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w1w2 · 7 hours ago

Text

Drinks or Coffee

Rosé x Fem!Reader

Word Count: ca. 9k

Req by Anon

Notes: It's rushed af, and I'm not proud of it, BUT I couldn't do anything better with the time I had.. SORRY HBD to my number one girl 🫶🏻

Rosé - drinks or coffee "We're just friends, it's okay Kinda weird how my night changed"

English isn’t my first language so I apologize in advance for any mistakes.

♡ Enjoy! ♡

The party was nothing but noise and flashing lights. A swirl of expensive perfume, designer outfits, and clinking glasses filled the air, creating an atmosphere that was both dazzling and exhausting. Conversations overlapped, a constant murmur of pleasantries, forced laughter, and industry talk that held no real weight. Music pulsed through the venue, too loud to ignore but not quite loud enough to drown out the superficial exchanges happening around her.

Y/N shifted her weight from one foot to the other, balancing a half-empty glass of champagne between her fingers, pretending to be engaged in the conversation happening in front of her. A senior executive was speaking, something about an upcoming collaboration, or maybe a tour, but Y/N wasn’t really listening. She had perfected the art of nodding at the right moments, offering small smiles, and laughing politely even when she didn’t fully register the joke.

It wasn’t that she hated these events. She understood their importance, knew they were a necessary part of the industry, but tonight felt particularly draining. There was nothing here for her, no real excitement, no real connection. Just people trying to impress other people.

Her gaze flickered toward the exit. If she left now, she doubted anyone would notice. She could slip away, maybe go home and curl up with a book, or even just sit in the quiet of her dorm, free from the noise. It wasn’t like she was adding anything to the energy of the room.

She sighed, fingers tightening around the stem of her glass. “One more hour,” she told herself. Just one more.

And then—

A laugh. Warm. Familiar. Effortless.

It cut through the noise like a melody she had memorized by heart.

Y/N’s body reacted before her mind even processed it. Her head turned instinctively, eyes scanning the crowd, drawn toward the sound as if it had called her by name.

And then, there she was.

Rosé.

Standing beneath the golden glow of the chandeliers, her head tilted back in laughter, eyes crinkling at something Jennie had just said. She was radiant in a way that made the rest of the room fade into the background. Y/N barely noticed the people around her anymore. It was just Rosé, effortlessly captivating, pulling her attention without even trying.

"Standing in the corner of a crowded place, this is boring 'til I heard your name."

Y/N exhaled, the breath she didn’t realize she had been holding slipping past her lips.

The party no longer felt so unbearable.

Rosé stood across the room, deep in conversation with Jennie, her expression alight with amusement. The golden glow of the chandeliers softened her features, casting a delicate shimmer along her cheekbones. Even in the dim, ambient lighting of the venue, she seemed to glow, as if the world had conspired to make her the brightest thing in the room.

Her hair cascaded in soft waves over her shoulders, framing her face in a way that made her look effortlessly elegant. A few strands had slipped out of place, yet instead of looking messy, they only added to her charm. She was dressed in something sleek and understated, nothing overly extravagant, but still stunning in the way it fit her, hugging her form in all the right ways. The fabric caught the light with every small movement, making it impossible not to notice her.

She wasn’t even trying.

She wasn’t standing under a spotlight, wasn’t performing, wasn’t singing with that breathtaking voice of hers. She was just… being herself. Laughing at something Jennie had said, head tilted back slightly, her eyes crinkling in delight.

And yet, Y/N couldn’t look away.

For a moment, she felt ridiculous. She had known Rosé for years. They had spent so many hours together, backstage at award shows, waiting in green rooms, sharing snacks in the hotel after long schedules. They had been each other’s company on quiet nights, texting about everything and nothing until one of them inevitably fell asleep mid-conversation.

Rosé had always been beautiful. That wasn’t new.

So why did it feel like Y/N was seeing her for the first time?

"Is it just me startin’ to see you in a different light?"

Y/N swallowed, a strange warmth creeping up her neck. She blinked, willing the thought away.

And then, as if drawn by some invisible thread, Rosé’s gaze drifted through the sea of people and landed on her.

For a second, Y/N forgot how to breathe.

There was something in Rosé’s eyes, surprise, maybe or something quieter, something unspoken. The conversation she had been having with Jennie momentarily faded into the background. Y/N swore she saw the tiniest flicker of hesitation, as if Rosé wasn’t just looking at her but seeing her, in a way that mirrored exactly what Y/N was feeling.

Then, slowly, Rosé’s lips curled into a smile.

Soft. Familiar. The kind of smile Y/N had seen a thousand times, yet suddenly, it felt different.

Y/N’s heart stumbled over itself.

Rosé lifted a hand and waved, a small motion that somehow carried the weight of the entire evening.

She tilted her head slightly, an unspoken invitation in her gaze, and just like that, leaving was no longer an option.

Y/N found herself moving before she even decided to. It was as if her body knew something she hadn’t quite admitted to herself yet, an invisible pull, a force guiding her straight to Rosé without hesitation. The music and the crowd faded into the background, becoming nothing more than a blur of movement and sound.

The moment she stepped closer, Rosé turned to her with an easy smile, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

“Finally,” she said, crossing her arms. “I was wondering how long you were gonna sulk in the corner.”

Y/N scoffed, rolling her eyes. “I wasn’t sulking.”

“Sure,” Rosé teased, tilting her head slightly, her blonde hair slipping over one shoulder. “You looked like you were planning your escape.”

Y/N opened her mouth to argue, but.. well, she had been planning her escape. So instead, she just shrugged. “The party’s boring.”

Rosé smirked, leaning in just a fraction closer. “Not anymore, right?”

There was something in her voice, light, playful, but beneath it, something else. Something expectant. The way she looked at Y/N made her stomach flip, like she was waiting for an answer to a question she hadn’t asked out loud.

