A shiver.
It was the smallest thing. But Y/N felt it in her chest.
She hesitated. But the sight of Jennie stripped of her armor for once, fragile in the way she would never allow herself to be, made her move before she could stop herself. The blanket was folded between the seats. Y/N reached carefully, as if the fabric might shatter. Slowly, quietly, she leaned, draping it over Jennie's lap, then shoulders.
Jennie stirred. Lashes fluttered.
Y/N froze, breath caught sharp.
But Jennie didn't open her eyes. Didn't push it away. She only shifted, burrowing deeper into the seat, a sigh slipping past her lips, softer than Y/N thought Jennie Kim could ever sound. Y/N eased back, heart racing. She turned her gaze to the window, watching city lights smear into streaks of white and gold, doing everything she could not to think about what she'd just done.
It wasn't much. A blanket. A gesture. A crack in a wall that had felt unbreakable for months.
It mattered. Somehow, it mattered.
And she couldn't stop wondering if Jennie would acknowledge it in the morning.
Backstage was a hive before a show, a frantic choreography on its own. Stylists hunched over racks of outfits, tugging zippers into place, makeup brushes tapping like clock hands against palettes. Staff shouted, voices clashing with the muffled roar of fans bleeding through the walls. The air smelled like hairspray, fabric glue, and nerves.
Y/N kept her head down, phone hugged close to her chest. She was there to shadow Alison, to fetch what was needed before anyone realized it was missing, to double-check schedules against actual time. Quiet, invisible, that was the job.
Jennie had just left, muttering that she forgot something, the door swinging soft behind her. The buzz of voices filled the space again.
"She's impossible sometimes," one stylist said, tone pitched low but not low enough. "Always frowning, always changing something. Honestly, she makes everything harder than it has to be."
Another gave a small laugh, not unkind but dismissive. "That's Jennie. The difficult one of the group."
The words landed in Y/N's chest like a slap. Sharp. Offhand. Too familiar.
Her grip on the phone tightened, knuckles whitening against the edge. She wasn't supposed to hear. She wasn't supposed to care. This was normal, staff whispered all the time, behind closed doors, sometimes even in the open like this. You ignored it. You pretended it didn't exist. That was the rule.
But something inside her snapped.
Jennie had heard. Y/N knew it. The girl had only stepped just outside, she would've caught every word.
Before Y/N could stop herself, her voice cut through the hum of backstage.
"She's not difficult."
The words were out before she even knew she was saying them. Her voice sliced into the air, steady, louder than she meant. Heads turned.
Y/N's pulse spiked, but she didn't flinch. She shifted the phone in her grip, fingers digging into the edge. "She wants everything to be perfect. She's tired, she's human. You'd be the same if you were carrying her schedule."
A beat of silence stretched long.
One stylist muttered under her breath and busied herself with a rack. The other gave a shrug, lips pressing thin.
Y/N's ears burned. She ducked her head, pretending to type something, trying to steady her hands. Maybe she'd just ruined everything. Maybe she'd be labeled difficult too. She had no idea if anyone even cared she'd said it.
The door opened.
Jennie slipped back inside, earrings glittering in her hand. She didn't look at anyone. Didn't say a word. Just crossed to the chair, sat, and faced the mirror, her expression blank as the makeup artist touched up her eyeliner. Like nothing had happened.
But Y/N couldn't shake the thought that she'd heard.
Hours later, after the show, Y/N returned to the small desk crammed into the corner of the staff lounge at YG building. Her tablet, her notes, the mess of schedules waiting to be filed. And there, set neatly at the edge, was a paper cup.
Still warm.
Her name scrawled across the side, not the manager shorthand she was used to, but her full name, written in looping black ink. And just beneath it, two small words, cramped but unmistakable.
Her breath caught. She knew the handwriting instantly.
She looked around, but the hall outside was empty, silent but for the hum of vending machines. Jennie was long gone, probably already on her way back to the dorm.
Y/N's fingers brushed the cup. The ink smudged faintly under her touch.
It wasn't much. Just two words. But it was the first real acknowledgement. A crack in a wall that had felt impenetrable for months.
She sat down slowly, the chair creaking under her. She lifted the cup to her lips, the heat curling into her palms, and let herself smile. Small, secret, fleeting.
It wasn't friendship yet, wasn't even close. But it was something. And that something mattered.
Then the world stopped in 2020. Because of corona.
Concerts canceled. Flights grounded. Schedules dissolved overnight. For once, there were no countdowns, no rehearsals, no frantic packing of suitcases.