mechanic!dani - grease and paperbacks [0] [1] [2] [3] [4]
toxic!sophia - puntirya [1] [2]
oneshots
sophia
teach me, touch me
pancake war
ayokong mag-isa
lara
the world can wait
manon
wildflowers
daniela
marlboro
still, it's you
megan
before you walked in
quick about me;
hi! i'm rayn. i loved to write, but never posted any on this platform. will be able to write since i'm not so busy w schoollll:] MDNI MDNI MDNI MDNI i do not like ekalals
requests? yes pls!!! i will get to them sooner or laterr
synopsis: on her birthday, lara notices you’ve forgotten — until an unplanned dinner invitation slowly turns into a night she’ll never forget.
wc: 2239
you wake up earlier than usual — not because you have to, but because you can’t stop thinking about today. lara’s birthday.
you’ve been planning for weeks — the dinner, the sketch, the little moment that’s supposed to make her cry (in a good way).
the plan’s simple: act normal. no morning greeting, no hints, no posts. she’ll think you forgot. then later, boom — surprise.
easy enough.
you grab your phone and type, casual and clueless:
you: morning, babe
a minute later:
lara: morning 😗
you grin a little, relieved she’s awake.
you: whatchu up to?
lara: just got up hehe u?
you: about to make coffee. wanna teleport here and make breakfast for us? 😤
lara: 😭 rude. u can cook better anyway.
you laugh quietly. everything feels normal. light. she’s teasing — no suspicion.
you: true. maybe i’ll just make pancakes again
lara: u and those pancakes 💀
you: don’t insult my comfort meal 😤
lara: ok ok chef 😌
you can almost hear her laugh, the soft kind that trails at the end of her words.
but then… the chat slows.
no more messages after that.
she stops replying, and you don’t double text — on purpose.
hours pass.
you scroll through your phone, pretending it doesn’t bother you, but you keep checking the screen anyway.
by lunchtime, still nothing.
you picture her lying on her bed, scrolling too, seeing no message from you except those dumb pancake jokes.
and you know exactly what she’s thinking — did they really forget?
you tell yourself it’s fine. you’ll make it up to her later. it’s all part of the plan.
but the thought of her feeling a little sad because of you?
yeah. that stings more than you expected.
by late afternoon, the silence between you two feels too heavy.
you scroll through tiktok, trying to distract yourself, when a random video pops up — a rooftop restaurant, soft golden lights, pretty city skyline. perfect.
you grin. maybe this can be your opening.
you hit share and text her.
you: omg look what i saw on tiktok 😭😭
no reply for three minutes.
you start doubting the whole idea — maybe she’s too annoyed to answer — but then the typing bubble appears.
lara: omg that view tho??
you: RIGHT?? it’s a rooftop resto near downtown!! we should go 😭😭
lara: wait it’s here?? that’s so pretty 🥹
you: yeah i just checked, it’s not far 👀 we could try it for dinner?
lara: like tonight?
you: mhm 😏 my treat, ofc
a longer pause this time. then finally:
lara: sure. why not hehe
you let out a small breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
that night, when you pick her up, she’s quiet at first — polite, composed, not cold, just a little distant.
her smile when she sees you isn’t quite the bright one she usually gives, but it’s there.
“hey,” she says softly.
“hey,” you reply, opening the car door for her.
she raises an eyebrow. “someone’s being gentlemanly tonight.”
“what, i can’t be nice?”
“you can,” she says, lips curling into the faintest smile. “it’s just… rare.”
“ouch,” you laugh, but it breaks the ice. she chuckles too.
the drive isn’t loud — music low, city lights blurring past. you try to fill the quiet with small talk.
“i still can’t believe we haven’t been there before,” you say, drumming your fingers on the wheel.
“maybe it’s new?” she replies, looking out the window. “you and your tiktok finds.”
“hey, i have good taste sometimes.”
“sometimes,” she repeats, smiling to herself.
you glance at her profile in the passing light — soft, thoughtful, but her eyes have that glint of something held back.
you can tell she’s been waiting all day for something that never came.
and she’s trying so hard to act like it’s okay.
you grip the steering wheel a little tighter. just wait, love, you think. you’ll understand soon.
when you arrive, the rooftop is already glowing under strings of warm lights. the air’s cool, carrying faint music and laughter from other tables.
lara’s eyes widen. “oh… wow.”
“yeah?” you grin. “not bad for a random tiktok, huh?”
she laughs softly, still taking it all in. “you seriously just found this today?”
you shrug. “what can i say, my algorithm’s romantic.”
she gives you that look — the one that’s equal parts fond and suspicious.
“hm. convenient.”
you raise your brows innocently. “what?”
“nothing,” she says, lips curling. “just feels like you’re up to something.”
you smirk. “me? never.”
“mmhm,” she hums, but she’s smiling again — brighter this time, genuine.
and for now, that’s enough.
you let her believe this was spontaneous, accidental, unplanned.
you let her think it’s just another random dinner.
the elevator doors open to a rush of warm air, soft jazz, and the glow of fairy lights. the rooftop is beautiful — more than the tiktok made it look.
string lights loop between the beams, city skyline stretching out below, and the tables are dressed with candles flickering gently in the breeze.
lara steps out first, eyes wide.
“this place is insane,” she breathes, a small smile tugging at her lips.
you can’t help but stare — the golden light catches her skin, the wind lifts a few strands of her hair. she looks like she belongs here.
“worth the tiktok find?” you ask, hands in your pockets to hide the fact that they’re shaking a little.
“yeah,” she says softly. “it’s beautiful.”
“you like it?”
“mm,” she hums, still looking around. “kinda makes up for… never mind.”
“for what?” you ask gently, but she shakes her head.
“nothing. come on, we’re gonna lose the sunset.”
you let her walk ahead, and while she’s distracted by the view, you slip a small nod toward the host.
the host smiles — your quiet cue that everything’s ready.
you lead lara to the far corner of the rooftop, where one table stands a little apart from the rest, surrounded by lanterns and pale pink petals scattered underfoot.
she stops in her tracks.
“wait,” she says slowly. “this isn’t just—”
you grin. “surprise.”
her eyes flick between you and the setup — candles, her favorite flowers, a soft playlist playing somewhere nearby.
and then you pull something from behind your chair — a bouquet so big she literally gasps.
“no way,” she whispers.
you hold it out to her, trying not to laugh at her stunned face.
“happy birthday, lara.”
she blinks. once, twice.
“you— you jerk.”
you laugh. “excuse me?”
“you pretended to forget!” she says, but her voice cracks mid-sentence — she’s laughing too now, half embarrassed, half relieved.
“i didn’t pretend,” you protest lightly. “i was just… creating dramatic tension.”
“oh my god.” she covers her face with one hand, bouquet pressed to her chest. “i was so close to deleting your contact this morning.”
“you what?”
“kidding!” she says, still laughing. “mostly.”
she looks down at the flowers — the exact kind she mentioned months ago, the ones she said she loved but never bought for herself.
her voice drops, soft now. “you really remembered.”
“of course i did.”
there’s a moment of silence between you two — quiet, not awkward, just full.
the city hums below, the wind tugs at the candle flames, and you can finally see her shoulders relax, like the weight she’s been carrying all day just lifts.
she sets the bouquet gently on the table, brushing her fingers along the petals.
“i really thought you forgot,” she says finally. “i kept checking my phone like an idiot.”
you smile faintly. “yeah, i kinda imagined that part. sorry.”
“you’re evil,” she murmurs, but she’s smiling again — that soft, real smile that reaches her eyes.
“i’ll make it up to you,” you say. “order anything you want. i’m prepared to go bankrupt for this meal.”
“good,” she says, laughing. “because i’m getting the most expensive thing on the menu.”
“you’d do that anyway.”
“true,” she admits, eyes sparkling.
as the night goes on, the air shifts — lighter now. laughter returns between bites and sips of wine, your knees bump under the table more than once.
she teases you about your outfit (“you wore white to dinner? bold of you”), and you tease her about almost crying earlier (“you got emotional so fast”).
but under the teasing, there’s warmth — something steady and quiet.
at one point, she looks at you, really looks, and says, “you always do this, you know.”
“do what?”
“make me think you don’t care,” she says, voice soft. “and then prove me completely wrong.”
you smile a little. “wouldn’t be as fun if i made it obvious.”
she rolls her eyes, but her hand slides across the table until her fingers brush yours.
“you’re impossible,” she says.
“but worth it?”
she laughs. “...maybe.”
after dinner, you walk her closer to the edge of the rooftop where the city lights glitter below. the wind’s cooler now, carrying the scent of her perfume mixed with the faint sweetness of the bouquet.
she leans on the railing. “thank you. for tonight.”
“thank you for existing,” you say quietly, and she turns to you, surprised, then laughs — the soft, flustered kind.
“that’s cheesy.”
“accurate, though.”
for a while, neither of you talk. the night just stretches out — the hum of the city, her hand finding yours again.
the drive back is quiet, the good kind of quiet.
lara’s leaning against the window, bouquet on her lap, soft music filling the car. she’s smiling faintly, that post-surprise glow still lingering.
you glance at her every few seconds — she’s tracing the ribbon on the bouquet absentmindedly, humming along to the song.
“you tired?” you ask.
“a little,” she says, turning to you. “but… happy tired.”
you grin. “good.”
“why?”
“you’ll see.”
she squints at you suspiciously. “what does that mean?”
“nothing,” you say, too quickly.
“you’re doing that face again.”
“what face?”
“the ‘i’m hiding something’ face.”
“no such face exists.”
“you’re smiling right now!”
“because you’re cute when you’re suspicious.”
she groans. “ugh, stop being charming.”
you laugh, pulling into the parking lot. “too late for that.”
when you unlock your condo door, she steps in first — and freezes.
the lights are dim, the living room warm with the soft flicker of candles. there are fairy lights strung along the shelf, a few photos of you two pinned up between them, and on the coffee table:
a small cake, a few neatly wrapped gifts, and an easel covered by a white cloth.
lara turns to you slowly, eyes wide.
“you’re actually insane.”
“in the romantic kind of way,” you say, grinning.
she just stares at you, speechless for a moment — then laughs, shaking her head.
“you did all this? after the restaurant?”
“mmhm.”
“when?”
“i had help,” you admit. “my cousin came earlier to light the candles.”
“so this whole day—”
“was planned,” you say softly. “every bit of it.”
she looks around again, her expression softening, lips parting like she’s trying to take it all in.
the glow of the lights, the faint smell of vanilla from the cake, the quiet music you queued before leaving.
“you’re ridiculous,” she murmurs.
“you love that about me.”
“...maybe.”
she moves toward the coffee table, eyes flicking between the gifts and the covered easel.
“can i open these?”
“in a sec,” you say. “there’s something first.”
you gesture to the easel, walking over to it.
“i’ve been working on this for a while. it’s not finished, but… i wanted you to see it tonight.”
you pull off the cloth.
lara’s breath catches.
it’s her — sitting by the window in your place, sunlight pouring over her face. her expression soft, almost dreamy. the sketch is detailed down to the smallest curve of her smile, each stroke deliberate and full of care.
she stares at it for a long moment, hands hovering like she’s afraid to touch it.
“you— this is me?”
“yeah,” you say quietly. “been working on it every night you said you were too busy to call.”
she turns to you, eyes glassy now. “it’s… beautiful.”
“it’s not done yet,” you admit. “i wanted it to be perfect, but… it kinda felt right to give it while it’s still in progress. like—”
“like me?” she says softly.
you nod. “like us.”
she exhales, laughing a little as she wipes at her eyes. “you’re gonna make me cry again.”
“that’s part of the plan,” you tease.
she looks at the cake next — small, simple, with soft pink frosting and your messy handwriting in icing:
happy birthday, my favorite person.
you hand her a lighter. “make a wish?”
she tilts her head at you. “you already gave me everything.”
“there’s always more to wish for.”
she smiles, eyes shining in the candlelight. “fine.”
she closes her eyes, takes a quiet breath, and for a few seconds, everything goes still — no music, no city noise, just the sound of her breathing and the flicker of the flame.
then she blows it out.
you clap dramatically. “what’d you wish for?”
“not telling,” she says, grinning.
“come on.”
“nope. if i say it, it won’t come true.”
“you’re so annoying.”
“and you love that about me,” she echoes your earlier words, smiling wider now.
later, after the gifts are unwrapped — small things you picked out carefully (a new sketchbook, her favorite perfume, a printed photo of your first date) — she leans against you on the couch, the sketch still propped up across the room.
“this might be my favorite birthday ever,” she says quietly.
you hum. “only might?”
“okay, definitely.”
you glance at her, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “so… did your wish come true yet?”
she grins, eyes half-lidded. “maybe it just did.”
you laugh softly. “cheesy.”
“accurate, though,” she says, borrowing your line from earlier.
and for a while, neither of you say anything — just the two of you in the soft glow of candlelight, the smell of flowers and frosting in the air, and the faint pencil lines of her face on canvas watching over the room.
synopsis:: In the heat of prep for the VMAs, one of Ariana’s dancers crosses paths with Sophia — a rising performer who refuses to slow down. Between mirrored walls and pounding bass, exhaustion blurs into something softer.
pairing: sophia x fem!reader
trope: idol!sophia x dancer!reader
wc: 3879
You used to think that working for someone like Ariana Grande would make you immune to nerves.
After three years on her team, you’ve danced on stages bigger than small towns, faced cameras from every angle, memorized every step until it felt like muscle memory. You’ve been under blinding lights, inside roaring crowds, with Ariana laughing into the mic between sets like she wasn’t running on caffeine and four hours of sleep.
You’ve seen it all.
But somehow, it still never stops thrilling you.
Rehearsals always start early.
You stretch before dawn, warm-up playlist humming through the studio speakers, light slanting across the mirrors. Ariana walks in half an hour later with a coffee in each hand and her signature messy bun, greeting everyone with a lazy “morning, team.”
She tosses you one of the coffees. “You’re here before everyone again.”
“I like the quiet,” you say, catching it with one hand. “And I wanted to rework that bridge.”
