Chapter Text
Minjeong was, objectively speaking, the luckiest girlfriend in the world.
This wasn’t delusion. It wasn’t the honeymoon phase talking, either. It was just fact—cold, hard, empirically verifiable fact.
Because Jimin was perfect.
Not in that vague way people throw the word around, like oh, my girlfriend’s nice, she’s caring, she says sweet things, blah blah blah. No. Minjeong had proof. Evidence. Exhibits A through literally Z.
Jimin, who listened to every demo Minjeong ever sent and replied with voice notes full of real enthusiasm—pointing out specific lines she loved, humming back melodies she couldn’t get out of her head.
Jimin, who showed up to Minjeong’s shows in disguise—cap pulled low, mask up to her eyes—and somehow still found her way backstage with a bouquet of flowers and cake for the team. Who lifted Minjeong clean off the ground in a hug and whispered I’m so proud of you into her hair like it was a secret meant only for her.
Jimin, who noticed when Minjeong trimmed two centimetres off her hair. Two centimetres. Who clocked when she’d dyed it a quarter shade darker—a change so subtle Minjeong’s own mother hadn’t noticed.
“Did you do something different?” Jimin had asked, head tilted, studying her like she was trying to learn Minjeong by heart. “You look great.”
And then there was the recent dubai chewy cookie incident.
Minjeong had been deep in a dubai chewy cookie phase and brought one over during a night in at her apartment. She’d torn the packaging open, this, she had declared while holding it up, is one of the greatest desserts ever invented by humankind.
Jimin took a bite and her whole face had scrunched. The chocolate was too rich, the pistachio kunafeh filling way too sweet, the texture too sticky.
“It’s so sweet,” she said, sounding mildly betrayed. “And messy. Why is there chocolate everywhere?”
“But it’s delicious!” Minjeong had protested.
Jimin had cocoa dust all over her lips, smeared at the corner of her mouth, and she looked so genuinely unhappy about the entire experience that Minjeong started laughing.
“Okay,” Jimin said eventually, still frowning, still covered in chocolate. “I’d like it if you like it too.”
Minjeong had kissed the chocolate right off her mouth. Thorough about it, too. She kissed every trace from Jimin’s lips, tasting sweetness and Jimin and the very specific joy of being known by someone who paid attention.
So yes. Best girlfriend. Case closed.
Minjeong knew you weren’t supposed to compare. She was twenty-five, and she’d dated before; she understood that ranking partners was reductive and unfair and emotionally immature. But also—god—wasn’t Jimin just so much better than everyone else? It wasn’t even close. It was embarrassing how not-close it was.
None of them had noticed the small things. None had ever made her feel like every microscopic detail of her existence was worth remembering.
Jimin did.
Jimin made her feel like a song worth writing over and over again.
---
The studio was quiet except for the soft click of Ryujin’s mouse and the scratch of Minjeong’s pen against paper.
Minjeong was supposed to be working on lyrics for her new mini album. She had a deadline. She had expectations. Her label was breathing down her neck about tracklists and release dates.
Instead, she was doodling hearts in the margins of her notebook and writing lines like you notice me and trying very hard not to rhyme it with jiminie.
It was embarrassing. She was a professional. She’d been doing this for years.
But Jimin had texted her that morning—thinking about you with no context—and Minjeong had been useless ever since.
“You’re smiling at your notebook.”
Minjeong looked up. Ryujin was watching her from across the room, one eyebrow raised, fingers paused over her MIDI keyboard.
“I’m not.”
“You are. You’ve been smiling for like twenty minutes. It’s starting to creep me out. Are you high?”
“No, I’m not. I’m just…” Minjeong searched the ceiling for an excuse and found absolutely nothing. “I don’t know. Feeling things.”
“What?”
“It happens sometimes.”
Ryujin snorted. “You’re thinking about Jimin.”
“I’m always thinking about Jimin. That’s not news.”
Ryujin finally spun her chair around fully, giving Minjeong her full attention and the full force of her judgement. “Yeah, but today you’re being extra gross about it.”
Minjeong crumpled a piece of scrap paper and threw it at her. Ryujin dodged without looking.
“Whatever,” Minjeong muttered. Her dignity, as a concept, left the building. “I’m just—” She sighed. “I’m really in love, okay? Like, stupidly in love. Disgustingly in love. I woke up this morning, thought about how lucky I am, and now I want to write a hundred songs about it.”
“You’ve already written a hundred songs about it.”
“Then I’ll write a hundred more.”
“Gross.” Ryujin pulled a face, like she couldn’t decide if she was disgusted or amused. “Anyway, do you want to order food? I’m craving something, but I can’t decide if I want sweet or savoury.”
“Sure, we can look at the app.”
