Jennie's eyes flicked to hers in that exact moment. Not accident, not apology. Just a cool, deliberate flicker, sharp enough to slice through Y/N's composure. She held it, a second, maybe less, then looked away, gliding past without a word.
Gone.
The corridor noise rushed back in, too loud, too messy. Y/N's heart thudded against her ribs, wild and unsteady.
Her mind scrambled for footing.
Was it just contact in a crowded space? No, Jennie didn't move like that by mistake. Not her. She was precise, intentional down to the tilt of her chin on stage. So why? What was she doing? Trying to remind her of closeness, of what it felt like to stand close without space? Trying to break her defenses piece by piece?
The questions clawed through her, looping with no answers.
Y/N forced her steps forward, but every nerve still buzzed with the ghost of that touch.
It shouldn't have mattered. It was nothing. A brush, a second of eye contact. So why did it feel like her whole chest was unraveling? Why did she feel, for one stupid, aching heartbeat, like Jennie was trying to reach her? And why did the thought that Jennie might just be toying with her hurt worse than anything else?
Y/N spent the rest of Chicago burying herself in work, clinging to the comfort of her endless notes. Professional armor. By the time their flight to Toronto touched down, she told herself she was fine.
Just another city. Another show.
Rogers Stadium smelled of sawdust and coffee that morning, the kind of pre show rehearsal buzz that always felt more like summer camp than global tour prep. Lisa was running her solo set on stage, bass rattling the floor, while Y/N leaned beside Rosé and Jisoo.
Rosé's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Should I tell her?"
Y/N frowned, suspicion already rising. "Tell who what?"
Rosé ignored her completely, turning to Jisoo with theatrical flair, voice pitched loud enough to carry. "Did you know Y/N cried during my Number One Girl performance?"
"Chae," Y/N groaned, dragging a hand over her face. Her cheeks were already heating.
"She sobbed," Rosé pressed on, grinning ear to ear. "Like actual tears, Jisoo. I had to give her my water bottle backstage after."
Jisoo's laugh broke free, low and musical. "Really? The cool, composed manager cried?"
Y/N swatted at Rosé's arm, feigning outrage but smiling despite herself. "I did not sob. It was misty eyed appreciation. Totally different category."
Rosé doubled over in laughter, clutching her stomach, and Jisoo joined in, warm and easy. The sound of it wrapped around Y/N, familiar, safe. For a heartbeat, she let herself sink into it, this easy rhythm, this bubble that felt untouched by anything heavier than Rosé's teasing.
Jennie was a few feet away, one leg propped on a chair, casually stretching, mic pack dangling loose at her back. At first glance, she wasn't listening, her focus fixed somewhere else, expression calm, almost indifferent.
But something shifted after Rosé's teasing.
Jennie's brow furrowed, quick, unguarded. Her gaze flicked, just once, toward them. Not long enough to join, but long enough for Y/N to catch it, the flash of something sharp, unreadable, maybe even hurt.
Her laugh faltered in her throat.
Jennie's lips parted as if she might say something, a joke, a quip, anything to cut in. But she didn't. She swallowed it back, lashes lowering, silence settling heavy between them.
And it was worse than words.
Because Y/N felt it anyway, the pull, the weight of her attention like a gravity tugging under her ribs. An unspoken dare. Look at me. Acknowledge me.
Her body wanted to. Her head screamed not to.
So she tilted her face back toward Rosé, laughing harder than she needed to, letting Jisoo nudge her shoulder in good fun. The sound came out too bright, too thin, her chest tight with the effort of holding the line. But the ache was there anyway, deep and gnawing, because she could feel Jennie's silence wrapping around her like a vise.
By the time they reached New York, the shows had begun to blur together, a carousel of airports, hotels, stadiums, and the same cycle of adrenaline and exhaustion. But the tension wasn't blurring. If anything, it had sharpened, like a wire pulled tighter with every city.
Y/N felt it in flashes, Jennie brushing past her, Jennie's gaze catching her across a crowded room, the silence that always seemed to press heavier when they were in the same space. She thought she'd hidden it well, buried herself in schedules and checklists and logistics. But sometimes, when the noise dipped, she caught Rosé's eyes on her, steady, lingering, like she was waiting for Y/N to crack open.
The second Citi Field show ended in chaos, the kind that should've been comforting. Confetti in the air, crew shouting instructions, the girls collapsing into each other's arms between laughs. Usually, that noise washed Y/N clean. Tonight, it just clung to her skin, sticky and too loud.
Hours later, she was in her hotel room, tucked at the little table by the window. Takeout boxes littered the surface, soy sauce packets and half-drained soda cans pushed aside. Rosé sprawled across the bed, scrolling absently on her phone, a soft melody humming under her breath. They'd eaten with Lisa, laughter filling the space, but she'd disappeared to bed half an hour ago, mumbling something about an early morning.
Y/N sat curled in a chair, tablet balanced on her knees, pen in hand. The document on screen had been checked three times already. Still, she stared at it like it was the only thing keeping her anchored.
Her chest was tight, like she'd been holding her breath for weeks. The ghost of Jennie's stare wouldn't leave her alone. It followed her here, into the dim light of Rosé's room, looping itself cruelly, digging deeper.
A pause in the hum. Then Rosé's voice, quiet but certain.
"Are you okay?"
The voice cut through, soft and familiar. Y/N startled slightly, glancing up. Her expression was calm, but her eyes, sharp, perceptive, pinned Y/N in place.
Y/N managed a smile, too quick, too practiced. "Yeah. Fine. Just finishing notes."