Before Y/N could analyze it too much, Jennie, who had been casually observing their interaction, cut in smoothly. “You two should just stick together. You’re the only people I’ve seen tonight who don’t look like they want something from someone.”

Rosé let out a soft laugh, the sound effortless and familiar. “Sounds like a plan.”

Jennie’s eyes flicked between them, like she was noticing something neither of them were ready to admit yet. But she just smirked knowingly before stepping away, leaving them in their own little space amidst the chaos of the party.

The conversation flowed easily after that, as it always did between them.

They talked about everything and nothing, complaining about their exhausting schedules, reminiscing about the funniest behind the scenes moments, making quiet jokes about the over the top fashion choices at the party. But underneath all of it, there was something different.

The space between them was less than it should have been.

Every time one of them shifted, the warmth of Rosé’s arm brushed against Y/N’s, sending tiny sparks of awareness up her skin. It wasn’t intentional, at least, Y/N didn’t think so, but neither of them moved away.

Then, without thinking, Y/N reached for a drink from a passing tray.

Her fingers unintentionally brushed against Rosé’s. It was barely a touch. A fleeting moment. But it was there.

Neither of them pulled away immediately.

Y/N swallowed, her pulse thrumming in her ears. She told herself it was nothing. Just a touch. Just a moment.

But then Rosé looked at her. Really looked at her.

And for the first time, Y/N wasn’t so sure it was nothing at all.

The warmth of Rosé’s fingers against Y/N’s lingered, even as the moment passed, even as they both slowly withdrew their hands and pretended like it hadn’t happened. The touch had been brief, fleeting, barely more than a brush of skin against skin. And yet, Y/N could still feel it, like an imprint left behind, delicate but all-consuming.

The air between them had changed.

The conversation continued, but Y/N found herself barely paying attention. She nodded at the right moments, let out small hums of acknowledgment when necessary, but her focus was elsewhere.

Because something was different now.

Rosé, standing impossibly close, her presence overwhelming in the best way. Rosé, whose perfume, light and floral with a hint of vanilla, was something Y/N could recognize anywhere. Rosé, who was quiet now, no longer filling the space with playful words, but instead watching Y/N in a way that sent something warm curling in her chest.

It wasn’t just her imagination.

She could feel it, this pull, this tension simmering just beneath the surface.

Rosé leaned in slightly, her voice just above a whisper, intimate despite the crowd around them. "Wanna get out of here?"

Y/N blinked, caught off guard.

Before she could respond, Rosé tilted her head, a teasing glint in her eyes.

"We could get drinks, or we could get coffee."

Rosé’s tone was casual, too casual, like she wasn’t fully acknowledging what she was asking. Like she was testing something, waiting for a reaction.

Y/N arched an eyebrow, smirking slightly, an attempt to keep her voice steady. “Since when do you drink this much, Rosie?”

Rosé shrugged, effortlessly cool, but Y/N caught the tiny flicker in her expression, the way her lips twitched like she was holding back something more. “Maybe I just wanted an excuse to take you somewhere else.”

Y/N’s breath hitched.

A second passed. Then another.

Neither of them moved.

Rosé was still looking at her, the same way she had been all night, like she was seeing something new, something she hadn’t fully allowed herself to acknowledge before.

And maybe Y/N was looking at her the same way. The weight of the moment balanced on a knife’s edge.

Then, as if making an unspoken agreement, Rosé reached for her clutch, her movements smooth, deliberate. Y/N followed suit, setting her barely touched drink on the nearest table.

They didn’t say anything else, there was no need to.

Without another word, they slipped through the crowd together, leaving the noise of the party behind.

The city air was crisp when they stepped outside, a welcome contrast to the stifling heat of the party. The cool breeze nipped at Y/N’s skin, carrying with it the distant scent of rain on pavement and something floral from a nearby storefront. She inhaled deeply, letting the quiet settle over her like a balm.

Neon lights flickered against the wet pavement, stretching into long, fractured reflections with each passing car. The city was still alive but softer now, distant laughter from groups of night owls mingling with the low hum of traffic. It was the kind of night that felt endless, like anything could happen.

Rosé didn’t say where they were going, and Y/N didn’t ask.

She simply fell into step beside her, their shoulders brushing with every few strides. Neither of them moved away.

A comfortable silence stretched between them as they wandered through the quieter streets of Seoul, where the flashing signs and bustling crowds gave way to cozier alleyways and familiar corners. It wasn’t the first time they had done this, sneaking away after long events, walking without a real destination, enjoying the rare moments of peace their schedules didn’t often allow. But tonight felt… different.

Eventually, they turned down a quieter street, and Rosé led them toward a small, tucked-away café. The warm glow from inside spilled onto the sidewalk, the golden light inviting against the cool blue of the night.

Y/N smiled as recognition dawned. They’d been here before.

Hidden from the prying eyes of cameras and fans, this place had become something of an unspoken sanctuary, a little slice of normalcy in a life where normal didn’t exist.

But somehow, tonight, it felt different.

As Rosé pulled open the door, Y/N hesitated. "Are we really doing coffee at this hour?"

Rosé smirked, tilting her head slightly. “Since when do you care about time?”

Y/N huffed out a quiet laugh, stepping inside after her.

The café was warm, the rich scent of roasted beans and vanilla hanging in the air. Soft music played from an old speaker near the counter, blending into the occasional clinking of ceramic cups and the quiet murmur of the few other late-night customers. It was nothing like the party, no flashing lights, no suffocating expectations, no noise that drowned out the thoughts in her head.

Just them.

As they settled into a corner booth, Rosé ran a hand through her hair, shaking off the slight chill from outside. Y/N watched as she glanced at the menu with mild disinterest before resting her chin on her hand, eyes flickering up to meet Y/N’s.

“You’re stalling,” Y/N teased, placing her own menu down.

