Chapter Text
The café in Seongsu was Minjeong’s first mistake at 7:30 AM.
She slumped into the queue—hood up, oversized white hoodie swallowing her whole, the IGLOO Entertainment lanyard with 'Artist: Winter' printed in bold dangling loosely from her pocket. She had long learned not to wear it openly. Too many, “Oh, you work in music?” and worse, “Wait, you’re the Winter?” when all she wanted was caffeine and silence.
Three hours. That’s all the sleep she got after mixing until 4 AM. All because she was convinced the bridge of this track she’s currently working on wasn’t quite there yet. Ryujin—her best friend, label co-founder, fellow caffeine addict—said it was fine. But fine wasn't good enough, not after the chaos of exactly one year ago.
It had been exactly 365 days since everything changed for Kim Minjeong.
She had released twenty-plus songs on Spotify under her stage name Winter—twenty-something songs of moderate success and cosy rainy-day playlist features—and then, suddenly, chaos.
She remembered eating breakfast while blinking at the charts on her cracked phone screen. Spoon still mid-air, cereal forgotten.
One track about her neighbour's spectacular 3 AM breakup had somehow catapulted her from coffee shop background music to Melon chart domination. The one song that made her modest Spotify listener numbers explode from five thousand to half a million. The one that—somehow—edged out G-Dragon on Melon’s chart. The one that leads to headlines that still made her head spin: Indie artist Winter beats the King of K-pop!
G-Dragon himself, dethroned by a sleep-deprived introvert with a guitar and too many feelings.
(To this day, Minjeong is half-convinced someone hacked Melon or ran sajaegi on her track by mistake.)
That song had birthed everything—the independent label she'd co-founded with Ryujin, the artistic freedom she'd always craved, and a career built on her own terms. Carefully and deliberately, as she liked to think of it. So careful and deliberate to the point that only a small handful of people even knew what Winter looked like in real life.
Unlike the idols who dominated South Korea’s music scene—the glossy, ever-smiling backbone of Korean entertainment—Minjeong didn’t do music shows. No 4 AM pre-recordings. No greeting fans at dawn. No assigned “concept” or forced aegyo. Just her, her guitar, and songs that ended up on every 4K Cozy Café Aesthetic playlist on Youtube.
Her social media? A curated blend of aesthetic lighting, blurry corners of recording rooms, photos of really large trees, and handwritten lyrics—never a clear photo of her face.
Ryujin called it strategic mystique. Her manager called it marketing genius. Minjeong called it being too introverted for the idol machine.
Her label has suggested (more than once) that she should put herself out there more: meet new people, work with other artists, say yes to some of the commercial deals piling up in her inbox. And, little by little, Minjeong had begun to agree. As much as she’d like to stay cooped up in her studio, she knew that networking in the industry actually mattered. There was no harm in picking up extra songwriting or producer gigs for other artists—as long as it didn’t mean having to appear on TV where she’s forced to do a ‘personal talent’ in front of everyone.
And that was how this month is shaping up to be her busiest yet. There have been talks about Winter being requested—requested—to produce for a big-name label. On top of that, she’s preparing to release something of her own.
In fact, just a few hours ago—at exactly midnight—the marketing team had dropped the news: Winter was releasing a new single. A summer track titled Voyage. Inspired by Minjeong’s recent trip to Busan. Written on walks along Gwangalli Beach. Wind in her hair. Sand clinging to her ankles. A song soaked in salt and distance.
Her team said fans were buzzing. Counting down the days until she’d do another small venue show. If only they knew that Winter—their mysterious indie darling—was currently in a coffee queue wearing yesterday’s joggers and trying not to fall asleep upright.
All because the person ahead of her was apparently attempting to break the Guinness World Record for Most Complicated Coffee Order Ever Conceived.
This person at the counter had been ordering for—she checked her phone through bleary eyes—seven entire minutes.
Seven. Entire. Minutes.
For coffee.
