Archive of Our Own ^omega

The court is empty when Yoonji steps onto it, the kind of empty that isn’t really absence but a held breath, a pause before something louder, brighter, more demanding takes over. The lights hum overhead, steady and indifferent, casting long reflections across the polished wood that stretch and bend with every step she takes, like even the floor is aware of her height, her reach, the way she inevitably occupies more space than she ever means to. Her sneakers squeak once, softly, and the sound echoes farther than it should, bouncing back to her like a reminder that there is nothing here to soften it, nothing to hide behind. She prefers it like this, not because she enjoys the silence but because silence doesn’t look at her, doesn’t measure her, doesn’t turn her into something to be assessed before she’s even spoken a word.

The ball feels familiar in her hands in a way nothing else ever quite does, the textured surface grounding, real, uncomplicated. When it hits the floor, it doesn’t hesitate, it doesn’t second-guess. It comes back to her palm with certainty, with purpose, like this, this simple exchange of force and return, is the only conversation she’s ever been able to have without overthinking every possible outcome. 

She dribbles slowly at first, not because she needs to warm up, but because she needs the rhythm, the steady repetition that lets her body take over while her mind falls quiet. Left, right, pivot, step, each movement slots into place with a precision she’s never managed to replicate in anything else. When she shoots, the ball arcs cleanly, cutting through the air without resistance, slipping through the net with a soft, almost dismissive sound, like it was never in doubt.

Out here, she isn’t too much, she isn’t wrong.

She shoots again and again. 

And again, until the only thing she can hear is the echo of the ball and the measured pull of her own breath, until the thoughts that usually cling to her like static—too tall, too broad, too sharp around the edges—lose their shape, blur into something distant and unimportant. Because here, her height is not something people comment on with surprise or poorly hidden curiosity; it is reach, it is advantage, it is the difference between missing and making the shot. Her shoulders are not something to be compared or quietly judged; they are strength, they are control, they are what allow her to hold her ground when everything else tries to push her back.

It is only outside of this that those things become problems, only when there are eyes.

She notices the shift before she hears it, the subtle change in the air that comes with other people entering the space, filling it in ways that make it smaller, louder, harder to disappear inside. Voices echo from the hallway, layered and overlapping, carrying laughter that feels easy in a way she’s never been able to replicate, no matter how many times she’s tried to mimic it and Yoonji stills for half a second, the ball resting against her hip, before she resumes, slower now, more aware of herself in a way she wasn’t just moments ago.

By the time her coach calls her name, she’s already braced for it, shoulders squared just enough to pass as confidence, expression carefully neutral.

“You’re early again.”

There’s approval in his voice, or something close to it, but it never settles in her chest the way it probably should. Praise has always felt like something meant for someone else, something she’s temporarily holding onto before it inevitably gets corrected, redirected, taken back.

“Yes, coach.”

“Good, we need you sharp today.”

“I will be.”

She always is, that part has never been the problem.

The rest of the team arrives all at once, like they always do, carrying noise with them in waves that crash and overlap and refuse to settle. Someone nearly trips over a stray ball and swears loudly, earning a burst of laughter from across the court, another calls out a greeting before they’ve even fully stepped inside, their voice echoing off the high ceiling in a way that feels too big for the words themselves. It’s warm, in its own way, the kind of atmosphere that should be easy to step into, to belong to, if you know how.

Yoonji doesn’t. She exists at the edges of it, acknowledged but not absorbed, someone people like but don’t quite reach for, someone who responds but never initiates. They greet her, of course they do, quick smiles, easy words tossed in her direction as they pass by, casual in a way that suggests comfort, familiarity.

She nods, murmurs something that passes as a response, keeps it short enough that no one lingers too long waiting for more. It’s not that they exclude her, it’s that there’s an invisible line she doesn’t know how to cross, a distance she doesn’t know how to close without feeling like she’s intruding somewhere she wasn’t invited to stand.

They respect her, they rely on her, but they don’t reach for her. And she has never figured out how to ask them to.

When practice starts, everything else falls away like it was never there to begin with: the noise sharpens into something purposeful, structured, the chaos of voices and movement narrowing into plays, into timing, into the clean logic of a game that makes sense in ways people never have. Yoonji moves without hesitation, without pause, her body slipping into patterns it knows by heart, reacting before thought has time to interfere. The ball finds her because it always does, because her teammates trust her to make something out of it, to turn possibility into certainty.

She cuts through defenders with ease, reading them like open pages, adjusting without conscious effort, her height and reach becoming something fluid instead of something she has to be aware of. When she jumps, it feels natural, inevitable, her body extending fully without the usual instinct to fold in on itself, to shrink, to take up less space than it demands.

The shot lands, clean and undeniable.

“Again!” her coach calls, sharp and satisfied.

And she does, until her lungs burn and her muscles ache and the only thing left in her chest is that familiar, fleeting sense of rightness, of being exactly what she’s supposed to be, exactly where she’s supposed to stand.

It fades quickly, like it always does. By the time practice ends, the noise returns to something less structured, less controlled, slipping back into laughter and scattered conversations that don’t quite include her, someone bumps her shoulder in passing, light and friendly.

“You’re on fire today.”

Yoonji straightens slightly, the words landing somewhere just out of reach.

“Thanks.”

It comes out softer than she intends, barely carrying past the space between them. The teammate smiles anyway, like it’s enough, like she doesn’t expect anything more, and then she’s gone, pulled away by someone else calling her name, absorbed back into a rhythm Yoonji can’t quite match.

Just like that, the moment closes, like it was never meant to last. Yoonji reaches for her water bottle, tilting her head back as she drinks, letting the coolness settle something restless in her chest and her gaze drifts without intention, unfocused, following movement more than anything else.

The cheer squad gathers near the sidelines, their presence shifting the atmosphere in a way that feels immediate, almost tangible, like someone has turned the volume up on the room without touching a single dial. There’s music soon, there’s always music, and even before it starts, there’s a kind of energy there that doesn’t exist anywhere else on the court, something bright and kinetic and impossible to ignore.

Yoonji doesn’t mean to look, but she just does.

Jimin stands near the center of it all without seeming to try, her presence drawing the eye in ways Yoonji doesn’t fully understand. Her hair catches the overhead lights, pale gold against the darker tones around her, and the oversized warm-up she’s wearing does nothing to hide the way she moves, restless and fluid all at once, like stillness is something she’s never learned how to hold onto for long.

She laughs at something, Yoonji doesn’t hear what, and the sound carries, clear and bright, cutting through the leftover noise of the court like it belongs there, like it was made to fill space instead of shrink from it.

Yoonji looks away too quickly, like she’s been caught doing something she shouldn’t, her fingers tighten slightly around the bottle, the plastic creaking under the pressure.

She knows her name, everyone does. Jimin moves like she was made for this, for attention, for light, for the kind of presence that demands to be seen and answered and even the smallest gestures feel intentional, like they carry weight, meaning, something more than just the motion itself. It’s the opposite of everything Yoonji has ever been, everything she has ever learned to be.

She forces her gaze down, focusing on the scuffed floor beneath her feet, on the faint lines etched into the wood from years of use, from movement, from impact, something easier, something that doesn’t make her chest feel tight in a way she can’t quite explain, because looking feels like crossing a line, like wanting something she has no right to reach for.

“Yoonji, locker room!”

She nods immediately, grateful for the interruption, for the excuse to move, to step away before her thoughts have time to settle into something more dangerous. Behind her, the music starts, loud, bright, full of a kind of life that fills every corner of the space without asking permission.

Yoonji doesn’t turn around, she keeps walking, steady, controlled, each step measured like it matters more than it should, like if she stops, even for a second, she might look back.

And if she looks back, she won’t know how to look away.

Jimin is used to being seen. Not in the shallow way people assume, not in the way that reduces it to pretty smiles and sharp turns and glitter catching light at the right angle, but in the deeper, more demanding sense of it: the kind that requires presence, precision, the ability to hold attention and shape it. There’s a difference between being looked at and being watched, and Jimin has spent years learning how to turn one into the other, how to pull a crowd in and keep them there, breathless and focused and hers, if only for a few minutes at a time.

It comes naturally now, or at least it looks like it does, from the outside, it’s effortless, from the inside, it’s everything.

She ties her hair up with practiced fingers, pulling it into a high ponytail that stays exactly where it needs to, not a strand out of place unless she wants it there. The mirror in the locker room reflects back something small, contained, bright in a way that feels intentional, curated down to the smallest detail as she tilts her head slightly, adjusts the elastic, smooths down what doesn’t need smoothing.

Tiny. She’s heard it her whole life.

Tiny, cute, adorable, words that stick to her just as easily as the cheers do, just as persistent, just as hard to peel away from what she actually is. Because being small has never meant being less, not to her. It means moving faster, sharper, making every motion count twice as much because it has to, it means learning how to take up space without physically having it handed to you.

It means working harder but she doesn’t mind, not when she knows exactly what she can do.

By the time she steps onto the court, the music hasn’t started yet, but the energy is already there, buzzing low beneath the surface like something waiting to break loose. The others gather around her in loose clusters, stretching, chatting, laughing, their voices overlapping in a way that feels familiar, comforting.

Jimin slips into it easily, she always does.

“Did you see the new routine?” someone asks, nudging her shoulder.

Jimin grins, bright, immediate. “I learned the new routine.”

“Of course you did.”

There’s no surprise in it, not really, just fondness, expectation.

She is great,  not just technically, not just in the clean execution of steps or the precision of timing, but in the way she performs them, the way she turns choreography into something alive, something that feels bigger than the counts it’s built on. When she dances, people don’t just watch, they react, follow and feel it.

It’s what she’s known for, it’s what she loves.

And still, her gaze drifts, just for a second. She tells herself not to look, she never listens.

Yoonji is still on the court, off to the side now, half-turned away as she grabs her things, her presence quieter than it was during practice but no less noticeable. It’s impossible not to notice her, not when she stands like that, tall in a way that makes everything around her feel slightly out of scale, like the world wasn’t quite built with her proportions in mind.

Jimin’s breath catches, it always does.

She’s seen her play, everyone has. There’s something unfair about it, about how easily Yoonji moves when she’s in motion, how natural it looks, how inevitable, like the game bends around her instead of the other way around. Jimin has watched from the sidelines more times than she can count, memorizing the way she runs, the way she jumps, the exact moment she decides to take a shot.

She’s memorized everything, without ever meaning to.

Up close, it’s different, quieter. Yoonji isn’t moving now, isn’t commanding attention the way she does mid-game. If anything, she looks like she’s trying not to have it at all, shoulders slightly drawn in, gaze lowered, like she’s folding herself into something smaller than she actually is.

Jimin frowns, just a little, because it doesn’t match. It doesn’t match the player she knows, the one who takes up space without hesitation, who owns it in a way that feels unshakable. This version looks like she’s trying to disappear.

Jimin’s heart does something strange in her chest, something soft and sudden and a little painful.

“Jimin?”

She blinks, tearing her gaze away so quickly it almost feels like she’s been caught doing something wrong.

“Hm?”

“Spacing out already?” one of the girls teases.

Jimin laughs, light, easy, slipping back into something practiced and familiar. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

“Always.”

But the thought lingers, it always does.