She smirks. “Of course you did. Do you ever sleep, or do you just power down for an hour like a Roomba?”
You laugh. “Says the woman whose bedtime is a myth.”
“Touché,” she says, sipping her drink. “At least I don’t start pliés before sunrise.”
You shrug. “Some of us are dedicated.”
“Some of us,” she says, arching a brow, “are a little unhinged.”
You’ve earned her teasing, her trust, and something that feels almost like friendship. Onstage, she’s all control — charisma and confidence. Offstage, she’s human. She cracks jokes, messes up lyrics, sends you videos of her dog wearing sunglasses.
Once, after a long rehearsal, she’d grinned at you through the mirror and said, “You’re starting to scare me with how serious you are.”
And you’d shot back, “That’s just professionalism.”
“Mm, no,” she’d said, thoughtful. “That’s obsession. But, like… the good kind.”
She’s also the first to push you harder, to challenge your instincts, to tell you that your ideas deserve to be seen.
“You have an eye for this,” she said once, months ago, when you suggested an alternate transition between sets. “Don’t just dance it — direct it.”
It stuck with you.
So when she tells you you’re one of her favorites to work with, you don’t take it lightly. It’s why you give everything, every show. Why you stretch before everyone, why you count out loud even when you’re exhausted.
Still, all the discipline in the world can’t help with one particular weakness: you can’t stop talking about Sophia Laforteza.
It started with a clip from an award show — the global girl group KATSEYE performing a routine so sharp it looked unreal. Six dancers, each movement perfectly in sync. But Sophia moved differently. She had control and grace, yes, but there was an ease to her.
You replayed the clip so many times that Ariana eventually noticed.
“Who’s caught your eye this time?” she asked one afternoon, flopping dramatically onto the studio floor between run-throughs.
You froze mid-stretch. “No one. Just watching choreography.”
“Mhm.” She tilted her head, pretending to think. “Oh wait — Sophia Laforteza, right?”
You blinked. “How—”
“Sweetheart, you’ve had that video on loop for three days. Even my ears are tired.”
You sighed, rubbing your face. “It’s called professional appreciation.”
Ariana smirked. “Sure. Professionally down bad.”
“Ariana, please.”
She grinned wider. “You’re blushing. Adorable.”
“I’m not—”
“Oh, you so are.” She leaned back with a satisfied hum. “God, I live for this. You haven’t been this flustered since I let you choreograph that duet.”
You groaned, throwing a towel at her. “You’re impossible.”
“Accurate,” she said, catching it with a wink. “Now go rewatch your little crush. Maybe take notes — purely for research, of course.”
She laughed, but you caught the knowing look she tossed you before going back to rehearsal. She didn’t forget.
Meanwhile, on another side of the world, Sophia was watching your performances too.
She thought there was something magnetic about you — not in a starstruck way, but in how you moved like music was second nature. She’d followed Ariana’s shows for years, fascinated by her team of dancers, and she knew your face long before the VMAs. You had a way of making choreography feel alive, spontaneous, even in a stadium.
When KATSEYE was nominated for their first international award, Sophia promised herself she wouldn’t fangirl. She’d be professional, poised. But when Ariana’s team was announced as one of the performers, her heart did a little flip she couldn’t control.
The other members noticed immediately.
Lara nudged her shoulder backstage. “You’re smiling too much. Spill.”
Sophia blinked. “What?”
“Who is it? Don’t tell me it’s that dancer again — Y/N, right?”
Sophia glared. “You’re imagining things.”
Lara raised an eyebrow. “Imagining you watching her fancams at 2 a.m.?”
Sophia gasped. “I do not—”
“You so do.” Lara smirked. “You’re blushing.”
“I’m stretching,” Sophia muttered, turning away.
“Sure,” Lara said, sing-song. “Stretching your denial.”
At the VMAs, fate finally stepped in.
Ariana’s performance hit the stage first — full production, fire and silhouettes and synchronized chaos. You killed every beat, muscles screaming but heart full. When the crowd screamed, you felt weightless.
Backstage, Ariana threw an arm around you. “That bridge? You owned it.”
You grinned, breathless. “You owe me new knees.”
“Add it to the invoice,” she said, laughing.
And then, mid-sentence, her eyes widened. “Wait. Oh my god—is that—?”
You followed her gaze and your stomach dropped. KATSEYE. Right across the hall.
Ariana didn’t hesitate. “Okay, come on.”
“What—Ariana, no, don’t you dare—”
Too late. She was already marching you over, smiling dazzlingly. “Hi! You guys were incredible!”
KATSEYE turned, all warmth and energy despite the exhaustion. “Thank you so much! You’re a huge inspiration to us.”
“Stop,” Ariana said dramatically, clutching her chest. “You’re gonna make me cry!”
She slid seamlessly into conversation — complimenting their set, laughing at inside jokes within seconds, classic Ariana charm. You, meanwhile, hovered behind her, half-tempted to dissolve into the carpet.
Until she said, sweetly, “Actually, you guys should meet one of my dancers. This is Y/N.”
Six pairs of eyes turned your way. You managed a small wave. “Hi.”
“And she,” Ariana continued, her grin downright evil now, “is a huge fan. Especially of you, Sophia.”
Your jaw dropped. “Ariana—!”
Sophia blinked — then smiled. Slow, knowing. “Is that so?”
Ariana beamed. “Oh, it’s so.”
You covered your face. “I’m quitting.”
“Not before tour, you’re not,” Ariana whispered, delighted.
“She talks about your performances all the time,” Ariana said, undeterred, grin sharp enough to draw blood. “I figured maybe you’d want to connect. She’s crazy talented — choreographs sometimes, too.”
You wanted the ground to swallow you whole. Or maybe just Ariana. Either would do.
Sophia, however, didn’t look scandalized at all. She smiled — soft, genuine, a little shy. “I’ve… actually seen your work. You’re amazing.”
Your brain short-circuited. “Wait— you have?”
“Of course,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “That tour video from Paris? The footwork section was unreal.”
You blinked. “I— wow. That’s— thank you.”
And that should’ve been it — polite compliment, a quick smile, the kind of moment that fades after a handshake. But Ariana Grande had never let a perfect opportunity for chaos go unseized.
“Hang on,” she said suddenly, digging into her oversized tote.
“Ariana, no,” you warned, sensing the storm.
“Oh, absolutely yes.” She pulled out a small notecard, scribbled something on it, and handed it to Sophia with a flourish. “Here. Her number. In case you ever want to collaborate.”
You gawked. “What are you— why—”
“Networking!” Ariana said brightly. “I’m just helping the arts thrive.”
Sophia tried — and failed — to hide her smile, staring down at the card like it was more than just digits on paper. “Thank you,” she said, glancing up at you. “I… might take you up on that.”
You groaned into your hands. “I’m going to die.”
Ariana patted your back, completely unbothered. “You’re welcome.”
Sophia laughed, soft and amused, before the group was called away. But as she turned to leave, she caught your gaze again — a quick, wordless moment that buzzed in your chest long after she disappeared backstage.
And that’s how it started.
A week later, your phone buzzed.
hi, this is sophia from katseye ☺️
hope it’s okay that i’m reaching out! we’re prepping for coachella and need a choreographer and dancer for a new dance break. ariana said you’re brilliant.
You nearly dropped your phone. You stared at the message like it was a mirage.
hi!! yeah, totally okay omg
i’d love to help if you still need someone
A reply came almost instantly.
perfect. rehearsal starts next monday. can i send you the details?
absolutely. see you soon!
can’t wait :)
You stared at that last message way too long — rereading the little smiley face like it meant something more — before locking your phone, heart still racing.
The first day of rehearsal feels like a dream.
The KATSEYE girls are warm, welcoming, funny — and terrifyingly hardworking. But Sophia is on another level. She’s composed yet kind, firm when she needs to be. Every movement she does is precise, every direction measured. You see why the others follow her so easily.
But it’s when you start choreographing that everything shifts.
You don’t just move — you communicate through rhythm. You analyze how each body carries weight, how transitions can breathe, how emotion drives the beat. You’re articulate and patient, guiding without condescension.
Sophia thought you made everything look effortless — the kind of ease that comes from years of muscle memory and instinct. The same movements she struggled to control seemed to flow through you like second nature.
“Again from the top,” you call, clapping your hands. “Watch the transitions after the bridge.”
They reset. The music pulses. Sophia catches your reflection in the mirror — the way you mouth the counts under your breath, every muscle tuned to rhythm.
When they finish, you clap once. “That was it.”
Sophia grins, cheeks flushed. “Thanks to your miracle tweaks.”
“You already had the magic,” you say, smiling. “I just organized it.”
She laughs softly. “You make it sound easy.”
You shrug. “It’s easier when you’ve got someone who actually listens.”
Sophia tilts her head, teasing. “Is that your way of saying I’m your favorite student?”
You grin. “Maybe. Don’t tell the others — they’ll start trying too hard.”
She bites back a smile. “Our secret.”
As rehearsals stretch on, so does your connection.
You talk between breaks — about injuries, tour food, what home means when you’re always on the road. You teach her a few of Ariana’s warm-up routines; she shows you how she builds formations from lyrics first, not counts.
One afternoon, you sit beside her on the studio floor, eating energy bars and complaining about sore legs.
“You ever realize dancers basically pay rent in muscle pain?” she says.
“Yeah, but at least the rent’s due in endorphins.”
She laughs, tossing her wrapper at you. “You’re so corny.”
“You’re laughing, though.”
“Unfortunately.”
One night, everyone else leaves early. You stay to clean up transitions for the bridge. Sophia lingers, tying her shoes.
“You should rest,” you tell her.
“So should you.”
You smile. “Touché.”
She queues the music again, stubborn. “Let’s try one more time.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You said that an hour ago.”
“Yeah, and it’s still true.”
So you do.
The music fills the empty studio, echoing in the mirrors. When she spins toward you, hitting the final count, your eyes meet. There’s sweat and silence and something unspoken hanging in the air — fragile, charged.
You break it first. “Perfect.”
She breathes out, smiling. “Only because you’re here.”
It slips out — honest, unfiltered. Her eyes widen a second later. “I mean—uh—because you keep me on count.”
You laugh quietly. “Nice save.”
She covers her face, groaning. “That was so bad.”
“Cute, though,” you say before you can stop yourself.
Her hand drops just enough for you to see her grin. “You think I’m cute when I mess up?”
You smirk. “I think you’d look cute tripping over a water bottle.”
“Noted,” she says, cheeks pink. “I’ll make that part of the choreo.”
Your heart doesn’t stop racing for the rest of the night.
By the fourth day of rehearsals, everyone’s running on caffeine and adrenaline.
The choreography’s brutal — quick footwork, syncopated beats, and transitions that demand precision. Sophia keeps insisting on running the bridge section again and again, even after everyone else starts collapsing onto the floor.
“Let’s do it one more time,” she says, voice hoarse, hands on her knees.
You check your watch. “That’s what you said three ‘one more times’ ago.”
“I’ll get it this time.”
You cross your arms. “I believe you. I just also believe in water breaks.”
She straightens up, breath shallow. “You sound like my mom.”
You smirk. “Bet your mom’s right, though.”
The others exchange tired glances, but nobody argues when Sophia insists again. The music starts, and she throws herself into it — sharper, faster, desperate for perfection.
Halfway through, she stumbles. Just a small misstep, but enough to break the rhythm. She waves everyone off before anyone can react.
“I’m fine,” she says, but her voice cracks.
You pause the track and walk over, concern threading your tone. “Sophia.”
“I said I’m fine.”
Her tone’s gentle but clipped — frustration more with herself than you. You’ve seen that look before. In mirrors. In every exhausted dancer who thinks one more repetition will fix everything.
You kneel slightly, trying to catch her gaze. “You don’t have to prove anything right now.”
“I just—” she exhales shakily. “I had it earlier.”
“I know,” you say softly. “And you’ll have it again. But not if you break yourself getting there.”
For a long moment, she just breathes — eyes glossy, shoulders trembling. Then finally, she nods.
“Okay,” she says quietly.
You hand her your water bottle. “Drink. That’s an order.”
She takes it, managing a small laugh. “Bossy.”
You grin. “Effective.”
“Take five,” you say, keeping your voice calm.
She shakes her head. “No, I just… I know this part’s supposed to hit harder. If I can just—”
“You can’t fix anything if you pass out,” you interrupt softly. “Sit down.”
For a moment she looks like she might argue — jaw tight, eyes flicking to the mirror as if she can will herself to keep going. Then the tension drains from her shoulders. She drops to the floor, stretching her legs out in front of her with a frustrated sigh.
“That perfectionist streak’s gonna be the death of you,” you murmur, crouching beside her.
She looks up at you, a tired smile tugging at her lips. “You sound like my manager.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You shouldn’t,” she says, smirking. “He’s bossy.”
“So I’ve heard.” You tilt your head, trying to catch her gaze. “You know, you don’t have to prove anything. The choreo’s already solid. You’ve got it.”
She looks down at the floor, tracing small circles on her knee with one finger. “I just want it to feel like it’s mine. Like I earned it.”
You nod. “You already did. The rest is just polish.”
She exhales, long and shaky, then leans back on her hands. “Do you ever get tired of this?”
“Dancing?”
“No. The part where your body says stop but your head won’t listen.”
You smile faintly. “Every day.”
She studies you for a second — really studies you — eyes flicking from your face to your hands to the scuff marks on your shoes. “You make it look easy.”
“It’s not.”
“I know,” she says, quieter now. “That’s why it’s amazing.”
You tilt your head, fighting a grin. “You’ve got a dangerous habit of complimenting your choreographer, you know that?”
She smirks. “Maybe I just like seeing you flustered.”
You laugh under your breath. “Keep talking like that and I’ll make the routine twice as hard.”
“Rude,” she says, pretending to pout.
The room is still except for the faint hum of the speakers cooling down. The other members are stretching, talking softly in the corner, giving you both a bubble of space.
You reach over and press your hand gently to her shoulder. “Rest for a bit, okay? Then we’ll walk through it slower.”
She doesn’t move right away, but she doesn’t pull away either. “You really don’t stop taking care of people, do you?”
