Team skull!

You don’t think, you just don’t move.

That’s how he knows you aren’t stopping him.

That’s how it becomes mutual.

That’s how you kiss back.

When you pull apart, the air feels different. Denser. He’s still close enough that you can feel his warmth but not enough to call it comfort.

Romance looks at you like he can’t believe the world actually allowed this small, impossible thing to happen. He never thought this would happen.

You stare at him, at his mouth, his eyes, the lines of his face, and your heart is too full and too empty at once. Shame, guilt, a pulse of something that feels like relief, the sudden realization that you’ve crossed another line and don’t even know if you regret it.

For a long moment you both just breathe.

He’s the first to move, leaning back a fraction, his eyes flickering down as though he’s afraid to look at you for too long. He’s thinking about everything he told you earlier, the truth about what they’ve done, the hurt that can’t be taken back, and now he’s added this to the pile. Another wrong thing done for the right reason, or maybe the other way around.

You wipe your face with the heel of your hand, not crying now, just… stunned. You meet his gaze once more, and for a heartbeat you understand each other completely.

Inside him, two truths clash:

He loves you.

He shouldn’t have done that.

They circle each other like animals.

And Romance… Romance just looks at you. It’s raw. Bare. A little scared. His pupils are wide and dark and there’s a tremor, tiny but there, in the way his chest rises and falls. His eyes say sorry, baby.

You like it.

You remember the bad. God, you do. You remember the bruises that bloomed like dark flowers under your skin. You remember the way their laughter used to hurt more than their hands. You remember the way they made your fear feel like your fault.

And you remember how you stayed anyway.

Because they loved you. And you loved them.

He wants you. Not in a way that’s patient or kind or safe. In a way that’s bone-deep. Possessive. Feral.

And you, god help you, you want him too.

He’s yours, whether either of you likes it or not.

You feel the apology in his stare again. Not for the kiss itself, he doesn’t regret that. But for everything wrapped around it. For the fact that this moment even exists.

You want to lean in again. You want to run. You want to throw something. You want to bury your face against his neck and cry and let him hold you, because you know he would.

Romance doesn’t move. He’s giving you space without stepping back. That’s his trick. He doesn’t force. He lets you choose. That’s what makes him so much worse. Because when you step toward him, it’s your choice. Your sin.

The silence stretches. Your heart is screaming, but your mouth won’t open.

And then, finally, he lowers his gaze to the floor, lashes brushing against his cheek. His hand slips off your arm.

His eyes lift back to yours. Dark. Heavy. Beautiful.

I’m sorry, baby.

But I’d do it again.

You’d let him.

It’s a bad feeling. You know it. You know it’s wrong. Not in the “society says wrong” sense, but wrong in the gut, the raw, gnawing sense of all the bad he and the others have dragged you through. Wrong in the way a wound refuses to heal properly because it’s constantly irritated. Wrong in the way your heart starts hammering in rhythms you’re not entirely sure belong to you anymore.

He knows that in another life, in a world where his choices hadn’t been poisoned by centuries of manipulation and betrayal, he would have done everything differently. But this is not that world. This is now, and the one human he has left who can break him without meaning to is here, and he has to have this moment, even if it’s wrong. Even if it’s temporary.

You can feel the tension radiating from him. You’re aware, painfully, impossibly aware, of the power he holds. And that power loves you. This powerful beast loves you. They all do.

You feel tears prick at the corners of your eyes again, but this time, they are not just sadness. They are relief. Confusion. Shock. Desire. Fear. Every single emotion the night has thrown at you all mingles into one paralyzing pulse that has you leaning into him more, silently begging for just a little more, knowing you should hate it, knowing you do hate it, but unable to stop.

You’re begging with your eyes. Pathetic. This is the first time he’s seen this emotion on you, but Romance knows he can’t give this to you right now. He knows. For once in his life, he holds back for a heartbeat longer, then rises slowly, carefully. The knowledge that he could stay longer presses against your chest.

And then, just before he leaves, he bends forward, presses his lips lightly to your forehead.

Then he is gone.

You sit on the bed and press your palms to your face. It’s not even about the kiss now, it’s about everything. You keep trying to tell yourself that they’re changing, that you’re changing them, but somewhere inside you know that’s the same lie you once told yourself about surviving them.

Romance walks down the hall slowly. He should feel proud. He was gentle, he was kind, he didn’t push too far. But he’s shaking. He hates that he’s shaking. He doesn’t like how it turned out. But he does. God, he doesn’t know.

He goes back to his room and sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at his hands. They don’t look like the hands of a good man. They look like they belong to someone who’s taken too much.

And then there’s Mystery.

He’s in his own room, awake, sitting on the floor by the wall, where the moonlight slants through the blinds in narrow silver lines. He hasn’t moved in hours. He doesn’t have to, the thoughts move for him. He knows. He heard the whole thing.

He should feel rage. That’s what Gwi-Ma whispers. “She’s yours. You were the first.” The voice makes it sound logical, righteous even. But Mystery doesn’t feel rage. He feels loss. And that’s somehow worse.

He remembers the kiss. He sees your lips, your breath, your trembling hands. He clings to that image because it’s the only version of love he understands, fleeting, undeserved, devastating.

He’s tried to be human for you. Tried to laugh when the others did, to eat the food, to keep his claws hidden. But he’s not human. He’s in love with you, yes, but it’s a kind of love that confuses salvation with possession. He thinks that if you loved him back, it would justify every terrible thing he’s ever done.

You’re trying so hard to make sense of the chaos. You remember Mystery’s movements when he caught you. You remember Romance’s voice. You remember Baby, Abby, Jinu. You remember it all and can’t realize it’s too much for one heart to hold.

Romance lies awake. He can hear the faint movement from your room. He knows you’re not asleep. Part of him wants to go back, to say something. Something like, I’m sorry that we made you this small. But he doesn’t move. Because he knows that would be for him, not for you. He knows he’d ruin it again, the way he ruins everything and likes ruining it.

You’re exhausted but you can’t sleep. Because what is there to sleep from? You can’t outrun what happened. Mystery’s power, the kiss, the way you wanted, Romance, his gentleness.

It’s sickening.

Romance is trying to convince himself he did the right thing. He tells himself you needed comfort. That you came to him, that he only gave you warmth, that you’re fragile and someone has to be there for you. But then the thought stabs through him, you weren’t asking for him, not really.

His throat tightens. He breathes in through his nose, hard. His chest starts to shake. He cries quietly. He’s disgusted with himself. But there’s something underneath the disgust, relief. Because maybe if he feels this bad, it means he still has a soul. That he can protect you and feel for you.

He wishes you’d never met them.

He wishes he could go back.

He wishes you loved him.

He cries himself to sleep.

And you, back in your room, are swallowed by this unbearable, horrible feeling. You hate that you want to go to them again, to apologize, to explain, to fix it, and mostly just be comforted. Held like always. You hate that a part of you still wants Mystery’s voice, or Romance’s warmth, or even Baby’s… whatevs the fuck this guy got going on, you just know that you like it.

You don’t even know if you’re crying because you hate them, or because you love them, or because you hate that you love them.

You just cry because you’re human, and they’re not.

And that makes you all exactly the same.

After a while you go take a shower. You stand under the stream, head bowed, hands braced against tile, water pouring down your back. You look brutally hot.

If you cry here, they won’t hear it. The pipes will. The water will. But they won’t.

You hate that this is what you’ve become, someone hiding tears from people who say they love you, someone trying to act normal around monsters that used to scare you.

The nausea that’s been sitting in your stomach for hours is gone. Weirdly gone. Maybe it burned out with the crying, or maybe your body finally decided it’s too tired to keep fighting itself. Either way, the absence feels suspicious, almost wrong.

You could stand here forever. You used to find it boring, just standing under the water, nothing to do, but suddenly it feels comforting.

You think about Mystery.

You think about the way it felt when his claws were out and you weren’t afraid. About how much trust that took, and how easily that trust turned into something else.

You think about how fucked up that makes you.

And then, you think about how fucked up he is.

Mystery, in his room, has been tracing circles on his thigh with one claw for nearly an hour, not noticing that he’s broken the skin. He doesn’t feel pain anymore.

He’s replaying the kiss in his head. Over and over. Not to relive it, exactly, more like to understand it, to find proof that it fucking meant something. That it wasn’t just panic and accident and confusion. He wants it to be the start of something, because he wants you. Because he really likes you.

The words sound better when they’re in Gwi-Ma’s voice. Mystery doesn’t argue anymore. He just listens. There’s something sick in the way his heart swells when he thinks of you, a hurtful kind of longing. He calls it love because that’s the only word that makes sense for this kind of ache.

You’re in the shower, water running just a few rooms away. He can hear it through the walls. It’s torture and comfort all at once. The proof that you’re still there. Still alive. Still in this apartment with them.

He wants to go to you. To apologize. To explain. But what would he say? “I’m sorry I crossed a line”? “I’m sorry I’ve been pretending I’m not a monster when I am”? The words don’t fit in his mouth. They never have.

You rinse your hair. You have a weird feeling. Like you’ve reached the edge of what your body can hold. You feel something else, too. Acceptance, maybe. That you’re stuck here. That you don’t know what the right thing is anymore.

You know what they’ve done, what they are, but you also know the way they look at you. You know how careful their hands can be. How much they laugh when you do. You know their humanity, even if they lost it long ago.

You slide down to sit in the tub, knees drawn to your chest, water still running, spilling down your back in weak streams. You listen to it, to your breathing, to your pulse.

You tell yourself it’s going to be fine. That it’ll settle. That one day, the sick heat in your chest when you think of Mystery will fade, and so will the shame. You tell yourself lies, because the truth is too heavy to carry.

In his room, Mystery finally stands. He wipes the blood from his leg, drags his claws against the wall until the sound grates. It helps him focus.

He wishes he could talk to you. Not even to explain himself, just to hear you say something that makes sense. To tell him that it’s not all falling apart. He’s convinced that this isn’t the end. That the guilt you feel is just fear. That you’ll come around. That all he has to do is wait.

And so he waits.

Still.

Quiet.

Breathing you in.

You turn off the water. The room steams around you. You wrap yourself in a towel and stare at your reflection. Then go back to them room. Do the usual, dress up, lots of deodorant, get into bed.

And somehow, by some impossible force of physics, no one else heard a damn thing that night.

Which was absurd, objectively. These were demons with superhuman senses, beings who could hear a moth’s wings from two rooms away, who once yelled at each other because Abby had opened a bag of chips in the kitchen at three in the morning. And yet, no one heard you and Romance.

Abby, at least, had an excuse, he slept. He’d downed two protein shakes and half a sandwich and then crashed face-first on his bed. The man could have slept through an earthquake, or through you kissing and confessing to Romance, which was basically the same thing.

Jinu wasn’t asleep, though. He’d been sitting on the floor of his room, headphones in, taking notes, plans, whatnot. He didn’t hear a thing either.

And Baby… well, Baby was awake too, sprawled on his bed, cigarette burning down between his fingers as he stared at the ceiling. He heard nothing. Not a whisper, not a sigh. If anyone should’ve caught the faint sound of you crying or Romance’s soft voice, it would’ve been him. But no, the air had gone still, heavy, unbreathing. Even the smoke from his cigarette curled in strange, suspended shapes. He noticed that.

It was as if some supernatural censor had intervened, deciding that what happened between you and Romance wasn’t meant for the others to witness. Supernatural is the only right word, yeah.

They were demons, for crying out loud. They heard the hum of electricity in the walls when the fridge kicked on. They heard the neighbors arguing two buildings over.

But that night? Nothing.

It wasn’t luck. It was supernatural.

Romance woke later than the others. He looked awful, eyes red, skin pale. He didn’t speak to anyone. Didn’t smile, didn’t tease, didn’t even pour himself coffee. Just grabbed a bottle of water and left the room.

Abby gave a low whistle. “Guess pretty boy’s got a hangover.”

They were all too keyed up, too unsure why the air felt thick enough to chew.

No one heard it.

No one could.

And yet, every time someone walked past Romance in the hallway, the silence buzzed. They noticed something coming off of him. Something weird that touched them too.

It knew.

He knew.

Abby, Jinu and Baby didn’t.

Jinu only stared at the hallway that led toward your room. His eyes narrowed a fraction. That’s about it.

Now though, Romance stands by the kitchen sink, both hands gripping the edge of the counter. His knuckles are white. He keeps replaying it. The way you looked at him, the way you trembled. He told himself it was comfort. He told himself you needed it. That it was a line he crossed out of love, not weakness. But it’s getting bad. His chest hurts. Not metaphorically, literally. He wants to talk. To anyone. To Baby, to Jinu, even to Abby. But he can’t. He bolts for the bathroom.

The sound of retching breaks the quiet. Even that is brief, a violent exhale, a choke, and then more silence.

He leans over the sink, breath trembling. He wipes his mouth, but not his expression. It’s all still there. Every regret, every justification, every image he can’t unsee. He’s choking on it. The drain swirls as he spits, bile and self-loathing and nothing else. The tiles echo every breath. His reflection looks back at him, pale, eyes red, jaw trembling. He doesn’t look like the charming man the world knows.

Out in the living room, Abby and Jinu sit on the couch. Jinu’s explaining today’s schedule. Abby’s body language is restless, one leg bouncing, fingers tapping against his thigh, jaw clenched.

Mystery hasn’t come out of his room yet. The door’s closed, the lights are off. The only movement inside is the twitch of his clawed hands as he digs lines into the floorboards.

He knows what Romance did. The scent of you has also changed, faint traces of another, the kind of detail only a demon could pick up. Gwi-Ma’s voice slithers through his head again. “You’re losing her. You let her slip into someone else’s hands.” Mystery growls low in his throat, not a sound anyone else could miss, except today, apparently, everyone’s deaf. Or by now they just don’t care.

He’s convinced you felt what he felt. He’s also convinced he hurt you. Both thoughts coexist, tearing him in opposite directions until he feels sick. He is sick. He leans forward and breathes hard, the air whistling through his teeth. He wants to vomit it out, the memory, the voice in his head, Gwi-Ma’s voice.

Outside, Baby smokes. He’s sitting on the sun chair, posture genuinely ass, cigarette hanging from his lips. The smoke curls around his face, faint, silver. It makes him look beautiful.

He knows something’s off. He doesn’t know what, but he can feel it. His instincts are always on point.

He tells himself he doesn’t care, but his hand’s shaking a little when he brings the cig to his mouth.

Mystery’s claws leave scratches. Romance keeps wiping his eyes. Baby crushes the cig out, disgusted with himself. Abby groans and buries his nose in Jinu’s shoulder, wanting attention. Wanting your attention, but not wanting to wake you up. And Jinu lets him.

Romance returns, pale, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He doesn’t look at anyone. Not Abby, Jinu. He goes straight for the couch, drops onto it beside Jinu and Abby, leans forward, elbows on his knees.

Every one of them carries their own problem, and none of them are willing to name it. Romance’s problem is obvious, it’s you. It’s what he did, what he let happen, what he can’t take back. He’s torn between guilt and the cruel comfort that it felt like love. His stomach still twists, he feels it every time he breathes. Mystery’s problem is the same, but from the other side. He can’t decide whether he’s furious or euphoric. Whether he wants to confess or destroy something. His love is too tangled to tell apart from his rage. Baby’s problem is that he’s running out of pretending. The apathy that used to protect him doesn’t fit anymore. He cares now. Too much. About you, about the others. Jinu’s problem is control. He sees all of this. He understands all of this. If shit goes bad now, so could their carrier. His plan. His plan going bad could result in you getting hurt. And Abby’s problem, the simplest, maybe the saddest, is that he doesn’t know what’s happening. To the others. To his little human.

“Feeling bad?” Jinu asks.

Romance’s fingers flex. Then he hums. “Yeah.” he admits. “Bit off.”

The word off doesn’t touch the truth. Jinu knows it. He doesn’t ask what kind of off this is, physical, emotional, something worse, because it’s written all over Romance’s face.

Romance lifts his eyes. “Can I stay home today?”

It’s almost gentle, the way he asks. He’s actually adorable.

“No.” Jinu says. “Go. Get yourself together.”

Abby, sitting beside him, turns his head slightly, studying Jinu’s profile.

Romance exhales through his nose. He gets up, then he disappears down the hall.

Abby grunts, rubbing his face. “Little harsh, huh?”

Jinu shakes his head. “No.” he says quietly. “He needed to hear it.”

Abby nods, slow, not completely agreeing. “Yeah.”

You wake up. Groggy. Not exactly… right.

Romance.

Yesterday.

Mystery.

You exhale through your teeth and drag a hand down your face.

Good people don’t do what you did. Mystery’s face flashes behind your eyelids, the way he looked at you before you kissed him. You’d felt pulled in. And then Romance.

You press your palm to your chest. Your heart’s racing again.

It’s all so stupidly unfair. How they make it look easy, how they’re all talented and beautiful and alive, and you’re the only one here drowning in the feeling. They tease you, flirt, joke, and you fall for it every fucking time.

You tell yourself you’ll wait. Wait until they leave for rehearsal or whatever it is they do. Wait until the apartment’s empty. You curl into the blanket instead. It smells like detergent and maybe a little like one of their colognes, you don’t want to know whose.

Your throat tightens. You’re such an idiot.

Meanwhile, the boys are getting ready to go. Well that mostly looks like Jinu saying “Baby, put that down—no, not on the counter—get your hand OUT of your underwear—“ but at least they’re getting ready. Romance sits on the couch, quiet. Too quiet. He hasn’t moved much since he dressed up. He’s staring at the window.

Mystery’s currently watching Abby tie his shoes. I mean Abby tie Mystery’s shoes. Every now and then, Mys glances up, just once, toward Romance, then back down.

“Yo.” Abby says, taking a look at Romance. “You alive, lover boy?”

“Mhm.” Romance hums.

“Damn.” Abby says, smirking. “Rough night? Thought you’d be happy. We’ve got that shoot today, remember?”

“Yeah. Happy.”

Abby frowns a little, caught off guard by the flatness in his voice. “You sound like Mystery. What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

“Hey.” Jinu warns, shooting him a look.

Abby raises both huge hands. “What? I’m just asking.”

The silence that follows is thick. Mystery walks past the couch without looking at anyone. Just grabs his sweater, shoulders it, and leaves the door half open behind him.

“See?” Baby says, styling his hair with the same hand he just adjusted his balls with. “He’s mad too.”

Jinu exhales, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “He’s always like this.”

Romance doesn’t move. He watches the open door like he’s still expecting you to try and run out on it. But he knows you won’t, not anymore. He can hear you in your room. He knows you’re awake. He can feel it.

He just doesn’t know how to face you.

“Hey.” Abby’s voice breaks the quiet again. “You sure you didn’t fight with Mystery or something? He’s weird this morning.”

Romance shakes his head slowly. “No fight.”

“Then what?”

“Let it go, Abby.” Jinu says, soft.

Romance stands up. He needs movement, space, anything. “I’m gonna grab my jacket.”

He walks to the hallway, heart pounding like he’s running though he’s barely moving. The air feels too thick here, too full of everything unsaid.

He pauses near your door. Just for a second.

He can hear the faintest sound, the rustle of bedsheets, maybe. He wants to knock, to say something stupid like Good morning or Don’t hate me. But he doesn’t. He just stands there.

He knows you’re hurt. And god, it tears him apart, because he never wants to be the reason for your torture, not anymore. Never. He respects you more than he’s ever respected anything in his fucking life.

Back in the living room, Baby drops a spoon on purpose so Jinu has to pick it up, the clatter breaking the silence. “Can we go now? I’m bored.”

Jinu sighs. “Five minutes. Let Romance—”

“I’m ready.” Romance says, reappearing, jacket half-zipped.

Abby studies him again. “You sure, man?”

“I’m sure.”

The door slams behind them when they leave.

You sit in bed for a long time, just listening to the silence they left behind. The door clicked shut maybe ten minutes ago, but it’s still ringing in your ears. It’s strange how noise lingers. The echoes of their voices, the scrape of shoes on the floor, Abby’s fucking sneakers that you envy so much because they make him look so cool.

They make you feel small.

Not on purpose, at least, you don’t think so. They just fill every space they’re in. Their energy, their noise, their fame. You’re just useless. You were almost useful once, but they gave up because you didn’t give them the information needed. But now you’re just a human. That’s about it.

And they love you, they say. Or something like love. They look at you like they’re starving, but they never really see you. The only time you think they did was when Romance and Abby apologized.

They cost you everything.

Now you feel hollow. Used up. Like the air’s been sucked out of you.

You think about leaving. Trying it again, disappearing into some nameless city where no one knows you or them. But even that thought feels uncomfortable. Like your body doesn’t want to move. Like part of you still believes everything will be fine.

You hate that part of you. The hopeful part. It’s delusional.

It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine.

It isn’t.

You wish they’d see this, not out of pity, but so they’d understand what their kind of love does. How it pulls you apart, until you can’t tell if you’re loved or consumed.

You wonder if that’s what they mean when they talk about hunger.

You envy free people. Who doesn’t have to live like this. The simplicity of being unaffected. You want out.

They’re gone now. You should feel relieved. You told yourself you would. But you don’t. You feel empty. You want your boys back.

You don’t even know who you’re mad at, them, yourself, the world. Maybe all of it. But you know that you’re so mad.

You let both of them in.

You let all of them in.

And now you can’t find where you went.

The longer you’ve lived survived with them, the more pieces of yourself you’ve given away. First, your space, then your time, then the tiny things, your favorite mug, your morning quiet, your reflection. Every time they looked at you, it shifted a little more. They turned you into someone else. Someone smaller. Someone easier to love.

You get up, walk to the sink, pour a glass of water. You hate that you’re shaking again. You hate how weak you feel. You hate that they made you believe you were something fragile, something that needed protecting, when you were just… tired. You wanted peace, not protection.

You remember, back when you were tortured, god it’s shitty to say that but it is what it is, when Romance laughed at something you said, not to be cruel, but because he thought it was “adorable.” That night, awake, you’d felt small. Diminished.

Then Mystery, the way his silence made you nervous at the start, like you were always walking on glass. You told yourself it was mystery, depth. But really, it was fear. You didn’t know what he’d do if you said the wrong thing.

Get it together, Y/N.

But that’s the thing, you can’t. You’re not together. You’re scattered, all over the apartment. In the spaces where they laughed, where they fought, where they kissed you.

You want to leave. You do. But the thought of walking out that door feels like erasing a whole version of yourself. The version that laughed with them. The version that believed.

And yet, staying feels like dying slowly.

Not like you could do anything.

You let yourself admit it, you’re not okay. You haven’t been for a long time. And maybe this isn’t about them anymore. Maybe it’s about you being weak. Just… not there anymore.

You kissed Mystery.

Then you kissed Romance.

Your fault.

No—wait.

Mystery kissed you first, didn’t he? You think so. Maybe. You remember his tension. His moves. Flawless muscles. Posture. You didn’t pull away fast enough. You didn’t pull away. You could have stopped Romance too. You didn’t.

You tell yourself that means it’s your fault.

Because it’s easier to carry the blame than to face what it actually was, manipulation disguised as care. You don’t like that word. Manipulation. It feels wrong. They didn’t mean to hurt you. They never do.

Right?

Maybe they didn’t do anything wrong. Maybe you just misunderstood.

You hate how easily that lie fits.