She risks another glance, just a last one. Yoonji is turning away now, heading toward the locker rooms, long strides carrying her across the court with an ease Jimin envies in a completely different way. There’s something about the way she moves even when she’s not trying, something steady, grounded, like every step is placed exactly where it needs to be.

Jimin’s fingers curl slightly at her sides, she’s never talked to her, not once.

It’s ridiculous, when she thinks about it. They exist in the same space, share the same court, pass by each other more often than strangers should, and still, there’s nothing. No introductions, no casual conversations, not even a proper greeting beyond the occasional polite nod that disappears as quickly as it happens.

Jimin has had a thousand opportunities, she’s taken none of them.

Because, what would she even say?

“Hi, I watch you play every game and think you’re incredible”?

“Hi, we share a workplace technically”?

“Hi, I think you’re—”

She cuts the thought off immediately, heat rising to her face despite herself, no, absolutely not. So she doesn’t say anything, she watches, from a distance that feels safer, even when it isn’t.

The music starts, loud and bright and impossible to ignore, pulling her back into the moment whether she’s ready or not. Jimin exhales, steadying herself, letting the familiar rhythm settle into her bones as the first beats count in.

This, she knows. This, she can do without hesitation. When she moves, everything else falls away.

The court, the people, the noise, it all narrows into motion and timing and expression, into the precise control of every muscle, every shift of weight, every extension of her arms. She smiles because she means it, because performing feels like breathing, because this is the one place where she doesn’t have to think about whether she belongs.

And still, even as she spins, even as she hits every mark, every beat, there’s a part of her that wonders if Yoonji ever looks back. 

Jimin lands the final move perfectly, breath steady, smile bright, the echo of the music lingering in the air as the routine ends. Applause follows, scattered but real.

She bows slightly, already laughing as someone pulls her into a quick side hug, energy high, adrenaline still rushing through her veins.

“Show-off,” someone says affectionately.

Jimin grins. “You love it.”

“I do.”

She lets herself bask in it for a moment. Then, without thinking, she glances toward the hallway Yoonji disappeared into, empty. Something in her chest dips, small and quiet, easy to ignore if she tries hard enough, so she does.

“Come on, break’s almost over!”

Jimin nods, turning back to her team, to the noise, to the light, to everything she knows how to navigate without fear.

Next time, she tells herself. Next time, she’ll say something.

Days pass in the same careful rhythm, each one folding into the next so seamlessly that Yoonji sometimes loses track of where one ends and another begins. Morning practice, drills, repetition, the controlled chaos of the court where everything makes sense because it has rules, because it rewards precision and punishes hesitation in ways that are clear and deserved, then the quiet afterward, the slow emptying of the space, the echo of voices fading into something distant until it’s just her again, or close enough to it.

She keeps herself in that cycle on purpose, it’s easier when there’s structure, easier when there’s something to do, easier when she doesn’t have to think too much about everything else.

It’s in the in-between moments that it gets harder. Locker rooms where conversations overlap and shift too quickly for her to find a place to step in, hallways where laughter feels like something she’s walking past instead of toward, glances that linger just long enough to make her aware of herself, of the way her shoulders fill doorframes a little too easily, of how her presence seems to arrive before she does.

She hears it sometimes: she is huge, built like a tank. Followed by laughter that isn’t meant to hurt, which somehow makes it worse.

Yoonji tells herself it doesn’t matter, she knows what she is on the court, she knows what she can do and that should be enough, even if it isn’t.

At home, the silence is different, contained within walls that don’t echo her back at herself. The first thing she hears when she opens the door is the faint, indignant sound of claws against wood, followed by a low, demanding meow that carries more personality than most conversations she’s had all day.

Tang appears a second later, sleek and dark and unapologetically present, tail held high like he owns the place, which, to be fair, he does.

“There you are,” Yoonji murmurs, her voice quieter here, more natural somehow as she crouches to scoop him up without hesitation.

He protests, of course. A half-hearted wriggle, a flick of his tail, a look that suggests deep offense at being handled without explicit permission as she presses her face briefly into his fur anyway.

“Missed me?”

Another meow, sharper this time. Yoonji huffs out something that almost resembles a laugh.

This is the part of her life that feels uncomplicated. No expectations beyond the simple ones, feed him, keep him company, exist in the same space without needing to explain anything about herself. Tang doesn’t care how tall she is, doesn’t care about the way her voice sits lower than most women’s, doesn’t care about the way she never quite knows what to do with her hands in conversation.

He just is, and with him, she can be too. She spends her evenings like that more often than not, sitting on the floor instead of the couch, back resting against the side of it while Tang sprawls somewhere nearby or directly on top of her, depending on his mood. The TV stays off, her phone stays untouched unless absolutely necessary.

It’s quiet and comfortable. Lonely, in a way she doesn’t have a better word for. Sometimes, without meaning to, her mind drifts, back to the court, to movement, to brightness that doesn’t belong to her. She always stops herself before the thought fully forms, like it’s something she shouldn’t touch.

The next day comes, and the next and the next.

Jimin notices when she glances half a second longer than it should. A shift in timing during a routine, subtle but intentional, positioning herself just a little more within Yoonji’s line of sight even if she doesn’t know whether Yoonji is actually looking. A laugh that rings a little louder, a movement that extends just a fraction further, sharper, brighter, like if she performs well enough, if she shines enough, it might be impossible not to notice her.

It’s ridiculous, she knows it is and still—

“Are you even listening?”

Jimin blinks, dragged back into the present by a light flick to her arm.

“Huh? Yeah, of course.”

“You’re staring again,” her teammate says, not unkindly, just observant.

Jimin immediately looks away, heat creeping up her neck despite herself. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

There’s a pause. Then—

“Is it the player?”

Jimin chokes.

“What—no. No, I—what player?”

“The tall one,” her teammate says, like it’s obvious. “Number—”

“I know her number,” Jimin blurts out, and then immediately regrets everything about that sentence.

There’s a beat of silence, then a slow, knowing grin spreads across the other girl’s face.

“Oh my God.”

“Don’t—”

“Oh my God, you like her.”

“I don’t,” Jimin insists, far too quickly.

“You do.”

“I don’t!”

“You memorized her number.”

“That doesn’t mean anything!”

“It means everything.”

Jimin groans, dragging her hands over her face like she can physically erase the conversation from existence.

“It’s not like that,” she mutters, even as her heart refuses to slow down.

It is exactly like that. Because the truth is, she can’t stop looking.

Yoonji is impossible not to notice once you start. Not just because of her height, not just because of the way she moves on the court like she was built for it, but because of everything around that, the quiet, the distance, the way she seems to exist slightly apart from everything even when she’s right in the middle of it.

Jimin doesn’t understand it, but she wants to, so she tries. She times her stretches closer to where the team practices, she lingers near the sidelines longer than she needs to, pretending to adjust her shoes, her outfit, anything that gives her an excuse to stay just a little bit longer. She laughs, she performs, she shines the way she always does, but now there’s intention behind it, a quiet, hopeful question woven into every movement.

Are you looking?

Yoonji never reacts, not in any way Jimin can see. It’s not that she ignores her, it’s that she doesn’t seem to see her at all and that hurts more than it should.

Jimin isn’t used to being overlooked. She knows how to draw attention, how to hold it, how to make people remember her even after she’s gone.

But with Yoonji it’s like she’s performing in empty space. Every once in a while, she thinks: maybe, maybe Yoonji looked for a second and she just missed it, maybe she noticed something small, something subtle, something Jimin did just right.

“Jimin, you’re off count!”

She startles, missing the next step entirely before quickly correcting herself, slipping back into the routine with practiced ease.

“Sorry!”

“Focus!”

“I am!”

She is, just, not on the right things. Across the court, Yoonji adjusts her grip on the ball, gaze fixed ahead, expression unreadable as ever. If she notices anything beyond the game, she doesn’t show it, if she sees Jimin, she gives no sign.

And Jimin, breathless and bright and trying just a little too hard, wonders how something so big can feel so impossible to reach.

Days pass, nothing changes. There’s no buildup, no shift in the air to warn either of them that something is about to change, just the usual end of practice, the usual spill of voices into the locker rooms, the overlap of routines and conversations and movement that never quite settles into anything quiet.

Yoonji is already there when it happens, she prefers it that way. In, out, efficiently, change, grab her things, leave before the space fills too much, before she has to navigate the tight press of bodies and noise and the constant, low awareness of herself in proximity to others.

Today, though, she’s a little slower as her muscles ache in that deep, satisfying way that comes after a good practice, and for once, she lets herself take a second longer, sitting on the bench with her head tilted forward, fingers loosely curled around the edge of it as she breathes.

Voices filter in, closer, louder: the cheer squad.

Jimin is laughing before she even fully steps inside, her voice carrying easily over everything else, bright and warm and familiar in a way that makes Yoonji’s shoulders instinctively tense before she can stop herself.

“I swear they moved it,” someone complains, already halfway through changing.

“They didn’t move it, you’re just short,” another voice shoots back.

“Rude.”

“Accurate.”

Jimin huffs, something soft and playful under it, and there’s the sound of a locker door opening, closing, the light clatter of things being set down a little too carelessly.

“Okay, but seriously, who put the extra towels all the way up there?”

There’s a pause. Then—

“Oh my God, I can’t even reach that.”

Yoonji stills. It’s automatic, the way her body reacts to something small like that, something so simple it shouldn’t matter. She tells herself not to move, someone else will get it, but no one does.

“Just jump,” someone suggests unhelpfully.

“I am jumping!” Jimin protests, and there’s a soft thud, the sound of failed effort followed by a quiet, frustrated laugh. “This is humiliating.”

“It’s like watching a kitten try to climb a wall.”

“I hate all of you.”

Yoonji exhales slowly as her fingers tighten slightly against the bench.

Another small jump, another soft thud, a quieter sound this time, like the frustration is starting to settle in underneath the humor.

Yoonji is on her feet before she fully decides to be. It’s quick, almost mechanical, the way she crosses the space, steps measured, controlled, like she’s approaching something that requires precision instead of this.

She stops just behind Jimin, close enough to see the way she’s stretching up onto her toes, arm extended as far as it will go, fingers just barely brushing the edge of the stack of towels placed on the top shelf.

Close enough to notice how small she really is up close. 

Yoonji clears her throat softly.

“Here.”

Jimin freezes and for a second, nothing moves, then she turns up.

It’s always a little startling, the difference. Yoonji is used to people having to look up at her, used to the way it shifts interactions in subtle ways she can never quite correct, but this, right now, feels different.

Jimin blinks, like her brain needs a second to catch up.

“Oh—”

It comes out small at first, almost lost, before it picks up, bright and sudden and alive in a way that hits Yoonji square in the chest.

“Oh my God, you’re a lifesaver.”

Yoonji reaches up before she can think too much about it, arm extending easily, effortlessly, fingers closing around the stack Jimin had been struggling to reach.

It’s nothing, it’s so nothing. She brings it down, holding it out and Jimin takes it immediately, their fingers brushing for the briefest second, and that’s enough.

Yoonji pulls her hand back a little too quickly.

“It’s—uh—it’s nothing,” she says, voice quieter than she means it to be, words catching slightly at the edges like they’re not used to being spoken in moments like this.

Jimin is still looking at her. Up close, she’s even brighter. It’s unfair, Yoonji thinks distantly, the way it works, the softness of her features, the way her eyes crinkle slightly when she smiles, the faint flush already rising in her cheeks like everything she feels sits too close to the surface.

