Helelelellooo shaaa, its my birthday today.. can i ask for a fic about sana and r going out trying to celebrate rs birthday but they just end up hiding from paparazzis all day? Thank youuu <3
Also how was ur Christmas? Hope it was gooodd!!
-silly anon💗
what the cameras missed ⋆｡°✩
minatozaki sana x fem reader
warnings: idol!sana, invasion of privacy, media speculation, soft angst, fluff
wc: 2.7k
a/n: hellooo ! sorry this is a month late huhu, but belated happy birthday, silly anon!! thank you for being so patient with me 🪽 my christmas went well and was very eventful — hope you had a lovely one too 💜 requests are open ❤︎
Sana wants one day without cameras—and learns how fragile that wish is ⋆˚꩜｡
Sana arrives earlier than she needs to.
She parks a little farther down the street than usual, engine ticking softly as it cools. The sun is high but mellow, the kind of afternoon light that makes everything look less sharp.
She checks her phone once.
No notifications.
Good.
She steps out of the car dressed simply—pants and a black top.
When she walks up to your building, she doesn’t rush. She keeps her shoulders relaxed, posture easy, like she’s just visiting a friend. Because she is. Because that’s safer—for both of you.
She texts you when she’s by the entrance.
I’m here :)
A few moments later, the door opens.
You step out, bag slung over your shoulder, blinking a little at the light. When you spot her, your face softens immediately.
“Hey,” you say.
Sana smiles back, the kind that reaches her eyes. “Hey. Birthday girl.”
You laugh quietly. “You didn’t have to say it like that.”
“I did,” she replies, stepping closer. “It’s important.”
She takes you in for a second—not in a way that feels watched or rushed.
Just noticing.
Like she always does.
The way your hair sits today.
The color you chose.
How you look a little shy even now.
“You ready?” she asks.
You nod. “Yeah.”
She opens the car door for you without thinking. When you slide in, she closes it gently, then circles around to the driver’s seat.
As she pulls away, the city hums to life around you. Traffic isn’t bad. People move along sidewalks, unaware.
Sana hums along to whatever’s playing on the radio, fingers tapping lightly against the steering wheel.
You glance at her. “You’re really chill today.”
She chuckles. “Should I not be?”
“No, I just—” you smile. “I like it.”
Her grin widens. “Good. Today’s supposed to be nice.”
She says it like a promise. Not just to you—but to herself.
For now, it feels like any other day.
Two people heading out together.
Sunlight through the windshield.
No eyes yet.
And Sana lets herself enjoy that—just for a little while.
The restaurant is familiar.
Not fancy.
Not loud.
Just tucked along a side street with wide windows and warm light spilling out onto the sidewalk. It’s the kind of place that feels lived-in—wooden tables, handwritten specials, a quiet hum of conversation.
Sana relaxes the moment you step inside.
“See?” she says, nudging you gently with her elbow. “Told you it’d be fine.”
You smile. “I trust you.”
That earns you a look—fond, almost smug.
You’re seated near the window. Sunlight filters in at an angle, catching dust motes in the air. Sana slips her bag onto the table and leans back, stretching her arms like she’s settling in.
“So,” she says, tilting her head, eyes flicking over you, “are you always this cute on your birthday, or is this a special occasion thing?”
You blink. “Sana.”
“What?” She grins. “I’m being honest.”
You try to answer, but she doesn’t give you much room to breathe.
“You know,” she continues, resting her chin in her palm, “I like when you laugh like that. Small first. Then real.”
You groan softly. “You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“Flirting,” you say, flustered.
She laughs, pleased. “Am I not allowed?”
You shrug, trying to look unaffected, even though your ears are already warm. “I didn’t say that.”
She hums, clearly satisfied, and reaches for the menu—but then her gaze drifts.
Just for a second.
Her shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly.
You don’t notice right away. You’re too busy trying to calm your heartbeat, too busy pretending you’re immune to her attention.
Sana’s eyes flick toward the window again.