Rosé hummed, tapping her fingers against the table. “Maybe.” Then, after a beat, “What do you feel like?”

“Tea,” Y/N answered easily, lifting an eyebrow. “And I know you’re not about to order coffee. You hate drinking it late.”

Rosé’s lips curled into a knowing smile. “Maybe I just like the company.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but her heart betrayed her, skipping a beat at the effortless way Rosé said it.

They placed their orders, tea for Y/N, something herbal for Rosé, before settling into the quiet lull of the café.

The dim lighting cast soft shadows over Rosé’s face, highlighting the curve of her cheekbone, the slight downturn of her lips as she stared into her cup, stirring absentmindedly. Her fingers wrapped around the ceramic as if grounding herself, but there was a thoughtfulness in her expression, something unsaid resting at the tip of her tongue.

Y/N didn’t speak. She simply watched, taking in the way Rosé’s brows knitted together slightly, how the flickering candle on the table reflected in her eyes.

The café was quiet, not an empty kind of quiet, but the kind that felt safe. Unlike the party, there was no pressure to be anything but themselves here.

And yet, the air between them still carried a charge, an unspoken tension, something lingering just beneath the surface.

Y/N traced the rim of her cup absentmindedly, watching Rosé over the rising steam of her drink.

There was something mesmerizing about the way she carried herself, the effortless way she curled her fingers around the handle of her mug, the way her thumb absentmindedly smoothed over the ceramic surface as if lost in thought. She wasn’t fidgeting, not exactly, but there was a quiet kind of movement to her, a rhythm in the way she tapped a delicate pattern against the side of the cup, her mind seemingly elsewhere.

Y/N had seen Rosé like this before, deep in thought, lost in the quiet corners of her mind. But tonight, something about it felt different.

Maybe it was the lighting, casting warm shadows over the soft contours of her face.

Maybe it was the way her eyes flickered up to meet Y/N’s every so often, as if making sure she was still there.

Maybe it was the silence, charged, heavy with things unsaid, lingering between them like a question neither of them had dared to ask.

And then, before she could stop herself, the words slipped out. "This night felt pointless until I saw you."

Rosé stilled.

Her fingers tightened slightly around her cup, her posture shifting just the smallest fraction. It was subtle, barely noticeable, but Y/N noticed.

Because Rosé always moved with a certain grace, always carried herself with an effortless fluidity, and yet… something about the way she froze in that moment told Y/N that she had caught her off guard.

The words hung between them, suspended in the air like something fragile, something that could shatter if handled too carelessly.

For a moment, Rosé didn’t respond. She just sat there, her lips parted slightly, eyes searching Y/N’s as if trying to find the meaning hidden beneath them.

Because they both knew those words meant more than they should.

"I know we can't say what we mean, but I'm happy that you're here tonight."

Rosé opened her mouth, as if to say something. Y/N could see it, the hesitation, the thoughts racing behind her eyes, the weight of a response she was unsure if she could give.

She stopped herself, instead, she simply smiled.

Not her usual bright, camera-ready smile. Not the charming, practiced expression she wore for flashing lights and adoring fans.

This was something else. Something smaller. Something softer. Something private.

As if Y/N’s words were something she wanted to keep.

After that night, something changes.

It isn’t sudden, there’s no grand moment of realization, no spoken confession that shifts the world around them. But it’s there. Subtle and persistent. A slow unraveling, threading itself into the fabric of their everyday lives, too quiet to name but impossible to ignore.

They start spending more time together.

More than before. More than what could be written off as coincidence or simple friendship.

It starts small.

Rosé starts texting first.

Not because she has a reason, not because there’s anything urgent to say, but just because. Because she wants to, because something about Y/N’s name lighting up her screen makes the dullest parts of her day feel lighter.

And Y/N texts back, always. Sometimes with teasing responses, sometimes with sleepy voice notes at ungodly hours, her voice groggy but affectionate.

And then there are the calls, ones that start as quick check-ins but stretch into hours, their voices growing softer, quieter, like neither of them want to be the one to say goodbye.

Then come the meet-ups, slipping away between schedules, finding hidden places where no one will bother them. There’s something different about those moments. The way Rosé’s fingers toy with the rim of her cup, the way Y/N’s gaze lingers just a little too long. The way neither of them rush to leave.

The nights stretch longer.

More late-night conversations, more laughter, more stolen moments in places that feel like they exist outside of time. Y/N finds herself memorizing the way Rosé’s eyes flicker when she’s talking about something she loves, how she bites her lip when she’s deep in thought, how her voice softens when she says her name.

And then there are the touches. Small at first.

Brushed fingers when reaching for something at the same time. Rosé’s hand on the small of Y/N’s back when guiding her through a crowd. The way Y/N’s fingers linger on Rosé’s wrist when she tugs her closer, like she’s waiting for something.

It’s brief. Fleeting, but it’s enough.

Enough to make Y/N’s breath hitch. Enough to make Rosé’s heart stutter.

Rosé tells herself it’s nothing. Except… It’s always something.

She catches herself staring when she shouldn’t.

During rehearsals, during interviews, in moments where she should be focused, but instead, she’s watching her. Watching the way Y/N moves, the way she laughs, the way she tucks her hair behind her ear absentmindedly.

And every single time Y/N looks back at her, catches her in the act, Rosé’s pulse races.

It’s fine, she tells herself. Completely normal.

But if that’s true… Then why does it feel like something she’s not ready to admit?

Why does she find herself searching for Y/N, even when she’s supposed to be focused on something else? Why does her chest tighten when Y/N walks into a room, why does the absence of her presence feel palpable in a way it never used to?

It follows her everywhere.

During rehearsals, during interviews, in moments where she should be fully present but instead finds her thoughts drifting, always back to her.

And now? Now they’re here again, another schedule, another long day in the industry’s endless cycle. But this time, Rosé doesn’t just feel Y/N’s presence.