At 7:30 in the morning, when the only acceptable human interaction involved pointing, grunting, and contactless payment.
Minjeong blinked slowly. Her eye twitched.
---
Jimin was having what she would generously call a “decent morning.”
Three hours of sleep was basically luxury with comeback season coming up in full swing.
For once—and Jimin couldn't stress this enough, for once—the dance practice for aespa’s new song had gone smoothly last night. No heated debates about hand placement in the bridge. No seventeen takes of the same eight counts because someone's timing was off. Aeri hadn't complained about the floor work, Ningning hadn't gotten dizzy during the spins, and miraculously, nobody had suggested "maybe we should change this bit" at half past midnight. Their choreographer really just stood there, monitored the whole thing, and actually nodded approvingly.
Even better, she had woken up this morning to her alarm instead of her manager's panicked phone call about schedule changes. Her phone had been blessedly quiet—no "urgent" messages about moved photoshoots or surprise outfit fittings. Just her usual notifications and a music news update that made her do a little victory wiggle under her blanket: next week's releases included a new track from one of her favourite artists.
The universe was practically gifting her this morning.
Three hours of sleep and yet she felt brilliant. Her skin looked decent, her hair wasn't doing that weird thing where it stuck up at the back, and she even managed to carve out some time to go on a nice walk before heading back to practice.
Honestly, she should probably buy a lotto ticket.
Instead, she walked in to a café, anonymous in her standard idol disguise—simple athleisure consisting of black joggers paired with tank top, mask on, cap low, looking like every other exhausted twenty-something trying to survive Seoul's morning rush.
Simple mission: one iced americano. In, out, caffeinated, done.
The universe felt aligned. Peaceful.
Until Ningning texted.
ningie 🦋: unnie
ningie 🦋: unnieeeeee
ningie 🦋: i checked on find my friends
ningie 🦋: and saw that ure currently at pascucci
No, Jimin's soul whispered. Please, no—
ningie 🦋: get me coffee too plsssss 🥺
ningie 🦋: iced latte
ningie 🦋: but make it TWO pumps hazelnut syrup
ningie 🦋: actually ONE pump caramel too
ningie 🦋: oat milk!! not regular
ningie 🦋: extra foam and extra ice
ningie 🦋: OH in a large cup but only fill it medium
ningie 🦋: with whipped cream
ningie 🦋: sprinkle cinnamon on top ❤️
Jimin stared.
Before she could even curse Ningning’s name, a new message pinged.
aeri 🌙: jimin-ah
aeri 🌙: can you also get me something
aeri 🌙: double ristretto
aeri 🌙: topped with smaller amount of steamed milk
aeri 🌙: soy milk
aeri 🌙: also with quarter honey (NOT SUGAR)
aeri 🌙: and preferably served in a 5-6 oz takeaway cup for the right ratio, u know which one
aeri 🌙: oh and ask them to froth the milk counter-clockwise
aeri 🌙: it tastes better trust me
Counter-clockwise? Jimin squinted at her phone. How would that even—what does that mean? Didn’t the froth machine thing just spins on its own? Also what? How am I supposed to know about coffee cup sizes?
"Miss? Your order?" The barista looked patient but tired.
"Right! Yes! Sorry!" Jimin frantically scrolled through the texts. "One iced americano,” she started, and the barista smiled slightly, looking relieved. “And, um, one iced latte with with two pumps hazelnut, one pump caramel, oat milk, extra foam, extra ice, in a large cup but fill it medium, with whipped cream and cinnamon on top.”
The barista’s smile froze. Somewhere behind Jimin, someone made a strangled noise.
"And..." Jimin continued, dying inside, “one double ristretto, soy milk, a quarter honey, in a 5 to 6 oz takeaway cup—sorry I have no idea what size that is, small cup? And—” she genuinely couldn't believe she was saying this, "—could you please froth the milk counter-clockwise?"
The barista blinked, eyes darting to the espresso machine like it might provide answers. “Counter… clockwise?”