Then again.
The smile she’s wearing doesn’t disappear—but it tightens.
You notice then.
“Hey,” you ask softly, leaning forward. “You okay?”
She blinks, refocuses on you. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
But her fingers tap against the table now.
She exhales slowly, gaze dropping to the wood between you. “I just felt something.”
You tilt your head. “Felt what?”
She hesitates. Then sighs, rubbing at the back of her neck.
“It’s stupid,” she says. “I just got this flashback.”
Your expression softens. “About?”
She leans back in her chair, eyes on the ceiling for a moment. “There was this time—weeks ago—I was in a taxi. Middle of the day. Windows down. I didn’t even know anyone was taking pictures.”
“The driver noticed first,” she continues. “He got really uncomfortable. Kept asking me if I was in trouble. If he should pull over. I could tell he was scared—like he’d done something wrong just by driving me.”
You feel your chest ache.
“I apologized,” she says quietly. “Over and over. Even though it wasn’t my fault.”
Her gaze finally meets yours. “That’s the part that still bothers me.”
You reach across the table without thinking, resting your hand near hers—not touching yet.
“That sounds awful,” you say gently.
She shrugs, but it’s a thin thing. “It makes places like this feel… fragile. Like I’m borrowing calm until someone decides to break it.”
You slide your hand over hers now, thumb brushing her knuckles.
“You’re not doing anything wrong, baby” you say. “And you’re not ruining anything.”
Her fingers curl around yours automatically.
“I just don’t want today to turn into that,” she admits. “Not your birthday. Not with you.”
You squeeze her hand, grounding. “Then we take it one moment at a time. If you want to leave, we leave. If you want to stay, we stay.”
She studies you—really studies you.
“You’re very steady,” she murmurs.
You smile softly. “Someone has to be.”
For a moment, the unease loosens its grip.
The waiter returns with your drinks.
Sana breathes out, smile easing back into something real.
“Okay,” she says, lifting her glass slightly. “Let’s eat before I start overthinking again.”
And for now—you let the afternoon hold.
The food helps.
It always does.
By the time the plates are cleared, Sana looks more like herself again—leaned back comfortably, eyes bright as she watches you pick at the last bite.
“That was good,” she says. “Worth the risk.”
You laugh. “You say that like we committed a crime.”
She grins. “Eating peacefully? As me? Yeah. Felony-level.”
You stand up together, slipping out into the street once more. The afternoon light has softened, shadows stretching longer now, the city easing into that slower rhythm between day and night.
You glance around, then look at her. “I want something sweet.”
Sana doesn’t even hesitate. “Of course you do.”
She starts listing options—waffles, ice cream, that tiny stall two streets over you once dragged her to—but you’re only half-listening, already scanning the sidewalk.
That’s when it happens.
“Excuse me—Sana?”
The voice is polite.
Careful.
Too careful.
Sana freezes for half a second.
You feel it immediately—the shift in her posture, the way her shoulders tense. She turns slowly, already schooling her expression into something warm.
“Yes?” she says kindly.
The person’s eyes light up. “I’m so sorry, I don’t want to bother you, but can I get an autograph? Or maybe just a photo?”
Behind them, you catch it—the unmistakable lift of a phone, another one just a little farther back. A lens angled too deliberately.
Sana’s smile doesn’t falter.
That’s the part she’s practiced.
“Thank you for supporting me,” she says warmly, dipping her head just a little.
Polite.
Gracious.
“But I’m actually busy right now.”
She shifts closer to you as she speaks, subtle and careful, until her hand finds yours.
She doesn’t squeeze yet.
Just rests her fingers there—asking.
You answer by lacing your fingers with hers.
The fan hesitates, clearly torn between excitement and respect. “Oh—okay. I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s okay,” Sana says gently. “Really. Thank you for understanding.”
She takes a step back.
Then another.
But she doesn’t let go of your hand.
The fan keeps talking as you move—thanking her again, saying they’ve loved her for years, asking one last question she doesn’t answer. Sana nods along, murmuring soft acknowledgements, never turning her back fully.
