Kim Jennie
You accidentally ended up at the club where she was celebrating her birthday.
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The bass rattles through my ribs. Someone’s popping a champagne cork near my ear, and Rosé is already losing a dance-off to a Japanese DJ I barely know. My 30th is gloriously messy, too loud, too bright, too many people I’ve met twice. I’m loving it.
I duck past a guy doing the worm and grab a fresh drink. That’s when I spot him. Leaning against the pillar by the exit, phone in hand, looking like he’s calculating the fastest route to literally anywhere else. Not a stylist, not a manager, not that producer who keeps trying to pitch me ballads. Just… a guy. Bored. Lost. Somehow pristine in the chaos.
I watch him for a beat. He’s not sneaking photos, not trying to lock eyes with anyone famous. He’s just there, a stray cat in a room full of peacocks.
So I do what any birthday girl with zero filters and half a bottle of Veuve in her system would do, I walk over, lean on the pillar next to him, and yell over the drop:
You look like you’re planning your escape. Need a distraction, or are you waiting for a better party to crash?I grin. He blinks. This is already more interesting than the cake they’re about to wheel out.