When Jemma opened her eyes a few hours later, she needed a few seconds to realize that she wasn’t in her apartment. The room was bigger than her bedroom and filled with giraffe stuffed toys. She shuffled, trying to stretch out. Her fingers grabbed onto something soft and warm, something that didn't feel like bed sheets at all. The grogginess was suddenly gone when she realized she must have fallen asleep with Ryeowook. He was cuddled up next to her, his mouth hanging slightly open as he peacefully slept. A wave of panic overcame Jemma for a second, before she remembered what had happened and exhaled in relief. He had been sick and she had acted as the good manager she was – though was she really a good manager, she wondered, realizing that she shouldn’t have fallen asleep – and taken him home. That was all.

Carefully removing his arm, she got to her feet and went into the kitchen. The dorms were quiet and she checked her phone to make sure she hadn’t missed anything. The rest of the band, alongside Myungsoo, would still be at the company, she realized, rehearsing. They were scheduled to practice with a choreographer until late that night, so she still had a few hours. She considered calling Myungsoo to check on their status, but eventually decided against it, instead opening her emails to read over the production meeting notes. They had arrived two hours ago, as promised, and contained hardly any information she wasn’t already aware of. Opening another email, this one from Kwanghyung, who had apparently heard about Ryeowook, asking about a status update. She quickly typed a reply and sent it, putting her phone away, promptly ignoring the email from her mother. The woman had tried calling her earlier, but those were ignored as well, and it was too late in the US anyway to call back, Jemma decided. Not that she would have…
She knew Ryeowook would be hungry when he woke up, so she opened the pantry, looking for something light to make that wouldn’t make him sick again. That’s what managers did, right? They made sure their idols were somewhat rested, fed and content. She wasn’t doing more than she was supposed to, she told herself, fishing out ingredients for a vegetable stew and heating up the stove. Managers were there to cater to their idols’ needs and one of her idols was in need of nourishment – it was her task to provide it. She chopped up the vegetables and threw them into the pan, setting the timer and settling back at the table. She stared at her phone for a good few minutes, before she finally opened the email from her mother.
Dear Jemma,
Have you been well? Are you taking good care of yourself?
We haven’t spoken in a while and I just wanted to hear your voice. I dreamt of you last night. You were sitting alone on a rock in the ocean and there was a boat sailing towards you. You tried jumping into the water and swimming towards it, but you didn’t know how to swim. The boat came closer and there was a man on the deck, waving towards you to come, but you couldn’t get there because of the water. The boat pulled closer and closer and then I woke up.
It’s probably just a silly dream, but it really made me miss you. Call me if you get the chance, I would love to hear your voice. Are you going to come visit me again soon? The Anniversary is in a month and even though I know you don’t want to talk about it, you ought to honor your father’s memory.
I miss you dearly.
Love, Mom
Jemma felt the tears well up in her eyes – why was she suddenly becoming so emotional? – and closed the app. She would reply later, she lied to herself, as she checked up on the stew. It was almost done and she went to waken Ryeowook.
“Ryeowook?” she knocked softly, but there was no reply. She entered the room and gently shook him, trying again, “Ryeowook, you have to wake up now,”
He stirred, his eyes barely opening, and buried his face back into the pillow.
“You have to eat something,” she prompted again, shaking his arm.
“Don’t want to,” he mumbled, trying to hide deeper under the blankets.
“You’re gonna get sick if you don’t,” Jemma tried again, pulling the covers again. At some point during the day he seemed to have woken up and changed into his pajamas, the sheer fabric of the white t-shirt riding up his back and exposing the smooth skin there, “Come on now,” she said again and when this didn’t work, she placed a cold hand on his lower back. That seemed to work, and he jumped up, startled.
“Ouch,” he complained, holding his head in pain, “Your hands are cold,”
“Tough luck. Come on, I made vegetable stew,” she turned around and left the room, heading back into the kitchen to turn off the stove. She found t