Never giving anyone a reason to call her rude.
You walk beside her, heart thudding—not scared, just acutely aware of the way her thumb starts to rub slow circles against your palm.
That’s when you notice them.
Two people across the street. Not looking directly. Phones angled low. One lifts their camera just slightly when Sana turns her head.
Paparazzi.
Her jaw sets—not angry, but alert.
“Okay,” she says lightly, voice still pleasant. “We should go.”
She doesn’t wait for a response.
She guides you down the sidewalk, pace unhurried but purposeful. To anyone watching, it probably looks normal—two people leaving together, hand in hand.
Behind you, the fan calls out again. “Sana—just one photo?”
She doesn’t turn around this time.
Her hand slips from your fingers to your wrist instead, firmer now, grounding.
You pass a storefront with reflective glass, and for half a second you catch the sight of it—the way one of the cameras lifts properly now, lens unmistakable. The click-click-click follows you like a shadow.
Sana angles her body slightly, stepping half a pace in front of you without even thinking about it.
Her voice drops, just for you. “Keep walking.”
“Okay,” you whisper.
Her thumb presses into your pulse.
You reach a corner.
The street narrows.
Less foot traffic.
Sana slows just enough to glance back—assessing, calculating. The paparazzi linger, pretending to check their phones.
She exhales through her nose, something tight and frustrated flickering across her face before it smooths out again.
“I’m sorry,” she says quietly, not looking at you. “I didn’t think they’d be here.”
You shake your head. “Sana. It’s not your fault.”
She huffs a small, humorless laugh. “Doesn’t stop it from feeling like it is.”
She looks at you then.
Really looks.
And for a moment, the noise fades—the cameras, the watching eyes, the tension in her shoulders.
Her phone vibrates in her hand.
Sana hadn’t even realized she’d pulled it out—pure reflex, muscle memory shaped by years of just in case. She glances down as you slip into the narrow alley beside her, the noise of the street fading behind brick walls and the low hum of an air vent.
Quiet.
Finally.
She exhales, shoulders dropping for the first time in minutes.
Then she sees it.
A notification banner stretches across her screen, bold and unmistakable.
Is Sana Dating? New Photos Show TWICE’s Sana Holding Hands with a Woman.
Below it, a blurred thumbnail. Her profile. Hand clearly wrapped around someone else’s wrist.
Yours.
Her stomach sinks.
“Oh,” she breathes.
You notice immediately. “What is it?”
She hesitates, thumb hovering. Then she tilts the screen toward you. “It’s already up.”
Your heart gives a small jolt as you read it, but your first instinct isn’t panic—it’s concern.
Not for yourself.
For her.
“Baby…” you say softly.
“I’m sorry,” she blurts out, words tumbling too fast now. “I really thought we’d have more time. I should’ve been more careful. I shouldn’t have—” She stops herself, jaw tightening. “This wasn’t how I wanted today to go. For you.”
You step closer without thinking, the alley cool and shadowed around you.
“Hey,” you say, reaching for her hand again. “Look at me.”
She does.
Her eyes are troubled—not scared for herself, but heavy with guilt.
“I don’t care about being seen,” you tell her gently. “I care about you. Are you okay?”
That catches her off guard.
“You’re not… upset?” she asks quietly.
You shake your head. “I’m worried they’ll twist this. About you. Your image. Your privacy.”
Her lips part slightly.
“You’re worried about me?” she asks, incredulous.
You nod, like it’s obvious. “Yes??”
Something in her expression breaks—softens into something achingly tender. She lifts her free hand and presses it briefly to her face, like she needs to ground herself.
“You’re unbelievable,” she murmurs.
She looks back at the screen once more, scrolling past headlines, speculation already piling up.
The comments.
The assumptions.
The way people think they own her narrative.
“It’s just… exhausting,” she admits quietly. “Every time I think I’ve learned how to live with it, it finds a new way to remind me I don’t get to have quiet things.”
