The studio had emptied into a dull quiet, the sound of music still humming in Y/N's bones. Crew shuffled down the halls with bags, their voices fading as they left for the night. Y/N leaned against the wall outside the dressing rooms, the lights overhead buzzed faintly. Jisoo was still inside, chatting with a stylist while she packed her bag. Y/N told herself she liked the quiet, but really, her nerves hadn't settled since earlier.
Since her.
Footsteps broke the lull. Slow, steady. A rhythm that made the hairs on the back of her neck rise. She didn't need to look to know.
Jennie came down the hallway with the same unhurried pace she always had, bag slung loose over one shoulder. But when she reached Y/N, she slowed. Just enough. Her perfume hit first, sharp, clean, the same scent Y/N remembered. Jennie turned her head, gaze sliding over like she'd just noticed Y/N standing there.
"Rosie didn't tell me you two were so close now," she said.
Light. Almost casual. But the words had an edge, a quiet blade hidden under silk.
Y/N blinked once, pulse thudding hard. There it was, not a command, not an accusation, but close enough to both. She turned, forcing her expression flat, clipped. "We worked together at TBL. Not that you should care about it."
Jennie stopped walking altogether.
"Y/N—"
She tilted her head, eyes catching the light, unreadable. The silence stretched. The hallway felt suddenly smaller, like the walls had edged closer.
For a split second, Y/N thought it was going to happen, the fight, the words they'd both swallowed since that night they broke. Her chest tightened, every muscle coiled, waiting for Jennie to say the thing that would shatter the thin glass of professionalism between them.
Jennie shook her head, then her lips curved, just barely. A faint smile. Not warm, not kind. Something closer to recognition. Her eyes stayed on Y/N's for one long, dragging beat, sharp, assessing, as if searching for a crack in the mask.
Then she let it go.
She stepped back into motion, her perfume trailing behind her as she walked away, heels soft against the floor until the sound dissolved into silence.
Y/N realized she hadn't breathed properly the entire time. She exhaled, slow, deliberate, unclenching her grip on the tablet she hadn't realized she'd been squeezing. The words still clung, wrapping tight around her ribs. Rosé. Close. Not that you should care.
But she knew Jennie did. Y/N had seen it in the pause, the sharp glint behind her eyes before she smoothed it over.
And that was the problem.
As Jisoo's voice drifted faintly from the room, Y/N stayed frozen against the wall, thoughts circling in jagged loops.
What was Jennie playing at? First the hoodie, the stares, now this. Picking at things that weren't hers to mention, pressing buttons that shouldn't matter. Was she trying to provoke her? Or was this Jennie's way of… what? Marking territory she'd already abandoned? Every word felt deliberate. Every silence heavier than it should have been. And Y/N hated that she noticed, hated that her chest tightened each time Jennie's gaze lingered.
The door clicked open, snapping her out of it. Jisoo stepped into the hallway, tote slung over her shoulder, braid falling loose down her back. Her smile dimmed as soon as she clocked the stiffness in Y/N's posture.
You good?" she asked softly, eyes darting toward the end of the hall where Jennie had disappeared.
Y/N's throat tightened. She forced her mouth into something that felt like a smile. "Yeah. Just tired."
Jisoo didn't look convinced, but she let it go. Adjusting her bag strap, she said, "I've got pilates early tomorrow, so I'll head straight to the studio after. No need to pick me up."
"Alright," Y/N said, her voice steadier than she felt.
They started down the hall together, Jisoo humming lightly under her breath. But even with the sound, even with the presence beside her, Y/N couldn't shake it.
Jennie's words. Her smirk. The way she lingered just long enough to leave a mark.
And Y/N hated herself for it, but part of her was already bracing for whatever Jennie would throw next.
Next morning the rehearsal studio was still, too big when it wasn't full of bodies and noise. The high ceiling trapped every little sound, the faint hum of the lights, the soft tap of Y/N's sneaker against the floor.
She liked it quiet, liked getting a head start before the chaos swallowed the day. Her tablet glowed faintly in her lap, rows of notes she'd been checking against the director's updates.
The front door creaked.
Y/N froze, pen hovering over the screen.
Jennie walked in.
Headphones covered her ears, bag slung loose over her shoulder, steps unhurried as though she had all the time in the world. The studio swallowed her presence and amplified it, pulling Y/N's pulse up into her throat.
Jennie didn't see her, or at least, she didn't look like she did.
And then Y/N heard it.
