The Seoul streets were deserted. She drove too fast, heart in her throat, hands clenching the wheel hard enough to ache. Every red light felt unbearable, every empty crosswalk too long. Her phone buzzed once on the passenger seat. Jennie again, but Y/N couldn't look, couldn't stop.
She whispered to the silence instead, words Jennie couldn't hear. Hold on. Just hold on. I'm coming.
The dorm was silent when Y/N let herself in, the keypad beeping softly under her fingers. Alison had given her the code months ago for practical reasons, pickups, drop-offs, but tonight it felt like trespassing.
The air inside was warm, heavy with the faint smell of detergent and perfume. Doors lined the hall, each one closed. For a moment Y/N thought she might have made a mistake, until she saw it.
Light, spilling dim under one door.
Jennie's.
Her chest tightened. She padded forward on quiet steps, heart hammering. When she eased the door open, the sight inside nearly unraveled her.
Jennie was curled small on the edge of her bed, hair a dark tangle around her face, drowning in an oversized sweatshirt that made her look younger, smaller. Her knees were drawn to her chest, hands clutching the blanket like it was the only thing keeping her tethered.
w1w2
Badge image.
Sep 22
A Soulmate Who Should Have Stayed
Prequel of A Soulmate Who Wasn't Meant To Be
Jennie x Fem!Reader
Word Count: ca. 10k
Synopsis: Every love has a beginning. Theirs started with silence, distance, and rules that should have kept them apart. But walls crack, boundaries blur, and sometimes the person you're not supposed to need becomes the only one who keeps you standing. So how Y/N and Jennie went from strangers on opposite sides of the stage lights to something neither of them could let go.
English isn't my first language so I apologize in advance for any mistakes.
♡ Enjoy! ♡
The first day at YG didn't feel like stepping into an office. It felt like stepping into a machine.
Lights hummed overhead, casting sharp reflections off polished floors. Staff hurried down narrow halls with tablets and laptops, speaking in clipped bursts of Korean and English. Doors clicked open and shut. Phones rang without pause.
Y/N clutched the strap of her bag tighter, the weight of her new ID badge heavy against her chest. Assistant Manager. It looked ordinary enough, black font on white laminate. But to her, it might as well have said sink or swim.
"Stick close, you'll get used to the rhythm," Alison, Jennie's longtime manager, murmured as they walked. Her tone was brisk, efficient, but not unkind. She had the aura of someone who had survived years of this chaos, and knew how to bend it to her will.
Y/N nodded quickly, forcing her stride to keep up. She'd dreamed of working in music for years, but nothing about this felt like a dream. It felt like being dropped into the eye of a storm.
And then she saw her.
Jennie Kim.
Not in the glossy, styled way she looked in magazines or stage. Just, in the hall, mask on, hair tied back, expression unreadable as she adjusted the cuff of her jacket while listening to a staff member.
She was smaller than Y/N expected, but her presence filled the space, gravity pulling all eyes toward her. Except Jennie didn't give any of them back. Not the stylists hovering at her side, not the managers double-checking notes, not Y/N, the new face trying not to stare.
Her gaze was cool, detached. She nodded once to the staffer, then turned on her heel, walking away with a kind of grace that was almost sharp.
The Ice Queen.
Y/N had heard whispers already. Polite, but cold. Keeps to herself. All business unless you're one of the members. Still, seeing it in real time hit different. Jennie built walls out of silence, and no one seemed brave enough to climb them.
The first months at YG blurred into a cycle of tasks, schedules, wardrobe runs, frantic phone calls, making sure meals were on time, making sure they weren't late. Y/N learned quickly that the job wasn't about glamour. It was about control, keeping chaos contained.
Jennie was the hardest part of that control.
Not because she was cruel, no, she wasn't. She was polite, always. Thank yous clipped but present, bows precise, requests made with care. But there was a distance. A frost.
Jennie spoke to Alison, to the members, sometimes to stylists, but rarely to anyone else. Not to Y/N. Not beyond what was necessary. Water, please. I need ten minutes. We're running late.
It wasn't hostility. It was something colder, indifference. Like Y/N existed in the same orbit, but not the same world. And Y/N? She accepted it, told herself it was normal. Jennie Kim was Jennie Kim. Untouchable. And she was just staff. Still, sometimes, just sometimes, Y/N caught the moments between. Jennie in the wings, breathing deep, shoulders rising and falling like she was holding the whole stage on her back. Jennie in the van after shows, mask up, head pressed to the glass, silence wrapping her tighter than any blanket.
It was after one of those shows, when it happened.
The van smelled faintly of hairspray and sweat, the leftover adrenaline of a crowd still buzzing in their bones. The members piled in, collapsing into seats. Lisa tapped her phone screen, earbuds already in. Rosé hummed low, almost lullaby-soft, before drifting off. Jisoo tilted her head back, eyes slipping shut the moment the door clicked closed.
Jennie slid into her seat last. She didn't speak. Didn't even glance around. Just leaned against the window, mask tugged down, lashes lowering until sleep caught her like a tide. Y/N sat across from her, pressed against the corner, hands locked in her lap. She wasn't watching. Not really. But she noticed. The way Jennie's brow stayed furrowed even in sleep. The way her shoulders twitched, small, involuntary, under the blast of the van's AC.
A shiver.
It was the smallest thing. But Y/N felt it in her chest.
She hesitated. But the sight of Jennie stripped of her armor for once, fragile in the way she would never allow herself to be, made her move before she could stop herself. The blanket was folded between the seats. Y/N reached carefully, as if the fabric might shatter. Slowly, quietly, she leaned, draping it over Jennie's lap, then shoulders.
Jennie stirred. Lashes fluttered.
Y/N froze, breath caught sharp.
But Jennie didn't open her eyes. Didn't push it away. She only shifted, burrowing deeper into the seat, a sigh slipping past her lips, softer than Y/N thought Jennie Kim could ever sound. Y/N eased back, heart racing. She turned her gaze to the window, watching city lights smear into streaks of white and gold, doing everything she could not to think about what she'd just done.
It wasn't much. A blanket. A gesture. A crack in a wall that had felt unbreakable for months.