“It’s a bad habit.”
Her lips twitch. “It’s a good one.”
“You’re biased.”
“Maybe,” she says, smiling. “But I like it.”
You stay like that for a while — her sitting on the floor, you crouched beside her, the world narrowed to the soft rhythm of breath and the smell of sweat and soundstage dust. It isn’t romantic, not exactly. Just real. A quiet moment carved out of exhaustion.
Finally, she straightens, determination flickering back in her eyes. “Alright. Slow run?”
You grin. “That’s my girl.”
She huffs a laugh. “Careful. I might start liking it when you call me that.”
You roll your eyes but can’t stop the smile tugging at your lips. “Get up before I change my mind.”
She does — slower this time, steadier. When the music starts again, her movements are lighter, looser. Not perfect, but alive.
And when she glances at you in the mirror mid-spin, there’s something new there. Not the chasing kind of focus, but the grounded kind — the kind that trusts she’s not doing this alone.
You don’t say anything. You just nod once, quietly proud.
Time passes in a blur; Coachella.
You’ve never seen anything like it — a sea of people, endless light.
Coachella from the stage isn’t something you can ever really prepare for. Even after weeks of rehearsal, bruises and sore muscles, every late-night tweak to the routine, nothing compares to the real thing: the heat of the lights, the scream of the crowd, the way the ground vibrates with the bass.
When the dance break hits, you’re not just watching this time. You’re in it.
The crowd shifts with you, thousands of bodies moving to the rhythm you built. Sophia’s beside you, every step sharp, every movement fierce but fluid, like she’s burning brighter than the stage lights themselves. You’ve never seen anyone command an audience like that — not even during rehearsals.
And then, in the middle of the chaos, her eyes find you.
Just a flicker, a heartbeat, but enough to make you forget the next step before muscle memory saves you.
The final beat lands. Silence — then the crowd explodes.
You’re both breathless when you stumble offstage, the sound still ringing in your bones. Sweat drips down your temples, glitter clings to your hands, and someone’s yelling congratulations in the background, but it’s all a blur.
Sophia laughs, high and unrestrained, the kind that only happens when something impossible actually works.
“You did it!” you shout, catching her by the shoulders, still trying to catch your breath.
She grins so wide her cheeks crinkle. “We did it,” she says, still glowing. Then, softer, eyes searching yours: “You believed I could do it. I won’t forget that.”
You shake your head, smiling. “You didn’t need me to believe. You already had it in you.”
She looks down for a moment, then back up. “Maybe. But I like that you did anyway.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You like a lot of things lately.”
She nudges your arm. “Don’t make it weird.”
“It’s already weird,” you tease. “We’re covered in sweat and confetti. That’s peak weird.”
She snorts, half-choking on her laugh. “Okay, fine. You win.”
Hours later, when the festival hum fades into a quieter night, you find yourself sitting outside the dressing tents, wrapped in a blanket and still wearing your wristband. The air smells like dust and cheap perfume and something sweet frying somewhere far away.
Sophia finds you there. Her hoodie’s too big, hair still damp from the quick shower, and she’s holding two paper cups.
“Peace offering,” she says, holding one out. “They had some sad excuse for hot chocolate. I risked it.”
You laugh and take it. “You’re brave.”
“I’m trying to impress you.”
You glance up, surprised, but she’s pretending to look somewhere else, feigning nonchalance. Her cheeks are pink in the glow of the floodlights.
“Consider me impressed,” you say quietly.
“Wow, that was too easy,” she teases. “Do you say that to everyone who brings you bad cocoa?”
“Only to the ones who nearly pass out during rehearsal,” you reply.
“Touché.”
There’s a long pause after that — the kind that isn’t awkward, just filled with everything neither of you are ready to say.
“Can I tell you something?” she asks finally.
You nod.
“I almost didn’t text you,” she admits, tracing the rim of her cup. “After the VMAs. I thought maybe you’d think it was weird. You know… me reaching out.”
You shake your head. “I wouldn’t have.”
“I know that now.” She smiles faintly. “I’m glad I did.”
“Me too.”
She kicks at the sand with her sneaker, hesitant. “You know, when you first started teaching us the choreo, I was so intimidated. You were just… so sure of everything. So good. And I thought, ‘There’s no way I’ll ever keep up.’”
You grin. “That’s funny. I thought you were terrifying.”
Her head snaps up. “What? Me?”
“You’re Sophia from KATSEYE,” you tease. “Leader of the global girl group. I was terrified I’d mess up in front of you.”
She laughs, the sound soft and real. “Guess we were both scared for nothing.”
“Guess so.”
The conversation drifts after that — talk of the crowd, of the heat, of how Lara tripped during soundcheck and somehow turned it into part of the choreo. You tell her about the first time you ever danced at Coachella, the nerves, the dust, the way the night feels heavier after the music stops.
And then, quietly, she says, “I meant what I said. About you being the reason I could pull it off.”
You tilt your head. “You’re giving me too much credit.”
“Maybe,” she says. “But you make people better just by being there. You make me better.”
The words hang between you, weightless and careful.
You don’t rush to answer. You just look at her — the glow on her skin, the way her eyes keep flicking down to your mouth and back.
“Coffee tomorrow?” you ask softly.
Her lips curve, slow and certain. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “It’s a date.”
You bump your cup lightly against hers. “It’s a date.”
The music in the distance fades to a dull thump, and for a moment, it feels like the whole festival has gone quiet — just the two of you, the night, the faint hum of something new and certain.
Later, when you think back to everything — Ariana grinning when she first dragged you across that hallway, Sophia watching from the corner during that first rehearsal, the way it all felt too random to mean anything — it’ll make sense.
Now, sitting under the stars, her shoulder brushing yours, it already does.
hi hii !! i’m in love with your writing and saw your requests are open and i wanted to ask if you’d do a sophia laforteza x dancer!reader one (it’s lowkey cliche but maybe you fw it😭)
so basically y/n is one of ariana grande’s backup dancers and ari is kinda like her big sister yk. y/n’s also a huge katseye fan (especially sophia) and she’s been talking about her nonstop.
then during the vmas ari meets katseye and like embarrassing mom style she’s like “hey! i won’t be touring for a while but one of my dancers, y/n, would totally fit your vibe! here’s her number, maybe you could work together!“ and sophia’s just standing there like 😭😭 bc how tf is this real
also, sophia’s a huge ariana fan so she definitely knows her dancers and she’s always kinda been obsessed with y/n. with a little convincing from the girls she actually texts y/n, and eventually y/n starts working as one of their dancers.
and then it’s just them being nervous idiots, especially when they’re paired up for a dance until they get together at the end 😼
i think this came to me during a fever dream but, idk, maybe you want to do something with it 😭 anyway, have a lovely day <33
hiii! i chose this one today bc i love ariana sm huhuhsadwsaddhwuas IM SORRY if it lowk kind of went a different path (i think) bc im not so focused rnnn...
bsjbjsbd it's hereee!
thank you for requesting.... as im writing this i just realized the end is ddifferent hOLYSHIT
synopsis:: In the heat of prep for the VMAs, one of Ariana’s dancers crosses paths with Sophia — a rising performer who refuses to slow down. Between mirrored walls and pounding bass, exhaustion blurs into something softer.
pairing: sophia x fem!reader
trope: idol!sophia x dancer!reader
wc: 3879
You used to think that working for someone like Ariana Grande would make you immune to nerves.
After three years on her team, you’ve danced on stages bigger than small towns, faced cameras from every angle, memorized every step until it felt like muscle memory. You’ve been under blinding lights, inside roaring crowds, with Ariana laughing into the mic between sets like she wasn’t running on caffeine and four hours of sleep.
You’ve seen it all.
But somehow, it still never stops thrilling you.
Rehearsals always start early.
You stretch before dawn, warm-up playlist humming through the studio speakers, light slanting across the mirrors. Ariana walks in half an hour later with a coffee in each hand and her signature messy bun, greeting everyone with a lazy “morning, team.”
She tosses you one of the coffees. “You’re here before everyone again.”
“I like the quiet,” you say, catching it with one hand. “And I wanted to rework that bridge.”
She smirks. “Of course you did. Do you ever sleep, or do you just power down for an hour like a Roomba?”
You laugh. “Says the woman whose bedtime is a myth.”
“Touché,” she says, sipping her drink. “At least I don’t start pliés before sunrise.”
You shrug. “Some of us are dedicated.”
“Some of us,” she says, arching a brow, “are a little unhinged.”
You’ve earned her teasing, her trust, and something that feels almost like friendship. Onstage, she’s all control — charisma and confidence. Offstage, she’s human. She cracks jokes, messes up lyrics, sends you videos of her dog wearing sunglasses.
Once, after a long rehearsal, she’d grinned at you through the mirror and said, “You’re starting to scare me with how serious you are.”
And you’d shot back, “That’s just professionalism.”
“Mm, no,” she’d said, thoughtful. “That’s obsession. But, like… the good kind.”
She’s also the first to push you harder, to challenge your instincts, to tell you that your ideas deserve to be seen.
“You have an eye for this,” she said once, months ago, when you suggested an alternate transition between sets. “Don’t just dance it — direct it.”
It stuck with you.
So when she tells you you’re one of her favorites to work with, you don’t take it lightly. It’s why you give everything, every show. Why you stretch before everyone, why you count out loud even when you’re exhausted.
Still, all the discipline in the world can’t help with one particular weakness: you can’t stop talking about Sophia Laforteza.
It started with a clip from an award show — the global girl group KATSEYE performing a routine so sharp it looked unreal. Six dancers, each movement perfectly in sync. But Sophia moved differently. She had control and grace, yes, but there was an ease to her.
You replayed the clip so many times that Ariana eventually noticed.
“Who’s caught your eye this time?” she asked one afternoon, flopping dramatically onto the studio floor between run-throughs.
You froze mid-stretch. “No one. Just watching choreography.”
“Mhm.” She tilted her head, pretending to think. “Oh wait — Sophia Laforteza, right?”
You blinked. “How—”
“Sweetheart, you’ve had that video on loop for three days. Even my ears are tired.”
You sighed, rubbing your face. “It’s called professional appreciation.”
Ariana smirked. “Sure. Professionally down bad.”
“Ariana, please.”
She grinned wider. “You’re blushing. Adorable.”
“I’m not—”
“Oh, you so are.” She leaned back with a satisfied hum. “God, I live for this. You haven’t been this flustered since I let you choreograph that duet.”
You groaned, throwing a towel at her. “You’re impossible.”
“Accurate,” she said, catching it with a wink. “Now go rewatch your little crush. Maybe take notes — purely for research, of course.”
She laughed, but you caught the knowing look she tossed you before going back to rehearsal. She didn’t forget.
Meanwhile, on another side of the world, Sophia was watching your performances too.
She thought there was something magnetic about you — not in a starstruck way, but in how you moved like music was second nature. She’d followed Ariana’s shows for years, fascinated by her team of dancers, and she knew your face long before the VMAs. You had a way of making choreography feel alive, spontaneous, even in a stadium.
When KATSEYE was nominated for their first international award, Sophia promised herself she wouldn’t fangirl. She’d be professional, poised. But when Ariana’s team was announced as one of the performers, her heart did a little flip she couldn’t control.
The other members noticed immediately.
Lara nudged her shoulder backstage. “You’re smiling too much. Spill.”
Sophia blinked. “What?”
“Who is it? Don’t tell me it’s that dancer again — Y/N, right?”
Sophia glared. “You’re imagining things.”
Lara raised an eyebrow. “Imagining you watching her fancams at 2 a.m.?”
Sophia gasped. “I do not—”
“You so do.” Lara smirked. “You’re blushing.”
“I’m stretching,” Sophia muttered, turning away.
“Sure,” Lara said, sing-song. “Stretching your denial.”
At the VMAs, fate finally stepped in.
Ariana’s performance hit the stage first — full production, fire and silhouettes and synchronized chaos. You killed every beat, muscles screaming but heart full. When the crowd screamed, you felt weightless.
Backstage, Ariana threw an arm around you. “That bridge? You owned it.”
You grinned, breathless. “You owe me new knees.”
“Add it to the invoice,” she said, laughing.
And then, mid-sentence, her eyes widened. “Wait. Oh my god—is that—?”
You followed her gaze and your stomach dropped. KATSEYE. Right across the hall.
Ariana didn’t hesitate. “Okay, come on.”
“What—Ariana, no, don’t you dare—”
Too late. She was already marching you over, smiling dazzlingly. “Hi! You guys were incredible!”
KATSEYE turned, all warmth and energy despite the exhaustion. “Thank you so much! You’re a huge inspiration to us.”
“Stop,” Ariana said dramatically, clutching her chest. “You’re gonna make me cry!”
She slid seamlessly into conversation — complimenting their set, laughing at inside jokes within seconds, classic Ariana charm. You, meanwhile, hovered behind her, half-tempted to dissolve into the carpet.
Until she said, sweetly, “Actually, you guys should meet one of my dancers. This is Y/N.”
Six pairs of eyes turned your way. You managed a small wave. “Hi.”
“And she,” Ariana continued, her grin downright evil now, “is a huge fan. Especially of you, Sophia.”
Your jaw dropped. “Ariana—!”
Sophia blinked — then smiled. Slow, knowing. “Is that so?”
Ariana beamed. “Oh, it’s so.”
You covered your face. “I’m quitting.”
“Not before tour, you’re not,” Ariana whispered, delighted.
“She talks about your performances all the time,” Ariana said, undeterred, grin sharp enough to draw blood. “I figured maybe you’d want to connect. She’s crazy talented — choreographs sometimes, too.”
You wanted the ground to swallow you whole. Or maybe just Ariana. Either would do.
Sophia, however, didn’t look scandalized at all. She smiled — soft, genuine, a little shy. “I’ve… actually seen your work. You’re amazing.”
Your brain short-circuited. “Wait— you have?”
“Of course,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “That tour video from Paris? The footwork section was unreal.”
You blinked. “I— wow. That’s— thank you.”