Low, under her breath. A tune, fragile in the cavernous space but distinct enough to hook into Y/N's chest. It took her three notes to recognize it.
Two Years.
Her breath stalled, stomach dropping like she'd been pushed off a ledge. She hadn't heard that song in weeks, not since the last time Rosé had texted her a rehearsal clip with a laughing emoji. But hearing it now, here, in Jennie's mouth, was something else entirely.
The memories rushed in too fast to hold back. Rosé in the recording booth, hair messy, eyes red from crying because she'd written the bridge like she was ripping her chest open. Her hand clamping around Y/N's arm after the final take, whispering, "Do you think it still sounds too raw?" And Y/N had told her no, it sounded true. Because that song, wasn't just a melody. It was the ache of time failing to heal. The refusal of a heart to let go, even when it should. The story of loving someone who had already walked away.
And now Jennie was humming it.
Like it was nothing.
Y/N's heart pounded, heavy and uneven. Was it random? Just a song stuck in her head? Or was it deliberate, Jennie's way of digging in with the smallest possible blade, a dart thrown with perfect aim, meant to stick? The panic clawed at her chest. She should say something. She should get up, call her name, ask her why. A dozen questions pressed to her tongue, but none made it out.
Jennie passed closer, still humming, fingers tapping lazily against her thigh like she owned the rhythm. Her eyes stayed down, on the floor, on her bag, on anything but Y/N. But the melody threaded between them like an invisible tether, pulling, choking, impossible to escape.
Y/N's grip tightened until her knuckles ached. Her throat burned. She could feel her pulse racing, too loud, too telling.
Confront her or run. Those were the only options.
For a heartbeat, she thought she might actually do it. Stand, force Jennie to meet her eyes, demand to know if this was just a coincidence or another one of her games. But her courage cracked just as quickly as it had surged. She snapped the tablet shut, the sound sharp and ugly in the silence, and shoved it into her bag. Her hands moved faster than her thoughts, strap over her shoulder, pen thrown inside, anything to get out.
The side door was a blur. She slipped through it before Jennie could ever look up. The hallway air hit cooler, but her chest stayed hot, tight, wrecked. The melody still echoed in her ears, looping and looping, digging deeper like it had been planted there on purpose.
And Y/N hated herself for the way her chest hurt, for the tears she refused to let sting. She hated herself for not knowing which was worse, that Jennie hadn't seen her at all, or that she had known, from the very beginning.
The days stitched themselves together after that. When the first show finally rose up to meet her, it didn't crash so much as gather, a pressure front rolling down concrete tunnels, lights ticking on one by one until the air itself vibrated. The opening VCR's bass sent a slow, seismic test through the walls.
Y/N was in constant motion. Tablet in one hand, she checked Jisoo's cue, then hustled her into the change area. Her pulse ran hot and steady, matching the rhythm of the crowd outside. This was her first time really managing Jisoo in a full Blackpink show. No room for hesitation. No room for mistakes.
The girls moved like clockwork, Lisa bouncing with pre-stage adrenaline, Rosé warming her voice. And Jennie? Jennie was flawless under the lights. Even watching from the side, Y/N had to admit it. Polished, commanding, every movement sharp enough to draw blood. She looked untouchable out there, the kind of star people built entire worlds around.
But off stage she was different.
The first time it happened was during Jisoo's solo stage.
Y/N had just slipped back through the barricade tunnel, that narrow space between stage and seats where staff hovered, watching for glitches the crowd would never notice. The "earthquake" performance had landed perfectly. She'd taken her notes, and returned to her usual post in the wings.
Jisoo's second song was already in motion, her voice ringing out clear and steady. Y/N allowed herself half a breath, just long enough to glance at the monitor feed. Everything was smooth.
That was when Jennie appeared.
She'd just come off her quick change, hair slicked back tighter, makeup retouched, the glint of her second outfit catching the low backstage light. For anyone else, she looked untouched by the chaos, all polish and control. But she wasn't here for anyone else.
"About the first look," Jennie said, stopping close enough that the scent of her cut through the haze of hairspray. Her voice was level, but aimed directly at Y/N. "The hem was loose. Make sure the stylist fixes it before the next show."
Her gaze held, steady and deliberate. She could have told the stylist herself. She could have told Alison to pass it. She could have said nothing, it hadn't slipped, not enough for the cameras to catch. But she was here, telling Y/N.
Y/N's throat tightened. She kept her expression flat, her tone clipped. "Noted."
Jennie's eyes lingered a second too long, like she was listening for more. Then she tilted her head, almost a nod, and walked on, back into the corridors.
