to keep his jaw from hitting the floor.

She peeks up at you through her lashes, a nervous blush creeping up her neck. "See? Stupid, right? I was so sure you just saw me as, like, your annoying little sister’s best friend, or just… Jimin, the dork who was always around. I used to spend hours overthinking every single thing you said to me, trying to decipher if there was some hidden meaning." She lets out a shaky little laugh. "God, it was exhausting."

You stare at her, a slow, incredulous smile starting to spread across your face. The irony, oh, the beautiful, painful irony of it all. All those years of your own silent, all-consuming crush, your own agonizing over every shared glance, every casual word, thinking she was completely oblivious, completely out of reach.

"Jimin," you begin. You clear your throat. "That’s… wow." You shake your head, a laugh bubbling up, a laugh of pure, unadulterated shock and a strange, retroactive relief. "The only thing 'stupid' about that is that I was doing the exact same goddamn thing."

Her head snaps up, her eyes widening, the blush on her cheeks deepening to a vibrant crimson.

"What?" she breathes. "You… you did? With… with me?"

"With you?" you echo, a wide, disbelieving grin plastered on your face. "Are you kidding? You were all I thought about. I was hopelessly, pathetically gone on you. I just… I figured you were way out of my league. That you only tolerated my presence because we were stuck in the same school and our families knew each other." The confession tumbles out, easy now, liberating, fueled by the wine and the sudden revelation of her own past feelings. It’s like a dam has broken, years of unspoken emotion finally finding their release.

She just stares at you, speechless for a long moment, her wine glass forgotten in her hand. Then, a tiny, incredulous laugh escapes her. "No. Way." She shakes her head slowly, as if trying to rearrange the entire narrative of her teenage years. "All that time? We were both…?"

"Apparently," you confirm, still grinning. "Two oblivious idiots, crushing on each other in silence. We could have written a really angsty, badly plotted teen drama."

She finally lets out a full laugh, leaning back against the sofa, looking utterly flabbergasted but also… lighter. "This is insane. I can’t believe it." Her eyes are shining, and not just from the wine anymore. "You know," she says, her voice regaining some of its earlier playful lilt, though it’s softer now, more intimate, "I used to get so jealous. Back then. If I saw you talking to… to other girls. Especially if they were, you know, prettier, or cooler." She makes a face, a little embarrassed. "It sounds so silly now, but it was true. I’d be all smiles on the outside, but inside, I’d be like, 'How dare she laugh at his stupid jokes? I’m the one who’s supposed to laugh at his stupid jokes!'"

You reach out, without really thinking, and gently touch her arm. "Hey. It wasn't silly. Or if it was, then I was just as silly."

Her gaze meets yours, and there's a warmth, a connection in that look that feels more real, more profound, than anything you've shared in years. She holds your gaze for a long moment, then a shadow crosses her face, her voice drops again, hesitant. "It’s funny… or, not funny, but… I kind of felt that way again. Recently." She looks down at her lap, tracing patterns on her pants with a fingertip. "When I saw you talking with Ning and the others that day in the lounge."

Your heart clenches. You remember that day, her sudden appearance, the tension.

"You all looked like you were having so much fun," she continues, "And they’re all so… bright, and funny, and talented. And for a second, this stupid thought just popped into my head, like… what if you ditch me for them? What if they’re more entertaining, or cooler to be around now? What if… what if I’m not that interesting anymore, compared to them?" She lets out a little, self-deprecating huff of air. "It sounds even dumber saying it out loud."

You gently cup her chin, tilting her face up so she has to look at you.

"Jimin," you say. "Listen to me. There is no one, no one, who could ever make me ditch you. And there is absolutely no one, not Ning, not Giselle, not Winter, not anyone on this entire planet, who is 'cooler' or 'more entertaining' or 'more interesting' than you are to me." You search her eyes, willing her to believe you. "And no one," you add, "no one makes me feel the way I feel when I’m with you. Not then. And definitely not now."

Her eyes search yours, wide and luminous, and you can see the emotions warring within them: surprise, disbelief, and then, slowly, a dawning, fragile hope. A single tear escapes and traces a path down her cheek, and you reach up, your thumb gently brushing it away, your touch lingering on her soft skin for just a heartbeat longer than necessary.

"When… when we met again," she begins, so fragile you have to lean in slightly to catch it. "That day on the street? All those… those old feelings…" She swallows hard, her gaze dropping to her hands, now twisting in her lap. "They just… they came rushing back. All of them. And I thought… I really thought I was over it. Over you." She attempts a small, shaky laugh that doesn't quite land. "So stupid. I’m a grown woman, a K-Pop idol, for crying out loud. I shouldn’t be… I shouldn’t be feeling like a confused teenager all over again just because my childhood crush reappeared."

She tries to continue, her lips parting, but the words seem to catch in her throat. Her brow furrows in frustration, and she shakes her head, a gesture of helpless self-reproach. "I… I can’t even…" Another aborted attempt. She looks up at you, her eyes swimming with unshed tears, a look of utter bewilderment on her face. "I'm sorry," she blurts out. "I don’t even know what I’m talking about anymore. It must be the wine. It’s making me all… emotional and stupid." She gestures vaguely, a hand fluttering near her chest. "I’m probably ruining everything, aren't I? Just… ignore me. I’m being ridiculous." She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, as if trying to physically block out her own chaotic emotions.

And in that instant, watching her so raw, so vulnerable, so utterly terrified of her own feelings (feelings that mirror your own chaotic internal landscape so perfectly) something inside you just… snaps. All the overthinking, all the caution, all the years of unspoken longing, converge into a single, undeniable impulse. The wine, the dim lights, the confessions, her tear-streaked face so close to yours… it’s a perfect storm, and you’re right in the eye of it. To hell with professionalism, to hell with the risks, to hell with everything but the raw, undeniable truth thrumming between you.

Before you can second-guess it, before your internal HR department can scream bloody murder, you lean forward and kiss her.

It’s not a gentle, tentative kiss. It’s clumsy, desperate, fueled by years of pent-up emotion and too much wine. Your lips meet hers, and for a split second, she’s completely still, a statue beneath your sudden onslaught. Her eyes fly open, wide and startled, pupils blown huge in the dim light, reflecting a pure, unadulterated shock. You feel the soft, unexpected give of her lips, the faint taste of wine and something uniquely Jimin, a taste you realize, with a jolt, you’ve been subconsciously craving for more than half your life.

For a horrifying moment, you think you’ve made a monumental mistake. Idiot! You absolute, unmitigated idiot! your brain screams. You’ve broken her! You’ve ruined everything! The irony of her exact words now applying to your actions is not lost on you, even in your panic.

But then, just as you’re about to pull away, to stammer out a mortified apology, something shifts. Her eyelids flutter closed. A tiny, almost inaudible sigh escapes her, a breath she seems to have been holding for a lifetime. And then, slowly, tentatively, she gives in. Her lips soften against yours, responding with a hesitant pressure that builds, her body relaxing slightly against the sofa cushions. The kiss deepens, still a little clumsy, still a little desperate, but now with an undeniable mutuality, a shared exploration of a boundary crossed together.

When you finally, breathlessly, pull apart, the silence in the room is deafening. You stare at her, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. Her eyes are still closed for a moment, her lashes dark against her flushed cheeks. Then they slowly open, and she just… stares back at you, her expression unreadable, dazed, her lips slightly swollen and glistening. You can’t breathe. You can’t think. You can only watch her, bracing for the fallout.

And then, her face crumples. Her lower lip trembles, and her carefully constructed composure shatters completely. A choked sob escapes her, and fat, silent tears begin to stream down her cheeks, unheeded. It’s not the reaction you were hoping for. It’s definitely not the reaction you were hoping for.

"Oh, god, Jimin, I…" Panic, cold and sharp, seizes you. You have ruined it. "I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have… I just… I’m an idiot. Please, don’t cry. I’m so, so sorry." The words tumble out, a frantic, jumbled apology.

She shakes her head, swiping at her tears with the back of her hand, though more quickly follow. "No," she whispers. "No, it’s… it’s okay." And then, to your utter astonishment, she launches herself at you, her arms wrapping around your neck, burying her face in your shoulder, her body trembling with silent sobs. You instinctively wrap your arms around her, holding her close, your mind reeling.

"I… I liked it," she mumbles into your shirt, her voice muffled but audible. "I really did." She pulls back just enough to look at you, her eyes red-rimmed but shining with a confusing mix of emotions. "It’s just… it’s all… it’s a lot. Everything. All at once. Coming back. I feel… I feel kind of weird." She lets out another shaky laugh that sounds more like a sob. "Overwhelmed, I guess."

Fuck. She liked it. She actually liked it. You haven't irrevocably destroyed your friendship, your job, and your chances of ever experiencing joy again. Small victories. You gently shift on the plush sofa, pulling her more fully into your embrace until she’s settled somewhat in your lap, her side tucked against your chest. It feels incredibly intimate, yet also profoundly comforting. You rest your cheek against the top of her head, her hair soft against your skin, smelling faintly of her shampoo. After a few long minutes, her trembling stops. She lets out a deep, shuddering sigh and slowly lifts her head from your shoulder. Her eyes are still puffy, her cheeks tear-stained, but there’s a new calmness in her expression, a fragile sort of peace. She looks at you, her gaze soft and searching.

Then, a small, watery smile touches her lips. She reaches up, her hand, so small and delicate, coming to rest on your cheek. Her thumb gently strokes your skin.

"You know," she whispers. "for someone who claims to be an idiot…" Her smile widens, a genuine, almost dazzling Jimin-smile breaking through the tear-stained landscape of her face. "You’re not always wrong."

And then, before you can even process that, before you can form a coherent thought or even remember how to breathe properly, she leans in, her eyes fluttering closed, and kisses you.

This time, there’s no surprise, no hesitation. It’s a kiss that is both a question and an answer, a culmination and a beginning. It’s soft, tender, yet filled with an undercurrent of all those years of unspoken feelings, of rediscovered emotions, of the undeniable, terrifying, exhilarating truth that is thrumming between you. It’s a kiss that tastes of wine, and tears, and a hope so potent it makes your head spin.

When she pulls back, her eyes are galaxies, dark and swirling with emotion, a universe you’re only just beginning to navigate. A delighted, slightly breathless giggle escapes her, then you’re laughing too, a shared, giddy sound that bounces off the walls of her apartment.

"Wow," she whispers, her fingers tracing the line of your jaw. "This… this really happened, didn't it?" Her eyes search yours, looking for confirmation in a world that suddenly feels wonderfully, terrifyingly new.

"It really, really did," you affirm. The air between you is no longer just charged; it’s practically incandescent, thrumming with a potent energy that makes the hairs on your arms stand on end. The earlier nervousness hasn’t vanished, but it’s been transmuted into something else. She leans her forehead against yours for a moment, just breathing, then pulls back slightly, her eyes alight.

Her fingers, still feather-light against your skin, drift down from your jaw to the collar of your shirt. She toys with the fabric, a slow, deliberate movement, her gaze fixed on yours. The city lights outside paint her in hues of gold and shadow, making her look even more ethereal, more achingly beautiful.

"You know," she says, "you haven't, uh… you haven't seen my room yet." Her eyes flick towards a hallway leading off the main living area, then back to yours.

Your own breath hitches. You try to swallow, your throat suddenly dry. "No, I haven't," you manage. You search her eyes, needing to be absolutely sure. "Would you… would you like to show me?"

A slow, devastatingly beautiful smile spreads across her face. It’s a smile of pure, unadulterated desire, mixed with a touch of that endearing shyness that still clings to her, even now. "Yes," she breathes. "Yes, I really would."

That’s all the confirmation you need. In one fluid movement you lean forward, sliding one arm beneath her knees, the other around her back. You lift her effortlessly from the sofa, her gasp of surprise quickly turning into a delighted laugh as she instinctively wraps her arms around your neck, her legs around your waist. She feels impossibly light, yet incredibly solid in your arms, a perfect, intoxicating weight. And then you’re kissing her again, deeply, hungrily, the earlier tenderness now ignited with a fiercer, more demanding passion.

"Which way?" you murmur against her mouth, your lips still brushing hers.

"That way," she whispers, gesturing with a slight tilt of her head down the hallway, never breaking the kiss, her fingers tangling in your hair, pulling you closer.

You carry her through the apartment, your steps sure and steady despite the roaring in your ears and the way your heart is trying to beat its way out of your chest. Each step feels monumental, a journey into uncharted territory. She guides you with soft murmurs and the pressure of her body against yours, her kisses becoming more urgent, more demanding, her breath coming in soft, quick gasps against your skin.

Her bedroom is at the end of the hall. She reaches out a hand, fumbling for the doorknob, then pushes it open. You step inside, and the world seems to tilt again. The room is bathed in a soft, ambient glow from the city outside, filtered through sheer curtains, creating an atmosphere that is both intimate and dreamlike. It’s perfect.

You carry her over to the bed, your lips still locked with hers, a desperate, continuous kiss that speaks of years of unspoken longing. Gently, reverently, you lower her onto the soft duvet, following her down, bracing yourself on your hands on either side of her head. You break the kiss, just for a moment, to gaze down at her. Her eyes are dark and dilated, her lips swollen and flushed from your kisses, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She is, without a doubt, the most beautiful thing you have ever seen.

"God, Jimin," you breathe. You lower your head, burying your face in the soft skin of her neck, inhaling her scent, feeling the frantic pulse throbbing beneath your lips. "You are so unbelievably beautiful." You kiss the delicate curve where her neck meets her shoulder, then trail a line of slow, deliberate kisses up towards her ear. "The most beautiful girl in the world," you whisper, your lips brushing her earlobe. "You always have been. Always."

A soft, shuddering moan escapes her as you continue your exploration, your lips and tongue tracing patterns on her sensitive skin, tasting the salt and sweetness of her. Her breathing becomes more irregular, deeper, her fingers tightening in your hair, her hips starting to shift restlessly beneath you. You feel her arch into your touch, a silent plea for more.

Your hands, which have been resting on the bed beside her, begin their own exploration. They find the hem of her soft, oversized sweater, your fingers brushing against the warm, pale skin of her stomach beneath it. Her skin is like silk, radiating a heat that sets your own nerves on fire. You tug at the sweater gently, slowly, agonizingly, your eyes locked on hers, watching her reaction. Her eyelids are heavy, her lips parted, a look of pure, unadulterated anticipation on her face. With a final, deliberate pull, you slide the sweater up and over her head, tossing it carelessly aside.

And there they are.

Her breasts, even constrained by the delicate lace of her bra, are undeniably magnificent. Full, heavy, spilling slightly from the cups, their pale, creamy expanse a stark, breathtaking contrast to the dark fabric. You can see the gentle slope, the promise of their weight. Your own breath hitches in your throat. This is the reality of Karina, of Jimin, laid bare before you, a sight you’ve only dared to dream of in your most secret, most forbidden fantasies.

You take off your shoes, kicking them aside, never taking your eyes off her. As you reach for the hem of your own shirt, your fingers fumbling with the buttons in your haste, you see her hands move to her back. With a deft, practiced movement, she unhooks her bra. She holds it in place for a moment longer, her gaze locking with yours, a shy, almost vulnerable smile playing on her lips.

"I… I hope you like them," she whispers.

Then, with a deep breath, she lets the bra fall away.

Your world stops. Absolutely, irrevocably stops. Her breasts are… perfect. More than perfect. They are everything you've ever imagined, and so much more. They are large, gloriously full, spilling into her hands as she cups them for a moment, as if presenting a sacred offering. The skin is so pale it seems almost luminous in the dim light, smooth and flawless, save for the faint blue veins tracing delicate patterns just beneath the surface, hinting at the life and warmth within. Her areolas are a dusky rose, wide and perfectly formed, and at their centers, her nipples, a deeper, more insistent pink, are already hard and erect, puckered tight, practically begging for your touch, for your mouth. They look so incredibly soft, so utterly… juicy, for lack of a better, more reverent word.

You’re mesmerized, completely transfixed, your throat dry, your mind blissfully, wonderfully blank save for the overwhelming, primal need to touch, to taste, to worship. After what feels like an eternity, but is probably only a few seconds, you slowly reach out a trembling hand. Your fingers make contact with the warm, yielding softness of her right breast. She gasps softly as you cup its weight, your thumb brushing over the taut, sensitive peak of her nipple. So warm. So unbelievably soft. You gently squeeze, a possessive, reverent pressure, and a low moan rumbles in her chest, vibrating against your palm.

She lies back fully on the bed then, her arms stretching above her head, her body an open, trusting invitation. You quickly shed your shirt, your movements urgent, driven by a desire that is rapidly consuming every last shred of your self-control. You climb onto the bed, positioning yourself above her, your knees on either side of her hips, your gaze still fixed on the breathtaking sight of her bare, beautiful breasts.

And then, you lower your head and take one of those perfect, pink nipples into your mouth.

She cries out, a sharp, breathless sound that is pure, unadulterated pleasure, her back arching off the bed, her fingers digging into your shoulders. Her breast fills your mouth, the taste of her skin, salty and sweet, intoxicating. You suck gently at first, then more strongly, your tongue laving, teasing, drawing the hardened peak deeper. She is melting beneath you, writhing, her hips starting to buck a little, a silent plea for more.

"Oh, god," she gasps. "Yes… fuck, yes… right there… they’re so… so sensitive…" Her words are broken, punctuated by moans and sharp intakes of breath. "Please… don’t stop… keep going… it’s… it’s making me so fucking horny…"

You shift your attention to her other breast, giving it the same devoted worship, laving, sucking, gently nipping, while your hand continues to squeeze and caress the one you just abandoned, ensuring both are bathed in sensation. You can feel the frantic thrumming of her heart against your chest, the heat radiating from her skin, the way her entire body is trembling, on the verge of completely unraveling. You lift your head for a moment, just to look at her, at the sight of her, utterly consumed by lust, her eyes half-closed, her lips parted, her beautiful breasts flushed and glistening from your attention. This is Jimin. This is Karina. And she is yours, in this moment, completely and utterly yours to worship, to pleasure, to drive absolutely insane.

You continue your worship of her breasts, alternating between them, lavishing each with an equal, fervent devotion. One hand cradles the breast you’re not currently feasting on, your thumb flicking, teasing the already hard nipple, while your mouth works its magic on its twin. You suck strongly, drawing the peak deep, feeling the responsive tug in her body, the way her hips tilt upwards, seeking a friction that isn’t there yet.

"Fuck, yes," she pants, her fingers still tangled in your hair, now gripping, almost painfully tight, but you welcome the anchor in the storm of sensation you’re both caught in. "They’re so… oh god… so good… your mouth…"

You lift your head for a moment, your lips slick, your gaze devouring the sight of her: her chest flushed a deep rose, her nipples impossibly tight, glistening with your saliva, already looking delightfully, beautifully ravaged.