But Y/N couldn't shake the thought as the van rolled on, quiet except for the hum of tires on asphalt.
It mattered. Somehow, it mattered.
And she couldn't stop wondering if Jennie would acknowledge it in the morning.
Backstage was a hive before a show, a frantic choreography on its own. Stylists hunched over racks of outfits, tugging zippers into place, makeup brushes tapping like clock hands against palettes. Staff shouted, voices clashing with the muffled roar of fans bleeding through the walls. The air smelled like hairspray, fabric glue, and nerves.
Y/N kept her head down, phone hugged close to her chest. She was there to shadow Alison, to fetch what was needed before anyone realized it was missing, to double-check schedules against actual time. Quiet, invisible, that was the job.
Jennie had just left, muttering that she forgot something, the door swinging soft behind her. The buzz of voices filled the space again.
"She's impossible sometimes," one stylist said, tone pitched low but not low enough. "Always frowning, always changing something. Honestly, she makes everything harder than it has to be."
Another gave a small laugh, not unkind but dismissive. "That's Jennie. The difficult one of the group."
The words landed in Y/N's chest like a slap. Sharp. Offhand. Too familiar.
Her grip on the phone tightened, knuckles whitening against the edge. She wasn't supposed to hear. She wasn't supposed to care. This was normal, staff whispered all the time, behind closed doors, sometimes even in the open like this. You ignored it. You pretended it didn't exist. That was the rule.
But something inside her snapped.
Jennie had heard. Y/N knew it. The girl had only stepped just outside, she would've caught every word.
Before Y/N could stop herself, her voice cut through the hum of backstage.
"She's not difficult."
The words were out before she even knew she was saying them. Her voice sliced into the air, steady, louder than she meant. Heads turned.
Y/N's pulse spiked, but she didn't flinch. She shifted the phone in her grip, fingers digging into the edge. "She wants everything to be perfect. She's tired, she's human. You'd be the same if you were carrying her schedule."
A beat of silence stretched long.
One stylist muttered under her breath and busied herself with a rack. The other gave a shrug, lips pressing thin.
Y/N's ears burned. She ducked her head, pretending to type something, trying to steady her hands. Maybe she'd just ruined everything. Maybe she'd be labeled difficult too. She had no idea if anyone even cared she'd said it.
The door opened.
Jennie slipped back inside, earrings glittering in her hand. She didn't look at anyone. Didn't say a word. Just crossed to the chair, sat, and faced the mirror, her expression blank as the makeup artist touched up her eyeliner. Like nothing had happened.
But Y/N couldn't shake the thought that she'd heard.
Hours later, after the show, Y/N returned to the small desk crammed into the corner of the staff lounge at YG building. Her tablet, her notes, the mess of schedules waiting to be filed. And there, set neatly at the edge, was a paper cup.
Still warm.
Her name scrawled across the side, not the manager shorthand she was used to, but her full name, written in looping black ink. And just beneath it, two small words, cramped but unmistakable.
Thank you.
Her breath caught. She knew the handwriting instantly.
She looked around, but the hall outside was empty, silent but for the hum of vending machines. Jennie was long gone, probably already on her way back to the dorm.
Y/N's fingers brushed the cup. The ink smudged faintly under her touch.
It wasn't much. Just two words. But it was the first real acknowledgement. A crack in a wall that had felt impenetrable for months.
She sat down slowly, the chair creaking under her. She lifted the cup to her lips, the heat curling into her palms, and let herself smile. Small, secret, fleeting.
It wasn't friendship yet, wasn't even close. But it was something. And that something mattered.
Then the world stopped in 2020.
Concerts canceled. Flights grounded. Schedules dissolved overnight. For once, there were no countdowns, no rehearsals, no frantic packing of suitcases.
Just silence.
At first, Y/N thought the girls would welcome it. Time to breathe. Time to be twenty-somethings without the world clawing at them. She told herself the stillness might even be good for Jennie, who had been running on fumes for years.
But silence could be cruel, too.
Y/N adjusted quickly to working from her small apartment, files spread across her kitchen table, calls with staff reduced to curt updates and vague "we'll see." She kept her hours neat, her days filled, anything to keep from feeling the drift. Still, she found her mind wandering, always circling back to the girls, to Jennie.
By February, she couldn't help herself. She sent the first text one night after reading yet another thread online picking Jennie apart.
Hey. Did the vitamin delivery come through?
A simple excuse. Professional. But what she really wanted to know was, are you okay?
Jennie replied with a clipped yeah. thanks. Y/N left it there, biting down the urge to say more.
But a week later, she tried again.
How's recording going?
This time, Jennie answered quickly. Slow. Company's pushing dates back, but I think you know that.
Y/N frowned at the screen, thumbs moving before she could second-guess herself. That's normal. Everyone's in limbo. Don't let it get to you.
There was a pause, five minutes, maybe more, before Jennie finally responded.
You sound sure of that.
Y/N stared at the words, her chest tightening. She typed back slowly, deliberately.
Because I am.
It should have stopped there. They weren't friends. She was staff. But she found herself checking in every few days, weaving her concern into questions about deliveries, deadlines, schedules. Jennie's answers stayed short, but she always replied.
Then, late one night, weeks later. It shifted. Her phone buzzed past midnight.
You still awake?
Y/N was half-asleep herself, phone slipping in her hand. She blinked at the words. Yeah. Why?
Jennie's response came almost instantly.
Can't sleep.
Her first instinct was to keep it light, a quick tip, a brush-off. Try chamomile tea or turn off your phone. But she stared at the screen too long, and the thought of Jennie lying awake, alone in the dorm while the others slept, pulled something loose inside her.
Want me to call? she typed before she could stop herself.
A beat.
Then one word.
Yes
The first call lasted twenty minutes. Jennie's voice was soft, lower than Y/N had ever heard it, like she was afraid to wake the night itself. Y/N did most of the talking, about the stray cat that kept wandering onto her balcony, about her terrible attempt at baking banana bread, about a Netflix show Jennie admitted she'd half-finished but couldn't focus on. Jennie laughed once, quiet and small, and it did something to Y/N's chest she couldn't explain.
When they hung up, the line clicked silent, but Y/N lay awake staring at her ceiling, her chest both heavy and strangely light.