And that should’ve been it — polite compliment, a quick smile, the kind of moment that fades after a handshake. But Ariana Grande had never let a perfect opportunity for chaos go unseized.
“Hang on,” she said suddenly, digging into her oversized tote.
“Ariana, no,” you warned, sensing the storm.
“Oh, absolutely yes.” She pulled out a small notecard, scribbled something on it, and handed it to Sophia with a flourish. “Here. Her number. In case you ever want to collaborate.”
You gawked. “What are you— why—”
“Networking!” Ariana said brightly. “I’m just helping the arts thrive.”
Sophia tried — and failed — to hide her smile, staring down at the card like it was more than just digits on paper. “Thank you,” she said, glancing up at you. “I… might take you up on that.”
You groaned into your hands. “I’m going to die.”
Ariana patted your back, completely unbothered. “You’re welcome.”
Sophia laughed, soft and amused, before the group was called away. But as she turned to leave, she caught your gaze again — a quick, wordless moment that buzzed in your chest long after she disappeared backstage.
And that’s how it started.
A week later, your phone buzzed.
hi, this is sophia from katseye ☺️
hope it’s okay that i’m reaching out! we’re prepping for coachella and need a choreographer and dancer for a new dance break. ariana said you’re brilliant.
You nearly dropped your phone. You stared at the message like it was a mirage.
hi!! yeah, totally okay omg
i’d love to help if you still need someone
A reply came almost instantly.
perfect. rehearsal starts next monday. can i send you the details?
absolutely. see you soon!
can’t wait :)
You stared at that last message way too long — rereading the little smiley face like it meant something more — before locking your phone, heart still racing.
The first day of rehearsal feels like a dream.
The KATSEYE girls are warm, welcoming, funny — and terrifyingly hardworking. But Sophia is on another level. She’s composed yet kind, firm when she needs to be. Every movement she does is precise, every direction measured. You see why the others follow her so easily.
But it’s when you start choreographing that everything shifts.
You don’t just move — you communicate through rhythm. You analyze how each body carries weight, how transitions can breathe, how emotion drives the beat. You’re articulate and patient, guiding without condescension.
Sophia thought you made everything look effortless — the kind of ease that comes from years of muscle memory and instinct. The same movements she struggled to control seemed to flow through you like second nature.
“Again from the top,” you call, clapping your hands. “Watch the transitions after the bridge.”
They reset. The music pulses. Sophia catches your reflection in the mirror — the way you mouth the counts under your breath, every muscle tuned to rhythm.
When they finish, you clap once. “That was it.”
Sophia grins, cheeks flushed. “Thanks to your miracle tweaks.”
“You already had the magic,” you say, smiling. “I just organized it.”
She laughs softly. “You make it sound easy.”
You shrug. “It’s easier when you’ve got someone who actually listens.”
Sophia tilts her head, teasing. “Is that your way of saying I’m your favorite student?”
You grin. “Maybe. Don’t tell the others — they’ll start trying too hard.”
She bites back a smile. “Our secret.”
As rehearsals stretch on, so does your connection.
You talk between breaks — about injuries, tour food, what home means when you’re always on the road. You teach her a few of Ariana’s warm-up routines; she shows you how she builds formations from lyrics first, not counts.
One afternoon, you sit beside her on the studio floor, eating energy bars and complaining about sore legs.
“You ever realize dancers basically pay rent in muscle pain?” she says.
“Yeah, but at least the rent’s due in endorphins.”
She laughs, tossing her wrapper at you. “You’re so corny.”
“You’re laughing, though.”
“Unfortunately.”
One night, everyone else leaves early. You stay to clean up transitions for the bridge. Sophia lingers, tying her shoes.
“You should rest,” you tell her.
“So should you.”
You smile. “Touché.”
She queues the music again, stubborn. “Let’s try one more time.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You said that an hour ago.”
“Yeah, and it’s still true.”
So you do.
The music fills the empty studio, echoing in the mirrors. When she spins toward you, hitting the final count, your eyes meet. There’s sweat and silence and something unspoken hanging in the air — fragile, charged.
You break it first. “Perfect.”
She breathes out, smiling. “Only because you’re here.”
It slips out — honest, unfiltered. Her eyes widen a second later. “I mean—uh—because you keep me on count.”
You laugh quietly. “Nice save.”
She covers her face, groaning. “That was so bad.”
“Cute, though,” you say before you can stop yourself.
Her hand drops just enough for you to see her grin. “You think I’m cute when I mess up?”
You smirk. “I think you’d look cute tripping over a water bottle.”
“Noted,” she says, cheeks pink. “I’ll make that part of the choreo.”
Your heart doesn’t stop racing for the rest of the night.
By the fourth day of rehearsals, everyone’s running on caffeine and adrenaline.
The choreography’s brutal — quick footwork, syncopated beats, and transitions that demand precision. Sophia keeps insisting on running the bridge section again and again, even after everyone else starts collapsing onto the floor.
“Let’s do it one more time,” she says, voice hoarse, hands on her knees.
You check your watch. “That’s what you said three ‘one more times’ ago.”
“I’ll get it this time.”
You cross your arms. “I believe you. I just also believe in water breaks.”
She straightens up, breath shallow. “You sound like my mom.”
You smirk. “Bet your mom’s right, though.”
The others exchange tired glances, but nobody argues when Sophia insists again. The music starts, and she throws herself into it — sharper, faster, desperate for perfection.
Halfway through, she stumbles. Just a small misstep, but enough to break the rhythm. She waves everyone off before anyone can react.
“I’m fine,” she says, but her voice cracks.
You pause the track and walk over, concern threading your tone. “Sophia.”
“I said I’m fine.”
Her tone’s gentle but clipped — frustration more with herself than you. You’ve seen that look before. In mirrors. In every exhausted dancer who thinks one more repetition will fix everything.
You kneel slightly, trying to catch her gaze. “You don’t have to prove anything right now.”
“I just—” she exhales shakily. “I had it earlier.”
“I know,” you say softly. “And you’ll have it again. But not if you break yourself getting there.”
For a long moment, she just breathes — eyes glossy, shoulders trembling. Then finally, she nods.
“Okay,” she says quietly.
You hand her your water bottle. “Drink. That’s an order.”
She takes it, managing a small laugh. “Bossy.”
You grin. “Effective.”
“Take five,” you say, keeping your voice calm.
She shakes her head. “No, I just… I know this part’s supposed to hit harder. If I can just—”
“You can’t fix anything if you pass out,” you interrupt softly. “Sit down.”
For a moment she looks like she might argue — jaw tight, eyes flicking to the mirror as if she can will herself to keep going. Then the tension drains from her shoulders. She drops to the floor, stretching her legs out in front of her with a frustrated sigh.
“That perfectionist streak’s gonna be the death of you,” you murmur, crouching beside her.
She looks up at you, a tired smile tugging at her lips. “You sound like my manager.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You shouldn’t,” she says, smirking. “He’s bossy.”
“So I’ve heard.” You tilt your head, trying to catch her gaze. “You know, you don’t have to prove anything. The choreo’s already solid. You’ve got it.”
She looks down at the floor, tracing small circles on her knee with one finger. “I just want it to feel like it’s mine. Like I earned it.”
You nod. “You already did. The rest is just polish.”
She exhales, long and shaky, then leans back on her hands. “Do you ever get tired of this?”
“Dancing?”
“No. The part where your body says stop but your head won’t listen.”
You smile faintly. “Every day.”
She studies you for a second — really studies you — eyes flicking from your face to your hands to the scuff marks on your shoes. “You make it look easy.”
“It’s not.”
“I know,” she says, quieter now. “That’s why it’s amazing.”
You tilt your head, fighting a grin. “You’ve got a dangerous habit of complimenting your choreographer, you know that?”
She smirks. “Maybe I just like seeing you flustered.”
You laugh under your breath. “Keep talking like that and I’ll make the routine twice as hard.”
“Rude,” she says, pretending to pout.
The room is still except for the faint hum of the speakers cooling down. The other members are stretching, talking softly in the corner, giving you both a bubble of space.
You reach over and press your hand gently to her shoulder. “Rest for a bit, okay? Then we’ll walk through it slower.”
She doesn’t move right away, but she doesn’t pull away either. “You really don’t stop taking care of people, do you?”
“It’s a bad habit.”
Her lips twitch. “It’s a good one.”
“You’re biased.”
“Maybe,” she says, smiling. “But I like it.”
You stay like that for a while — her sitting on the floor, you crouched beside her, the world narrowed to the soft rhythm of breath and the smell of sweat and soundstage dust. It isn’t romantic, not exactly. Just real. A quiet moment carved out of exhaustion.
Finally, she straightens, determination flickering back in her eyes. “Alright. Slow run?”
You grin. “That’s my girl.”
She huffs a laugh. “Careful. I might start liking it when you call me that.”
You roll your eyes but can’t stop the smile tugging at your lips. “Get up before I change my mind.”
She does — slower this time, steadier. When the music starts again, her movements are lighter, looser. Not perfect, but alive.
And when she glances at you in the mirror mid-spin, there’s something new there. Not the chasing kind of focus, but the grounded kind — the kind that trusts she’s not doing this alone.
You don’t say anything. You just nod once, quietly proud.
Time passes in a blur; Coachella.
You’ve never seen anything like it — a sea of people, endless light.
Coachella from the stage isn’t something you can ever really prepare for. Even after weeks of rehearsal, bruises and sore muscles, every late-night tweak to the routine, nothing compares to the real thing: the heat of the lights, the scream of the crowd, the way the ground vibrates with the bass.
When the dance break hits, you’re not just watching this time. You’re in it.
The crowd shifts with you, thousands of bodies moving to the rhythm you built. Sophia’s beside you, every step sharp, every movement fierce but fluid, like she’s burning brighter than the stage lights themselves. You’ve never seen anyone command an audience like that — not even during rehearsals.
And then, in the middle of the chaos, her eyes find you.
Just a flicker, a heartbeat, but enough to make you forget the next step before muscle memory saves you.
The final beat lands. Silence — then the crowd explodes.
You’re both breathless when you stumble offstage, the sound still ringing in your bones. Sweat drips down your temples, glitter clings to your hands, and someone’s yelling congratulations in the background, but it’s all a blur.
Sophia laughs, high and unrestrained, the kind that only happens when something impossible actually works.
“You did it!” you shout, catching her by the shoulders, still trying to catch your breath.
She grins so wide her cheeks crinkle. “We did it,” she says, still glowing. Then, softer, eyes searching yours: “You believed I could do it. I won’t forget that.”
You shake your head, smiling. “You didn’t need me to believe. You already had it in you.”
She looks down for a moment, then back up. “Maybe. But I like that you did anyway.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You like a lot of things lately.”
She nudges your arm. “Don’t make it weird.”
“It’s already weird,” you tease. “We’re covered in sweat and confetti. That’s peak weird.”
She snorts, half-choking on her laugh. “Okay, fine. You win.”
Hours later, when the festival hum fades into a quieter night, you find yourself sitting outside the dressing tents, wrapped in a blanket and still wearing your wristband. The air smells like dust and cheap perfume and something sweet frying somewhere far away.
Sophia finds you there. Her hoodie’s too big, hair still damp from the quick shower, and she’s holding two paper cups.
“Peace offering,” she says, holding one out. “They had some sad excuse for hot chocolate. I risked it.”
You laugh and take it. “You’re brave.”
“I’m trying to impress you.”
You glance up, surprised, but she’s pretending to look somewhere else, feigning nonchalance. Her cheeks are pink in the glow of the floodlights.
“Consider me impressed,” you say quietly.
“Wow, that was too easy,” she teases. “Do you say that to everyone who brings you bad cocoa?”
“Only to the ones who nearly pass out during rehearsal,” you reply.
“Touché.”
There’s a long pause after that — the kind that isn’t awkward, just filled with everything neither of you are ready to say.
“Can I tell you something?” she asks finally.
You nod.
“I almost didn’t text you,” she admits, tracing the rim of her cup. “After the VMAs. I thought maybe you’d think it was weird. You know… me reaching out.”
You shake your head. “I wouldn’t have.”
“I know that now.” She smiles faintly. “I’m glad I did.”
“Me too.”
She kicks at the sand with her sneaker, hesitant. “You know, when you first started teaching us the choreo, I was so intimidated. You were just… so sure of everything. So good. And I thought, ‘There’s no way I’ll ever keep up.’”
You grin. “That’s funny. I thought you were terrifying.”
Her head snaps up. “What? Me?”
“You’re Sophia from KATSEYE,” you tease. “Leader of the global girl group. I was terrified I’d mess up in front of you.”
She laughs, the sound soft and real. “Guess we were both scared for nothing.”
“Guess so.”
The conversation drifts after that — talk of the crowd, of the heat, of how Lara tripped during soundcheck and somehow turned it into part of the choreo. You tell her about the first time you ever danced at Coachella, the nerves, the dust, the way the night feels heavier after the music stops.
And then, quietly, she says, “I meant what I said. About you being the reason I could pull it off.”
You tilt your head. “You’re giving me too much credit.”
“Maybe,” she says. “But you make people better just by being there. You make me better.”
The words hang between you, weightless and careful.
You don’t rush to answer. You just look at her — the glow on her skin, the way her eyes keep flicking down to your mouth and back.
“Coffee tomorrow?” you ask softly.
Her lips curve, slow and certain. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “It’s a date.”
You bump your cup lightly against hers. “It’s a date.”
The music in the distance fades to a dull thump, and for a moment, it feels like the whole festival has gone quiet — just the two of you, the night, the faint hum of something new and certain.
Later, when you think back to everything — Ariana grinning when she first dragged you across that hallway, Sophia watching from the corner during that first rehearsal, the way it all felt too random to mean anything — it’ll make sense.
