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Yizhuo’s red hair makes such a beautiful contrast with the bright grass below, it’s easy to forget it’s not her natural color.
She looks in her element, peaceful despite the blades of grass that must be stabbing her through her orange jumper. She smiles up at Jimin, a singular flower in a sea of green.
“My baby,” she mutters, and then repeats it louder so Yizhuo will hear, “my baby.”
Yizhuo blushes, as Jimin knew she would, her pale cheeks flooded with warm pink. Jimin wants to trace every single one of her veins back to her heart.
Yizhuo casts a glance to the side, and Jimin does too, by instinct, even though she already knows what she will find. Aeri and Minjeong sit further up the hill, and the gentle wind carries only specks of their laughter as Minjeong wrestles Aeri’s camera out of her hand.
Jimin leans forward, slowly, studies all the nuances of Yizhuo’s expressions so she can tuck them away in her mind. Yizhuo is cautious, yes, shy as she almost never is with Jimin anymore, but there’s something else—something that tells Jimin to carry on.
It’s a cruel trade-off—her body now casts Yizhuo in shadow, all so Jimin can breathe the air near her face. Is it selfishness, to hide Yizhuo’s image from the world, to have her all to herself?
Yizhuo wets her lips, and Jimin can no longer restrain herself. If it’s selfishness, then she is the most self-serving woman in the world.
She tastes of spring; always. Of something sweet, but sharp. Yizhuo always tastes alive, of Jimin’s own soul pouring its way back to her, something so crucial she cannot fathom living without.
Jimin would die, surely, if she never got to feel Yizhuo’s lips again.
“You’re so precious,” she whispers, barely breaking their kiss. “My precious, pretty baby.”
Yizhuo whimpers. Some of it is from embarrassment, and the sound of Aeri and Minjeong yelling breaks into Jimin’s brain as if to warn her against the thought of what else Yizhuo’s whining might be about.
Jimin leans back, and the light caresses Yizhuo’s face again. Jimin has a vision, then, so sudden but so clear as if Yizhuo is metamorphosing right before her eyes.
Yizhuo, her roots growing out until she finally gets sick of maintaining the color and switches back to black. Yizhuo, full cheeks a little bit sharper, hair a little bit longer. Yizhuo in glasses when she can no longer endure wearing contacts; Yizhuo, five, ten, twenty years from now, crow’s feet adorning her eyes, grey seeping into her hair until it finally turns white.
She blinks, and the Yizhuo of now comes into focus again, staring so trusting as Jimin stands and sticks out her hand for Yizhuo to hold on to. It’s the easiest thing in the world to pull her close, to look into her eyes as she sweeps Yizhuo’s bangs out of the way.
“Shall we go meet them?” Jimin tilts her head towards the other two, and the smile she receives in confirmation rivals even the sun shining down on them.
Jimin allows herself one last look before pulling back, breathless at how her entire universe is contained in the girl holding her hand.
Yizhuo, forever Jimin’s to protect and care for. Forever Jimin’s to love.