The next night, it was Jennie who called. Then the next.
Hours blurred into hours. Sometimes Y/N found herself pacing her living room in the dark, phone pressed to her ear, Jennie murmuring about everything and nothing, memories from training days, complaints about how the dorm fridge was always empty, confessions about feeling restless even when she was exhausted.
Y/N learned to ask questions gently, without pushing too far. She asked what Jennie had eaten that day. She asked what time she'd woken up. She asked if she'd watched the moonrise, because Y/N had, and it was beautiful. Jennie would hum in response, sometimes deflecting, sometimes giving just enough that Y/N could picture her clearly. Hair tied back, knees drawn to her chest, phone clutched too tightly.
And on the nights when Jennie grew quiet, when the pauses stretched too long, when her breathing came thin and uneven, Y/N filled the silence. She told stories, half-ridiculous ones about her college days, about the neighbors who fought at 2 a.m., about anything that might ground Jennie back into the room.
Sometimes, Jennie fell asleep mid-call. Her voice would trail off, words softening until only the sound of her breathing filled Y/N's ear. Y/N never pointed it out, never teased. She just let the line stay open, listening until the rhythm steadied. Then, only then, would she end the call.
It became routine. A lifeline neither of them admitted to needing.
Y/N told herself it was just part of her job, a kind of caretaking. But when her phone stayed dark for a night, her chest felt too tight, her apartment too quiet.
And the truth, the one she couldn't name yet, was that she needed it just as much as Jennie did.
One night in May, Y/N's phone buzzed past midnight. Jennie again.
She answered before the second ring. "Hey."
But Jennie's voice wasn't soft this time. It was thin. Frayed. Shaking at the edges like it might splinter apart.
"I don't know what's wrong with me," Jennie whispered. "I can't stop— I can't stop thinking. It's so loud in my head."
Y/N's stomach dropped. Sheets slid from her lap as she shot upright in bed, heart slamming against her ribs.
"Jennie." Her own voice shook, steadied only by instinct. "Breathe. Talk to me. I'm here."
Jennie tried. She really did. The words came jagged, spilling in fragments that barely made sense. About fans calling her a disappointment. About the headlines dissecting every blink, every expressionless moment. About wondering if maybe they were right, if maybe she wasn't enough, if maybe she never had been.
Each word hit like glass shattering inside Y/N's chest. She pressed her palm hard against her eyes, fighting the burn there, her throat aching with the effort not to break too.
"Jennie," she said, fierce despite the lump in her throat. "That's not true. Not a single word of it. You're the hardest working person I've ever seen. You're—" her voice cracked, then steadied, low and urgent, "you're great. You're fire. They don't know you. They don't see you. They never have."
Silence hummed down the line. Jennie's breath hitched, uneven. And Y/N knew, she didn't believe it. Not really. Not yet.
"Where are you?" Y/N asked, already swinging her legs out of bed.
"Dorm," Jennie whispered. "Everyone's asleep."
That was all it took.
Y/N didn't think. She didn't weigh the rules or the risks or the fact that she was still just an assistant. None of it mattered. All that mattered was the hollow, breaking sound of Jennie's voice.
She grabbed the first hoodie within reach, shoved her arms through it, yanked her mask off the nightstand. Keys in hand. Shoes half-laced. Her body moved before her mind could catch up.
The Seoul streets were deserted. She drove too fast, heart in her throat, hands clenching the wheel hard enough to ache. Every red light felt unbearable, every empty crosswalk too long. Her phone buzzed once on the passenger seat. Jennie again, but Y/N couldn't look, couldn't stop.
She whispered to the silence instead, words Jennie couldn't hear. Hold on. Just hold on. I'm coming.
The dorm was silent when Y/N let herself in, the keypad beeping softly under her fingers. Alison had given her the code months ago for practical reasons, pickups, drop-offs, but tonight it felt like trespassing.
The air inside was warm, heavy with the faint smell of detergent and perfume. Doors lined the hall, each one closed. For a moment Y/N thought she might have made a mistake, until she saw it.
Light, spilling dim under one door.
Jennie's.
Her chest tightened. She padded forward on quiet steps, heart hammering. When she eased the door open, the sight inside nearly unraveled her.
Jennie was curled small on the edge of her bed, hair a dark tangle around her face, drowning in an oversized sweatshirt that made her look younger, smaller. Her knees were drawn to her chest, hands clutching the blanket like it was the only thing keeping her tethered.
Her eyes flicked up at the sound. Surprise flared first, sharp and instinctive. But then it melted, fast, unguarded, into something else.
Raw. Pure. Relief.
It knocked the air from Y/N's lungs.
She didn't speak. Words felt useless, too clumsy for what hung between them. Instead, she crossed the room slowly and slid down onto the floor, back against the side of Jennie's bed. Close, but not too close. Just there. Solid.
Jennie's hand twitched on the blanket, like she might reach down, like the instinct was there, but she didn't. Instead she exhaled, long and shaky, and tipped her head back against the wall, eyes closing for the first time all night. Silence settled, but it wasn't empty. It was alive. Fragile. Y/N sat with it, letting the carpet bite into her legs, the wood press against her spine. Every so often Jennie's breath would hitch, a sharp break in the quiet. Each time Y/N's throat tightened, but she said nothing. She just stayed. And slowly, the hitches grew farther apart.
At some point, Jennie shifted, her weight leaning sideways, lashes fluttering until they finally stilled. Her breathing evened into the deep rhythm of sleep. For the first time in hours, her face smoothed.
Y/N stayed long after that, the dawn creeping pale at the edges of the blinds. She stayed because Jennie had let her. Because this? The unspoken choice to not push her away, meant more than any thank you coffee or polite nod ever could.
When the sun began to edge higher, she finally stood, careful not to wake her. The blanket had slipped low, so Y/N pulled it higher, tucking it over Jennie's shoulder, fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary.
She slipped out the door as quietly as she'd come.
For days after, Jennie didn't mention it. Not the phone call, not Y/N showing up in the middle of the night, not the silent hours she'd spent curled just out of reach. But something shifted. Small. Invisible to anyone else. A nod in the hallway where there hadn't been one before. A text reply punctuated with a rare smiley face. A silence that no longer felt like a wall, but like a door left ajar.