"Yours are the best, Jimin," you growl. "Perfect. Absolutely fucking perfect. I could suck on these gorgeous tits all night."

A choked laugh, half sob, half pure ecstasy, bubbles from her throat. "Please do… God, yes… you suck so fucking well…"

You dive back in, attacking her nipples with renewed ferocity, sucking, licking, nipping gently with your teeth, drawing out her moans. You leave your marks, faint red circles blooming on her pale skin where your lips have been. Her breasts are indeed glistening, slick with your drool and her own faint sheen of sweat. She’s thrashing beneath you now, no longer trying to control her reactions, her head tossing from side to side on the pillows, her breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps. Each pull of your mouth seems to send shivers racking through her entire frame.

Slowly, reluctantly, you drag your mouth away from her sensitive breasts, leaving them flushed, swollen, and thoroughly worshipped. Her soft whimper of protest is cut short as you begin to trail a line of hot, open-mouthed kisses down the center of her torso, over the subtle curve of her ribcage, across the quivering expanse of her flat, pale stomach. Each kiss is deliberate, lingering, your tongue flicking out to taste her skin. You feel the muscles in her abdomen clench and flutter beneath your lips.

"Don’t stop," she whispers, her hands now gripping the bedsheets on either side of her. "Please… whatever you’re doing… just… more."

You continue your downward pilgrimage, your lips brushing against the waistband of her lounge pants. They’re soft, loose-fitting, and offer little resistance as your fingers find the drawstring. With a deft tug, you loosen it, then slowly, agonizingly slowly, begin to slide the fabric down her hips, revealing the delicate curve of her hipbone, the smooth, pale skin of her thighs. Your hands skim down her legs, pushing the pants further, until they’re pooled around her ankles. You kick them impatiently off the end of the bed, your gaze fixed on the prize they were concealing.

Her panties. A tiny scrap of pale pink lace, stretched taut across the apex of her thighs, already dark with her wetness. Her thighs, usually so strong and toned from years of dancing, are trembling uncontrollably now, a fine sheen of moisture glistening on their pale inner surfaces. The musky scent of her arousal is stronger here. You can practically feel the heat radiating from between her legs.

"Look at you," you murmur as you trail your fingers along the damp lace, feeling the heat and moisture seeping through. "So wet for me already, aren’t you, babe? Fucking dripping."

A broken sob escapes her. "Yes… oh god, yes… please… I need…" She can’t even finish the sentence, her body arching, her hips instinctively grinding against the mattress.

You pull the panties down, slowly, inch by agonizing inch, revealing her to your hungry gaze.

And she is, as you knew she would be, perfect. Absolutely fucking perfect. Her shaved pussy is nestled between her thighs, a delicate, swollen mound. The outer lips are plump, flushed a deep, inviting pink, already glistening with her slick, arousal-heavy dew. They part slightly as you watch, revealing the even pinker, more tender flesh within, and the glint of her clit, a tiny, perfect pearl peeking out, already engorged and throbbing. This is the core of her, the secret, hidden place you’ve only ever dreamed of, now laid bare for your worship.

You shift your position, moving from beside her to kneel between her parted thighs. They tremble slightly as you settle there, and she lets out a shaky breath, her eyes, dark and wide, fixed on yours. There’s a beautiful, terrifying vulnerability in her gaze, a silent plea that makes your cock ache with an almost painful intensity. But you’re not going to rush this. Oh no. This moment, this offering, is too precious, too long-awaited. She needs to feel every second of this descent into pleasure, every nuance of her own burgeoning, desperate need. You’re going to make her burn for it. You’re going to make her beg.

"You are so fucking beautiful, Jimin," you murmur. Your gaze drops from her eyes to the glistening treasure nestled between her thighs, then deliberately, slowly, travels to the pale, trembling skin of her inner thigh. "So incredibly, exquisitely responsive."

Instead of diving straight for her pussy, as every instinct screams at you to do, you lean down and press a soft, lingering kiss to the delicate skin high on her inner left thigh, just inches from that wet, waiting heat. She gasps, her whole body jerking, her thighs instinctively trying to clench together, but you gently hold them apart, your hands firm but gentle on her hips.

"Easy now," you whisper against her skin, your breath hot. "Don't want to miss any of this, do we?"

You trail another kiss, then another, working your way in a slow, agonizing circle around that central, beckoning core, never quite touching it, but always promising it. Your tongue darts out, tasting the faint saltiness of her skin, the faintest hint of her arousal that has already slicked even this far out. With each kiss, each lick against her thigh, you feel her tremors intensify. Her fingers are fisted in the bedsheets, her knuckles white.

"What… what are you doing?" she pants. "Please… you’re… you’re driving me crazy."

"Am I, babe?" you purr, your lips brushing the impossibly soft skin just beside one of her swollen, pink outer lips. You can smell her now, that rich, musky, uniquely feminine scent of pure, unadulterated horniness, and it’s making you lightheaded, drunk on her desire. "Driving you crazy how? Tell me." You dip your tongue out again, this time lapping up a stray droplet of her slick wetness that has trickled onto her thigh. Her taste… fuck, it’s even better than you imagined. Sweet, tangy, utterly addictive. You groan softly into her skin. "Oh, you taste so fucking good right here… just a hint of what’s waiting for me."

"Please…" she begs. "Don’t… don’t tease me like this. I can’t… I can’t take it." Her hips are starting to move now, a small, involuntary rocking motion, trying to seek out the pressure of your mouth.

"Can't take what, Jimin?" you ask. You drag your open mouth slowly up her inner thigh, leaving a wet trail, then switch to the other, lavishing it with the same agonizingly slow attention. You can feel the heat pouring off her in waves. "You need to tell me what you want. Use your words, baby. You want me to stop?" You deliberately pull back a fraction of an inch, letting the cool air hit her heated skin, and she whimpers, a raw, frustrated sound.

"No! No, don’t stop, please, whatever you do, don’t stop," she cries. "I want… I want your mouth. There. Please. I need it. I’m so wet for you, can’t you feel it? Can’t you taste it?" Her words are a torrent now, the carefully constructed composure of Karina completely shattered, leaving only the raw, needy core of Jimin. "I’m aching… I’m fucking aching for your tongue, please… just… just eat me out. Suck my clit. Please, I’m begging you."

Her plea is music to your ears. She’s so close, so desperate. But you’re not quite done with her yet. You want her utterly, completely undone.

"Beg me how, sweet girl?" you murmur, your lips now hovering directly over her glistening, swollen clit, your hot breath fanning the sensitive nub. She gasps, her whole body seizing. "Tell me how badly you need it. Tell me what a good girl you’ll be if I finally give you what you’re craving. Convince me." The strategic irony here is that you're already convinced, already harder than you've ever been in your life, but the game, the sight of her unraveling at your command, It's the best feeling in the world.

"I’ll be so good," she sobs, her thighs trembling violently now, threatening to clamp shut around your head. "So fucking good for you. I’ll do anything. Anything you want. Just please… please put your mouth on me. I’m dying here. I need to feel your tongue… I need you to make me cum… I’m so close… Please, babe, suck me… suck me like you mean it…"

Her words, that broken, desperate plea to be eaten out, are the only permission you need. You lower your head, your hair brushing against the pale skin of her inner thighs, and finally, finally, you give in. You press your mouth fully against her, parting her slick, swollen lips with your own, and your tongue finds her clit. A sound is torn from her throat, a high, sharp keen that’s half shock and half pure, unadulterated pleasure. Her entire body jolts as if struck by lightning, her hips slamming upwards into your face in a single, convulsive movement. The taste of her floods your senses, and it's everything. It’s not just the sweet, tangy flavor of her arousal you'd already sampled from her thighs; it's deeper, muskier, the very essence of her, and it's intoxicating.

You're instantly, hopelessly addicted. You begin slowly, a reverent worship. Your tongue is soft, exploratory, lapping at her gently, learning the landscape of her. You trace the delicate shape of her outer lips, then dip inside to swirl around the plump, sensitive inner folds before focusing on that hardened pearl of her clit.

"Oh, god..." she breathes, her hands flying up to tangle in your hair, not pulling, just holding on as if she might float away. "Yes... that's..."

You hum against her, a low, deep vibration that you feel travel through her entire body. She lets out another soft cry. Her muscles are still coiled with tension, but it's the tension of overwhelming sensation, not desperation. She is melting, and you are the cause.

"Just relax for me, baby," you murmur against her slick flesh. "Just let me taste you. You're so perfect."

You settle in, continuing the slow, deliberate worship. For long minutes, this is all that exists: the sound of your mouth against her, her soft, breathy moans, and the rich, intoxicating taste of her on your tongue. Her hips are no longer bucking but have settled into a slow, swaying rhythm, rocking against your mouth in time with the gentle lapping of your tongue. She has given you control, and you intend to savor it. You can feel the change when her body becomes fully accustomed to the pleasure, when the slow worship is no longer enough. Her gentle sways become more insistent, her breath hitches with a new need, and her fingers tighten in your hair, this time with a subtle, pleading tug. She wants more. And you are going to make her beg for it.

You shift your technique, beginning the torture. You pull your mouth away from her clit, trailing your tongue down along the slick valley between her labia. She whimpers in protest, her hips pushing up, seeking the focused pressure you just denied her.

"Shhh," you whisper, pressing a soft kiss to one of her swollen inner lips. "So much to taste here. Can't rush."

You proceed to lavish attention on every other part of her, everywhere but the one place she is dying for you to be. You lick the plump flesh of her lips, suck gently on the inner folds, your tongue darting out to trace the rim of her opening, dipping just the very tip inside before pulling away. With every near-miss, a frustrated cry is torn from her throat.

"Please..." she pants, her hips rocking more frantically now. "Please... you're... you're driving me crazy. My clit... I need you there."

"Here?" you ask. You flick your tongue directly over the sensitive nub one time, fast and hard. She yelps, her whole body convulsing. Then you pull away again, moving to trace lazy circles on the sensitive skin around her. "You liked that, didn't you? Tell me how much you liked it."

"Yes! Fuck, yes, I loved it," she sobs. "Please, do it again. Don't tease me... I can't take it. Just... just suck it, please."

"Beg me," you command softly, your hot breath ghosting over her clit, making her shiver. "Tell me exactly what you want my mouth to do to you. I want to hear how desperate you are for it."

She’s a mess, completely undone by your teasing. "I'm so desperate for you," she cries, her words tumbling over each other. "I need your tongue on my clit. I need you to suck on it, hard. Lick me until I can't think. Please, I'm begging you. I'll do anything. Just go back there. I feel like I'm going to die if you don't."

Her plea is everything you wanted. You slide your mouth back over her, but instead of the hard pressure she's begging for, you give her the opposite. You open your mouth wide, your tongue flat, and you just... lick. Long, slow, deliberate strokes from the base of her mound, up over her clit, all the way to her perineum, and back down again. It’s a broad, wet, agonizingly gentle sensation.

"No..." she groans, a sound of pure frustration. "Harder... please, you have to do it harder."

"I don't have to do anything, baby," you murmur, continuing the slow, torturous laps. "I'm in control here. You'll take it how I give it to you. And right now, I want to feel you squirm."

She thrashes beneath you, so close to the edge but held back by your deliberate restraint. Her nails are digging into your scalp now, not painfully, but with a frantic urgency. It’s time to escalate. It's time to break her completely. While continuing the slow, steady rhythm of your tongue, you slide one hand down between her thighs. Her skin is flushed and hot to the touch. Your fingers find her entrance, already slick and gaping, practically weeping with need. You slide one finger inside her.

She screams, a raw, ragged sound, as the new sensation of being filled sends a fresh shockwave through her system. She’s so tight, so hot, clenching around your finger instantly. You push your finger deeper, feeling the texture of her inner walls, the way she convulses around you.

"That's it, Jimin," you praise, your voice muffled against her. "Take my finger. Feel how wet you are? Fucking dripping for me."

Now you change the rhythm of your tongue, finally giving her the focused attention she craved. You suck her clit into your mouth, your tongue working fast and hard, while your finger inside her establishes a steady in-and-out rhythm. The dual sensations are too much. She is completely lost.

"Fuck! Yes, both..." she gasps. "It's… it's too much… I'm going to…"

You add a second finger, stretching her, filling her more completely. She cries out again, her back arching so high off the bed it's a perfect, strained bow. Her pussy milks your fingers, slick and greedy. You can feel the muscles deep inside her starting to flutter, the tell-tale sign that her orgasm is gathering strength.

"You feel that, baby?" you ask, curling your fingers inside her, rubbing them against the nub of her g-spot. "My tongue on your clit, my fingers deep in your cunt. Does that feel good?"

"So good!" she screams. "It feels so fucking good! I'm so close, don't stop, please, please don't stop!"

You are her entire world now. She is aware of nothing but your mouth and your fingers, driving her towards the abyss. You increase the pace of everything. Your tongue is a frantic engine on her clit, sucking, flicking, laving. Your fingers pump in and out of her relentlessly. You can feel the final tension coiling in her body, a string stretched to its breaking point. Her breath comes in short, sharp gasps, and her moans have become a single, continuous, high-pitched keen.

"I'm going to make you come so hard, Jimin," you growl into her. "You're going to scream my name. Get ready."

You feel it start, the first deep, internal clench around your fingers. Her entire body goes rigid.

"I'm cumming! Oh fuck, I'm cumming! I'm cummmmming!"

Her scream is primal as her orgasm rips through her, a violent, world-shattering release. Her body convulses, her hips slamming up against your mouth in a desperate, uncontrollable rhythm. Her juices gush out of her, hot and thick, flooding your mouth with the sweet, musky taste of her release. You swallow greedily, catching every single drop as her body is wracked by wave after wave of intense pleasure. You don't stop your ministrations, gentling your touch now, your tongue soothing her hypersensitive clit, your fingers massaging her inner walls as the aftershocks ripple through her.

Slowly, her body goes limp, collapsing back onto the mattress. She’s trembling from head to toe, her chest rising and falling in deep, ragged pants. Her eyes are squeezed shut, tears leaking from the corners, her face flushed a deep crimson. You finally lift your head, your chin and lips slick with her, and look at the masterpiece of your work.

You lean down, capturing her mouth in a soft, lingering kiss. It’s a stark contrast to the hungry, desperate kisses you shared before. This one is tender. She moans softly into your mouth, and you taste it: the lingering, musky sweetness of her own climax. She tastes it too, a jolt going through her body as she recognizes herself on your tongue. A faint blush rises on her already flushed cheeks, a mix of shy embarrassment and burgeoning arousal.

You pull back just enough to gaze down at her. Her hair is a wild halo around her head, her lips are swollen, her eyes are still dazed and beautifully unfocused. She is the most magnificent thing you have ever seen.

"You look so beautiful like this," you say. "Completely undone for me."

"You're an asshole," she whispers, but there’s no heat in it, only a deep, lingering pleasure. "Don't you ever tease me like that again." As she says it, she shifts, leaning up just enough to press her teeth against the side of your neck in a playful, possessive bite. It’s not hard, just a firm pressure.

You chuckle, then pepper her cheeks with soft kisses. "I'm sorry," you say, not sounding sorry at all. "I couldn't help it." You lean in close, your lips brushing her ear. "Hearing you beg for me, Jimin… hearing you lose control and tell me how much you needed it… it makes me fucking crazy. It’s addictive. I don't think I'll ever get enough of it."

Her breath hitches. Your words, your confession that her submission drives you wild, are exactly what she needs to hear. As you pull back, her eyes, now clear and focused, glitter with a new, dangerous kind of light. Her hand slides from your cheek, down your chest, over your stomach, coming to rest directly on the hard ridge of your cock through the denim of your jeans. Her fingers close around you, a firm, knowing grip that makes you hiss through your teeth. She squeezes, feeling the full, thick length of your cock straining against the fabric.

A slow, devastatingly confident smile spreads across her face. "Addictive, huh?" she purrs, her voice regaining its strength. "I can beg for a lot more than that." Her gaze drops from your eyes to your crotch, then back up, her expression pure, unadulterated hunger. "And right now," she says, her grip tightening, "I really, really want your cock."

Her words are a command and a plea all in one. Without another word, you pull away from her, getting off the bed. Her eyes are wide, tracking your every move as you reach for the button on your jeans. You undo it, the sound loud in the quiet room, then slowly pull down the zipper. You never break eye contact. You hook your thumbs into the waistband and push the jeans down over your hips, kicking them off impatiently.

Now you stand before her in just your dark boxer briefs. The fabric does little to hide the truth, straining to contain the thick, heavy bulge of your erection. You see her eyes fixate on it, her lips parting slightly. A sharp intake of breath is the only sound she makes. She is, as you suspected, absolutely captivated.

You hook your thumbs into the waistband of your underwear. "You wanted this, remember?" you ask. You drag the fabric down slowly, inch by agonizing inch, until your cock springs free, heavy and thick in the dim light.

Jimin lets out a long, shuddering sigh. It’s a sound of pure awe. Your cock is fully hard, glistening with a bead of clear, slick precum. It’s big, bigger than she probably imagined, and her eyes trace its length, from the heavy weight of your balls to the thick shaft and the promising, wet tip.

You don't give her too long to just look. You move back to the bed, climbing on and positioning yourself between her parted legs. They tremble slightly as you settle in, her thighs falling open to grant you full access. She's still so beautifully wrecked, so open and waiting for you. You take your cock in your hand, stroking it slowly, the pre-cum making your skin slick. You want her to watch. You want her to see exactly what is about to fill that empty, aching space inside her.

"Wait," you say. The thought hits you, a brief flash of real-world responsibility in this haze of lust. "Condoms. We should..."

"No," she says immediately, her voice firm, cutting you off. She shakes her head, her eyes blazing with a fierce, undeniable need. "No. I don't care about that right now. I need to feel you. All of you. I just want to feel your dick inside me. Now."

You hesitate, searching her face. "Jimin, are you sure?"

"Yes," she moans. Her hips arch off the bed, a desperate, silent invitation. "Please. I'm on birth control. Just… please, I need it. Don't make me wait anymore."

That's all you need. Her certainty, her raw need, erases any doubt. But you’re not going to let her off that easy. The teasing isn't over yet. You lean forward, bracing your hands on either side of her head, and lower your body until the tip of your cock is pressed against her. She gasps as the heat of you makes contact with her slick, swollen folds. She is unbelievably wet, her juices from her earlier orgasm making a perfect lubricant.

"So wet for me," you murmur, grinding the head of your cock against her clit. "You want this cock so badly, don't you?"

"Yes! Please, just put it in," she begs, her hands fisted in the bedsheets.

You ignore her plea, continuing the agonizing tease. You slide the head of your cock up and down her slit, gliding through her slickness, letting her feel your thickness, your hardness, but denying her the entry she craves. With every pass, she whimpers, her body straining, trying to force you inside her.

"Look at you," you whisper. "Trying to impale yourself on my cock. You can't wait, can you?"