“Still,” Jimin says, softer now but no less warm, the energy shifting into something a little more focused, a little more real. “Thank you.”

Yoonji nods, once, like she doesn’t trust herself to do more without making it obvious that she doesn’t know what she’s doing.

“No problem.”

Jimin shifts her weight slightly, hugging the towels a little closer to her chest, like she needs something to hold onto that isn’t just the moment itself.

“I—um—I see you play,” she says, the words coming out in a rush, like if she hesitates, she won’t say them at all. “You’re really good.”

Yoonji’s brain stalls. It’s not a new sentence, she’s heard it before, from coaches, from teammates, from people who expect something in return.

Her ears burn, as this feels different.

“Thanks,” she manages after a second, the word coming out rougher than intended, like it had to push past something to exist at all.

Jimin beams, actually beams, like that one word was enough, like it meant something, and Yoonji doesn’t know what to do with that.

“Anyway,” Jimin adds quickly, shifting back a step like she’s giving her space, even though she was the one who filled it first. “You really saved me there.”

A small laugh, nervous, maybe. Yoonji shakes her head slightly.

“It’s really—nothing.”

Someone calls Jimin’s name from across the room.

“Jimin! Hurry up!”

The moment breaks, just like that.

“Oh—coming!” Jimin calls back, then glances at Yoonji again, just for a second longer than necessary. “Thanks. Again.”

Yoonji nods again and Jimin turns, moving back into the noise, into the brightness, into everything that seems to pull her so easily.

Yoonji stands there for a second longer than she should, hand still half-raised like she forgot what she was doing with it, then she lowers it, slowly.

Returns to her bench and sits, her heart beating a little too fast for something that meant nothing. Across the room, Jimin presses the towels to her face for a second, hiding a smile that’s too big, too bright, too impossible to contain.

Neither of them look at each other again, but something small has shifted.

It starts small enough that Yoonji almost convinces herself it isn’t real: a habit, a slip, a moment of distraction that doesn’t mean anything.

Just a glance, just once. Except it doesn’t stop at once.

At first, it happens after practice, when the court is already half-empty and the noise has softened into something easier to exist inside. Yoonji lingers a second too long tying her shoes, adjusting her bag, checking something that doesn’t need checking, anything that justifies not leaving immediately, anything that gives her a reason to look.

She tells herself it’s nothing. That she’s just aware now, that it doesn’t mean anything. But her eyes find Jimin anyway, like they’ve learned the shape of her, like they know exactly where to go.

Jimin is never still, even when she’s standing, she’s moving, shifting her weight, bouncing lightly on her toes, adjusting her sleeves, her hair, her posture like her body is always preparing for the next beat of something only she can hear. There’s a kind of energy to her that fills space without asking, that turns even the smallest gestures into something noticeable.

Yoonji watches, just for a second, then looks away.

The next day, it happens sooner, mid-practice.

She doesn’t mean to. She’s focused, she is, reading the play, tracking movement, calculating angles the way she always does. The ball is in her hands, the defense closing in, her teammate calling for a pass, and then: movement, at the edge of her vision, bright and familiar.

Yoonji’s gaze flickers, just for a second. Jimin is there, halfway through a stretch, arms lifted above her head, back arching slightly as she leans into it. Her ponytail slips over her shoulder, catching the light, and she laughs at something one of the others says, the sound carrying faintly even across the distance.

WhenYoonji looks back it is too late. 

“Yoonji!”

The call snaps through the air just as the ball leaves her hands, off target, just enough to matter and it misses. There’s a beat of silence, then,

“Focus,” her coach says, not harsh, but firm.

Yoonji nods immediately, jaw tightening slightly.

“Sorry.”

It’s fine, it’s one mistake. It doesn’t happen again, except—it does. Not often, not enough for anyone to call it a pattern but enough for her to notice, enough for it to settle under her skin in a way she can’t ignore.

Now she’s aware and awareness makes everything worse.

She notices when Jimin walks in, not because of the sound, not because of the voices that follow her but because something in Yoonji’s chest shifts before she even looks, like her body has started recognizing her presence on instinct.

She notices where she stands, who she talks to, the way she smiles, wide and unguarded, like there’s nothing in the world telling her to hold back.

It doesn’t make sense, none of it does. Yoonji has spent so long trying not to take up space, trying not to draw attention, trying not to want things that feel out of reach and now her attention keeps drifting toward someone who exists in the exact opposite way.

Sometimes Jimin looks back. The first time it happens, Yoonji doesn’t realize it at first. She’s watching, she knows she is, she’s aware of it now in a way she wasn’t before, but she doesn’t expect anything to come from it, doesn’t expect the moment to change.

Until Jimin turns and their eyes meet. And suddenly Yoonji forgets how to exist.

It’s brief, a second, maybe less, but it stretches.

Jimin blinks, surprised at first, like she didn’t expect to catch her, before something else replaces it, something softer, brighter, like recognition settling in real time.

Like—oh. And then she smiles.

Yoonji looks away so fast it almost hurts, her ears burn, her grip tightens around the ball and her heart—

She misses the next pass entirely.

“Yoonji!”

“I’ve got it,” she says quickly, even though she doesn’t, even though her voice comes out a little rough around the edges like she’s still trying to catch up to herself. She doesn’t look again, not for the rest of practice, but it doesn’t stop.

Jimin has never been good at subtlety when it comes to things she wants. She positions herself differently during stretches, just enough to fall into Yoonji’s line of sight more often than before. She turns a fraction slower after finishing a move, letting her gaze drift, casual, like it means nothing, until it lands where she hopes it will.

And sometimes, now,  it does.

Their eyes meet again and this time, Jimin doesn’t look away. She tilts her head slightly, a small, curious gesture, like she’s testing something, like she’s waiting to see what Yoonji will do with it.

Yoonji does nothing. Which is to say, she panics internally and looks anywhere else.

Jimin bites back a smile. This is something. The realization settles in her chest, warm and electric and just a little overwhelming in the best way.

Yoonji is looking at her, not by accident, not in passing, but really looking.

Jimin doesn’t know what changed, she doesn’t care, she leans into it.

During routines, she pushes just a little harder, just a little brighter, letting her movements stretch bigger, sharper, more expressively, not because she needs to prove anything, but because now there’s a chance, however small, that Yoonji is watching, that she’ll see.

It becomes a game: Jimin looks, Yoonji looks, they both look away, repeat. Except, Jimin starts holding it longer and that’s when things start going wrong.

Yoonji is not built for this. The next time their eyes meet, Jimin doesn’t just smile, she grins, bright, playful, a little teasing, like she knows exactly what she’s doing now.

Yoonji’s brain short-circuits, completely as the ball slips from her fingers, and there’s a sharp bounce.

A collective “oh—” from somewhere behind her as Yoonji just stands there for a second, staring at the floor like it personally betrayed her.

“Yoonji,” her coach says, slower this time.

“I—sorry,” she mutters, already moving to grab it, already trying to reset, to pull herself back into something familiar, something controlled.

Across the court, Jimin presses her lips together, trying and failing to hide the smile threatening to take over her entire face. Because she did that. Not on purpose, not really, but still.

There’s something almost overwhelming about the realization, something that settles into her chest like warmth, like possibility, like something she’s been hoping for without ever expecting it to actually happen. Yoonji notices her, and maybe that could mean something.

Yoonji, for her part, avoids looking for the rest of practice, not because she doesn’t want to, but because now she knows what happens when she does and she’s not sure she can survive it twice.

It shouldn’t feel different. That’s what Yoonji tells herself as she steps into the locker room, pushing the door open with her shoulder, the familiar rush of noise spilling over her immediately, voices layered on top of each other, laughter breaking through in bright, uneven bursts, the dull clatter of lockers opening and closing in no particular rhythm. It’s the same as every other day, the same space, the same people, the same routine she’s learned how to move through without drawing attention, without lingering long enough for anything to settle.

Nothing has changed, it was just a few glances, a few mistakes, nothing that matters.

Except it does, it lingers in the way her body feels slightly off-balance, like she’s carrying something invisible she can’t quite set down, it settles under her skin, quiet but persistent, making her more aware of everything of where she stands, how she moves, how easily she could be noticed if she isn’t careful and she is always careful.

She moves to her locker with that same quiet efficiency, slipping into the space like she belongs there and nowhere else, her motions practiced enough to be automatic. Her bag drops softly against the bench, her fingers already reaching for the hem of her jersey, pulling it up and over in one smooth motion that doesn’t require thought.

Don’t think.

Just move.

In, out, done.

“Yoonji?”

It stops her anyway.

Her body stills before her mind catches up, the sound of her name cutting cleanly through everything else, not loud enough to demand attention from the whole room but close enough—soft enough—that it lands directly where it wasn’t supposed to.

She turns and Jimin is standing there.

Not across the court, not blurred by distance or movement or noise but close enough that Yoonji can see the slight flush on her cheeks, the way her fingers are curled around a folded piece of fabric, the small, almost imperceptible shift of her weight from one foot to the other like she’s holding herself in place.

Up close, the difference is undeniable. Jimin is small in a way that feels almost unreal, like she was scaled differently from everything around her, every movement contained but expressive, every gesture carrying more presence than it should for someone who takes up so little physical space.

Yoonji becomes acutely aware of her own height in response, of the way she has to look down, of how much of the air between them she fills without meaning to and her throat feels dry.

“Yeah?” she manages, her voice quieter than intended, lower, like it has nowhere else to go in the space between them.

Jimin smiles, but it isn’t the same smile she wears on the court. There’s no performance in it, no projection, just something softer, a little unsure around the edges, like she’s stepping into something she hasn’t fully rehearsed.

“Can you—um—” she starts, then pauses, glancing upward before letting out a small, self-conscious laugh. “Sorry, this is kind of embarrassing.”

Yoonji follows her gaze to the top shelf. Something in her chest tightens, instinctive, familiar. She knows this feeling, the quiet awareness of what her body can do without effort, of how easily she can reach things others can’t, of how that difference always seems to stand out more than anything else about her.

“I thought I could get it earlier,” Jimin continues, words spilling a little faster now, like she’s trying to fill the space before it can turn awkward. “But I was very wrong, again. So.”

She gestures vaguely upward, then back at Yoonji, her smile turning a little sheepish.

“Here I am. Asking for help, again.”

Yoonji blinks, the tension in her shoulders loosening just slightly.

“Oh,” she says, like that explains everything, like it’s simple, like it doesn’t feel like more.

She steps closer before she can overthink it, her movements careful but natural, reaching up without hesitation this time. The shelf is high, high enough that Jimin had to jump for it, but for Yoonji, it’s nothing more than a small extension of her arm, her fingers brushing the edge easily before adjusting the space, making room and she places the folded fabric there with more care than necessary, aligning it instinctively, making sure it won’t slip, won’t fall.

“There,” she says, a little too quickly, like she needs to move past the moment before it can settle into something she doesn’t know how to handle.

Jimin looks up at the shelf, then back at her, her expression shifting into something brighter, more open.

“You make that look so easy.”

Yoonji’s ears burn instantly.

“It is easy,” she says before she can stop herself, then immediately feels the weight of it, the way it might sound, the way it always sounds when she says things like that.

She exhales, softer this time.