Now, sitting under the stars, her shoulder brushing yours, it already does.
synopsis: on her birthday, lara notices you’ve forgotten — until an unplanned dinner invitation slowly turns into a night she’ll never forget.
wc: 2239
you wake up earlier than usual — not because you have to, but because you can’t stop thinking about today. lara’s birthday.
you’ve been planning for weeks — the dinner, the sketch, the little moment that’s supposed to make her cry (in a good way).
the plan’s simple: act normal. no morning greeting, no hints, no posts. she’ll think you forgot. then later, boom — surprise.
easy enough.
you grab your phone and type, casual and clueless:
you: morning, babe
a minute later:
lara: morning 😗
you grin a little, relieved she’s awake.
you: whatchu up to?
lara: just got up hehe u?
you: about to make coffee. wanna teleport here and make breakfast for us? 😤
lara: 😭 rude. u can cook better anyway.
you laugh quietly. everything feels normal. light. she’s teasing — no suspicion.
you: true. maybe i’ll just make pancakes again
lara: u and those pancakes 💀
you: don’t insult my comfort meal 😤
lara: ok ok chef 😌
you can almost hear her laugh, the soft kind that trails at the end of her words.
but then… the chat slows.
no more messages after that.
she stops replying, and you don’t double text — on purpose.
hours pass.
you scroll through your phone, pretending it doesn’t bother you, but you keep checking the screen anyway.
by lunchtime, still nothing.
you picture her lying on her bed, scrolling too, seeing no message from you except those dumb pancake jokes.
and you know exactly what she’s thinking — did they really forget?
you tell yourself it’s fine. you’ll make it up to her later. it’s all part of the plan.
but the thought of her feeling a little sad because of you?
yeah. that stings more than you expected.
by late afternoon, the silence between you two feels too heavy.
you scroll through tiktok, trying to distract yourself, when a random video pops up — a rooftop restaurant, soft golden lights, pretty city skyline. perfect.
you grin. maybe this can be your opening.
you hit share and text her.
you: omg look what i saw on tiktok 😭😭
no reply for three minutes.
you start doubting the whole idea — maybe she’s too annoyed to answer — but then the typing bubble appears.
lara: omg that view tho??
you: RIGHT?? it’s a rooftop resto near downtown!! we should go 😭😭
lara: wait it’s here?? that’s so pretty 🥹
you: yeah i just checked, it’s not far 👀 we could try it for dinner?
lara: like tonight?
you: mhm 😏 my treat, ofc
a longer pause this time. then finally:
lara: sure. why not hehe
you let out a small breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
that night, when you pick her up, she’s quiet at first — polite, composed, not cold, just a little distant.
her smile when she sees you isn’t quite the bright one she usually gives, but it’s there.
“hey,” she says softly.
“hey,” you reply, opening the car door for her.
she raises an eyebrow. “someone’s being gentlemanly tonight.”
“what, i can’t be nice?”
“you can,” she says, lips curling into the faintest smile. “it’s just… rare.”
“ouch,” you laugh, but it breaks the ice. she chuckles too.
the drive isn’t loud — music low, city lights blurring past. you try to fill the quiet with small talk.
“i still can’t believe we haven’t been there before,” you say, drumming your fingers on the wheel.
“maybe it’s new?” she replies, looking out the window. “you and your tiktok finds.”
“hey, i have good taste sometimes.”
“sometimes,” she repeats, smiling to herself.
you glance at her profile in the passing light — soft, thoughtful, but her eyes have that glint of something held back.
you can tell she’s been waiting all day for something that never came.
and she’s trying so hard to act like it’s okay.
you grip the steering wheel a little tighter. just wait, love, you think. you’ll understand soon.
when you arrive, the rooftop is already glowing under strings of warm lights. the air’s cool, carrying faint music and laughter from other tables.
lara’s eyes widen. “oh… wow.”
“yeah?” you grin. “not bad for a random tiktok, huh?”
she laughs softly, still taking it all in. “you seriously just found this today?”
you shrug. “what can i say, my algorithm’s romantic.”
she gives you that look — the one that’s equal parts fond and suspicious.
“hm. convenient.”
you raise your brows innocently. “what?”
“nothing,” she says, lips curling. “just feels like you’re up to something.”
you smirk. “me? never.”
“mmhm,” she hums, but she’s smiling again — brighter this time, genuine.
and for now, that’s enough.
you let her believe this was spontaneous, accidental, unplanned.
you let her think it’s just another random dinner.
the elevator doors open to a rush of warm air, soft jazz, and the glow of fairy lights. the rooftop is beautiful — more than the tiktok made it look.
string lights loop between the beams, city skyline stretching out below, and the tables are dressed with candles flickering gently in the breeze.
lara steps out first, eyes wide.
“this place is insane,” she breathes, a small smile tugging at her lips.
you can’t help but stare — the golden light catches her skin, the wind lifts a few strands of her hair. she looks like she belongs here.
“worth the tiktok find?” you ask, hands in your pockets to hide the fact that they’re shaking a little.
“yeah,” she says softly. “it’s beautiful.”
“you like it?”
“mm,” she hums, still looking around. “kinda makes up for… never mind.”
“for what?” you ask gently, but she shakes her head.
“nothing. come on, we’re gonna lose the sunset.”
you let her walk ahead, and while she’s distracted by the view, you slip a small nod toward the host.
the host smiles — your quiet cue that everything’s ready.
you lead lara to the far corner of the rooftop, where one table stands a little apart from the rest, surrounded by lanterns and pale pink petals scattered underfoot.
she stops in her tracks.
“wait,” she says slowly. “this isn’t just—”
you grin. “surprise.”
her eyes flick between you and the setup — candles, her favorite flowers, a soft playlist playing somewhere nearby.
and then you pull something from behind your chair — a bouquet so big she literally gasps.
“no way,” she whispers.
you hold it out to her, trying not to laugh at her stunned face.
“happy birthday, lara.”
she blinks. once, twice.
“you— you jerk.”
you laugh. “excuse me?”
“you pretended to forget!” she says, but her voice cracks mid-sentence — she’s laughing too now, half embarrassed, half relieved.
“i didn’t pretend,” you protest lightly. “i was just… creating dramatic tension.”
“oh my god.” she covers her face with one hand, bouquet pressed to her chest. “i was so close to deleting your contact this morning.”
“you what?”
“kidding!” she says, still laughing. “mostly.”
she looks down at the flowers — the exact kind she mentioned months ago, the ones she said she loved but never bought for herself.
her voice drops, soft now. “you really remembered.”
“of course i did.”
there’s a moment of silence between you two — quiet, not awkward, just full.
the city hums below, the wind tugs at the candle flames, and you can finally see her shoulders relax, like the weight she’s been carrying all day just lifts.
she sets the bouquet gently on the table, brushing her fingers along the petals.
“i really thought you forgot,” she says finally. “i kept checking my phone like an idiot.”
you smile faintly. “yeah, i kinda imagined that part. sorry.”
“you’re evil,” she murmurs, but she’s smiling again — that soft, real smile that reaches her eyes.
“i’ll make it up to you,” you say. “order anything you want. i’m prepared to go bankrupt for this meal.”
“good,” she says, laughing. “because i’m getting the most expensive thing on the menu.”
“you’d do that anyway.”
“true,” she admits, eyes sparkling.
as the night goes on, the air shifts — lighter now. laughter returns between bites and sips of wine, your knees bump under the table more than once.
she teases you about your outfit (“you wore white to dinner? bold of you”), and you tease her about almost crying earlier (“you got emotional so fast”).
but under the teasing, there’s warmth — something steady and quiet.
at one point, she looks at you, really looks, and says, “you always do this, you know.”
“do what?”
“make me think you don’t care,” she says, voice soft. “and then prove me completely wrong.”
you smile a little. “wouldn’t be as fun if i made it obvious.”
she rolls her eyes, but her hand slides across the table until her fingers brush yours.
“you’re impossible,” she says.
“but worth it?”
she laughs. “...maybe.”
after dinner, you walk her closer to the edge of the rooftop where the city lights glitter below. the wind’s cooler now, carrying the scent of her perfume mixed with the faint sweetness of the bouquet.
she leans on the railing. “thank you. for tonight.”
“thank you for existing,” you say quietly, and she turns to you, surprised, then laughs — the soft, flustered kind.
“that’s cheesy.”
“accurate, though.”
for a while, neither of you talk. the night just stretches out — the hum of the city, her hand finding yours again.
the drive back is quiet, the good kind of quiet.
lara’s leaning against the window, bouquet on her lap, soft music filling the car. she’s smiling faintly, that post-surprise glow still lingering.
you glance at her every few seconds — she’s tracing the ribbon on the bouquet absentmindedly, humming along to the song.
“you tired?” you ask.
“a little,” she says, turning to you. “but… happy tired.”
you grin. “good.”
“why?”
“you’ll see.”
she squints at you suspiciously. “what does that mean?”
“nothing,” you say, too quickly.
“you’re doing that face again.”
“what face?”
“the ‘i’m hiding something’ face.”
“no such face exists.”
“you’re smiling right now!”
“because you’re cute when you’re suspicious.”
she groans. “ugh, stop being charming.”
you laugh, pulling into the parking lot. “too late for that.”
when you unlock your condo door, she steps in first — and freezes.
the lights are dim, the living room warm with the soft flicker of candles. there are fairy lights strung along the shelf, a few photos of you two pinned up between them, and on the coffee table:
a small cake, a few neatly wrapped gifts, and an easel covered by a white cloth.
lara turns to you slowly, eyes wide.
“you’re actually insane.”
“in the romantic kind of way,” you say, grinning.
she just stares at you, speechless for a moment — then laughs, shaking her head.
“you did all this? after the restaurant?”
“mmhm.”
“when?”
“i had help,” you admit. “my cousin came earlier to light the candles.”
“so this whole day—”
“was planned,” you say softly. “every bit of it.”
she looks around again, her expression softening, lips parting like she’s trying to take it all in.
the glow of the lights, the faint smell of vanilla from the cake, the quiet music you queued before leaving.
“you’re ridiculous,” she murmurs.
“you love that about me.”
“...maybe.”
she moves toward the coffee table, eyes flicking between the gifts and the covered easel.
“can i open these?”
“in a sec,” you say. “there’s something first.”
you gesture to the easel, walking over to it.
“i’ve been working on this for a while. it’s not finished, but… i wanted you to see it tonight.”
you pull off the cloth.
lara’s breath catches.
it’s her — sitting by the window in your place, sunlight pouring over her face. her expression soft, almost dreamy. the sketch is detailed down to the smallest curve of her smile, each stroke deliberate and full of care.
she stares at it for a long moment, hands hovering like she’s afraid to touch it.
“you— this is me?”
“yeah,” you say quietly. “been working on it every night you said you were too busy to call.”
she turns to you, eyes glassy now. “it’s… beautiful.”
“it’s not done yet,” you admit. “i wanted it to be perfect, but… it kinda felt right to give it while it’s still in progress. like—”
“like me?” she says softly.
you nod. “like us.”
she exhales, laughing a little as she wipes at her eyes. “you’re gonna make me cry again.”
“that’s part of the plan,” you tease.
she looks at the cake next — small, simple, with soft pink frosting and your messy handwriting in icing:
happy birthday, my favorite person.
you hand her a lighter. “make a wish?”
she tilts her head at you. “you already gave me everything.”
“there’s always more to wish for.”
she smiles, eyes shining in the candlelight. “fine.”
she closes her eyes, takes a quiet breath, and for a few seconds, everything goes still — no music, no city noise, just the sound of her breathing and the flicker of the flame.
then she blows it out.
you clap dramatically. “what’d you wish for?”
“not telling,” she says, grinning.
“come on.”
“nope. if i say it, it won’t come true.”
“you’re so annoying.”
“and you love that about me,” she echoes your earlier words, smiling wider now.
later, after the gifts are unwrapped — small things you picked out carefully (a new sketchbook, her favorite perfume, a printed photo of your first date) — she leans against you on the couch, the sketch still propped up across the room.
“this might be my favorite birthday ever,” she says quietly.
you hum. “only might?”
“okay, definitely.”
you glance at her, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “so… did your wish come true yet?”
she grins, eyes half-lidded. “maybe it just did.”
you laugh softly. “cheesy.”
“accurate, though,” she says, borrowing your line from earlier.
and for a while, neither of you say anything — just the two of you in the soft glow of candlelight, the smell of flowers and frosting in the air, and the faint pencil lines of her face on canvas watching over the room.
synopsis: on her birthday, lara notices you’ve forgotten — until an unplanned dinner invitation slowly turns into a night she’ll never forget.
wc: 2239
you wake up earlier than usual — not because you have to, but because you can’t stop thinking about today. lara’s birthday.
you’ve been planning for weeks — the dinner, the sketch, the little moment that’s supposed to make her cry (in a good way).
the plan’s simple: act normal. no morning greeting, no hints, no posts. she’ll think you forgot. then later, boom — surprise.
easy enough.
you grab your phone and type, casual and clueless:
you: morning, babe
a minute later:
lara: morning 😗
you grin a little, relieved she’s awake.
you: whatchu up to?
lara: just got up hehe u?
you: about to make coffee. wanna teleport here and make breakfast for us? 😤
lara: 😭 rude. u can cook better anyway.
you laugh quietly. everything feels normal. light. she’s teasing — no suspicion.
you: true. maybe i’ll just make pancakes again
lara: u and those pancakes 💀
you: don’t insult my comfort meal 😤
lara: ok ok chef 😌
you can almost hear her laugh, the soft kind that trails at the end of her words.
but then… the chat slows.
no more messages after that.
she stops replying, and you don’t double text — on purpose.
hours pass.
you scroll through your phone, pretending it doesn’t bother you, but you keep checking the screen anyway.
by lunchtime, still nothing.
you picture her lying on her bed, scrolling too, seeing no message from you except those dumb pancake jokes.
and you know exactly what she’s thinking — did they really forget?
you tell yourself it’s fine. you’ll make it up to her later. it’s all part of the plan.
but the thought of her feeling a little sad because of you?
yeah. that stings more than you expected.
by late afternoon, the silence between you two feels too heavy.
you scroll through tiktok, trying to distract yourself, when a random video pops up — a rooftop restaurant, soft golden lights, pretty city skyline. perfect.
you grin. maybe this can be your opening.
you hit share and text her.
you: omg look what i saw on tiktok 😭😭
no reply for three minutes.
you start doubting the whole idea — maybe she’s too annoyed to answer — but then the typing bubble appears.
lara: omg that view tho??
you: RIGHT?? it’s a rooftop resto near downtown!! we should go 😭😭
lara: wait it’s here?? that’s so pretty 🥹
you: yeah i just checked, it’s not far 👀 we could try it for dinner?
lara: like tonight?
you: mhm 😏 my treat, ofc
a longer pause this time. then finally:
lara: sure. why not hehe
you let out a small breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
that night, when you pick her up, she’s quiet at first — polite, composed, not cold, just a little distant.
her smile when she sees you isn’t quite the bright one she usually gives, but it’s there.