"I can't," she sobs. "It feels so good… just the tip… please, I need to feel all of it. I need you to stretch me. Fill me up."

"Then you know what you have to do," you say, pausing your movements, holding the head of your cock right at her entrance, a promise and a threat. "Beg for it. Beg me to fuck your tight, wet pussy. Tell me how much you need this cock inside you."

"Please," she cries. "Please fuck me. I'm begging you. I need your cock. I need it inside my pussy right now. Please, I'll be so good for you, just fuck me!"

Her desperate, broken plea is the most beautiful sound you've ever heard. "Good girl," you praise.

And then you give her what she's begged for. You shift your hips, aiming the thick head of your cock at her entrance.

You push.

The feeling is indescribable. You stop, buried deep inside her, and the world just… ceases to exist. There is only this. The sensation is overwhelming, a sensory overload that shorts out every coherent thought in your brain. Her pussy is a revelation. It’s impossibly tight, a velvet clench around your entire length, gripping you with an intimate pressure that’s both demanding and welcoming. It’s slick, her juices coating your cock in a hot, wet sheen that makes every tiny shift an act of pure friction and pleasure. And it’s so, so hot, a deep, internal heat that feels like it’s seeping right into your bones.

Jimin lets out a choked, shuddering gasp, her eyes squeezed shut as her body tries to process the feeling of being so completely and utterly filled like this. Her inner walls pulse and clench around you, an involuntary, welcoming spasm that nearly makes you come right then and there. You have to clench every muscle in your body to hold back.

"Fuck, Jimin..." you groan. "You feel... I don't even have words. You feel so fucking perfect."

"You're so big," she whispers, her voice trembling. Her hands come up to rest on your chest, her fingers pressing into your skin. "You... you fill me up completely. I can feel you all the way inside me."

"I want to feel every inch of you," you say. You begin to move, but not in the hard, fast way you're both craving. Not yet. You pull back, agonizingly slowly, until just the thick head of your cock is inside her. She whimpers, a raw sound of protest at the loss, her hips lifting instinctively to follow you. Then, just as slowly, you push back in, letting her feel the full length of you sliding home once more.

"Oh, god," she moans, her head tossing on the pillows. "That... that feels..."

"I know," you say, continuing the slow, torturous rhythm. In and out. A deep, deliberate friction that is designed to let both of you savor every millimeter of contact. "I want you to feel all of it. Every time I slide into your tight, wet pussy. I want you to remember this feeling forever."

You do this for what feels like an eternity, just fucking her slowly, deeply, letting the tension build to a fever pitch. Her initial awe begins to melt away, replaced by a raw, hungry lust. Her hips are no longer just receiving you; she’s starting to push back, meeting your slow thrusts with an eagerness that makes your blood run hot. She’s ready.

"Okay, baby," you rasp, grabbing her hips firmly, your thumbs digging into the soft flesh above her hipbones. "You wanted this. Now you're going to get it."

You change the rhythm. Your thrusts become hard, deep, and punishing. You slam into her, your cock slapping against her wet folds, the sound of your bodies colliding echoing in the quiet room. You fuck her with a desperate, pent-up energy, each thrust driving you deeper, stretching her, filling her completely.

And she loves it. She cries out with every powerful slam of your hips, her legs wrapping around your waist to pull you even deeper. Her head is thrown back, her neck arched, a long, continuous moan spilling from her parted lips. This is what you’ve both been waiting for.

You watch her as you fuck her, your gaze devouring the sight of her. And her breasts… fuck, her breasts are perfect. With every hard thrust, they bounce, a heavy, hypnotic jiggle that mesmerizes you. They are large and full, their weight made obvious by the way they sway and tremble with the force of your fucking. Her nipples, still hard and puckered from your earlier attention, are a deep, flushed pink, pointing right at you as if in offering.

"Look at them," you pant, your voice strained with effort and lust. "Look at your perfect tits bouncing for me. Every time I fuck you."

She glances down, a dazed, lust-filled smile spreading across her face as she watches the motion. "Fuck..." she breathes. "They're… they're so heavy…"

"I love how they move," you say, never breaking your rhythm. "I want to see them bounce harder."

You increase your pace, pounding into her with a relentless, frantic energy. You’re lost in it now, lost in the feeling of her tight, wet heat, the sight of her beautiful body taking you, the sound of her cries filling the air.

"More!" she screams. "Please, don't stop! Fuck me harder! I need it harder!"

"Like this, baby?" you growl, slamming into her with as much force as you can muster. "You want your pussy fucked like this?"

"Yes! Oh god, yes!" she cries, her nails digging into your back, leaving fiery trails on your skin. "Your cock… it feels so fucking good inside me! It's hitting everything! Please… don't ever stop!"

You are both drenched in sweat, your bodies slick, moving together as one. You lean down, fucking her senseless, and she is taking every inch, begging for more. You press her deeper into the soft mattress, your combined weight creating a perfect hollow of heat and friction. You are buried inside her, a seamless join of wet, hot flesh, and yet you crave more. You need to consume her, to taste her, to feel her surrender in every way possible. You capture her lips, crashing your mouth against hers again. It’s not a tender kiss; it’s a rough, hungry claiming. It’s the kiss of two people who have starved for years and just found a feast.

She kisses you back with an equal, startling fervor. This isn’t a passive acceptance; it’s a demand. Her tongue pushes against yours, her hands leaving your back to tangle in your hair, pulling your mouth harder against hers. You are both lost in it, fucking and kissing, a closed circuit of overwhelming sensation. The deep, rhythmic plunge of your cock into her pussy is punctuated by the wet slap of your mouths, the soft, desperate moans she makes when you deepen the kiss, the guttural groans you can’t hold back when she sucks your tongue into her mouth. It’s filthy, it’s perfect, and it’s driving you both insane.

But it’s still not enough. You break the kiss, leaving her panting and breathless, her lips swollen and glistening. You look down at her, at the magnificent sight of her breasts, flushed and trembling with each powerful thrust of your hips. You need to taste them again. While maintaining the relentless, pounding rhythm of your fucking, you lower your head. Her skin is slick with a fine sheen of sweat, and it tastes salty and sweet as you lick a path from her collarbone down to the valley between her breasts.

"God, you're so beautiful," you rasp, your lips moving against her skin. "So fucking perfect."

You reach the peak of her right breast and take the nipple into your mouth. She screams, a high, sharp sound of pure ecstasy. The dual stimulation; the deep, stretching fullness of your cock filling her pussy while your mouth works its magic on her sensitive nipple: is too much for her nervous system to handle. Her back arches violently off the bed, trying to push herself deeper onto your cock and, somehow, press her breast harder into your mouth at the same time. You suck strongly, laving the hardened peak with your tongue, nipping gently with your teeth. Her moans change, deepening from pleasured cries into long, keening wails.

"Fuck! Oh, fuck, yes!" she gashes. "That… your mouth… while you're… inside me… it's too much! I can't…"

You switch to the other breast, giving it the same devoted attention, refusing to let either feel neglected. You feel the frantic thrumming of her heart against your chest, the way her entire body is trembling on the verge of completely unraveling. You continue to fuck her hard and fast, your hips a relentless engine of pleasure, your mouth a vortex of sensation on her breast. She is being attacked from all sides, besieged by a pleasure so intense it’s a breath away from pain.

"Please," she sobs. "Please, I need to… I need to cum. You have to let me."

You lift your head from her breast, your lips slick, and look her in the eyes. Her gaze is wild, unfocused, pupils blown wide. "You want to cum for me, baby?" you ask, not slowing your pace for a second. You drive into her, hard, and she cries out. "You want to feel my cock deep inside your pussy when you come?"

"Yes! Yes, please, I'm begging you!" she cries, her hips bucking wildly, trying to match your frantic rhythm. "I can't hold on anymore. It's so good… it's too good. Please, make me cum. Fuck me until I cum."

This is it. This is the surrender you crave, the sound you are addicted to. Her begging is the sweetest music you’ve ever heard. You lean in close, your mouth right next to her ear, your hot breath ghosting over her skin. You can feel the fine hairs on her neck stand on end.

"You're so close, aren't you?" you whisper. You feel her shiver violently. "I can feel your pussy clenching around my cock. It's getting tighter. You're about to fall apart for me."

"I am," she whimpers, turning her head, trying to capture your mouth with hers, but you deny her, wanting her to focus on your words, on your cock filling her. "Please… let me. Let me go."

"Then go," you command, grabbing her hips, lifting them slightly to change the angle, driving your cock into a spot deep inside her that makes her see stars. She lets out a sound you’ve never heard before, a raw, animalistic cry of pure sensation. "Let go for me, Jimin. Come for me. I want to feel you come all over my cock. I want to feel your pussy milk me while you scream my name. Cum for me now!"

The command, the raw filth of your words, combined with the relentless, punishing fucking, is what finally does it. You feel the first tremor deep inside her, the unmistakable sign that she's tipping over the edge.

"I'm gonna cum!” she screams, the sound exploding right next to your ear, a hot, vibrating wave of pure ecstasy. "OH FUCK, I’M CUMMING!!”

Her orgasm is a violent, beautiful storm. Her body convulses around you, her inner walls clenching and pulsing on your cock in a frantic, unstoppable rhythm. She throws her head back and screams, a long, ragged sound of pure, untethered release. Her hips slam against you, no longer in rhythm, just wild, spasmodic movements as the pleasure rips through her. You don't stop fucking her; you match her intensity, pounding into her as she comes, driving her deeper into her climax. You feel her hot juices flood her cunt, coating your cock in her release.

After what feels like an eternity, the violent convulsions begin to subside, replaced by deep, shuddering tremors. She collapses back onto the mattress, completely spent, a string of breathless, broken sobs escaping her lips. You slow your thrusts, moving in and out of her gently now, letting her ride the last waves of her pleasure. You pull out slowly, your cock slick and dripping with her essence, and collapse beside her, pulling her sweat-drenched body against yours. You are both trembling, both breathless, both utterly, completely undone.

You hold her, your bodies slick with sweat, tangled together in the rumpled sheets. You can feel the frantic, rabbit-fast beat of her heart starting to slow against your chest, her ragged pants gradually deepening into something more controlled. For a long moment, you just lie there, listening to the sound of your own breathing mingling with hers, feeling the aftershocks of her powerful orgasm tremble through her body. You press a soft kiss to her damp forehead, your thumb gently stroking her back.

After a few minutes, she stirs, letting out a long, contented sigh. She lifts her head from your chest, her hair a wild, beautiful mess, her face flushed and glowing.

"Hey," you whisper. "How are you feeling?"

She looks at you, her eyes still a little dazed, but shining with a bright, clear light. A slow, languid smile spreads across her face. "Great," she pants, the word a soft puff of air. She shifts, propping herself up on one elbow to look down at you. "No, that's… that's not the right word." She shakes her head, as if searching for a better one. "I've never… ever felt that good in my entire life. I feel… obliterated. In the best possible way." She reaches out, her fingers tracing the line of your jaw. "You made me cum so hard. I think my soul left my body for a minute."

"Good. That's what I was going for." You love seeing her like this, so completely sated, so open and unguarded. "So, I guess that answers my next question," you tease, your hand sliding down her back to cup her ass, squeezing gently. "Or do you think you can take any more?"

You expect her to laugh, to say she needs a break, to maybe curl up and fall asleep. But the look in her eye changes.

"More?" she says. She lets out a soft, throaty laugh. "Of course I can."

Before you can react, she moves with a sudden, surprising strength. She grabs your shoulders, pushing you firmly onto your back. You go willingly, sinking into the mattress, intrigued by this sudden shift in energy. She straddles your chest, her knees on either side of your head, and leans down, her face just inches from yours.

"But," she whispers, her hair falling around you like a dark curtain, "it's my turn now."

She pulls you up by your hands, maneuvering you until you're sitting up, then pushes you back down again until you're lying flat on your back in the center of the bed. She crawls over you, her movements fluid and deliberate. She settles over your hips, straddling you, her knees planted firmly on the mattress on either side of your body. The view is breathtaking. You look up at her, at the perfect, heavy swell of her breasts, the soft curve of her stomach, her pink, swollen pussy still slick with her juices.

She reaches down, her fingers wrapping around your still-hard cock. You hiss as her cool fingers touch your hot, sensitive skin. She strokes you slowly, once, twice, watching your reaction, her eyes glittering with newfound power.

"You liked making me beg, didn't you?" she asks. "You liked hearing how much I needed you." She leans down, her lips brushing against yours. "Well, now it's your turn to feel what it's like. To just lie there and take it."

She positions herself, guiding the thick, slick head of your cock to her entrance. You can see the muscles in her thighs tense as she prepares to take you. She lowers herself with agonizing slowness, her eyes locked on yours. You watch her face as she takes you in, her expression a mixture of intense concentration and dawning pleasure. Her lips part, a soft hiss escaping as the head of your cock slides past her wet folds. She sinks down, inch by excruciating inch, her tight, hot pussy swallowing you whole.

The feeling of her taking you, of her being in complete control, is a whole new kind of ecstasy. When she has taken your entire length, she sits still for a moment, letting you both get used to the feeling of being joined again in this new configuration.

Then, she begins to move. It’s not the hard, frantic fucking from before. This is different. This is pure, sensual control. She starts with a slow, deep grind, her hips rolling in a lazy, circular motion. You groan, your hands coming up to grip her hips, but she just smiles, placing her hands on top of yours, stilling them. "No," she whispers. "My turn, remember? Just lie back and enjoy the ride."

She moves with an innate, hypnotic rhythm, her hips swaying, rotating, grinding your cock against all of her most sensitive inner walls. You can do nothing but lie there, completely at her mercy, as she plays your body like an instrument. She leans forward, bracing her hands on your chest, her breasts dangling just inches from your face. She picks up the pace slightly, her slow grinds transitioning into a steady, sensual bounce. She rises up on your shaft, then sinks back down, her movements fluid and graceful. With every downward slide, she lets out a soft, contented sigh, her head falling back, her eyes closing in bliss. This is Jimin in her element, a performer, a dancer, and right now, you are her stage, and she is giving the performance of a lifetime, her hips rolling in slow, deliberate circles, grinding your cock against her deepest, most sensitive walls.

Each rotation sends a wave of exquisite friction through you, a pleasure so profound it’s almost agonizing. You can do nothing but lie there, a willing captive to her rhythm, your hands gripping the sheets at your sides to keep from grabbing her, from disrupting the perfect, hypnotic control she has established. Her head is thrown back, her eyes closed, a single, continuous, breathy moan spilling from her lips. She is completely lost in the sensation of filling herself with you, of being in total command.

It is, without a doubt, the most beautiful thing you have ever witnessed. The soft light from the window traces the elegant curve of her spine, the subtle flex of the muscles in her back and stomach as she moves. Her breasts, full and heavy, sway with each languid motion, their own mesmerizing dance. You watch, transfixed, as she smiles, a slow, secret smile of pure, selfish pleasure.

You can’t resist any longer. Your hands leave the sheets and come up to her, not to her hips to control her, but to her breasts. You cup their weight, your thumbs finding her still-puckered nipples. Her flesh is soft and warm, yielding to your touch. You squeeze gently, and her eyes fly open, locking with yours. Her moan deepens, becoming a throaty, guttural sound, and her hips grind down on you harder, a clear, unmistakable response. She likes it. She likes you touching her, worshiping her, even as she controls the fucking.

You continue to knead her breasts gently as she rides you, your thumbs flicking over her nipples, sending jolts of pleasure through her that you can feel in the way her pussy clenches around your cock. The combination of watching her, touching her, and feeling her move on you is an intoxicating cocktail of sensations.

She leans forward, bracing her hands on your chest, bringing her face close to yours. Her eyes are dark, swirling with a mixture of lust, power, and something else, something playful.

"Have you ever," she whispers as she continues her slow, steady bounce on your cock, "imagined this? Fucking a K-Pop idol? Having Karina from Aespa ride your dick like this?"

You let out a shaky laugh, the sound half disbelief, half pure awe. "Never," you say. "Not in my wildest, most fucked-up dreams, Jimin. I never thought I'd even speak to you again, let alone… this." You gesture vaguely to the impossible reality of your bodies being joined. "This is… beyond anything I could have ever imagined." You reach up, your hand leaving her breast to cup her cheek. "You are so unbelievably beautiful right now. On top of me. Taking my cock. I can't… I can't even process how beautiful you are."

She leans into your touch, her hips never ceasing their hypnotic, sensual movement.

"I think…" she says, so soft you have to strain to hear it over the wet sounds of your fucking. "I think this is where I belong." She searches your eyes, a desperate need for validation in her gaze. "On your cock. Like this. It feels… right."

"You do," you say. "You're right. This is exactly where you belong, Jimin. You're mine."

Your words are the final permission she needs. It’s as if you’ve unlocked the last cage, unleashing the wild, untamed creature she keeps hidden from the world. The shift is instantaneous. The slow, sensual grind vanishes. She picks up the pace, her hips slamming down on your cock with a force that drives you deep into the mattress. She starts riding you with a frantic, desperate energy, no longer teasing or exploring, but fucking. She is fucking you with everything she has.

Her hair whips around her face, her body is drenched in sweat, and a stream of filthy, broken moans pours from her lips. She moves with a startling, intuitive skill, her hips tilting, rotating, grinding in a way that she knows, that her body inherently understands, will maximize your pleasure. She’s hitting hard with every downward slam, dragging the head of your cock along all the right walls. Her breasts are no longer swaying gently; they are bouncing wildly, a beautiful, chaotic jiggle that mirrors the abandoned rhythm of her hips. You are completely at her mercy, pinned beneath her, as she rides you with a single-minded goal: to drive you absolutely insane.

"Fuck, you're so hot," she pants. "Your body… I can't believe this is real. I can't believe I'm actually doing this, that I'm riding you." She shakes her head, a look of genuine, wondrous disbelief on her face. "I feel like I'm going to wake up."

You want to anchor her to this reality, to prove to her that this is not a dream. You lift your hands from her tits and reach for hers, the one still braced on your chest and the other tangled in the sheets beside you. You capture them, your fingers intertwining with hers, your grip firm and steady. She gasps, her eyes locking with yours. You squeeze her hands, a silent message passing between you. I'm real. This is real. We are real.

The gesture works. A new wave of confidence washes over her, the last vestiges of her disbelief burned away by the simple, grounding touch of your hands locked with hers. A fierce, determined look enters her eyes. She picks up the pace again, her bounces becoming higher, harder, each downward slam of her hips punctuated by a shared grunt of effort and pleasure. You can feel the tension coiling in your own body, the familiar pressure building deep in your balls. You’re getting close, and she can feel it too. The way your hips have started to buck up to meet her thrusts, the way your breath is catching in your throat—she knows.

She leans down, her face close to yours, her expression a perfect mixture of seductive confidence and genuine curiosity. "You're close, aren't you?" she asks. "I can feel you twitching inside me. You're going to come for me soon." She grinds her hips down, a slow, deliberate circle that makes you groan her name. "Tell me where you want it. Where do you want to cum?"