Your head keeps splitting itself in two. One side whispering they didn’t mean it, they needed you for their plan, the other murmuring yes, they did mean it.

You swear you can still hear their voices in the walls, Abby’s laugh, Jinu’s gentle tone, Baby’s bratty muttering. You imagine them all talking about you somewhere out there, trying to figure out what’s wrong with you.

You wish you could tell them.

You wish you could make the words come out right.

But every time you try to explain how you feel, it comes out wrong. You start to sound like the problem. Like you’re too sensitive, too dramatic, too much.

You stare at your hands, remembering the way Romance used to hold them. Thumb brushing your knuckles, smiling. Not keeping it a secret how much he wanted you.

They didn’t mean to hurt you. They did. They didn’t do anything wrong. They did. You kissed them first. They made you.

Somewhere deep down, you know the truth. You can feel it, raw, undeniable, buried. But facing it would mean admitting that you let yourself do this. That you fell for something wrong. So you lie to yourself instead.

The hours after they leave stretch thin. You don’t even notice time passing anymore. The light changes on the floor, morning to afternoon, but you stay where you are.

It’s good they’re gone. It’s good.

You miss them.

You start to think maybe you made everything up. Maybe it wasn’t that bad. They never meant to hurt you. You know that, right? They were just… intense. That’s all. They’ve lived different lives, darker ones. They don’t know how to be gentle the way you do. They had to do this, they told you that at the very first day. That it wasn’t personal.

You can teach them. You’ve always believed that, if you’re kind enough, soft enough, patient enough, they’ll learn.

And if they don’t, that’s on you, isn’t it?

Your throat tightens.

Every time you try to blame them, something in you pushes back. Because the second you start to get angry, you hear their voices again, Jinu’s, Abby’s, Romance’s, Mystery’s, Baby’s quiet little hums of approval when you do something right.

They’re not monsters. They’ve never been monsters.

Romance didn’t mean to make you feel small when he laughed. He was just being himself. You should have known that. You should have thicker skin by now. (He did. He wanted you to feel like you were going to die.)

Mystery didn’t mean to scare you. He’s just quiet. He doesn’t talk like the others do. (And there’s a pretty good reason for that. He wanted to scare you, and it wasn’t even for their plan. He’s just outright evil.)

God, what’s wrong with you? You know what happened. You remember it. But you keep trying to rewrite it so it hurts less. If you can convince yourself it’s your fault, at least you can fix it. You can apologize. You can behave better. You can make it right.

Because if it’s their fault, if they really did something wrong, then you’re powerless.

Maybe you’re just tired. That’s what Jinu always says when you get like this. You can almost hear him now. It sounds comforting, until you remember that’s what he said the night you cried in the hallway, shaking, after Mystery slammed a door hard enough to make the walls shake. You’d said you were scared. Jinu had said, “He didn’t mean it.”

Maybe he didn’t.

Maybe none of them ever meant it.

They did. They’re not dumb, maybe careless, but not dumb. They love you, they’re just evil.

Maybe you’re the one who made everything messy. You kissed them. You let them close. You should’ve kept boundaries, should’ve been smarter, stronger, colder.

You think, maybe if I hadn’t kissed him. Then, maybe if he hadn’t looked at me like that. Then, maybe if we’d never met. Each thought hurts in a different way.

You just want quiet.

You think about what it would take to find it again. Maybe trying to escape again. But then… no. You can’t leave. They’d worry. They’d say you’re overreacting. They’d tell you they love you, and you’d believe them, because you always do.

It’s easier than believing you’re trapped.

You remember about three weeks into this. You just got the permission to actually walk around the place and not spend your whole day tied to a chair and occasionally asking them to untie you because you were about to deadass pee yourself. Anyways, it was fresh for you. Mystery had been pacing, silent. You’d dropped a glass in the kitchen then. It broke, just a sound, nothing more, but he’d spun around so fast, so angry, that your body reacted before your brain did. You flinched, arms up.

He didn’t hit you. He never hit you. He just stared at you with something like disgust, and then walked away. Still, you’d shaken for hours after.

You’d told Jinu about it the next day. He’d sighed and said, “He’s been under stress. Don’t take it personally.” Then he’d smiled that beautiful smile.

You think about Abby next, the way he’d joke too loud, too aggressive, until the words stopped feeling like jokes. He used to toss things at you, a pillow, a towel, and laugh when you flinched. You’d laugh too, because that’s what you were supposed to do. Sometimes, half-laughing, he said: “Come on, you know I’d never hurt you.” Yeah. Sure.

Baby, he was quiet, mostly. Watched more than he took action. When he did take part of the torture, it was cruel though. But usually he’d just stare too long, mostly lazy. When things got tense and he wasn’t in the mood, he’d disappear into his room, music leaking through the wall. You envied him for that, the ability to not care.

Then Romance. He was different. He knew exactly how to make you feel seen. The compliments, the attention, the way he’d tilt his head and say your name. You didn’t notice at first how much power that gave him. You only noticed when he started to withhold it. The days he didn’t look at you. The mornings he ignored you, and your stomach knotted because you must have done something wrong.

It was subtle. Almost nothing. But it worked.

By the time he smiled again, you’d already thought they were going to actually kill you.

You learned fast, to stay quiet when they fought, to laugh at the right jokes, to never talk about fear. Fear wasn’t allowed. Fear meant you didn’t trust them. And if you didn’t trust them, you were the problem. At least that’s what you noticed from the way they used to act. How they didn’t take you seriously. How petty they got when you spoke up. It was horrible.

You can still hear Jinu’s voice from one night they argued. You remember Abby yelling, Mystery snarling, Baby muttering something you couldn’t catch, a glass hitting the wall. You’d been sitting in your room, small and useless, heart pounding so loud it hurt. And when it ended, they all treated you like nothing happened.

Your breath starts to shake. You press your hand to your mouth, afraid of making noise even now. It’s stupid, they’re not here, but your body doesn’t care. It still remembers.

You can’t even untangle which memory belongs to which person anymore. They blur together, all of them tall, loud, beautiful, terrifying. You start to think maybe you made it all up, but then your stomach twists again, and you know you didn’t.

They scared you.

They controlled you.

Even now, thinking about it, you start to defend them again. You hear yourself saying things like they were just stressed or I misunderstood.

That’s how deep it goes.

That’s how much they got into your head.

You were scared because they gave you reasons to be.

You stayed because they made leaving impossible.

You loved them because you’re human.

You survived them because you had to.

You think about the way you flinch at sudden sounds. How you’d plan conversations in your head, testing every word before you spoke so you wouldn’t make anyone angry. The memories blur together, raised voices, long silences, the tension that never left the room. You remember how your body would ache from pretending everything was normal. You’d wake up already exhausted.

They didn’t mean it.

They were tired.

You provoked them.

After lying around for hours now, you roll around in bed and get up too fast. The world tilts. You catch yourself on the dresser, breathing hard, waiting for the dizziness to pass. Your heart beats wrong. Your stomach can’t tell hunger from fear.

You walk into the living room, feet dragging against the carpet. The couch looks too big and too far away, but you make it there, collapsing into it.

Derpy pads into the room.

You blink at him. “Hey, love.” Your voice cracks.

He huffs. Then, he jumps up onto the couch beside you. The cushions sink under his weight. Derpy stretches out, then nudges you gently with his massive head until you’re half buried in his fur. You press your face into it. He smells so… cat.

He doesn’t care what you’ve done. He doesn’t care who you kissed. He doesn’t care about guilt or blame or the fucked up rules that the others play by. He just breathes, slow and steady, and you match your breathing to his.

In. Out.

In. Out.

Your pulse starts to settle. Your fingers stop trembling.

It’s strange, how something so powerful, so capable of destroying, can feel like safety. But that’s Derpy. He doesn’t talk. He doesn’t lie. He doesn’t tell you that everything’s fine when it’s not. He just is.

Fun fact: Derpy thinks you’re cute.

You press your face into Derpy’s side, and the fur muffles the small whines you make. It’s not even crying. It’s just… letting go. Quietly.

You’re not thinking about last night anymore. Not about guilt or blame. Just warmth. The way Derpy’s fur feels against your skin, the scent of him, wild, clean, alive.

He shifts once, a huge paw landing near your shoulder, and for a moment you almost laugh. He’s so massive, so absurd, and yet somehow gentle with you. If love could be uncomplicated, maybe it would feel like this.

Derpy breathes. You breathe.

You sink deeper into the couch. Your eyes start to close. Derpy’s tail flicks once against your leg, and that small, physical connection lulls you to sleep.

The hours slip past in fragments. You drift somewhere between sleep and waking. Every time your eyes flutter open, the light in the room is different, first gold, then gray, then a deeper, gentler blue. Derpy never leaves. He shifts sometimes, stretching out, tail thudding softly against the couch. By the time evening edges in, your mouth is dry, your head heavy. Your stomach twists once, and that’s what finally makes you move.

You push yourself upright, Derpy moving automatically to let you move. The room tilts for a moment, colors blending, but you manage to steady yourself with a hand on the couch. Your legs feel too thin, too light. Ugghhh the fuck is happening.

Derpy lifts his head. His eyes catch the faint light, gold over darker gold. You give him the smallest nod. He stands, stretching his huge body before stepping down from the couch. He follows close behind as you make your way toward the kitchen, his paws whisper-soft against the floor.

You reach the counter, bracing yourself against the edge. The cool surface presses into your palms. You think about food, bread, maybe water, but your mind feels foggy. It takes effort just to remember what you came here for.

Your breathing shortens again.

A wave of dizziness rolls through you, gentle at first, then stronger. You blink hard, trying to keep yourself steady.

Your knees give a quiet warning tremor before the rest of your body listens. The room tilts.

Then everything goes sideways.

You slide down against the cabinet, shoulder first, landing on your side. The impact knocks the air out of your lungs in one small, startled gasp.

You lie there, eyes open, staring at the faint pattern of light across the tiles. It feels far away, unreal.

Derpy moves instantly. The sound he makes is deep, almost human in its worry, a low rumble that vibrates through the air. He circles once, careful, then lowers himself beside you. He doesn’t panic, he never does.

Your vision flickers. You focus on the sound of him instead, the faint huff of air, the rustle of fur each time he shifts closer.

It’s not that serious. The body has limits, and yours has been trying to tell you for days. That’s about it.

Derpy settles fully now, his massive frame curved protectively around you. The warmth radiates through the fabric of your shirt. You can’t move much, but you manage to lift a hand. Your fingers find the soft fur at his neck.

Derpy stays still, his tail flicking once. If he could think in words, they would be simple: stay, breathe, wait.

Minutes pass. Maybe hours. You don’t know.

God, your thoughts are… slipping. One second it’s Romance’s smirk, then Mystery’s quiet stare, then Jinu’s smile, then… Baby clapping?? Hello??

But god, you want something. You want to lie down. You want to eat fast food. You want to laugh. Sleep. Forgiveness. A reset. Jinu. Again. You want Jinu again.

Your eyes close again. You drift between consciousness and… not. Simple as that. Derpy nudges your shoulder with his nose. You groan, blinking blearily at the blur of fur and tile. You see flashes, a hallway, lights, the sound of them laughing, your name in Romance’s voice. Then the floor under you again. Back to the kitchen. Then out again.

“Y/N?”

Huh?

“Y/N, baby, what happened?”

Abby.

You try to focus. His voice is too close, too clear, too real. This is not a dream. You blink again and his face swims into view.

“Hey. Hey, look at me.” His hand hovers like he’s not sure if he should touch you. “You passed out or something?”

God. Did you?

You must’ve, because suddenly there are more voices. The air shifts, energy thick, tense, alive. The others are here.

Fuuuuuuck.

You drag your head to the side. Jinu’s kneeling by Derpy, hand absently stroking behind the tiger’s ear, eyes locked on you. Baby’s standing nearby, arms crossed, watching, a tiny smirk ghosting across his lips, because of course he’d find this entertaining. Romance stands next to him, frowning. God, Romance. You can’t read him anymore. You can’t even meet his eyes without wanting to crawl out of your own skin. And Mystery… is just there, sitting cross-legged on the floor. Head tilted. You haven’t seen him in days, not since… that night. You shouldn’t want to see him again. You don’t. (You do. You do. You missed him.)

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to get yourself together.

“Hey, hey. You with us? What’s goin’ on in that head, sweetheart?” Abby. Again.

You want to answer, but your mouth feels heavy. So instead, you breathe out something that sounds like Jinu’s name.

That’s all it takes. He’s closer now, hand brushing your forehead. You could cry just from that.

“You’re burning up.” he says quietly.

The dizziness shifts, weird now. You lean forward, groaning softly.

Someone’s touching you, warm hands, big and careful, and a voice. Abby’s voice. “Hey, stay with me, alright? Eyes open.”

You try, but everything’s tilting. The ceiling wobbles. The light overhead feels fucking horrible.

“Dehydration. Maybe stress.” Jinu says, kneeling on your other side. His hand is on your shoulder, thumb pressing gently against your neck, feeling your warmth.

“Or she forgot to eat again.” Abby adds, a lopsided grin curving his mouth as he props you up. “C’mon, angel, you gotta stop doing this. I thought we were over it by now.”

You groan. Abby slides behind you, lifting you until you’re sitting, his arm big around your shoulders. Your head lolls against his chest.

“Here.” he murmurs, pressing a cold glass to your lips soon. “Water. Drink.”

You sip, then cough. He steadies the glass again, his palm cradling your jaw just enough to keep you from spilling it.

“More.” he orders. “C’mon, good girl. Like that.”

You wheeze something that might’ve been a laugh if your throat didn’t feel like sandpaper. Abby just grins, glancing at Jinu like he’s proud of getting you to respond. While you’re busy drinking, they say something to each other. Abby slaps Jinu’s shoulder and Jinu rolls his eyes, smiling in spite of himself. You should feel better seeing them like that, but your stomach twists instead. Because when you glance past them, you see Romance and Mystery.

Romance is standing stiff by the counter, hands buried in his pockets, gaze fixed on some random spot on the wall. He’s usually the first to come to your side, the first to be there for you, the first to touch your hand when you’re shaking. But not now. Now he looks like he doesn’t know what to do with you.

Mystery’s a different story. He’s sitting a few feet away, watching everything, still, silent. His eyes catch yours for half a heartbeat from where his hair parts, and your chest burns all over again. You look away fast.

You like them too much. Both of them. And that’s the problem.

You can feel the fever in your skin, but it’s nothing compared to the guilt. It’s heavier than the heat. Your head rolls slightly, and Abby’s hand steadies you again.

“Hey, eyes on me.” he says, snapping his fingers lightly in front of your face. “We’re not done yet. One more glass, yeah?”

You nod weakly. Another swallow. Another wave of dizziness.

“Baby,” Jinu sighs. “can you pass me another glass?”

“No.” Baby snaps, voice bratty. “Do it yourself.”

“You’re right there.”

“I said no.”

The sound of clinking glass follows, definitely a tantrum. You hear Romance’s tired sigh and Baby’s muttered curse, and even in your haze, you can picture the look on Jinu’s face. The look would be done if he had that fuckass robe on.

Baby huffs and drops into a stool, sulking. But even through his annoyance, he’s watching. Not you, not Jinu, but Romance.

Because Romance hasn’t moved closer. Not once.

And Baby’s smart enough to notice.

The silence stretches too long. Abby’s still talking to you, something gentle, something meant to comfort you, but your eyes drift again, toward the spot where Mystery sits. You shouldn’t miss him, not after what you did. Not after what you said that night. But the ache doesn’t care about reason. It just sits there, pulsing under your ribs.

Your head tips back against Abby’s shoulder, and your voice comes out small. “I feel awful.”

“I know.” he says, voice softer now. “We got you.”

Jinu’s hand settles briefly on your knee. “You’re safe. Just rest, okay?”

You want to. God, you want to. But the dread in your chest won’t stop clawing. Because they’re all here, and every heartbeat feels like it might give something away, the kisses, the wanting, the guilt tangled up in all of it.

And Baby’s still staring at Romance like he’s already figured out that something’s off.

You close your eyes again, the sound of their voices fading in and out. You can feel it even through the fog in your pretty little mind, the distance, the tension.

Jinu and Abby decide that sitting you upright is not enough. The floor’s too cold, they say. The angle’s wrong, they say. You’re “gonna catch pneumonia” Abby jokes as he slides an arm around your waist.

“Up we go.” Jinu murmurs, voice as steady as his grip.

“I’m fine.” you mumble, even though you sound like you’re underwater.

“You’re not fine.” Abby says, so casual.

“I said I’m fine.”

Jinu glances at Abby, the two of them sharing the sort of silent conversation that happens between people who’ve done this before.

Abby nods toward the counter. “Grab that towel. We’ll prop her up there.”

You blink up at him. “You’re not—”

But you don’t get to finish, because Abby’s already hauling you halfway to your feet, and Jinu’s there on your other side, guiding, holding, laughing when you dig your heels into the tile in protest.

“I don’t wanna.” you mutter.

Abby grins down at you. “Yeah, and I don’t wanna do cardio, sweetheart, but here we are.”

You glare, or at least you try to. It probably looks more like a pout. “You guys are so— so annoying.”

Jinu actually laughs, proper, beautiful. You blink at him, almost offended by how good it sounds. Abby joins in, the two of them looking like they’re having the time of their lives.

They decide to leave you to sit on the floor. If that’s what you want right now, sure. They know how petty you can be.

Romance, from the counter, shifts his weight. You can feel his stare. Baby’s still perched on that stool, chin propped on one hand, expression somewhere close to pissed, but his eyes keep bouncing between you and Romance, curious. You pretend not to notice.

Abby bumps your shoulder gently. “Hey. You with us?”

You nod weakly. “Unfortunately.”

He laughs, loud and so so so manly. “That’s the spirit.”

Jinu hands you another glass. “Drink again.”

You do, mostly because he’s looking at you with that soft look that makes disobeying impossible.

“Good girl.” Abby murmurs, not even meaning anything dirty with it. He genuinely thinks you’re doing good.

They’re laughing now, leaning on each other, their hands brushing as they reach for towels, glasses, whatever’s in arm’s reach.

You should feel comforted. Instead, something bad and petty curls under your ribs. You don’t even know why. Maybe it’s the whatever got you like this, or the way your head keeps spinning every time Jinu touches your forehead. Maybe it’s Abby’s moves, making you feel like everything’s okay. Or maybe it’s the fact that you’re not okay, and everyone seems to be having a decent time while your insides are threatening to come out your mouth.

You glance at Mystery again. He’s sitting back now, arms loosely draped over his knees. When he catches your gaze, he tilts his head slightly, at least you think that’s the reason.

God, they make it impossible to think straight. Impossible to breathe. Impossible not to feel everything all at once.

You love them. Every stupid, infuriating one of them.

Jinu notices, follows your line of sight, then glances back at Abby. “She needs food. Something small.”

Abby shrugs his huge shoulders . “Fine. I’ll see what’s edible.”

He gets up, rummages through the cabinets, muttering under his breath about how someone (Baby) probably ate all your Snickers again. Eventually, he comes back with something, apples or pears, maybe. He crouches beside you again and looks at Mystery.

“Here.” he says, shoving it into Mystery’s hand. “You feed her. She listens to you more than she listens to me.”

Mystery stares, caught off guard.

You blink too. “Wait— what— no, I—”

Too late. Abby’s already grinning and walking away as Mystery awkwardly holds out a piece of apple.

“I can feed myself.” you say, even though your hand trembles when you try to reach for it.

He doesn’t argue. Just watches your hand fall back into your lap. Then, very carefully, he holds it closer to you.

You stare at it.

Mystery stares at you. “Eat.”

Okay. Okay. All-fucking-right. Sure. You open your little mouth and he carefully puts the fruit in there. You chew. It’s annoying.

You don’t know if it’s the fever or the guilt or something worse, but looking at him hurts. You think about that night, everything. The guilt. The adrenaline. The sexual tension. The way he looked at you. You shouldn’t miss that look. You shouldn’t want it back. But you do.

“Another?” he asks quietly.

You nod, barely. He lifts another piece, and this time you take it without hesitation.

Romance shifts somewhere behind him, the sigh of someone trying not to look. You feel it, crawling up your neck.

Jinu and Abby don’t notice. They’re laughing again, leaning against the counter, finishing each other’s sentences.

“Admit it.” Abby says, bumping Jinu’s shoulder. “We make a damn good team.”

Jinu hums. “That, I’ll admit.”

Derpy, bless him, is still planted loyally by your side, tail flicking against the tiles.

You, though, you’re not good at all. Everything’s bad but good. The way Mystery’s fingers brush yours when he feeds you. The way Romance won’t meet your eyes. The way Baby keeps glancing between them.

Mystery’s voice cuts through again, heartbreakingly beautiful: “One more.”

You shake your head. “No more.”

He watches you for a moment, then nods once and sets the plate aside. He doesn’t move away. Just stays there, unmoving.

You lean back, eyes half-shut, listening to Abby tease Jinu about something and Jinu pretending he’s not amused.

They do make a good team. God, they really do.

You exhale, slow and shaky. “Thanks.” you whisper.

Mystery doesn’t answer. Just nods.

You can feel yourself starting to slip again, drowsy, heavy. The fever’s not gone. Everything feels warm and far away.

Abby notices first. Or at least he’s the first one doing something about it, Baby, Mystery, and Romance just watch you quietly. Abby doesn’t, he moves closer. “Hey, don’t you dare pass out on me again.”

Jinu glances over. “Oh.”

“I’m fine.” you whisper, which, judging by their faces, is the least convincing thing you’ve ever said.

You grunt as they start to lift you. You don’t want to move. Your legs kick out uselessly, one of your hands swatting at the air.

“Whoa, whoa, easy there, killer.” Abby laughs, his grip tightening as you squirm. “You trying to fight us? We’re the good guys.”

“Don’t— wanna move.” you mumble, the words slurring together. Your head lolls toward Jinu’s chest as he tries to stabilize you from the other side.

“You don’t have to want to.” Jinu says gently. “But you’ll feel better on the couch.”

“Nooo.” you groan, kicking again, just to make a point. “Don’t— wanna— move.”

“Yeah, we caught that.” Abby says, gentle with you. “You’re gonna help, right, babe?”

You try to glare at him, but it comes out more like a slow blink. Jinu’s hand slides under your arm and he says, “On three, okay? One—”

You kick. Not hard, but enough that Jinu jerks back, startled. Abby catches you before you faceplant into Derpy.

“Okay, maybe not three.” Jinu says dryly.

“She’s fighting for her life, man. Let her cook.”

“Cook what, exactly?”

“Dunno, man. Whatever’s left in her bloodstream.“

They try again. Jinu’s gentle, patient, Abby’s got a wrestler’s grip around your waist. Together, they make it look almost professional, like they’ve done this before. They probably have.

“Alright, come on.” Abby coaxes, voice bright and annoyingly cheerful. “Feet on the ground, that’s it. Yeah, there you go.”

Except you don’t. You half-squirm, half-collapse, and before anyone can stop it, your heel somehow ends up pressing right against Abby’s face.

“Well, that’s one way to thank me.”

You blink at him, brain not connecting dots. “What?”

“Nothing, nothing.” He moves your leg aside, still chuckling under his breath. “Just—try not to kick me in the face next time, yeah?” He doesn’t mind though. He really doesn’t. He loves it that it’s never boring with you.