“And before you suggest it—no more dubai chewy cookie. I am begging you. You’ve ordered them from six different shops this week.”
“Seven,” Minjeong corrected, because accuracy mattered.
Ryujin let out a sigh but nudged her chair sideways from the desk. Minjeong rolled her own chair over, wheels bumping lightly against Ryujin’s, and leaned in until her chin was almost on Ryujin’s shoulder. Only then did Ryujin grab her phone, unlocking it and opening Baemin.
She stopped.
Ryujin’s wallpaper.
Yeji.
A beach photo—Yeji turning back over her shoulder, hoodie slipping off one arm, grin so wide her eyes folded into crescents. The sky behind her was already dark over the water, but the flash caught her smile anyway. It was obvious Ryujin had taken it herself.
“You have Yeji as your wallpaper?”
Ryujin glanced down like Minjeong had just asked whether water was wet. “Yeah? She’s my girlfriend? It’s normal to have your girlfriend as your wallpaper.”
“Right,” Minjeong said slowly. “Yeah. Totally, that makes sense.”
She drifted back to her notebook as Ryujin started scrolling through restaurants, narrating half to herself.
“We could do tteokbokki… or fried chicken… ooh, there’s a new noodle place—”
Minjeong heard the words, but they slid right past her, dissolving before they could stick. She stared at the empty page, wrote half a line, then stopped, pen hovering.
Jimin had her as her wallpaper, right?
Right?
She set the pen down.
She’d never checked. Why would she? It wasn’t the kind of thing she thought about. Except now the idea burrowed in and refused to leave.
Jimin noticed everything about her. Jimin paid attention to details no one else caught. Jimin loved her in all these big and small, ridiculous ways that made Minjeong feel like the centre of the universe.
Of course Jimin’s wallpaper was her. Obviously. What else would it be—a sunset? An aesthetic photo? Some motivational quote?
No. No, it was definitely Minjeong’s face.
Right?
One hundred per cent.
Ninety.
Seventy.
---
By 10 pm, Minjeong was outside aespa’s dorm, hitting the buzzer in spaced-out taps—press, wait, press again—trying very hard not to look desperate even though her thumb kept drifting back to the button.
The door swung open. Jimin stood there in an oversized t-shirt and sleep shorts, hair bundled up in a messy clip. Her face was bare and a little dewy, the faint shine Minjeong recognised from the sheet masks Jimin had probably peeled off quickly before rushing to open the door.
“Babe, what’s wrong?” Jimin asked at once, fingers still wrapped around the door handle. “I didn’t know we were meeting tonight—I thought you had studio till midnight. Ryujin said you were finishing the song.” Her eyes scanned Minjeong’s face, searching. “Did something happen?”
“Show me your phone.”
Jimin blinked. “What?”
“Your phone. Show it to me.”
“Why—”
“Jimin.”
The way Minjeong said her name—flat, direct, no babe, no unnie—was enough. Jimin didn’t ask again. She stayed planted in the doorway, one shoulder braced against the frame, and dug into her shorts pocket with her free hand, pulling out her phone and pressing the side button.
The screen lit up.
Minjeong looked.
A puppy.
A puppy.
A golden-furred, round-faced, blissfully sleeping Maltese puppy, eyes squeezed shut, nose slightly squished against a green cushion. Adorable. Extremely adorable.
But not Minjeong.
She stared at the phone. Then at Jimin. Then at the phone again.
Jimin was still standing in the doorway, visibly trying to figure out why her girlfriend had shown up unannounced on a weeknight to audit her lock screen. “Baby, can we maybe—”
“Why am I not your wallpaper?”
It came out a full octave higher than Minjeong had intended.
Jimin laughed, because what else was she supposed to do when her girlfriend was having a full existential crisis over a puppy?
“Are you—” Jimin pressed a hand to her forehead. “Is this real? Did you come here because of my wallpaper?”
“It’s a dog, Jimin.”
“It’s a cute dog!”
“I’m your girlfriend!”
“The puppy looks like you!” Jimin blurted, apparently deciding that was a solid defence. “When you’re sleepy! It’s got the exact same face you make when—”
“Don’t try to manipulate me!”
“I’m not!”
“Okay,” Minjeong said, recalibrating. “Fine. Fine. The main wallpaper. Sure. But what about your other modes?”
Jimin’s laughter faltered. “…My what?”
“Your phone modes. You have an iPhone, and iPhones have those things now. Focus mode, Sleep mode, whatever. You can set different home screens. So maybe”—Minjeong held up a finger—“maybe your Sleep mode has me. Or your Work mode. Switch it. Right now.”
“Babe, can we not do this in the hallway—”
“Switch it!”
Jimin exhaled through her nose, because what Minjeong wants, Minjeong gets. She swiped into her phone’s settings and toggled to Sleep mode.