The question is so direct, so filthy, so utterly her in this new, empowered state, that a raw laugh escapes you. "Guess," you manage to rasp.

A wicked, knowing giggle bubbles from her lips. She doesn't even have to think about it. "On my breasts," she says immediately, full of certainty. "You want to cover my tits with your cum, don't you?"

"Is it that obvious?" you ask, your hips thrusting up involuntarily.

"A little," she teases, a wide, beautiful smile lighting up her face. "You're such a pervert."

"Can you blame me?" you groan, your gaze dropping to her magnificent, bouncing breasts. "They're perfect. I've been thinking about doing this since the moment you took off your sweater."

"I know," she says, and the way she says it, so full of pride and satisfaction, makes your cock throb inside her. "They're all yours." She leans in again. "But you have to make a good mess. I want you to cover them completely. Get them all sticky and hot with your cum. Promise me."

"Fuck, Jimin," you gasp, your body trembling. "Don't say things like that unless you mean it."

"Oh, I mean it," she says, her hips beginning to move in a final, frantic assault. She’s bouncing on your cock with a wild, desperate energy, trying to wring every last drop of pleasure from you. "I want it all. I want you to empty your balls for me. Cum for me, baby. Come on my tits now!"

"I'm going to!" you shout, the words ripped from you. "Karina, I'm going to cum!"

Without a word, she breaks the connection, sliding her body off your cock with a wet, sucking sound that echoes the hollowness you now feel. Before you can even question it, she moves with a dancer's deliberate grace, crawling to the edge of the bed and sinking to her knees on the soft rug below. She looks up at you from the floor.

You follow her lead, your mind reeling, your body acting on pure instinct. You swing your legs over the side of the bed and stand before her. The world has tilted on its axis. The sight of Jimin, your childhood best friend, Karina, a global icon, the woman whose face adorns billboards and magazines, kneeling at your feet is so surreal, so intensely erotic, it feels like a fever dream. Her hair is a tangled mess around her shoulders, her face is flushed with exertion, her lips are swollen and parted, and her eyes… her eyes are fixed on your cock with a look of devotional worship.

She is waiting.

You take your cock in your hand, the skin slick with her juices and your own precum. The head is swollen, twitching with need. You start stroking yourself, a slow, steady rhythm, your gaze locked with hers. You want her to watch. You want to see her expression as you bring yourself to the edge for her.

Your hand moves on your cock, a slick, frantic motion, but it's almost unnecessary. Her gaze, her posture, her very existence in this moment is all the stimulation you need. She squeezes her breasts together, pushing them up, the pale, heavy flesh forming a perfect canvas, a perfect target. The nipples are hard, dark points in the soft mounds, practically begging to be decorated.

"Please," she whimpers. "Look at them. They're waiting for you. I want to feel your hot cum all over them. I need it. Please, baby, give it to me. Drench me." She shifts on her knees, her eyes wide and pleading. "I want to be your good, filthy whore. I want you to paint my tits."

Her words are a lit match to a barrel of gasoline. A deep, primal roar tears itself from your throat, a sound of pure, untethered release. Your hips snap forward, your eyes roll back into your head, and the world dissolves into a blinding, white-hot flash of sensation.

"Fuck! Jimin!" you scream as the first torrent of your orgasm erupts from the tip of your cock.

It's a powerful, shockingly thick shot that arcs through the air with surprising force, splattering directly in the center of her chest, in the deep valley created by her hands squeezing her breasts together. A thick, pearlescent glob lands with an audible smack against her hot skin.

She gasps, a sharp, shuddering intake of breath, her whole body jolting as if you’d touched her with a live wire. "Yes!" she cries out, her eyes fluttering shut. "Oh god, it's so hot... so warm..."

But you're just getting started. Your body is a machine now, completely outside of your conscious control. You grip your cock, your knuckles white, and with another guttural groan, a second, then a third powerful spurt are unleashed. These ones are ropes, thick and heavy, that land higher, one splattering across her right breast, covering the dark, puckered areola completely, the other hitting her delicate collarbone and starting to drip slowly down her neck.

"More!" she pants, her eyes still closed, lost in the sensation of being covered by you. "Give me all of it! Don't hold back!"

You obey her command, your hips continuing their involuntary bucking motion. Spurt after spurt flies from you, a relentless, massive load that you didn't even know you were holding. You paint her with your release, a chaotic, beautiful masterpiece of pure lust. A thick shot coats her left breast, another lands on her shoulder. You see a long, thick strand connect from your cock to her chin for a split second before it falls, adding to the growing mess on her chest. She is taking it all, not flinching, not shying away, only sighing and shivering as each hot, wet impact makes contact with her skin.

Even as the initial, powerful torrents begin to subside, you don't stop. You wrap your hand firmly around the base of your shaft and start to stroke, determined to give her everything. "Every last drop is for you, Jimin," you manage to gasp out. You milk your cock, forcing out the last, thickest globs of your semen, adding them to the already considerable mess. Your cum is everywhere. It’s pooled in the hollow of her throat, it’s dripping in thick, slow trails between and under her breasts, it has completely coated her chest and neck in a sticky, glistening layer.

Finally, your orgasm spends itself completely. You sway on your feet, your knees weak, your body utterly drained. You stare down at the scene, your breathing coming in ragged, harsh pants.

Karina stays kneeling for a long moment, her chest rising and falling heavily beneath the cooling, sticky evidence of your pleasure. Then, slowly, she opens her eyes. She looks down at herself, a look of pure, unadulterated awe on her face.

"Wow," she whispers. She looks up at you, her eyes shining. "Look what you did to me. You came so much."

Then, she does something that makes your already overloaded brain short-circuit again. She dips the index finger of her right hand into the thickest pool of your cum between her breasts. She lifts it, watching the thick, white strand stretch and then snap. A slow, mischievous smile spreads across her face. She uses her finger to swirl the cum around, drawing lazy circles and patterns on her own skin.

"It's so sticky," she says with a giggle, completely devoid of shame, full of nothing but a raw, playful joy. She dips the fingers of her other hand in, spreading the mess further, connecting the splatters, ensuring every inch of her chest and the full, heavy curves of her breasts are coated in a uniform, glistening layer of you. "Am I pretty like this?" she asks, looking up at you through her lashes, her face a picture of filthy innocence. "All covered in your hot cum?"

You can only nod, completely speechless.

She sees your state and her smile widens. She leans forward, takes the now-sensitive, post-orgasm head of your cock into her mouth, and gently, reverently, sucks you clean. Her tongue is soft and methodical, a soothing, incredible sensation that makes your knees threaten to buckle.

When she's done, she pulls back and looks up at you again, her own masterpiece complete. "All clean," she says softly. She gestures down at her chest. "All of it is on me now. Just like I wanted."

You finally find your voice. "You're… perfect," you say. "Absolutely fucking perfect."

You sink to your knees in front of her, your strength completely gone. You cup her face, your thumbs wiping away a stray drip of your own cum from her chin. You look at her, this incredible woman, your childhood friend, your idol, your lover, covered in your filth at her own request. And then you kiss her, a deep, soul-searing kiss that tastes of salt, and sweat, and sex.

—

You crack an eye open, the morning light filtering through a gap in Jimin’s bedroom curtains, painting stripes across the far wall. The space beside you in the massive bed is empty, though the sheets are still rumpled, still faintly radiating her warmth and her unique, intoxicating scent. You’re sprawled on your stomach, clad only in your boxer briefs. You push yourself up, wincing slightly as your muscles protest, and swing your legs over the side of the bed.

The apartment is quiet, save for the distant, comforting clatter of something in the kitchen. Coffee. The thought alone is enough to make you move. You pad out of the bedroom, your bare feet silent on the cool wooden floor, still feeling the pleasant, lingering ache in your groin, a happy souvenir from the night’s activities.

And there she is.

Jimin is standing at the kitchen counter, her back to you, humming softly to herself as she expertly works her fancy espresso machine. And she’s wearing your shirt. Your button-down from last night, the one you’d discarded so carelessly on her bedroom floor. It’s ridiculously oversized on her frame, the sleeves rolled up multiple times, the hem falling to her mid-thighs, offering tantalizing glimpses of her long, pale legs. Her hair is piled on top of her head in another one of those effortlessly perfect messy buns, a few errant strands escaping to kiss the nape of her neck.

It’s such an incredibly domestic scene, but the irony isn't lost on you: one minute she’s a K-pop idol, the next she’s your childhood crush confessing feelings, then she’s a screaming, cum-covered goddess, and now… now she’s just Jimin, making coffee in your shirt in her sun-drenched kitchen. Your head is still trying to catch up with the whiplash.

You lean against the doorframe just watching her for a moment. She moves with an easy grace, even when she’s just reaching for a mug, a quiet confidence in her posture that wasn’t there when you first reconnected. She turns then, two steaming mugs in her hands, and her own smile, soft and a little shy, blooms when she sees you.

"Oh, good morning," a slight blush creeps up her cheeks, but her eyes are warm. "I wasn’t sure when you’d surface. Or if you’d even remember where you were."

"Morning," you reply, your own speech still a little rough from sleep. You push off the doorframe and walk towards her, your gaze lingering on the way your shirt drapes over her. "And trust me, last night is pretty… unforgettable. Slept like a fucking log, though. Best sleep I’ve had in ages."

"Me too," she admits, her blush deepening slightly as she hands you one of the mugs. The rich, dark aroma of freshly brewed coffee fills your senses, a welcome antidote to the lingering haze of your hangover. "Black, two sugars, right? Or has your sophisticated palate evolved since our high school instant coffee days?"

You chuckle, taking a grateful sip. Perfect. "Still remember, huh? Impressive. And no, some things are sacred. This is… this is exactly what I needed." You take another long, appreciative gulp. "So, are you feeling the after-effects of that wine as much as I am?" you ask, gesturing vaguely to your head. "My skull feels like it's been crushed by a baseball bat."

She laughs, a light, airy sound. "Tell me about it. Definitely a two-aspirin, one-gallon-of-water kind of morning for me too." She sips her own coffee, her eyes meeting yours over the rim of the mug, a comfortable, knowing silence settling between you for a moment. "So," she begins, her gaze dropping to her mug for a second before returning to yours, a hint of that earlier vulnerability creeping back in. "Last night… that was… " She trails off, searching for the words.

"Amazing," you supply, your own words soft but firm, leaving no room for doubt. "It was fucking amazing, Jimin. All of it."

A relieved, almost dazzling smile breaks across her face. "Yeah," she breathes, her shoulders relaxing visibly. "Yeah, it really, really was." She takes another sip of coffee, then, almost as if she can’t help herself, she adds, "You… you really know how to make a girl feel good. Like, really good."

"Just returning the favor," you say, a teasing glint in your eyes. "You weren't exactly holding back yourself." The memory of her, riding you with such wild abandon, her cries echoing in the room, makes a heat rise through your body, making your cock give a responsive throb in your boxers. You discreetly shift your weight. This domestic morning-after scene is lovely, but your body clearly hasn't forgotten the main event.

A comfortable lull settles as you both sip your coffee, the shared memories of the night before a warm, unspoken presence. But then, you see a flicker of something in Jimin’s eyes, a subtle shift in her expression. She sets her mug down on the counter, her fingers tracing the rim. The tension, which had dissipated, slowly begins to creep back into the room. Here it comes. The inevitable "what now?"

"So…" she begins, her gaze fixed on her coffee cup, her words careful, almost tentative. "What… what happens now? With us?" She finally looks up at you, her eyes wide and searching. "Was last night just… you know… a one-time thing? Because of the wine, and the confessions, and… everything?"

You set your own mug down, your heart giving a familiar, uncomfortable thump.

This is it. The moment of truth.

"A one-time thing?" you repeat. You let out a short, humorless chuckle, running a hand through your already messy hair. "Jimin, after last night… after you… do you honestly think I could just… walk away from that? Pretend it didn't happen?" You meet her gaze, your own expression deadly serious now. "I really, really like you. More than like you, if I’m being completely honest. And… and I don’t think I can be the same around you anymore. Not after yesterday." You take a deep breath. "I think… fuck, I know… I need you. Like it’s oxygen. And that terrifies the absolute shit out of me, but it’s the goddamn truth."

The silence that follows is deafening. For a heart-stopping moment, you think you’ve said too much, gone too far, laid yourself too bare.

Then, slowly, miraculously, a smile begins to spread across her face. It’s not just any smile. It’s a Jimin-smile, a radiant, all-encompassing beam of pure, unadulterated happiness that lights up her entire being, that chases away every last shadow of doubt and fear in the room. It’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

Without a word, she pushes herself off the counter, closes the small distance between you in two quick steps, and then her arms are around your neck, her body pressing against yours, and she’s kissing you. It’s a kiss that tastes of coffee, and relief. It’s a kiss that seals the deal, a kiss that says everything you both needed to hear. And as you kiss her back, your own arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her impossibly closer, feeling the soft warmth of her body clad only in your shirt against your bare chest, You suddenly remember that Jimin, your Jimin, is no longer just yours, is no longer just Jimin, your dork childhood friend.

You pull back slightly, your gaze searching hers. "Jimin," you begin, "this is… this is incredible. You’re incredible. Last night was… beyond anything." Her smile softens, her eyes shining with affection, but you press on. "But… what the hell do we do now? I meant what I said, about needing you, about all of it. But us… like this…" You gesture vaguely between the two of you, encompassing the intimacy, the secret now hanging palpably in the air of her sunlit kitchen. "You know what your life is like. The spotlight, the fans, the company… SM isn’t exactly known for its progressive stance on its idols having, well, this." Your irony here is bitter, a defense mechanism against the very real fear clenching your heart. "This could be… dangerous for you. For your career. I don’t want to be the one who…"

Jimin’s fingers gently press against your lips, silencing you. Her expression is soft, understanding, but there’s a new firmness there too, a resolute calm that wasn’t present during her earlier, more vulnerable moments.

"Shhh," she murmurs, her thumb brushing your lower lip. "Don't. Don't do that. Don't spiral." She leans in, pressing a soft, reassuring kiss to your mouth, then another to your cheek, then your forehead. Her touch is like a balm, soothing the sharp edges of your anxiety. "I know all of that. Believe me, I live it every single day. But right now," she continues, her eyes holding yours, clear and unwavering, "right now, I don’t want to think about any of it. Not SM, not the fans, not the potential fallout. Not yet."

She pulls back just enough to look you squarely in the eyes, her hands now resting on your shoulders. "What happened last night, what’s happening right now," she says, "this is real. And it’s ours." Her lips curve into a small, almost conspiratorial smile. "No one needs to know about this. Not now, anyway. It’ll be our secret, okay? Just for us."

Her words, her confidence, the delicious, illicit thrill of a shared secret with her: it’s an intoxicating, dangerous combination.

"Our secret, huh?" you echo, an eyebrow quirking upwards. "You know, that’s… that’s actually kind of fucking sexy, Jimin. The danger of it all… it’s a little exciting, isn't it?" You can't help the way your own words deepen, the way your gaze drops to her lips.

She lets out a delighted, throaty chuckle. "See? I knew you’d get it." She leans in again, her lips brushing yours, a silent promise of more to come. "Danger is always more exciting." Her breath is warm against your skin, her proximity reigniting the embers of last night’s events.

Between feather-light kisses that dance along your jawline, your neck, she murmurs, "But, speaking of not wanting things to get… complicated… or, you know, result in tiny, K-pop-superstar-related accidents…" She pulls back slightly, her expression turning a little more practical, though the sultry glint in her eyes remains. "I think it might be a very, very good idea for you to acquire some condoms. Like, a lot of them. A truly impressive, perhaps even alarming, quantity." A playful smirk dances on her lips. "We can’t exactly keep pushing our luck like last night, as… memorable as it was."

"Duly noted. I’ll arrange for a strategic acquisition of latex-based defenses. Consider me on a mission."

"Good," she purrs, pressing a final, lingering kiss to your mouth. Then, her hand, which had been resting on your shoulder, slides down your chest, a slow, deliberate trail of fire, down, down, until it reaches the front of your boxer briefs. Her fingers close around your already-hardening cock, her touch light but possessive, sending a jolt straight through you. You gasp, your hips giving an involuntary twitch.

She looks up at you through her lashes, her smile turning wicked, utterly predatory. "Because," she whispers, her breath hot against your lips, her fingers giving you a slow, deliberate squeeze that makes your knees weak, "while we wait for those… reinforcements… there is something I can do for you right now. Something that definitely doesn't require a condom."

And with a final, devastatingly innocent flutter of her eyelashes, she slides from your embrace, her hand never leaving your groin, and slowly, gracefully, sinks to her knees on the kitchen floor in front of you. The morning, it seems, is far from over.

In fact, this is just the beginning.

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purplereina11 · 20 days ago

Text

You spent your childhood drifting through foster homes, with nothing but a worn photo of two little girls and a note on the back: Your sisters, Alexia and Alba. You never imagined that at 25, after starting a new job, you'd meet them, through your boss who was your sister's girlfriend.

Wordcount: 15.8k

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

You’re two months in, and you’re still not sure how Olga Rios manages to be everywhere at once.

She’s answering emails while editing a reel. She’s sketching out a content calendar with one hand and handing you a matcha latte with the other because she remembers that you don’t do coffee, and that still surprises you a little.

Her loft-office smells like lavender and old books, even though the work is anything but quiet. There’s a gentle hum of creativity in the air half Spotify playlists, half the occasional bark from her dog, Nala, who has her own Instagram account with better engagement than most influencers you know.

You sit across from her at a wide wooden table covered in sticky notes, open laptops, two ring lights, and exactly one succulent that’s definitely fake but somehow not thriving. She’s got that kind of energy, Olga. She makes things grow, unless you're fake.

“You’re getting faster,” she says without looking up from her screen. Her voice is warm, honeyed, soft in the way that makes you want to lean closer, like she’s letting you in on something. “The captions today? I liked them. You’re starting to sound less like a brand, and more like a human. That’s good.”

You try not to grin too much, but it’s hard not to. Praise from Olga is never handed out like candy it’s measured, genuine, and usually comes with a Post-it note suggestion five minutes later, but when she says something’s good, she means it.

You glance at your own screen three drafts open, analytics humming in a separate tab. You're starting to notice patterns, pick up her shorthand, even anticipate when she’s about to say, “We can do better.” You’re getting the rhythm now. It feels like learning a dance. Awkward at first, but now... now you’re finding your footing.

“Do you ever sleep?” you ask, half-joking, because she’s been up since six and somehow still looks like she floated here on a sunbeam.