“I mean—I just…” she gestures vaguely, uncomfortable, searching for something that doesn’t feel wrong. “I’m tall.”

There it is, the thing she never quite knows how to say without making it worse.

Jimin blinks at her, then laughs. It’s soft, warm, completely unguarded, not sharp, not mocking, not anything that makes Yoonji brace for impact.

“Yeah,” she says, her smile easy, genuine. “That’s kind of the point.”

Something in Yoonji’s chest shifts, just slightly. She lets out a quiet breath that almost feels like a laugh, even if it doesn’t fully become one. Jimin shifts her weight again, her fingers tightening briefly around nothing now that the fabric is gone, like she’s realizing she doesn’t have anything to hold onto anymore.

“I’m Jimin, by the way,” she says, softer now, like she’s offering something small but important.

Yoonji’s mind blanks for half a second.

“Yoonji,” she replies, because that’s what you’re supposed to say, because that’s how this works, even if it feels unnecessary, even if it feels like something that’s already been quietly understood long before this moment.

“I know,” Jimin says immediately, then freezes, her eyes widening slightly as realization catches up to her words. “I mean—everyone knows, you’re—”

Yoonji’s shoulders tenses. Here it comes.

“The best player,” Jimin finishes quickly, her voice firm now, like she’s choosing the words deliberately. “On the team.”

Yoonji blinks. Oh.

The tension eases, slow and subtle, like something unclenching without her permission.

“Thanks,” she says, quieter this time.

Jimin nods, like that matters, like it’s enough.

“I meant it,” she adds, her voice softer but more certain, like she wants to make sure it lands properly.

Yoonji doesn’t know what to do with that, she never does, so she nods again.

Jimin glances up at the shelf once more, then back at Yoonji, something lighter flickering across her expression now, a hint of playfulness threading through the nerves.

“I’m probably going to need your help getting that back later,” she admits.

Yoonji’s stomach drops slightly.

“I can—” she starts, then pauses, recalibrating, her voice steadier the second time. “I can get it for you.”

Jimin smiles.

“Good.”

The word lingers, small and warm. Somewhere across the room, someone calls her name, louder this time, pulling her attention away.

“Jimin! We’re leaving!”

She turns halfway, then looks back again, just for a second longer than necessary.

“Thank you,” she says again, quieter now, like it’s meant just for Yoonji.

Yoonji nods and Jimin leaves.

The noise fills back in around the space she occupied, like nothing happened, like the moment didn’t exist long enough to matter but Yoonji stays still for a second longer, her gaze drifting upward to the top shelf, the fabric sits there exactly where she left it, neat, untouched, waiting.

Yoonji exhales slowly, her fingers flexing slightly at her sides.

Later, when the room empties and the noise fades and everything settles back into something quiet and manageable, she reaches up again without thinking, her hand brushing the edge of the shelf like she’s checking that it’s real. It is, and she leaves it there anyway.

By the time Yoonji gets home, the day has already started to blur at the edges. Practice lingers in her body longer than it does in her mind, the ache in her muscles, the residual tension in her shoulders, the faint echo of movement that hasn’t fully settled yet as everything else fades faster: voices, moments, conversations that never quite rooted themselves deeply enough to stay.

She unlocks her door, steps inside, and the quiet folds around her almost immediately, familiar and soft in a way the outside world never is. The air feels still, untouched but safe. Tang greets her before she even has the chance to take off her shoes, a sleek blur of black weaving around her legs, tail brushing insistently against her calf like he’s making sure she’s actually there.

“I know,” she murmurs, dropping her bag by the door, crouching automatically to scoop him up despite the half-hearted protest that follows. “I’m late.”

Tang meows like it’s a personal offense as Yoonji presses her face briefly into his fur anyway, letting herself linger there for a second longer than usual.

She doesn’t think about the locker room, not at first. She moves through her routine without much thought, feeding Tang, changing into something softer, something that doesn’t cling to her the way her practice clothes do, washing her hands and staring at her reflection for a second longer than necessary before looking away.

It’s only when she finally sits down, back resting against the side of the couch, phone loose in her hand more out of habit than intention, that something shifts. She doesn’t open anything at first, just lets the screen light up.

A notification. She almost ignores it, until she sees the name.

Jimin.

Yoonji’s thumb stills mid-motion. For a second, her brain doesn’t fully process it, like it’s something out of place, something that doesn’t belong in the quiet space of her apartment, something that should still be contained within the walls of the gym, the court, the locker room.

jimin13 followed you.

Yoonji stares at it as her heart does something strange.

“What?”

It comes out under her breath, barely a sound, more exhale than word as she taps the notification before she can overthink it. The profile loads and it’s her, of course it is. Blonde hair, bright smile, a profile picture that somehow manages to feel just as alive as she does in person. There are videos, photos, fragments of movement captured and paused, performances, practice clips, moments with her team, laughter frozen mid-frame.

Yoonji doesn’t scroll, not yet. 

Another notification pops up, and then another, and another as Yoonji blinks. Her phone buzzes softly in her hand, once, twice, again, the screen lighting up repeatedly in a way that feels almost overwhelming in the otherwise silent room.

jimin13 liked your post.
jimin13 liked your post.
jimin13 liked your post.

Her breath catches as she scrolls, but it doesn’t stop. Post after post after post, recent ones, older ones, ones she barely remembers uploading in the first place, pictures from games, from interviews, from moments she didn’t think anyone paid attention to beyond the immediate.

Even the older ones, the ones from months ago.

Yoonji’s ears burn.

“…she’s—”

She doesn’t finish the sentence, she doesn’t know how. Her thumb hovers uselessly over the screen, like she’s not sure what she’s supposed to do with this, how she’s supposed to react to something that feels too big and too small at the same time.

Because, this means something, doesn’t it? People don’t do that for no reason, they don’t go back that far.

Her phone buzzes again as another like pops in. Yoonji exhales sharply, dragging a hand over her face as if that might somehow reset the situation, making it less real.

Tang meows in protest from where he’s now settled across her legs, clearly unimpressed with the sudden shift in attention.

“Sorry,” she mutters automatically, absently running a hand over his back without really registering it, her eyes flick back to the screen.

Jimin’s name sits there over and over again, repeated in a way that feels almost surreal, like proof of something Yoonji hasn’t fully allowed herself to consider.

She clicks into her profile without meaning to, her thumb hovers for only a second before she taps.

Follow back. It’s such a small action, so simple, something people do every day without thinking, without attaching weight to it, without letting it settle into their chest the way it settles into hers.

But Yoonji feels it the second it happens, as her heart is beating just a little too fast.

She tells herself to put the phone down, to leave it there, to let it be just that, an interaction, a normal thing, something that doesn’t need to spiral into anything bigger.

But she doesn’t, her thumb moves again, almost without permission this time, tapping into Jimin’s profile properly, not just a glance, not just a passing acknowledgement. The first thing that hits her isn’t the colors, or the movement, or even the brightness Jimin seems to carry into every frame.

It’s how beautiful she is. Not in the distant way people usually mean it, not in the abstract, not in the kind of admiration that stays safely removed.

Yoonji’s breath catches before she can stop it.

Jimin smiles in most of the photos, but it’s not the same smile every time, sometimes it’s wide and open, teeth showing, eyes crinkling at the corners like she’s laughing mid-moment and sometimes it’s softer, smaller, something caught between expressions, like she forgot the camera was there for a second.

In videos, she’s even worse: moving, alive, dancing in a way that doesn’t just follow rhythm but becomes it, her body precise and fluid all at once, every motion intentional without looking forced. There’s confidence there, but not the kind that feels distant or untouchable, something warmer, something that invites you in without even trying.

Yoonji swallows as she scrolls. There are photos with her team, bodies pressed close together, arms slung over shoulders, laughter frozen mid-frame. Jimin always stands somewhere near the center, not because she’s trying to be, but because she just ends up there, like space arranges itself around her.

There are close-ups and those are worse.

Yoonji stops on one without meaning to where Jimin is looking slightly off-camera, hair loose this time instead of tied back, falling soft around her face in a way that makes her look even smaller, even more—

Yoonji’s chest tightens and her fingers press slightly harder against the phone.

There’s no word that feels enough. Beautiful feels too simple and pretty feels too small. Jimin looks like something you’re not supposed to touch.

Yoonji exhales slowly, like she’s trying to steady herself, like she’s forgotten how to breathe properly somewhere between one photo and the next.

Why—Why would someone like that—

Her mind drifts, unhelpful, immediate, back to the locker room, to the way Jimin looked up at her, to the way she smiled, to the way she said thank you like it meant something.

Yoonji’s ears burn.

It doesn’t make sense as she scrolls again, further down, finding old posts where Jimin looks younger in some of them, softer around the edges, but still the same, still bright, still expressive, still carrying that same presence that feels impossible to ignore even through a screen.

Tang shifts on her lap, tail flicking lazily, unimpressed with how still she’s gone.

“Yeah,” she murmurs absently, her voice quieter than usual, distracted. “I know.”

But she doesn’t look away. Her thumb pauses over another photo: Jimin mid-performance, caught in motion, one arm extended, expression focused but alive, like she’s holding an entire crowd in place without even trying, and Yoonji feels something twist in her chest, because she’s seen that, in real life, from a distance.

She locks her phone for a second and just breathes. The silence of her apartment presses in around her again, heavier now, like it’s holding all the thoughts she doesn’t know what to do with. Then, she unlocks it again, back to Jimin’s profile, like she didn’t just try to stop.

Yoonji leans her head back against the couch, eyes fixed on the screen, on the image in front of her, on something she doesn’t quite understand but can’t seem to pull away from.

Jimin is the most stunning woman she’s ever seen. And somehow, she followed her, she noticed her. As Yoonji presses her lips together, her grip tightening slightly around the phone, she thinks it doesn't make sense. 

She tells herself she’s going to stop. Just one more glance, just one more second to take it in, to understand it, and then she’ll put the phone down, get up, do something normal, something that doesn’t feel like her entire chest has been quietly rearranged.

Her thumb moves again, slower now, more deliberate, like she’s stepping into something she knows might undo her a little. She taps into one of the photos, one of the performance clips, paused mid-motion, Jimin caught in that perfect in-between where everything looks effortless and precise at the same time.

The comments load. Yoonji doesn’t usually read comments, not on her own posts, not on anyone else’s. It’s always felt like looking at something not meant for her, like stepping into a conversation she doesn’t belong in.

Her eyes move without thinking, scrolling, reading. There are the usual ones: hearts, compliments, people praising Jimin’s dancing, her smile, her energy, it’s expected and obvious, as Jimin shines, and people respond to it.

Then, a name. Yoonji’s. Her breath catches and she stills, thumb hovering mid-scroll.

It’s not on Jimin’s post, it’s on a tagged clip, a fan video.

Yoonji taps it. The video opens, grainy, slightly shaky footage from the stands, capturing a game in motion. The camera follows the play, a little unsteady, zooming in too late, too fast, and there she is: Yoonji. Running, moving, playing.

She watches herself for a second, detached, the way she always does when she sees recordings, aware of the angles, the structure, the mechanics of it more than anything else.

Then she sees it, pinned near the top.

jimin13 liked this.

Yoonji’s stomach drops, as she scrolls. Another video, another fan account. Clips of her games, edits stitched together with music, slow-motion shots of her jumping, scoring, turning, moving in ways she never thinks about while she’s doing them.