You’re still not entirely sure what’s happening, but you’re aware enough to be mildly offended. “I’m—trying—to help.” you slur, which is not true, and everyone knows it.

Jinu gives you this soft look. “I know, Y/N. You’re doing great.”

That shouldn’t make you feel as seen as it does. It’s unfair, the way he says it, gentle but teasing, like he’s humoring you and meaning it at the same time.

They try again, and you starts slapping on Jinu’s chest and shoulders now.

Jinu sighs. “We might have to just wait until she can stand on her own.”

“Or until she stops trying to kick me.”

“I didn’t—” you start, but your words fall apart halfway.

“Sure you didn’t.” Abby ruffles your hair. “It’s fine. I forgive you.”

He props you up again, humming something stupid and off-key while you stare blankly at the floor. Your stomach twists, hunger or guilt or both. From the corner of your eye, you catch Baby, bored but watching. Mystery’s still in the same spot, head tilted, eyes following every little movement. Romance hasn’t looked up once.

You hate that it hurts.

Jinu chuckles. “We’re getting there.”

Abby puts you down on the couch. Jinu pats your shoulder supportively. After a bit of talking to you, they finally head toward the kitchen.

You’re left half-propped on the couch, blanket thrown over your legs, head spinning. The silence hums. Then the cushion beside you dips.

Romance.

You don’t even have to look, he smells heavenly. “Hey.” he says, soft.

You hum in response, eyes half-open.

He shifts closer. The sound of his rings tapping against each other fills the space. “Feeling any better?”

You nod a little, though the room still tilts. “Sort of.”

There’s a pause. He’s never been good at silence. Right now, he’s careful. Maybe nervous. He’s trying, you realize. Trying to fix something, even if he doesn’t know how. You can see it in the way he’s sitting, angled toward you but not too close, hands fidgeting on his knees.

“Listen…” he starts, but doesn’t finish. His eyes flick toward the kitchen where the others are, then back to you. “About the other night—”

And that’s exactly when Baby drops himself onto the couch on your other side.

Baby folds his arms, giving a side eye to Romance. “You can leave now.” he says to Romance, calm as anything.

Romance scoffs. “Cute.”

“Wasn’t trying to be.”

You sigh, leaning back. “Can we not—”

“No.” Baby cuts in, short, sharp. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

You try to keep up, but your brain’s still… eh. Romance leans forward, elbows on his knees, trying to find a rhythm again.

“Hey.” he says quietly. “Look, I just wanted to—”

Whatever he was about to say dies instantly when Baby interrupts with a loud, exaggerated yawn.

Romance stares at him.

Baby meets his eyes, all fake innocence. “What? I’m bored.”

You can feel Romance’s glare, the way the air between them starts to spark. You, unfortunately, are the unwilling buffer in the middle.

Then Baby turns to you, eyes big and so adorable. It’s fucking evil. “You okay?”

You blink, caught between amusement and exhaustion. “Uh. Yeah?”

Baby nods solemnly. “Good. Good.”

Romance’s eye is actually twitching. He can see how fake Baby is being. The tension between them is thick enough to chew through. You’re too tired to break it, so you just sink a little deeper into the cushions, hoping they’ll sort it out themselves.

Romance mutters something under his breath, but Baby ignores him completely. And then, he changes tactics.

One second he’s a cold little asshole, the next he’s shifting closer. He hooks his arm around yours, laying his head on your shoulder. “Y/N.” he drawls, voice suddenly soft and whiny, “I’m tired.”

Romance freezes. “You’re what?”

Baby’s eyes go wide and innocent. “Tired. And no one’s giving me attention.”

You blink. “What are you—”

Before you can finish, he’s already leaning into the act, head tilted, voice dropping into that sweet tone you know he hates using.

“Y/N, can you—like—pat my head or something? Jinu says it helps my mood.”

You stare at him. “You’re joking.”

He’s not smiling. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

“Yes.”

He presses on, undeterred. “C’mon. Please? I’m being good.”

Romance looks like he’s about to combust. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Baby clings tighter, full brat mode engaged now. You can feel him shaking a little, not with nerves, but with silent laughter he’s trying to hide. He’s enjoying this.

He hates doing the baby act when Jinu forces him, always complains, always rolls his eyes, but right now, weaponizing it to ruin Romance’s carefully rehearsed apology? That’s fun.

He bats his lashes. “Y/N, you’re not answering me.”

You sigh so hard it rattles your bones. “Baby…”

“Mm?” he says, all sugar.

Romance freezes. You freeze too. Baby’s too fucking beautiful and too fucking good at this shit.

You blink, unsure how to respond. “Uh—”

“Can you tell them to shut up next time?” Baby continues, tilting his head up just enough to give you wide, beautiful doe eyes. “They’re too loud.”

“You’re loud right now.” Romance mutters.

Baby ignores him completely, squeezing your arm tighter. “You’re warm.” he says. “Like, really warm. You got a fever or are you just always like this?”

“Fever.” you croak.

“Oh. Cute.”

Romance groans, rubbing a hand over his face.

Baby’s milking it now, putting on the full act, voice pitched higher, words drawn out, every movement just to annoy Romance. It’s working. You can practically feel the older boy vibrating with irritation beside you.

Baby grins, satisfied. He leans into you again, snuggling closer. “You like me better, right?” he says, half-teasing, half-testing.

They stare at each other over your head. Baby knows it’s driving Romance insane.

He tugs lightly at your sleeve. “Y/N, pay attention to meee. I’m so sleepy. Can I sit here? Right here? Just for a bit?”

You blink. “You’re literally sitting on me.”

He pouts, exaggerating it. “Nooo, that doesn’t count.”

You stare at him, dumbfounded. You know what he’s doing and it’s fucking brutal.

Romance leans forward, glaring. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing.” Baby says innocently. Then he turns back to you and presses his cheek dramatically against your arm. “I’m so sleepy. Can’t you, like, pet my hair or something?”

You actually laugh. You can’t help it. The fever’s making everything fuzzy, but this is actually unreal. Baby’s playing it up to a brutal degree, big eyes, puffed cheeks, lower lip jutting out just enough to make Romance visibly seethe.

“Y/N.” he drawls. “I’m cold.”

You blink. “You—what?”

He pouts. “Cold.”

Romance stares at him.

Baby’s throwing himself around, dramatic sigh and all. “Warm me up, yeah? You’re warm.”

It’s ridiculous. You know it’s ridiculous. He knows it’s ridiculous.

Romance pinches the bridge of his nose. “This is pathetic.”

Baby doesn’t even look at him. He’s pouting now, lower lip pushed out, eyes huge. “Don’t be mean, Romi.”

He’s doing this on purpose. The “baby act” as Jinu calls it, usually makes him miserable. He only does it when Jinu orders him to play up the cute image for cameras or fans. But now? He’s thriving. I want him fucking dead.

He tugs lightly at your sleeve. “Y/N, attention.”

“I’m all ears.”

“No, you’re thinking about something else.” He leans closer, tilting his head so his hair falls into his eyes. “Stop that.”

You raise a brow. “Stop what?”

“Thinking.”

Romance mutters under his breath. “This is unbearable.”

“Then leave.” Baby says sweetly. Then he starts shaking your arm gently. “Y/N, tell me a story.”

“I don’t have one.”

“Then make one up.”

“I can’t think right now.”

“Then I’ll tell one.” Baby says, pretending to ponder. “Romance once…”

That’s when Romance’s palm lands on Baby’s mouth and starts pushing Baby’s head away. Baby hums something aggressively, the baby act quickly breaking and revealing the brat underneath.

You shake your head, but the corners of your mouth betray you. You’re too tired to fight it. Baby’s ridiculous, and he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Baby finally whips his head away from Romance’s hand, gasping loud. Then he tilts his head toward you again. “Y/N, he’s being mean.”

“I wonder why.” you mutter.

Baby gasps. Fuck’s sake. He’s too good at this. “You’re taking his side? Boooring.” He sticks out his tongue, then sighs dramatically, flopping against you.

Romance pinches the bridge of his nose. “I can’t deal with this.”

“That’s okay.” Baby says sweetly. “I’m not talking to you anyway.”

The two of them stare at each other over your slumped body, and for a second you think one of them might actually start throwing punches. But instead, Romance lets out a slow breath, muttering, “Fine. Whatever.” and shifts just enough to sling an arm around your shoulders.

It’s a silent, possessive little move, but you don’t protest. You’re too tired, too hot, too lost in the fever haze to care about the implications. To care about the kiss.

Baby notices immediately and narrows his eyes. He leans into you again, cheek brushing your shoulder, pouting, eyes wide. “Y/N.” he says softly. “Don’t get sick again, okay? You scared me.”

You blink at him, surprised by the sudden tone change. But before you can respond, he grins, the moment gone as quickly as it came.

Aaand then the room tilts again.

“Hey—hey, hey, look at me.” Romance’s voice hits panic immediately, soft but shaking. He shifts, leaning in front of you, hands hovering like he’s afraid to touch. “Y/N, hey. You still with me?”

“Hm.”

Baby sits up straight beside you. “Fuck.” he mutters, trying to sound unimpressed, but his posture’s stiff. “She’s going down again?”

Romance ignores him, brushing hair out of your face, his movements quick and jerky “It’s fine, it’s fine, I’ve got you. You’re gonna be fine.” His tone’s that half-panicked, half-pleading mess of someone who really means it. He’s rambling now, sentences tripping over each other. “You probably stood up too fast—no, wait, you didn’t stand up. God, I’m an idiot. I should’ve—should I get water? You hate water, you’ll choke again, no, it’s fine—”

You manage a weak sound that’s supposed to be his name. He looks up instantly, eyes wide, terrified, and somehow still managing to smile.

“Yeah, hey, there you are. Don’t scare me like that.”

You really really try to tell them that you’re alright and just not in the mood to answer but if it doesn’t want to work out then sure, it won’t fucking work out. Their fault.

Romance brushes hair from your face, other hand resting at your shoulder. “You’re scaring me, sweetheart. Breathe. Just breathe, okay?”

Beside him, Baby’s trying to act nonchalant. Legs crossed, arms folded, but the way he’s staring at you gives him away. His pupils are huge. “She’s not dying, right?”

“No, she’s not dying, asshole.” Romance says automatically, still scanning your face. “Just—just hot and dizzy and—god, I don’t know, she’s—”

Your tongue feels thick, words slurred. “Mhm. Just tired.”

“Too tired.” he mutters. Then, louder “You don’t look good.”

You blink slowly, words slurring together. “You talk too much.”

Romance laughs, a broken little sound. “Yeah, well, I do. You’ve gotta stop scaring us like this. You don’t even know what it does to me when you—when you look like that. Do you want anything? If you wanted another kiss you could’ve just asked—”

He freezes. You freeze.

Silence.

And then, from your other side, Baby blinks. “Another?”

It’s an offhand question, the kind of bored echo he tosses out all the time, he doesn’t even realize how much it meant this once.

Both you and Romance go absolutely still.

“Oh.” Baby says after a second, voice flat, eyes flicking between you. “Another.”

Then he stands up. Smiles. Wide. And claps.

Romance looks like he might pass out next to you.

Baby starts grinning. “Ohhh.” He’s brutal. “Oh, ohhh.”

“Baby—” Romance starts.

“Ohohoho.”

“Sit down.” Romance says, low. “It’s not—what you think—”

Baby tilts his head. “What do I think?”

“It was—nothing.” you stammer, heat rising even through the fever. “It just—happened. I didn’t mean for it to.”

Romance jumps in. “It wasn’t serious. It was—” he waves his hand, struggling for words, “—a mistake. Kind of. No it wasn’t. Not— not a bad one, just—”

“Stop talking.” you say weakly.

“Right. Sorry.”

Baby doesn’t sit down. He looks halfway to turning toward the kitchen already, grinning ear to ear. “You know, I think Jinu would love to hear—”

“Sit down.”

You grab his wrist and tug hard enough to surprise him. “Baby. Please.”

Romance’s hand joins yours, pulling from the other side. Together, you manage to drag him back down to the couch. He lands between you two with a soft thud, looking deeply, unfairly pleased with himself.

“Alright, alright.” he says. “Jeez.”

You’re still flushed, head spinning for all the wrong reasons. “It’s not—whatever you think, it’s not—”

Romance exhales sharply. “Don’t lie to him.”

“Excuse me?” You turn to glare at him.

He meets your eyes. “Don’t pretend it meant nothing.”

The silence after that could cut glass.

Baby’s gaze moves from you to Romance and back again. The smugness fades a little. He slouches, hands in his lap, eyes half-lidded now. Whatever amusement he had, it’s softening into something else, something more complicated. He just realized this too. Someone took his fucking bitch.

“So that’s what it was.” he says quietly. “That’s what’s been sitting in the air.”

Neither of you answer.

He gives a small, humorless laugh. “Huh.”

You sigh, pressing your palms to your temples. “It was a mistake.”

Romance shakes his pretty head. “Speak for yourself.”

“Romance.”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice low but clear. “I’m not gonna hide it, Y/N. Not anymore. You can pretend you don’t feel anything, that’s fine. But I’m done pretending I don’t.”

Baby watches him. You can see it, he hates this. Hates the idea that someone else got close first. Hates that you let them.

He shrugs like it doesn’t matter. “Wow. Real romantic. Guess the name fits.”

“Don’t start.” Romance says, tired.

“I didn’t mean for any of this.” you say softly.

“Stop.” Romance says gently. “You don’t have to defend yourself. I—” he stumbles again, stops himself. “It’s complicated.”

“Is it?” Baby asks. He sounds bored. He claps his hands once more just for fun. “Looked pretty simple from here.”

You shake your head, every word scraping out of your dry throat. “It wasn’t— I didn’t want it. I didn’t want any of this, okay? It just happened, and I— I didn’t mean for things to get weird.”

Baby’s eyes slide to you. He doesn’t say anything.

Romance’s voice softens, all the panic bleeding out of it. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Don’t say it like that.” Then, almost to himself: “I’d do it again if I could.”

Baby shifts. “Cute speech.”

Romance glances at him. “Yeah, well, at least I say what I mean.”

“Good for you.” Baby murmurs. “Gold star.”

For a second you think he’ll stand up again, maybe walk off to the kitchen, tell the others everything like he threatened, but he doesn’t. He just sits there, still as stone, watching both of you with those half-lidded eyes.

You shifts uncomfortably. “Baby, seriously, it’s not—”

“Relax.” Baby cuts in. “You don’t owe me an explanation.”

“Still—”

“I said drop it.”

The air in the room goes still again.

He shifts, arms crossed. His eyes are glossy in the low light, not watery, exactly, just tired. Defeated.

Romance finally exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “Great. Just great.”

You glance between them and realize there’s no fixing this tonight. Your body’s too tired to hold any more tension. You just sink further into the couch, eyes drooping.

Baby stretches his arms over his head. “I’m not gonna tell anyone.”

Romance watches him, brow furrowed. “You sure?”

“Totally.” He turns halfway toward you. “I mean, it’s cute, I guess.”

You can hear the effort in his voice, the way he’s forcing it light.

“Alright, move over.”

It’s Abby. He’s carrying a bowl and a spoon, grinning like he’s about to present a five-star meal instead of whatever mixture he and Jinu probably scraped together. Jinu’s behind him. Mystery follows last, silent as always, a shadow at their heels.

Romance leans back a little to make space. Baby crosses his arms, muttering something under his breath that no one catches.

He sits on the coffee table across from you, legs spread, big frame taking up the whole space. “Open up.”

You blink. “What?”

“Say ‘aaah.’”

You stare at him, and then at the spoon hovering dangerously close to your face. “You’re kidding.”

Jinu sighs. “He’s not.”

“Of course I’m not. She’s sick, man, show some respect for my medical expertise.”

“Your what?” Jinu laughs.

“Exactly.” Abby says, undeterred. “Now, open up before I make airplane noises.”

“Don’t.”

He does that exaggerated airplane noise that makes Mystery roll his eyes so hard it’s audible.

“Abby.” you whine, voice cracking with half a laugh. “Stop.”

“No. Mouth open, Y/N. We can do this the easy way or the way where Jinu holds your nose.”

You glance at Jinu, who actually looks like he’s considering it. That earns him a weak glare. “You wouldn’t.”

He smiles. “Try me.”

Mystery shifts beside him, watching silently as you finally give in. Abby cheers softly under his breath, triumphant. “There we go. That’s my girl.” He feeds you a small bite, carefully. “Good, right? Don’t even pretend it’s not.”

You hum a tiny sound of approval.

Behind Abby, Jinu chuckles under his breath, looking at Abby. “You’re terrifying.”

Abby is terrifying.

Mystery leans in slightly, peering over Abby’s shoulder to make sure you’re still conscious.

“Come on.” Abby insists when you don’t want to open up for the next bite, voice softening. “You’ve got a fever, you barely ate. Help me out here, yeah? C’mon.”

You sigh, resigned, and open your mouth just enough for him to feed you again.

Abby beams. “There we go. Look at that. Greeaaaaat. You’re gonna eat, and then you’re gonna sleep, yeah?”

You match the energy this time. God, you’re actually so funny when you’re in the mood. “Yes, coach.”

“Good. That’s the energy I like.” he keeps feeding you. “There we go.” he says. “Look at that. Healing already.”

Jinu cuts in. “Abby, maybe smaller bites.”

“Oh, what, like this?” Abby scoops a comically tiny bit on the spoon and holds it out, lips twitching. “Say ‘aaah.’”

You whine but open your mouth anyway.

“There we go.” he says, gentle.

You groan-cry-whatever at that. Mystery reaches out instinctively, steadying the bowl before it tips.

“Careful.” he mutters.

“Thanks.” you mutter back, looking away.

Romance sits back, watching. Baby watches the whole thing with an expression that’s pure apathy, except for the way his jaw tightens every time Abby leans closer.

Abby keeps feeding you. “This one’s for hydration. This one’s for your immune system. This one’s because I said so.”

You swat weakly at his hand. He laughs. The sound’s big, boyish, so great to hear. Let’s just act like he didn’t torture you before.

When you look up at them, for a second you understand why they’re so impossible to stay mad at. They don’t just take care of you, they enjoy it. They’d never say it out loud, but it’s written all over the way they hover.

You feel something brush against your leg and look down, Mystery’s crouched beside you now, head resting against your knee, arms loosely wrapped around your shin. A quiet apology, maybe.

You freeze for a second, unsure if you should move, and that tiny hesitation is enough to send another wave of guilt crawling up your throat.

Abby, shoves another spoonful into your pretty mouth. “Back in the day, when you had a fever, you were the cutest, you know that?”

“Don’t.”

He ignores you completely. “Nah, seriously. It was adorable.“ he goes for another spoonful, waving it. “Open up again. Come on, don’t make me chase you.”

You let him feed you again, half because you’re too tired to argue and half because he looks so proud of himself.

Romance watches carefully. Every time you sway, his hand hovers close, ready to steady you. When Abby talks too loudly, Romance gives him a look, protective. Pfft.

Baby notices that too. He’s still silent, still pretending he doesn’t care, but his jaw tightens. His crush isn’t something he ever planned to show, not something he even likes admitting to himself. Seeing everyone be around you so easily just stings, so he hides behind that mask of apathy. It works, mostly.

He tells himself it’s fine. That it’s better this way. That someone like you should have all of them fussing and laughing and loving in their own weird ways. He doesn’t have to add his name to that list.

Still, when Jinu brushes your hair back from your forehead, Baby looks away.

Mystery rubs his face against your leg. You can feel the tension between you like a physical thing, it hasn’t gone away. But he’s trying, because this is his chance.

Romance leans back again, watching Jinu and Abby. There’s admiration in his eyes, and a little envy. They make it look effortless, caring for you, making you laugh. He wishes he could do that without the ache that comes with it.

Every time Abby wipes a bit of soup from the corner of your mouth or Jinu checks your forehead, Baby’s eyes narrow just slightly, the tiniest crack in his usual calm.

“C’mon, Y/N, last one.”

You obey, mostly because it’s easier than arguing. Abby cheers quietly under his breath when you swallow, claps Jinu on the back. “See? Told you I could handle it.”

“Yeah, you’re a natural caretaker.” Jinu mutters, sarcastic.

“Damn right.”

They would never say it out loud, but they love this, taking care of you, making you laugh, watching you come back to life after scaring them half to death. They may he evil, but they’re also loud, protective, stupidly tender when they love someone. And they love you, so much. Plus, caring for you makes them feel like they’re making up for the torture. For the trauma they’ve caused you.

Jinu glances at the clock. “Alright. Food’s done. Fever’s still high. You’re going to bed.”

“Bossy.” Abby says, standing up. “But yeah. You heard the man. You good to stand, baby?”

You nod slowly. They move, Abby on one side, Jinu on the other, Mystery still hovering near your feet, ready if you stumble. Romance rises with them, silent backup. Baby doesn’t fucking bother.

And for the first time all, you let yourself lean on them completely.

By the time they get you to your room, you’ve forgotten about the others. It’s just you, Jinu, and Abby now. You don’t realize how badly you’re shaking until Abby sets you on the edge of the bed and your hands can’t stop trembling against the blanket.

“Easy, easy. You’re alright.” Abby says, one hand at your elbow. “Bedtime, yeah? Just a fever. You’ll be fine by morning.”

You nod. Your throat hurts too much to speak anyway.

“There.” he says quietly, gentle. He crouches to tug the blanket loose, tucking it up around your shoulders. He’s cooing at you under his breath. It should feel comforting, but something about it, his closeness, the way he looks at you, makes your skin prickle.

Something’s not right.

About the air. Is something going to happen? You don’t know, but you know this energy.

“You’re shaking.” Abby says. “You okay?”

You nod, even though it’s a lie.

He touches your forehead again, frowning. “Still too warm.”

“It’s fine.” you mumble.

Jinu finally speaks. “You’ve been off for weeks. It’s not just the fever.”

That pulls your attention toward him. “I’m fine.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You keep saying that.”

“Drop it.” you whisper.

Abby looks between you two, uneasy but trying to smooth it over. “She’s stressed, man. Let it go for tonight.”

You turn your face toward the pillow, trying to breathe past the heat climbing up your throat. “Can we not do this right now?”

Abby sighs. “He’s just worried.”

“I’m fine.” you say again, sharper this time. “Jinu—”

“I’m saying it because I care.” he interrupts, softer now. “But if you don’t start telling the truth, we can’t help you.”

It sounds reasonable. It always does when he talks like that. But there’s something about it. There’s always something about it.

You look away, trying to swallow the lump forming in your throat. “You’re imagining it.”

Jinu raises an eyebrow. “That’s your story?”

You sigh. “It’s not—look, I’m tired. Can we not do this right now?”

Abby leans forward, his voice gentler. “We’re not trying to fight, Y/N. We just—” he pauses, searching for the right word. “We just want to know what’s going on. You don’t get like this for no reason.”

The room feels smaller by the second. You pull the blanket higher, as if it’ll help, but it doesn’t do much.

Jinu sits on the edge of the desk, his voice softer but sharper at the same time. “You’ve been keeping distance.” he says. “From all of us. And before that, you were… doing the opposite. Getting close. We were making such good process.” His gaze flicks over you, reading you like he always does. “Something shifted.“

You don’t answer. You can’t. The guilt that’s been gnawing at you all week flares up in your chest. It’s written all over you, you can feel it.