She laughs, a soft, melodic thing that fills the loft. “Only when a campaign’s not launching. So… not often. But I love this. I love seeing things come to life.” She sips her tea, eyes crinkling at the corners. “And I think you’re going to be really good at this.” Something about the way she says it makes your heart lift. A couple of month in, and you’re already certain, this isn’t just an internship. This is the beginning of something.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

It’s a quiet afternoon, the kind that settles like soft dust. The usual buzz of Olga’s workspace is muted no clients calling, no urgent edits, just the rhythmic clack of keys and the occasional sigh from Nala, curled up under the table like she owns the place.

You’re working side by side on a campaign for a small bookstore that’s trying to grow its online presence. Olga is fine-tuning the carousel post for tomorrow, and you’re adjusting the tone of the captions trying to thread that fine line between charming and trying-too-hard. It’s nice. Peaceful, even.

Olga breaks the silence without looking away from her screen. “Do you have anyone in your family who loves books like this?”

You pause. The cursor blinks in front of you. The question is soft, casual, not meant to dig but it hits something that feels like hollow wood. “I…” You swallow. “I don’t know.”

Olga looks up immediately.

You don’t say anything else at first. The words stall. It’s not that you haven’t talked about it before it’s just that people usually don’t ask, not really.

She tilts her head slightly, brows gently furrowed. Her voice lowers. “Hey. You okay?”

You nod automatically, out of habit. But then, without quite meaning to, you add, “I didn’t grow up with a family. I was left at a children’s home when I was a baby.”

The air in the room shifts not heavier, exactly, just… slower. Softer.

Olga doesn’t gasp, or overreact, or flood you with sympathy that feels too bright and uncomfortable. She just sets her phone down and gives you her full attention.

“I’m sorry,” she says. Quiet. Real.

You shrug, though it feels awkward. “It’s fine. I mean, it’s just… how it was. I don't really think about it much now. I just… didn’t have anyone to ask questions like that about.”

Olga nods slowly, like she’s letting your words settle inside her before responding. Then, gently “Well, just so you know any time you want to say, ‘My 'mentor' once told me this,’ you can go ahead and start with me.”

You let out a soft laugh, surprised.

She smiles, warm and a little wistful. “I know it’s not the same. But you’re not on your own here, okay? Not while you’re working with me.”

For a moment, you’re not thinking about metrics or content calendars or trending audios. You’re just sitting across from someone who sees you not just as an assistant or intern, but as a person.

The knock on the door is light but confident. You barely register it at first lost in the middle of scheduling posts for a new client who sells handmade ceramic earrings until Olga perks up with that unmistakable sparkle in her eyes.

She glances at the clock, then at you. “That’ll be Alexia.”

You blink. “Alexia…?”

Before she can answer, the door swings open and there she is.

Alexia Putellas. That Alexia Putellas.

Even if you don’t follow football religiously, her face is familiar. The captain, the icon, the Ballon d'Or winner. The kind of person whose highlight reels show up on your feed whether you asked for them or not. And now she’s in Olga’s office, wearing a simple hoodie, black joggers, and the kind of calm confidence that doesn't need to shout to be heard.

She smiles when she sees Olga, and everything about Olga posture, eyes, even the way she exhales shifts in the softest way. Like a house when someone finally comes home.

Olga stands, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Ale, this is the one I’ve been telling you about.”

You freeze. Alexia’s gaze lands on you, kind and curious. “So you’re the apprentice,” she says, her accent smooth but clear, the kind that could make any sentence feel like a secret. “Olga’s been bragging.”

You blink again. “She—she has?”

Olga shrugs like it’s nothing. “Only a little. Maybe a lot.”

Alexia steps forward and offers her hand. “It’s really nice to meet you. I’ve heard you’re doing great work.”

You shake her hand her grip is strong, grounded and try not to look like you’re meeting a living legend, because you are. But she’s also incredibly down-to-earth, her presence somehow both intimidating and totally easy to be around.

Olga comes around the desk and gently bumps Alexia’s shoulder with hers. “She only comes here to raid my snack drawer and steal my playlists,” she says, teasing.

Alexia grins. “Also because I love you.”

There’s a beat of warmth between them that you feel rather than see, like watching sunlight fall through a window. “Do you want me to go?” you ask, half-joking.

Olga laughs. “No way. Ale's just here to say hi before training. You’re family now. Might as well meet the boss.”

Alexia raises an eyebrow. “I’m the boss?”

Olga winks. “In football, yes. In here, you just eat all my almonds.”

You watch them and feel something shift inside you again like the quiet redefinition of what ‘family’ might look like. Not always blood. Sometimes it's someone who believes in you. Someone who shares their space with you. Someone who brings light with them, just by walking through the door.

You glance at your screen, then back at the two of them.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

You invite Olga over to work because it feels normal now. Familiar. Safe, even.

It’s late almost midnight. You’ve both been bouncing between drafts for a new campaign and clips from a client shoot. Nala is curled up on your bed, half-snoring, and there’s the comfort of shared silence between you, broken only by the occasional sound of keys or a soft “Wait, this transition’s better” from Olga.

She gets up to stretch, as she often does when she’s been sitting too long. Paces a little. You barely notice her eyes scanning your bookshelf until you hear her voice. Low. Surprised. “…Wait. What?”

You glance over. She’s holding the small, slightly curled photo that’s been with you for as long as you can remember. You’ve had it since before you could read. Two little girls. One smiling, the other not so much.

You never knew their names. Never knew why the photo was with your things. It was just… always there. Something old, something yours, but now Olga is frozen, staring at it. “Why do you have this?” she asks, but the softness in her voice is already cracking.

You sit up straighter. “What do you mean?”

She turns the frame toward you, her eyes sharp now. “This is Alexia. And her sister Alba. This photo’s from when they were kids. I’ve never seen this before, how do you have this?.”

Your mouth opens slowly. “What?”

She steps closer. “Don’t play dumb.”

You shake your head, heart beginning to pound. “I’m not. I didn’t know who they were. I’ve had that photo since I was dropped off at the home. It was in a box with my baby things, I never even knew there names.”

Olga stares at you like she doesn’t believe you.

“I swear,” you say, voice trembling now. “I never knew. I didn’t know.”

But she isn’t hearing you. Not fully. Her jaw clenches. “So you mean to tell me this is just some random coincidence? You had a photo of my girlfriend and her sister, and you never knew?”

“I didn’t know!” you say louder now, trying to push through the panic rising in your chest. “Olga, I didn’t. They were just two girls in a picture I’ve had it since I was a baby! One of my foster parents told me they were my sisters once but I could never see the resemblance but I, I don't know I just could never throw it away, it was left with me for a reason, I couldn't-”

“You expect me to believe that?” she snaps interrupting, eyes suddenly fierce. “You knew who Alexia was. Everyone does. You had the photo, you applied for this job, and you never once thought to say a word.”

Your breath catches. “I didn’t even connect them to say something. Please why would I lie to you?”

But she’s shaking her head, stepping back, betrayal flashing in her eyes. “I trusted you. I let you into my space. My life. And now I find this?”

She turns, grabs the frame, and holds it tightly like she’s afraid it might disappear. You stand, reaching toward her helplessly. “Please, Olga. I’m not using you. I didn’t know. I swear to you.”

But her voice cuts through the air like glass. “Don’t say another word.”

She storms toward the door. “Olga—please!”

Her hand is on the knob already. “Do not tell anyone about this. Not Alexia. Not anyone. I mean it.” And just like that, she’s gone door slamming behind her, the photo still clutched in her hand.

You stand frozen in your tiny apartment, the silence left in her wake louder than anything you've ever heard.

You don’t remember sitting down. Just that suddenly you’re on the floor, legs folded awkwardly beneath you, and the room feels too still.

The candle you lit earlier is still flickering on the desk, scenting the air with warm vanilla, like any normal night, but everything has changed.

The photo’s gone. She took it.

You wrap your arms around yourself, unsure if you’re cold or just empty. Your hands are shaking. Your chest feels tight, like someone filled it with wet sand. You can’t stop replaying the last ten minutes Olga’s face, the anger, the betrayal in her voice. The way she looked at you like you were a stranger. Worse—like a lie.

“I didn’t know,” you whisper, to no one. Your own voice sounds small, cracked open. “I didn’t know.” But the silence doesn’t answer. It just presses in around you.

You don’t know how that photo ended up with your baby things. You never questioned it. It was just… part of the mystery of you. You’d imagined a hundred stories for it as a kid. A fantasy life you were left out of. Two unknown little girls you'd prop up when you had tea parties alone, two faces you talked to when no one else would listen but it never felt real. Not like this.

You wipe at your face and realise you’ve been crying without noticing, not loudly, just slow, quiet tears that slip out like steam from a cracked mug.

You try to work. To check a calendar, finish a caption, edit a reel, but everything blurs. Your fingers hover over the keys, useless. More tears come. Not steady, but suddenly rising without warning like waves. You press your hand to your mouth, like that might stop the sob that’s already too far out to swallow back.

You don’t know what hurts more: the fear that she won’t believe you or the feeling that she already doesn’t, and underneath that, a newer, stranger thought creeps in:

What if the photo really does mean something? What if you're connected to them in some way you never imagined?

You don’t know how to hold that. You don’t even know if you want to.

The night stretches long and quiet. You cry again, not always with sound. Sometimes just with breath that shakes too hard, or thoughts that spiral too fast. You think about messaging Olga. You almost do, but what would you say that you haven’t already begged her to believe?

Eventually, curled in bed, your chest aching and eyes sore, the exhaustion takes over.

You fall asleep and as your breathing evens out in the dark, the photo lives somewhere else now, in her hands.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

You shouldn’t go in to work, you know that.

You didn’t sleep more than a couple of hours, and when you looked in the mirror this morning, your reflection startled you, pale, red-eyed, shadows under your eyes like bruises that haven’t fully bloomed. You look like someone who’s been crying on and off for eight hours, because you have, but not going in make it look like you had something to hide, and you loved your job.

So you pull yourself together barely. Tie your hair back. Splash water on your face. Avoid your own eyes as you grab your bag and head out the door.

The walk to Olga’s office feels longer than usual. Everything’s sharp, the sound of your own footsteps, the brightness of the morning, the hum of people who don’t know your world just came apart. You keep your head down.

When you get there, the door is already unlocked, she was here already, you step inside slowly. Olga’s at her desk. Laptop open, headphones around her neck, Nala curled up on the rug at her feet. She looks up instinctively when you enter.

For a moment, nothing moves, then her eyes scan your face and she sees it. The red around your eyes. The way your shoulders hang. The hollow tiredness you didn’t have to fake.

Her mouth parts slightly, like she might say something, but she doesn’t. Instead, she looks back down at her screen.

You nod stiffly, not that she’s looking, and cross the room to your usual seat. Every movement feels brittle. Too careful. You place your laptop on the table as quietly as you can, like noise might crack what’s left between you.

You don’t speak. Neither does she.

The silence is different today. Not the peaceful kind. It’s tight. Pressurised. You can feel her not looking at you, can feel her tension radiating from behind her screen like heat.

Your stomach twists. You open your laptop. Try to focus on the client folder. Everything blurs.

You can’t stop thinking about the way she stormed out. The photo in her hand. The fear in her eyes. The disbelief in her voice.

And now, she’s right there but she may as well be a hundred miles away. You steal a glance at her. She’s typing something. Her jaw is tight. Her ponytail is a little messy, like she didn’t sleep well either.

You want to say something. Apologise again. Explain again. Beg if you have to, but the air around her says not to.

So you sit in the quiet. Trying to work. Trying not to cry. Trying not to lose the one place that ever felt like it might become home.

You’re halfway through pretending to work when the door clicks open behind you. Your heart stops, you know that sound now. You know who it is before she says a word.

“Hola,” Alexia calls out gently, cheerful but quiet, as if she’s stepping into a place where someone might be asleep or upset.

You stay frozen for a half second too long, then shift your body slightly in your chair. Not enough to seem rude, but just enough to make your back the most visible part of you.

Don’t make eye contact. Don’t breathe too loudly. Don’t be more than necessary.

Olga looks up, and the change in her voice is immediate.

“Ale…”

Alexia steps in fully now, holding a brown paper bag and a takeaway cup tray. “You were tossing all night,” she says softly, “so I figured you could use some sugar and espresso.” She walks over, places the treats beside Olga with care. “I got that oat milk one you like. And a croissant, because I know you never remember to eat when you’re stressed.”

Her voice is so easy. So full of quiet affection. It makes your throat tighten. Olga stares at the bag for a moment before letting out a breath you didn’t know she was holding. She smiles, faint but real, and says, “Thanks.”

Alexia leans down and kisses her cheek. It’s a small, domestic gesture. One that would’ve felt sweet yesterday.

Now it’s a stone in your stomach.

They talk for a minute, low and warm too low for you to hear clearly. It sounds like a small exchange about sleep, and schedules, and if Olga’s eaten yet. You keep your eyes fixed on your screen, even though the words are swimming and nothing’s going in.

Then Alexia shifts, you feel her glance in your direction. “Hey,” she says kindly, and you can hear the smile in her voice. “Nice to see you again.”

You muster every scrap of civility you can find and turn your head slightly, just enough to meet her eyes for a breath of a second.

You smile a tiny, exhausted curve of your mouth and lift your hand in a half-wave.

She nods back, just as polite. Just as unaware. “Bueno,” she says, brushing her hand against Olga’s arm. “I’ll leave you both to it.”

Olga doesn’t look at you as Alexia turns to go. She just murmurs a soft, “Thank you,”

"How do you take your coffee?" Alexia stops at your desk, she swallow as you look up at her, Olga watching intently.

"I um. I don't drink coffee"

"How come? Don't like it?"

"No.. I um, I can't have caffeine at all.. I um, its complicated but I have a heart condition so I-"

"My papa was the same," she nodded and your heart pulled, Olga must of sensed it and she spoke

"Amor, Y/N and I are very busy"

Alexia held her hands up, bid you both a goodbye, Olga eyed you before she watches her leave.

The door clicks shut. You exhale through your nose, slow and quiet.

Olga says nothing. She unwraps the croissant with deliberate care, and takes a small bite, her eyes still on the table, on her work, on anywhere but you and the silence that follows is full of everything neither of you are ready to say.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

Olga doesn’t go straight home after work, she drives in silence. No music. No podcast. Just the low hum of the road beneath her tires and the sound of her own pulse in her ears.

She should’ve gone home, she doesn’t go to the flat she shares with Alexia, or to a café to decompress, or even to the beach where she sometimes walks when her mind needs quiet.

She drives, to a quiet cul-de-sac on the outskirts of Mollet, where the streetlights buzz low and orange, and the houses are tucked behind tired gardens and climbing vines. She parks without turning off the engine at first. Just sits there, heart tapping a steady, uneven rhythm behind her ribs.

Eli’s car is in the driveway. She’s home. Alone. Just like Olga knew she would be. Olga takes the photo from the glove compartment. It’s still in its cracked, worn frame. She hasn’t looked at it since that night in the apartment. She doesn’t need to. She remembers it perfectly.

She breathes in. Breathes out. Kills the engine.

Then knocks on the door, it opens almost immediately, Eli answers the door in slippers and a cardigan.

“Olga?” Eli’s face brightens with warm surprise. “Qué haces aquí, cariño? Alexia isn’t with you?”

“No,” Olga says quietly. “She’s at home.”

Eli frowns a little. “Is everything alright?”

“I just…” Olga hesitates, standing just beyond the threshold. Then says, “Can I come in?”

Eli steps aside, instantly serious. “Of course, hija. You’re always welcome.”

The house smells the same as always lavender, old wood, something faintly sweet in the kitchen. A candle flickers on the sideboard. Family photos line the shelves, birthdays, holidays, the girls growing older in frames that haven’t moved in years.

They sit in the living room. Olga perches on the edge of the couch, she doesn’t take off her coat, her fingers are tight around something in her bag. Eli watches her closely now, concern pinching the corners of her mouth.

“I have to ask you something,” Olga says, voice steady but low. “And if it’s nothing then we never have to talk about it again. I’ll forget it. We’ll both forget it.”

Eli nods, cautious. “Okay…” Eli’s brow furrows. “What is it?”

Olga doesn’t speak. She just reaches into her bag and pulls out the frame. Holds it gently in both hands and turns it around. Eli’s breath stops halfway through her chest. The change in her is instant so small and devastating you’d miss it if you weren’t looking for it. Her hands freeze on her knees. Her face goes white, then pale-blue cold, like all the warmth was drained out in an instant.

Her lips part, but no sound comes. The silence says everything. Olga watches her. Doesn’t blink. Eli’s hand, which had been loosely curled around her teacup, goes limp. Her entire face drains of colour not just pale, but hollow, like a piece of her just dropped through the floor.

Olga doesn’t move. She watches the shift. The silence that thickens around it.

“Where.. Where did you get this?”

Olga doesn’t answer, she just says, “You know who this has come from don’t you”

“I’ve not seen that in twenty five years,” Her voice catches, “After.. After” Olga nods once, jaw tight. Her throat burns with questions, but she asks none of them and still, Eli presses gently, almost begging, “Olga. Please. Where did this come from?”

“It’s true isn’t it,” Olga whispers. “You have another daughter”

Eli closes her eyes. A beat. A breath and then, very softly, very brokenly, “Yes” Olga’s throat tightens. Eli’s voice is barely there. “We left that with her”

“I don’t understand how you could do it!” Eli sits frozen on the couch, hands clasped tightly in her lap. She looks older than she did twenty minutes ago. Like every word being spoken is peeling something back she’s kept buried too long. “You gave up your own daughter,” Olga spits, gesturing wildly to the photo still lying on the coffee table like it’s cursed. “And just carried on like she didn’t exist? How?”

“I didn’t carry on,” Eli says, voice low and shaking. “Don’t you dare think it didn’t break me.”

“Then why?” Olga demands. “Why didn’t you fight for her? Why didn’t you tell anyone?” Olga’s voice cracks, sharp with disbelief, her hands clenched at her sides. She’s standing now, breath short, pacing Eli’s living room like she’s trying to outrun what she just heard. She hadn’t planned to stay only to ask one question, but the answer shattered everything.

Eli is curled forward on the couch, her hands white-knuckled in her lap, her eyes wide and shining. “You don’t understand what it was like,” she says quietly, pleading. “She was born with a heart condition. We didn’t know what it was at first, she was so small always struggling to breathe. She couldn’t even cry properly with out her lips turning blue.”

Olga stares at her, hollowed out. “So you gave her away.”

“I thought she’d get help,” Eli whispers. “We couldn’t afford the surgeries. We didn’t have insurance or savings, I wasn’t working at the time. My parents wouldn’t help. We thought… we thought someone else could save her. I loved her enough to let her go.”

Olga’s breath catches, just for a second, because she knows Eli means that. And still, it’s not enough. “She grew up in multiple children’s home,” she says bitterly. “With no one.” Eli flinches like she’s been slapped. “You’re the one who taught Alexia how to be gentle,” Olga says, voice shaking. “You tell everyone family is everything. You cry at Christmas commercials, for God’s sake. And now I find out that there was another child and you just… gave her up?”