“hey,” she says softly.
“hey,” you reply, opening the car door for her.
she raises an eyebrow. “someone’s being gentlemanly tonight.”
“what, i can’t be nice?”
“you can,” she says, lips curling into the faintest smile. “it’s just… rare.”
“ouch,” you laugh, but it breaks the ice. she chuckles too.
the drive isn’t loud — music low, city lights blurring past. you try to fill the quiet with small talk.
“i still can’t believe we haven’t been there before,” you say, drumming your fingers on the wheel.
“maybe it’s new?” she replies, looking out the window. “you and your tiktok finds.”
“hey, i have good taste sometimes.”
“sometimes,” she repeats, smiling to herself.
you glance at her profile in the passing light — soft, thoughtful, but her eyes have that glint of something held back.
you can tell she’s been waiting all day for something that never came.
and she’s trying so hard to act like it’s okay.
you grip the steering wheel a little tighter. just wait, love, you think. you’ll understand soon.
when you arrive, the rooftop is already glowing under strings of warm lights. the air’s cool, carrying faint music and laughter from other tables.
lara’s eyes widen. “oh… wow.”
“yeah?” you grin. “not bad for a random tiktok, huh?”
she laughs softly, still taking it all in. “you seriously just found this today?”
you shrug. “what can i say, my algorithm’s romantic.”
she gives you that look — the one that’s equal parts fond and suspicious.
“hm. convenient.”
you raise your brows innocently. “what?”
“nothing,” she says, lips curling. “just feels like you’re up to something.”
you smirk. “me? never.”
“mmhm,” she hums, but she’s smiling again — brighter this time, genuine.
and for now, that’s enough.
you let her believe this was spontaneous, accidental, unplanned.
you let her think it’s just another random dinner.
the elevator doors open to a rush of warm air, soft jazz, and the glow of fairy lights. the rooftop is beautiful — more than the tiktok made it look.
string lights loop between the beams, city skyline stretching out below, and the tables are dressed with candles flickering gently in the breeze.
lara steps out first, eyes wide.
“this place is insane,” she breathes, a small smile tugging at her lips.
you can’t help but stare — the golden light catches her skin, the wind lifts a few strands of her hair. she looks like she belongs here.
“worth the tiktok find?” you ask, hands in your pockets to hide the fact that they’re shaking a little.
“yeah,” she says softly. “it’s beautiful.”
“you like it?”
“mm,” she hums, still looking around. “kinda makes up for… never mind.”
“for what?” you ask gently, but she shakes her head.
“nothing. come on, we’re gonna lose the sunset.”
you let her walk ahead, and while she’s distracted by the view, you slip a small nod toward the host.
the host smiles — your quiet cue that everything’s ready.
you lead lara to the far corner of the rooftop, where one table stands a little apart from the rest, surrounded by lanterns and pale pink petals scattered underfoot.
she stops in her tracks.
“wait,” she says slowly. “this isn’t just—”
you grin. “surprise.”
her eyes flick between you and the setup — candles, her favorite flowers, a soft playlist playing somewhere nearby.
and then you pull something from behind your chair — a bouquet so big she literally gasps.
“no way,” she whispers.
you hold it out to her, trying not to laugh at her stunned face.
“happy birthday, lara.”
she blinks. once, twice.
“you— you jerk.”
you laugh. “excuse me?”
“you pretended to forget!” she says, but her voice cracks mid-sentence — she’s laughing too now, half embarrassed, half relieved.
“i didn’t pretend,” you protest lightly. “i was just… creating dramatic tension.”
“oh my god.” she covers her face with one hand, bouquet pressed to her chest. “i was so close to deleting your contact this morning.”
“you what?”
“kidding!” she says, still laughing. “mostly.”
she looks down at the flowers — the exact kind she mentioned months ago, the ones she said she loved but never bought for herself.
her voice drops, soft now. “you really remembered.”
“of course i did.”
there’s a moment of silence between you two — quiet, not awkward, just full.
the city hums below, the wind tugs at the candle flames, and you can finally see her shoulders relax, like the weight she’s been carrying all day just lifts.
she sets the bouquet gently on the table, brushing her fingers along the petals.
“i really thought you forgot,” she says finally. “i kept checking my phone like an idiot.”
you smile faintly. “yeah, i kinda imagined that part. sorry.”
“you’re evil,” she murmurs, but she’s smiling again — that soft, real smile that reaches her eyes.
“i’ll make it up to you,” you say. “order anything you want. i’m prepared to go bankrupt for this meal.”
“good,” she says, laughing. “because i’m getting the most expensive thing on the menu.”
“you’d do that anyway.”
“true,” she admits, eyes sparkling.
as the night goes on, the air shifts — lighter now. laughter returns between bites and sips of wine, your knees bump under the table more than once.
she teases you about your outfit (“you wore white to dinner? bold of you”), and you tease her about almost crying earlier (“you got emotional so fast”).
but under the teasing, there’s warmth — something steady and quiet.
at one point, she looks at you, really looks, and says, “you always do this, you know.”
“do what?”
“make me think you don’t care,” she says, voice soft. “and then prove me completely wrong.”
you smile a little. “wouldn’t be as fun if i made it obvious.”
she rolls her eyes, but her hand slides across the table until her fingers brush yours.
“you’re impossible,” she says.
“but worth it?”
she laughs. “...maybe.”
after dinner, you walk her closer to the edge of the rooftop where the city lights glitter below. the wind’s cooler now, carrying the scent of her perfume mixed with the faint sweetness of the bouquet.
she leans on the railing. “thank you. for tonight.”
“thank you for existing,” you say quietly, and she turns to you, surprised, then laughs — the soft, flustered kind.
“that’s cheesy.”
“accurate, though.”
for a while, neither of you talk. the night just stretches out — the hum of the city, her hand finding yours again.
the drive back is quiet, the good kind of quiet.
lara’s leaning against the window, bouquet on her lap, soft music filling the car. she’s smiling faintly, that post-surprise glow still lingering.
you glance at her every few seconds — she’s tracing the ribbon on the bouquet absentmindedly, humming along to the song.
“you tired?” you ask.
“a little,” she says, turning to you. “but… happy tired.”
you grin. “good.”
“why?”
“you’ll see.”
she squints at you suspiciously. “what does that mean?”
“nothing,” you say, too quickly.
“you’re doing that face again.”
“what face?”
“the ‘i’m hiding something’ face.”
“no such face exists.”
“you’re smiling right now!”
“because you’re cute when you’re suspicious.”
she groans. “ugh, stop being charming.”
you laugh, pulling into the parking lot. “too late for that.”
when you unlock your condo door, she steps in first — and freezes.
the lights are dim, the living room warm with the soft flicker of candles. there are fairy lights strung along the shelf, a few photos of you two pinned up between them, and on the coffee table:
a small cake, a few neatly wrapped gifts, and an easel covered by a white cloth.
lara turns to you slowly, eyes wide.
“you’re actually insane.”
“in the romantic kind of way,” you say, grinning.
she just stares at you, speechless for a moment — then laughs, shaking her head.
“you did all this? after the restaurant?”
“mmhm.”
“when?”
“i had help,” you admit. “my cousin came earlier to light the candles.”
“so this whole day—”
“was planned,” you say softly. “every bit of it.”
she looks around again, her expression softening, lips parting like she’s trying to take it all in.
the glow of the lights, the faint smell of vanilla from the cake, the quiet music you queued before leaving.
“you’re ridiculous,” she murmurs.
“you love that about me.”
“...maybe.”
she moves toward the coffee table, eyes flicking between the gifts and the covered easel.
“can i open these?”
“in a sec,” you say. “there’s something first.”
you gesture to the easel, walking over to it.
“i’ve been working on this for a while. it’s not finished, but… i wanted you to see it tonight.”
you pull off the cloth.
lara’s breath catches.
it’s her — sitting by the window in your place, sunlight pouring over her face. her expression soft, almost dreamy. the sketch is detailed down to the smallest curve of her smile, each stroke deliberate and full of care.
she stares at it for a long moment, hands hovering like she’s afraid to touch it.
“you— this is me?”
“yeah,” you say quietly. “been working on it every night you said you were too busy to call.”
she turns to you, eyes glassy now. “it’s… beautiful.”
“it’s not done yet,” you admit. “i wanted it to be perfect, but… it kinda felt right to give it while it’s still in progress. like—”
“like me?” she says softly.
you nod. “like us.”
she exhales, laughing a little as she wipes at her eyes. “you’re gonna make me cry again.”
“that’s part of the plan,” you tease.
she looks at the cake next — small, simple, with soft pink frosting and your messy handwriting in icing:
happy birthday, my favorite person.
you hand her a lighter. “make a wish?”
she tilts her head at you. “you already gave me everything.”
“there’s always more to wish for.”
she smiles, eyes shining in the candlelight. “fine.”
she closes her eyes, takes a quiet breath, and for a few seconds, everything goes still — no music, no city noise, just the sound of her breathing and the flicker of the flame.
then she blows it out.
you clap dramatically. “what’d you wish for?”
“not telling,” she says, grinning.
“come on.”
“nope. if i say it, it won’t come true.”
“you’re so annoying.”
“and you love that about me,” she echoes your earlier words, smiling wider now.
later, after the gifts are unwrapped — small things you picked out carefully (a new sketchbook, her favorite perfume, a printed photo of your first date) — she leans against you on the couch, the sketch still propped up across the room.
“this might be my favorite birthday ever,” she says quietly.
you hum. “only might?”
“okay, definitely.”
you glance at her, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “so… did your wish come true yet?”
she grins, eyes half-lidded. “maybe it just did.”
you laugh softly. “cheesy.”
“accurate, though,” she says, borrowing your line from earlier.
and for a while, neither of you say anything — just the two of you in the soft glow of candlelight, the smell of flowers and frosting in the air, and the faint pencil lines of her face on canvas watching over the room.
synopsis: on her birthday, lara notices you’ve forgotten — until an unplanned dinner invitation slowly turns into a night she’ll never forget.
wc: 2239
you wake up earlier than usual — not because you have to, but because you can’t stop thinking about today. lara’s birthday.
you’ve been planning for weeks — the dinner, the sketch, the little moment that’s supposed to make her cry (in a good way).
the plan’s simple: act normal. no morning greeting, no hints, no posts. she’ll think you forgot. then later, boom — surprise.
easy enough.
you grab your phone and type, casual and clueless:
you: morning, babe
a minute later:
lara: morning 😗
you grin a little, relieved she’s awake.
you: whatchu up to?
lara: just got up hehe u?
you: about to make coffee. wanna teleport here and make breakfast for us? 😤
lara: 😭 rude. u can cook better anyway.
you laugh quietly. everything feels normal. light. she’s teasing — no suspicion.
you: true. maybe i’ll just make pancakes again
lara: u and those pancakes 💀
you: don’t insult my comfort meal 😤
lara: ok ok chef 😌
you can almost hear her laugh, the soft kind that trails at the end of her words.
but then… the chat slows.
no more messages after that.
she stops replying, and you don’t double text — on purpose.
hours pass.
you scroll through your phone, pretending it doesn’t bother you, but you keep checking the screen anyway.
by lunchtime, still nothing.
you picture her lying on her bed, scrolling too, seeing no message from you except those dumb pancake jokes.
and you know exactly what she’s thinking — did they really forget?
you tell yourself it’s fine. you’ll make it up to her later. it’s all part of the plan.
but the thought of her feeling a little sad because of you?
yeah. that stings more than you expected.
by late afternoon, the silence between you two feels too heavy.
you scroll through tiktok, trying to distract yourself, when a random video pops up — a rooftop restaurant, soft golden lights, pretty city skyline. perfect.
you grin. maybe this can be your opening.
you hit share and text her.
you: omg look what i saw on tiktok 😭😭
no reply for three minutes.
you start doubting the whole idea — maybe she’s too annoyed to answer — but then the typing bubble appears.
lara: omg that view tho??
you: RIGHT?? it’s a rooftop resto near downtown!! we should go 😭😭
lara: wait it’s here?? that’s so pretty 🥹
you: yeah i just checked, it’s not far 👀 we could try it for dinner?
lara: like tonight?
you: mhm 😏 my treat, ofc
a longer pause this time. then finally:
lara: sure. why not hehe
you let out a small breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
that night, when you pick her up, she’s quiet at first — polite, composed, not cold, just a little distant.
her smile when she sees you isn’t quite the bright one she usually gives, but it’s there.
“hey,” she says softly.
“hey,” you reply, opening the car door for her.
she raises an eyebrow. “someone’s being gentlemanly tonight.”
“what, i can’t be nice?”
“you can,” she says, lips curling into the faintest smile. “it’s just… rare.”
“ouch,” you laugh, but it breaks the ice. she chuckles too.
the drive isn’t loud — music low, city lights blurring past. you try to fill the quiet with small talk.
“i still can’t believe we haven’t been there before,” you say, drumming your fingers on the wheel.
“maybe it’s new?” she replies, looking out the window. “you and your tiktok finds.”
“hey, i have good taste sometimes.”
“sometimes,” she repeats, smiling to herself.
you glance at her profile in the passing light — soft, thoughtful, but her eyes have that glint of something held back.
you can tell she’s been waiting all day for something that never came.
and she’s trying so hard to act like it’s okay.
you grip the steering wheel a little tighter. just wait, love, you think. you’ll understand soon.
when you arrive, the rooftop is already glowing under strings of warm lights. the air’s cool, carrying faint music and laughter from other tables.
lara’s eyes widen. “oh… wow.”