The wallpaper changed.
A black cat. Tiny, almost swallowed by white bedsheets. Only two huge round eyes and the tips of two pointed ears peeking over a duvet.
Also not Minjeong.
Minjeong’s mouth fell open. The betrayal was layered.
“You have TWO animals?”
Jimin was fully losing it now, one hand still braced on the doorframe, laughter bubbling out of her in waves. Minjeong meanwhile stood rigid. Her arms crossed, her jaw set—radiating the fury of someone whose honour had been gravely insulted.
“The cat is also you,” Jimin said in between her laughs. “That’s literally what you look like when you’re cold and hiding under the covers and only your eyes—”
“But Ryujin has Yeji as her wallpaper!”
Jimin finally stopped laughing. She pressed her lips together very hard, visibly fighting for composure. “Minjeong. Baby. Did you forget we are in a secret relationship? If someone sees my phone, and my lock screen is your face, and that someone happens to work for Dispatch—”
“Then make me Sleep mode!” Minjeong exploded, flailing slightly. “No one sees that unless you’re literally asleep or asleep with me! That’s private!”
Jimin gave her a long look. Because again, what Minjeong wants, Minjeong gets—even during times when, okay, she’s technically not wrong but is absolutely unhinged about it.
“Okay,” Jimin said at last, stepping back and closing the door behind them. She caught Minjeong’s wrist and tugged her inside the apartment. “Okay. Come here.”
“I’m still mad,” Minjeong announced, planting her feet.
“I know you are. Walk.”
“I don’t want to walk. I want answers.”
“You’re getting answers on the sofa. Move.”
Minjeong let herself be dragged approximately four steps before going deadweight, forcing Jimin to tug her the rest of the way like a suitcase with a broken wheel. Jimin didn’t even comment on it. She’d been dating Minjeong long enough to know that resistance was part of the process—the bratty equivalent of a warm-up lap.
They reached the sofa. Jimin sat first, then pulled Minjeong forward by the hips until she settled on her lap. Minjeong went without protest, which told Jimin everything she needed to know about where this was heading.
“There,” Jimin said. Her hands rested on Minjeong’s waist, thumbs tracing slow circles through her clothes. She looked up at her girlfriend’s face—the set jaw, narrowed eyes, the furious little crease between her brows—and had to bite the inside of her cheek not to grin.
“Baby. Calm down.”
“I am calm.”
“You came here really late on a weeknight to fight me about a puppy.”
“A puppy that is not me.”
Jimin leaned up to press a kiss into Minjeong’s hair. Then another at her cheek. Then one at the corner of her jaw, slow and precise, like she knew exactly what she was doing.
Minjeong jerked back. “No. Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“That. Don’t bribe me with affection. I’m not falling for it.”
“I’m not bribing you. I’m kissing my girlfriend who is sitting on my lap.”
“That’s—that’s different. I’m sitting here because there’s nowhere else to sit!”
Jimin glanced pointedly at the entirely empty sofa cushion to her left. Minjeong followed her gaze, and then looked back at Jimin with an expression that dared her to say a single word.
“Babe, you sit on my lap literally every time we’re on this couch.”
“No I don’t.”
“Last week you sat on my lap to watch that Netflix show I’m in. Together.”
Minjeong grumbled—an actual grumble, low and wordless, more felt than heard through Jimin’s chest—and crossed her arms. The posture should have looked intimidating. On Minjeong, perched on Jimin’s thighs with her sleeves pulled over her fists, it looked like a kitten who’d been told no.
Jimin reached over to her pocket and fished out her phone. She unlocked it, pulled up the settings, and held it between them.
“Alright. Let’s do this.”
Minjeong’s arms stayed crossed. “Do what?”
“Set up my Sleep mode,” Jimin said. “Full Minjeong take-over.” She thumbed through to the Focus settings, tapped Sleep, and turned the screen so Minjeong could see the black cat. “We’ll change it.”
“You’re only doing this because I’m upset.”
“I’m doing this because you asked, because I love you, and because you’re going to be grumpy for the next three days if I don’t—and I have a Vogue shoot on Friday and I can’t be distracted thinking about whether my girlfriend is still mad about a lock screen.” Jimin tilted her head. “Pick your photo.”
Minjeong squinted at the phone. “Not just that.”
Jimin blinked. “What do you mean, not just that?”
“I want the carousel thing.”
“The what?”
“The thing where the wallpaper changes every hour,” Minjeong said, already sounding annoyed that she had to explain it. “I want six pictures of me. Rotating.”
Jimin stared at her, then let out a disbelieving laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”
“You said ‘full Minjeong take-over’,” Minjeong shot back. “This is full. Minimum six.”
“Okay, fine,” Jimin said, because again, what Minjeong wants, Minjeong gets.