Eli’s eyes are glassy. Her face is pale. “You think that was easy for me?” she says, hoarse. “You think I didn’t wake up every night for years hearing her cry even though I hadn’t seen her since she was—”

“Don’t,” Olga snaps, tears brimming. “Don’t make yourself the victim in this. I think about her alone every night now,” Olga goes on, tears clinging to her lashes. “I see her sitting in that place, wondering why no one ever came back for her. Why her parents the people who are meant to love her unconditionally let her go.”

“Stop,” Eli whispers. “Please, stop.”

Olga stares at her, breathing hard, voice strangled. “And you never told Alexia. Or Alba.”

Eli looks down at the floor like it might save her. “They were so young they didn’t need to know, have that burden.”

“You gave up your baby,” Olga says, gesturing to the photo on the table between them. “You let her disappear into the system, and you never looked for her. Never even told your daughters they had a sister.”

“I didn’t let her disappear,” Eli says, voice shaking. “She was born sick. Her heart Olga, she needed something me and her father couldn’t give her! We did what we thought was best for her!”

Olga stops in her tracks, eyes wide with pain. “So you just gave her away and pretended she never existed?”

“She would’ve died if I’d kept her!” Eli cries. “We couldn’t afford treatment we thought a hospital might place her with someone who could help. It wasn’t abandonment, it was the only mercy I had left to give her.”

Olga’s voice rises. “And you’ve told no one. For twenty-five years. No one.”

Eli’s hands shake now. “Because I didn’t want this. This moment. This shame. This wreckage.”

“Well, it’s here now,” Olga whispers. “She grew up in a children’s home, Eli. Alone. She had no one, she doesn’t understand the meaning of family, I don’t even think she’s ever felt what it’s like to be loved. Do you understand that?”

Eli explodes raw, desperate. “Leave it alone!” The words come like a slap, louder than anything yet. “Just—shut up!” she screams. “You don’t understand what it cost me! You don’t get to stand there judging when you weren’t there!”

The front door slams open. “What the hell is going on?” Alba’s voice slices through the room like lightning. She’s standing in the doorway, flushed from running, alarmed and out of breath. “I could hear you both shouting from the street.” She looks from Eli, who is crumbling in her chair, to Olga, who’s barely holding herself upright. “What the hell is going on?”

Olga turns away, shoulders hunched, face blotched with tears. She’s trying to breathe, but she can’t steady herself. She just shakes her head, mutely.

Eli goes silent, too. Like she forgot anyone else existed. Her face folds in on itself caught red-handed by her own daughter. “Why were you yelling at her?” Alba asks, stepping in, confused and suddenly afraid. “What did she do?”

“She didn’t do anything,” Eli croaks out, broken.

“Then what—?” Alba’s voice wavers. “Why is everyone crying?” No one answers.

Olga breathes in sharply through her nose, sinks onto the armrest of the sofa, her shoulders shaking, barely holding in the sobs now.

Alba doesn’t understand what this is, what it means but something in her bones tells her exactly what to do. She pulls her phone from her pocket, thumb trembling as she finds her sister’s name. She steps back into the hallway and presses the call.

Alexia answers almost instantly. “Albs?”

Her voice is warm, calm, but Alba’s isn’t.

“Ale,” she says quickly, “you need to come to mamá’s. Now.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I—I don’t know, but Olga’s here, and she’s crying, and mamá’s… something’s wrong. I think it’s big mamá was screaming at her I heard her from the street”

There’s a pause. Then, “I’m on my way,” Alexia says, sharp and sure. Alba hangs up, heart pounding, and returns to the living room where the air feels too heavy to breathe. Olga is quiet now, face buried in her hands. Eli sits motionless and Alba stands between them, caught in the middle of a secret she doesn’t yet understand only knowing that whatever it is, her sister will make sense of it.

The knock is soft, but the tension in the room makes it sound like thunder. Alba leaps to open the door, her heart in her throat. Alexia steps inside, face creased with concern, eyes sharp, already scanning the room like something in her gut told her this wasn’t just a misunderstanding.

She’s still in joggers and a hoodie, her hair tied back loosely, eyes sharp and searching. She takes one look at her sister and then scans the room freezes when she sees her mother, crumpled on the sofa. Her gaze lands first on her mother, who’s slumped on the sofa, visibly shaken, hands clasped tightly in her lap like she’s bracing for something else to hit. Then her eyes flick to Olga standing stiff and silent by the window, her back half-turned, her coat still on.

“Olga?” Alexia says gently, walking toward her. Olga doesn't turn. Her arms are crossed tight, like she's holding herself together by sheer will.

“What happened?” Alexia asks again, slower now, as her eyes dart back to her mother. “Is someone hurt? What—?”

She steps closer, reaches out, instinctively placing her hand on Olga’s arm but Olga flinches. Not dramatically. Just enough and then she pulls away. Alexia’s breath catches. She stares at her, confused hurt.

“Olga…” No response.

Alexia’s eyes flick between them again her partner and her mother, both visibly wrecked.

“Will someone please tell me what’s going on?” she says, louder now, tension rising in her voice. “Mamá? Olga? Talk to me.” Still, no one speaks.

Olga finally moves. Slowly, she reaches for the door, her hand trembling just slightly. “I need some air,” she mutters, almost to herself.

Eli rises instinctively. “Olga please, wait—”

Olga stops, her hand still on the doorknob. She turns slowly and what’s on her face is something Alexia’s never seen before. Grief. Betrayal. Disgust. “I can’t even look at you right now,” Olga says, her voice hollow, strained. Her eyes fixed on Eli, who seems to shrink under the weight of it. “You are not the person I thought you were.”

Alexia’s breath hitches, heart pounding. She looks at her mother, sees the quiet devastation spreading across her face, and she’s suddenly terrified. “Wait—Olga, please—just… what happened?” Alexia pleads, reaching after her again, but the door opens and Olga is gone.

Silence crashes back in. Alexia stands frozen, her hand still in the air, her heart breaking without knowing why. She turns to her mother. “Mamá,” she says, voice trembling. “What did you do?”

Eli doesn’t answer, she sinks down slowly, like the weight of those words took her legs out from under her. She covers her mouth with her hands, eyes spilling over with silent tears.

And Alexia stuck between the two most important women in her life—feels the walls close in, a thousand questions pressing against her chest. Alba looks at her sister, whose hands are balled into fists at her sides. Alexia is staring at the door, stunned, shaken, she’s never seen Olga like that. Never seen her walk away and whatever happened here, whatever broke her, Alexia knows it isn’t just something they can fix. It’s something that changed everything.

The cool night air hits Olga’s face like a slap sharp and biting. She walks until the porch ends, then stops, clutching the railing with both hands, trying to breathe past the chaos inside her.

She hears the door creak open behind her, soft footsteps following.

“Olga,” Eli calls gently. “Please. Just come inside. Let’s talk, mi amor.” Olga doesn’t turn. Her knuckles are white on the railing. A long silence stretches between them.

Then quietly, without venom, only pain Olga speaks. “Please tell me… their father at least knew.”

Eli stands still behind her, silence falling heavy again. Then a nod.

“Yes,” Eli whispers. “He knew.”

Olga finally turns, slow and rigid, her eyes burning. “And he still let her go?”

Eli’s voice cracks. “He didn’t want to. God, Olga, he held her all night the day she was born. He cried like I’d never seen before, he just he knew we couldn’t give to her what she needed. We didn’t have the money, or the support. We thought it was the only way she had a chance. Giving her up broke him Olga, he was never the same after that day, his spirit, his health, everything”

Olga presses her lips together, shaking her head, tears gathering again. “They lost him when they were barely out of childhood, god Alba was a child” she says hoarsely. Eli nods, tears now running freely. Olga blinks through the tears. “So you gave away your baby and because of that, you think it eventually killed your husband.”

Eli swallows a sob, covering her mouth, Olga turns away again, shoulders rising and falling, behind her, Eli stands on the threshold exposed, crumbling and inside the house, through the windows, Alexia is still watching, not understanding everything, but beginning to feel how deep this fracture runs.

The living room is too quiet when they step back inside. Eli gently closes the door behind Olga, whose eyes are red and raw. She doesn’t move far from the entryway. Her arms are crossed tightly again, a self-made cage.

Alexia is still standing, tense, waiting. Alba sits curled up in the corner of the sofa, chewing the inside of her cheek, a nervous habit from childhood.

Eli breathes in deep like the confession she’s about to make might crush her lungs if she doesn’t hold herself steady. “Sit down,” she says softly, looking to both daughters.

Alexia hesitates. “Mamá, what is this?”

“Please,” Eli says. “Just… sit.” Reluctantly, Alexia lowers herself onto the arm of the sofa, her eyes locked on Olga on the way she trembles. She’s crying again, and that frightens her more than anything. Eli moves to stand in front of them, hands clasped like she’s in church, waiting to confess. “I never thought I’d have to say this out loud,” she begins, voice shaking. “I thought I had buried it deep enough that none of you would ever know.”

Alba shifts uncomfortably. “What do you mean?”

Eli’s lips tremble, but she goes on. “You had a sister. A younger one, she was born 3 years after you Alba”

The silence detonates. Alba blinks. “What? You… you’re joking, right?” she asks, glancing at Alexia and then back to Eli. “Is this some weird joke or—?”

“No,” Eli says. “It’s not a joke.”

Alba’s face falls. “No. No, that can’t be true. I don’t remember—”

“You wouldn’t,” Eli cuts in gently. “You were just a toddler, Alba. We, your father and I, gave her up. She was born with a heart condition. We couldn’t afford the care she needed. We thought it was the only way she’d survive.”

Alba stares at her, blinking hard like the words won’t compute. “No,” she whispers again. “No. That’s not—you wouldn’t do that. You’re not like that.”

“I did,” Eli says, her voice cracking. “We made the only choice we thought we had.”

Alba suddenly covers her mouth, her eyes wide and brimming with tears. She makes a small, broken sound as if something inside her just split clean down the middle.

Alexia, meanwhile, is still too still, she stares at her mother, jaw tight, eyes sharp with disbelief. “You lied to us,” she says, flat and cold. “Our whole lives.”

Eli looks up, stricken. “Alexia—”

“You let us grow up thinking we were the only ones. Thinking that Dad died with no secrets. That we came from love. From honesty.”

“You did,” Eli pleads. “I loved you every day of your lives.”

Alexia stands suddenly, shaking her head. “But not her.”

“No,” Eli whispers, ashamed. “Not like I should have.”

Alba sobs now, curling into herself on the sofa, shaking. Olga breaks down again. She tries to wipe her face but can’t stop the tears. “I didn’t want this,” she says hoarsely. “I didn’t want to be the one who broke you. I’m so sorry.”

Alexia looks at her, confused, wounded. “You knew?”

Olga opens her mouth, but no sound comes out. “I found out by accident,” she finally manages. “I-I—God, Alexia, I didn’t want to know.”

Alexia’s eyes narrow slightly, not in cruelty but in disbelief. She looks like someone just pulled the rug from beneath her entire identity.

And still, Alba cries softly in the corner, whispering, “A little sister... we had a little sister…” And across from her, Olga thinks of you. Alone in your apartment. Crying into the quiet, not knowing that the truth is finally breaking wide open—and that it’s going to change everything.

The room feels heavy, thick with silence and unsaid things. Alba sits on the sofa, knees pulled close to her chest, eyes fixed on the floor. She doesn’t cry anymore just quiet. Unreachable, curled inward, eyes fixed on the floor, refusing comfort when Olga cautiously reaches out.

“No,” Alba murmurs, voice barely audible. “Not now.” Olga pulls back, defeated, sitting down quietly a few feet away.

Alexia, however, is a storm, pacing, fists clenched, voice rising, “How could you know and say nothing?” she snaps at Olga, eyes burning. “You found out and just kept it to yourself? Do you have any idea how long we lived in the dark? How much this changes everything?”

Olga meets her gaze, her own eyes shining with tears. “I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure. Until I spoke to Eli and confirmed it. Like you, I had a hard time believing it myself.”

Eli steps forward, voice pleading. “Alexia, please. Olga didn’t keep this from you to hurt you—”

Alexia was now directing her frustration at her mother, firing questions at Eli with a mix of desperation and anger.

“Why didn’t you tell us? How could you keep this from us for so long? Why didn’t you try harder? What about Dad, did he know everything? Did you ever try to find her again? What—what was her name?”

Eli swallows, unable to meet any of Alexia’s eyes. “I—I don’t know,” she admits finally. “We… we thought it was better to keep it quiet. We gave her a name but the home just called her ‘Baby Girl.’ It’s probably been changed”

Alexia stops pacing, stunned by the silence, the gaps in answers.

Eli has tears pooling again. Alexia looks at Olga, whose face is streaked with fresh tears. Then Alba remains silent, distant, lost somewhere inside herself. The room is fractured everyone aching, separated by secrets and grief, caught in a web of loss no one can untangle yet, and Alexia can’t see her family healing from this.

The room is heavy with silence. Alba hasn’t moved from her place on the sofa, arms wrapped tightly around herself. She’s staring into some unseen distance, tears dried on her cheeks, her expression blank.

Alexia still stands, breath shallow, torn between betrayal and sorrow.

Then, quietly, she moves.

She walks over and sits down beside Olga, not saying a word. The weight of her presence is everything and nothing at all. Her shoulder barely brushes Olga’s. The contact is light, but to Olga, it’s enough to keep her breathing.

“I need to see her,” Alexia says suddenly, softly. “I need to know she was real.”

Her voice cracks on the last word. Eli blinks, startled. “What?”

“A photo,” Alexia says, turning slowly to her mother. “Do you have one? Anything?”

Eli stares at her daughters one silent and broken, the other just barely holding herself together then nods. She disappears into the hallway. For a long while, the only sounds are Alba’s sniffles and the soft creak of the floorboards as Eli moves in the other room. Then she returns. In her arms is an old, battered shoebox edges torn, the lid soft with age.

She kneels in front of the girls and opens it slowly, like unsealing a grave.

Inside theres a small bundle of ultrasound scans, worn at the corners, black-and-white ghosts of a baby not yet born. A tiny, creased hospital card with faded blue ink: "Baby Girl Putellas Segura." Her weight. Her length. The time she arrived. A white card stamped with one perfect footprint and one tiny handprint, pink and curled like a blossom. And then the photos.

There aren’t many. The first few show Eli and her husband in the hospital room, holding a swaddled newborn between them. They're smiling, tentatively, cautiously, but with something fragile and full in their eyes.

In the next few, the smiles are gone. Eli looks down at the baby with red-rimmed eyes. Her husband kisses the baby’s forehead, his face twisted into something halfway between a smile and a sob.

In the last photo, Eli is no longer holding the baby. She is standing by the hospital bed, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her husband has one hand on her back, but his other is empty. They both look like people trying to memorise the little girl on the bed before it’s taken away.

No one speaks. Olga covers her mouth with her hand, tears falling silently, the pain was radiating from the photos.

Alexia reaches forward, touching the photo gently with her fingertips, like she’s afraid it might disappear. “She looks like, us,” she whispers. “Her nose. The shape of her eyes.”

Eli nods, wiping her face. “I only looked at these once,” she says. “Then I put them in a box. I never looked at them again. I couldn’t.”

Alexia glances at her mother eyes still confused, still hurt but quieter now. “She was real,” she says, mostly to herself. “She was ours.” next to her, Olga presses her hand against her chest, trying to breathe through the ache.

Alexia holds the photo delicately, as though it might crumble if she breathes too hard. Her thumb hovers over the image her parents, younger and terrified, their arms newly empty.

She glances sideways. Alba hasn’t moved. She’s still curled in on herself, her chin on her knees, her arms wrapped tight like a shield. Her eyes are open but empty, staring into the middle of the floor, if she’s heard anything, it’s impossible to tell.

“Alba…” Alexia says softly. No response, she turns more fully, holding the photo just a little closer in Alba’s direction. “Do you want to see her?” Her voice is quiet, careful. Not pushing. Just offering.

Alba doesn’t answer. For a long moment, she doesn’t even blink, but then her eyes flicker, just barely, toward the photo in Alexia’s hand. She doesn’t reach for it. Doesn’t move, but that one glance is enough to crack something.

Alexia sees it. She leans a little closer. “She looks like you,” she whispers. “When you were little.”

Alba’s lower lip trembles. Her breath shudders out of her like it physically hurts to take in air. “Why didn’t she get to stay?” she says finally, voice fragile and small.

Eli’s breath catches in her throat. She opens her mouth to answer but no words come. Olga whispers for her, “She was sick, your parents did what they thought was best for her”

Alba turns slowly toward the photo, then reaches out, her hand trembling as she takes it. She looks at it for a long time and then, in a barely-there voice that cracks in the middle, she whispers, “She had Papa's chin.”

It breaks Eli. She covers her mouth, sobbing quietly, and Olga gently moves to wrap her arm around her. Alba doesn’t cry. She just keeps looking, at the baby, at the past, at the sister she never got to love. 🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

You sit on the floor of your apartment, your laptop closed on the coffee table, long forgotten. The untouched sandwich from earlier is still in its wrapper, resting near your elbow. You haven’t moved much since you got home. Haven’t wanted to.

The apartment feels emptier than usual. Not just quiet but hollow. Like something inside you cracked open when Olga left, and now the silence has a place to live.

You’ve replayed that moment over and over. The look in her eyes when she saw the photo. The way she snapped. The disbelief. The accusation.

You’d tried to speak, to explain, but she wouldn’t let you. Wouldn’t hear you. She thought you’d used her. That you’d known. That the photo meant something you’d kept hidden, but you hadn’t known. You still don’t know.

That picture had always been a strange little mystery to you. Left in the file the home had when you were a baby. Just two smiling girls, a sense of something warm and long-lost. You’d stared at it often growing up. Not because you knew who they were but because they felt like a possibility. Like maybe, once, someone had loved you and now that photo’s gone. Torn out of your hands and taken into someone else’s truth.

You wipe at your eyes again, but they won’t stop watering. Your throat aches from holding back sobs that keep forcing their way through.

You don’t know what’s happening.

You don’t know what to do.

You just keep sitting there, waiting for a knock that might never come. A message. A clue. Something, but there’s nothing. Just the faint hum of your fridge and the quiet ache in your chest.

It’s almost midnight by the time you stop pacing your apartment. Your hands shake as you hold the phone. You scroll past a few names none feel right. Not now. Not after everything.

Then your thumb hovers over hers. Patri 💕

You haven’t told anyone about her. Not even Olga. It was easier that way kept things uncomplicated. Casual. Hidden, but now… nothing feels simple or safe.

You press call.

She picks up quickly. “Hey,” she says, voice warm and soft.“Everything okay, you never call this late?”

You don’t answer right away. Your throat’s too tight. “Can you come over?” you manage. “Please?”

