let the stars sort it out --* w/ @renxbe
it still feels weird, having a key to her own apartment. a place that’s hers, not borrowed or temporary or half-lived in. weird, but good. good in that quiet, unfamiliar way that makes her nervous if she thinks about it too long.
so she doesn’t. she thinks about the evening air instead. about how the rooftop view isn’t anything spectacular—mostly other rooftops, laundry lines, neon signs from a noraebang two blocks away—but still, it’s hers.
she hears the door creak behind her and doesn’t turn around. just offers a small glance over her shoulder and a smile that’s more tired than anything else.
“you always find your way to a rooftop anyway, figured i’d beat you to it for once.”
it’s not mean. it never is with him. her voice carries a teasing lilt, like a string she’s offering him to pull. like always.
she doesn’t know what they are—hasn’t dared try to name it. it’s slower than anything she’s ever felt before, but maybe that’s why she lets it happen. whatever’s between them, it moves like molasses, soft and clumsy, quiet as a secret. but it’s there.
she gestures with a slight nod to the spot next to her on the blanket she dragged up earlier, knees pulled to her chest, hoodie sleeves swallowed past her palms. she’s still in training clothes, hair pulled up, skin bare and warm with the day’s leftover heat. a half-drunk bottle of pocari sits nearby, condensation beading against the plastic.
"they didn’t kill me today," she says lightly, breaking the silence, "though i think my quads might just disown me tomorrow."
her fingers toy with the edge of the blanket. her shoulder brushes his for the first time, and when she doesn’t immediately move away, that’s its own kind of invitation. eventually, her head tips gently against him—hesitant at first, then more fully.
it’s not a grand gesture. it’s just comfort. just stillness, and admittedly, it's almost exactly what she needed. "whoo," she sarcastically cheers, "officially part of the overworked and underpaid idol machine."