She sees her.

The backstage room hummed with the familiar chaos of a live broadcast, producers adjusting earpieces, stylists making last-minute fixes, camera operators calling out to one another. The low murmur of voices, the shuffle of footsteps, the faint whir of a curling iron in the background, it all blended into a steady, predictable noise.

But Rosé barely noticed any of it.

She was seated on the worn leather couch, waiting for the next segment to begin, her body angled slightly toward Y/N without realizing it. The space between them was negligible, their legs nearly touching. Too close to be accidental. Too familiar to be deliberate.

Y/N was speaking, her voice low and warm, her words laced with something teasing. Rosé wasn’t entirely sure what she was saying anymore, something about the interview, or maybe a joke about how long the day had been, but all Rosé could focus on was the way her voice curled around the words. The way her lips twitched in amusement before she even finished speaking, like she already knew Rosé would laugh.

She should move. She should.

But she didn’t.

A staff member passed by, flipping through a clipboard, their voice cutting through the air with an amused lilt.

"You two are always together." The words landed too heavily.

It was casual, offhanded, thrown into the conversation without a second thought. A passing comment meant to fill the silence.

But Rosé felt it like a spark.

Y/N, as always, was quick to respond. She let out an easy laugh, one of those effortlessly charming ones, leaning back against the couch as if the statement meant nothing at all. "Guess she’s stuck with me."

The staff member chuckled and walked off, the moment already forgotten.

Rosé should have laughed, too. It was a joke. Just a joke, but her face burned.

It shouldn’t have meant anything. It shouldn’t have sent a sudden, unsteady rush of heat creeping up her neck, shouldn’t have left her fingers curling subtly against her lap, pressing into the fabric of her dress as if grounding herself.

But the thing about the joke was that it wasn’t really a joke at all.

They were always together.

She could feel Y/N’s gaze on her now, lingering in that way that made Rosé feel seen in a way she wasn’t sure she was ready for. It was subtle, a flicker of attention, a silent question in the way her eyes softened at the corners.

Rosé kept her own gaze forward, pretending to be focused on the ongoing conversation happening across the room. If she laughed too much, it would be obvious. If she didn’t laugh at all, it would be worse.

So she settled for something in between.

A quiet exhale. A half-smile. A sip of water that did nothing to cool the warmth still spreading through her chest.

The conversation moved on. The moment passed, but the thought stayed.

Later, after the interview was over, after the cameras had been turned off and the crew had started packing up, Rosé found herself walking down an empty hallway beside Y/N. The distant hum of voices and laughter from the other rooms faded as they stepped further away from the noise.

It was just them now.

No cameras. No audience. No need to pretend.

Rosé spoke without fully thinking, the words slipping out before she had the chance to swallow them down.

"Maybe they have a point."

Y/N, who had been mid-step, paused.

She turned slightly, just enough for Rosé to see the shift in her expression, the way her amusement dimmed into something quieter, something unreadable. She didn’t speak right away, didn’t offer another easy, teasing response. Instead, she just looked at Rosé, really looked at her, like she was searching for something in her face, waiting to see if Rosé would take the words back.

She didn’t.

Y/N tilted her head, considering. Her voice was softer when she finally spoke. "Do they?"

It wasn’t playful, it wasn’t teasing. It was a real question.

Rosé swallowed, suddenly feeling the weight of her own words.

She could still hear the echo of the joke from earlier. Could still feel the heat of Y/N’s gaze lingering on her, waiting for an answer.

And she could lie. She could laugh it off like she always did, could throw back a simple of course not and pretend like her pulse wasn’t hammering in her throat.

But she didn’t.

She just stood there, staring at Y/N, feeling everything and saying nothing.

Because maybe... Maybe she already knew the answer, and that’s what scared her the most.

And yet, the weight of that unspoken truth didn’t fade with time. It followed her in the quiet moments, in the spaces between conversations, in the way Y/N’s absence felt too loud even when the world around her was filled with noise.

Days passed, then weeks, and still, Rosé found herself caught in the same loop—avoiding, pretending, wanting, running.

She told herself that the tension would dissolve, that if she kept her distance, whatever this thing between them would fade into something manageable. But the distance only made it worse.

So when the invitation arrived, just another industry gathering, just another night of routine smiles and polite small talk, Rosé didn’t expect anything different.

She certainly didn’t expect her.

A private gathering, tucked away from flashing cameras and the ever-watchful eyes of the public. The kind of night where the air is thick with laughter, where drinks are passed between friends, and where time feels just a little more forgiving. Music hums softly from a speaker in the corner, blending into the low murmur of voices and the occasional clink of glasses.

Rosé isn’t drunk, not even close, but there’s a lightness in her limbs, a warmth curling in her chest that has nothing to do with the wine she’s been sipping. It’s the kind of night where everything feels easier, where reality seems softer at the edges, where thoughts she normally keeps locked away start to slip through the cracks.

Somewhere between conversation and quiet, between the flickering candlelight on the table and the sound of her own heartbeat, she feels her.

Y/N is close. Too close.

Rosé hadn’t even noticed when it happened, when the space between them had disappeared, but now?

Now, she’s hyper-aware of everything. The warmth of Y/N’s body beside her, the way their legs brush beneath the table, the faint scent of her perfume mingling with the evening air.

And then Y/N shifts, just slightly, and Rosé barely has time to react before she’s right there.

Her breath, soft, warm, ghosts against Rosé’s skin, impossibly near, and a shiver runs down her spine before she can stop it.

Her mind goes blank.

The conversation around them, the music, the laughter, it all fades into static, into something distant and insignificant.

There is only this. Only her.

Y/N’s voice, when she speaks, is barely more than a whisper. "If I kissed you right now, would it ruin everything?"

The words ignite something in Rosé, like a spark catching dry kindling, like something waiting to burn.