By summer, restrictions had loosened enough for the girls to return to the studio. Work resumed with the force of everything they'd missed, producers, deadlines, pressure to deliver a comeback big enough to silence the world. For Jennie, that meant "How You Like That." For Y/N, it meant watching the cracks widen.
The studio was stripped down, quieter than usual. Just Jennie in the booth, a single producer hunched over his laptop, one sound engineer adjusting dials with tired precision, and Y/N, sitting off to the side with her tablet, since Alison was caught in a meeting. A constant murmur of critique and technical jargon filled the room, sharp as static.
Jennie stood in the booth, framed by the glass like a specimen under observation. Headphones pressed tight, mic angled to catch every syllable. Her hair clung to her temples with sweat, her chest rising and falling faster with each take. She launched into the verse again, voice cutting clean, rhythm sharp. To Y/N, it sounded flawless. But the talkback button clicked, and another voice filtered in.
"Too flat."
Jennie blinked, reset, started again. A harder edge this time, fire lacing the words.
"Punchier, Jennie. It needs more bite."
Her jaw flexed. She nodded once, sharp, and tried again.
Y/N watched from the corner, invisible. She could see it, the shift in Jennie's shoulders, the way her stance tightened with each note of disapproval. Every comment landed like a weight dropped on top of the last, stacking higher, heavier.
"Again."
Jennie's knuckles whitened around the lyric sheet. She sang, pushed harder, almost snarled the lines. But even before the producers responded, she knew. Y/N could see it in the flicker of her eyes, that creeping certainty that nothing she did would be enough.
Still not there. Try it again."
It was a chorus now, overlapping voices, critique layered over critique. None of them cruel. Just relentless.
Y/N's stomach twisted. Every take had been strong. Every one better than the last. But the words feeding back into the booth weren't about sound anymore, they were about breaking Jennie down, chiseling her raw until there was nothing left to give.
Jennie swallowed hard, lifted the headphones again. Her lips parted, but the sound caught in her throat. She pressed her free hand against her stomach, as if holding herself together, then forced the verse out again, louder, sharper, her voice scraping against itself.
"Better," someone said. Not good. Not great. Just better.
That single word snapped something.
The headphones hit the stand with a sharp crack, the sudden sound making even the engineers flinch. Jennie pushed the booth door open, air flooding in around her, muttering something under her breath, too fast to catch, but heavy with fury. Her steps were clipped, precise, like she was holding herself together by force.
The room went still. No one stopped her. No one dared follow.
Except Y/N.
Jennie was already halfway down the corridor, back pressed against the wall, arms crossed so tight it looked like she was holding herself together. Her breaths came shallow, like she couldn't pull enough air into her lungs.
For a moment, Y/N just stood there, a few paces away. She could've left her alone. Maybe she should have. But the sight of her, all edges and cracks where no one else could see, rooted her to the spot. Slowly, Y/N crossed the distance. She didn't say anything, just reached out, fingertips brushing Jennie's wrist. A small touch, steady, an anchor.
"Come with me," she murmured, gentle but sure.
Jennie didn't move at first. Then her hand loosened where it clutched her own arm. Y/N slid her fingers against Jennie's, not a grab, not forceful, just enough to guide. Jennie let it happen. Let herself be led down the hall, their joined hands hidden in the dim light.
Y/N pushed open the nearest empty practice room, the scent of faint wood polish greeting them. The door clicked shut behind them, muffling the hum of the studio. Privacy. Quiet.
Jennie sank onto the floor first, back to the mirror, knees drawn up. Y/N sat beside her, close but not crowding, their hands still tangled.
Jennie hadn't let go.
For a while, neither spoke. The bass from the studio thumped faintly through the walls, a distant heartbeat filling the silence.
Then Jennie broke. Her voice was raw, low, cracking at the edges.
"What if they're right?" Her fingers tightened in Y/N's. "What if I'm not good enough?"
Y/N turned, throat burning, but forced her voice to stay steady.
"They're not right. They don't see you the way I do. You're not some machine, Jennie. You're you. And you're more than enough."
Jennie's eyes flicked up, wet at the corners, searching, like she wanted to believe but couldn't.
"You don't have to carry it all alone," Y/N added softly, squeezing her hand.
Jennie exhaled, a long, trembling sound, and before Y/N could think, she leaned sideways, pressing her forehead to Y/N's shoulder. Her body was taut, resisting comfort even as it sought it out. Y/N didn't move at first, afraid to scare her off. Then, slowly, she tilted closer, resting her cheek against Jennie's hair.
No words. No promises. Just fragile, unspoken trust, hanging between them like glass.
Jennie didn't thank her. Didn't argue. She just stayed.
By 2021, Y/N wasn't just another manager orbiting the group.
Somewhere along the way, she'd become Jennie's constant. The one who always had water in her hand before she asked. The one who knew that when Jennie went quiet, it wasn't aloofness but the weight pressing on her chest. The one who could read her, sometimes better than Jennie read herself.
It looked like friendship. To everyone else, that's all it was.
But to Y/N, it felt different in ways she couldn't name without shattering something. It was in the way Jennie leaned close during rehearsals, brushing her shoulder as she asked about something, voice pitched lower than necessary. In the way Y/N's hand sometimes lingered when passing her a mic or notes, not long, just long enough to feel the warmth. In the way laughter between them sometimes lasted a beat too long, both of them looking away too quickly afterward.
It was small things. Quiet things.
Like the time during the practices, hair damp against her temples, face flushed. Jennie dropped onto the bench beside Y/N, stretching out her legs with a sigh. Y/N wordlessly slid a bottle of water into her hand. Their fingers brushed, warm skin against warm skin, and Jennie's lips curved, soft and private, like the smile wasn't meant for anyone else. Or the van rides, when the others were loud or sleeping, and Jennie's head drifted against Y/N's shoulder as if it belonged there. Y/N never moved. Never breathed too loud. Just let her stay.
They never talked about it.
To the world, they were friends. To themselves, maybe they were too. But underneath it all, something buzzed, low and steady, waiting for the moment when pretending would no longer be enough.