Behind her, the same person sighed. Loudly. Aggressively.
Jimin risked a glance back, ready to apologise—
And stopped.
Oh.
Oh no.
Oh no no no.
Pretty girl. PRETTY GIRL ALERT.
The girl behind her looked like she’d rolled straight out of bed and into the café. Oversized white hoodie drowning her petite frame, messy shoulder-length black hair falling in her face, dark circles that only seemed to make her eyes look impossibly large. Yet even in this dishevelled state, her features struck that perfect balance between soft and sharp: long lashes, defined jawline, but cheeks still soft and round. With her perfectly functional idol eyes, Jimin could easily see that this girl was—well. Pretty.
She looked young, maybe a university student? Possibly from Konkuk? It was just two subway stops from here, wasn’t it? Maybe she needed caffeine before sprinting to class? But she looks so tired? Jimin thinks, or overthinks. There was also something almost ethereal about the way the harsh café lighting caught this girl’s face, Jimin was definitely lost in her thoughts, before noticing that the girl was scowling—making her look like an angry kitten. Or angry puppy?
Pretty angry girl, Jimin's brain supplied unhelpfully, and for some reason that made her heart trip over itself. Why is that cute? Wait, Jimin, focus! You're holding up the queue! She already hates you!
"I'm so sorry," Jimin said, ears already heating. She tugged her mask down, hoping the girl could actually see her apologetic expression—honestly, she did feel bad for holding up the queue. “My members have… rather complicated coffee requirements.”
The girl’s eyes widened, focusing properly for the first time—first on Jimin’s eyes, then her face, then down to the beauty mark just under Jimin’s lip. Jimin didn’t need words; she could see the recognition snap into place, like a cartoon lightbulb flicking on above Pretty Angry Girl’s head.
---
Kim Minjeong was going to commit murder.
Today, the universe had chosen violence.
Because of course.
Of fucking course.
Minjeong stared at the human disaster blocking her path to caffeine and wanted to scream into the void.
It was Karina. THE Karina of aespa. The nation’s It Girl. The face of probably seventeen luxury brands. The same Karina whose face stared down at her from every other billboard in Seoul. Walking to this café alone had exposed Minjeong’s retinas to three separate instances of Karina: that Sprite ad gliding by on a bus, a wall of cosmetics posters outside Olive Young, and—for god’s sake—her group was even endorsing THE BANK. A financial institution. What was next, idol-branded tax returns?
It was unavoidable. Even if you had spent the last decade living under a rock with no internet connection, you would know who Karina was. Seoul's 5G network made sure of that, reaching even the deepest subway tunnels with crystal-clear idol content.
It wasn’t that Minjeong had anything against idols. Sure, she’s an indie singer, but she wasn’t that pretentious. She’d grown up loving Girls’ Generation (it was Taeyeon who made her want to sing in the first place). She’d spent half her teenage years listening to f(x) and Red Velvet. Hell, she’d definitely been stuck in a coin noraebang with Ryujin belting the high notes of aespa’s “Next Level” when it conquered South Korea two years ago.
But she had also heard all the crazy rumours about how idols behaved in real life—away from their manufactured personalities, from the perfectly curated image and personas fans saw online.
And now, here she was, looking like something a cat had dragged in, forced to deal with an idol making the world’s most complicated coffee order and singlehandedly blocking the flow of caffeine for everyone else.
Of course, Minjeong thought bitterly. The one day I look like I’ve crawled out of a dumpster, I run into the prettiest woman in South Korea.
Not that it mattered. Not even slightly. It wasn’t like she was paying attention at how Karina’s skin somehow managed to look glowy even under the café’s harsh fluorescent lights. Or how her jaw looked sharp enough to slice bread. Or how her lashes were so long it was frankly rude. Or how her face looked offensively symmetrical it defied geometry.
And Minjeong was defintely not paying attention to the black tank top. The one showing off unfairly nice shoulders and collarbones. Shoulders that had absolutely no business looking that good just to order coffee at seven fucking AM in the morning.
