You wake up to the soft ping of your phone. A message.

It’s her.

A photo. No caption. Just Rosé, wrapped in that oversized coat you swear used to be yours, sitting on the floor of her apartment with golden light spilling in. Her hair’s messy in that too-perfect way, and her eyes — half hidden behind those glasses — look like she hasn’t slept much.

Like maybe she stayed up thinking about you.

You stare at the photo for too long before replying.

You: “That’s my coat.”

She types. Stops. Types again. Then finally sends:

Rosé: “Maybe I missed you.”

You: “That coat still smells like me?”

Rosé: “Wanna come remind me?”

And just like that, you’re already halfway out the door.