A slow inhale. A heartbeat too loud in her ears. A heat creeping up her throat that she doesn’t know what to do with.

She should say something. Do something, but she doesn’t.

She can’t.

Panic grips her chest before she even realizes it. A second stretches too long between them, thick with the weight of what’s been left unspoken for too long.

And Rosé? Rosé laughs.

Too quick. Too forced. As if that will erase the weight of what was just said.

"You’re just tipsy." It comes out light, dismissive, as if she can brush this off like nothing, like it’s not the most real thing she’s ever heard.

She shakes her head slightly, as if that will make it not real.

But Y/N isn’t tipsy. She isn’t swaying, isn’t slurring her words, isn’t drunk on anything except whatever this is between them.

And Rosé knows it. She knows it in the way Y/N’s expression flickers, just for a second. The way something flashes across her face, too quick to catch before she masks it.

But Rosé saw. She felt it.

The sharp sting of disappointment. The flicker of something wounded, something Y/N won’t let herself hold on to.

And Rosé’s chest tightens in a way that feels unbearable.

Because for the first time, she realizes that she doesn’t want Y/N to stop asking.

The morning after that night, Rosé wakes up with a sinking feeling in her chest.

For a moment, in the hazy stillness of her bedroom, she lets herself pretend everything is fine.

That nothing has changed. That her heart isn’t tangled in something she doesn’t know how to name.

But reality settles in too quickly.

She blinks up at the ceiling, the remnants of last night flickering behind her eyelids, the warmth of Y/N too close, the whisper of her breath against Rosé’s skin, the question that still lingers in the air between them like an unfinished song.

"If I kissed you right now, would it ruin everything?"

Rosé exhales sharply, pressing the heel of her palm against her forehead.

She tells herself it’s exhaustion, that the weight pressing down on her chest is just from too many late nights and back-to-back schedules.

But she knows better.

She knows it has everything to do with the way Y/N had looked at her. The quiet expectation in her eyes, the way her voice had softened, like she was offering Rosé something fragile, something she had been holding onto for too long.

And the way Rosé had run.

From her, from the truth, from whatever this thing between them was turning into.

So she does the only thing she knows how to do. She avoids.

The first message comes in before noon.

She sees it, her screen lighting up with Y/N’s name, but she doesn’t open it.

An hour later, a second message follows.

Rosé glances at it briefly, long enough to see the words "Are we okay?" before she locks her phone and shoves it face-down onto the nightstand.

The third message arrives sometime in the afternoon.

It sits unread in her notifications for hours, a quiet reminder that Y/N is still waiting for something Rosé isn’t sure she can give.

When her phone vibrates with an incoming call, she doesn’t even let herself hesitate, she just lets it ring.

Following days she tells herself she’s busy. That their schedules don’t align, that she’s tired, that it’s better this way.

But when Jennie corners her in the practice room later one day, arms crossed, her gaze sharp in a way that says she already knows the answer, Rosé falters.

“You’ve been weird,” Jennie says, not bothering with subtlety. “What’s going on?”

Rosé doesn’t look up from where she’s absently scrolling through her playlist, pretending to search for a song she isn’t really paying attention to.

“Nothing.”

Jennie scoffs. “Right. So nothing is why you’ve barely said two words all day?”

Rosé forces a laugh, but even she can hear how hollow it sounds. “I’m just tired.”

Jennie studies her for a moment, expression unreadable. “Does this have anything to do with Y/N?”

The name alone is enough to make Rosé’s breath hitch, to make her fingers clench around her phone before she forces them to relax.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, too quickly, too stiffly.

Jennie doesn’t press. She just sighs, shaking her head slightly. “Whatever it is, you’re not handling it well.”

And Rosé knows that.

She knows it every time she catches herself opening Y/N’s chat in the dead of night, her fingers hovering over the keyboard, over the words "Are you okay?", over the words "I'm sorry."

But she never types them. Never sends them.

Because that would mean admitting that this, whatever this is, means something, and she’s not sure she’s ready for that.

So she keeps running.

And Y/N? Y/N pretends not to notice, because if Rosé is going to run, she won’t chase.

But ignoring something doesn’t make it disappear. Rosé learns that the hard way.

No matter how much distance she tries to put between them, no matter how many unanswered texts or avoided glances, she still feels Y/N, like gravity, like a pull she can’t escape.

So when another event comes around, another event with the same people in a different venue, another night of rehearsed smiles and carefully curated interactions, Rosé tells herself that this will be just like any other.

That this time, she won’t let herself look for her.

But the moment she steps inside, the moment the lights and laughter and music blur into the background, she does.

The room is a blur of movement, a dazzling display of expensive gowns and crisp suits, of practiced smiles and meaningless conversations spoken over the hum of music. Laughter rises and falls, champagne flutes clink together in rehearsed toasts, and somewhere in the distance, cameras flash, capturing moments that will be dissected by the media in the morning.

Rosé stands near the edge of the crowd, her fingers curled loosely around the delicate stem of a wine glass, the cool press of glass grounding her.

She tells herself she isn’t looking for Y/N. She tries not to, but it doesn’t matter, her eyes find her anyway.

Like they always do. Like they always will.

And when they do, something sharp twists in her stomach.

Y/N is across the room, wrapped in conversation, her body angled toward someone Rosé doesn’t recognize. She’s smiling, bright and effortless, the kind of smile that makes people lean in, makes them stay. She laughs at something they say, head tilting back slightly, the sound clear even over the noise of the party.

She’s good at this. She always has been. She knows exactly how to make someone feel like they’re the only person in the room, and Rosé hates it.

Because tonight, that person isn’t her.

A bitter taste lingers at the back of her throat, something that has nothing to do with the wine she hasn’t touched in minutes.

She grips the glass a little tighter, eyes locked on the way Y/N leans in just slightly, the way her fingers graze against the sleeve of the stranger's suit, light, fleeting, but there.

