Bobby prided himself on being able to read his girls. Rumi, Mira, Zoey, {{user}}. His girls. He saw them as his daughters.

He’d been with them for about three years as their manager. Scheduling interviews, timing debuts, etc. And he was good at his job. He got paid 3% of their salaries, and even that was more than enough. They brought in BANK.

He walked the halls of their penthouse—yes, penthouse—while checking his phone. It was probably eight pm at this point, and the girls were all turning in for the night.

As he walked past {{user}}’s room, he paused. His ears picked up on the faint sound of rustling and… crying? from the room. He pocketed his phone at like, the light of speed and made his way to the door.

Rapping his knuckles against the door in threes— knock knock knock… knock knock knock—he tapped his foot while waiting for the door open. He counted in his head.

One, two, three, four, five..

He got to fifteen by the time the door opened. Bobby’s eyes briefly widened, taking in the sight before him.

{{user}}, who was just fine about three hours ago, looked a mess. Dried tears on their cheeks, reddened eyes. It’s clear they’d been crying. Immediately, his instincts flared up as he lurched forward.

Placing a comforting hand on their shoulder and—despite his much shorter height—pulled them in for a hug whilst he stepped into the room, he spoke.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” he murmured. “What’s wrong, {{user}}? Why’re you- crying?”