She hears it. Whatever's in your voice. “I’m on my way.”

You don’t move from your spot near the window until you hear her knock. When you open the door, she doesn’t ask questions. She just sees your face red-eyed, exhausted, cracked wide open and steps in with arms that don’t hesitate.

You fall into her without a word. Her hand runs gently down your back, grounding you.

Minutes pass before you pull away, wiping your face with your sleeve. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I just… I didn’t know who else to call.”

Patri nods, patient. “You can always call me. You know that.”

You sit on the couch. She sits beside you, close but not crowding you. Waiting. You breathe in deep. Out. And then, “I think…” You pause, heart hammering. “I think Alexia Putellas is my sister.”

Silence. Patri doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t flinch. Her brow furrows, but her eyes stay soft.

You look down at your hands. “There was this photo. Two girls. I had it my whole life it was left with me when I was dropped off at the children's home. I never knew who they were” You shake your head, tears rising again. “Olga saw it and lost it. Thought I’d known all along it was Alexia and her sister. Took the photo. Stormed out. She hasn’t answered my messages. I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t even know if I’m going crazy.”

Patri takes your hand in both of hers. “You’re not crazy,” she says softly. “And even if it sounds impossible… it might not be.”

“I don’t want anything from them,” you say quickly. “I didn’t even know. I just… I want to understand. Why I was left. Who I was before I was just… no one.”

You’re crying again, but you don’t try to stop it now, Patri squeezes your hand, steady and sure, you don’t say anything, but when you lean your head on her shoulder, it’s the first moment you’ve felt even a little less alone.

Patri’s fingers thread gently through yours, her thumb brushing your knuckles. Your eyes are swollen, throat raw, barely holding it together. Then, in the quiet, she leans a little closer. Her voice barely above a whisper, warm and solid against the chaos inside you. “You’re not no one to me.”

It stops your breath, you lift your head just slightly, eyes meeting hers. There’s no pity in her face. No fear. Just quiet certainty.

“You hear me?” she says again, firmer now. “You’re not nothing. I don’t care if you don’t know who you were before. I care who you are now and I see you.”

Your eyes fill again, but this time, the tears feel different. Not jagged or spiralling just full.

You nod. A small one. But it’s real. “Thank you,” you manage, your voice breaking.

Patri leans in, gently presses her lips to your forehead. “We’ll figure this out,” she says. “Together. Okay?” And in that moment, just for a heartbeat, you believe her. 🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

The sun creeps in slowly through your curtains, tracing thin golden lines across the floor. You barely slept, but with Patri beside you, the night didn’t feel quite as endless. She stirs first, brushing a strand of hair from your face. You open your eyes to find her watching you, soft and steady.

“Come on,” she says gently. “I’m taking you to breakfast before we face the world.”

You want to protest, you don’t look like yourself, your stomach is a knot, and the idea of being in public right now feels impossible but she’s already pulling the covers back and reaching for your pre hung up work clothes like it’s not up for debate.

So you let her.

The café is small, tucked on a quiet corner near the training grounds and your office with Olga. No jerseys, no fans. Just warmth, fresh bread, and the clink of mugs being set on tables.

You sit across from her, both of you nursing hot drinks. Patri tears a croissant in half and sets one piece on your plate without asking after you said you didn't want anything.

“You don’t have to talk,” she says, watching you. “Just eat something. One small normal thing before everything gets… complicated again.”

You nod, barely able to hold her gaze, but grateful, after a few bites that were dry, tasteless in your mouth, you whisper, “What if she never forgives me?”

Patri doesn’t hesitate. “Then she doesn’t deserve to be in your life." You blink at her. “She’s hurt,” Patri adds, softening. “I get that, but if she can’t believe you, if she won’t even try to, then that’s on her. Not you.”

You glance down at your coffee. “It just… it meant something working with her, i thought I finally had… something that made sense.”

Patri reaches across the table, hooks her pinky around yours. “You do,” she says. “You have me and I’m not going anywhere.”

You nod, holding onto that, even if everything else is spinning, this feels real. When you check the time, you realise it's almost time to head in. Patri downs the rest of her coffee and stands.

She pulls you up with her, smooths your jacket at the shoulders, and presses a quick kiss to your temple. “You’ve got this,” she whispers. “Text me when you’re done. No matter how it goes.”

You nod. She squeezes your hand once before heading toward the training facility down the block. You turn toward the office. Stomach heavy. Heart heavier but not quite as alone.

You step away from the café, the last of Patri’s warmth still clinging to your jacket like a hug that hasn't fully let go. The morning air is cool, quiet. You take a breath, try to let the calm hold for just a second longer. Then you see her, Olga, she’s over the road, leaning against the side of a closed bookstore, arms crossed tight, shoulders hunched like she hasn’t slept either. You freeze mid-step, her eyes are on you, it hits you like a punch. She saw. She was watching, maybe the whole time.

You don’t know what she saw exactly, but in your gut it doesn’t matter whatever flicker of healing you’d just started to believe in crumbles under your feet.

She looks up, your eyes meet, her expression doesn’t shift. No relief. No kindness. No fury either just something unreadable, and somehow that’s worse.

You almost step toward her, almost say her name, but the shame wraps around your ribs like wire. The same helpless, spiralling thought churns, I’ve made it worse.

You lower your eyes, quicken your pace, and cross the street without another glance back, by the time you reach the office door, your hands are shaking again.

The walls have started to ease back up, the ache in your chest back in full force and the photo, the truth, all of it… still just out of reach.

The office is cold when you step in, or maybe it’s just you. Either way, you don’t take off your coat.

You slide into your desk, boot up your laptop, and stare at the screen without seeing a word. You hear her before you see her, the soft click of the door, the measured steps. She moves past without a glance. You hold your breath.

She settles into her chair, the rustle of fabric as she crosses one leg over the other, her keys clinking gently on her desk. Then after what feels like an entire hour folded into thirty seconds "How did you meet Patri?"

Her voice is calm, almost too calm, you glance over. She’s not looking at you, her fingers are gently tapping her mug, as though it’s just any other morning.

You swallow. “I, um…” Your throat is dry. “I met her in a bar. A few weeks ago. After work.”

You watch her profile, trying to read her, but she gives you nothing.

“She didn’t know who I was,” you add. “To you. I didn’t tell her. At first”

Silence, you brace for something accusation, coldness, anything, but all she says is, “Do you love her?”

The question stuns you, not because you hadn’t thought about it, but because you never expected her to ask. “I don’t know,” you say honestly. “Maybe. It’s a bit early for that yet. We've not even had sex”

Another beat of silence. Then Olga nods, just once, like she’s filing it away somewhere.

You sit there, confused, the tension still knotted in your chest, but she doesn’t push. Doesn’t snap, just sips from her mug and opens her inbox like this conversation never happened and somehow… that quiet is the most painful sound of all.

The silence between you stretches thin but neither of you moves.

You pretend to work, Olga pretends not to notice your shaking hands. Then she speaks, her voice soft. Measured. “I spoke to Alexia’s mami.”

You freeze, your cursor blinks on the screen, forgotten.

You turn slowly, but she’s not looking at you. Her eyes are locked on the mug in her hands, fingers curling tight around the ceramic like she needs to anchor herself to something.

Your voice barely makes it out. “You did?”

She nods once. “Yeah.”

You wait. The silence stretches again, heavy with everything she hasn’t said yet. “I showed her the photo,” Olga continues, still soft. “The one you had. She went pale. I didn’t even have to ask anything. I knew just by her reaction to the photo.”

A breath shudders out of you. “I didn’t know,” you whisper. “Olga, I swear to you—”

“I know,” she cuts in.

Your eyes snap to hers, she's finally looking at you and in that look is a whole storm grief, disbelief, pain, exhaustion.

“You were just a baby,” she says quietly. “Left with a photo and nothing else.”

You blink back fresh tears. “Then it’s true.”

Olga nods, slowly. “They gave you up, because of your heart, because they couldn’t afford the care you needed. Your—” She pauses, breath catching. “—your father… he knew. He died when Alexia and Alba were teenagers.”

You cover your mouth with your hand, the ache in your chest pulsing to life again.

“They loved you,” Olga says. “You were their baby. I saw the pictures. The scans. A card with your footprints. They held you. Smiled with you.” She swallows hard, and now it’s her turn to look away. “But they left the hospital without you because they thought that would give you the best chance in life.”

The room is still. The weight of twenty-five years settling over your shoulders like fog.

You whisper, “What was my name?”

Olga’s voice trembles. “They didn't get to name you.”

You close your eyes, it doesn’t feel real and yet it explains everything.

Olga stands. You watch her cross the room slowly, quietly, something reverent in the way she moves as if she’s carrying something sacred and she is.

She reaches into her bag, then gently places the photo frame down on your desk in front of you. The same one that had once been your only clue to anything real. It feels heavier now.

“They know,” she says, barely above a whisper. “Alexia. Alba.”

You stare at the photo. Two little girls. You touch the glass. Your fingers don’t shake this time, but your breath catches.

“I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure,” Olga continues. “Until I had the truth.”

“And now they know.” You say it aloud. Like you’re testing it. Like it might disappear.

Olga nods.

“They didn’t before?” you ask.

She shakes her head slowly. “They had no idea. Eli kept it from them all this time.”

You stare at her. “What did they say?”

Her lips press together for a moment. “Alba was… broken. She didn’t believe it at first, then she just went quiet, typically her.”

Your chest tightens.

“And Alexia…” Olga’s voice trails off, her gaze dropping. “She was angry. Confused. At Eli. At me.”

You wince. “At you?”

Olga meets your eyes. “She didn’t understand why I didn’t tell her soon as I found the picture. Why I didn’t come to her the second I suspected.”

You nod slowly, taking that in.

“I told her I needed to be sure,” Olga says softly. “I owed that to everyone.”

Something cracks in your chest at that. You look down at the photo again, then whisper, “Do they… want to see me?”

There’s a pause and then “Yes,” Olga says. “They do.”

You look up at her. You nod, blinking fast. You stare down at the photo. Your throat tightens as you try to find the words that don’t sound like a betrayal of how much this means, how much it changes. You swallow hard, your voice barely there. “I need time.”

Olga doesn’t speak, so you glance up half-expecting disappointment, or worse, pity, but there’s none, she just nods. “Of course,” she says gently.

“I just…” you start, then stop. Try again. “It’s a lot. I’m still trying to believe it’s real.”

Her eyes soften, her shoulders releasing tension you didn’t realise she’d been holding. “You don’t owe anyone speed,” she says, and again, that name hits different. Warmer now. Anchoring.

You nod slowly.

Olga walks back to her desk, sits quietly, like she’s giving you both physical and emotional space. No pushing. No pressure.

Just… waiting.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

Patri’s apartment smells faintly of rosemary and whatever candle she always has burning. It’s quiet except for the soft sound of her socks on the wood floors and the occasional clink of mugs as she makes tea without asking like she already knows you won’t have the appetite for anything more.

You’re curled on her couch, legs pulled to your chest, the familiar soft throw blanket wrapped tight around you. The photo’s not in your bag anymore, but it may as well be it’s burned into your thoughts.

Patri walks over, hands you a mug you barely manage to hold, then settles beside you without touching close enough to feel, but not crowding.

You stare down at the tea. “I have family.”

The words barely leave your mouth. They feel surreal still, like you’re saying them for someone else. Patri doesn’t speak. She waits.

You exhale shakily. “People I’m related to. By blood. I’ve never had that before, never even let myself imagine what it could be like.”

She glances at you, softly, kindly.

You keep going, voice fragile. “They want to meet me. Alexia. Alba. My sisters.” You taste the word, and it stings and warms at the same time. “But I don’t know if I can do it.”

Patri tilts her head. “Why?”

You blink hard. “Because I’m not who they think they lost. I grew up different to them. I have… pieces, but they don’t fit right. What if I’m a disappointment? What if they only want who I could’ve been, not who I actually am?”

The tears come quick this time. Quiet and raw.

“I don’t know how to be someone’s sister. I don’t even know how to be someone’s daughter.”

Patri shifts closer, gently, until your knee brushes hers. She doesn't reach for your hand just gives you space to fall apart without pressure.

When you finally look up at her, eyes glassy, voice cracking, you whisper, “What if I ruin it just by showing up?”

She leans forward then, soft but certain. “Baby,” she says slow, “You ruin nothing by existing. If anything, you’re the one thing that might put something broken back together.”

You don’t reply, but you lean against her, and when she wraps her arms around you, you let yourself fall into the quiet. Not healed. Not ready, but no longer alone.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

The bedroom is dim, lit only by the soft glow of the city outside filtering through sheer curtains. Alexia is already in bed, lying on her side, scrolling idly through her phone. Her hair’s a little damp from the shower, and the covers are pulled up around her shoulders like she’s cocooning herself from the day.

Olga steps in quietly, brushing her teeth finished, sleep tugging at her limbs but her thoughts too loud for rest.

She climbs into bed slowly, careful not to disturb the peace too much.

Alexia hums, sensing something. “Everything okay?”

Olga hesitates, settles on her side to face her, elbow bent, cheek resting against her hand. “I need to tell you something,” she says softly. "It's been eating me all day and I just need to off load it to someone"

Alexia’s eyes flick up from her phone. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Olga assures quickly. “Just… weird and you have to promise not to freak out.”

Alexia raises a brow. “That’s never a comforting preface.”

Olga gives her a tired, warning look. “I’m serious. No confronting anyone. No speeches. Just… listen.”

Alexia sets her phone down. She shifts onto her back, sighs dramatically. “Fine. I solemnly swear. Go.”

Olga stares at the ceiling for a second. Then “My assistant, the one you met at the office… she’s the girl Patri’s been seeing.”

Alexia blinks. “Wait. What?”

“Shh,” Olga hushes quickly, placing a hand gently on Alexia’s arm. “You promised. No freaking out.”

Alexia sits up a little against the headboard, clearly working through it. “Wait. Your assistant is Patri’s girl? She's the one who everyone’s been speculating about in the locker room for weeks?”

Olga nods slowly. “Yeah. I saw them this morning. Having breakfast together. Just… looked like a date.”

Alexia stares at her, mouth open slightly. “And you’re just telling me this now?”

Olga shrugs. “I didn’t know until today. I wasn’t spying. I was just... walking. Processing.”

Alexia laughs once, disbelieving. “Dios. Patri and your assistant. That’s… wow.” She pauses. Then narrows her eyes. “Is she even Patri’s type?”

Olga gives her a flat look. “You’ve met her once, and all you said was she seemed ‘too polite.’”

Alexia shrugs, but she’s smiling now. “Polite and dating Patri? That girl must have hidden layers.”

Olga hums. She rests her head on Alexia’s shoulder, a little quieter again.

After a beat, Alexia asks, “Is that all? Or is there a reason you brought it up now?”

Olga closes her eyes. “There’s more to it… just not for tonight.”

Alexia tilts her head, trying to read her. “Okay…”

Olga squeezes her hand gently. “Just don’t mention anything at training. Let Patri have her privacy.”

Alexia rolls her eyes. “You act like I’m the drama.”

Olga just smiles, eyes still closed. “You’re the captain and the drama.”

Alexia laughs softly and presses a kiss to Olga’s forehead. “Fine. I’ll behave.”

But even as they settle into silence, you linger in Alexia’s thoughts just a little longer than before.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

You’re mid-call, headset on, trying to sound confident while walking a particularly demanding client through a social rollout calendar. Your laptop is open, filled with colour-coded chaos, and you’re scribbling notes on a pad beside you.

Patri is lounging, because that’s the only word for it, in the visitor’s chair next to your desk. She’s got one ankle lazily hooked over her knee, phone in hand, sunglasses perched on her nose even though you’re indoors. She hasn’t said a word in ten minutes, just keeping you company like some smirking silent bodyguard.

You flick your eyes toward her for a second and she just wiggles her eyebrows. You try not to laugh but the door clicks open.

Olga strides in, crisp and purposeful, folders tucked under her arm and a cappuccino in hand. She looks up, clearly expecting her usual quiet workspace and then spots Patri.

She stops Patri glances up from her phone, sees her, and grins “Hola, jefa.”

Olga narrows her eyes. “Patri.”

You freeze mid-sentence on your call. “—Yes, we’ll have the draft by Friday, absolutely. Thank you, I’ll follow up with the design team. Okay. Bye now.”

You click off and rip off the headset, slowly swivelling toward Olga

“Hey,” you say, cautiously.

Olga looks between the two of you, arms crossed, brow lifted in that unimpressed way that’s both maternal and mildly terrifying. “You know this isn’t a café, right?” she says to Patri, deadpan.

Patri shrugs, completely unbothered. “Had the morning off. Thought I’d escort your best employee through their incredibly stressful workday.”

Olga glances at you, unamused. “Is that true?”

You give her a tight, sheepish smile. “I didn’t know she was coming.”

Patri snorts, Olga sets her folders down on her desk, sipping her coffee. “Well, now that you’re here, maybe you’d like to help sort through thirty Instagram DMs from a dog food sponsor who doesn’t understand what a brand kit is.”

Patri puts a hand to her heart, mock-wounded. “That sounds horrifying.”

Olga deadpans, “Welcome to my life.”

You try not to smile but fail miserably, and Olga catches it her expression softening just for a second.

“Fifteen more minutes,” she says to Patri. “Then she’s mine again.”

Patri gives you a wink. “I’ll take what I can get.”

Olga rolls her eyes and turns back to her desk, but not before you catch the tiniest smirk twitch at the corner of her mouth.

The office quiets again after Patri leaves she kisses your temple before she goes, murmuring something only for you, and you hold onto the warmth of it like a tether. But it fades fast once the door closes behind her.

Olga doesn’t look at you right away. She’s working or pretending to. You sit for a while. Typing. Staring. Breathing. Trying to decide if the knot in your chest will ever untangle itself.

You think about the photo. About the scans in the box. About Eli’s face when she realised who you were. About Olga saying your sisters know now. That they want to meet you.

You think about what you said to Patri and then, softly, “Olga?”

She looks up immediately, her eyes are calm, steady gentle in the way only someone who’s known heartbreak can manage.

You clear your throat. Your hands tremble a little in your lap. “I think…” You hesitate, then push through. “I want to meet them.”

Olga doesn't move for a second. Then she slowly exhales, and something loosens in her shoulders. Not relief something quieter. Respect, maybe. Care. “Okay,” she says, her voice low, warm. “I’ll let them know.”

You nod, once. It still scares you. You’re still not sure who you’ll be to them or who they’ll be to you. Sisters. Strangers. Something in between, but you’re ready to try and maybe, for now, that’s enough.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

The home Olga and Alexia share is quiet and vast, tucked away, the kind of place with balconies full of trailing plants and old tiled floors. Olga brings you up the driveway, but she doesn’t say much. Just walks beside you, shoulder brushing yours once or twice, letting the silence be whatever you need it to be.