Abby looks between the two of you, uneasy. “Hey. Maybe it’s not that deep. Sometimes people just—”

“No.” Jinu interrupts. “It is that deep.”

You grip the blanket tighter. “You’re saying it in a way that makes it feel like there’s only one right answer.”

He tilts his head. “Isn’t there?”

They suspect that the reason for your stress is something about being kidnapped, and they know they can’t do shit about that. Maybe you realized your situation again. Maybe they did something wrong. Either way, if you’re going to drift away from them again, they’re fucked.

Abby looks at Jinu. “She’s sick, dude.”

“She’s sick because she’s stressed.” Jinu snaps, voice still calm but he’s clearly trying to make a point. “You think that’s coincidence?”

The two of them stare at each other, a quiet standoff you’ve seen before. Abby’s loyalty against Jinu’s precision. You’re too tired to watch it play out again.

“Stop.” you say, barely more than a whisper. “Please. Just stop.”

Abby looks back at you. “Hey. It’s okay. Nobody’s fighting.”

You know that’s a lie too. “What do you want me to say?” you ask finally.

Jinu tilts his head. “The truth.”

“That I’m tired? That I don’t know how to make any of this normal? That I can’t keep up with all of you?”

Abby starts to speak, but Jinu cuts in. “That’s a start.”

The silence that follows is thick.

“I just want to know.” Jinu says. “You’ve looked off for days. Head somewhere else. It’s not good for you.”

“I’m fine.”

Abby shifts, uncomfortable. “Man, chill.” he mutters, but Jinu doesn’t move.

You look down at the blanket. You don’t like how small you feel.

You shouldn’t have let it get this far. That’s the thought that crawls through your fevered brain. You shouldn’t have laughed with them. Shouldn’t have let yourself get soft. Shouldn’t have let their warmth convince you it was safe. Because it isn’t. It never was.

Abby touches your shoulder lightly, pulling you back. “Hey. Don’t drift off like that. You’re scaring me.” His hand is warm, and you flinch before you can help it. He notices, freezes, then laughs it off. “You’re jumpy, huh? Fever’ll do that.”

“Leave her be.” Jinu says quietly, still watching you. “She doesn’t like being cornered.”

The word cornered makes your heart jump. He says it so easily, like he knows exactly how it sounds.

Abby sighs, leans back. “You think she’s cornered?”

“I think she’s hiding something.” Jinu says. “That kind of stress doesn’t just appear.”

It can, actually, Jinu. When you’re fucking kidnapped, but sure. You’re right in this case, anyway.

“I told you.” you whisper. “I’m fine.”

“That’s the fourth time you’ve said that. You don’t even believe it.”

Abby chuckles but it fades quickly. “Dude, you’re creeping her out.”

“She’s not scared.” Jinu says, looking back at you. “Are you?”

You can’t answer. You don’t know what the right answer is.

You should feel lucky, this is safety, isn’t it? But the thought that keeps whispering through your head is different: You didn’t choose this. How did this start? When did control turn into caring? When did caring turn into control?

Jinu’s voice drifts closer. “You trust us, right?”

You nod automatically before you can think.

“Good.” he says. “Then let us handle things. You just focus on getting better.”

Abby shifts, pats your shoulder through the blanket. “She’ll be fine, Jinu. She just needs rest.”

Jinu hums in agreement, but his gaze stays on you a moment longer.

Abby exhales loudly, runs a hand through his hair. “Alright. Y/N, seriously, just rest. We’ll check on you later, yeah?”

You nod. He reaches to adjust the blanket again, fingers brushing your arm. “See? Not that scary.” he says softly. “We’ve got you.”

We’ve got you.

Jinu lingers by the door for a moment, watching. There’s something in his face, maybe worry, maybe curiosity. Maybe both. He doesn’t say anything else, just clicks off the light and leaves the door cracked open behind him. Soon Abby’s gone too.

You hate that Jinu’s right.

You stare at the ceiling, trying to breathe past the fever, the noise, the way their voices linger in your head.

You tell yourself you’ll leave. You tell yourself you’ll figure out how. But for now, you’re too tired to move.

The same hands that tuck you in can hold you there. They mean well, you tell yourself. They’ve said it enough times that it almost feels true.

I let them in. I let them make this home.

And you fall asleep here, just again.

Abby stretches once, cracks his neck, mutters something under his breath about needing a drink, and heads for the kitchen. He finds the half-empty glass of water you’d been drinking from, turns it in his hand, and downs the rest without thinking. Your smell on it is intoxicating.

He sets the glass down a little too hard and leans on the counter, staring at nothing.

He’s good at taking care of people. But it always comes out strange, too much, too close, too controlling.

He means well. They all do. Meaning well doesn’t make it right.

You looked so small.

You always look small.

Something about the way Jinu questioned you sits wrong. Abby wants to say it out loud, call him on it, but he’s not in the mood now. He really isn’t.

Across the apartment, Jinu’s mind is a tangle of lists, what supplies they’ll need, how long the fever might last, what the schedule looks like for tomorrow, what they’ll do if anyone notices they’ve been lying low too long.

Something in him feels… uneasy. It’s a bad feeling, man. It is. Humans break so easily. He wonders if that’s what draws him to them, their fragility, the illusion of being needed.

He wonders if maybe he pushed too far, if maybe Abby’s right about taking it easy.

In his room, Mystery is awake, sitting on the floor with his back to the wall. He listens for you, breathing, shifting, the soft creak of bedsprings when you move. He doesn’t know how to stop watching for danger, anything that could harm you, even when the danger is him.

He knows it’s wrong. He knows humans like privacy, that eavesdropping crosses a line. But he doesn’t trust the silence. Silence feels like absence, and absence feels like death. He’s seen it too many times. So he sits there, knees drawn up, trying to listen for signs of life.

He thinks about earlier, the way you stiffened when he touched your leg, how you didn’t push him away. He thought he was apologizing. Maybe it didn’t come across that way. He can’t read humans well. He’s still learning. He doesn’t understand why he did it, only that it felt right in the moment. Closeness is the only language he remembers.

He presses his palms over his ears, trying to block everything out. The faint creak of the bed in the next room still gets through.

But your sounds calm him down so easily. Every instinct in him says to guard your door.

Across the apartment, the balcony door is open just wide enough to let the smoke out. Baby leans against the frame, cigarette balanced between his fingers. He doesn’t look at the city. He’s watching the faint reflection of the living room in the glass, Romance slouched on the couch. He isn’t supposed to smoke inside. Jinu’s rules. But Jinu isn’t here.

He watches the smoke curl upward and thinks about the word another, how small it sounded when he said it, how it froze the whole room. He can still see your face, Romance’s face, the way both of you looked.

He takes a long drag, blows it out slow. The smoke curls around his head. The inside of his skull is full of your face.

He’s angry. That’s the simplest word for it. But it’s not anger just because of the new information. He’s always been angry. His whole life, he’s been angry. He hated everything, to be honest. Still does.

He’s angry at Romance, for saying it out loud. Angry at you, for not stopping him. Angry at himself, for feeling like this. He’s always angry. It’s what’s left of him after centuries of dying and coming back. Hatred.

Behind him, Romance shifts on the couch. He’s been sitting there for nearly twenty minutes, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. Romance presses his palms together, rubs at his face. He can still see the look you gave him. Trust. He knows they’ve crossed lines, all of them, but he doesn’t know how to step back.

He tells himself they’re keeping you safe. He tells himself this is better than the world outside. But he also knows you’re afraid sometimes, and that knowledge eats at him in ways he doesn’t admit.

He hadn’t meant to confess anything earlier. The words just came out, honest, like they always do when you’re around. He meant it, but he can see now how it looked, how it sounded. He wonders if he scared you.

He’s been alive too long to care about shame, but something about this feels different. The honesty of it scares him. Loving someone who didn’t ask for it, he’s done that before. It always ended badly.

In the kitchen, Abby rinses the glass and leaves it in the drying rack. He scratches at the back of his neck, grabs a towel, and starts wiping the already clean counter because it gives his hands something to do.

They’re trying, you know.

Whatever they are, demons, idols, assholes, they’re bound now, by the need to be seen, to be forgiven, to matter. They don’t understand that it’s the same need that’s making them worse—and you—bit by bit. They don’t hurt you with intent.(at least not anymore but get my point plz) They just don’t know another way to be close.

It’s what centuries of violence did to them. Demons who learned human shape but never learned gentleness. To care for someone means to keep them still, to know where they are, to never lose sight. They think that’s devotion. It’s really fear.

Everything they gave you, every curfew you used to have at the very start of this, every decision you don’t get to make, those are Jinu’s ways of keeping the past from happening twice.

Sometimes you want to scream that he’s the fucking worst and a ruthless asshole, but then you see the dark circles under his eyes and realize he’s not that fine and he means well.

Abby still has flashes of the soldier he once was, ready to fight anything, even himself. Taking care of you gives him a way to feel useful again, to drown out the memory of the things he’s done. When he tucks you in, when he forces a laugh out of you, that’s him trying to prove he’s not what he used to be.

He doesn’t notice that in his need to protect, he forgets to ask if you want to be protected.

Mystery listens through walls, watches doorways, never quite enters a room. Touch is his apology, silence his defense. You can feel how much he wants forgiveness. The problem is, he asks for it with the same closeness that frightens you. He doesn’t understand boundaries, in his world, distance means rejection.

Romance is exactly what he sounds like, love. Every flirtation, every careless confession is him shouting into the void that he’s still here. He’s addicted to the rush of emotion, the temporary escape from the numbness that centuries left behind. When he says he loves you, he means it the only way he knows how, desperately, recklessly, without thinking about what it costs you to hear it.

And then there’s Baby. Anger carved itself into him so long ago that it’s the only thing that he feels. He carries jealousy like a habit, always braced for betrayal. The others learned to bury their rage, he wears his on the surface. You can see flashes of the boy he used to be, curious, bright, still capable of wonder, but it flickers out under the weight of everything he’s lost.

Together they form a circle of need and fear. None of them set out to trap you. They just can’t let you go, not anymore. They are all selfish, but in this case, I think you can forgive someone for acting like this. They’ve been through too much.

You’re not innocent either, and you know it. That’s part of the guilt. You started by pitying them, their confusion, their strange humor, their haunted eyes. Then you began to love them.

Sometimes you think about trying to escape again, but then you remember how easily they could find you. So now you’re actually more scared of leaving than staying. More than that, you think the world would be lonely without them, even if you got your girls back.

They all love you. They’d each swear to it if anyone asked. But love, for them, has never been gentle. When they found you, warm, fragile, curious, even after all that they did to you, it felt like mercy. And mercy, for creatures like them, is the most addictive poison there is.

They told themselves they are protecting you now by keeping you here, that their constant presence was safety. They didn’t notice when it turned into possession. It wasn’t about power, it was about fear, fear of being left, of being forgotten, of being forced to face what they are without you.

They don’t see it that way. They see themselves as loyal, protective, even gentle. They don’t understand that you flinch because you’ve learned to. They don’t understand that they have ruined another life just again.

They don’t mean to hurt you. They don’t even know they are. But meaning doesn’t undo the damage. There’s no villain here. They mean well. You mean well. Everyone’s just reacting to the hurt they didn’t ask for.

When you think about the kisses now, they feel like warnings. Romance’s was desperate, a declaration from someone who doesn’t understand boundaries. Mystery’s was the real him, the beast inside.

The apartment hums with their attention, their need, their love. You can’t tell anymore whether you’re the victim or the caretaker. You start to wonder if it matters.

So yeah. That’s how you live. You wake up, you exist in the same place, you go to sleep. If you’re lucky, no one argues or gets animalistic that day. If you’re even luckier, you forget why you’re here for a few hours.

They made you love them, but your blind love sometimes breaks, and reality comes into view. That’s when you need to fall back into the love. It’s a coping mechanism, to deal with the trauma. With the fact that you have to live like this. You loved Mystery’s quiet until it scared you. You loved Romance’s honesty until it suffocated you. You loved Jinu’s control until you realized he’d never let go. You loved Abby’s warmth until it burned. You loved Baby’s apathy until you saw how much it really meant.

There’s a kind of peace in predictability. You know who will say what, who will walk where, who will reach out when you flinch. You know their rhythms, their routines, their damage. It’s easier to stay than to start over.

Sometimes, at night, you imagine leaving. But it feels absurd. You wouldn’t even know who you were out there. You’ve spent too long being “theirs.”

You let it all happen.

Because it’s easier to live like this.

Because they love you too much.

Because you love them just enough.

But sure.

Whatever.

You get used to it.

Humans can get used to anything if they sit in it long enough.

You look at Mystery.

He looks at you.

Silence.

But Gwi-Ma’s not silent, not in Mystery’s head.

“Do it.”

“Do it.”

“DO IT.”

Mystery moves. Sharp, fast, inhuman.

Your breath catches. A yelp escapes before you can bite it back. Instinct takes over and you bolt. Bare feet slap against the cool floor, the sound loud. You run to the living room, heart hammering. You dart past the couch, through a slice of moonlight, adrenaline slicing through every nerve. He’s there, sudden and too close.

You squeal, half laugh, half curse, and run down the hallway. Your pulse is a bright, wild thing. And you know he can hear it. Hell, you can almost hear it yourself, echoing in your ears.

There’s a flash of silver in your peripheral vision, his hair catching the light as he takes the corner fast. Too fast.

You push harder, legs burning, lungs catching. You start giggling, so sweet. You can’t help it.

“Holy shit.” you gasp under your breath, but you don’t slow down. You skid around another corner, nearly falling the fuck over. Your shoulder hits the wall, pain sparking, but you keep moving. Behind you there’s just the faint rustle of air as he cuts the space between you to nothing.

Your grin spreads wide, wild. Fuck yes.

You know he can hear every beat of your heart, every ragged breath, every jolt of happiness. And it thrills him. You can feel it, even without seeing his face.

You zigzag through the dark house, breathless and giggling now, the sound bouncing off the walls as you reach the kitchen again. You went a circle. You dive behind the tall island counter, crouching low. The stone is cold against your back, your breath hot against your own arms.

Silence. The kind of silence that makes your skin prickle.

You cover your mouth, biting down a laugh. Your pulse roars in your ears.

Then, a sound from above you. You look up, and Mystery’s leaning across the counter. Perfectly still, hair hiding his eyes, head tilted just slightly, down at you.

You suck in a breath. A small sound escapes, half giggle, half squeak.

He doesn’t pounce. Not yet. He waits.

It’s a game now, and you both know it.

You shift, ready to make a break for it, and in that instant he explodes into motion, leaping around the counter with that impossible speed. You shriek, stumble back, laughter breaking free, and sprint for the open living room. Your own voice echoes back at you, bright and reckless. This is insane, you think, and you’re grinning so hard your cheeks ache.

You vault onto the wide sofa, bounce once, and leap down the other side. A low sound follows, almost a growl, almost a laugh. It sends a thrill straight through you.

You whirl mid-stride, eyes scanning for him. Nothing.

“Where—” you start to whisper, but bite it off.

A breath of air at your back. You spin and there he is, barely a foot away, hair falling, chest rising slow and steady.

Your heart slams so hard it feels like it might tear free. The adrenaline tastes metallic in your mouth.

For a second, neither of you move.

You grin, breathless, sweat damp at your temples. “Got me.” you manage, voice barely above a whisper, though you hadn’t planned to speak at all.

He tilts his head. Just a fraction.

Your laughter spills out again, giddy, unstoppable. God, you’re so sweet. And you know, without a single word, that he’s listening. To your laugh. To your pulse. To the sheer joy vibrating through you.

Your breath catches. Then you laugh. A bright, reckless giggle that cuts the quiet. “Let’s go again.”

He tilts his head, hair spilling forward to hide his eyes. For an instant he’s unreadable, monster or friend, you can’t tell, and then he moves. Fast. You stumble back, heart hammering, still laughing. Your pulse kicks up as Mystery’s claws slide out.

This is trust.

The strangest kind of trust, but trust all the same.

Because if he wanted to hurt you, he could have already.

You dart left. He follows. You skid behind the couch, giggling again, body buzzing. It’s insane and somehow… healthy.

He lunges. You dodge. Your laughter ricochets off the high ceilings, sharp and bright. He’s faster. Always faster. You dart, he shadows. The chase is half a heartbeat from something wild, and it’s exactly the point.

You trust that he won’t lose control.

He trusts that you’ll keep running.

A blur of muscle and heat slams you back against the hallway wall, his arm braced beside your head. You barely catch your breath before you’re laughing again, that messy, delighted sound that makes his huge chest jump.

Your faces tilt in reflex, just enough that your mouths brush.

Not a kiss, not yet.

The room goes silent.

Your breaths are tangled, shared.

The next second is a drop.

Your faces tilt the tiniest fraction.

And then, you’re kissing him.

You and Mystery are kissing.

Teeth click. Breath stutters. For a heartbeat you can’t tell who moved first, only that you’re both there, drool slipping from the painfully small gap from between your mouths.

The apartment blurs. There’s only the sharp heat of the moment, the sheer weight of it, a realization that the chase you thought was harmless has twisted into something you can’t shrug off.

It’s not a wild kiss or anything. This is a sudden, accidental first kiss, literally just two mouths pressed together. Minimal movement, nothing dirty about it. But it is real.

When he finally pulls back, your laughter is gone, replaced by the pounding truth that nothing about this game is simple anymore.

You step away. It’s only a half-step, barely the length of your own foot, but it feels like crossing a canyon. The hallway light catches the edge of his face, and for the first time all night he looks startled, even if you can’t see his eyes. You know him enough to guide yourself based on only the lower part of his face.

Your pulse roars in your ears. You can still taste him.

You wish you couldn’t.

You don’t move right away. Your back finds the wall, shoulder blades pressed so hard against the plaster that you can feel every uneven patch. You drag in a breath that doesn’t help, it’s still thick with the scent of him, wild.

This isn’t how tonight was supposed to go. You’d asked for a chase. Just a chase. Something reckless but safe, a test of trust. Not this. Never this.

Across from you, Mystery hasn’t shifted an inch. His claws have vanished, but the tension in his shoulders stays, tight. It terrifies you because it looks so… tender.

You hate how part of you wants to step forward again.

Your mind finally catches up, pelting you with every reason this is wrong. He’s one of them. He hurt you. Kidnapped you and tortured you and chased you, out of control. And now you’ve gone and—

God.

God, oh yes, fine, sure. If there had ever been a time to invoke the name of god, this was it. So just what, what in the name of god, was he thinking about? What were you thinking about?

The shame hits like a wave. Not because the kiss was bad, no, but because of how good it was, how natural, how inevitable. That’s the betrayal. Not the act, but the part of you that wanted it. You swallow hard, tasting metal. “I—” The single syllable scratches your throat. Words feel impossible.

Mystery shifts, finally. Not forward, not back, just a subtle unclenching, the kind that says he’s heard everything you haven’t said. He should feel guilt. He knows that. He can see the shock in your eyes, the way you’ve gone pale under the hallway light. You’re upset, with him, with yourself, with the entire house if it comes to that. He feels it.

But he’s happy. He’s so happy.

It happened. You kissed him back. Whether it was an accident, a slip, a moment of madness, it was real. He felt you lean, felt the pressure of your mouth against his.

He’s wanted this longer than he’ll ever admit. Wanted it through every shared little sandwich you made him, every late-night laugh, every glance you threw over your shoulder when you thought he wasn’t looking. He’s loved you in silence, in shadows, in the feral quiet of his own heart.

And now the silence isn’t enough anymore.

You take another step backward. Your knees almost buckle. “I can’t.” you whisper, though you’re not sure if you mean you can’t talk or can’t breathe or can’t be here.

Mystery hears it anyway. He always hears what you mean. He lets his arms drop to his sides, palms open, as if to show you he won’t reach for you again. His throat works around words he can’t form. He wants to tell you he’s sorry, that he lost control, that he didn’t plan this. All true. But none of it fits the moment, and he knows you wouldn’t believe it.

So he says nothing.

You finally turn. Your feet carry you toward your room. Part of you wants him to stop you. Part of you wants him to disappear. You can’t tell which urge wins until your hand hits the doorframe.

Behind you, Mystery watches. He doesn’t move, doesn’t call out. He just stands there, drinking in the sight of you. The weight of what just happened settles on his shoulders, and instead of crushing him, it fills him with warmth.

He’s happy. He’s happy. Because even if you never speak of this again, even if you hate him tomorrow, tonight proved what he’s always suspected. The space between you isn’t empty. It never was.

You close your door. The click is soft. Inside, you lean against the wood, eyes shut, chest heaving. Why did I let that happen? Why did I want it? How do you face any of them now, knowing what just happened in the hallway?

You bury your face in your hands. You want to scrub the memory away, but it clings. You can still feel the press of his mouth, the heat of his breath, the way his face softened at the exact moment you realized what you’d done. It’s wrong. It’s absolutely wrong. And you liked it so much.

He knows you’re angry, confused, maybe even scared. He knows you think this is a mistake. But he also knows the truth he’s felt in every heartbeat since your lips met:

He loves you.

He can’t stop the small, unstoppable curve of a smile from breaking across his face. Because for one breathless, forbidden moment, you chose him back.

The apartment door bangs open, rattling the frame. Mystery doesn’t move. He’s still there, halfway down the hallway where you left him.

“Home, sweet—fuck, it’s quiet in here.” Abby calls, his sneakers squeaking against the floor. “Where’s Y/N?”

Romance’s laugh chimes right behind him. “Probably hiding from you, Abs. Ever think of that?”

Behind them the door bumps closed. Plastic rustles, paper bags crinkle. Baby’s quiet sigh cuts through the noise, a sound so dry and unimpressed it almost counts as a sentence. They made him carry all the bags on the way home.

Abby walks into the hallway first, huge and confident. He nearly collides with Mystery before catching himself. “Yo! Didn’t see you there, man.” A quick grin, easy and sharp. “What’s up, night watch? Guarding the walls?”

Before Mystery can even twitch, Abby throws a muscular arm across his shoulders. The move is half–headlock, half–hug, and full of affection. Romance is right behind him, sliding an arm around Mystery’s shoulder. He smells of cologne, so good, but too strong for Mystery’s nose. “Myst.” he purrs. “Brooding in the dark again? You trying to scare us or seduce us? Because either way—” He winks. “—you’re doing great.”

Mystery doesn’t answer. His gaze stays fixed forward, past them, past everything, toward the door you closed.

Abby claps a heavy hand on his other shoulder, the friendly thud echoing down the hall. “Seriously, man, you good?”

Romance tucks his head closer to Mystery. “Don’t be shy. Tell big brother Romance what’s got you all broody.”

If they notice how rigid he stands beneath their touch, they don’t show it. To them, Mystery’s silence is casual, a quirk, a mood, the same wild vibe he always has. But inside his chest, everything is still humming from what just happened. The memory of the kiss is against his mouth, too fresh, too bright. He can feel the echo of your breath like a pulse under his skin.

Baby walks past them, bags dangling from long fingers. The others barely notice the effort it takes for him to carry everything, maybe that’s the point. His expression is still a perfect blank, but Mystery catches the flicker of his eyes, quick, assessing, maybe faintly annoyed.

Romance watches him go with a mock sigh. “Such a charmer, that one. Hey, Baby, darling, would you give those to Y/N?”