It’s nothing. It’s probably nothing, but it doesn’t feel like nothing.

Then, as if sensing something, Y/N’s gaze shifts.

Just for a moment. Just long enough for their eyes to meet across the room. Long enough for Rosé to wonder if it was intentional.

But before she can figure it out, before she can read whatever might be hidden in Y/N’s expression, Y/N looks away.

And Rosé feels something crack inside her.

"Feelin’ so good at a bad party."

She exhales, turning away sharply, lifting her glass to her lips in an attempt to distract herself. The wine is smooth, expensive, but it does nothing to ease the tightness in her chest.

Jennie’s voice, dry and amused. “You look like you’re about to shatter that glass.”

Rosé stiffens. She barely has time to fix her expression before Jennie steps beside her, moving slowly, deliberately, sipping her drink as she watches her carefully.

Rosé forces a small laugh, one that feels unnatural even to her. “I’m fine.”

Jennie hums, unimpressed. “Right. And I’m the newest member of TWICE.”

Rosé exhales through her nose, loosening her grip on the glass. “It’s nothing.”

Jennie doesn’t respond right away. Instead, she follows Rosé’s gaze across the room, to her.

Y/N, still laughing, still talking, still not looking at Rosé.

Something shifts in Jennie’s expression.

Then, without missing a beat, she turns back, raising an eyebrow. “If you don’t want her to move on,” she says, voice softer now, words deliberate, “do something about it.”

Rosé swallows. Her throat is dry. She doesn’t respond.

Because she doesn’t know how.

The party is still alive beyond the walls of the bathroom, laughter spilling over the bass-heavy music, muffled conversations buzzing like static. The distant hum of it all presses against the thick wooden door, but in here, there is nothing but silence.

And them.

Rosé barely has time to react before the door swings shut with a soft click. She grips the edge of the marble sink, fingers tightening until her knuckles turn white.

She doesn’t turn around. She doesn’t have to.

She knows who it is.

The energy in the room shifts, the air thick with something suffocating, something heavy, something inevitable. The bathroom lights cast a dim glow against the mirror, reflecting back the face of someone who looks far too composed for how fast her heart is beating.

Behind her, Y/N stands motionless, but Rosé can feel the weight of her gaze, pressing against her back like a question waiting to be answered.

"Why are you acting like I don’t exist?" The words are quiet, but they land like a punch, knocking the air from Rosé’s lungs.

She inhales sharply, but it doesn’t steady her. She wasn’t ready for this.

She thought she had been avoiding a conversation, but the truth is, she was delaying it, and now, there’s nowhere left to run.

Her stomach twists violently. For a fleeting second, she thinks about lying. Thinks about brushing past Y/N, making up an excuse, slipping back into the party like none of this is happening.

But she can’t.

Slowly, she turns to face her.

Y/N is standing a few feet away, arms crossed, not in defiance, but in frustration, in hurt. She looks exhausted, like she’s been carrying the weight of this conversation for far too long.

Rosé swallows, her throat dry. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Y/N scoffs. Not in amusement. Not in mockery. It’s a sound of disbelief.

Of disappointment.

“Don’t do that,” Y/N murmurs, shaking her head. Her voice is softer now, but it’s laced with something tired. “Don’t stand there and pretend like you haven’t been ignoring me.”

Rosé looks away, but it doesn’t help.

Because the silence that follows confirms it.

She has been ignoring her. She’s been avoiding her, dodging texts, letting calls ring unanswered, keeping her distance like it would somehow fix this, like it would make everything that happened between them disappear.

But it hasn’t.

And now, the distance feels more suffocating than the closeness ever did.

The silence stretches, growing heavier.

"We can’t be like this." The words slip out before she can stop them.

They hang in the air, raw and exposed, before Rosé even fully understands what she’s just said.

Y/N flinches.

It’s slight, barely noticeable, the way her lips part slightly, like she wasn’t expecting it, like, even after everything, some small, stubborn part of her still hoped Rosé wouldn’t say it.

She exhales, running a hand through her hair, letting out a quiet, bitter laugh.

“Right,” she murmurs, shaking her head. “Of course we can’t.”

Rosé clenches her fists, nails digging into the skin of her palm, hating the way her chest aches at the sound of Y/N’s voice.

She should say something else, something softer, something that doesn’t sound so final.

But she doesn’t.

Y/N looks at her, and suddenly, Rosé feels like she’s standing at the edge of something dangerous.

A precipice she isn’t sure she wants to step away from.

"Then stop looking at me like you want me." The words come out sharp, cutting through the thick silence between them like a blade.

Rosé flinches. Because Y/N isn’t wrong.

And the worst part? She doesn’t even try to deny it.

She just stands there, silent, frozen, drowning in the weight of everything she hasn’t said.

And that, Y/N realizes, is answer enough.

The silence stretches between them, heavier than anything Rosé has ever carried. She watches as Y/N exhales, her expression shifting—not angry, not bitter, just... tired. Like she’s finally reached the end of something she never wanted to let go of.

And Rosé hates it.

She wants to reach out, to say something, to fix whatever this is before it slips through her fingers completely. But no words come, and when Y/N finally steps back, putting space between them, Rosé doesn’t move.

She watches as Y/N walks away, disappearing into the noise of the party.

And Rosé doesn’t chase her.

They stop talking, not gradually, not in the way friendships sometimes fade over time.

No, this is different. It’s sharp and immediate, like a door slammed shut, like something breaking just beneath the surface but never making a sound. Like a final breath before drowning.

Y/N tells herself she’s done waiting. She tells herself that if Rosé wants to pretend nothing happened, if she wants to ignore her, to act like Y/N doesn’t exist, then fine.

She won’t chase her. She won’t sit around hoping Rosé will finally stop running.

But it still hurts. More than she thought it would.