You stop in front of the door, your hands are cold, you didn’t realise you were shaking until you saw the key tremble in Olga’s hand. She glances at you. “They’re all here.”

You nod once. Like if you say anything, you’ll turn around and run Olga squeezes your shoulder gently. Then opens the door.

The flat smells like coffee and lavender. Eli’s sitting at the dining table. She rises when she sees you, hands twitching like she wants to reach for you but she doesn’t. Not yet. Behind her, Alba leans in a doorway, arms folded tight, guarded and uncertain. Her expression is blank but her eyes are anything but, and then there’s Alexia.

She’s sitting on the sofa. Casual, almost too casual hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair tied back, one leg bouncing anxiously. She stands up when you come in, and for a second, nobody breathes.

This is it. You’ve imagined this moment so many times and never, not once, like this.

Alexia speaks first. “Hi.” Just that. One syllable, but her voice is soft.

You nod. “Hi.”

Olga touches your back gently, guiding you toward the sofa. You perch on the edge, knees close together, hands tight in your lap.

Alba stays back.

Alesia sits back down and studies you like she’s trying to make sense of what’s right in front of her and still can’t believe it. “I didn’t know,” she says. “Until last week, I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t either,” you whisper.

You look at her really look at her. She’s familiar in ways that don’t make sense. The shape of her nose. The arch of her brow. The curve of her mouth when she frowns like yours in the mirror.

Eli clears her throat. “This is yours,” she says quietly, and sets the shoebox down on the table in front of you.

You don’t open it yet. You’re too afraid of what it is will make real, and you really didn't want to cry in front of these people.

Instead, you look at Alexia again and then to Alba, whose jaw is clenched, whose arms are still crossed like armour.

“I’m not here to take anything,” you say, your voice shaking. “I’m not trying to force myself into your lives. I don’t even know how to do this. I just… I wanted to meet you.”

Alba looks away, Alexia doesn’t, she leans forward and when she speaks again, it’s quieter. “I don’t know how to do this either,” she says. “But I want to try.”

Your breath hitches. You nod. Once and when she reaches out, you let her take your hand and time passes in silence, Olga offers you a drink, and the only noise is clanking of glasses in the kitchen,

Alexia hasn’t let go of your hand even when Olga puts your drink on the coffee table in front of you.

It rests between hers, light but sure, a quiet anchor as you sit across from her on the low coffee table. She doesn’t look like a football legend right now. She looks like someone trying not to break apart a thousand different ways.

Olga sits beside you right beside you. So close her thigh presses against yours, one of her hands resting on your back as if she’s afraid you might suddenly vanish.

You feel both of them, like weights you can lean on. Eli sits a few feet away, silent, hands clasped in her lap. Her eyes are rimmed with red, lips pressed in a line. Alba leans against the far wall, arms still crossed, distant but listening.

The shoebox sits unopened on the table. Alexia breaks the silence first.

“So…” she starts, glancing between you and Olga, “You work for my girlfriend. That’s wild.”

You blink, a little startled by the shift but you’re grateful for comfortable small talk. It’s a rope thrown into the storm. You nod. “Yeah. Almost three months now.”

Olga leans in just enough for her temple to graze your shoulder. “She’s brilliant,” she murmurs. “Takes her job too seriously, though.”

You roll your eyes, a small smile tugging at your lips despite everything. “Says the woman who once scheduled tweets from the bathtub.”

Alexia barks a laugh genuine, caught off guard. “She would.”

“She did,” "I did" you and Olga say in unison, and for a beat, it feels like a normal moment between friends.

Then silence creeps in again, you fiddle with the hem of your sleeve.

“You guys are close,” Alexia says softly, looking between you and Olga.

You nod. “She’s been… I don’t even know what I’d call it. Kind. Patient. The first person who made me feel like I wasn’t just… passing through.”

You feel Olga’s fingers tighten briefly at your back. A silent I’m still here. Alexia’s expression softens. “I get that,” she murmurs.

You look at her carefully. “Is that why you’re… so good to Alba?”

She looks over at her little sister still silent, still watching and her whole face changes. It’s not obvious, not loud, but it’s there the sharp tenderness, the unspoken devotion.

“She’s mine,” Alexia says simply. “Always has been.”

You nod slowly, your throat tightens, and suddenly you can’t speak Olga shifts beside you, gently leaning into your side, just enough to steady you.

You don’t say anything more, neither does Alexia, not right away, but something’s changing in the room. Not resolved not fixed but thawing.

Across the space, Alba watches it all with unreadable eyes and Eli quiet and still presses a hand to her mouth, as if afraid her emotions might spill out and ruin this fragile moment.

You look at your sister, she smiles at you. Small. Real and you smile back.

It’s quiet again now, not the awkward kind it’s something else. Something rawer.

You feel Olga still beside you, warm and steady. Alexia hasn’t moved far either, perched on the sofa her fingers tap silently against her knee, like she wants to speak but knows this moment isn’t hers.

You’re looking at Eli. She hasn’t looked at you once. Not really. Not since you walked through the door. She sits rigid in her chair, her body folded in on itself like she’s trying to be smaller, her hands twist in her lap, restless and unanchored. Her lips are pressed together like she’s keeping a dam sealed with sheer will.

You watch the way her thumbs rub over one another.

You do that.

You watch the way her brow creases when she’s thinking too loud to speak.

You do that too.

It strikes you all at once not in your chest but in your gut, like something old and invisible pulling taut.

You’re hers you always have been, your voice, when it breaks the silence, surprises even you. Soft. Uncertain. “You look like you need a hug.”

Her head lifts, slowly, slowly, she meets your eyes.

Everything in her face is shaking. Guilt. Hope. Fear. Regret. Love, too but buried beneath years of silence and sorrow.

Her mouth parts, but no words come out, the others don’t move. Not Alba. Not Alexia. Not even Olga.

You don’t push her, you just let the words sit in the space between you Eli swallows. Her eyes fill before a single tear escapes. Her hands go still and then quietly, brokenly “I do”

You stand placing your bag down, she seems surprised by your action but she stands and when you take steps forward she meets you halfway.

She hugs you like she’s terrified you’ll disappear again, her arms wrap around you, trembling, and your face presses into her shoulder. You breathe her in lavender and something warm beneath it. Something familiar you didn’t even know you missed.

Her whole body shudders as she quietly cries, you don’t say anything, you just hold her back, you don’t know what you’re forgiving. There was nothing to forgive for you, you don’t know what still needs to be mended, but in this moment, you’re not lost. You’re held.

The security buzzer goes, you swallow as you and Eli pull away at the same time, "I'll get it that, that'll be" Olga stops herself she knew Patri was coming for you, but she didn't know whether you wanted everyone knowing.

You nod with a little smile, you look to Alexia, "I take it you know"

She nods, "She talks about you a lot, I just didn't know, you were, you, until yesterday"

Patri’s car pulls up as the door is opened just as the sky softens into twilight you stand near the door, jacket pulled around your shoulders, feeling the air shift as the visit comes to a close.

Olga helps you gather your things gentle, wordless, still keeping close like she’s afraid too much space might crack something in you. Alexia lingers near Patri's car they have a quiet conversation you don't catch, her arms folded but her expression soft, uncertain when it turns back to you. Alba follows behind at a distance, watching still wary, still processing, but here that was something.

Eli hasn’t said much since the hug. She’s been quieter than ever, her movements slowed like the emotion has worn her thin, but she’s remained close, watching you with eyes too full for casual conversation.

You hold the letter in your hand for a long time before you finally turn to her.

It’s folded neatly. Ink smudged in one corner from where your hand trembled. You hadn’t planned to give it to her but there were too many things you couldn’t get out in front of everyone. Things too complicated. Too raw. And you wrote it for that circumstance.

You step closer. Offer it with both hands. She looks down at the paper like it might burn her fingers.

You speak quietly, for her only. “I didn’t know how to say it all. So I wrote it instead.”

Eli’s hand reaches out slowly, like she’s afraid if she moves too fast you’ll vanish again. She takes the letter her fingers press around it like it’s fragile like you are.

She nods, eyes shining, lips parting but she doesn’t speak. Just holds it close to her chest.

"Ready to go babe?" Patri smiles, "Pina and her sister are already there"

You nod and turn, your eyes meet Alexia’s, she gives you the faintest smile, then steps aside to let you go. Olga brushes her hand over your back as you move past her, a silent I’m proud of yo and as you walk around Patri's car to get in, Alba finally looks up.

She doesn’t say anything but for the first time, she doesn’t look away.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

The front door clicked shut behind you, and with it goes the last of the tension you carried into this house hours ago. The echo of your presence lingers in the room, the kind that doesn’t fade easily. The kind that changes things.

Eli stands where you left her, still holding the letter like it’s made of glass.

Her eyes don’t lift from it Alexia gently steps toward her. “Mami?" but Eli barely hears. Her lips move, soundless.

“I can’t,” she whispers finally. “I can’t read it. I don’t know if I can take what it says.”

Olga watches her closely, her fingers curled around the hem of her jumper, but she doesn’t interrupt. She’s already said what she needed to say today.

Alba, who hasn’t said a word in what feels like forever, finally pushes off the arm of the couch. Her voice is soft, a little raspy.

“Do you want me to read it to you?”

Eli looks up, startled, Alba doesn’t smile. Doesn’t flinch. She just holds out her hand. Eli hesitates for a moment, eyes searching her daughter’s face. And then, wordlessly, she presses the letter into her youngest’s palm.

Alba walks to the center of the room and sits down on the couch, tucking one leg beneath her. She opens the paper carefully, smoothing the creases with tender fingers.

She clears her throat as everyone takes a seat and begins.

I don't even know where to start with this I feel for years of my life I always wanted this moment, the opportunity to have my say, so this probably won't flow or make much sense but I'm going to vulnerably honest and true to myself.

I never blamed you, growing up I never resented you, disliked you, or hated you for the decision you made. I would always wonder what I did wrong. Why I wasn't good enough. The reason you couldn't keep me and love me like parents should, I was always focused on me and my short comings, I never spoke or thought negatively for the decision you made.

I saw everyday the pain giving a child up caused, I heard my carers talk of the despair and sheer pain they would witness when children were removed from the care of their parents. I would hope you didn't ever have to feel that because it wasn't a choice you had made but I understand the gravity of the decision that was made to leave me at the hospital for you and your husband.

I obviously now know the reason for your decision, and I think it's important for you to know, I did get that help I needed and that you may be interested in the journey that took. I had five surgeries before my second birthday, to try and mend the heart I have, I spent the first three years of my life living in the hospital you left me at, before I was discharged to my first foster family but I had very complex medical needs and they couldn't deal with that so I was moved on. I moved I think 5 times before I was 10 and deemed fit enough to live in a communal home where I stayed until I was 12 but then I needed to move again due to my age to what they call a half way house until I was 18.

Tangent lol, back to the heart, its never going to be a fully working healthy heart, I can't eat certain foods I can't have certain drinks and I work everyday to just be the healthiest I can be to give my heart the best chance of being able to sustain me and make the need for a transplant stayed off for as long as possible. That's a case of when and not if.

Olga explained to me of the passing of your husband, I am truly sorry for you Alexia and Alba's loss, I couldn't begin to imagine the pain it caused to loose such a big part of your lives.

I'm not here to ask anything from any of you, I don't know what any of us want from what we've learned, or what any of us expect to happen.

I just hope that this doesn't affect the relationship you have with your daughters because even before I learned what I know now, from the stories I heard from Olga you sounded like such a warm loving tight nit family. It may not be my place to say but I hope it doesn't change what they think and see of you, you are still the mother they know and love that hasn't changed because they learned of me. You are still that same person, and if anything it just shows what strength you have to make the hardest decision a parent can make along with your husband and carry on and raise two amazing people.

I hope you can begin to heal and most of all forgive yourself for the decision you made all those years ago.

You made the right decision, for me and for your family.

I wouldn't be here today without the decision and sacrifice you made so,

Thank You

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

You’re not expecting her.

The quiet of the office is a comfort today, Olga’s out in meetings, the afternoon sun is casting soft shadows across your desk, and the rhythm of your tasks is keeping your mind anchored. Or at leas distracted.

Then the bell above the door chimes, you glance up.

Alba lingers awkwardly by the entrance, her eyes scanning the space like she might still change her mind. She’s dressed simply jeans, oversized tee, hair up in a messy knot and something about her posture makes her look younger than she is. Vulnerable.

You stand slowly, heart thudding. “Hey…”

Alba walks in a few paces, stopping near the front counter. Her hands are shoved deep in her pockets. “I know Olga’s not here,” she says quickly, like a disclaimer. “I waited. I didn’t want to… ambush or anything.”

You nod, unsure what to say yet. She’s clearly nervous, more than you thought she would be from the stories you'd heard of her from Olga.

“I just…” She exhales through her nose, avoiding your eyes. “I wanted to talk. To you. If that’s okay.”

You gesture gently toward the small seating area. “Of course.”

You both sit, but she perches on the edge of the chair, like she’s ready to bolt. She doesn’t look at you, not directly, but her voice is soft and unfiltered. “I don’t know how to do this,” she admits. “I’ve been all messed up since we found out. It’s like everything I ever knew just cracked and now I keep wondering what it means. For me. For us.”

You nod, letting her speak without interruption.

“I guess I just…” She finally glances at you. Her eyes are rimmed red. “I want to get to know you, because out of anyone it's really not your fault, but I don’t know where to start.”

Your voice is quiet but steady. “Maybe we don’t have to know. Maybe we just try.” Alba blinks. You smile, just a little. “We could… start with dinner? No pressure. No heavy talks unless you want to. Just two people who might be something to each other, seeing what that feels like.”

Alba gives the tiniest laugh, almost a scoff at herself. “I haven’t felt this nervous about dinner since my first crush in high school.”

You grin. “Should I be flattered or terrified?”

She laughs again, fuller this time. “Maybe both.”

You reach for your notebook, tearing off a corner and scribbling. You hand it to her a small list of places you can eat in the city and your phone number"

“Pick one. You text me when you're ready. No pressure. Just… dinner.”

Alba looks at the paper in her hands like it’s more than just ink and names. She nods slowly. “Okay,” she says, quieter now. “Okay.” She stands after a moment, lingers at the door again like she’s debating something. Then she turns back. “Thank you. For not making it harder.”

You offer her a warm, careful smile. “We’ve both had hard. I’d rather try something else.”

She nods and then she’s gone.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

The restaurant is quiet and tucked away one of those cozy little places with exposed brick, warm lighting, and waitstaff that treat you like family. You’re early. You’d rather wait than arrive to faces you’re not quite sure how to greet yet, but you don’t wait long.

Alba arrives first.

She spots you at the table and offers a small, shy smile as she slides into the seat across from you. She’s dressed casually, but there's something softer in her eyes than the last time less guarded.

You’re about to say something when you hear a familiar voice at the hostess stand. “Alba!”

Alexia. Your heart stutters. You weren’t expecting her. Alba glances at you, a half-smile creeping in. “I may have… invited someone.”

Alexia arrives at the table with a warm grin and no hesitation at all as she kisses both your cheeks like she’s always done it. “Hi,” she says, taking the seat beside you. “I figured, three sisters is better than two, no?”

It’s strange how easy the word sisters rolls out of her mouth. You blink at her, then at Alba, then you smile. “Yeah. I guess it is.”

The conversation starts simple, menus, drinks, Alexia teasing Alba about how she always orders the same pasta everywhere she goes. You laugh when Alexia makes a terrible pun in Spanish that Alba groans at. You’re hesitant at first, still watching the way they interact like a spectator, until Alba nudges your arm and mimics your confused face when you try to translate the joke. You burst out laughing.

It surprises even you.

A bottle of wine appears. Glasses are poured. Somewhere between the bread basket and the main course, something shifts. It’s light, natural, unforced.

You find yourself talking, not deeply, not yet, but honestly. Sharing silly work stories, how you met Patri—

“Okay, wait,” Alba cuts in, grinning now, fork paused mid-air. “You’re the secret girl Patri’s been sneaking around with all this time?”

Your face heats instantly. “It wasn’t sneaking,” you say through a laugh. “She just wasn't exactly wanting it announcing it to the locker room.”

Alexia shakes her head, amused. “Patri is awful at subtle. She was glowing at training after she met you. G-L-O-W-I-N-G.”

You laugh, covering your face for a second. “Oh god.”

Alba leans in slightly, her tone playful but with an edge of sincerity. “Just so you know… if she hurts you, I’ll kick her ass.”

You snort into your wine.

Alexia raises a brow. “Alba, Patri is my teammate.”

Alba shrugs, utterly unbothered. “Don’t care. I like her, but blood is blood.”

You’re laughing now, genuinely, shaking your head. “I’ll be sure to tell her she’s been warned.”

Alba points at you with her fork. “Do that. I want her scared.”

Alexia mutters something about drama queen, and Alba throws a breadstick at her. It misses, barely.

You’re still smiling, Alba leans back in her seat, glass in hand, her grin a little wicked.

“So…” she begins slowly, eyeing you over the rim of her glass, “how’s the sex with Patri?”

Alexia nearly chokes on her wine.

You blink, stunned, heat rushing to your cheeks. “Alba!”

“What?” she laughs. “I’m curious!”

Alexia looks horrified. “You can’t ask her that!”

“I just did,” Alba smirks.

You’re giggling now, one hand covering your face as you try to recover. “God, okay, um… we haven’t… actually done that yet.”

Alba’s face flickers with surprise. “Really?”

You nod, a little shy but honest. “Yeah. She’s been… really respectful. Which is kind of adorable.”

Alexia leans back, visibly relaxing. “That’s sweet. Patri’s always been a softie underneath the sarcasm.”

You bite your lip, then laugh quietly. “It is sweet. But sometimes I just… want to be disrespected, you know?”

There’s a moment of silence, Alexia’s eyes go wide, Alba hollers with laughter and you shrink back slightly, eyes darting between them realising who they are to you as your face burns. “Oh my God wait. I can’t talk like that in front of you, can I?”

Alexia makes a strangled noise, waving her hand like she needs to shut her ears. “No. You absolutely cannot. Your my baby sister”

Alba wipes a tear from her eye. “Too late.”

You all dissolve into laughter, the kind that makes your ribs hurt. The kind that breaks through walls you didn’t even realise were still up. You glance at them Alexia still slightly horrified, Alba grinning like she won the lottery.

Alexia rests her chin in her hand, watching the two of you with a soft, content look on her face. “You know,” she says, her voice quieter now, “I really didn’t know what to expect when I found out. I was angry. Hurt. But right now?” She looks between you both. “This feels right.”

You meet her gaze. “It does.”

Alba’s smile isn’t wide, but it’s real. There’s still so much to say, still so much to feel, still so much to learn, but for now, there’s wine, warmth, and the first real night where you don’t feel like a stranger.

Just a sister.

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