Baby stops mid-step, shoulders stiffening. He doesn’t bother turning around. “You’re all useless.” Then he resumes walking, the bags rustling with every step.

“See? Such a gentleman.” Romance croons. “Our hero.”

Abby chuckles, leaning back against the wall. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t drop ‘em, beanpole.”

Baby ignores them, already padding down the hall toward your door. Mystery’s eyes track him the whole way. Every muscle in Mystery’s body tightens, instinct telling him to move, to intercept, to protect the fragile aftermath hanging behind that door. But he doesn’t. He stands locked between Abby’s arm and Romance’s even prettier arm.

Romance nuzzles himself to Mystery. “We found some ridiculous stuff.” he’s saying, oblivious. “Scarves you’d love, and Abby bullied me into buying half the store. You should’ve seen it, man, it was—hey, you listening?”

Mystery gives no sign. His eyes follow Baby until the younger boy passes out of sight.

Abby nudges him with an elbow, laughing. “Earth to Mystery.”

Romance leans closer, lowering his voice into a mock whisper. “Maybe he’s waiting for someone. Ooooh. Maybe a certain someone.” He wiggles his eyebrows in the least subtle way imaginable.

Mystery finally exhales, a slow controlled breath that might pass for a sigh. He shrugs, a small movement meant to dislodge their arms. They don’t take the hint. Inside, his mind is still on the other side of that door, on you, on the way you pulled back like the world had tilted, on the echo of your heartbeat he can still feel against his chest. Every sound from the hallway is a blur compared to the memory of your silence.

“Maybe he’s just thinking.” Jinu offers, passing by with a polite nod.

Romance shoots a quick scowl after Jinu’s retreating back. “Yeah, thinking. Sure. Like you ever think.”

Abby rolls his eyes. “Don’t talk to him.” He even waves him off, then returns his focus to Mystery. “Anyway, what’s with you?”

Mystery forces a breath, low and steady. He can’t tell them. Won’t. This is his secret, yours and his, whether you want it or not. The thought sends another rush of conflicted warmth through him, dizzying.

Romance doesn’t notice, or pretends not to. He reaches up and gives Mystery’s bicep an appreciative squeeze.

Abby laughs and slides a hand across Mystery’s chest, giving one of his pecs a squeeze. “Yup. Rock hard. Absolute unit.”

Mystery tilts his head toward them but says nothing. Inside, his mind is still a storm, the kiss, the look in your eyes, the quiet click of your door. He barely feels their weight against him.

Romance, undeterred, plants an over-the-top kiss on Mystery’s cheek, then leans his chin on his shoulder. Mystery stands, silent, unshaken, but not exactly pushing them away either. He likes them, even now. They’re loud and ridiculous and completely unaware of the chaos swirling inside him. It’s almost comforting.

Abby eventually gives up and releases him, slapping his back hard enough to echo. “Fine, keep your secrets. Kitchen?” He asks Romance.

Romance lingers a moment longer, eyes glittering like he suspects a story but doesn’t quite care enough to dig. He finally slides off with a shrug, touching Mystery until he can. “Obviously.” Romance replies, following Abby.

No one knows. No one suspects. And for now, that’s exactly how it has to stay.

Mystery wonders if they’d notice if he disappeared for the night. Probably not. Not with the chaos of their own lives spinning around them.

He leans back against the wall, eyes fixed on the closed door at the end of the hall. Listening for the faintest sign from you, footsteps, a breath, anything. Nothing out of the ordinary. He can live with that. For now. Because inside that silence is the single undeniable truth that keeps him all right: it happened. And no amount of laughter or noise from the boys can erase the fact that, for one wild, forbidden heartbeat, you chose him back.

He sighs. Walks to the front door. Shoes on, then leaves. He needs to clear his head, and the best way for that has always been a walk.

Baby doesn’t knock. He never knocks. The door eases open with a soft creak. Your room is dim except for the small lamp on the dresser, a circle of light that cuts across the floor. You’re sitting on the edge of the bed, hands limp in your lap, shoulders slightly hunched. The stillness is so complete he almost wonders if you’ve fallen asleep sitting up.

He stops just inside the doorway, shopping bags dangling from his fingers. For a second he only watches you. Something in the set of your back, the tilt of your head, tells him you’re miles away from the noise of the apartment. He scoffs under his breath, habit, not mockery, and crosses the room. The bags land with a muted thud beside the bed. He drops on the bed next to you, long legs folding, a pack of cigarettes appearing from his pocket like a magician’s trick. He flips one between his fingers, never lighting it. He almost never does, not anymore when you’re around. “They bought you stuff. Don’t ask me why.” he mutters. His voice is flat, almost bored. It’s easier that way.

You don’t answer.

The silence stretches. He leans back, and twirls the cigarette between his knuckles. It’s a small, restless motion, the only sign that he isn’t quite as indifferent as he sounds.

Baby likes your company, more than he’ll ever admit. There’s something steady about you, maybe it’s why he fell in love. (No, that’s not why) But showing that? No. Absolutely not.

A sound breaks the quiet. At first he thinks he imagined it. Then it comes again, a tiny, shuddering breath that trembles from your mouth. You’re crying.

He freezes.

You fold in on yourself, shoulders curling tighter, small, uneven gasps spilling out.

Baby’s chest tightens. He has no idea what’s wrong. He only knows he hates it.

He glances at the door, as if the right move might be to leave, to give you space. But the thought of walking away makes his stomach twist. He stares at the cigarette in his hand, useless. He isn’t built for this. Comfort isn’t his language. Words fail him in the best of times. But you keep sobbing. Quiet sounds that tear through the space between you.

He moves, an awkward half-reach, then a pause, then, slowly, he puts a hand on your back. It’s barely a touch. Just his palm against the fabric of your shirt, warm and hesitant. He gives one short pat, then another, like he’s trying to remember how humans are supposed to do this.

He clears his throat, too loud in the small room, and says the first thing that comes to mind. “Hey.”

It’s not much. It’s all he’s got.

He pats once. An awkward, stiff motion. “Okay.” he mutters, voice deep. “I’m… here. Whatever.”

The words feel ridiculous, but he means them.

He wants to ask what’s wrong. He wants to demand names, to find whoever made you cry and make them regret it. But the words won’t come. He senses this isn’t a problem he can punch.

But he’s in love with you. He’s known it for months, maybe longer, and he’s spent every day pretending otherwise. He’s built his whole act around indifference, shrugs, curses. But now, with your quiet sobs sinking into the dark, allat armor feels paper-thin. So he stays silent, fingers moving in slow, uneven circles against your back. It’s clumsy as hell, but it’s the best he can give.

Your own head is a mess. It’s unbearable. The kiss with Mystery is still there, on your lips, in the pit of your stomach. You can’t scrub it out no matter how hard you try. Shame claws at you, how easily you leaned in, how badly you wanted it, how much it meant. He’s a horrible person, and you just threw all of your dignity away, or at least that’s what you feel like. And under the shame, something worse, a flicker of longing you can’t kill.

You want to tell someone. You want to confess, to spill the whole ugly truth. But you can’t, not to Baby, not to anyone. So you keep crying, small and quiet, each breath a little sharper than the last.

Baby’s eyes drift to the shopping bags by the bed, bright paper and glossy ribbons meant to be gifts, distractions, something cheerful. They look absurd now. He thinks about the hallway outside, where the others are still going on with whatever they’re doing now, maybe one of them who made you cry. He thinks about the look in your eyes when you didn’t answer the door. He thinks about how little he understands of what’s hurting you, and how badly he wants to.

Another sob breaks from you, softer than the rest. His fingers press a little more firmly against your back. For a heartbeat he lets himself imagine pulling you against him, holding you until the trembling stops. But he doesn’t. He knows the line between comfort and something else is thin, and he refuses to cross it while you’re this raw. So he stays. The cigarette flips once more in his free hand.

Who hurt you? Did someone say something? Was it him? Was it one of the others? What if you never tell him? What if he never figures out how to fix it?

The cigarette slips from his hand and lands on the blanket. He doesn’t even notice.

Minutes pass. Maybe more. The room is filled with the soft sound of your breathing hitching, breaking, starting again. Baby stares at the wall, jaw clenched so tight it aches. He’s never hated words more. He wants to tell you he’s here, that you don’t have to explain, that you can cry until the sun comes up and he’ll still be sitting right there. But all of that feels too big for his mouth.

The soft knock is barely audible under the hush of your sobs. Baby’s head lifts, eyes narrowing, but he doesn’t move his hand from your back.

The door opens a crack, spilling a slice of hallway light across the room. Romance leans in, a half-smile ready, knowing you’re crying. “Hey.” he says, voice instantly low and warm. “Hey, sweetheart. Mind if I—yeah, I’m coming in.”

The door clicks shut behind him. He walks over to you and drops to his knees in front of you.

“What’s going on, huh? Talk to me.” he says softly, resting both hands on your knees. His thumbs begin slow, reassuring circles against the fabric of your pants.

You shake your head, a tiny movement lost between sobs.

“Shhh, okay. No rush.” His voice is honey. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. You don’t have to say a single thing. Just breathe. Breathe with me, yeah? In… out… that’s it.”

You shake your head, eyes fixed on the crumpled blanket.

Romance tilts his head, trying to catch your gaze. “I’ve got you. Look at me, gorgeous. Please?”

Baby stays silent beside you, hand still on your back. His eyes flick toward Romance, irritated. Romance just keeps talking, little nothings that somehow feel like everything.

“You know you’re the strongest person I’ve met, right? Scares the hell out of me, how strong you are.” “You cry pretty, you know that? Not that I want you crying. But you do.” “Shhh. We’re right here. Nothing’s gonna get you. Not while I’m breathing.” None of it quite makes sense. It isn’t meant to. It’s a constant murmur, something that you can focus on. He bends forward and presses a quick kiss to the side of your knee. Then another, just above the other knee, feather-light. Nothing suggestive, just a quiet I’m here.

You hiccup out a weak, broken whisper. “I… don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay.” Romance says simply. “Okay, no talking. None at all. Just breathing. I can do quiet if that’s what you need. I’ll be quiet as a church mouse. A ridiculously good-looking church mouse, but still.”

It pulls a fragile, almost invisible huff of breath from you, halfway to a laugh. Then he eases up, rising to sit on the bed beside you. The mattress dips slightly under his weight. He slides an arm around your shoulders. You keep sobbing, small, ragged sounds that feel too loud in the quiet room. Baby’s hand is still on your back, awkward. His fingers shift slightly, a hesitant pressure that tries, clumsily, to say he’s here too. Over your head, Romance’s eyes meet Baby’s. The expression sharpens. He tilts his chin toward Baby’s hand still resting on your back and gives a small, deliberate nod. Baby glares for a beat, but he gets it. His fingers start moving again, slow, steady strokes between your shoulders, keeping the quiet rhythm you didn’t realize you were leaning into.

Romance draws you a little closer into his side, his cheek brushing your hair. “That’s it, love.” he murmurs. “You’re doing so well. Just let it out. We’re not going anywhere.” He’s so good at this that it immediately makes you forget what a horrible person he is. “Especially Baby, he was here first, wasn’t he? What a gentleman.”

Baby gives a quiet, angry “Tch” but doesn’t stop rubbing your back.

Romance grins against your hair. “I swear, for someone who pretends to hate everyone, he’s got the biggest heart in the room. He’ll deny it, of course. Probably call me a—what’s your favorite word, Baby?”

“Fuck.”

“There it is.” Romance chuckles, the sound low and warm. “See? He’s practically serenading you.”

Despite yourself, a tiny tremor of laughter escapes with your next breath. It mixes with a fresh wave of tears, leaving your face damp and hot against Romance’s shirt.

“Shhh.” Romance murmurs, voice low and velvet-smooth. “That’s it. You’re doing great. Just let it out. We’ve got you.” His hand slides a slow pattern across your upper arm. You can feel his heartbeat under your cheek, a counter-rhythm to the small tremors still shaking through you. Then, because he’s Romance and can’t leave a quiet moment untouched, he tilts his head and whispers, “You know, if you need a distraction, I can always undress. Works every time.”

You almost miss it through your tears, but then the words register. You lift your head just enough to squint at him.

He grins. “What? I’m a giver.” With a sigh, he starts working at the buttons of his shirt. “See? Sacrifice in action. All for your happiness, baby.”

“Don’t—” you try, but your voice cracks with something that isn’t quite a sob.

“Too late.” he announces, popping the last button. In one smooth motion he shrugs out of the shirt and tosses it onto the bed.

You clap a hand over your mouth, giggling. Romance beams, victory sparkling in his eyes. Finally.

Baby snorts, and while you look at him, Romance’s gaze catches on something on your bedside table. He reaches past you toward the nightstand.

“Hm.” he hums, plucking up a small stack of the pictures there. “Didn’t think you’d keep these so close to the bed.”

You flush before you can stop yourself. Those are the nudes Romance gave you in the love letter. Romance flips through them with unabashed pride until he lands on the one he’s tied up in.

“Oh, this one.” he says, laughter already in his voice. “A classic. Underappreciated masterpiece, if I do say so myself.” He waves it dramatically in the air. “Limited edition. Worth a fortune.”

You giggle again, shoulders shaking as you try and fail to stay serious.

Baby’s eyes widen. He reaches over and plucks the photo from Romance’s hand with two fingers, and takes a good look at it. He didn’t know about these. “What the fuck, man.”

You’re laughing outright now, the sound bright and beautiful, the kind of laugh that makes your ribs ache. The earlier tears still cling to your lashes, but the weight in your chest lifts just a little more with each breath. God, this is all they want to hear.

Baby shakes his head, muttering something that sounds like “absolute idiot” but he doesn’t stop you when you lean a little closer to him for balance. His hand is still on your back, unconsciously tracing small circles.

You bury your face in your hands, half-laughing, half-groaning. Romance is entertaining, but the memory of the first time you saw those photos, when Mystery saw them with you, cuts through the humor. The reminder sends a small ache through your chest.

Romance, of course, notices only what he wants to. “Love, hiding your face? Adorable.” he teases, flipping lazily through the glossy stack. “Wait—hold on, did you even look at all of these? Don’t lie to me.” He flips another photo. “Because honestly, they deserve it.”

You let out a small, miserable whine from behind your hands. It’s not a word, just a sound.

Romance nods. “Ahh, I knew it. Knew you couldn’t resist. That’s okay, baby, totally normal reaction. I mean, look at me.” He fans the prints theatrically.

You peek through your fingers just in time to see him pluck another photo from the stack. This one is unmistakably naked, tasteful lighting, but still unmistakable. Beside you, Baby leans back slightly, eyes narrowing as he watches Romance thumb through the stack. His hand is on your back.

Romance selects another photo and gives a soft, exaggerated gasp. “Ohhh, here’s a personal favorite. Limited release. Baby, catch.”

Another photo flutters through the air. Baby snatches it without even looking up. A quick glance down, and his brows shoot up. “You’re naked.”

Romance nods, calm. “Mhm.”

Baby stares at the photo for a long beat, then looks Romance dead in the eye. “Your dick’s small.”

The room stops for half a heartbeat.

It’s not small, by the way. Baby’s just being a prick.

“Is it, though?” Romance asks, voice smooth. “Because you seem awfully focused for someone who’s unimpressed.”

Baby doesn’t even blink. “Hard to miss when it’s barely there.”

Romance leans back on one elbow, grinning. He knows Baby’s not serious. Baby knows he knows. They’re just being boys.

You can’t help it, you laugh. It spills out of you until you’re half doubled over, and it’s music to their ears.

Romance turns to you, playing it big, blinking with huge eyes. “You see what I deal with? Here I am, baring my soul, and he does this to me in my moment of vulnerability.”

Baby rolls his eyes. “Soul wasn’t the thing you were baring.”

Romance glares at him, then at the photo, then back at you. His eyes are already sparkling with laughter he’s pretending to suppress. You collapse sideways against his bare shoulder, laughter spilling out despite every attempt to hold it in. Tears prick your eyes again, but this time they’re happy. Romance leans back on one hand, watching you with a gentle expression. Baby notices the shift but doesn’t comment, his hand stays on your back, the only sign of the care he never puts into words.

Baby tilts the photo toward the lamp, examining it. “Lighting tricks. Angles. Pathetic.”

Romance shrugs, utterly unfazed. “Angles are art. And that’s not what you said when you were staring.”

“I said it’s small.”

“Which implies you were looking closely.” Romance winks. “Flattered.”

You can’t believe this is happening.

Baby slides the photo back toward Romance. “Trash.”

Romance catches it neatly, smiling. “Alright, sweetheart.”

“Call me sweetheart again and I’ll burn that entire stack.” Baby replies, calm as ever.

Romance leans forward slightly, still grinning. “Promises, promises.”

You peek through your fingers, unable to help yourself. They’re facing each other now, Baby with that unimpressed half-glare, Romance with a flirty, beautiful smile. The tension is less fight and more…something else.

“You keep staring at that photo. Starting to think you like what you see.” Romance says, tilting his head.

Baby’s eyes narrow, but his voice stays cool. “Starting to think you like that I’m staring.”

Romance licks his lips. “Maybe I do.”

You can’t believe this. They’re flirting. They are actually, calmly flirting over a naked photograph while you sit there with your face in your hands, trying not to implode. The air feels different now, warmer, a little charged. You lower your hands, because not watching this would be criminal.

Romance stretches, slow and hot. “You know,” he says to Baby. “you’ve got a way of looking at people. You’re doing it now.”

Baby’s mouth twitches. “You mean I glare.”

“I mean you burn.” Romance corrects, lazy grin sliding wider. “You ever notice? You walk into a room and the temperature changes. Whole place tilts toward you.”

Baby gives a short snort, like a laugh that changed its mind. “The heating system.”

Romance leans forward. “No. No, not at all. That’s called magnetism.” He taps a finger against Baby’s chest, just a light press, but it’s suggestive. “Right here.”

Baby glances down at the finger, then back up, eyebrow arched. “You touch me again and I break that finger.”

Romance doesn’t move the finger, just lets it rest there, eyes bright. “Try me.”

The room hums around them. You shift slightly on the bed, in awe at how smooth they both are.

“You’re all bones.” Romance says. “Don’t they feed you?”

Baby snorts. “Don’t touch me.”

“You didn’t move.” Romance points out.

“That’s ‘cause you’re weak.”

“Am I?” Romance leans in.

Baby tilts his head, eyes narrowing, but he’s smiling, barely, but it’s there. “Mhm. Pretty sure you’re imagining things.”

“Pretty sure you like it when I imagine things.” Romance purrs, then pushes lightly against Baby’s chest with two fingers again, just enough to test the distance. “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”

Baby swats the hand away, but he doesn’t move back. “You think everyone thinks about you.”

“Just you, baby boy.”

Something flickers across Baby’s face, attraction, maybe, or something darker. He doesn’t bite back with another insult this time, he just studies Romance, eyes big.

The silence stretches. You realize you’re holding your breath.

Romance breaks it with a sly smile. “See? You’re thinking about it right now.”

Baby finally moves, a quick tap of two fingers against Romance’s forehead. “You wish.” he says, quiet and sure.

Romance laughs, rich and unbothered, looking up at the fingers on his forehead, his eyes crossing like that looking stupidly cute. “Always.”

Silence. You can see how much they want to call each other out. The tension is brutal, but it’s not angry tension. It’s hot, almost sexual, but Romance moving his legs around to deal with his boner happens quite frequently. What caused this boner though, is another question.

“You ever gonna stop staring?” Romance asks, voice low and honey-slow.

Baby doesn’t blink. “You ever gonna stop begging for it?”

“Not a chance.” He pushes one last time on Baby’s chest, just enough to rock him back a little “Careful, Baby. Keep looking at me like that and people will talk.”

Baby raises one eyebrow. “Let ‘em.”

Romance taps a finger against his own knee, thoughtful. “I could get used to that.”

“Don’t.” Baby says, but the word lands without any real weight.

Romance bites his lip. Okay, this is good. Baby’s good at this, so good.

Baby finally nudges Romance’s shoulder with two fingers with the hand that’s not on your back, a push that’s more invitation than rejection. “Don’t think this means anything.”

Romance watches Baby touch him. “Sure.” he says, voice dropping to a near whisper. “Nothing at all.” He twirls the picture between two fingers. He’s so naked on it and so hot. “Y/N, look.”

You start to lower your hands from your face, curious despite yourself. Before you can get a clear look, Baby moves faster than you thought he ever could. His long fingers slide over your eyes, covering them. His thumb brushes the edge of your temple.

You let out a laugh behind his palm. “I can’t see a thing.”

“That’s the point.” Baby murmurs, quiet, almost gentle, but still deep and mean towards Romance.

Romance tilts his head. “Protective, huh? Cute.” (AN: guys I know it’s cringe and pushy and I’m so aware of it, but that’s just Romance. This is a reminder that if you get secondhand embarrassment somewhere while reading, then it’s okay, you were probably meant to.)

You squirm, trying to duck out of Baby’s grip. “I can look—”

Baby grunts, but lets his hand drop. If you want to see other men naked and rock hard on a picture, sure. All fucking right. Not his problem. (He’s so jealous.)

Romance’s free hand drifts toward the waistband of his pants, fingers hooking under the fabric. “I can prove Baby wrong, you know.”

“Romance!” you gasp, laughing even as you shove at his bare chest with both hands. “Stop.”

Your push barely moves him, but he throws himself back, landing half-sprawled across your bed. But the press of your palm, the heat of your touch has his senses activating all at once. His heartbeat rockets in his ribs so fast it almost hurts. He hides his boner with a leg folded over his crotch, but he’s so whipped. A rush of color climbs his neck to his cheekbones. He’s blushing so hard at your hands on him. His eyes, normally so seductive, go wide and bright, the pure look of awe.

The room fills with your laughter. For a moment the earlier ache is just…gone. Romance props himself up on one elbow, eyes softening as he takes in the sound. You have no idea how good that laugh sounds.

You reach for the photo, your fingers brushing his as you gather the pictures, trying not to look at them. You put them back onto the nightstand, face down. Then you move to the center of the bed. To the middle of it.

The middle is an invitation. You know it, they know it. It says yes without a single syllable.

A slow, pleased smile curves Romance’s beautiful mouth as he slides closer, no hesitation in the movement. He drapes himself along your side, arm settling around your waist. His fingers find your hair, combing through the strands in lazy strokes.

Baby hesitates. He always hesitates. But the mattress dips a moment later as he shifts, crawling to your other side to lie down too. He keeps a few inches of space between you, pretending nonchalance, but his hands betray him, twitching, restless, picking the cigarette back up and playing with it.

You watch the way his thumb flicks over the filter. The urge to do something, anything, to break his tension outweighs your sadness.

“If you need to smoke,” you murmur, voice barely above the hush of the room. “you can. It’s fine.”

Baby glances at you. Then, without a word, he digs a lighter from his pocket. The spark snaps in the quiet, chik, and the tip of the cigarette glows a low ember. He draws in a breath. The scent curls around you, not pleasant but bearable, mixing with the faint detergent of the sheets.

Romance reaches over you, palm open, expecting it from Baby. Baby exhales a thin stream of smoke toward the ceiling, then passes the cigarette over your body. Their hands meet for a beat above your chest, brief, casual, but charged.

Romance takes a slow drag, eyes half-lidded. The orange tip flares, casting a fleeting glow across his cheekbones. He leans back, blows the smoke toward the far wall, and tilts the cigarette in your direction with a questioning lift of his brow.