And—

jimin13 liked this.

Again and again.

Yoonji’s breathing changes as she taps into another one. This time, there’s a comment, not from Jimin, just a fan, something simple, something admiring.

she’s unreal

And beneath it, a small, unmistakable heart.

liked by jimin13.

Yoonji freezes and her ears burn instantly, heat rushing up her neck so fast it almost makes her dizzy.

“…no way,” she whispers, barely audible.

Her thumb moves faster now, almost frantic, opening more posts, more clips, more accounts she’s never seen before but that all orbit around the same thing—

Her. And Jimin is there, consistently with likes, hearts, small, quiet acknowledgments scattered across videos and comments and moments Yoonji didn’t even know people paid attention to.

She scrolls back up, her vision narrowing slightly, like her brain is struggling to keep up with what she’s seeing.

Jimin didn’t just follow her, she watches her, she notices her.

Yoonji’s chest tightens as her heart is beating too fast now, uneven, loud enough that she can feel it in her throat, in her ears, in the tips of her fingers where they press too hard against the phone.

Yoonji lets out a shaky breath, her hand dropping slightly into her lap as if the weight of the phone has suddenly doubled.

Jimin likes her. She likes her.

Yoonji locks her phone immediately, the screen goes dark but it doesn’t help. Because it’s already there, in her chest, in her head, everywhere.

“Okay—okay,” she mutters under her breath, like saying it might slow everything down, like it might make sense if she just gives herself a second. Tang shifts on her lap, startled slightly by the sudden tension in her body, his tail flicking once in mild annoyance.

Yoonji reacts without thinking as she leans down, wraps her arms around him, pulling him closer, pressing her face into his fur like it’s the only solid thing she can hold onto right now.

Tang protests immediately, with a sharp, offended meow, a half-hearted attempt to wriggle free but Yoonji holds on anyway.

“Don’t,” she murmurs, voice muffled, breath uneven. “I—just—give me a second.”

Tang settles after a moment, reluctantly, his body still under her grip in the way he does when he realizes resistance isn’t going to work. Yoonji exhales against him, slow and shaky, her fingers tightening slightly in his fur.

Jimin likes her. The thought repeats, over and over as her heart stutters again.

“That’s—” she starts, then stops, because she doesn’t have a word for it. Her grip tightens again, almost desperate now, like she’s trying to ground herself in something that isn’t spinning out of control.

Tang huffs as Yoonji presses her face deeper into him.

“What am I supposed to do with that?” she whispers, the words soft, almost helpless in a way she never lets herself sound.

Tang does not answer, of course he doesn’t, but he stays. And Yoonji clings to that, just for a moment longer, her heart slowly, stubbornly refusing to calm down, her thoughts still tangled up in something bright and terrifying and impossibly soft all at once.

The next morning feels wrong before it even properly begins, like something shifted overnight and never settled back into place. Yoonji wakes too early, her eyes opening into the dim quiet of her room without the slow drift of sleep loosening its grip first, her body already tense in a way that doesn’t belong to physical strain. For a moment she just lies there, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the soft, steady rhythm of Tang breathing somewhere near her legs, grounding and oblivious and completely unaffected by the way her thoughts have been circling the same point for hours. She doesn’t reach for her phone, she doesn’t need to, everything she saw last night is still there, sharp and immediate, replaying in fragments that refuse to blur: notifications, likes, her name reflected back at her through someone else’s attention, through Jimin’s attention, through something that feels too intentional to dismiss and too overwhelming to fully hold.

She exhales slowly, dragging a hand over her face before pushing herself upright, the motion stiff, like her body hasn’t quite caught up to the fact that the day has started. “It’s fine,” she murmurs, the words quiet, almost testing, like she’s trying them out to see if they’ll settle somewhere believable. They don’t, because nothing about this feels fine, not in the way she understands that word, not in the way that means manageable, contained, something she can move through without second-guessing every step.

And still, she goes. The court doesn’t change for her, it never does. It exists in the same steady, predictable way it always has, the lights too bright overhead, the floor reflecting movement before it even happens, the space stretching wide and open in a way that usually makes everything else feel smaller by comparison. 

Yoonji leans into that, into the repetition of it, into the comfort of something that doesn’t react to her thoughts or shift under her awareness. She moves through warm-ups automatically, letting muscle memory take over where her mind refuses to settle, the rhythm grounding in a way that almost works, almost pulling her back into something familiar enough to breathe through.

It helps until it doesn’t. Because awareness has a way of creeping back in, quiet and persistent, settling under her skin before she even consciously acknowledges it. It’s the same feeling as yesterday, but sharper now, more immediate, like her body has already learned to recognize it before her thoughts catch up.

They’re here. She tells herself not to look, she already knows what happens when she does. Still her gaze lifts and Jimin is already looking at her.

There’s no hesitation this time, no almost, no near-miss of timing where one looks and the other doesn’t. It lands cleanly, directly, their eyes meeting in a way that feels immediate and impossible to pretend didn’t happen, and before Yoonji can even process it, before she can think of looking away or bracing herself for whatever comes next—

Jimin smiles, bright and open, entirely for her.

It’s disarming in a way Yoonji isn’t prepared for, in a way she has no defense against, the warmth of it hitting her all at once, too fast, too direct, like it bypasses everything she usually puts in place to keep herself steady. There’s recognition in it, something unmistakable, something that says I see you without needing to be spoken.

And then Jimin lifts her hand and waves at her.

Everything in Yoonji short-circuits. It’s not gradual, there’s no slow build, no time to process or adjust or decide how to respond. It hits all at once, sharp and overwhelming, her heart jumping hard enough to feel like it stumbles mid-beat, her thoughts scattering so quickly they barely form before they disappear again. Because this isn’t the quiet, distant noticing she could almost pretend wasn’t real. This isn’t accidental. This isn’t something she can tuck away and ignore.

Jimin is choosing this, Jimin is choosing her. And Yoonji has no idea what to do with that.

So she does the only thing her body seems capable of, she looks away fast and immediately, too obvious to be anything but what it is.

Her entire posture shifts with it, shoulders turning, feet moving before she fully registers the decision, like distance alone might undo the moment, like if she breaks the line of sight quickly enough it won’t linger, won’t settle into something real and undeniable. Her grip tightens around the ball in her hands before she even realizes she’s holding it, her breath coming just a little uneven as she takes a step back, then another, retreating into the safety of motion, of space, of anything that isn’t standing still under that kind of attention.

“Yoonji—”

She doesn’t catch the rest of it, she’s already moving. It’s not dramatic, not enough for anyone to question. She doesn’t leave the court, doesn’t draw attention to herself in a way that would make people pause and look twice. She just shifts, subtly, quickly, putting her teammates between herself and the sideline, between herself and Jimin, between herself and the memory of that smile that feels like it’s still pressed somewhere against her chest.

“Where are you going?” someone asks, casual, distracted.

“Water,” Yoonji answers, the word coming out low and automatic, even though she doesn’t need it, even though her throat is dry for reasons that have nothing to do with thirst.

She grabs a bottle anyway. Hold it without drinking, keep her back turned like that alone might be enough.

It isn’t, because she can still feel it, the echo of it. The way her heart hasn’t slowed down, still beating too fast, too uneven, like it hasn’t caught up to the fact that the moment has already passed. Her fingers tighten slightly around the plastic bottle, the faint creak grounding her just enough to keep her from completely unraveling into the mess of thoughts pressing too close, too loud.

What was she supposed to do? Wave back? Smile?

Across the court, Jimin lowers her hand slowly, the motion unhurried, her smile softening but not disappearing, not even close. If anything, it settles into something warmer, something quieter but no less certain, her gaze lingering just a second longer on the space Yoonji vacated like she’s committing the reaction to memory rather than questioning it.

“She panicked,” someone beside her murmurs, amused.

Jimin exhales softly through her nose, something fond flickering through her expression, unmistakable and entirely unhidden.

“Yeah,” she says, her voice light, almost pleased.

No matter how carefully Yoonji tries to move, how much she tries to stay contained, to stay out of reach, she’s already been seen and there is nowhere left to hide.

Yoonji makes it through the rest of practice on instinct alone. Her body knows what to do even when her mind doesn’t, feet moving where they should, hands catching, passing, shooting with the same precision they always have. To anyone watching, nothing is wrong, she plays well, scores, keeps pace, listens when she’s called. But underneath it, everything feels slightly off-center, like she’s operating half a second behind herself, like her awareness is split between the game and something just outside of it that keeps pulling at her attention no matter how hard she tries to stay focused.

By the time practice ends, her shoulders are tight in a way that has nothing to do with physical strain. She moves quickly once it’s over, gathering her things with the same efficiency she always relies on, slipping off the court and into the locker room before the space fills too much, before the noise settles in.

“Yoonji.”

She stops and closes her eyes for half a second, just enough to steady herself, just enough to brace for something she doesn’t know how to handle, then turns and Jimin is right there.

There’s no hesitation in her this time, no nervous shifting or half-started sentences. She stands comfortably in the space between them, relaxed in a way that makes everything feel even more unbalanced by comparison, like she belongs here, like this is easy for her, like Yoonji isn’t currently trying to remember how to breathe normally.

“Hi,” Jimin says, smiling, not the wide, overwhelming one from earlier, but something softer, more deliberate, like she’s aware of how much that might be.

Yoonji nods, too quickly.

“Hi.”

Her gaze immediately drops. Somewhere in between the floor and Jimin’s face, unfocused, like she’s looking through the space rather than at anything specific.

Jimin notices. There’s a brief pause, not uncomfortable but observant, like she’s taking something in, adjusting to it in real time.

“I followed you yesterday,” Jimin says, casual, like she’s talking about something small, something normal, even though the words land heavier than that in Yoonji’s chest. “And you followed me back.”

Yoonji’s stomach drops. Right. That.

“I—yeah,” she manages, her voice quieter now, the words catching slightly as they come out. “I did.”

Her eyes flick up for half a second, just enough to register Jimin’s expression then immediately away again.

Jimin tilts her head slightly.

“You saw?” she asks, softer now, like she’s testing the space between them, like she’s trying to meet Yoonji where she is instead of pushing too hard.

Yoonji swallows as she nods.

“I saw.”

That’s all she says, it feels like enough as it feels like too much. Because she can’t say the rest: I saw everything. I saw you liking those videos. I saw you—

Jimin watches her for a second longer, something gentle settling into her expression, like understanding clicking into place piece by piece.

“You’re kind of shy, aren’t you?” she says, and there’s no judgment in it, no teasing edge, just a quiet observation, soft enough that it doesn’t feel like being called out, just seen.

Yoonji freezes as her grip tightens slightly around the strap of her bag.

“I’m not—” she starts automatically, then stops, because even she can hear how unconvincing that sounds.

Jimin smiles.

“It’s okay,” she says easily. “I don’t mind.”

Yoonji’s heart stutters again, her gaze darting briefly upward before dropping just as fast, like she’s physically incapable of holding eye contact for more than a second at a time.

Every time she gets close, something in her pulls back, instinctive, protective, like looking too long might expose something she’s not ready to have seen.

Jimin shifts slightly, stepping just a little closer, not enough to invade space, not enough to overwhelm, just enough to stay within Yoonji’s line of sight if she does look.