No, none of that was important. None of that mattered. None of it.
The important thing—the actual thing that mattered—was that Karina was currently holding up the entire queue.
Minjeong let her eyes flick, just for a second, to those infuriatingly perfect shoulders again. Okay, fine, attractive people can be assholes too. That should be illegal, actually. There ought to be a law: if you’re going to look like that, at least have the decency to order efficiently.
She sighed louder, making sure Karina heard every ounce of her suffering.
---
“Miss, sorry, but could you please repeat the order again?” The barista’s voice came from behind the counter, and Jimin could hear a loud, exhausted exhale at the end of his question.
She quickly bowed to Pretty Angry Girl before turning back to the barista. She recited the orders again—from her own humble iced americano, to Ningning’s absolute monstrosity of a sugary drink, to Aeri’s unnecessarily complicated double ristretto. And then, apparently, because Jimin had no self-preservation instinct, she said out loud, “—and please don’t forget to froth the milk counter-clockwise.”
“Counter… clockwise?” the barista repeated, as if Jimin had requested quantum physics with her coffee.
“I don’t—yes? Apparently? It tastes better?”
Behind her, Jimin could hear Pretty Angry Girl actually laugh. Not a kind laugh, but the sort that said I’m witnessing the fall of civilisation, and it’s happening in a coffee shop.
It took the barista three tries.
THREE.
First: too much caramel syrup. Ningning’s drink looked like a caramel swamp.
Second: regular milk instead of oat. A crime against Ningning’s lactose intolerance.
Third: the barista forgot to add the extra foam before the whipped cream. The structural integrity of Ningning’s latte was therefore, compromised.
By this point, Pretty Angry Girl behind her wasn’t even trying to hide her suffering. Jimin could see her checking her phone dramatically, shifting her weight, sighing in different octaves like she was performing an angsty emo ballad in Exhales Minor.
“I’m really, really sorry,” Jimin said again, turning fully to face her angry audience. “They’re very specific about their coffee—”
“It’s fine,” the girl replied, in a tone that was absolutely not fine.
Surprisingly, Aeri’s order was quick—once the barista found the milk frothing stick so he could actually froth the milk counter-clockwise (which was impossible on the built-in espresso machine frother).
Finally—finally—the drinks were ready. Jimin grabbed the tray with shaking hands, desperate to escape this fresh hell, not realising one of the drinks hadn’t been properly tucked into the tray.
She turned quickly—too quickly—and her body, which had survived three-hour concerts at Tokyo Dome and a performance at Coachella's main stage, chose today out of all days to betray her completely.
Time slowed. Jimin felt her legs tangle.
Next thing she knew, Ningning’s sugar monstrosity launched itself from the tray.
It arced through the air—whipped cream first—and landed directly on Pretty Angry Girl’s white hoodie.
EVERYWHERE.
The latte explosion was immediate and devastating. Coffee, caramel and hazelnut syrup dripped like sad rain. Whipped cream slid slowly, mockingly, onto Pretty Angry Girl unfortunately, also white-coloured shoes.
"Oh my god."
Jimin stood frozen, eyes wide, watching the devastation she had created. Pretty Angry Girl looked down at herself, then back up at Jimin, expression completely unreadable.
"Oh my god, I'm so sorry, I'm SO sorry—" Jimin quickly put the tray back in the counter before her hands started moving everywhere, pulling out tissues, napkins, her wallet, her black credit card, possibly also her soul. "Your hoodie—oh god, I'll buy you a new one, I'll buy you ten hoodies, the entire store, the entire MALL—"
And then—because apparently Jimin's panic response was to make things WORSE—she grabbed Pretty Angry Girl's hands.
Just. Grabbed them. Both hands. Holding them like she was about to propose… or perform an exorcism.