And that moment came sooner than expected.
Seoul blurred past the car windows in streaks of neon and rain, every light bleeding into the next. The wipers dragged across the windshield in a steady rhythm, but inside the car the silence pressed thick, almost unbearable.
Jennie sat curled in the passenger seat, hoodie sleeves bunched in her fists, knees drawn up, forehead tilted just shy of the glass. Her jaw was set so tight it looked painful, and every so often her foot tapped, restless, like she couldn't keep still even when she was exhausted.
Y/N kept her eyes pinned to the road, fingers clamped white around the steering wheel. She could feel the weight of Jennie's mood without even looking, the way it filled the air, prickling her skin, sinking into her chest.
It had been weeks of this. Rehearsals that stretched until dawn. Lights in the practice room still burning when Y/N passed at midnight. Meals skipped, water bottles left untouched. Staff whispered about Jennie's short temper, her sharp words when exhaustion finally snapped through the cracks. But Y/N had seen the other side of it too, Jennie running the choreography until her body trembled, singing the same line until her throat was raw, eyes burning with a desperation that scared her.
And tonight, Y/N finally broke.
Jennie's voice sliced into the quiet, low and ragged.
"You don't get it, Y/N." Her fingers dug into the fabric of her sleeves, knuckles sharp against the cotton. "If I'm not perfect, if I'm even one second off, they'll tear me apart again." She laughed then, a bitter, hollow sound. "Lazy. Deadweight. Maybe they're right. Maybe I am."
The words punched the air from Y/N's lungs. Her stomach twisted, heat burning up her chest so fast she almost missed the turn. She gripped the wheel tighter, voice steady only because she forced it through clenched teeth.
"They're not right."
Jennie barked a laugh, sharp and humorless, still staring out at the blur of lights. "You don't know that. You don't know what it's like to be hated for breathing wrong. To have people waiting for you to fail so they can prove they were right all along."
Y/N bit back the thousand things she wanted to say. That she knew Jennie, that no one worked harder, that every performance left her in awe. That none of the noise online mattered compared to the truth of who she was. But Jennie's profile in the glow of the streetlights was hard, closed, carved in shadow.
Instead Y/N forced the words out, quiet but firm. "Let's just get you home."
Jennie didn't move. Didn't look at her. She pressed her forehead against the glass, rain streaking down the other side like tears she refused to let fall. Her breath fogged the window, and she whispered so faintly Y/N almost thought she imagined it.
"I can't fail. Not again."
The words hit like a confession, like a wound.
Y/N's grip tightened on the wheel until her hands ached. She wanted to pull over, to make Jennie look at her, to tell her she was more than perfect, more than enough. But the road stretched on, and all she could do was drive, chest heavy, throat raw.
The rest of the ride was silent. Suffocating. Every heartbeat counting down to the moment when silence would shatter, one way or another.
The dorm was hushed when they stepped inside, only the hum of the fridge and the faint tick of the wall clock breaking the silence. Shoes lined neatly by the door. Jackets hung with care. A home, but tonight it felt like a fragile shell. Jennie dropped her bag with a dull thud, the sound too loud in the quiet, and stalked down the hall without a word. Her shoulders were tight, her jaw rigid, her whole frame vibrating with the tension she refused to let go.
Y/N should've left. She should've let her go to her room, shut the door. That would've been the professional thing, the safe thing. But she couldn't. Not when Jennie's words from the car still echoed in her skull.
Her feet moved before her mind caught up.
"Jennie—"
"Don't," Jennie snapped, whirling on her. Her eyes were rimmed red, lashes clumped with unshed tears. Her voice frayed like a rope ready to snap. "You don't understand. Slowing down means failure. And if I fail, everyone's right about me."
Y/N's chest burned. She shook her head, stepping closer. "You're going to hurt yourself. Do you get that? You can't keep running like this—"
"I have to!" Jennie's voice cracked, too loud in the sleeping dorm. She shoved her hair back with shaking hands. "If I'm not flawless, I'm useless. If I'm not perfect, I'm nothing."
The word sliced through Y/N like a blade.
Useless. Nothing.
Words she'd seen hurled at Jennie online, words spat from strangers who knew nothing about her, and now Jennie was saying them about herself.
Her pulse surged. She closed the gap between them, fire in her throat.
"Stop."
Jennie blinked, startled by the force in Y/N's voice.
"You are not useless," Y/N said, the words trembling but fierce. "You are not lazy. You are not weak. Do you hear me? You're the hardest working person I've ever met. You break yourself down every single day just to build something for everyone else. And you think that makes you less? That makes you more."
Jennie's lip trembled, but she shook her head, eyes glossing. "You don't—"
"I do," Y/N cut in, louder, unable to stop. Her throat tightened, but she pushed through, words spilling hot and relentless.
"Jennie, you light up every room you walk into, even when you don't try. You hold yourself like you have to be ten different people at once, and you still make everyone believe in you. I've seen you exhausted, sick, broken down, and you're still stronger than anyone I know. Stronger than me."
Jennie's hands fisted at her sides, shoulders trembling.
Y/N's voice cracked then, softer but raw. "You're brilliant, Jennie. Do you get that? Brilliant. Not because you're flawless, but because you're you. And I don't care what the internet says, or what the headlines scream. They don't see you. I do."
The silence after was brutal. The kind that shook in the walls, in the floor, in their bones.
Jennie stared at her, chest heaving. The mask she wore slipped, and suddenly, she was just Jennie, a girl with wet lashes and trembling hands, looking like she'd been holding her breath for years.
Her breath hitched once. Twice. And then she broke.
The sob tore out of her, violent, guttural, like it had been caged too long. Tears spilled fast, hot, unstoppable. Her body shook with it, every inhale ragged.
Y/N's hands twitched, aching to reach for her, but fear rooted her in place. She'd said too much. She'd gone too far.
"Jennie, I—"
But Jennie moved first.
w1w2
Badge image.
Sep 22
A Soulmate Who Should Have Stayed
Prequel of A Soulmate Who Wasn't Meant To Be
Jennie x Fem!Reader
Word Count: ca. 10k
Synopsis: Every love has a beginning. Theirs started with silence, distance, and rules that should have kept them apart. But walls crack, boundaries blur, and sometimes the person you're not supposed to need becomes the only one who keeps you standing. So how Y/N and Jennie went from strangers on opposite sides of the stage lights to something neither of them could let go.