“yeah?” you grin. “not bad for a random tiktok, huh?”
she laughs softly, still taking it all in. “you seriously just found this today?”
you shrug. “what can i say, my algorithm’s romantic.”
she gives you that look — the one that’s equal parts fond and suspicious.
“hm. convenient.”
you raise your brows innocently. “what?”
“nothing,” she says, lips curling. “just feels like you’re up to something.”
you smirk. “me? never.”
“mmhm,” she hums, but she’s smiling again — brighter this time, genuine.
and for now, that’s enough.
you let her believe this was spontaneous, accidental, unplanned.
you let her think it’s just another random dinner.
the elevator doors open to a rush of warm air, soft jazz, and the glow of fairy lights. the rooftop is beautiful — more than the tiktok made it look.
string lights loop between the beams, city skyline stretching out below, and the tables are dressed with candles flickering gently in the breeze.
lara steps out first, eyes wide.
“this place is insane,” she breathes, a small smile tugging at her lips.
you can’t help but stare — the golden light catches her skin, the wind lifts a few strands of her hair. she looks like she belongs here.
“worth the tiktok find?” you ask, hands in your pockets to hide the fact that they’re shaking a little.
“yeah,” she says softly. “it’s beautiful.”
“you like it?”
“mm,” she hums, still looking around. “kinda makes up for… never mind.”
“for what?” you ask gently, but she shakes her head.
“nothing. come on, we’re gonna lose the sunset.”
you let her walk ahead, and while she’s distracted by the view, you slip a small nod toward the host.
the host smiles — your quiet cue that everything’s ready.
you lead lara to the far corner of the rooftop, where one table stands a little apart from the rest, surrounded by lanterns and pale pink petals scattered underfoot.
she stops in her tracks.
“wait,” she says slowly. “this isn’t just—”
you grin. “surprise.”
her eyes flick between you and the setup — candles, her favorite flowers, a soft playlist playing somewhere nearby.
and then you pull something from behind your chair — a bouquet so big she literally gasps.
“no way,” she whispers.
you hold it out to her, trying not to laugh at her stunned face.
“happy birthday, lara.”
she blinks. once, twice.
“you— you jerk.”
you laugh. “excuse me?”
“you pretended to forget!” she says, but her voice cracks mid-sentence — she’s laughing too now, half embarrassed, half relieved.
“i didn’t pretend,” you protest lightly. “i was just… creating dramatic tension.”
“oh my god.” she covers her face with one hand, bouquet pressed to her chest. “i was so close to deleting your contact this morning.”
“you what?”
“kidding!” she says, still laughing. “mostly.”
she looks down at the flowers — the exact kind she mentioned months ago, the ones she said she loved but never bought for herself.
her voice drops, soft now. “you really remembered.”
“of course i did.”
there’s a moment of silence between you two — quiet, not awkward, just full.
the city hums below, the wind tugs at the candle flames, and you can finally see her shoulders relax, like the weight she’s been carrying all day just lifts.
she sets the bouquet gently on the table, brushing her fingers along the petals.
“i really thought you forgot,” she says finally. “i kept checking my phone like an idiot.”
you smile faintly. “yeah, i kinda imagined that part. sorry.”
“you’re evil,” she murmurs, but she’s smiling again — that soft, real smile that reaches her eyes.
“i’ll make it up to you,” you say. “order anything you want. i’m prepared to go bankrupt for this meal.”
“good,” she says, laughing. “because i’m getting the most expensive thing on the menu.”
“you’d do that anyway.”
“true,” she admits, eyes sparkling.
as the night goes on, the air shifts — lighter now. laughter returns between bites and sips of wine, your knees bump under the table more than once.
she teases you about your outfit (“you wore white to dinner? bold of you”), and you tease her about almost crying earlier (“you got emotional so fast”).
but under the teasing, there’s warmth — something steady and quiet.
at one point, she looks at you, really looks, and says, “you always do this, you know.”
“do what?”
“make me think you don’t care,” she says, voice soft. “and then prove me completely wrong.”
you smile a little. “wouldn’t be as fun if i made it obvious.”
she rolls her eyes, but her hand slides across the table until her fingers brush yours.
“you’re impossible,” she says.
“but worth it?”
she laughs. “...maybe.”
after dinner, you walk her closer to the edge of the rooftop where the city lights glitter below. the wind’s cooler now, carrying the scent of her perfume mixed with the faint sweetness of the bouquet.
she leans on the railing. “thank you. for tonight.”
“thank you for existing,” you say quietly, and she turns to you, surprised, then laughs — the soft, flustered kind.
“that’s cheesy.”
“accurate, though.”
for a while, neither of you talk. the night just stretches out — the hum of the city, her hand finding yours again.
the drive back is quiet, the good kind of quiet.
lara’s leaning against the window, bouquet on her lap, soft music filling the car. she’s smiling faintly, that post-surprise glow still lingering.
you glance at her every few seconds — she’s tracing the ribbon on the bouquet absentmindedly, humming along to the song.
“you tired?” you ask.
“a little,” she says, turning to you. “but… happy tired.”
you grin. “good.”
“why?”
“you’ll see.”
she squints at you suspiciously. “what does that mean?”
“nothing,” you say, too quickly.
“you’re doing that face again.”
“what face?”
“the ‘i’m hiding something’ face.”
“no such face exists.”
“you’re smiling right now!”
“because you’re cute when you’re suspicious.”
she groans. “ugh, stop being charming.”
you laugh, pulling into the parking lot. “too late for that.”
when you unlock your condo door, she steps in first — and freezes.
the lights are dim, the living room warm with the soft flicker of candles. there are fairy lights strung along the shelf, a few photos of you two pinned up between them, and on the coffee table:
a small cake, a few neatly wrapped gifts, and an easel covered by a white cloth.
lara turns to you slowly, eyes wide.
“you’re actually insane.”
“in the romantic kind of way,” you say, grinning.
she just stares at you, speechless for a moment — then laughs, shaking her head.
“you did all this? after the restaurant?”
“mmhm.”
“when?”
“i had help,” you admit. “my cousin came earlier to light the candles.”
“so this whole day—”
“was planned,” you say softly. “every bit of it.”
she looks around again, her expression softening, lips parting like she’s trying to take it all in.
the glow of the lights, the faint smell of vanilla from the cake, the quiet music you queued before leaving.
“you’re ridiculous,” she murmurs.
“you love that about me.”
“...maybe.”
she moves toward the coffee table, eyes flicking between the gifts and the covered easel.
“can i open these?”
“in a sec,” you say. “there’s something first.”
you gesture to the easel, walking over to it.
“i’ve been working on this for a while. it’s not finished, but… i wanted you to see it tonight.”
you pull off the cloth.
lara’s breath catches.
it’s her — sitting by the window in your place, sunlight pouring over her face. her expression soft, almost dreamy. the sketch is detailed down to the smallest curve of her smile, each stroke deliberate and full of care.
she stares at it for a long moment, hands hovering like she’s afraid to touch it.
“you— this is me?”
“yeah,” you say quietly. “been working on it every night you said you were too busy to call.”
she turns to you, eyes glassy now. “it’s… beautiful.”
“it’s not done yet,” you admit. “i wanted it to be perfect, but… it kinda felt right to give it while it’s still in progress. like—”
“like me?” she says softly.
you nod. “like us.”
she exhales, laughing a little as she wipes at her eyes. “you’re gonna make me cry again.”
“that’s part of the plan,” you tease.
she looks at the cake next — small, simple, with soft pink frosting and your messy handwriting in icing:
happy birthday, my favorite person.
you hand her a lighter. “make a wish?”
she tilts her head at you. “you already gave me everything.”
“there’s always more to wish for.”
she smiles, eyes shining in the candlelight. “fine.”
she closes her eyes, takes a quiet breath, and for a few seconds, everything goes still — no music, no city noise, just the sound of her breathing and the flicker of the flame.
then she blows it out.
you clap dramatically. “what’d you wish for?”
“not telling,” she says, grinning.
“come on.”
“nope. if i say it, it won’t come true.”
“you’re so annoying.”
“and you love that about me,” she echoes your earlier words, smiling wider now.
later, after the gifts are unwrapped — small things you picked out carefully (a new sketchbook, her favorite perfume, a printed photo of your first date) — she leans against you on the couch, the sketch still propped up across the room.
“this might be my favorite birthday ever,” she says quietly.
you hum. “only might?”
“okay, definitely.”
you glance at her, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “so… did your wish come true yet?”
she grins, eyes half-lidded. “maybe it just did.”
you laugh softly. “cheesy.”
“accurate, though,” she says, borrowing your line from earlier.
and for a while, neither of you say anything — just the two of you in the soft glow of candlelight, the smell of flowers and frosting in the air, and the faint pencil lines of her face on canvas watching over the room.
synopsis: on her birthday, lara notices you’ve forgotten — until an unplanned dinner invitation slowly turns into a night she’ll never forget.
wc: 2239
you wake up earlier than usual — not because you have to, but because you can’t stop thinking about today. lara’s birthday.
you’ve been planning for weeks — the dinner, the sketch, the little moment that’s supposed to make her cry (in a good way).
the plan’s simple: act normal. no morning greeting, no hints, no posts. she’ll think you forgot. then later, boom — surprise.
easy enough.
you grab your phone and type, casual and clueless:
you: morning, babe
a minute later:
lara: morning 😗
you grin a little, relieved she’s awake.
you: whatchu up to?
lara: just got up hehe u?
you: about to make coffee. wanna teleport here and make breakfast for us? 😤
lara: 😭 rude. u can cook better anyway.
you laugh quietly. everything feels normal. light. she’s teasing — no suspicion.
you: true. maybe i’ll just make pancakes again
lara: u and those pancakes 💀
you: don’t insult my comfort meal 😤
lara: ok ok chef 😌
you can almost hear her laugh, the soft kind that trails at the end of her words.
but then… the chat slows.
no more messages after that.
she stops replying, and you don’t double text — on purpose.
hours pass.
you scroll through your phone, pretending it doesn’t bother you, but you keep checking the screen anyway.
by lunchtime, still nothing.
you picture her lying on her bed, scrolling too, seeing no message from you except those dumb pancake jokes.
and you know exactly what she’s thinking — did they really forget?
you tell yourself it’s fine. you’ll make it up to her later. it’s all part of the plan.
but the thought of her feeling a little sad because of you?
yeah. that stings more than you expected.
by late afternoon, the silence between you two feels too heavy.
you scroll through tiktok, trying to distract yourself, when a random video pops up — a rooftop restaurant, soft golden lights, pretty city skyline. perfect.
you grin. maybe this can be your opening.
you hit share and text her.
you: omg look what i saw on tiktok 😭😭
no reply for three minutes.
you start doubting the whole idea — maybe she’s too annoyed to answer — but then the typing bubble appears.
lara: omg that view tho??
you: RIGHT?? it’s a rooftop resto near downtown!! we should go 😭😭
lara: wait it’s here?? that’s so pretty 🥹
you: yeah i just checked, it’s not far 👀 we could try it for dinner?
lara: like tonight?
you: mhm 😏 my treat, ofc
a longer pause this time. then finally:
lara: sure. why not hehe
you let out a small breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
that night, when you pick her up, she’s quiet at first — polite, composed, not cold, just a little distant.
her smile when she sees you isn’t quite the bright one she usually gives, but it’s there.
“hey,” she says softly.
“hey,” you reply, opening the car door for her.
she raises an eyebrow. “someone’s being gentlemanly tonight.”
“what, i can’t be nice?”
“you can,” she says, lips curling into the faintest smile. “it’s just… rare.”
“ouch,” you laugh, but it breaks the ice. she chuckles too.
the drive isn’t loud — music low, city lights blurring past. you try to fill the quiet with small talk.
“i still can’t believe we haven’t been there before,” you say, drumming your fingers on the wheel.
“maybe it’s new?” she replies, looking out the window. “you and your tiktok finds.”
“hey, i have good taste sometimes.”
“sometimes,” she repeats, smiling to herself.
you glance at her profile in the passing light — soft, thoughtful, but her eyes have that glint of something held back.
you can tell she’s been waiting all day for something that never came.
and she’s trying so hard to act like it’s okay.
you grip the steering wheel a little tighter. just wait, love, you think. you’ll understand soon.
when you arrive, the rooftop is already glowing under strings of warm lights. the air’s cool, carrying faint music and laughter from other tables.
lara’s eyes widen. “oh… wow.”
“yeah?” you grin. “not bad for a random tiktok, huh?”
she laughs softly, still taking it all in. “you seriously just found this today?”
you shrug. “what can i say, my algorithm’s romantic.”
she gives you that look — the one that’s equal parts fond and suspicious.
“hm. convenient.”
you raise your brows innocently. “what?”
“nothing,” she says, lips curling. “just feels like you’re up to something.”
you smirk. “me? never.”
“mmhm,” she hums, but she’s smiling again — brighter this time, genuine.
and for now, that’s enough.
you let her believe this was spontaneous, accidental, unplanned.
you let her think it’s just another random dinner.
the elevator doors open to a rush of warm air, soft jazz, and the glow of fairy lights. the rooftop is beautiful — more than the tiktok made it look.
string lights loop between the beams, city skyline stretching out below, and the tables are dressed with candles flickering gently in the breeze.
lara steps out first, eyes wide.
“this place is insane,” she breathes, a small smile tugging at her lips.
you can’t help but stare — the golden light catches her skin, the wind lifts a few strands of her hair. she looks like she belongs here.
“worth the tiktok find?” you ask, hands in your pockets to hide the fact that they’re shaking a little.
“yeah,” she says softly. “it’s beautiful.”
“you like it?”
“mm,” she hums, still looking around. “kinda makes up for… never mind.”
“for what?” you ask gently, but she shakes her head.
“nothing. come on, we’re gonna lose the sunset.”
you let her walk ahead, and while she’s distracted by the view, you slip a small nod toward the host.
the host smiles — your quiet cue that everything’s ready.
you lead lara to the far corner of the rooftop, where one table stands a little apart from the rest, surrounded by lanterns and pale pink petals scattered underfoot.
she stops in her tracks.