"Please, I'm so sorry, I'll fix this, I promise—"
WHY IS AN A-LIST CELEBRITY HOLDING MY HANDS? Minjeong's brain screamed. WHY ARE HER HANDS SO WARM? WHY IS THIS HAPPENING?
Why are Pretty Angry Girl's hands SO SOFT? Jimin's brain, probably only 70% functioning now, while the rest of her consciousness was having a complete system error. WAIT, WHY AM I HOLDING HER HANDS? WHEN DID I GRAB HER HANDS?
But she couldn't let go now. That would be weird. Weirder. Everything was already maximum weird.
"I—laundry! Professional cleaning! I know a place that can fix ANYTHING—"
Pretty Angry Girl yanked her hands back and stepped away from Jimin’s frantic attempts to help—coffee and whipped cream clogging in her now dirty hoodie and dripping steadily onto the café floor.
Something tumbled from her pocket—a lanyard that landed face-down in the coffee puddle before she snatched it up quickly.
"It's fine," the girl said, voice colder than the ice in Ningning's destroyed latte.
"It's not fine! Your hoodie is ruined and you probably have places to be like your class or lectures or work and—" Jimin was possibly crying? Her ears were so hot they might actually catch fire. "Please, just let me fix this—"
"Not everything," the girl said quietly, devastatingly, "can be fixed with a credit card."
She looked at Jimin for one more second—just long enough for Jimin to memorise every detail of her face—then turned and walked out, leaving a trail of coffee drops all the way to the door.
Jimin stood there, her card still extended to absolutely no one, the coffee tray with her iced americano and Aeri’s counter-clockwise ristretto going lukewarm in the counter.
“Miss,” the barista said, still in disbelief after spending nearly ten minutes on the most complicated order of the week—only to see it splattered on the floor. “You’re holding up the queue.”
---
Minjeong made it exactly two blocks before she had to stop and lean against a building—partly because her hoodie was dripping everywhere and her shoes were sticky. And partly also because she needed to process what had just happened.
Her favourite white hoodie—the soft one that made her feel like a functional human—was destroyed. She was sticky with sugary coffee. She smelled like she had been rained on with caramel and hazelnut syrup.
But also.
Karina’s ears had gone SO red. Like, medically concerning red. She looked genuinely horrified, fumbling with her card like it might somehow fix everything, like she actually, truly cared about ruining a stranger’s morning. Minjeong could still remember how Karina’s hands had been shaking.
Stop it, Minjeong told herself firmly. She’s just another entitled idol who thinks money fixes everything.
But the way she’d apologised… the desperate “Please let me fix this”…
No. Absolutely not. We are not going there.
She looked down at her ruined hoodie, then her lanyard which had fallen earlier—‘Artist: Winter’—now completely brown and illegible.
Minjeong actually laughed. What an absolute joke to start her day.
(But at least now she had a legitimate excuse to postpone her morning recording session.)
Later, when Minjeong was finally safe inside her apartment, she peeled off her dirty hoodie and examined the damage. It was definitely ruined. No amount of professional-laundry magic could save it. Even if she washed it with a bucket of Vanish, it wouldn’t return to its original state.
She should throw it away.
She was definitely going to throw it away.
…Instead, she folded it carefully and tossed it into her laundry bin.
Then she flopped onto her bed, definitely still feeling angry, definitely still smelling like a caramel-hazelnut fever dream, and definitely trying very hard not to think about red ears and warm shaky hands and the way Karina had said “please” like her life depended on it.
She failed.
Fuck.
---
"Unnie, where's my coffee?" Ningning’s voice loomed.
Jimin just stood there in the middle of the practice room, still gripping Aeri’s drink and her own americano, staring into the void like a ghost in well-fitted athleisure.
“I… I threw it on someone.”
Aeri, who’d been scrolling on her phone, looked up. “You… what?”
"I threw Ningning's coffee on the prettiest girl I've ever seen and she hates me."
Aeri and Ningning exchanged looks.
"Unnie," Ningning said carefully, "are you okay?"