You squeeze her hand. “You’re allowed to. Even if they don’t understand it.”
She studies you in the dim light of the alley, eyes searching.
“Does this scare you?” she asks. “Being pulled into it like this?”
You think about it for a second.
Then, honestly: “It scares me more that you think I’d walk away because of it.”
Her breath stutters.
“Oh,” she whispers.
She steps closer, close enough that your shoulders touch, the alley suddenly feeling like a small pocket of safety carved out of chaos.
“I didn’t mean to make today heavy,” she says. “I wanted to celebrate you. Not drag you into… this.”
You smile softly. “We’re still together. It’s still my birthday. And you’re still here.”
Her lips curve into a faint smile in return.
She slips her phone back into her pocket, decisively this time.
“Come on,” she adds, squeezing your hand. “Let’s disappear for a bit. I know a place they won’t follow.”
You nod, trusting her completely.
As you step out of the alley together—quieter now, unseen for the moment—Sana keeps you close, not to hide you, but to make sure you don’t feel alone in it.
Whatever the headlines say—
Right now, this moment is still yours.
She leads you a few blocks away, weaving through streets with the kind of confidence that comes from repetition.
The farther you get from the main road, the quieter it becomes, until the city feels like it’s holding its breath.
The café is easy to miss if you don’t know where to look.
Warm light glows through the windows, soft and inviting, a handwritten sign hanging slightly crooked above the door. Sana slows before reaching it, thumb brushing once over the back of your hand like a quiet check-in.
“Still okay?” she asks.
You nod. “Yeah.”
That’s enough for her.
The bell above the door chimes softly when you step inside. The space is small but cozy—wooden counters, shelves lined with mismatched mugs, the faint smell of coffee and something sweet lingering in the air. It feels lived-in.
Safe.
The person behind the counter looks up—and their face immediately breaks into a grin.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” they say, already stepping away from the espresso machine. “You’re early. And not alone.”
Sana’s shoulders drop the rest of the way. “Hi,” she says, sounding lighter already. “Please tell me you’re not busy.”
“For you? Never,” her friend replies easily, eyes flicking to you with open curiosity. “And you must be—”
“She’s mine,” Sana says without thinking.
The words hang there for half a second.
You laugh softly. “Hi. I’m Y/N”
Sana sneaks “The birthday girl.”
Her friend’s eyes widened. “Oh.” Then they grin even wider. “Say no more.”
Without asking, they reach for two cups, movements practiced. Coffee grounds, steam, the gentle clatter of ceramic—everything feels soothing after the tension outside.
Sana leans closer to you while her friend works. “They’re good people,” she murmurs. “They won’t say anything.”
“I figured,” you reply. “You look like you can breathe again.”
She smiles at that.
A moment later, her friend sets the drinks down on the counter—one just the way Sana likes it, the other clearly customized with care. Then, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, they disappear briefly into the back.
They return with a small plate.
A slice of cake. Neatly cut. A single candle already pressed into the frosting.
“Happy birthday,” they say warmly, setting it between you. “On the house.”
You blink. “Oh—you didn’t have to—”
“I absolutely did,” they interrupt. “Anyone who survives being dragged through headlines on their birthday deserves cake.”
Sana lets out a surprised laugh, hand flying to her mouth. “You’re going to make me cry.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” her friend teases.
“Rooftop?” they offer without hesitation. “No one goes up there unless I tell them to.”
Sana’s eyes light up with relief. “You’re the goat.”
Up the stairs you go, drinks in hand, the noise of the city fading with every step. When you push the door open, the rooftop greets you with open sky and soft wind, the city stretching out beneath you like a painting.
Sana watches you for a moment as you lean toward the cake, candle flickering gently.
“Make a wish,” she says, voice low.
You glance at her, smiling. “I already did.”
She tilts her head. “Yeah?”
You nod. “And I think it’s right in front of me.”
Her expression softens completely.
For the first time all day, Sana lets herself believe it too.