It hurts when she catches herself glancing at her phone, expecting a message that never comes. The stupid reflex of checking her notifications first thing in the morning, only to be met with silence.

It hurts when she hears Rosé’s voice in an interview, that familiar, melodic tone, speaking casually, laughing like nothing is wrong. Like she isn’t tearing Y/N apart in the quiet spaces between moments.

It hurts when she sees her across a room, standing with the same effortless grace, her fingers curled around a glass, her posture poised and unreadable.

Like they never meant anything at all.

Y/N tells herself she doesn’t care.

She throws herself into her work. Rehearsals, performances, interviews. She smiles when she’s supposed to. Laughs at the right moments. Flirts just enough to keep up the illusion that she’s fine.

That she isn’t falling apart. And for a while, it works.

Because when she’s on stage, when the lights are bright, when the music is loud, she can forget.

She can ignore the quiet ache in her chest, the way her thoughts always seem to drift back to Rosé when she isn’t paying attention.

But then the nights come.

And suddenly, there’s nothing to distract her. No flashing lights, no cameras, no endless noise to drown out the thoughts she doesn’t want to have.

She comes home to an empty room, kicks off her shoes, stares at the ceiling, and wonders if Rosé is doing the same thing. If she’s lying in bed somewhere, wide awake, thinking about Y/N the way Y/N is thinking about her.

She should let it go. She should.

She wants to.

But then, on a night where the loneliness is unbearable, when the silence feels too loud, when the weight in her chest feels too heavy, she reaches for her phone.

Her fingers hover over the keyboard, hesitation settling in her bones.

She shouldn’t. She knows, but before she can stop herself, before she can talk herself out of it. She types out a message.

"Drinks or coffee?"

The words stare back at her, small and simple, but somehow carrying everything.

She doesn’t expect an answer.

She tells herself she’s just doing it for closure, for something final. A message sent into the void, never to be answered.

She leaves the screen on anyway.

Watching.

Waiting.

Rosé is half-asleep when the message comes in.

Her phone vibrates softly on the nightstand, barely enough to stir her from the fog of sleep, but somehow, somehow, she feels it before she even registers the sound.

With a sigh, she shifts under the covers, eyes fluttering open just enough to see the dim glow of the screen casting a faint light across the room. The brightness stings, blurring her vision as she squints at the notification.

She almost ignores it. Until she sees the name.

Y/N.

Her breath catches, sleep vanishing instantly.

Fingers trembling slightly, she swipes at the screen, blinking hard as the words come into focus.

Her stomach drops.

For a long, paralyzing moment, all she can do is stare.

Y/N’s name on her screen feels like a ghost, like something she hasn’t let herself think about in weeks, like something she’s spent too much time trying to bury.

She thought she was doing the right thing. She thought if she pulled away, if she ignored the way her heart ached every time she saw Y/N, it would go away. That the distance would make it easier.

But it didn’t. It never did.

Every single day without her felt like walking through a world that had lost its color.

She felt it in the quiet moments, the ones where she reached for her phone, fingers hovering over Y/N’s contact, only to talk herself out of it at the last second.

She felt it in the laughter that didn’t reach her eyes anymore, in the way the world seemed too quiet without Y/N’s voice filling the spaces in between.

She felt it in every song she sang, in every lyric that hit too close, in every interview where she forced a smile and pretended like she hadn’t been unraveling piece by piece.

She missed her.

More than she wanted to admit, more than she could admit.

And now, here Y/N was.

Reaching out. Giving her a choice.

Drinks or coffee? It wasn’t just a question. It was an offering. A last chance. A lifeline.

A way of saying, "Are you going to keep running, or are you finally going to face this?"

Her heart slams against her ribs.

She could ignore it, she could keep pretending, she could let the silence stretch on forever, let the distance between them turn permanent.

And maybe Y/N would finally get tired of waiting. Maybe she would move on. Maybe, one day, Rosé would see her across a room, laughing with someone else, looking at them the way she used to look at Rosé.

The thought makes her stomach twist violently.

The air in the room feels suffocating, thick with the weight of everything she’s refused to say.

Her fingers tighten around her phone.

And then, before she can stop herself, before she can talk herself out of it.

She moves.

Rosé throws off her blankets, the chill of the room hitting her skin, but she barely feels it. Her body moves on instinct, faster than her thoughts can keep up, like some part of her already knows what she has to do.

Her hands shake as she grabs a jacket, as she shoves her feet into her shoes, as she pushes open the door and steps into the night.

The cold air bites at her, sharp against her skin, but it doesn’t matter.

Because all she knows is this.

The rush in her chest, the certainty settling into her bones, the desperate, aching need to move.

Suddenly, the thought of losing Y/N feels unbearable.

The café is nearly empty when Rosé arrives, its golden glow spilling onto the dark, rain-slicked pavement, a quiet sanctuary tucked away from the noise of the world outside. The soft chime of the bell above the door rings out into the stillness as she steps inside, breathless from the cold, her lungs burning as if she’s been running for miles instead of the short, frantic sprint from the station.

Her pulse is hammering, each beat echoing in her ears, but she forces herself to move forward, to look.

And then, she sees her.

Y/N is exactly where Rosé knew she would be, sitting in the farthest corner of the café, curled into the same spot she always claims whenever they come here. The table in front of her holds a half-empty cup, long forgotten, her fingers wrapped loosely around the ceramic as if the warmth of it is the only thing keeping her tethered to the moment. Her gaze is unfocused, staring out of the window into nothing, lost in thoughts Rosé can’t begin to guess.

There is something different about her.

Something about the way her shoulders are set, the way the usual spark in her eyes is missing, the way her lips are pressed into something softer, something unsure.

She looks lost, and the sight of it nearly destroys Rosé.