English isn't my first language so I apologize in advance for any mistakes.
♡ Enjoy! ♡
The first day at YG didn't feel like stepping into an office. It felt like stepping into a machine.
Lights hummed overhead, casting sharp reflections off polished floors. Staff hurried down narrow halls with tablets and laptops, speaking in clipped bursts of Korean and English. Doors clicked open and shut. Phones rang without pause.
Y/N clutched the strap of her bag tighter, the weight of her new ID badge heavy against her chest. Assistant Manager. It looked ordinary enough, black font on white laminate. But to her, it might as well have said sink or swim.
"Stick close, you'll get used to the rhythm," Alison, Jennie's longtime manager, murmured as they walked. Her tone was brisk, efficient, but not unkind. She had the aura of someone who had survived years of this chaos, and knew how to bend it to her will.
Y/N nodded quickly, forcing her stride to keep up. She'd dreamed of working in music for years, but nothing about this felt like a dream. It felt like being dropped into the eye of a storm.
And then she saw her.
Jennie Kim.
Not in the glossy, styled way she looked in magazines or stage. Just, in the hall, mask on, hair tied back, expression unreadable as she adjusted the cuff of her jacket while listening to a staff member.
She was smaller than Y/N expected, but her presence filled the space, gravity pulling all eyes toward her. Except Jennie didn't give any of them back. Not the stylists hovering at her side, not the managers double-checking notes, not Y/N, the new face trying not to stare.
Her gaze was cool, detached. She nodded once to the staffer, then turned on her heel, walking away with a kind of grace that was almost sharp.
The Ice Queen.
Y/N had heard whispers already. Polite, but cold. Keeps to herself. All business unless you're one of the members. Still, seeing it in real time hit different. Jennie built walls out of silence, and no one seemed brave enough to climb them.
The first months at YG blurred into a cycle of tasks, schedules, wardrobe runs, frantic phone calls, making sure meals were on time, making sure they weren't late. Y/N learned quickly that the job wasn't about glamour. It was about control, keeping chaos contained.
Jennie was the hardest part of that control.
Not because she was cruel, no, she wasn't. She was polite, always. Thank yous clipped but present, bows precise, requests made with care. But there was a distance. A frost.
Jennie spoke to Alison, to the members, sometimes to stylists, but rarely to anyone else. Not to Y/N. Not beyond what was necessary. Water, please. I need ten minutes. We're running late.
It wasn't hostility. It was something colder, indifference. Like Y/N existed in the same orbit, but not the same world. And Y/N? She accepted it, told herself it was normal. Jennie Kim was Jennie Kim. Untouchable. And she was just staff. Still, sometimes, just sometimes, Y/N caught the moments between. Jennie in the wings, breathing deep, shoulders rising and falling like she was holding the whole stage on her back. Jennie in the van after shows, mask up, head pressed to the glass, silence wrapping her tighter than any blanket.
It was after one of those shows, when it happened.
The van smelled faintly of hairspray and sweat, the leftover adrenaline of a crowd still buzzing in their bones. The members piled in, collapsing into seats. Lisa tapped her phone screen, earbuds already in. Rosé hummed low, almost lullaby-soft, before drifting off. Jisoo tilted her head back, eyes slipping shut the moment the door clicked closed.
Jennie slid into her seat last. She didn't speak. Didn't even glance around. Just leaned against the window, mask tugged down, lashes lowering until sleep caught her like a tide. Y/N sat across from her, pressed against the corner, hands locked in her lap. She wasn't watching. Not really. But she noticed. The way Jennie's brow stayed furrowed even in sleep. The way her shoulders twitched, small, involuntary, under the blast of the van's AC.
A shiver.
It was the smallest thing. But Y/N felt it in her chest.
She hesitated. But the sight of Jennie stripped of her armor for once, fragile in the way she would never allow herself to be, made her move before she could stop herself. The blanket was folded between the seats. Y/N reached carefully, as if the fabric might shatter. Slowly, quietly, she leaned, draping it over Jennie's lap, then shoulders.
Jennie stirred. Lashes fluttered.
Y/N froze, breath caught sharp.
But Jennie didn't open her eyes. Didn't push it away. She only shifted, burrowing deeper into the seat, a sigh slipping past her lips, softer than Y/N thought Jennie Kim could ever sound. Y/N eased back, heart racing. She turned her gaze to the window, watching city lights smear into streaks of white and gold, doing everything she could not to think about what she'd just done.
It wasn't much. A blanket. A gesture. A crack in a wall that had felt unbreakable for months.
But Y/N couldn't shake the thought as the van rolled on, quiet except for the hum of tires on asphalt.
It mattered. Somehow, it mattered.
And she couldn't stop wondering if Jennie would acknowledge it in the morning.
Backstage was a hive before a show, a frantic choreography on its own. Stylists hunched over racks of outfits, tugging zippers into place, makeup brushes tapping like clock hands against palettes. Staff shouted, voices clashing with the muffled roar of fans bleeding through the walls. The air smelled like hairspray, fabric glue, and nerves.
Y/N kept her head down, phone hugged close to her chest. She was there to shadow Alison, to fetch what was needed before anyone realized it was missing, to double-check schedules against actual time. Quiet, invisible, that was the job.
Jennie had just left, muttering that she forgot something, the door swinging soft behind her. The buzz of voices filled the space again.
"She's impossible sometimes," one stylist said, tone pitched low but not low enough. "Always frowning, always changing something. Honestly, she makes everything harder than it has to be."
Another gave a small laugh, not unkind but dismissive. "That's Jennie. The difficult one of the group."
The words landed in Y/N's chest like a slap. Sharp. Offhand. Too familiar.
Her grip on the phone tightened, knuckles whitening against the edge. She wasn't supposed to hear. She wasn't supposed to care. This was normal, staff whispered all the time, behind closed doors, sometimes even in the open like this. You ignored it. You pretended it didn't exist. That was the rule.
But something inside her snapped.
