Rosé tilted her head, not moving. She'd always been the quiet observer, the one who noticed what others didn't. "You've been different," she said carefully. The words weren't sharp, not an accusation. They were an offering. An opening.
Y/N's throat tightened. The truth clawed at her chest, that she was unraveling, that Jennie was everywhere, that every silence between them was cutting her raw. She wanted to spill it, to admit how much it hurt, how much it still mattered.
But instead she forced her eyes down to the tablet, stylus tracing idle shapes across the margin. "Just tired. Tour pace is brutal. You know how it is."
The lie landed heavy between them.
Rosé didn't answer right away. The silence stretched, heavier than anything Y/N wanted to bear. And for one split second, she almost broke, almost looked up, almost whispered It's Jennie. It's always Jennie.
But her mouth stayed shut. Her chest ached with the weight of it.
Then, quietly, Rosé crossed the room. She stopped right beside her, looking down for a long moment, not pushing, not demanding. Just seeing her.
Her hand found Y/N's shoulder, a gentle squeeze, warm and grounding. "If you say so," Rosé murmured.
It wasn't dismissal. It wasn't belief, either. It was a reminder that she knew Y/N better than Y/N wanted her to. Y/N kept her eyes on the screen, but her vision had gone blurry. Her smile wavered, thin and brittle, and she prayed Rosé wouldn't notice. The blond girl lingered just a moment longer before stepping back. "Get some sleep." she said softly, and slipped out, closing the door with a quiet click.
The silence that followed was suffocating. Heavier now, because someone else had noticed. Someone else had seen the crack. And still, Y/N sat frozen, her heart pounding to the same unspoken rhythm.
Jennie. Always Jennie.
The silence Rosé left behind clung to Y/N even the next morning. She packed, organized, briefed staff, all the motions of a manager, all the layers of armor she knew how to wear. But underneath, Rosé's voice kept circling "You've been different."
Different. Fragile. Cracked open where she shouldn't be.
By the time they boarded the flight back to Seoul, Y/N had buried it again. Work. Nothing else. First class was half-dark, Jisoo had claimed the seat just ahead with Alison beside her, already chatting in low voices about schedules.
Jennie slid into the row across from Y/N, just the aisle separating them. She wore a soft oversized sweater. For a while, she didn't look her way at all, just adjusted her blanket, fiddled with her headphones, pretended to scroll through her phone.
Y/N tried to focus on her notes, tapping rhythmically against the screen as she reread them.
Halfway into the flight? A shift.
"Y/N," Jennie said softly.
Y/N's hand stilled, but she didn't look up.
There was a pause, as if Jennie had to wrestle the words free. Then, in that low voice she used when she didn't want anyone else to hear "You didn't have to help me, you know, back then. On the plane."
Y/N's breath snagged. Her chest tightened instantly, the memory of Jennie's shaking shoulders, her wide eyes, the way she'd leaned into her hand for one fleeting second before pulling away.
Jennie's tone wavered, rawer than she probably meant it to. "Why did you?"
Y/N forced her grip tighter on the pen, anything to ground herself. She wanted to answer. God, she wanted to say Because I still care. Because I never stopped. Because I don't know how not to.
But the words would've undone her. And Rosé's eyes from last night were still fresh in her memory, like a warning.
So instead, she cut her off, voice clipped, sharp enough to sting. "It doesn't matter."
Silence.
Jennie didn't push. Her mouth opened slightly, like she wanted to argue, but she just closed it again. The curtain slid back over her face, smooth and practiced. Y/N kept her eyes glued to the screen, but the letters blurred. Her heart pounded in her ears, each beat screaming what she wouldn't let herself say.
The rest of the flight dragged in heavy quiet. Jennie didn't look her way again.
When they landed in Seoul, the terminal lights were harsh after the cocoon of the plane. Staff buzzed around, gathering luggage, guiding the girls through side exits. Jennie moved like clockwork, cap pulled low, mask and sunglasses hiding almost everything. Almost.
Y/N was the only one who noticed the redness at the edges of her eyes. The faint puffiness, the way she kept her chin down as though the cameras weren't just outside but already on her.
No one else saw it. She always did.
And it felt like punishment. To see it. To know it. To ache because of it. To still notice, even after telling herself she wouldn't.
The hotel room was quiet, the kind of silence that rang after long travel, the muted hum of the minibar, the faint whirr of air conditioning, and underneath it all, the pulse of Paris bleeding through the glass.
Y/N stood by the window, still in her travel clothes, luggage abandoned by the door, her laptop on the desk where she'd meant to start checking schedules for tomorrow. Work should have come first. Work always came first. But her gaze was pinned to the skyline, to the lights cutting the night open.
The Eiffel Tower burned steady against the dark, each golden flicker a knife to the chest. Her throat tightened. It was too much. Too familiar. Too sharp.
Every other stop on this tour felt like work. Logistics. Motion. But Paris? Paris wasn't just another stop. It had never been.
Her palm pressed against the glass, though she couldn't feel the city through it. For a moment she tried to breathe past it, to force her brain back onto schedules, cue sheets, anything. But the city outside shimmered like memory, and she felt herself slipping, pulled backward by the weight of it.
Two years gone, and still the view could undo her in seconds. The tower glittered, and she was back there, in another room, with laughter in her ears and Jennie warm beside her.
The sight pulled her under before she could stop it.
Laughter filled the room, spilling loose and breathless between tangled sheets. Jennie was half-draped across the bed, hair mussed from where she'd collapsed earlier, still giggling at her own dramatics. Dinner had ended hours ago, but she hadn't let go of her grudge.
"I'm serious," Jennie groaned, flopping onto her stomach, her bare back glowing pale in the city's gold light. She pressed a hand to her forehead like a wounded heroine. "That was sabotage. Actual betrayal."
Y/N lay beside her, cheek pressed into the pillow, laughing so hard her ribs ached. "It's not betrayal if it's a delicacy. That's called broadening your horizons."