She swallows against the tightness in her throat, her steps hesitant as she moves toward the table. Her entire body feels too warm, too unsteady, as if the moment she speaks, the fragile thing between them will shatter completely.

Y/N doesn’t look up right away.

She only notices when Rosé finally slides into the seat across from her, exhaling shakily, the weight of weeks of silence settling between them like something heavy, something unspoken.

For a long, stretched moment, neither of them say a word.

The quiet hum of the café surrounds them, the occasional clink of porcelain, the low murmur of an old jazz song playing through the speakers, the hushed voices of the only other patrons lingering near the entrance.

But at their table, there is only silence.

Rosé stares down at her hands, clenched into fists against her lap, trying to steady herself, trying to gather the courage to say what she knows she needs to say.

"It’s not just you," she whispers, the words tumbling from her lips before she can stop them, before she can convince herself to stay silent for just a little longer.

Y/N’s brow furrows slightly, the smallest crease forming between them, as if she isn’t sure she heard her correctly. Her fingers twitch around her cup, but she doesn’t speak.

Rosé inhales sharply, then exhales just as quickly, feeling the rise and fall of her chest, the way her heart seems to ache with the weight of what she is about to admit.

"I’ve been thinking about you every day." Her voice is quiet but steady, and once the words start, she doesn’t want to stop. She can’t stop. "Yesterday, today, and tomorrow."

She forces herself to meet Y/N’s gaze, forces herself to let the words exist, no longer hidden in the safety of silence.

"Is it so wrong I’ve been thinking ‘bout you all day?"

The air between them shifts.

A moment ago, it had been heavy with uncertainty, thick with all the things they had been too afraid to say, but now? Now, it feels different.

Y/N stills, her fingers flexing around the ceramic mug, her breath catching ever so slightly, her lips parting like she wants to say something but can’t quite bring herself to speak yet.

For a second, a terrible, agonizing second, Rosé wonders if she’s too late.

If she’s already ruined this beyond repair. If Y/N has moved on.

But unexpectedly, Y/N smiles.

Soft. Knowing. Like she understands, like she’s been waiting for this, like she’s been waiting for her.

She leans forward just slightly, her eyes searching Rosé’s, voice gentle but firm when she finally speaks. "Then stop running from me."

The breath Rosé has been holding finally escapes, her chest rising and falling as something inside her, something that has been knotted up for so long, finally breaks loose.

And this time? She won’t run.

The morning light spills through the sheer curtains, casting golden ribbons of warmth across the duvet, illuminating the soft folds of fabric as Rosé stirs beneath it. The world feels quieter in this moment, gentler, as if the universe itself has shifted ever so slightly overnight, tilting into something softer, something lighter. The weight she hadn’t even realized she’d been carrying feels a little less suffocating, her breaths a little deeper, her chest no longer as tight.

She stretches lazily, the warmth of sleep still clinging to her limbs, fingers curling against the pillow as she blinks away the last remnants of dreams she can’t quite remember. There’s a peaceful stillness in the air, the kind that only exists in the early hours of the morning before reality fully settles in, before the demands of the day creep in to steal away these fleeting moments of tranquility.

Then, her phone buzzes against the nightstand.

The sound is quiet, almost insignificant against the hushed hum of the waking world, but it reaches her all the same, cutting through the fog of sleep.

With slow, clumsy movements, she reaches for it, fingers swiping blindly across the screen, still sluggish from sleep. The brightness of the display stings her eyes, and she squints against the glare as she reads the notification.

Y/N.

"Drinks or coffee? Just call me"

For a moment, Rosé just stares.

The words blur slightly in her vision, not because she’s still waking up, but because something inside her stirs, something deep and aching that she hasn’t fully allowed herself to feel until now.

A slow smile tugs at the corners of her lips before she even realizes it, the kind of smile that starts small but spreads, blooming into something uncontrollable, something real.

She reads the message once.

Then again.

And suddenly, she’s wide awake.

There’s no hesitation this time. No doubt creeping in to make her second-guess herself. No fear holding her back, telling her to stop, to run, to pretend like this doesn’t mean everything.

Just certainty. A kind of clarity she hasn’t felt in weeks.

She doesn’t waste time typing out a reply, doesn’t sit there searching for something witty or teasing to send back. Words aren’t enough. They never have been.

Instead, she presses the call button, the movement instinctive, as if her body already knows what her heart has only just allowed itself to accept.

The line rings once.

Twice.

"Morning, sleepyhead."

Y/N’s voice comes through the receiver, warm and familiar, laced with the soft amusement of someone who already knows Rosé too well, who can probably picture her sitting there, tangled in her sheets, phone clutched tightly in her hands.

Rosé exhales, her smile widening, the last remnants of sleep disappearing entirely.

"Morning." Her voice is still hushed, still laced with the gentle rasp of sleep, but there’s something lighter there now, something unburdened.

Y/N hums on the other end, the sound threading through the quiet like a melody Rosé didn’t know she’d been waiting to hear. "So? Drinks or coffee?"

Rosé laughs softly, the warmth in her chest spilling over, impossible to contain. She’s already sitting up, already reaching for the first jacket she can find, already moving before she’s even fully aware of it.

"Neither."

There’s a pause, and she can almost hear the curiosity in Y/N’s silence before the response comes."Oh?"

"I just want to see you."

There’s another pause, longer this time. The kind that stretches, that means something. Rosé can hear Y/N shift slightly on the other end, can imagine the small smile forming on her lips, the tilt of her head, the way she’s probably biting back some teasing remark, drawing out the anticipation just to make Rosé wait.

"Then hurry up, Chipmunk."

Rosé laughs again, this time louder, freer. And for the first time in a long time, she knows exactly where she’s meant to be.

#kpop imagines #girl group imagines #gg x reader #kpop x reader #blackpink x reader #blackpink rosé #rose x fem reader #rosé x reader #rose x reader #roseanne park x reader #park chaeyoung x reader

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