Jennie had heard. Y/N knew it. The girl had only stepped just outside, she would've caught every word.
Before Y/N could stop herself, her voice cut through the hum of backstage.
"She's not difficult."
The words were out before she even knew she was saying them. Her voice sliced into the air, steady, louder than she meant. Heads turned.
Y/N's pulse spiked, but she didn't flinch. She shifted the phone in her grip, fingers digging into the edge. "She wants everything to be perfect. She's tired, she's human. You'd be the same if you were carrying her schedule."
A beat of silence stretched long.
One stylist muttered under her breath and busied herself with a rack. The other gave a shrug, lips pressing thin.
Y/N's ears burned. She ducked her head, pretending to type something, trying to steady her hands. Maybe she'd just ruined everything. Maybe she'd be labeled difficult too. She had no idea if anyone even cared she'd said it.
The door opened.
Jennie slipped back inside, earrings glittering in her hand. She didn't look at anyone. Didn't say a word. Just crossed to the chair, sat, and faced the mirror, her expression blank as the makeup artist touched up her eyeliner. Like nothing had happened.
But Y/N couldn't shake the thought that she'd heard.
Hours later, after the show, Y/N returned to the small desk crammed into the corner of the staff lounge at YG building. Her tablet, her notes, the mess of schedules waiting to be filed. And there, set neatly at the edge, was a paper cup.
Still warm.
Her name scrawled across the side, not the manager shorthand she was used to, but her full name, written in looping black ink. And just beneath it, two small words, cramped but unmistakable.
Thank you.
Her breath caught. She knew the handwriting instantly.
She looked around, but the hall outside was empty, silent but for the hum of vending machines. Jennie was long gone, probably already on her way back to the dorm.
Y/N's fingers brushed the cup. The ink smudged faintly under her touch.
It wasn't much. Just two words. But it was the first real acknowledgement. A crack in a wall that had felt impenetrable for months.
She sat down slowly, the chair creaking under her. She lifted the cup to her lips, the heat curling into her palms, and let herself smile. Small, secret, fleeting.
It wasn't friendship yet, wasn't even close. But it was something. And that something mattered.
Then the world stopped in 2020.
Concerts canceled. Flights grounded. Schedules dissolved overnight. For once, there were no countdowns, no rehearsals, no frantic packing of suitcases.
Just silence.
At first, Y/N thought the girls would welcome it. Time to breathe. Time to be twenty-somethings without the world clawing at them. She told herself the stillness might even be good for Jennie, who had been running on fumes for years.
But silence could be cruel, too.
Y/N adjusted quickly to working from her small apartment, files spread across her kitchen table, calls with staff reduced to curt updates and vague "we'll see." She kept her hours neat, her days filled, anything to keep from feeling the drift. Still, she found her mind wandering, always circling back to the girls, to Jennie.
By February, she couldn't help herself. She sent the first text one night after reading yet another thread online picking Jennie apart.
Hey. Did the vitamin delivery come through?
A simple excuse. Professional. But what she really wanted to know was, are you okay?
Jennie replied with a clipped yeah. thanks. Y/N left it there, biting down the urge to say more.
But a week later, she tried again.
How's recording going?
This time, Jennie answered quickly. Slow. Company's pushing dates back, but I think you know that.
Y/N frowned at the screen, thumbs moving before she could second-guess herself. That's normal. Everyone's in limbo. Don't let it get to you.
There was a pause, five minutes, maybe more, before Jennie finally responded.
You sound sure of that.
Y/N stared at the words, her chest tightening. She typed back slowly, deliberately.
Because I am.
It should have stopped there. They weren't friends. She was staff. But she found herself checking in every few days, weaving her concern into questions about deliveries, deadlines, schedules. Jennie's answers stayed short, but she always replied.
Then, late one night, weeks later. It shifted. Her phone buzzed past midnight.
You still awake?
Y/N was half-asleep herself, phone slipping in her hand. She blinked at the words. Yeah. Why?
Jennie's response came almost instantly.
Can't sleep.
Her first instinct was to keep it light, a quick tip, a brush-off. Try chamomile tea or turn off your phone. But she stared at the screen too long, and the thought of Jennie lying awake, alone in the dorm while the others slept, pulled something loose inside her.
Want me to call? she typed before she could stop herself.
A beat.
Then one word.
Yes
The first call lasted twenty minutes. Jennie's voice was soft, lower than Y/N had ever heard it, like she was afraid to wake the night itself. Y/N did most of the talking, about the stray cat that kept wandering onto her balcony, about her terrible attempt at baking banana bread, about a Netflix show Jennie admitted she'd half-finished but couldn't focus on. Jennie laughed once, quiet and small, and it did something to Y/N's chest she couldn't explain.
When they hung up, the line clicked silent, but Y/N lay awake staring at her ceiling, her chest both heavy and strangely light.
The next night, it was Jennie who called. Then the next.
Hours blurred into hours. Sometimes Y/N found herself pacing her living room in the dark, phone pressed to her ear, Jennie murmuring about everything and nothing, memories from training days, complaints about how the dorm fridge was always empty, confessions about feeling restless even when she was exhausted.
Y/N learned to ask questions gently, without pushing too far. She asked what Jennie had eaten that day. She asked what time she'd woken up. She asked if she'd watched the moonrise, because Y/N had, and it was beautiful. Jennie would hum in response, sometimes deflecting, sometimes giving just enough that Y/N could picture her clearly. Hair tied back, knees drawn to her chest, phone clutched too tightly.
And on the nights when Jennie grew quiet, when the pauses stretched too long, when her breathing came thin and uneven, Y/N filled the silence. She told stories, half-ridiculous ones about her college days, about the neighbors who fought at 2 a.m., about anything that might ground Jennie back into the room.
Sometimes, Jennie fell asleep mid-call. Her voice would trail off, words softening until only the sound of her breathing filled Y/N's ear. Y/N never pointed it out, never teased. She just let the line stay open, listening until the rhythm steadied. Then, only then, would she end the call.
It became routine. A lifeline neither of them admitted to needing.
Y/N told herself it was just part of her job, a kind of caretaking. But when her phone stayed dark for a night, her chest felt too tight, her apartment too quiet.