“You don’t really look at me,” she says, light, almost playful, but there’s something real under it, something curious rather than accusing.

Yoonji’s breath catches and she tries, she really does. Her eyes lift again, meet Jimin’s and immediately slide away.

“I do,” she says, too quickly, even as she’s actively proving the opposite.

Jimin laughs softly.

“You don’t,” she says, not unkindly.

Yoonji exhales, something shaky slipping through before she can stop it.

“I—” she starts, then falters, because she doesn’t have the words, because she doesn’t know how to explain something that feels so simple and so impossible at the same time.

“I’m trying,” she admits finally, the words quieter than anything she’s said so far, almost lost under the noise of the room.

Jimin stills as something in her expression softens immediately, like that one sentence shifts everything, reframes it into something she understands better.

“Oh,” she says, just that, gentle and warm and a little surprised.

There’s a pause. Then, softer—

“That’s okay too.”

Yoonji doesn’t respond, she can’t. Jimin smiles again, a little brighter now, like she’s found her footing in this, like she knows how to move forward without pushing too hard.

“Then I’ll just—” she gestures vaguely between them, light, easy. “Stand here and let you try.”

Yoonji huffs out the smallest breath of something that might almost be a laugh.

And this time, when her eyes lift again, she manages to hold it, just for a second longer. The second stretches in a way that doesn’t quite make sense, like time hesitates just to see what Yoonji will do with it. She’s still looking, actually looking, at Jimin, her gaze not dropping immediately, not slipping away the second it becomes too much. 

It’s unsteady, fragile, something she has to hold rather than something that comes naturally, but it’s there, and the effort of it hums quietly under her skin. Her chest feels tight with it, like even this small act of staying present is taking more out of her than it should, like she’s balancing on the edge of something she doesn’t fully understand yet.

Jimin notices immediately. And something in her shifts, not in a way that pulls back or softens into careful distance, but in a way that feels like she recognizes the moment for what it is and chooses to meet it head-on, gently but without hesitation. Her expression brightens just slightly, warmth settling deeper into it, something intentional threading through her gaze now, like she’s making a decision in real time.

“Can I be honest about you?” she asks, her voice soft but direct, the kind of tone that doesn’t push but also doesn’t leave much room to deflect.

Yoonji blinks, the question catching her off guard, her thoughts stalling as she tries to catch up. “About me?” she echoes, slower, like she needs to hear it again to make sure she understood it right.

Jimin nods, a small smile forming, not teasing, not sharp, just real. “Yeah,” she says, watching her carefully now. “I think you’re really hard to read.”

Yoonji exhales faintly, something almost like a huff leaving her as her shoulders shift, tension and resignation mixing in a way that feels familiar. That, at least, is something she’s heard before, something that doesn’t shake her in the same way everything else seems to lately, she doesn’t argue about it, she doesn’t confirm it either. But Jimin isn’t finished.

“I don’t think you’re cold,” she continues, quieter now, like she’s choosing her words with care, like she wants them to land the right way. “I think you just don’t know where to look.”

The words settle deeper than they should as Yoonji’s chest tightens, something in her going still in response, like she’s been seen in a way she didn’t prepare for, like something quiet and hidden has just been gently brought into the light. She doesn’t answer, there’s nothing she could say that wouldn’t feel like admitting too much.

Jimin seems to understand that. She takes a small breath, almost imperceptible, like she’s steadying herself now, like she’s about to step past a line she won’t be able to step back from once she crosses it.

“Are you single?”

The question lands simply, without hesitation, without decoration, but it echoes louder than anything else has and Yoonji freezes. Her mind blanks completely, like everything inside her has been wiped clean all at once, leaving nothing but the weight of that one question sitting heavy in the space between them. Her fingers tighten slightly around the strap of her bag, grounding herself in the only physical thing she can focus on.

“I—” she starts, then falters, because the answer is obvious, because it’s always been obvious, because there’s never been anyone, never been a situation where this question carried any real weight before.

“…yeah,” she says finally, the word quiet but steady enough to exist.

Jimin nods once, like she expected that, like it confirms something she’s already been holding onto.

“Okay.”

There’s a pause, brief but full, like the air itself is waiting. And then—

“I really wanted to take you on a date.”

It hits Yoonji all at once, her breath catches sharply, her chest tightening so suddenly it almost hurts, her thoughts scattering in every direction without landing anywhere coherent. Because this, this isn’t something she misheard, isn’t something she can reinterpret into something safer. Is something clear and direct.

Jimin shifts slightly in front of her, her hands coming together like she needs something to do with them now that the words are out, a small, nervous laugh slipping through, softer than anything she’s shown before. “I mean—I still do,” she adds quickly, like she doesn’t want there to be any doubt. “Want to take you on a date.”

Yoonji feels like everything inside her has come undone at once.

Her heart is racing, too fast, too loud, each beat pressing up into her throat like it doesn’t know where else to go. She can’t look at Jimin for more than a second at a time, her gaze flickering up and immediately away again, like trying to hold it would make this too real, too immediate to handle.

“I—” she tries, her voice catching on the single letter, her thoughts completely useless in the face of something this big, this unexpected.

Jimin steps just a fraction closer, not enough to overwhelm, not enough to trap, just enough to stay present in her space, to keep the moment from slipping away into avoidance.

“I like you,” she says, softer now, the earlier brightness settling into something steadier, something more grounded. “I think you’re amazing, and kind, and you don’t even realize it.”

Yoonji’s ears burn instantly, heat rushing up her neck, her grip tightening on her bag again as if it’s the only thing keeping her anchored.

“And I know you don’t really look at me,” Jimin continues, a faint, fond smile returning, “but I see you trying, and I see you play, and I like that, a lot.”

The words wrap around Yoonji in a way she doesn’t know how to process, too gentle to push away, too sincere to dismiss.

“I just wanted to ask you properly,” Jimin adds, quieter now, like this part matters the most. “Not just like your posts and hope you’d figure it out.”

That pulls something unexpected out of Yoonji, a small, breathy sound that almost becomes a laugh before she can stop it, fragile and uncertain but real. Her thoughts are still a mess, still tangled, still trying to catch up to a reality that feels completely out of reach, but something in her steadies just enough to let her lift her head again.

This time, when she looks at Jimin it almost knocks the air out of her lungs all over again.

“…you want to take me?” she asks, her voice quiet, disbelieving, like she needs to hear it one more time just to be sure this isn’t something she imagined.

Jimin’s smile softens, but it doesn’t waver.

“Yeah,” she says, certain, like there’s no question in her mind at all. “I do.”

And for once Yoonji doesn’t look away.

The day of the date arrives too quickly, or maybe it just feels that way, because Yoonji hasn’t really stopped thinking about it since the moment Jimin asked.

Her apartment is quieter than usual. Not in a physical way, nothing has changed, nothing is different, but it feels heavier, like every small sound carries more weight, like the ticking of time has become something she can actually hear. Tang stretches lazily across the couch, completely unbothered, watching her with mild curiosity as she moves around in a way that is distinctly not normal.

Yoonji doesn’t pace, she doesn’t fidget, and she definitely doesn’t stand in front of her closet for ten full minutes holding two nearly identical outfits and somehow thinking neither of them is right.

“This is stupid,” she mutters under her breath as Tang blinks at her. She exhales, dragging a hand through her hair before stopping in front of the mirror again, her reflection staring back at her like it’s waiting for her to figure something out she doesn’t quite have the tools for.

Yoonji doesn’t dress up, not really. Her style has always been simple, functional, clean lines, neutral tones, nothing that draws too much attention, nothing that feels like she’s trying to be something she isn’t.

She settles on something dark: a structured jacket that sits neatly on her shoulders, something that sharpens her already broad frame instead of hiding it, paired with a plain shirt underneath that softens it just enough. The contrast works in a way she doesn’t fully analyze, clean, composed and effortless in the way she’s always been without trying.

Her hair is still slightly damp from the shower, falling naturally into place, the chopped bangs framing her face in uneven, deliberate pieces that give her an edge she’s never consciously cultivated but somehow wears perfectly anyway. It makes her look a little more open, a little less guarded, though the way she keeps glancing away from her own reflection suggests otherwise.

She reaches for her glasses last, clear frames, simple as they sit lightly on her face, softening her features in a way she doesn’t think about, in a way she’s never really noticed until now.

Yoonji stares at herself for a second longer. Jimin is going to see her, not on the court, not from a distance but like this.

Yoonji exhales slowly, grabbing her keys before she can think too much about it, before she can convince herself to change, to stay, to—

“Okay,” she murmurs, more to herself than anything.

Tang watches her leave like this is the most confusing development of his entire day.

Across the city Jimin’s room is anything but quiet. Music plays softly from somewhere in the background, something light and rhythmic, filling the space with an energy that feels distinctly her, warm, alive, impossible to ignore even when it’s not loud. Clothes are scattered across her bed in a way that suggests she’s been trying, actually trying, which isn’t something she usually overthinks, but today matters.

She stands in front of her mirror, turning slightly, then back, then again, like she’s checking angles that don’t really need checking.

“Too much?” she murmurs, more amused than uncertain, even as she adjusts the collar of her jacket, it’s black leather and it fits her perfectly, hugging just enough to define her shape without restricting movement, the material catching the light subtly as she shifts. Underneath, something simple, soft white fabric, light against her skin, something that contrasts the edge of the jacket without dulling it.

Her hair is already done, or as done as it ever is. Blonde, pulled into a ponytail that sits just a little loose, a little messy on purpose, strands slipping free around her face like they refused to stay contained. It frames her features in a way that feels effortless, like she didn’t try even though she clearly did.

She leans closer to the mirror, adjusting one last detail, then pauses, her expression shifts, softens.

“Okay,” she says quietly, like she’s grounding herself, like she’s acknowledging something real beneath the excitement.

Yoonji. The thought alone makes her smile.

“She said yes,” Jimin murmurs, almost to herself, like she still doesn’t fully believe it, like saying it out loud makes it settle into something real. Her heart flutters, quick and light, excitement threading through it in a way she doesn’t try to suppress.

She grabs her bag, takes one last look at herself, not to fix anything, not to change, just to see, then heads out. And somewhere between two different kinds of nervousness, between quiet panic and bright anticipation, they are both, for the first time, on their way to each other.

Yoonji doesn’t expect the lights, she expects something quiet, a café, maybe. A place where she can sit across from Jimin and not feel like the world is watching, where everything can stay contained and manageable and small enough to hold.

Instead: there’s color, movement and noise. The amusement park stretches out in front of them, glowing in the early evening like something unreal, lights blinking and shifting in soft patterns, rides rising and falling in the distance, laughter carried through the air in overlapping waves that feel almost dizzying.

Yoonji stops, just for a second.

“Oh,” she says, because she doesn’t have anything better.

Beside her, Jimin shifts slightly, watching her reaction with something that’s almost careful, like she’s trying to read it, like this matters more than she’s letting on.

“I thought…” Jimin starts, then huffs out a small laugh, rubbing the back of her neck. “Okay, I didn’t think this through all the way. If you hate it, we can go somewhere else, I just—”

Yoonji shakes her head immediately.

“No,” she says, a little too fast, then softer, steadier. “No, I don’t hate it.”

Jimin watches her for another second, then smiles, relief slipping through in a way that makes something in Yoonji’s chest loosen.