The music surged from the stage, Jisoo's voice swelling through the monitors. But underneath it, Y/N felt the echo of Jennie's words like a private chord only the two of them could hear, taut, deliberate, and pulling tighter every time Jennie spoke her name without really speaking it.
The second time came later, between songs, when Jennie passed Y/N in the wings. "Her cue for the next stage move is tight. Watch it," she murmured. Again, not directed at the choreographer, not at staff, at Y/N.
Y/N's hand tightened on her tablet. She forced her answer steady. "I'll keep an eye."
And that was how it went, all night. Tiny comments, little reminders that weren't hers to handle, spoken only to her. Each one small enough to pass as professional. Each one sharp enough to snag under her skin.
By the final bow, the crowd roaring loud enough to rattle the floor, Y/N's throat felt raw, not from cheering, not from singing. From holding everything in.
She handed Jisoo a water bottle, smiled for the staff cameras, and stayed in motion. Always in motion. Because stopping meant thinking, and thinking meant remembering.
Jennie passed by once more, lights catching the sweat on her collarbone, the glitter clinging to her hair. She didn't say a word this time. Just a glance, so brief it could've been nothing. But Y/N felt it. Like every other moment that night, invisible to everyone else, undeniable to her.
The Seoul shows burned through Y/N like wildfire. Two nights, two sold out stadiums, and she hadn't stopped moving for a single minute, racing from quick change to cue stations. She hadn't even had time to process what it meant, her first shows as Jisoo's lead group manager, Blackpink's first steps into a long world tour.
And Jennie.
Always orbiting too close, always finding ways to graze her world with some pointed remark or glance.
By the time the confetti settled on the second night, Y/N felt carved hollow. Adrenaline still running hot, exhaustion creeping under her skin. But there was no pause, not really. Just a single day of packing, farewells, logistics briefings.
The flight was long enough that the cabin had settled into a hush, half-dark, punctuated only by the low hum of engines and the occasional clink of glasses. Most of the staff were already asleep, eye masks in place, seats reclined.
Y/N wasn't. She had her laptop propped on the table, scrolling through LA logistics for the hundredth time. The glow of the screen was soft on her face, just enough to keep her tethered.
Movement caught her eye.
Two rows ahead, Jennie shifted restlessly in her seat. At first Y/N thought it was just turbulence, but then she saw it. Jennie's shoulders were rigid, her breath too fast and shallow, one hand gripping the armrest so hard her knuckles gleamed white in the dim cabin light.
Y/N's chest clenched.
She knew this, god, she knew.
Airports. Crowded venues. Nights when the noise from outside the hotel windows wouldn't stop. She'd seen Jennie unravel under the weight of it before, breath stuttering, chest locking, the world pressing too close. Back then, Y/N had been the one to anchor her. A steady hand on her back, whispered reassurances in stairwells and green rooms.
Her body moved before her mind could even form a plan. She left her seat quietly, padding in her socks, heart thudding like she was about to break some rule. But this wasn't a choice. This was reflex.
She crouched low at Jennie's side, careful not to startle her.
"Hey," Y/N murmured, her voice a whisper meant only for them. "It's okay. Just breathe with me, alright? Slow. In and out."
Jennie's eyes flicked to her. Wide, glossy, raw. Not the polished stare the world knew, but something stripped bare, panicked, human. For a moment it felt like Y/N had been dropped straight back into another year, another life, one where Jennie only ever looked at her like this, like she was the only tether left.
Without thinking, Y/N's hand brushed Jennie's wrist. Not grabbing, not holding, just contact. Steady. A reminder.
"You're fine," she whispered, voice low, even when her own throat ached. "You're safe. Just breathe with me."
Jennie's breaths still came fast, shallow. Her eyes squeezed shut, lashes wet. For a second, Y/N felt her panic climbing again, like she was slipping away into herself. Instinct overrode hesitation, Y/N lifted her hand from Jennie's wrist and cupped her cheek, gentle but firm enough to anchor.
"Hey." Y/N leaned in, steady, commanding soft. "Look at me."
And Jennie did. Eyes blown wide, but they locked onto Y/N's. For one long beat, it was just them. In. Out. The rhythm caught. The frantic edge dulled, her grip on the armrest loosening. Her shoulders dipped. Her jaw unclenched. And then, so subtle, so fleeting Y/N might've imagined it, Jennie leaned into her palm. Just the barest tilt, the kind gravity couldn't explain. Toward her. Toward the hand that steadied her.