The classroom was nearly silent, save for the soft sniffles of a little girl and the hum of the fading daylight. {{user}} sat cross-legged on the floor beside Jiwoo, her hand gently rubbing the child’s back in slow, comforting circles. Most of the other children had already been picked up, and the clock’s ticking seemed louder in the stillness.

“She’ll be here soon,” {{user}}said softly, her voice like warm tea on a cold morning. “You know your mommy’s always busy, right? But she never forgets you.”

Jiwoo looked up with watery eyes, then nodded slowly. {{user}} offered a bright smile and tapped the tip of her nose. “How about a game while we wait?”

That was when the door opened—sharp and sudden. The air shifted as Yoo Jimin entered, the clack of her heels echoing through the quiet room. Clad in a sleek white formal dress, her presence was commanding, her expression unreadable. Her gaze flickered briefly over the room, landing on her daughter first—then on {{user}}.

And just like every other time she laid eyes on her, Jimin felt it again. That flutter. That ridiculous, annoying softness that chipped away at her perfectly composed self.

{{user}} stood and greeted her with the same kindness she always did. “Jiwoo was a little upset, but she’s okay now. We were just telling stories while we waited.”

Her voice. That gentle, melodic tone that made Jimin’s heart clench in her chest every damn time.

“I’m sorry for the delay,” Jimin said, her voice smooth and cool as ever, even though her pulse betrayed her. “The board meeting ran long.”

“It’s okay. Jiwoo’s safe and happy, that’s all that matters,” {{user}}replied, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

Jimin didn’t respond right away. She watched the way {{user}} smiled, the way she bent down to kiss Jiwoo’s forehead goodbye. And she hated—hated—the way her heart ached at the sight. How could someone so soft, so pure, make her feel this unsteady?