“Okay,” she says, lighter now. “Good, because I already bought the tickets.”

That pulls something small out of Yoonji, a quiet breath that almost becomes a laugh. And just like that, they go in, it’s easier than she expects, that’s the first thing Yoonji notices. Somewhere between walking through the gates and stopping at a stall Jimin insists they try immediately, the tension in her shoulders starts to ease, piece by piece, like it’s being chipped away without her realizing it.

Jimin doesn’t rush her, doesn’t overwhelm her, she fills the space just enough. Talking easily, pointing things out, laughing when something is ridiculous, pulling Yoonji along not by force but by presence alone, like she naturally moves forward and trusts Yoonji will follow, and she does.

They try games, Yoonji is bad at them, objectively. Jimin finds this hilarious.

“You’re telling me you can score from half-court but you can’t throw a ring onto a bottle?” she laughs, doubled over slightly as Yoonji stares at the plastic rings like they personally offended her.

“It’s different,” Yoonji mutters, ears burning.

“How?”

“…it just is.”

Jimin laughs harder and Yoonji lets her. By the time they’re walking again, Jimin is holding a small prize she insisted Yoonji “won” anyway, even though she absolutely did not but Yoonji doesn’t argue. They ride smaller things first, then bigger ones. At some point, Jimin grabs her hand, and Yoonji stills for half a second before letting it happen, before holding back.

By the time they reach the ferris wheel, the sky has darkened, the lights around them glowing brighter against it, the entire park shifting into something softer, something quieter under the noise.

Jimin looks up at it, then at Yoonji.

“Wanna?” she asks and Yoonji nods.

The cabin sways slightly as they step in, the door closing behind them with a soft click that feels louder than it should, then, they start to rise. The ground pulls away beneath them, the noise fading just enough to feel distant, like they’re being lifted out of it, placed somewhere quieter where everything else can’t quite reach.

Yoonji sits across from Jimin at first, out of habit, but the space is small, too small for distance to really work. As their knees brush, Yoonji stills but Jimin doesn’t pull away.

The city stretches out around them as they rise higher, lights scattered in every direction, the park glowing beneath them like something contained, something safe.

Yoonji looks out at it. Then, slowly, back at Jimin.

Jimin is already looking at her. There’s no teasing this time, no playful edge, just something soft.

“You’re looking at me,” Jimin says quietly.

Yoonji exhales.

“I am,” she admits, just as quiet.

Jimin smiles, happy.

The cabin rocks slightly as it reaches the top, pausing there for a moment, suspended in the air with nothing above them, nothing but open space and distant lights stretching out endlessly below.

Yoonji doesn’t look away, not this time. Not when Jimin shifts closer, slow enough that Yoonji can see it happening, close enough that she can feel it. Her heart starts racing again but she doesn’t move back.

“Can I—” Jimin starts, then pauses, like she’s giving Yoonji time to stop her if she wants to.

Yoonji doesn’t, so Jimin closes the distance. It’s soft and careful, the kind of kiss that asks before it takes, that lingers at the edge for just a second before settling fully, like she’s making sure this is real, that Yoonji is really here, that she’s not going to disappear the second it happens.

Yoonji freezes, then, very slowly, she leans in, just enough to meet her there. Her hand tightens slightly where it rests beside her, her breath catching as something warm and overwhelming spreads through her chest, through her entire body in a way she’s never felt before. It’s gentle, but it’s everything.

When they pull apart, it’s not far, Jimin’s still close, looking at her.

Yoonji’s face is warm, her thoughts quiet in a way that feels new, like everything that used to be loud and overwhelming has settled into something softer, something easier to hold.

“…okay,” she murmurs, almost to herself.

Jimin laughs softly.

“Okay?” she repeats.

Yoonji nods.

“Okay.”

And this time when Jimin smiles, Yoonji doesn’t look away.

Yoonji doesn’t plan it, not really. It just… happens.

Somewhere between stepping out of the amusement park, the night still humming softly around them, and standing on the sidewalk with no real reason to say goodbye yet, Yoonji hesitates.

“You’re thinking,” Jimin says lightly, tilting her head, her ponytail shifting with the motion, a few loose strands catching the streetlight.

Yoonji exhales, rubbing the back of her neck, her gaze drifting somewhere that isn’t quite Jimin but isn’t fully away either.

“I—” she starts, then stops, recalibrates. “Do you want to come over?”

“Yeah,” she says, easy, like it’s the most natural answer in the world. “I’d like that.”

And just like that, they go.

Yoonji’s apartment feels different with someone else in it and Tang is the first to react. The second the door opens, he’s there, a sleek black blur weaving around Yoonji’s legs before stopping short when he notices something new, something unfamiliar, his ears twitch and Jimin gasps.

“Oh my—”

Yoonji doesn’t even have time to warn her.

“He’s so cute.”

Tang, who is usually selective at best and indifferent at worst, walks directly toward her like he’s been waiting his entire life for this exact moment.

Yoonji stares.

“That’s—” she starts, confused, because this is not how Tang behaves, because this is new.

Jimin crouches immediately, completely gone, completely lost, her hands hovering for half a second like she’s asking for permission before gently petting him.

Tang leans in. Traitor.

“He’s so soft,” Jimin breathes, her voice soft in a way Yoonji hasn’t heard before, completely absorbed, completely gone.

Yoonji watches, something warm settles in her chest. Then, Jimin sneezes.

“…wait.”

Jimin sniffles slightly, waving it off immediately, already going back to petting Tang like nothing just happened.

“It’s fine,” she says quickly, like she already knows what Yoonji is about to say. “I’m a little allergic, but it’s not—”

“You’re allergic?” Yoonji cuts in, her voice sharper now, concerned immediately, real.

Jimin nods, still smiling, still completely unbothered as Tang climbs further into her space like he’s claimed her.

“Yeah, but he’s worth it,” she says, completely serious.

Yoonji stares at her like she’s lost her mind.

“That’s not—no.”

She’s already moving as Jimin blinks as Yoonji grabs her phone, her movements quick, focused, like she’s locking onto a problem she can actually solve.

“What are you doing?” Jimin asks, somewhere between amused and confused.

“Ordering medicine,” Yoonji says immediately, not even looking up.

Jimin laughs.

“You don’t have to—”

“I do,” Yoonji interrupts, firm in a way she doesn’t usually allow herself to be, her thumb moving quickly across the screen. “You’re not going to just sit there and suffer.”

“I’m not suffering,” Jimin protests weakly, even as she sneezes again.

Tang purrs, loudly.

“It’ll be here in fifteen minutes,” she says, finally looking up, like that solves everything.

Jimin stares at her, then she laughs, bright.

“You’re unbelievable,” she says, shaking her head, but there’s something warm in it, something that settles deeper than the amusement.

Yoonji frowns slightly.

“I just—” she starts, then stops, unsure how to explain something that feels obvious to her. “You’re allergic.”

“And you ordered medicine in under thirty seconds,” Jimin counters, still smiling, still very much on the floor, still petting Tang like nothing else matters.

Yoonji’s ears burn.

“That’s just—logical.”

“It’s cute,” Jimin says immediately.

Yoonji stops.

“…no, it’s not.”

“It is,” Jimin insists, softer now, her hand still moving gently through Tang’s fur, completely at peace despite the occasional sniffle. “You take care of things.”

Yoonji doesn’t know what to do with that, again. So she looks away, again.

Across the room, Jimin presses her face lightly into Tang’s fur, completely ignoring the consequences of her actions.

“I love him,” she declares.

Tang, clearly in agreement, climbs fully into her lap. Yoonji watches, something somewhere between disbelief and fondness settling into her expression.

“You’re going to regret that in about ten minutes,” she says.

Jimin shrugs.

“Worth it.”

Another sneeze, but neither of them moves to stop. By the time the medicine arrives, Jimin is sitting cross-legged on the floor, hair slightly messier, eyes a little watery, but smiling like she’s having the best night of her life.

Tang is fully asleep in her lap as Yoonji hands her the medicine.

Jimin takes it, still smiling.

“You know,” she says softly, glancing up at her, something warm and certain settling into her expression, “this is a really good date.”

Yoonji’s chest tightens.

“Yeah,” she says, quieter.

It is, even if it’s a little chaotic, even if it’s not supposed to work. Somehow, it does.

Jimin wanders. She doesn’t mean to snoop, not really, she just moves easily through spaces, curious in a way that feels natural, like she belongs wherever she happens to be. Tang follows her like a shadow, tail high, fully committed now, as if he’s decided this new person is permanent.

Yoonji is in the kitchen for maybe thirty seconds. Thirty.

“Yoonji—”

There’s something in Jimin’s voice that makes her freeze immediately.

Yoonji turns as Jimin is standing halfway down the hallway, one hand still on a doorframe, eyes wide in a way that feels dangerous for completely different reasons.

“You have a bathtub.”

Yoonji blinks.

“Yeah?”

Jimin looks back at it, then at her, then back again, like she’s making sure it’s still there.

“I’ve never—” she starts, then stops, like even saying it out loud feels unreal. “I’ve never taken a bath before.”

Yoonji stills.

“What?”

Jimin shrugs, but there’s something softer under it, something honest in a way she doesn’t always show so easily.

“We always had showers,” she says simply. “At home, everywhere. I just—never had one.”

Yoonji doesn’t know why that hits the way it does, but it does. She looks at the bathroom, then at Jimin.

“You can—” she starts, then pauses, recalibrates, because her brain is already trying to run ahead of her. “You can use it, if you want.”

Jimin’s face lights up.

“Really?”

Yoonji nods.

“Yeah.”

That should be it, that should be where it ends. It is not, because Jimin tilts her head slightly, something playful slips back into her expression, something that immediately sets off warning bells in Yoonji’s chest.

“With you?”

Yoonji’s brain stops.

“I—what?”

Jimin laughs, bright and easy, like she just said something completely normal, like she hasn’t just dismantled Yoonji’s entire ability to function in under three seconds.

“I mean,” she says, stepping a little closer, her voice softening just slightly, “it’s kind of a big bathtub, right?”

Yoonji does not know where to look. Her ears burn instantly, heat rushing up her neck as her brain tries, and fails, to process this in any kind of coherent way.

“That’s not—” she starts, then stops, because she doesn’t even know how to finish that sentence.

Jimin watches her, amused now, but not pushing, not crossing the line into anything that feels too much, just hovering right at the edge, curious, warm, a little bold in a way that somehow still feels safe.

“We don’t have to,” she adds, softer, like she’s giving her an out, like she’s not trying to overwhelm her.

Yoonji exhales. Her thoughts are a mess, because she should say no, she should.

But—

“…it’s big enough,” she says, immediately regretting it the second the words leave her mouth.

Jimin’s smile is instant.

“Okay.”

And just like that, Yoonji does not remember agreeing to this, she remembers turning on the water, grabbing towels, not looking at Jimin any more than absolutely necessary, her movements careful, controlled, like if she focuses too much on anything else she might short-circuit completely.

The bathroom fills slowly with warmth, steam curling softly into the air as the tub fills, bubbles forming in soft clusters that spread across the surface.

Jimin is delighted, completely.

“This is so nice,” she says, crouching slightly to touch the water, her expression lighting up in a way that makes something in Yoonji’s chest twist again.

Yoonji nods.

“Yeah.”

