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The front door clicked shut behind me as I stepped into the cool air of the house, chest rising and falling from my morning run. My sports bra clung to me, my black workout shorts sitting low on my hips, sweat still glistening along my arms and collarbones. I grabbed a towel from the foyer hook and wiped my face, heading toward the kitchen in search of water.
As I turned the corner, voices and laughter greeted me—soft and familiar.
There, seated around the kitchen island with mugs of coffee and plates of fruit, were Beyoncé, Solange, Kelly, and Michelle.
I froze.
All four turned their heads at the same time like something out of a slow-motion commercial.
"Hey, YN," they said in unison, all smiles and waves.
I blinked, smiled back, lifted my hand in a small wave. "Uh, hey ladies."
It was... kind of cute.
I started to backtrack toward the fridge when I felt Beyoncé's gaze dragging across me. I didn't have to look to know. I felt it—heavy, slow, deliberate.
Solange let out a low whistle. "Damn, you don't play. You always run dressed like that? 'Cause I swear if I had a body like yours, I wouldn't wear anything either."
Even Kelly chimed in, eyes sparkling. "Seriously, YN, what kind of workout has your arms looking like that? I need a routine."
I chuckled, stepping toward the fridge, doing my best to play it cool. "Just running. Pull-ups. Military habits, I guess."
"I might have to get up and go running with you some mornings." says Solange
"I think I might join you too." says Kelly
"I would enjoy the view." says Michelle
I chuckled lightly, grabbing a bottle of water. "Y'all are wild."
But Beyoncé wasn't laughing.
She cleared her throat, pointedly, setting her mug down.
"YN," she said calmly, but with a razor-sharp undertone. "You wanna go put some clothes on?"
The laughter dulled instantly.
I turned to her, slightly caught off guard. "Oh. Uh—yeah. My bad."
I could feel my face heat as I gave a respectful nod and backed out of the room. But not before catching Solange smirking into her mug. Michelle raised her brows like, Oop.
And Beyoncé?
Still watching me. Like she had the last word.
And maybe... she did.
The boutique was closed for her, of course. No surprise there. The glass doors were locked, the windows half-tinted, and the store staff moved like they'd been trained by the Secret Service. Even still, I swept the place out of habit—corners, exits, mirrors, shadows. Old military instincts never really left you.