You shake your head. “No thanks.”

He shrugs, a gentle smile tugging at his mouth, and returns the cigarette to Baby.

They exchange it like that back and forth. Baby inhales, the ember brightening, passes it over. Romance takes another slow drag, hands it back again.

You lie perfectly still between them, feeling the subtle warmth of Romance’s palm stroking your hair, the faint vibration of Baby’s breathing where his arm brushes yours. Every flick of ash onto your poor floor, every shared inhale, feels strangely intimate.

You try to breathe normally. You can’t. Not because of the smoke. Because of the memory of Mystery’s mouth, his breath against yours, the way you didn’t pull back fast enough because you didn’t want to.

You still want it. The only problem is that you know you shouldn’t. You feel guilty. It isn’t just guilt, though, it’s confusion, dread, the sudden weight of something you can’t name. Your stomach twists, making you swallow against the threat of actual nausea.

Romance notices first. His arm shifts until his palm cups the back of your neck. He gives the lightest squeeze, and then brings it down to rub your shoulder.

Baby flicks the ash from his cigarette. It falls onto the hardwood. He doesn’t look at you, but he pays attention. The glow of the cigarette tip pulses as he takes one last drag. Then, wordless, he offers the very little left of the cig across your body.

Romance takes it. He inhales, slow and deep, the ember flaring. The faint scent of tobacco folds over the room again.

You press your eyes shut.

God, what have you done?

You kissed Mystery. You wanted to. You want to again. The thought alone is enough to make your stomach lurch.

Your heart hammers so hard it’s painful. You can feel it beneath Romance’s palm at your shoulder, wild and uneven. Your own breath sounds too loud, too shallow.

Romance shifts slightly, pulling you closer so your head rests against the warm crook of his arm. Baby exhales a thin ribbon of smoke left in his lungs, and settles back against the headboard. He still won’t look directly at you, but his free hand drifts a fraction closer, like he’s ready if you reach out.(AN: this has more meaning if you’ve read the alternative endings of part 10 and look back at Baby’s route)

You try to focus on the small details, the weight of Romance’s arm, the scratch of the sheets against your fingertips, the faint burn of smoke in the air. Anything to drown out this in your chest. But it won’t quit. Every memory of Mystery’s lips, the heat of the chase earlier, the shock of that kiss, it all loops. You can taste it if you let yourself. You hate yourself for it. You crave it anyway.

Your stomach flips again. You swallow hard, willing yourself not to actually get sick. Your body feels like it’s turning against you, every muscle tight.

Romance rubs his thumb along the back of your neck. The motion is gentle, hypnotic. He flicks the butt to the floor, crushing the ember with his heel before leaning back, arms crossed.

Minutes stretch. You don’t know how many. The room grows warmer, hazy with smoke. Your heartbeat, slowly, painfully, begins to match the steady rhythm of Romance’s breathing. You let your head fall against his shoulder, too tired to fight it. Baby’s knee nudges lightly against your leg, almost accidental. He doesn’t pull away. Your eyelids grow heavy. Romance keeps stroking your hair. Baby stays close, silent as ever. No one says a fucking word. They don’t want to wake you. They’re happy that you’re asleep.

Romance watches you. He always does. Eyes half-lidded, still shirtless, he studies the slow rise and fall of your breathing. It calms him.

Four months. That’s all it took to soften his little heart up. Three hundred years of running scams, breaking hearts, and killing when it suited him. He’s done things that would make you faint. He’s good at it, too. Was good at it. And then you showed up. It’s fucking ridiculous.

Across the bed, Baby leans against the headboard, arms folded, pretending to be asleep. He isn’t. His eyes keep opening and finding you, catching every twitch of your dream-heavy breathing.

He’s a horrible fucking man. And here you are, fragile as fuck, sleeping inches away, and he feels… protective. Addicted, maybe. It pisses him off, how much he gives a fuck.

Mystery walks the streets like a caged animal. He can still taste the kiss you shared earlier, and it’s driving him insane. Abby sits on the couch, watching something he always sees you watch. It’s not that interesting to him, but sure. If you’re into it, then he’ll watch. Jinu is in his room, in that fuckass robe and on that fuckass laptop.

They’re all monsters. No sense pretending otherwise. Hurt people hurt people. I’ll repeat it a hundred more times if that’s what it takes. They’ve stolen, lied, destroyed, killed. They’ve been weapons and victims, devils and martyrs. And for three or four hundred years, that was the only way to survive.

Then you. So breakable it terrifies them. A human who could die from something as simple as a bad fall, yet somehow you’ve become the best part of their days. Why they want to go home as soon as possible every time. It infuriates them. It redeems them. It’s everything they were certain they could never have.

Romance runs a thumb lightly over the back of your hand, careful not to wake you. He remembers every battle, every scream, every body he left behind. He should feel nothing. He’s spent centuries perfecting that skill. But now, watching you breathe, knowing he hurt you too, knowing you’re nice to him now, knowing you exist, he feels too much.

Baby finally exhales, a soft curse under his breath. He hates that he cares, hates that the thought of anyone hurting you makes something dark and ancient stir in his chest. Because they are dark. They’re not heroes. They’re the kind of creatures that stories warn children about. If you knew the whole truth, every bloody page of it, you’d run. You should run. But you don’t. You sleep between them, unguarded, trusting them with a kind of innocence they don’t deserve. That trust is a blade and a blessing. It cuts through centuries of rot. It makes them want to be better. It makes them terrified of failing you. Knowing they already hurt you enough, not even completely understanding how could they earn your trust like this after that. They don’t deserve you. Not a damn bit.

At some point even demons give in to exhaustion. Romance drifts off first, head tipped toward you, breath warm against your shoulder. Baby follows much later, still half-propped on the headboard.

You try to stay asleep. Your body has other plans. A nightmare catches you by the throat, shards of the kiss, Mystery’s eyes in the dark, the taste of wanting what you shouldn’t. You wake up, heart hammering like when you were chased, the weight in your stomach heavy, and before you can second-guess yourself you’re slipping out from between them, feet hitting the cold floor. The bathroom light is harsh when you flick it on. You barely make it to the toilet before you’re throwing up. It’s pure stress, your body’s ugly rebellion against everything you’ve been holding in. The kiss, the want, the guilt, the confusion, it’s all too much, too heavy to stay inside.

You lean against the cool porcelain, eyes squeezed shut. Your throat burns.

Behind you, soft footsteps.

“Hey… hey, angel.”

Romance kneels beside you. He simply gathers your hair back with gentle fingers. His other hand rubs slow circles between your shoulder blades.

“It’s okay, sweetheart.” he murmurs, close enough for you to feel the vibration of his voice. “Let it out. Just breathe. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

You gag again, the sour taste making you gag even more. Tears sting your eyes. You don’t bother answering, there’s nothing to say.

Baby lingers in the doorway, arms folded, worried. He knows you’re fine physically, it’s not that. It’s just… been a while since he cared for anyone’s mental health who’s not him.

Romance keeps up the quiet murmur. “Easy, love. Just a shitty night, that’s all. Happens to the best of us. Breathe. You’re okay.”

When the worst of it passes, you slump against the wall, shaking. Romance grabs a towel from the rack, dampens a corner, and presses it gently to your forehead, his other hand grabbing toilet paper to wipe at your mouth with.

You miss him.

Mystery.

Even now, even after this, you miss him. You hate that you do.

Romance seems to read something in your face but doesn’t press. He just keeps stroking your back, voice low. “It’s alright. Bodies do weird shit when the mind’s overloaded. You’ll be okay, promise.”

Baby finally speaks, a single rough word: “Water?”

You nod weakly, and he’s gone, quiet.

Romance tilts your chin up, searching your eyes. “Breathe with me.” he says, slow and sure. “In. Out. Just like that. You’re not alone, okay? Not for a second.”

You breathe. You try, anyway. You feel disgusting, and you can only sob, but no tears come with it.

Baby returns with a glass of water and sets it within reach. He doesn’t hand it to you, just places it there and meets your gaze with a look that says drink when you can.

You reach for it, Romance steadying your hands when he sees them tremble while holding the glass.

And then you start crying again.

Romance lowers himself beside you. Bare skin against the cold wall, still shirtless, not giving a single fuck. He pulls you against his chest. His arm slides around your shoulders, solid and warm. He doesn’t flinch when your damp face presses against his collarbone, doesn’t shift when your sobs shake both of you. If he notices the sour traces of vomit on your breath, he gives no sign. Nothing’s disgusting to him anymore. Genuinely. He’s been through almost everything and that almost everything included lot of fluids in it. A little human misery doesn’t even register.

Baby lingers at the doorway, skinny arms crossed. Romance says nothing. He just holds you tighter when another sob comes up, his hand rubbing small circles on your skin. They don’t ask what’s wrong. They want to. God, they hate not knowing. Romance especially. Baby’s jaw tightens, he’s never been good with helplessness. Both of them are used to action, to fixing problems with muscle and violence. Watching you cry this hopelessly all of a sudden and not being able to do a damn thing about it is torture.

The minutes blur. Your breathing hiccups and catches. Sometimes you sip from the water glass. Both of them stay.

You push yourself upright, legs unsteady. Romance follows immediately, ready if you sway. Baby steps back to give you space, his eyes tracking every movement. The bathroom mirror shows a face you barely recognize, eyes swollen, cheeks blotchy, skin pale and damp. You turn on the tap and reach for your toothbrush.

Romance leans a hip against the counter, still close enough to catch you if you falter. “Want me to grab you a clean towel?” he asks, voice low, casual.

You shake your head and brush your little teeth.

Romance stays beside you, rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades as you brush. After a while he tilts his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You planning to sandpaper your enamel off? That’s, what—five solid minutes now?”

You spit and keep brushing. Your voice is muffled when you finally answer. “Can’t you smell everything? Like…extra good?”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Sure. Why?”

You rinse the brush, eyes fixed on the sink. “I don’t want you to feel…disgusted.”

For a beat he’s quiet. Then he lets out a soft huff of laughter, surprised. “Sweetheart, nobody cares.” He slides his palm up to the back of your neck, thumb tracing lazy circles. “Trust me. We’ve all smelled worse. Way worse. Don’t worry.”

You finally meet his eyes in the mirror. There’s no judgment there, just a strange gentleness that disarms you more than any of his flirtations ever could.

From the doorway, Baby grunts agreement. “He’s right. Don’t matter.”

Romance nods toward the sink, still rubbing your back. You spit one last time and set the toothbrush down, the minty taste all over your mouth. You turn away from the sink, and Romance stays close, shoulder brushing yours as if you might topple any second.

“Stay.” you tell them, waving a weak hand. “Or, I mean. Um. You don’t have to— it smells like puke in here, you guys can just— go back to bed or whatever. I’ll—”

Romance cuts you off with a gentle, almost amused murmur. “We get it, love.”

The words stop you mid-ramble. We’re here, it’s fine.

You slip past Baby’s skinny shape back to your room and into the hall. The apartment is dim now. Your bare feet make soft sounds against the wood as you move toward the kitchen, mind churning.

Mystery. The thought comes of him. You try to shove it away, but it lingers. You’re supposed to hate him for that kiss. But the image won’t leave, and part of you doesn’t want it to.

Then, halfway down the hall, you pause.

Jinu’s door.

Something pulls you toward it before you can talk yourself out of the impulse. You lift your hand and knock, soft. You ease the door open. The room is nearly black, the faint spill of hallway light catching on the edge of a neatly folded blanket. You blink, eyes adjusting.

A shape moves, and then Jinu raises his head from the pillow. The faint glow catches the outline of his face, half-hidden but unmistakable. Even half-asleep he’s beautiful.

“Jinu I threw up.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then a short, breathy laugh, barely more than a huff of air. Not mocking, just… warm.

“Come here.” he says, voice rough with sleep but gentle all the same.

You close the door and cross the room to sink onto the edge of the mattress, the sheets cool under your palms. Jinu shifts to sit up, the movement unhurried, eyes finding yours in the dark.

“You okay?” he asks softly. “What happened?”

You breathe in, and try to find words, then draw your knees up, fingers knotting together. “I’m just… stressed.” you finally manage.

His head tilts slightly. “Stressed about what?”

“Doesn’t matter.” you say too quickly. You can’t tell him about the kiss, about Mystery, about the way your brain keeps replaying it. You can barely admit it to yourself.

Jinu doesn’t push. He simply leans back against the headboard. “Alright.” he says after a beat, soft. “Doesn’t matter.”

You shift, and the faint scent of smoke and sweat drifts up from your clothes. Romance’s cologne. Baby’s cigarette. Their presence clings to you. Jinu’s nostrils flare almost imperceptibly. Of course he notices. He could probably track every molecule.

Something in this cuts deeper, has more history. It’s the same reason you’d called for him that night when you’d sliced your arm open at the front door. Different night, different pain, but the instinct is identical: you want Jinu.

You hated yourself a little for that back then, and you hate yourself for it now. These men, these demons, are not harmless. They have hurt people, frightened people. They have frightened you, hurt you and laughed about it. And yet here you are again, sitting on his bed in the middle of the night because some part of you believes he’s the one who will keep you safe. It’s sweet. And it’s fucked up.

You stare at the darkness beyond his shoulder, trying to make sense of it. “You ever feel… like your brain’s too full? Like it’s just… noise, all the time?”

“Every day.” he answers without hesitation. “Four hundred years of it.”

It’s actually a huge deal that he tells you that. This takes a lot of Jinu’s trust. And you have it. The weight of that settles between you. Four centuries. You can barely imagine it.

“I don’t know how you stand it.” you whisper.

“I don’t.” he says. “I just keep moving.”

You draw a shaky breath. The mint on your tongue is fading. “I feel sick.” you admit. “Not from the throwing up. Just… everything.”

Jinu’s gaze softens. He just nods, the small motion somehow more comforting than a thousand empty reassurances.

“I hate that I keep ending up here.” you blurt before you can stop yourself. “With you.”

His head tilts again, a subtle question.

“I mean… when it’s bad.” you clarify. “I don’t even think. I just… find you. Or you find me. Like—like my body decides before my brain does.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, half a smile, half a wince. “Instinct.” he says quietly.

“Yeah.” you breathe.

It’s too dark to read his expression fully, but something in the silence that follows feels heavy.

You think about the night with the knife, the way he’d appeared in seconds, unflinching at the blood streaking your arm. The same steadiness now, even with the bitter smell of vomit still clinging to you. He never seems to mind. Maybe he can’t. Maybe it’s just his love for you being strong enough to ignore things like this. Maybe after centuries of violence, nothing a human does could ever seem dirty or small.

Sweet, and cruel all at once. Because they, all of them, have left scars you can’t name. Their lives have been nothing but survival and hurt, and you keep walking straight back into that hurt.

You wrap your arms around your knees and rest your chin there, staring at the shadowed floor. “Thanks for not… asking too much.” you murmur.

“You’ll tell me what matters when it matters.” he hums.

Meanwhile, Abby pushes your door open with his shoulder, the faint squeak of the hinge announcing him before the smell of whatever protein sludge he’s drinking does. He’s shirtless except for a loose tank, gym shorts hanging low, a glass in hand. A bright pink straw sticks out from it. He takes another unapologetic pull from the straw and makes a satisfied tchk with his tongue, eyes scanning the room. His gaze lands on Romance and Baby, both on the bed. Romance is stretched out, one long leg bent, the other dangling off the side of the mattress. He’s still shirtless, hair a soft mess, cigarette smoke curling faintly in the air from Baby’s direction. Baby sits cross-legged at the far corner, silent as a shadow. His eyes flick toward Abby but don’t bother with a greeting.

Romance tilts his head. “Evening workout?” That’s a joke. It’s the middle of the fucking night, not just a simple evening.

“Always.” Abby answers, and he leans his broad shoulder against the doorframe, muscles standing out in the dim light, and nods toward the bed, taking another noisy sip. “What happened here?”

Romance tilts his pretty head back. “Y/N wasn’t feeling well. She puked. Baby and I handled it.”

Abby raises one brow. “That it?”

“That’s it.” Romance says.

“Hm.” Abby straightens just enough to tap the glass against the doorframe, entertaining himself. “Where’s she now?”

Baby finally speaks, voice rough from smoke and quiet. “Jinu’s.”

Abby doesn’t comment, just takes another slow sip of whatever protein nightmare he’s enjoying somehow. He’s too petty to say anything about it. Fuck Jinu. (He loves Jinu. He’s just mad at him now because they heard when he fed you that bullshit after they chased you.)

For a moment the three of them just breathe the same heavy air. Abby shifts his weight, still leaning on the doorframe, and lets his gaze sweep the room again. He can smell everything. From the toothpaste in your bathroom to Romance’s hair. Finally he straightens, finishing the last of the drink with a loud slurp through the straw. “Alright.” he says. “Wake me if anything’s up.”

Baby gives a curt nod and Romance hums. Abby lingers a moment longer, eyes narrowing as if he might read more. But whatever he sees, he keeps to himself. He pushes off the doorframe. The door eases shut with a soft click, leaving the room in darkness again. The smoke hangs heavy, lit only by the faint red glow at the tip of Baby’s cigarette.

Back in Jinu’s room, you sit with your knees pulled up, staring at the pattern of moonlight on the floor, and finally let out a thin breath. “I should… probably go back. Romance and Baby are waiting.”

Jinu doesn’t move right away. He studies you. A muscle in his jaw shifts. If he’s disappointed, he hides it well, but there’s a gleam in his eyes that’s impossible to miss. Admiration. Admiring you for going back to them because they’re waiting for you.

Finally, he nods once. “Go.” he says, voice pretty. “They’ll want you back.”

You’re already shifting to stand and brush your palms on your thighs, then glance at him. “I’m sorry for waking you.”

Jinu tilts his head, a soft half-smile ghosting across his face. “Don’t be.”

At the doorway you pause and look back. Jinu hasn’t shifted, but his gaze is still fixed on you. You manage a small, nervous smile. “Goodnight, Jinu. Try to get some rest.”

“Goodnight.” he answers, soft.

You ease the door closed behind you, careful with the handle so it doesn’t click too loudly. The apartment is a labyrinth of soft darkness and faint city glow mixed with the warm lights on the walls. Your bare feet make no sound on the wood, but your heartbeat feels loud enough to wake everyone. You start toward the kitchen again, but your mind is elsewhere.

Because somewhere in this apartment, maybe only a few steps away, Mystery is awake. Or asleep. Or waiting. And the thought of seeing him again sends a cold spike down your spine. You don’t know when fear replaced the rush you felt earlier. Maybe it happened the moment his lips touched yours. Maybe it started before, when you asked him to chase you and trusted that he wouldn’t hurt you.

You wanted it, and that truth is the worst part. You wanted it.

The guilt presses harder with every step you take down the hall.

Romance and Baby are waiting for you in your room, warmth, smoke, the safety of them, and yet your thoughts keep dragging back to the shadowed figure who caught you in the dark. The one you can’t face.

Because what if Mystery is standing in the kitchen? What if you turn a corner and find those yellow eyes watching you?

You’re not ready for that. Not ready to see what he might read on your face, or what you might still feel in the tremor of your own heartbeat. Not ready for the truth that you liked the kiss and hate yourself for it. You tell yourself it’s just a hallway. Just a kitchen beyond it. But every shadow feels like it could hold Mystery, waiting. And the thought of meeting him again, that feral, beautiful boy, makes your stomach tighten all over.

Abby is in the kitchen. Big, broad-shouldered Abby, beautiful in the even more beautiful lighting in the kitchen. He’s rinsing an empty glass. He glances over his shoulder the moment you step in, eyebrows lifting. “Hey.” he says. “Heard you threw up. You okay?”

You hover in the archway, arms crossed. “Yeah. I mean—yeah. Just… stressed.”

Abby shuts off the water, flicks a few drops from his hands, and turns fully toward you. “Stress’ll do it.” he says. “Want some water?”

You shake your head, hesitating. “Where’s Mystery?”

Abby shrugs, muscles shifting. “No idea. He’s not home.”

Not home.

The knot of worry that’s been riding your ribs tightens. You don’t even know why the thought hits so hard, guilt, maybe, or the leftover electricity of that kiss. Whatever it is, it leaves you hollow.

Bread, you think. Just a slice of bread. Something simple. Eating will do something about it.

But instead of moving to the breadbox, you step forward and wrap your arms around him.

Abby stills.

It’s a sudden, instinctive hug, your face against the warm solidity of his chest, the smell of detergent and faint sweat around you in an instant. He hadn’t expected this. You can feel it in the way his big frame goes rigid for half a breath. But he doesn’t pull back. Abby exhales slowly, something like a laugh buried in his chest. He slides his arms around you, careful despite the sheer size of his hands, and then, without a word, lifts.

Your feet leave the floor. He settles you sideways against him, your head tucked under his chin, one arm braced beneath you and the other locked across your back.

“Light as a feather.” he mutters, bouncing you once, just enough to make your stomach dip. “You ate today?”

“I… was gonna.” you mumble, voice muffled against his shoulder.

Abby starts a slow sway. “Want me to take you back to the others?”

You shake your head hard, a small, stubborn motion. “No. Food first.” The words come out in a shaky whisper, followed by a hiccup of a sob.

He feels the tremor against him, but he doesn’t tense. “Okay.” he says quickly, no questions. “Alright, baby.”

Still holding you, he walks toward the cabinets. With one arm supporting your weight, he reaches with the other, absurdly effortless, opening doors, scanning shelves. He points with a thick finger at a row of items. “Crackers? No? Cereal? No. Bread?”

At the word you nod, small.

“Bread it is.” he says, then grabs a half-loaf with his free hand and tucks it under his arm like a football, then adjusts his grip on you.

“Got it.” he says, glancing down at you and your little tears. “Back we go.”

He carries you out of the kitchen, the bread secured under one arm and you balanced against his chest. Your cheek rests against the steady rise and fall of his breathing. You can feel the quiet thunder of his heart, fast enough to betray him even as his voice stays calm. He’s so happy that you did this.

It’s ridiculous though. These men, demons, you remind yourself, because that word is the truest one, are the same ones who have cut you open in ways no knife ever could. Let’s not even talk about it when they did it with actual knives. You can still catalog every scar if you try. The nights they tore through your mind with their violence. The way they dragged you around. When they shoved your head into iced water.

They’ve frightened you. Lied to you. Left marks on your body and memories you can’t scrub away. Sometimes with claws. Sometimes with words sharper than claws. You told yourself you would never need them. And now you do. You always do. Pressed to Abby’s chest like this.

It’s the comfort of captors who have also been your only allies. The comfort of the only voices left after everyone else disappeared, after they isolated you so completely that you can’t even name another person you’d call in the middle of the night. I don’t mean the possibility, of course, you can’t call anyone. I mean who you WOULD call. You wouldn’t call the HUNTR/X girls anymore. Not your dad, not your mom. You’d call the Saja boys.

You replay every ugly moment.

Mystery’s claws raking into your skin.

Romance’s games that went too far.

Baby’s cigarettes put out on you.

Abby’s temper.

Even Jinu’s cold manipulations.

Your mind whispers, they hurt you.

Your heart answers, they stayed.

No one else stayed. No one came for you. (How could they, Y/N? Open your eyes.) So now when you panic in the night, you don’t cry for Rumi or Mira or Zoey. You reach for them. The monsters.