“And I pick. Not you.”
“Full creative control,” Jimin said. “Just how you like it in the studio.”
Minjeong finally uncrossed her arms, took the phone, and immediately opened the photo album Jimin kept labelled with a single snowflake emoji—the one that was entirely, exclusively, embarrassingly full of Minjeong.
She shifted on Jimin’s lap, settling herself comfortably—knees bracketing Jimin’s hips, one arm loosely around her neck, the other scrolling. Jimin’s hands stayed on her waist, and she rested her chin on Minjeong’s shoulder, watching her curate the wallpaper line-up like she was putting together a small art museum.
Photo one: Minjeong bundled up in a cream coat and matching hooded scarf, her cheeks pink from the cold and her lips pushed out in a sulky little pout. The sun was setting behind her, making the sky turn gold, but Jimin only ever looked at Minjeong’s face when she saw it.
Approved.
Photo two: Minjeong on a hotel balcony, curled sideways in a deck chair in a brown dress with a bag of Doritos resting against her stomach. Hair a bit messy, mouth mid-bite, the ocean and sky stretching out behind her. She looked completely off guard and completely at ease.
Approved.
Photo three: Minjeong crouched by the riverbank in Jimin’s leather jacket—the one they always ended up sharing even though it hung off Minjeong’s shoulders. The jacket swallowed half of her dress, her hair was loose, and she was staring out over the water, chin propped on her hand, lost in some thought Jimin would never get to hear.
“That one,” Jimin said quietly. “Please.”
Minjeong’s ears went warm. She added it without arguing.
Photo four: the playground. Minjeong at the bottom of a slide in a massive, ridiculous faux-fur coat that made her look like a fluffy bear. Her smile was wide and uselessly bright, the kind Minjeong only ever gave when she forgot there was a camera at all. Jimin had taken it seconds after they’d tumbled down together, breathless and laughing.
“That’s my favourite,” Jimin admitted.
Minjeong made a face, but it went in.
Photo five: Minjeong in a bright blue T-shirt and faded jeans, one hand wrapped around a small camera. She was leaning against a lamppost on some anonymous street, her fringe ruffled by the wind but her eyes stayed sharp and curious.
“You look cool there,” Jimin said. “Like a real photographer.”
Minjeong grumbled, but she was smiling as she tapped it into the set.
Photo six: Minjeong onstage. Guitar strapped across her front, one hand wrapped around the neck, the other resting near the strings. The mic was on a stand in front of her, lights flaring out behind, the crowd only a blur of colour. She was looking at someone just off-camera.
At Jimin.
“That one,” Minjeong murmured. “We’re keeping that one.”
Jimin kissed her shoulder. “Perfect.”
They set the carousel. Jimin turned the phone so Minjeong could watch the first wallpaper—pouty winter Minjeong in her cream coat—settle onto the Sleep mode lock screen.
Minjeong stared at it for a long moment. Then she exhaled, slow and deep, and sagged forward into Jimin, burying her face in her neck.
“Thank you,” she mumbled against her skin.
Jimin wrapped both arms around her, tight, and pressed her nose into Minjeong’s hair. “You are genuinely unhinged,” Jimin murmured. “You know that, right?”
Minjeong pressed her smile into Jimin’s collarbone. Jimin’s thumb traced up and down her spine, slow and soothing. The phone rested on Minjeong’s knee, screen still glowing faintly with Minjeong’s face.
A door opened down the hall.
“Hey, about the schedule tomorrow—”
Aeri stopped three steps out of her room. Ningning bumped into her back, peering around her shoulder.
They took in the scene: Minjeong curled on Jimin’s lap like a cat, Jimin’s arms looped around her, the phone between them displaying what was very obviously a lock screen ritual dedicated to one Kim Minjeong's face.
Aeri lifted both hands.
“Nope. Don’t want to know. Absolutely not.”
“We’re just—” Jimin started.
“Not interested,” Aeri said, already backing away and dragging Ningning with her. “Ningning, we’re going back.”
“But I wanted to see what—”
“No, you didn’t. You saw nothing. We saw nothing. We do not care about gross PDA at this hour. Goodnight.”
The door clicked shut again.
Minjeong didn’t move from Jimin’s neck. “Your members are dramatic.”
Jimin laughed. “Bold coming from the woman who crossed Seoul because of a wallpaper.”
Minjeong bit her collarbone—light, bratty, a punctuation mark—and Jimin yelped and held her tighter, giggling into her hair.
The puppy stayed as the main wallpaper.
But Sleep mode was all Minjeong. Every shuffle, every time the screen dimmed, every night Jimin plugged her phone in and set it on the bedside table—Minjeong’s face, glowing softly in the dark.
Jimin thought that was fair. She fell asleep to Minjeong most nights anyway.