And the truth, the one she couldn't name yet, was that she needed it just as much as Jennie did.
One night in May, Y/N's phone buzzed past midnight. Jennie again.
She answered before the second ring. "Hey."
But Jennie's voice wasn't soft this time. It was thin. Frayed. Shaking at the edges like it might splinter apart.
"I don't know what's wrong with me," Jennie whispered. "I can't stop— I can't stop thinking. It's so loud in my head."
Y/N's stomach dropped. Sheets slid from her lap as she shot upright in bed, heart slamming against her ribs.
"Jennie." Her own voice shook, steadied only by instinct. "Breathe. Talk to me. I'm here."
Jennie tried. She really did. The words came jagged, spilling in fragments that barely made sense. About fans calling her a disappointment. About the headlines dissecting every blink, every expressionless moment. About wondering if maybe they were right, if maybe she wasn't enough, if maybe she never had been.
Each word hit like glass shattering inside Y/N's chest. She pressed her palm hard against her eyes, fighting the burn there, her throat aching with the effort not to break too.
"Jennie," she said, fierce despite the lump in her throat. "That's not true. Not a single word of it. You're the hardest working person I've ever seen. You're—" her voice cracked, then steadied, low and urgent, "you're great. You're fire. They don't know you. They don't see you. They never have."
Silence hummed down the line. Jennie's breath hitched, uneven. And Y/N knew, she didn't believe it. Not really. Not yet.
"Where are you?" Y/N asked, already swinging her legs out of bed.
"Dorm," Jennie whispered. "Everyone's asleep."
That was all it took.
Y/N didn't think. She didn't weigh the rules or the risks or the fact that she was still just an assistant. None of it mattered. All that mattered was the hollow, breaking sound of Jennie's voice.
She grabbed the first hoodie within reach, shoved her arms through it, yanked her mask off the nightstand. Keys in hand. Shoes half-laced. Her body moved before her mind could catch up.
The Seoul streets were deserted. She drove too fast, heart in her throat, hands clenching the wheel hard enough to ache. Every red light felt unbearable, every empty crosswalk too long. Her phone buzzed once on the passenger seat. Jennie again, but Y/N couldn't look, couldn't stop.
She whispered to the silence instead, words Jennie couldn't hear. Hold on. Just hold on. I'm coming.
The dorm was silent when Y/N let herself in, the keypad beeping softly under her fingers. Alison had given her the code months ago for practical reasons, pickups, drop-offs, but tonight it felt like trespassing.
The air inside was warm, heavy with the faint smell of detergent and perfume. Doors lined the hall, each one closed. For a moment Y/N thought she might have made a mistake, until she saw it.
Light, spilling dim under one door.
Jennie's.
Her chest tightened. She padded forward on quiet steps, heart hammering. When she eased the door open, the sight inside nearly unraveled her.
Jennie was curled small on the edge of her bed, hair a dark tangle around her face, drowning in an oversized sweatshirt that made her look younger, smaller. Her knees were drawn to her chest, hands clutching the blanket like it was the only thing keeping her tethered.
Her eyes flicked up at the sound. Surprise flared first, sharp and instinctive. But then it melted, fast, unguarded, into something else.
Raw. Pure. Relief.
It knocked the air from Y/N's lungs.
She didn't speak. Words felt useless, too clumsy for what hung between them. Instead, she crossed the room slowly and slid down onto the floor, back against the side of Jennie's bed. Close, but not too close. Just there. Solid.
Jennie's hand twitched on the blanket, like she might reach down, like the instinct was there, but she didn't. Instead she exhaled, long and shaky, and tipped her head back against the wall, eyes closing for the first time all night. Silence settled, but it wasn't empty. It was alive. Fragile. Y/N sat with it, letting the carpet bite into her legs, the wood press against her spine. Every so often Jennie's breath would hitch, a sharp break in the quiet. Each time Y/N's throat tightened, but she said nothing. She just stayed. And slowly, the hitches grew farther apart.
At some point, Jennie shifted, her weight leaning sideways, lashes fluttering until they finally stilled. Her breathing evened into the deep rhythm of sleep. For the first time in hours, her face smoothed.
Y/N stayed long after that, the dawn creeping pale at the edges of the blinds. She stayed because Jennie had let her. Because this? The unspoken choice to not push her away, meant more than any thank you coffee or polite nod ever could.
When the sun began to edge higher, she finally stood, careful not to wake her. The blanket had slipped low, so Y/N pulled it higher, tucking it over Jennie's shoulder, fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary.
She slipped out the door as quietly as she'd come.
For days after, Jennie didn't mention it. Not the phone call, not Y/N showing up in the middle of the night, not the silent hours she'd spent curled just out of reach. But something shifted. Small. Invisible to anyone else. A nod in the hallway where there hadn't been one before. A text reply punctuated with a rare smiley face. A silence that no longer felt like a wall, but like a door left ajar.
By summer, restrictions had loosened enough for the girls to return to the studio. Work resumed with the force of everything they'd missed, producers, deadlines, pressure to deliver a comeback big enough to silence the world. For Jennie, that meant "How You Like That." For Y/N, it meant watching the cracks widen.
The studio was stripped down, quieter than usual. Just Jennie in the booth, a single producer hunched over his laptop, one sound engineer adjusting dials with tired precision, and Y/N, sitting off to the side with her tablet, since Alison was caught in a meeting. A constant murmur of critique and technical jargon filled the room, sharp as static.
Jennie stood in the booth, framed by the glass like a specimen under observation. Headphones pressed tight, mic angled to catch every syllable. Her hair clung to her temples with sweat, her chest rising and falling faster with each take. She launched into the verse again, voice cutting clean, rhythm sharp. To Y/N, it sounded flawless. But the talkback button clicked, and another voice filtered in.
"Too flat."
Jennie blinked, reset, started again. A harder edge this time, fire lacing the words.
"Punchier, Jennie. It needs more bite."
Her jaw flexed. She nodded once, sharp, and tried again.
Y/N watched from the corner, invisible. She could see it, the shift in Jennie's shoulders, the way her stance tightened with each note of disapproval. Every comment landed like a weight dropped on top of the last, stacking higher, heavier.