"She had these dark circles," Jimin continued, staring into the distance. "But they made her eyes look bigger. And she was so angry but it was cute? Like a puppy? A grumpy puppy who wanted to murder me? And her hoodie was so soft looking and I DESTROYED it—"
"Oh my god," Aeri said. "You have a crush on a random coffee shop girl."
“I threw coffee on her!” Jimin wailed.
“Okay, but—” Aeri pressed, suddenly entertained, “did you at least get her contact details? Please tell me you didn't just splash her and run.”
“She’s the one who left!” Jimin protested, sounding personally victimised. “I offered to pay for laundry, dry cleaning, buy her a new one, anything, and she just—left.”
“And you didn’t chase after her?” Aeri raised an eyebrow. “Jimin, come on.”
Jimin gaped at her. "And do what exactly? Chase her down the street? Slip her a business card?" She gestured wildly. "What was I supposed to write? 'Dear lovely stranger, terribly sorry about the beverage assault, please send receipts for one ruined hoodie and any form of cleaning to SM Entertainment, yours apologetically, the clumsy lesbian who ruined your morning'?"
Ningning snorted. “That would be iconic, actually. You could autograph it. ‘Sorry for the coffee, best wishes, aespa’s Karina.’ with little hearts.”
Jimin’s head snapped toward her, eyes wide. “What if she posts online about it? Oh god, what if she writes it up on Pann or something? ‘Idol ruins my morning, stains my hoodie, then disappears.’ I’m going to trend for all the wrong reasons. It’ll be ‘Karina exposes her true colours—caramel coffee with a hint of red flag.’ That’s it. This is the end of my career.”
Aeri, utterly unhelpful, nodded gravely. “Well, at least it wasn’t the usual dumb rumours. This girl has actual evidence. That stain is basically forensic.”
Ningning grinned. “Or maybe—” her eyes gleamed—“maybe it’s fate. You’ll meet again, but with less coffee involved.”
Jimin groaned and folded in on herself. “I’m never stepping foot in that neighbourhood again.”
Aeri patted her head, not entirely sympathetically. “Relax, are you even sure she recognised you? Also, SM HQ is literally next door to Seongsu. Good luck avoiding it.”
Jimin groaned again, sliding down the practice room mirror until she hit the floor. She fumbled for her wired earphones in her pocket before slowly plugging them on her phone. Her fingers automatically navigating to her comfort playlist—the one that had gotten her through every overwhelming moment of the past two years.
The one playlist with an absolutely embarrassing number of tracks from this one artist that only her members and manager knew she was obsessed with.
Soft acoustic guitar filled her ears. The kind of sound that wrap around her frayed nerves like a warm blanket. The melody was understated, intimate—the kind of music that felt like someone was whispering secrets in the dark. No heavy production, no loud beats, just gentle strumming and a voice that could make even the busiest Seoul streets felt like a quiet library.
Jimin closed her eyes, letting her breathing sync to the rhythm. This was her ritual when everything became too much—when the schedules blurred together, when she finished a performance with adrenaline still high, or… when she'd just humiliated herself in front of beautiful strangers in coffee shops. These songs never demanded anything from her. They simply existed, patient and steady, like a friend who knew exactly when to stay quiet.
Her shoulders finally relaxed. Track after track flowed seamlessly—same artist, same soothing voice, same gentle vulnerability that made Jimin feel safe and less alone in her chaos. She probably had the singer's entire discography memorised by now, which was mildly concerning but utterly necessary for her sanity.
Jimin exhaled slowly and glanced at her phone, smiling quietly as she watched the track indicator prepare to move to the next song—probably her absolute favourite from this artist.
Her thumb grazed the screen just as Spotify shifted to display the familiar interface:
Lips by Winter.
If only Pretty Angry Girl’s lanyard hadn't fallen backwards—if only Jimin had seen it properly—then she'd know the girl in the ruined hoodie wasn't just a stranger.
She was Winter herself, the very artist Jimin had built her safe place around.