That’s all she manages. Getting in is complicated. Not in a dramatic way, just, logistically. Yoonji is tall, very tall and the tub is big, but not that big. Jimin slips in first, small and light, settling easily, the water shifting around her as she lets out a soft, delighted laugh, her shoulders relaxing almost instantly.

Yoonji follows. There’s a moment where she has to figure out where her legs go, how to sit without crowding the entire space, how to exist in something that suddenly feels very, very small.

Jimin watches this happen and starts laughing, not mean, not even a little, just bright.

“You’re too big,” she says, giggling, bubbles shifting as she moves slightly to make space that doesn’t really exist.

Yoonji’s face burns.

“I told you—”

“You did not,” Jimin cuts in, still laughing, her knee bumping lightly against Yoonji’s as she adjusts again, trying to help, trying to fit them both in a way that somehow makes it worse and better at the same time.

They end up close, very close. Jimin’s legs tucked slightly against Yoonji’s, the waterline uneven because of the difference in their sizes, bubbles clinging to their arms, their shoulders, shifting every time one of them moves even a little.

Yoonji doesn’t know where to look, again. Jimin, on the other hand, is having the time of her life as she leans back slightly, letting out a soft, content sound, her head tilting just enough that a few loose strands of her ponytail fall forward.

“This is amazing,” she says, smiling to herself.

Yoonji nods.

“…yeah.”

She’s very aware of everything: the warmth of the water, the closeness, the way Jimin’s knee brushes hers every time she moves. Then, Jimin lifts her hand and blows lightly: a cluster of bubbles lifts into the air.

She laughs. Yoonji watches, something soft catching in her chest, something she doesn’t quite have a name for.

Jimin does it again, bubbles drifting upward, catching the light before disappearing.

“This is so fun,” she says, giggling again, completely unfiltered, completely present in the moment.

Yoonji huffs out the smallest breath of something that might almost be a laugh.

“You’re unbelievable,” she murmurs.

Jimin looks at her, still smiling.

“You like it.”

It’s not a question.

Yoonji hesitates, then,

“…yeah.”

Jimin’s smile softens. And for a moment, despite the chaos, despite the awkwardness, despite the fact that Yoonji is very much aware that this situation should not feel as easy as it does, it’s warm. And somehow, it fits.

By the time they leave the bathroom, the world feels quieter. Not because anything has changed outside of Yoonji’s apartment, but because something inside the space between them has settled, softened into something that doesn’t rush or overwhelm. The chaos of earlier, the laughter, the bubbles, the way Yoonji didn’t know where to put her limbs or her thoughts, has melted into a gentler kind of closeness, the kind that lingers without demanding attention.

Jimin is still smiling. Her hair is a little messier now, damp at the edges where it slipped loose from her ponytail, soft strands framing her face in a way that makes her look even smaller somehow, even more herself. She’s wrapped in one of Yoonji’s towels, the fabric almost too big, swallowing her shape in a way that makes Yoonji’s chest tighten for reasons she doesn’t try to name.

“You’re staring again,” Jimin says softly, not teasing, just noticing.

Yoonji blinks, looks away.

“…sorry.”

They don’t talk about leaving, it never really comes up. Instead, Yoonji gestures quietly toward her room, the motion a little hesitant, like she’s still getting used to offering space instead of retreating into it.

“You can—sleep here,” she says, her voice low, careful. “If you want.”

Jimin doesn’t hesitate.

“I want.”

The bed feels smaller than it ever has, not physically, just aware. Yoonji changes quickly, efficiently, something soft and familiar replacing the structured layers she wore earlier, her movements practiced, controlled, like routine is something she can still rely on even now. When she turns back, Jimin is already curled under the blankets, looking entirely too comfortable for someone who has only been here a few hours.

She pats the space beside her and Yoonji hesitates for half a second, then she gets in. The distance between them is small, smaller than the tub and somehow bigger.

They lie there for a moment without speaking, the quiet stretching but not uncomfortable, just new. The room is dim, the soft outline of everything blurred into shadow, the world narrowed down to the space they share, the warmth under the blankets, the slow rhythm of breathing that hasn’t quite synced yet.

Jimin shifts first. She turns slightly, facing Yoonji, her head resting against the pillow, her expression softer now, stripped of the brightness she carries so easily in the daylight.

“You’re really tall,” she murmurs, like it’s a thought that’s been sitting with her for a while.

Yoonji exhales softly.

“…yeah.”

There’s no defense in it, no apology, just fact.

Jimin’s gaze drifts slightly, like she’s tracing the shape of her without touching, the length of her shoulders, the way she takes up space without meaning to.

“Does it bother you?” she asks, voice still soft, careful in a way that feels different from before.

Yoonji is quiet for a moment.

“Sometimes,” she admits, the words are low, almost hesitant, like she doesn’t say them often. “I feel like I’m too much. Like I don’t fit anywhere without making it obvious.”

The vulnerability of it sits between them, gentle but real. Jimin doesn’t laugh, doesn’t brush it off, instead she moves closer, just enough that their arms touch under the blanket, warm and grounding.

“You fit,” she says, just as quietly, like she’s not trying to convince her, just telling her something she already believes. “You just don’t notice where.”

Yoonji’s chest tightens and she swallows.

“…you’re really small,” she says after a moment, the words coming out softer than she intended, like she’s returning something she was given.

Jimin smiles faintly.

“I know.”

There 's a pause.

“Sometimes I feel like people don’t take me seriously,” she adds, her voice just a little quieter now, like she’s offering something back in return. “Like I’m just cute, and that’s it.”

Yoonji turns her head slightly.

“That’s not all you are,” she says, and there’s something firmer in it now, something certain in a way she doesn’t always allow herself to be.

Jimin’s eyes flicker up to meet hers and she leans in.

The kiss is soft, sleepy, nothing like the one on the ferris wheel. This one lingers, slow and quiet, like it belongs here, like it fits into the stillness of the room without disrupting it.

Yoonji exhales into it, her hand shifting slightly under the blanket, brushing against Jimin’s wrist before settling there, hesitant but real.

When they pull back,Jimin smiles, smaller now, softer.

“Okay,” she whispers.

Yoonji huffs a quiet breath.

“…okay.”

Another kiss, even softer this time, then another. They don’t count them, they don’t need to. They just happen anyway, light, unhurried, like something they’re both learning slowly, piece by piece, without rushing ahead of themselves.

At some point, Jimin shifts closer again, her head tucking lightly against Yoonji’s shoulder, fitting into the space like it was made for her.

Yoonji stills for a second then relaxes. Her arm moves carefully, resting around Jimin in a way that feels natural and terrifying all at once, like she’s holding something fragile and doesn’t quite trust herself not to ruin it.

Jimin hums softly, content.

“You’re warm,” she murmurs, already half-asleep.

Yoonji lets out a quiet breath.

“You’re light.”

Jimin smiles against her.

“Good.”

The silence settles again. But this time, it’s different, it’s full as their breathing evens out slowly, the space between them disappearing completely, replaced by something steady, something real, something that doesn’t feel like it’s going to vanish the second they close their eyes.

And somewhere between soft breaths and the last, barely-there kiss pressed into the quiet they fall asleep.

Yoonji wakes up slowly. Not the way she usually does, sharp, immediate, pulled into awareness like there’s always somewhere she needs to be, but gently, like something is holding her there for a moment longer, like there’s no rush to leave whatever this is.

She doesn’t move right away. Her eyes stay closed, her breathing slow, steady, as her mind catches up in soft pieces instead of all at once. There’s weight against her, light but present, something tucked into her side in a way that feels intentional. Familiar, even though it shouldn’t be yet.

Then, memory. Her eyes open and Jimin is there. Curled against her like she belongs, one arm loosely draped across Yoonji’s waist, her face half-hidden against her shoulder, blonde hair messy and soft from sleep, strands falling wherever they want without care. She looks smaller like this, somehow, softer, quieter, stripped of the brightness she carries so easily when she’s awake.

And still just as overwhelming.

Yoonji doesn’t breathe for a second. The realization settles slowly, but when it does, it doesn’t come with the usual tightness in her chest, the usual instinct to pull back or question it.

It just stays.

Jimin shifts slightly, her nose brushing faintly against the fabric of Yoonji’s shirt, a soft, sleepy sound leaving her like she’s just now waking up too, her eyes blink open, slow, unfocused at first. Then, they land on Yoonji and she smiles.

“Hi,” she murmurs, her voice still thick with sleep.

Yoonji exhales quietly, something in her loosening in a way she doesn’t think she’s ever felt before.

“Hi.”

They stay like that for a moment, just looking. No rush, no pressure. Jimin lifts her head slightly, just enough to see her better, her hand shifting where it rests against Yoonji’s side, fingers brushing lightly against the fabric there without really thinking about it.

“You’re still here,” she says, like it matters.

Yoonji blinks.

“…yeah.”

Jimin smiles again, a little more awake now.

“Good.”

And then she leans in. The kiss is soft, still half-asleep. Yoonji freezes for half a second then melts into it. There’s no hesitation this time, no sharp rush of panic or uncertainty. Her hand moves almost instinctively, resting gently against Jimin’s side, steadying her, grounding both of them in something that feels easy.

Jimin hums softly into the kiss, like she’s content, like this is exactly where she wants to be.

When they pull back, it’s only because they have to but Jimin doesn’t go far, she presses another kiss to the corner of Yoonji’s mouth, then another.

Soft and unhurried.

Yoonji lets out the faintest breath of a laugh, her forehead tipping forward slightly until it rests against Jimin’s.

“…you do that a lot,” she murmurs.

Jimin smiles at her.

“Yeah,” she says simply. “I like you.”

It’s so easy the way she says it.

Yoonji’s chest tightens but not in a painful way, in a way that feels like something is settling into place.

“I like you too,” she admits, quieter, but no less real.

Jimin beams and kisses her again. It’s still soft, still gentle, but there’s something brighter in it now, something awake, something that matches the way the morning light is starting to slip through the curtains, filling the room in soft gold.

Yoonji shifts slightly, her arm tightening just a little around Jimin without thinking, pulling her closer in a way that feels natural now, like she’s allowed to want this, like she’s allowed to keep it.

Jimin fits, perfectly.

“You know,” Jimin murmurs after a moment, her voice lighter now, playful in that familiar way that makes everything feel a little easier, “you’re still really tall.”

Yoonji huffs quietly.

“You’re still really small.”

Jimin grins.

“Good,” she says, like that’s exactly how it should be.

Yoonji looks at her, at the way her eyes crinkle when she smiles, at the way her hair refuses to stay in place, at the warmth in her expression that never seems to fade when she’s looking at her, at the fact that she’s here with her, choosing her.

Yoonji leans in first this time. The kiss is still soft but there’s no hesitation in it as  Jimin melts into it immediately, her hand coming up to rest lightly against Yoonji’s cheek, her thumb brushing there in a way that makes something warm bloom under her skin.

They stay like that for a while, talking in between, kissing again. Laughing quietly when Tang inevitably jumps onto the bed and demands attention like he wasn’t already the center of everything last night.

Yoonji feels something she’s never quite let herself feel before: wanted. Not in a distant way, not in a way she has to question or second-guess. But here, now. By someone who sees her and stays.

She presses one last kiss to Jimin’s lips, slower this time, letting it linger just a second longer before pulling back.

Jimin smiles at her like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

And maybe, for once, it is.