The flowerbed - Aespa's Giselle x M!Reader

The hours between

CEO Lee's request had been simple enough - review the concert setlist arrangements and stage progressions for next month's show. Just another late-night task in a long string of preparations, nothing special about it at all.

So why did my heart race when I realized it would just be Giselle and me working late while the others had already headed home?

The company building felt different after hours, emptier but somehow more alive. We gathered materials from different departments - sheet music from the arrangers, stage layouts from production, timing notes from the performance director. The stacks of paper grew with each stop.

"We should probably get coffee," Giselle suggested as we juggled our materials. "Work better with caffeine."

I checked my watch. "Minjoo-noona's probably closing soon."

"Actually," Giselle was already looking at her phone, a small smile playing at her lips, "she says she'll wait for us. Says we're her favorite late-night customers."

The walk to the café felt charged somehow, like even the evening air knew something was different. The streets were quieter at this hour, the usual rush of Seoul settled into its nighttime rhythm. Our shoulders brushed occasionally as we walked, each touch sending sparks through my entire body.

Minjoo-noona had indeed kept the lights on just for us, her knowing smile following us as we claimed our usual corner table. Steam rose from cups she'd already started preparing.

"Extra shots," she said, bringing them over. "And some of those cookies you like. On the house."

"You don't have to-" I started.

"Yes, I do." She wrapped the cookies carefully. "Some moments deserve celebrating."

"We're just reviewing setlists," Giselle protested weakly, but her blush suggested she understood Minjoo-noona's meaning perfectly.

"Of course you are." Minjoo-noona's eyes sparkled with barely contained delight. "I'll be in the back doing inventory. Take your time."

We spread our materials across the table in our usual working pattern - music here, stage diagrams there, notes scattered between in organized chaos that somehow made sense to us.

"Start with the opening sequence?" Giselle suggested, settling into her chair. She'd changed into comfortable clothes at some point, looking softer somehow in the oversized sweater she'd probably stolen from Winter.

I nodded, trying to focus on the sheets in front of me rather than how the café's warm lighting played across her features. "The transition between 'Next Level' and 'Black Mamba' needs work."

She hummed in agreement, marking something on her copy. "The key change is tricky. Maybe if we..." She leaned closer, pointing to a particular measure. The vanilla scent of her shampoo made it hard to concentrate on music theory.

Time slipped away as we worked, the quiet occasionally broken by hummed melodies or soft discussions about timing. She'd lean over to show me something in the arrangements, or I'd reach across to adjust a note, and each casual touch felt electric.

"Remember when we first worked on 'Whiplash'?" she asked suddenly, during a break between sections. "Back when everything was different?"

"Not everything," I said softly. She looked up at me then, and the weight of all our almost-moments hung in the air between us.

"No," she agreed, her voice barely above a whisper. "Not everything."

The café's sound system played quietly in the background, some soft melody I couldn't quite place. But somehow we'd shifted closer without really meaning to, the papers between us forgotten.