Abby’s chest rises and falls under your cheek. You crave it. You crave the very people who taught you what real fear tastes like.

They ruined you.

But they’re all you have.

They made you dependent.

But maybe they never meant to.

Maybe you let them.

Maybe you wanted to.

The logic twists in on itself until you can’t tell which wounds were inflicted and which ones you invited just to feel anything at all. Maybe you clung to them because it was easier than being alone with the silence. Maybe you actually fell in love.

The worst part is how familiar this feels. The way Abby’s heartbeat under your ear reminds you of nights when terror finally ended and exhaustion took its place. When once, back when they were still hurting you, Romance poked your back with something sharp, you don’t even remember what, and you jumped into Baby’s arms. And he held you. The comfort of that, even as the day before that he laughed while pouring iced water in your face.

They are dangerous.

And they are home.

Other people wouldn’t see the months of nightmares. They wouldn’t hear the screams you never voiced. They wouldn’t understand this closeness. You hate it. You hate yourself for needing it, but you also know the truth. There is no one else. You could push Abby away, escape, vanish into the human world. But where would you go? Who would answer at three a.m. when the memories come back sharp enough to choke you? Who would believe the things you’ve seen, the scars you carry, the demons that aren’t metaphor but flesh? (HUNTR/X, Y/N. Please wake up and realize that. They still want you. It’s okay.)

You rest your head against Abby’s shoulder and close your eyes. Part of you wants to fight. Part of you wants to melt into the steadiness and pretend the past never happened. The contradiction is exhausting. The need is humiliating. But for now, you stay where you are. Because no matter how wrong it is, no matter how much you hate yourself for it, these monsters are the only ones left who will carry you through the dark.

Abby’s shoulder nudges your door open with a quiet click. The faint scent of smoke still hangs in the air. Inside, the room is just as you left it, a thin wash of city light spilling through the curtains, the rumpled bed. Romance sits propped against the headboard, bare chest pale in the dark and the light of that little lamp, eyes half-lidded but instantly alert when he sees the two of you. Baby lounges near the window, not smoking anymore.

Abby shifts his grip, giving you a gentle bounce that makes you a little tired. “Look who I found.”

Romance smiles. “Well, there’s our runaway.” he murmurs, voice calming. “Thought you’d vanished.”

Abby steps forward and lowers you to the mattress with surprising care for someone built like a tank. His big hands linger for a heartbeat, steadying you, before he draws back to put your little bread in your little lap.

You kissed Mystery.

Not just any of them. Mystery.

The one who once had you cornered with claws bared. The most… feral one. You can still feel the memory, those nights of fear so bad you couldn’t sleep, the way his growl used to make your bones rattle. And now the same mouth that snarled against your skin has pressed against yours. You wanted it. That’s the part that makes your stomach pitch even now, long after the nausea of earlier.

The room tilts with the weight of it. Abby’s presence. Romance’s smile. Baby’s eyes. All of them, these demons who have hurt you, haunted you, and yet somehow are the only ones left to hold you.

They’d do anything for you. You know it as surely as you know your own heartbeat. You could ask for anything. Diamonds. Purses from Paris, silk from places you can’t even pronounce. They’d rip open the world to get it for you, no hesitation, no question.

But you never ask. You can’t. Because love, whatever this doomed thing is between you and them, has never been about gifts. And because some quiet corner of you knows that if you started asking, if you let them give you everything, you’d never find the part of yourself again that you lost to them. You’d disappear into their devotion, and that thought is as terrifying as being without them.

You don’t need diamonds.

You need the steady thrum of Abby’s heartbeat when he carried you down the hall. The slow curl of smoke from Baby’s cigarette. The way Romance can soften a room with a single, beautiful smile.

Love isn’t supposed to look like this. You know that. It’s not supposed to be stitched together with past trauma and present comfort, with the memory of claws and the reality of warm hands. It’s not supposed to make you feel both safe and ruined. But when Romance leans forward, eyes glinting, when Baby watches you, when Abby stands guard in the doorway, you feel the pull all over again. The impossible, infuriating pull of the only people left who have seen every fucked up piece of you and stayed.

You hate it.

You need it.

You love them.

And no amount of diamonds could ever match the awful, beautiful gravity of that truth.

The mattress dips as Romance shifts closer, his warmth sliding in behind you until his knees bracket your hips. His palms find your shoulders, thumbs pressing slow circles into the knots that have turned your muscles to stone. Every motion is patient, steady. Not a seduction. You exhale before you mean to.

Abby drops into the chair near the wall, deep down knowing that Jinu jerked it in this very chair a few times. He stretches long legs out, crosses his arms, and starts talking to Romance about something, maybe the bread, maybe Baby’s chain-smoking habit. Same man who made your life a nightmare once, now calming you with his voice. Baby remains at the window.

Every pull is mutual. Romantic, sexual, sincere, wrong. It’s all tangled together, a current running from you to them and back again. You’ve fought it for months. You’ve told yourself the line matters, that what they did to you before puts a canyon between their hearts and yours. You’ve built barricades from logic, from memory, from fear.

And then you kissed Mystery.

One slip, one heartbeat of pure gravity, and the barricade cracked. The kiss wasn’t just a kiss, it was the form of your own resistance giving way, the taste of a truth you’d been starving and terrified to admit. Now you sit here, and the pull is louder than your guilt. Louder than the past.

They sense it. Of course they do. Romance’s thumbs keep their patient rhythm, but you can feel what he wants. Talk to us. Abby’s chatter falters now and then. He wants to ask. He doesn’t. Baby barely moves, but his eyes never leave you. He doesn’t want you to shut them out.

They can feel how stressed you are. They can taste it in the air, every demon sense tuned to the tang of your anxiety. But they know. They know they can’t force you. If you don’t choose to tell them, they have no door in. And that knowledge tortures them. These three aren’t built to be left out. They’ve been the ones who break doors, who demand answers, who refuse to be ignored. Who torture an innocent little assistant for a little help with their plan.

But with you? With you they stay still now.

This is the type of stress you can’t deal with. You don’t know how to get it out, how to drain it. You can’t outrun it, can’t outthink it. You’re sick of your own heartbeat. Sick of thinking about Mystery’s eyes, Mystery’s mouth, Mystery’s claws. Sick of how everything feels like a trap you walked into willingly.

Why can’t this just end already?

Why can’t you just die already?

It’s not a dramatic thought. It’s just a flat, exhausted one, like staring at a wall for too long. You’re not even sure you mean it. You just want the noise in your head to stop, the clench in your gut to ease, the guilt to dissolve. You want to stop feeling like this. You want to stop feeling.

And then you feel Romance move. Without a pause in his conversation with Abby, his arms snake around you from behind, pulling you back against his chest. His chin hooks lightly over your shoulder. He rocks you a little, slow. His voice keeps flowing, soft and easy, still talking to Abby about something while his hands rub tiny circles against your arms.

The contrast is enough to make your throat tighten. The same mouth that can purr filth, the same hands that have done terrible things to you, are holding you like you’re glass. It’s so surreal it makes you want to cry and laugh at once.

Abby just keeps talking. Baby’s still by the window, eyes flicking between the three of you, silent as always. And as Romance rocks you, you remember. You remember the way they look at you when you’re sick. The way even Abby, who can bench-press you like a feather, treats you like you’re something small and delicate. The way Baby, for all his brattish silence, shows up without fail. The way Romance, so shameless, so egotistical, so sexual, becomes this soft thing when you’re hurting, as if your pain scrubs him clean for a moment.

They’re miserable when you’re not okay. You’ve seen it. The nights they don’t sleep, pacing. The gifts they pile on you. The ridiculous lengths they go to just to make you smile. The way Mystery’s growl turns into a whimper when you’re angry at him.

You’re not stupid. You’ve always known this wasn’t just a game for them. You’ve always known that what they feel for you is real, even if it’s fucked up and wrong and rooted in a past that should have made you hate them forever.

And sitting there now, with Romance’s arms around you, Abby’s voice filling the room, Baby’s quiet eyes tracking your every flinch, you feel it all at once. The wrongness. The rightness. The pull.

The thought of dying shrivels up like paper under flame. It’s ridiculous. Silly. Terrifying. Because even in your worst moment, even when you think you’ve reached the absolute worst, the idea of leaving them just makes you sadder. You can’t. You don’t want to. You want to stay. You want to see what they’re like in the daylight, in another month, another year. You want to see if any of you can claw your way out of this mess and build something.

You press your forehead against Romance’s arm and breathe. His skin smells like sweat and smoke and something faint you can never place, but it’s nice. Abby glances over at you, just a flick of his eyes, and he smiles while still talking with Romance. Baby looks away, but his fingers are twitching.

You eat your little bread. Romance rocks you once more, slow, and murmurs something under his breath to Abby that you don’t catch. Abby answers with a low grunt, and Baby sighs.

You swallow the last bite of bread, lean back against Romance’s chest, and close your eyes. Their voices blur again.

Romance rocks you back and forth. His chest rises against your spine, his breath is warm on the side of your neck. Every few minutes his lips graze a different spot on your hair, your crown, your temple, the curve where your ear meets your cheek, barely-there kisses, light. He never breaks the low conversation with Abby. Abby’s voice rumbles from the chair near the wall, and you can’t even follow the topic, something about training, something about a half-broken door hinge, but the sound is calming.

Romance’s fingers slide through your hair, slow and sure. Each stroke unravels a little more of the day’s tension. He smells faintly of smoke and that spice you still can’t name. How can someone who’s done such brutal, unthinkable things hold you like this? How can someone so steeped in darkness be this gentle? But right now his heartbeat is so good for you. His thumb draws lazy circles at the base of your skull. Every tiny kiss makes your heart flutter.

You could go for a kiss with him now.

Your stomach flips at the thought, not with fear this time but with something far more dangerous. God, Y/N, did we not learn? You already crossed a line with Mystery. You already know how badly this can go.

But then another thought, softer and heavier, settles over the first: This feels right. Because he’s here. Because they all are. Abby. Baby. Even Jinu, somewhere down the hall. They haven’t left, not through the sickness, not through the silence.

Romance presses another light kiss to the crown of your head, and you feel your resistance melt away. Maybe it isn’t about right or wrong anymore. Maybe it’s about the fact that they are here when no one else is, that their care, fucked up, imperfect, terrifying, is real.

Your eyelids grow heavy again. The voices blur. The rocking slows but never stops, because Romance pays so much attention to you. You breathe in the scent of smoke and warm skin. You let the thought of kissing him fade, neither accepted nor denied.

Romance keeps humming long after you fall asleep. Abby stays in the chair by the wall. His arms are folded, eyes fixed on a point somewhere past the window. Every so often he exhales, the sound rough, almost a growl, but he doesn’t move. Baby leans in the shadows near the curtains, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He watches you.

Romance lets his chin rest against the top of your head, still humming, but his thoughts are miles away. He remembers the deal. The night he said yes to Gwi-Ma, thinking only of the rush, the promise of eternal youth, beauty, the unholy charisma that would bend crowds. He wanted more than the world would ever give willingly. And when the demon asked for a price, he didn’t hesitate. He chose it. He chose every drop of blood that followed. Every lie. Every scream.

And now here he is, cradling a fragile human against his chest as if he could protect you from the very darkness he carries in his own marrow. The irony is a knife he doesn’t dare touch.

He loves you.

He knows it’s selfish. He knows love from a creature like him is a curse. Still, the feeling lives in him like his heartbeat.

Abby watches you sleep, the faint rise and fall of your chest catching in the city’s and the room’s dim glow. His jaw tightens.

He remembers every fist he threw before the deal, every fight picked for pride, every time he let rage be a weapon because it made him feel alive. When Gwi-Ma whispered promises, he grabbed them with both hands.

Now the power is his. And it’s nothing like what he imagined.

He’s broken bones and spirits, taken what wasn’t his, watched people crumble. None of it can be undone. No amount of quiet nights, no gentle guarding of you as you sleep, can erase it. But he can’t stop the ache that flares whenever you wince or shiver. He hates that he wants to be better for you, because better isn’t in his blood. He chose this path. He chose willingly.

Baby stands silent, a dark silhouette against the glass. He’d grown up spoiled, and he wanted more. He always wanted more. Gwi-Ma offered him that, and he took it with a smile.

It took him to see entire lives tilt toward ruin because of a single word from him, a single look. He never felt bad. Not until you. He feels your pain like smoke in his lungs. The craving to keep you safe claws at him, but he doesn’t trust his own hands.

They are not victims. They are not misunderstood boys who stumbled into darkness. They chose it. They made the deals. They wanted the power, the beauty, the endless nights. They wanted the world to kneel and they were willing to pay in blood. And yet, somewhere in the wreckage of their choices, you appeared. You, soft, stubborn, fragile, maddeningly human. You didn’t save them. That’s a story for cowards. But you reminded them, in ways they can’t articulate, of what they burned to get here.

Watching you sleep, each of them feels the old hunger stir. The desire to keep, to claim, to love. And each of them feels the weight of what they’ve done press heavier for it. Because love doesn’t erase the past. Love doesn’t wash the blood from their hands. They know this. They know they are grown men who committed every act by choice. They know that loving you doesn’t make them good. Still, they stay. Romance hums until the first hint of dawn. Abby keeps his silent guard. Baby watches the horizon where night begins to break. They are demons who chose damnation. And tonight, for a few fragile hours, they choose to stay beside you anyway.

You’ve been with the boys so long that it’s like the rest of the world has started to fade out, as though it never existed. The HUNTR/X girls feel like names you made up, daydream companions in some other lifetime. You wonder if they think about you at all, if they even remember. Some nights you convince yourself they forgot. And other nights, it guts you, because how could they?

Rumi, for an example.

A memory comes back to you as clear as if it were yesterday.

Steam curled lazily in the bathroom, clinging to the mirrors, turning the bright light into something soft. You sat in the bathtub, skin flushed from the heat, knees pulled up to your chest. The water lapped against your shoulders, quiet except for the occasional drip from the faucet.

And behind you, perched comfortably on the little stool with her sleeves rolled up, was Rumi. She had that look of focus she always got when she was doing something with her hands, her fingers working shampoo into your hair in slow circles. It wasn’t taboo between you anymore. You’d bathed together too many times to think twice about it. It wasn’t about bodies, it was about comfort, intimacy, the kind that only comes from knowing each other too well to care.

“You ever notice how Zoey always eats the last Snickers—which she knows I love—and then pretends she didn’t?” you said, voice half muffled by steam.

Rumi chuckled, her fingers digging lightly into your scalp. “Every single time. And when you call her on it, she’s like, ‘Oh my god, I didn’t know it was the last one.’ Like, yes you did. You counted them.”

You snorted, tilting your head back a little, letting her rinse the suds with a plastic cup of warm water. “Exactly! And Mira covers for her. Every time.”

Rumi hummed, pushing your wet hair back from your forehead. You tipped your head back more, looking up at her. The world went upside down, her face framed by the foggy bathroom light, her smile bent at an angle, her eyes soft but shining with mischief. She was so pretty like that, upside down. She always was.

“You’re too pretty.” you said softly, sincere.

“So are you. Too pretty to be this mad about food.” she said softly, smiling, her fingers combing through your hair as if she could untangle your thoughts as easily as the strands.

It was nothing special, nothing big. Just two girls in a fogged-up bathroom, one washing the other’s hair, talking about dumb annoyances and stolen food. But it was everything. That kind of ease, of being held without even needing to be held, that was rare. You felt it then, and you feel it now, like an ache behind your ribs. God, that was nice.

But you don’t even miss them the way you should. Not Mira, not Zoey. Even Rumi, who once ran her fingers through your hair, those fingers still missing that feeling.

How could you not miss someone who loved you that simply? How could you forget the warmth of hands in your hair, the laughter bouncing off tile, the way she made something as ordinary as washing up feel like that?

But the truth is brutal. You’ve been here so long, with the boys, wrapped in their yearning, that the girls feel like ghosts now. And you’re not sure if you’re the one who let them go, or if they let go of you first. (They never let go of you, Y/N.)

Either way, that memory of Rumi, steam, shampoo, her pretty face upside down, doesn’t mean that much anymore. Or when Zoey took you out to dinner. It was a fancy place, really. The food was brutally expensive, tiny plates that tasted like entire worlds. But it wasn’t the food that burned into you. It was her. The way she rested her chin on her hand while you talked, eyes locked on yours like the whole room had faded to a blur. Zoey always looked at people with shining eyes, but with you it was… different.

At some point, she reached across the table, brushed her fingertips against the back of your hand, barely a touch, but enough to make your breath catch.

You laughed a lot that night. Every time you met her eyes you felt that same quiet pull, like she was trying to tell you something without words.

When the check came, you reached for it automatically. She slid it away with a single look that said don’t even think about it.

Outside, the city lights scattered across the pavement. Zoey tilted her head, studying you the way she had all night.

“What?” you asked, self-conscious.

“Nothing.” she said, though the corner of her mouth curved. “Just… you’re even prettier when you’re not trying so hard.”

You rolled your eyes, but you felt the compliment settle somewhere deep.

When you two arrived to your place, she told you to text her when you get inside, because she has to go do something with the girls. You did. And she replied with a single heart emoji.

It wasn’t about the restaurant or the wine. It was the way she saw you. The way her gaze carried both mischief and care. And god, those eyes. The way she looked at you across the flickering candlelight, steady, unafraid, like you were something worth studying, worth knowing completely.

Or Mira, god, how could Mira let you go?

Back then, one night you sat on Mira’s huge bed. You’d both been trading stories for hours, awkward exes, disastrous dates, the ridiculous things people did for love. Mira lay back against the headboard, hair spilling across the pillow.

“So,” she said, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “what about girls? You ever… you know?”

Her tone was casual, but her eyes stayed locked on yours.

You shook your head, half–smiling, half–nervous. “Not really. I mean… no. I only had boyfriends before. I’ve never even kissed a girl.”

Mira raised her brows, a playful spark lighting her face. “Seriously? Not even a drunk party dare?”

“No.” You tucked your knees to your chest. “Guess I’m boring.”

“Boring?” she snorted. “You’re the least boring person I know.”

You laughed, a little embarrassed, and she leaned closer until the warmth of her shoulder brushed yours. “Want to fix that?” she asked. Just Mira being Mira, bold, direct.

Your heart thudded. You weren’t sure if you were supposed to answer, but you didn’t move away.

“Only if you’re okay with it.” she added quickly, softer now, how she is deep down showing. “No weirdness. Just… a kiss. So you can say you’ve done it.”

Something in her voice, gentle, reassuring, made the air feel different. You gave a small nod.

Mira smiled, almost shy for once, and reached up to tuck a stray hair behind your ear. Then she leaned in and pressed her lips to yours. Your eyes fluttered shut, surprised at how natural it felt, how simple.

When she pulled back, she was smiling. “There. First girl kiss. Zero disasters.”

You blinked, caught between a laugh and something deeper you couldn’t name. “That’s it?”

“What?” she teased, bumping your shoulder. “It’s just a kiss, babe. Relax.”

You both laughed, and then you were talking again about everything and nothing, music, travel, the stupid things people say when they’re nervous. The kiss didn’t turn the night into something else. It was just Mira’s way of saying she trusted you, of letting you know she cared in the most Mira way possible, direct, fearless.

Later, as you lay side by side staring at the ceiling, you realized how much that moment said about her, about all of them. Rumi with her gentle touch, Zoey with her gaze, and Mira with her blunt affection. Each of them had loved you in their own way, and you had loved them back, even if it wasn’t the same kind of love.

Sometimes, thinking back to it, you can still feel the warmth of that single kiss. You used to think of them constantly. Back when you were still half yourself, before the Saja boys became the center of gravity. It’s been so long you can’t even remember the last time you asked about the girls.

Do they even remember you?

How could they forget? How could Rumi, with her careful eyes and the secret she always kept folded close, the one she almost trusted you with? There were nights you sat on the edge of her bed while she braided your hair and talked to you, always so close to letting you know she’s a demon, but she never ended up telling you. “Maybe you’re the only one who’d get it.” She said sometimes, and even though you didn’t know what she was talking about, you believed her. You wanted to be the one who understood. Zoey could never resist dragging you out. Coffee runs that turned into three-hour walks, concerts you didn’t even have tickets for until she worked her magic at the door. She loved the chase of spontaneity, but she always looked back to make sure you were following. Always. And Mira. Mira and her kiss.

They were wrapped around your finger, though you never meant for that to happen. You were oblivious, caught up in your own things. You didn’t know they might have been looking at you with something more than friendship. You didn’t let yourself wonder what it meant that you liked the way Mira’s lips tasted, that your heart jumped when Zoey tugged you through a crowd, that Rumi’s words made you want to be with her forever. You missed the signs. Rumi lingering a little too long when she dried your hair with a towel, Zoey’s constant excuses to keep you out past dawn, Mira’s quiet way of watching you when she thought you wouldn’t notice. You chalked it all up to friendship, to the way girls can be soft with each other without it meaning more.

And even now, lying here with Romance’s slow hum thrumming against your back and the faint scent of Baby’s smoke lingering in the air, you still don’t fully see it. You don’t realize that you might have felt something deeper for them too. Maybe you were too young, maybe too scared, maybe too wrapped in your own confusion to name it. Whatever it was, it’s gone quiet. You just felt it. You don’t feel it anymore, it faded. You’ve been with the Saja boys so long that the girls feel like a different lifetime. You tell yourself the feelings, if they were feelings, died naturally, like a candle burning down. But part of you knows it isn’t that simple. Part of you wonders if the pull of these demons smothered the flame before you could even understand it. Because now it’s the boys. Always the boys. Romance’s arms heavy and warm around you. Abby’s arms always there to hold you. Baby’s silence that somehow says everything. Even Mystery, whose memory still twists in your gut like a knife. Jinu, quiet and constant, the one you run to without thinking.

They are dangerous, cruel, scarred. Men who chose their darkness. And yet they’ve become the center of your world, the ones you can’t imagine leaving.

Maybe the girls forgot you. Maybe they didn’t. But the truth is worse, you’ve forgotten how to reach back.

Romance’s arms tighten once, a slow squeeze that feels like a wordless goodbye, and then he’s easing you down into the center of the mattress. The blankets, soft from too many washings, slide up around your shoulders as he tucks you in. His palm lingers at the side of your face, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw. A kiss lands on your forehead, barely a press of lips.

Abby stands up, opening the door. He gives a small nod when Romance straightens. The two of them share a glance that’s quick but heavy. Then Abby tilts his head toward the door. They leave. But Baby stays. He’s a thin shadow in the room, watching you sleep, hands shoved into his pockets. He doesn’t move, doesn’t even pretend he’s about to. Just leans a shoulder against the wall and watches you with those big eyes. The brat. The skinny asshole. The one who hides every soft thing under layers of silence and sideways glares. And yet he stays, watching out for you. Finally he exhales, one long sigh, and pushes off the wall. A small shake of his head, almost a laugh, and he turns. The door closes with a soft click. You’re alone. Sleeping. Outside the first pale threads of dawn creep through the blinds. The night that felt endless is giving way to a grey morning, and you lie there, put to sleep by the boys who you hated so much months ago.

They know Mystery still hasn’t come home. None of them knows where he is. None of them knows why. And they have no. idea.