“wait,” she says slowly. “this isn’t just—”
you grin. “surprise.”
her eyes flick between you and the setup — candles, her favorite flowers, a soft playlist playing somewhere nearby.
and then you pull something from behind your chair — a bouquet so big she literally gasps.
“no way,” she whispers.
you hold it out to her, trying not to laugh at her stunned face.
“happy birthday, lara.”
she blinks. once, twice.
“you— you jerk.”
you laugh. “excuse me?”
“you pretended to forget!” she says, but her voice cracks mid-sentence — she’s laughing too now, half embarrassed, half relieved.
“i didn’t pretend,” you protest lightly. “i was just… creating dramatic tension.”
“oh my god.” she covers her face with one hand, bouquet pressed to her chest. “i was so close to deleting your contact this morning.”
“you what?”
“kidding!” she says, still laughing. “mostly.”
she looks down at the flowers — the exact kind she mentioned months ago, the ones she said she loved but never bought for herself.
her voice drops, soft now. “you really remembered.”
“of course i did.”
there’s a moment of silence between you two — quiet, not awkward, just full.
the city hums below, the wind tugs at the candle flames, and you can finally see her shoulders relax, like the weight she’s been carrying all day just lifts.
she sets the bouquet gently on the table, brushing her fingers along the petals.
“i really thought you forgot,” she says finally. “i kept checking my phone like an idiot.”
you smile faintly. “yeah, i kinda imagined that part. sorry.”
“you’re evil,” she murmurs, but she’s smiling again — that soft, real smile that reaches her eyes.
“i’ll make it up to you,” you say. “order anything you want. i’m prepared to go bankrupt for this meal.”
“good,” she says, laughing. “because i’m getting the most expensive thing on the menu.”
“you’d do that anyway.”
“true,” she admits, eyes sparkling.
as the night goes on, the air shifts — lighter now. laughter returns between bites and sips of wine, your knees bump under the table more than once.
she teases you about your outfit (“you wore white to dinner? bold of you”), and you tease her about almost crying earlier (“you got emotional so fast”).
but under the teasing, there’s warmth — something steady and quiet.
at one point, she looks at you, really looks, and says, “you always do this, you know.”
“do what?”
“make me think you don’t care,” she says, voice soft. “and then prove me completely wrong.”
you smile a little. “wouldn’t be as fun if i made it obvious.”
she rolls her eyes, but her hand slides across the table until her fingers brush yours.
“you’re impossible,” she says.
“but worth it?”
she laughs. “...maybe.”
after dinner, you walk her closer to the edge of the rooftop where the city lights glitter below. the wind’s cooler now, carrying the scent of her perfume mixed with the faint sweetness of the bouquet.
she leans on the railing. “thank you. for tonight.”
“thank you for existing,” you say quietly, and she turns to you, surprised, then laughs — the soft, flustered kind.
“that’s cheesy.”
“accurate, though.”
for a while, neither of you talk. the night just stretches out — the hum of the city, her hand finding yours again.
the drive back is quiet, the good kind of quiet.
lara’s leaning against the window, bouquet on her lap, soft music filling the car. she’s smiling faintly, that post-surprise glow still lingering.
you glance at her every few seconds — she’s tracing the ribbon on the bouquet absentmindedly, humming along to the song.
“you tired?” you ask.
“a little,” she says, turning to you. “but… happy tired.”
you grin. “good.”
“why?”
“you’ll see.”
she squints at you suspiciously. “what does that mean?”
“nothing,” you say, too quickly.
“you’re doing that face again.”
“what face?”
“the ‘i’m hiding something’ face.”
“no such face exists.”
“you’re smiling right now!”
“because you’re cute when you’re suspicious.”
she groans. “ugh, stop being charming.”
you laugh, pulling into the parking lot. “too late for that.”
when you unlock your condo door, she steps in first — and freezes.
the lights are dim, the living room warm with the soft flicker of candles. there are fairy lights strung along the shelf, a few photos of you two pinned up between them, and on the coffee table:
a small cake, a few neatly wrapped gifts, and an easel covered by a white cloth.
lara turns to you slowly, eyes wide.
“you’re actually insane.”
“in the romantic kind of way,” you say, grinning.
she just stares at you, speechless for a moment — then laughs, shaking her head.
“you did all this? after the restaurant?”
“mmhm.”
“when?”
“i had help,” you admit. “my cousin came earlier to light the candles.”
“so this whole day—”
“was planned,” you say softly. “every bit of it.”
she looks around again, her expression softening, lips parting like she’s trying to take it all in.
the glow of the lights, the faint smell of vanilla from the cake, the quiet music you queued before leaving.
“you’re ridiculous,” she murmurs.
“you love that about me.”
“...maybe.”
she moves toward the coffee table, eyes flicking between the gifts and the covered easel.
“can i open these?”
“in a sec,” you say. “there’s something first.”
you gesture to the easel, walking over to it.
“i’ve been working on this for a while. it’s not finished, but… i wanted you to see it tonight.”
you pull off the cloth.
lara’s breath catches.
it’s her — sitting by the window in your place, sunlight pouring over her face. her expression soft, almost dreamy. the sketch is detailed down to the smallest curve of her smile, each stroke deliberate and full of care.
she stares at it for a long moment, hands hovering like she’s afraid to touch it.
“you— this is me?”
“yeah,” you say quietly. “been working on it every night you said you were too busy to call.”
she turns to you, eyes glassy now. “it’s… beautiful.”
“it’s not done yet,” you admit. “i wanted it to be perfect, but… it kinda felt right to give it while it’s still in progress. like—”
“like me?” she says softly.
you nod. “like us.”
she exhales, laughing a little as she wipes at her eyes. “you’re gonna make me cry again.”
“that’s part of the plan,” you tease.
she looks at the cake next — small, simple, with soft pink frosting and your messy handwriting in icing:
happy birthday, my favorite person.
you hand her a lighter. “make a wish?”
she tilts her head at you. “you already gave me everything.”
“there’s always more to wish for.”
she smiles, eyes shining in the candlelight. “fine.”
she closes her eyes, takes a quiet breath, and for a few seconds, everything goes still — no music, no city noise, just the sound of her breathing and the flicker of the flame.
then she blows it out.
you clap dramatically. “what’d you wish for?”
“not telling,” she says, grinning.
“come on.”
“nope. if i say it, it won’t come true.”
“you’re so annoying.”
“and you love that about me,” she echoes your earlier words, smiling wider now.
later, after the gifts are unwrapped — small things you picked out carefully (a new sketchbook, her favorite perfume, a printed photo of your first date) — she leans against you on the couch, the sketch still propped up across the room.
“this might be my favorite birthday ever,” she says quietly.
you hum. “only might?”
“okay, definitely.”
you glance at her, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “so… did your wish come true yet?”
she grins, eyes half-lidded. “maybe it just did.”
you laugh softly. “cheesy.”
“accurate, though,” she says, borrowing your line from earlier.
and for a while, neither of you say anything — just the two of you in the soft glow of candlelight, the smell of flowers and frosting in the air, and the faint pencil lines of her face on canvas watching over the room.
synopsis: During a rare, peaceful dinner away from the spotlight, Lara and you find solace in each other—until the world’s flashes break through the calm.
wc: 1265
The restaurant Lara picked is quiet, tucked into a side street lined with trees and faint yellow lights. It smells like roasted garlic and something warm from the kitchen. Small tables, soft jazz, no cameras, no noise—at least not yet.
“Finally,” Lara says, sinking into her seat across from you. “A place where nobody’s staring.”
You laugh softly. “You say that every time, but you’re the one they usually stare at.”
“Yeah, well,” she grins, leaning back, “let me dream for five minutes.”
You shake your head. “You could’ve picked somewhere fancy. This is kind of… quiet for you.”
“Quiet’s good,” she says. “I don’t need fancy when I have you.”
Your breath catches a little. She says it casually, but she’s looking right at you when she does, eyes soft in the dim light.
“You shouldn’t say things like that,” you murmur.
“Why not?”
“Because it sounds like you mean it.”
Lara smiles. “Maybe I do.”
You glance away, pretending to read the menu. She notices, of course. “Don’t hide from me,” she says gently. “We’re not in public right now. Not really.”
“We’re literally in public.”
“Okay, but look around,” she gestures lazily. “No one’s paying attention. For once.”
You hum, scanning the room. A couple at the far corner, a group of friends by the bar, a waiter moving between tables. It’s peaceful in the way nights used to be before everything got complicated.
“So what are you getting?” she asks.
“I can’t decide.”
“Obviously.” She smirks. “You’ve been reading that menu for ten minutes.”
“Because it’s hard,” you say defensively.
“You’re just indecisive.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Says the girl who takes thirty minutes to pick an outfit.”
Lara gasps dramatically. “Excuse me, that’s called attention to detail.”
“It’s called vanity.”
“It’s called wanting to look good for you.”
That makes you pause. “You… do that for me?”
She leans forward, elbows on the table, smiling. “Of course. Who else am I trying to impress?”
You feel your face warm. “I don’t know. Everyone?”
“No,” she says softly, “just you.”
The waiter interrupts before you can reply, asking for your orders. She points to something quickly, barely glancing at the menu. You panic and just mirror her choice.
When he leaves, she laughs. “You didn’t even look.”
“I trust you,” you say.
She smiles again, slower this time. “That’s dangerous.”
“You like dangerous.”
“Only when it’s worth it.”
The conversation drifts. She tells you about her week, about the endless interviews and fake smiles. You tell her about your boring, ordinary days. She listens like every small thing you say matters. Sometimes she reaches across the table, tracing your fingers while she talks.
“You ever wish things were easier?” you ask at one point, your voice low.
Lara nods without hesitation. “Every day.”
“Then why keep doing it?”
“Because I love what I do,” she says, then looks at you. “And because I love who I do it for.”
You freeze. “You—”
She grins, cutting you off. “Don’t overthink it. I just mean you make all the noise feel quieter.”
But you hear the truth beneath her teasing tone, and you don’t push it. Instead, you whisper, “You do the same for me.”
She tilts her head, smiling faintly. “Good. Then we’re even.”
For a few moments, there’s only the quiet hum of the music and the warmth between you. It’s easy. It’s calm. It’s everything you both keep chasing but rarely find.
Until the light changes.
A flash of white cuts through the corner of your vision. Then another.
Lara notices immediately. She straightens in her seat, eyes flicking toward the window. “Don’t look,” she says quietly.
You turn your head anyway, and the second you do, the camera clicks. Someone outside, half-hidden behind a parked car, leans closer to the glass.
“Oh my God,” you whisper. “They found us.”
Lara curses under her breath, jaw tightening. “Unbelievable.”
Another flash. Now louder. Closer.
You shift in your seat, the sudden attention clawing at your chest. “Lara—”
She’s already moving. “It’s okay,” she says, her hand reaching for yours. “Hey. Look at me.”
“They’re taking pictures,” you whisper. “They can see us.”
“Let them,” she says firmly. “They’ll get tired. They always do.”
“But—”
“No.” Her tone softens again, gentler now. “You didn’t do anything wrong. We were just having dinner. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”
The waiter rushes over. “Ma’am, should we—”
“Close the blinds,” Lara says calmly. “Please.”
The waiter nods quickly and hurries away.
She scoots her chair closer to yours, her body turned slightly, blocking you from the window. “Breathe, love,” she says softly. “Slowly.”
You do. In and out. Her voice anchors you.
“I hate this,” you whisper. “I hate that they always find you.”
“Find us,” she corrects, brushing your cheek with her thumb. “We’re in this together.”
Another flash bursts through the glass before the blinds close, and you flinch again. Without hesitation, she stands.
“Stay here,” she says, and you catch her wrist. “Please, Lara. Don’t—”
She leans down, voice calm but unshakable. “I won’t make a scene. I just need them to stop.”
You watch as she walks outside. Through the glass, you see her step into the cold night, head held high. The cameras click faster, louder, but she doesn’t even flinch.
“Enough,” you can read her lips. She says it quietly, but the men with cameras stop laughing. Her tone leaves no room for mockery.
A minute later, she’s back.
“We’re leaving,” she says gently, taking her jacket off and wrapping it around your shoulders. “Hood up.”
You obey. She keeps one arm around you as you move through the back hallway. When you reach the door, another small cluster of photographers waits there, shouting her name.
She steps in front of you again. “Leave them out of it,” she says, eyes cold. “You want a picture? Take it. But not of them.”
You hear the clicking slow down. Maybe it’s her tone, maybe it’s guilt. Either way, it’s enough for you to slip past into the car.
Once the doors close, it’s quiet again.
You let out a shaky breath. “You shouldn’t have to keep protecting me like this.”
Lara looks at you. “I want to.”
“But it’s not fair.”
“Life’s not fair,” she says softly, resting a hand on your knee. “But you’re worth the chaos.”
You stare at her, eyes wet. “You say that like you mean it.”
She smiles faintly. “I’ve never meant anything more.”
The drive back is quiet, the city lights painting her face in gold and white. Every now and then, she reaches over, brushing your thumb with hers, reminding you that you’re not alone.
When you finally get home, she turns off the engine but doesn’t move. Instead, she looks at you for a long moment, studying your face.
“You okay?”
You nod. “Just tired.”
She leans over and kisses your forehead. “I know.”
Inside, she helps you out of the jacket, her movements slow and gentle now. The world outside can have its flashes, its headlines, its noise. But here, it’s just the two of you again.
She cups your face, eyes soft. “Next time, we’ll pick somewhere no one can find us.”
“Just us?” you ask quietly.
Lara smiles. “Just us. Always.”
She presses her forehead against yours, breathing you in like she’s trying to erase the rest of the world. And for that moment, she almost does.
Outside, a car passes, a faint flash of light cutting through the window—but it fades as quickly as it came.
hi, it's okay to flood my asks 😭 though, I'm unsure when I'll be able to replyyy. The thing I've been fearing (of getting bored) is slowly creeping up to me. So, as a solution, I don't want to force myself to answer asks / post stuff. I can probably sneak in a few per day, or every other. 💟
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