What they also have no idea about though, is how homoerotic this is. What is? Abby and Romance in the shower together. Like, about half an hour later after putting you to bed. Romance runs a palm over the streak of soap on his chest. “I’m telling you,” he says over the rush of water. “something’s off with Y/N tonight. You felt it too, right? Not just me? She’s not sick.”

Abby stands beneath the showerhead too. He tips his head back into the spray, hair plastered flat. A low hum is all the answer he gives at first.

Romance keeps going, rubbing his body as he talks. “I mean, yeah, she’s had rough nights before, but this was… different. She—fuck, I don’t know.” He scrubs at his shoulder, soap lather running down the drain in cloudy swirls. “I hate not knowing.”

Abby finally tilts his chin down, blinking water from his lashes. “Yeah.” he says simply. He reaches for the shampoo and works it through his hair.

Romance shakes his head, flicking droplets everywhere. “That’s it? ‘Yeah’? Come on, man. You’re usually the one who notices everything. What do you think?”

Abby gives a slight shrug, fingers still massaging his scalp. “I think,” he says after a beat. “she’ll tell us when she wants to. Pushing won’t help.”

Romance leans back into the spray, closing his eyes. He knows Abby said some wise shit, just doesn’t want to admit it. Neither of them says more for a long time. The water keeps falling, way too hot, a thin shield between them and the worry waiting on the other side of the door.

“I still don’t get it.” Romance blurts after a while, shaking his head as water drips down the slope of his nose. “In the bathhouse, when Mystery was naked, right? And you were all over him, l… I don’t get it, man. What was so surprising? That little fucker’s fine, I guess, but…” He gestures to Abby’s dick with a soap-covered hand. “I mean, yours? Dude, it’s way bigger than his. Way bigger. What the fuck?”

Abby rolls his eyes, flicking water at Romance’s shoulder with a lazy flick of his wrist. “I did things to it, alright? Calm the fuck down.” His tone is flat, defensive, but there’s a glint of something in his eyes. He enjoys talking about himself.

Romance blinks. “You… what? You… you did surgery? You… what the fuck?”

Abby laughs, sharp and short, water spraying as he shifts. “No surgery, man! Not that. Gwi-Ma. Deal with Gwi-Ma. You really think I’d go under a knife? Gwi-Ma, man. Just… Gwi-Ma.”

Romance’s jaw drops, and he raises a hand. “Wait. Are you saying… that’s why you made a deal with Gwi-Ma?”

Abby tilts his head back again, letting the water pour down his neck. “No, man. No. It just… came with it. Deal was for something else entirely.”

Romance looks at him for a while. “Then what did you make a deal with him for?”

Abby mutters something, almost too low to catch. “Doesn’t matter, man.”

Romance blinks. Rewinds in his mind. For a moment, he’s sure he misheard. Then he realizes. That’s it. The conversation stops. He squints, trying to solve it, but the longer Abby stares at him, the more he can see that Gwi-Ma is a sensitive topic. There’s a boundary there that even centuries of knowing each other can’t breach. Abby’s set the boundary, and Romance isn’t going to push it. He knows enough about the man to respect that line, even if he doesn’t entirely understand it.

“Okay.” Romance says finally, raising his hands in surrender. “Fine. Fine. Not my business. We leave it. Didn’t mean—”

Abby shakes his head. “Relax, man. I’m not offended. Just… don’t. You’d get it eventually.”

Romance nods, giving in with a small wave of his hand. The hum of the shower fills the pause, and for a moment, neither says anything. Romance starts to let his attention wander, soap sliding down his shoulder, water dripping along his arms, already thinking about something else. The water runs down Abby’s chest, down his abs, over the lean lines of his ribs. He’s calm, completely untouchable in his own way. Romance can’t even imagine him being flustered in any situation that doesn’t involve you, or maybe Jinu.

Romance tilts back toward Abby, grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “But… can I… touch it?”

Abby freezes mid-rub, water dripping off his elbow. “…What now?”

Romance shrugs, that perfect blend of innocence and charm that makes it impossible to say no. “Come on. I’m curious. What do you mean it’s fake? I have to check it out.”

Abby narrows his eyes but he lets out a snort. “It’s not ‘fake.’ Dude—“ he cuts himself off, shaking his head. “fine. Get it over with.”

Romance reaches for Abby’s dick without hesitation, Abby shoves him lightly, Romance dodges, slipping slightly on the wet tiles, and Abby mutters some combination of curse words and laughter. “Goddammit, man! Careful!”

Romance laughs. “Relax, relax! I’m gentle! I’m careful!”

“You better be.” Abby grumbles, shaking his head.

Romance reaches out again, and this time Abby actually lets him touch it. First, with his manicured fingers. Then Romance actually grabs it, feeling it up, trying to pinpoint the difference from one that’s not… fake, if that’s the right word, not like Romance knows what actually happened to Abby’s dick. But nothing out of the ordinary. If Abby hadn’t told him that he did something to it, Romance couldn’t tell.

Romance actually has a face of pure focus, if anyone walked in right now, they’d fucking die from laughter. “Feels normal to me, man. What did—“

“Are you done yet?” Abby mutters.

Romance looks up, wide-eyed, dripping with faux innocence. “What? Nice balls, man—”

“I asked—are you FUCKING done?!” Abby yells, voice echoing off the tiled walls.

Romance actually flinches and raises his hands, laughing so hard he nearly slips. “Fine, fine! Done! Jeez, man, so sensitive.”

Abby shakes his head, smirking despite himself. “You’re unbelievable. You’re—ugh, you’re the worst, man.”

Romance chuckles, now only hot water sliding over his hands and arms, and suddenly the room feels like it’s shrinking. “You know, for someone who’s so all mysterious and cool, you get hard fast, huh?”

Abby’s kicks Romance’s shin, water splashing as he doubles over in pain. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood.” he mumbles.

After Romance recovered from the kick, the conversation drifts. Romance shifts from flustered curiosity about Abby’s body to the everyday things of the apartment, a shelf still broken even after Jinu told Abby a hundred times to fix it, the fact that Baby hasn’t cleaned the ashtray in two days, the way Mystery still hasn’t shown up, and Jinu’s infamous robe. Abby listens, nodding along, occasionally adding a word or two, minimal but enough to signal he’s paying attention. Romance doesn’t press the previous topic again, he’s learned his lesson. Gwi-Ma is a sensitive subject for Abby. He’s not about to cross that line, not even out of curiosity.

Romance leans against the opposite wall, hair plastered to his forehead, arms crossed. The relaxed pose is a lie, his jaw works. “Jinu.” he says finally. “Man, I swear. He’s playing his own game.”

Abby lowers his head, water running in thick streams down his chest. “You think he’s trying to keep her to himself.”

“I know he is.” Romance’s voice drops to a growl of frustration. “Every time she’s off balance, guess who shows up. Mister perfect-listener. Mister nothing-to-worry-about. And Y/N goes to him. Always.”

Abby wipes a hand across his face, flicking droplets to the floor. He doesn’t answer right away. He’s big enough to take his time. “She went to him tonight, right?”

Romance gives a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah, I told you. He doesn’t even have to try. Just sits there in the dark and somehow she’s knocking on his door.”

Abby grunts, a deep sound that could mean agreement or annoyance. “Jinu’s quiet. People like quiet.”

“Quiet isn’t the problem.” Romance snaps. “It’s the way he uses it. Like… like a hook. Lets everyone else talk, then pulls when it counts. Pretends he’s calm, but he’s always pulling strings. You felt it tonight, right? The way she went straight to him after throwing up? That’s not accident. He’s been planting that for months.”

Abby lets out a short breath that’s almost a laugh. “You think you’re better?”

Romance’s shoulders tense. “I know what I am. Jinu hides.” He pauses, then adds, softer, “Still… I can’t hate him the way I should.”

Abby snorts. “Because you’ve got a thing for him.”

“Like you don’t.” Romance shoots him a sideways look, water dripping from his lashes.

Abby shakes his head. “Not the point.”

“Sure it is.” Romance straightens, rubbing the water from his eyes

Abby studies him, eyes half-hidden under dripping hair. He doesn’t say it aloud, but he understands too well. He reaches for the temperature knob, turning the water a notch hotter. “Truth? I get it.”

Romance raises a brow. “You?”

A shrug.

The shower fills with another stretch of quiet, only the heavy patter of water and the faint scent of soap between them. They’ve both seen centuries of blood and betrayal, but this moment feels strangely normal, two men talking in the steam.

Abby glances down at Romance’s hardening cock, smirks. “Uh… you planning to do something about that?” He gestures, snorting.

Romance grunts, rolling his eyes. “It’s the heat. And Jinu. Shut up.”

Abby chuckles, shaking his head. “Sure. Blame Jinu.”

Romance flicks water at him. “I said shut up.”

They go back to washing in silence. For all the ridiculous games they play around you, they can still stand here, two ancient demons who’ve done unforgivable things, speaking like this. Eventually Abby steps out, water still dripping from his shoulders. He grabs a towel, rubbing it through his hair, grinning when Romance mutters something about “finally.”

“You’re welcome.” Abby answers, his back to Romance. He runs the towel across his chest. “Your turn to actually use the hot water instead of just staring into space.”

Romance leans an elbow against the wall of tile, giving him a once-over. “Why rush? View’s good from here.”

Abby laughs, a deep sound that echoes in the humid air. “Oh yeah? My sparkling personality or my world-class calves?”

“Neither.” Romance says. “Definitely the ass.”

Abby pretends to think it over while he towels his arms. “Fine. I’ll give you that. It is a fine ass.” He shoots a wink over his shoulder, just enough to make the steam feel a degree hotter. “Years of squats.”

Romance chuckles, running a hand through his wet hair. “Tragic waste, all that effort, if no one’s appreciating it.”

“Oh, plenty of appreciation.” Abby fires back. “I just don’t usually get reviews mid-shower.”

“Consider it professional feedback,” Romance says smoothly. “Five stars.”

Abby shakes his head, smiling as he wraps the towel around his waist. Romance watches him reach for the door. Something in his chest tightens.

“C’mon,” he says, softer than a whisper. “stay.”

Abby stops. Just stops, hand on the handle. The hallway’s cooler air brushes his back, but he doesn’t move. For a long second he stares at the fogged glass of the mirror, at the faint outline of their shapes in the mist.

He doesn’t turn around, but his voice is low when he finally answers. “Don’t tempt me.”

Romance’s heartbeat thuds loud in his ears. He wants to reach out, to bridge the space between them, to admit that maybe this strange affection has been simmering for a lot of time now. But he only says, with a crooked smile the other man can’t see, “Who said anything about temptation?”

Abby exhales, a short, rough sound. There’s a beat, just long enough to notice the way Abby’s smile lingers, the way Romance’s eyes stay a fraction too long on the water sliding down Abby’s back.

Abby moves toward the door, glancing back just long enough to catch Romance watching him. “Don’t stay in too long.” He says, a little lighter than before. “Wouldn’t want you pruning.”

Romance arches a brow. “Worried about me now?”

“Always.” Abby tosses over his shoulder, then the door swings open, and Abby is gone, closing it behind himself.

Romance stays where he is, the sound of the shower suddenly loud in the empty room. He runs a hand through his hair and exhales, a low sound that’s half laugh, half something else entirely.

They want each other. Of course they do. Everyone in that fuckass apartment wants something they’re not ready to name. But wanting is easier than admitting. So Romance turns back into the spray, lets the water beat down on his skin, and says nothing at all, a wry grin tugging at his mouth despite the hollow ache settling in his chest.

Cowards, both of them. Centuries of violence and they can’t even face a single truth.

Abby steps out into the hall, the towel knotted low at his hips. Droplets slide across the ridges of muscle on his chest and arms, catching the dim glow from the hallway lights. A slow roll of his shoulders, a glance at the hallway mirror. He likes what he sees, and he’s never been shy about it. He figures there’s no point trying to sleep, sunrise is brushing the sky already, so he walks toward the living room, running a hand through damp hair.

Derpy is there, the enormous tiger sprawled across half the carpet, breathing in heavy, satisfied purrs. The animal’s tail gives a lazy flick when Abby enters.

“Hey, big guy.” Abby murmurs, voice dropping into the kind of low rumble animals seem to like. He crouches beside the massive belly, and starts scratching gently along Derpy’s huge body. The tiger stretches, paws flexing, and rolls a little to give him better access. “Look at you.”

Derpy stretches in reply, a lazy roll that shows teeth like polished knives, then flops back. Abby chuckles, cooing nonsense under his breath.

The front door clicks.

Abby straightens a little, hand still resting on Derpy’s side. The tiger’s ears twitch but he doesn’t startle. Whoever’s coming in isn’t a stranger.

It’s Mystery. Clothes dark, hair disheveled. There’s a tension in the set of his shoulders that doesn’t belong to something so beautiful. He shuts the door behind him without a word.

Abby stays crouched for a beat, taking him in. There’s no blood, no obvious fight, just that tight coil around Mystery’s presence, like he’s brought the night back with him. Finally Abby rises, the towel shifting slightly but staying put. He plants one broad hand on the back of the couch, casual as ever. “Morning.” he says, voice calm, almost lazy. “What’s up?”

Mystery stays quiet for a bit, then gives a short shake of his head.

Abby studies him for another moment. He could press, could ask where Mystery has been, what kept him out. But he reads the set of that jaw, the silence that isn’t just silence but a warning. “All right.” he says after a beat, tone easy. “You don’t want to talk, you don’t talk.” He shrugs one massive shoulder, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Grab a shower if you want. Water’s still hot.”

Mystery gives the faintest nod. Abby pats Derpy’s belly once more, and goes toward the kitchen. The tiger settles again, a deep rumble of contentment filling the space. Mystery moves past. Abby watches him disappear into the shadowed corridor. He exhales through his nose, a small frown tugging at the corner of his mouth, but he lets it go. If Mystery wants to keep his secret, Abby isn’t going to wrestle it from him.

Derpy yawns wide, unconcerned, and flops to one side.

Inside in his room, Mystery sits on his bed now, head tipped back against the wall. The room is dark except for the lights coming from the city. The walk should have bled the energy out of him. He’d stalked the city for hours. But every step only sharpened the memory, the press of your mouth on his, the stunned silence after. It’s burned into him.

He doesn’t regret it. Not a shred of it. Regret requires doubt, and he feels none. What he feels is hunger. Feral, obsessive, a thing with claws. You. Your lips. Your heartbeat. The small tremor in your hands when you pulled back. The look in your eyes that said this is wrong even as you stayed close enough to breathe the same air. He replays it again and again, the way some people worry a wound until it bleeds.

His chest tightens, but not with guilt. He smiles, sharp and unkind.

“She’ll understand.” Gwi-Ma’s voice whispers, slick as oil. “She kissed you. You felt it. She wants it again. She’s yours.”

He closes his eyes and lets the whisper get hold of him. It tells him you’re thinking of him right now, that the stress in your chest is proof. That the nausea, the trembling, the tears, those are signs of wanting, not fear.

It’s a lie. He knows it’s a lie. But he wants to believe.

“Take her back. Next time, don’t let her pull away.”

It’s obsession. A feral pull. Something that sunk its claws into him the first time you met and has only grown. He thinks of you asleep down the hall, and the thought burns. Your lips, your voice, the way you looked at him before the kiss, he wants it all again. Wants it harder, wants it to rewrite the night.

“She likes you back”

Mystery knows it’s manipulation, he knows, but he doesn’t care. The hunger feels good. Images flare behind his eyes, you laughing, you running, you pinned against the wall as the world went quiet. He wants more. He wants you to choose him, to stay, to stop looking at the others like they matter. He wants you caught in the same feeling he’s been in since the start.

He doesn’t plan to stop. Not until you say his name the way he imagines it.

The rational part of him—what’s left of it—knows how wrong this is. Knows you’re human, fragile, and that the kiss has already rattled you. He heard the panic in your breath. He saw it in your eyes.

But the rest of him, the bigger part, refuses to care.

You’ll calm down.

You’ll forgive.

You’ll come back.

That’s what he tells himself as dawn seeps through the curtains. That’s what Gwi-Ma keeps whispering, sweet and venomous.

He’s never been happier.

And that should terrify you.

“She wants what you are.“

Mystery knows the difference between want and right. He simply doesn’t care. One day you’ll understand, that’s what he tells himself. One day you’ll wake and the fear will have burned away, and you’ll see the inevitability of it, the kiss was a beginning, not a mistake. You’ll remember the way your breath caught, the way you didn’t step back.

Mystery’s heart pounds hard enough to ache. He doesn’t plan the next move. He only knows he’ll keep circling, keep watching, keep waiting for the moment you stop running. Because in his mind, there is no line to cross. There is only the pull. And the pull is everything.

Somewhere down the hall a door opens, someone coughs, life goes on. Mystery stays in the dark, pulse steady, breath slow, the taste of your kiss a permanent scar on his tongue.

And he will not stop.

You don’t understand what you did last night. He does.

“She’s alone now. Go to her. Claim what’s yours.”

Mystery’s fingers tighten against his thighs. Not yet. The others will be ready to go soon. They’ll expect him to suit up, to follow them back into whatever new job waits outside these walls. He’ll go. He always goes. The human routines keep suspicion low, keep the city from noticing the monsters in its veins.

“You’ll be back.” Gwi-Ma croons. “You’ll feed her the words she’s starving for. She’ll beg for you before the next moon.”

He pictures the future as if it’s already carved in stone, your head on his chest, your breath warm against his throat, the fight finally gone from your eyes. Girlfriend. Partner. Whatever name the humans give to someone claimed.

A brutal kind of calm spreads through him.

The others might suspect. They might even try to stop it. Let them. They’ve all tasted obsession in their own ways, they know it can’t be denied forever. For now he waits, motionless. The morning grows brighter, washing the room in pale blue. He hears every shift of weight, every breath of air through the place.

Somewhere down the hall a door moves. Soft hinge. Careful footstep.

Jinu.

Mystery’s hearing sharpens. He hears Jinu go to the kitchen. The faint clink of porcelain, tea. Of course. Mystery can almost map the path, across the hall, gentle knock, pause, the creak of your door.

A muffled rustle follows, the sound of sheets shifting. You’re waking. Mystery closes his eyes and lets the image build, you stretching, confused by morning light, the scent of tea finding you before words do.

Jinu speaks low. “Hey. Look what I got you.”

Mystery hears the pause after Jinu speaks, hears the careful patience of someone who has learned to wait centuries for anything at all. Jinu isn’t a man who rushes. He never has been. And now, after four hundred years of silence, he has you.

You sit up slowly, still tired. Obviously, god, you just fucking woke up. Jinu sets it on the bedside table and sits at the edge of the mattress, leaving space, always leaving space.

“Didn’t mean to wake you.” he murmurs.

“It’s okay.” you whisper back, voice rough. You don’t mention the nightmares, the knot of dread still in your stomach, the taste of last night’s panic. You don’t tell him the real reason for the nausea, the kiss that lives behind your eyes. You just wrap your hands around the warm mug and let it burn your palms. You mumble a thank you.

Jinu watches you with that quiet that isn’t empty. His eyes hold centuries. And yet the way he looks at you is unguarded, almost human. Maybe more than human.

“You look tired.” he says after a while. “Long night?”

Yes.

I kissed Mystery.

I can’t stop thinking about it.

I’m terrified.

“Just… still stressed.”

Jinu tilts his head, studying you. He doesn’t push. That’s what makes it worse. His silence is gentle, and somehow it invites more than any question could. “Stress has a way of convincing you it’s bigger than it is.” A faint smile. “It’s a liar.”

You breathe in the scent of the tea, calming, and wonder if he’s right. But the lie you carry isn’t stress. It’s a memory of claws and a kiss, of wanting something you shouldn’t.

From his room, Mystery hears everything, the soft murmur of Jinu’s voice, your quiet replies. Each word slides under his skin. He presses the heel of his palm to his eye until stars spark in the dark. He won’t move. Not yet. But he listens.

You sip the tea and feel it settle, warm against the cold knot in your stomach. You think of the girls you left behind, of a world that once felt real. You wonder if they’d recognize you now, if they’d understand why you’re here, drinking tea with a demon who’s learning how to love. And you wonder how long this fragile moment can last before the truth, the kiss, the obsession, the danger, tears through it.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you ask, voice hoarse.

He shakes his head once, looking down at his hands. “Didn’t want to.” There’s a long pause. Then, softer: “Wanted to check on you.”

You look at him over the rim of your cup, and he’s already looking at you. His eyes flicker away when you meet them.

He’s been like this for months. Always near but never too close. Always the one who doesn’t reach for you first, even though you can feel how badly he wants to.

In four hundred years, Jinu hasn’t let himself care about anyone. He didn’t even let himself care about the other boys while training them, not in the way they cared about each other. But then you came along. You broke something open in Jinu he didn’t know was still there. A part of him that wanted to take care of someone. To be good for someone, even if he’d long since stopped being good himself.

And it heals him, in a way he doesn’t have words for. Watching you sip the tea he made, listening to your breathing slow, seeing you still here after everything, they’re tiny stitches pulling together wounds centuries old.

He clears his throat. “How are you feeling?”

You hesitate, staring down into the mug. You could tell him the truth, that you’re a knot of guilt and confusion, that you can still feel Mystery’s mouth against yours, that you’re scared and you don’t even know of what. But instead you say, “I’m okay.”

He looks at you for a long time. You can feel his eyes on you even when you don’t look up. He knows you’re lying. He can smell the tension rolling off you. He can smell Romance and Baby and Abby on your skin, the faint tang of cigarette ash.

It’s so complex, this thing between you and the boys. You hate what they’ve done, the parts of yourself you’ve lost to them. And yet here you are, still reaching for them when you’re hurting. Still letting them hold you, still drinking the tea they make, still craving the warmth of them even when you know better.

You don’t see the way he exhales slowly, like he’s trying to breathe you in. You don’t see the way his thumb brushes the seam of his pants, itching to reach for you. You don’t see the way his eyes soften when you blow across the surface of the tea before sipping, like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever watched.

Jinu knows what he is. He knows he’s done unforgivable things. He knows he made his own choices with Gwi-Ma, that he killed and betrayed. He doesn’t get to have first loves. He doesn’t get to have soft mornings with tea. Now for a few stolen minutes, he has both.

You shift, sliding your body closer until your shoulder presses against Jinu’s arm. It’s small, subtle, like maybe you didn’t even mean it. But you did. You lean on him, tired and heavy, and let your cheek brush the fabric of his shirt. And Jinu… Jinu stops breathing. It’s nothing, really. Just contact. Just you easing against him. But to him, it’s everything. He closes his eyes for a second. This is all he’s ever wanted, to be someone you lean on, someone you trust enough to sink into without thinking. The stress in your body quiets against him, and Jinu swears he feels the earth tilt back into place.

He wants to freeze the moment forever. Of course, that’s when Romance’s voice cuts through the door.

“There she is!”

The door swings open before Jinu can react, and in comes Romance, grinning, eyes glued to you as if Jinu isn’t even sitting there. “My love, my darling, baby girl, you’re awake.”

Jinu stiffens, arm tightening slightly around you as if he can physically ward off the other boy’s energy. “She’s fine.” he says flatly.

Romance ignores him. Of course he does. He crosses the room and drops to a dramatic crouch in front of the bed, reaching for your hand. “I was so worried. Do you know how much stress it causes me when you don’t feel well? I age a hundred years every time you so much as frown—”

And before Jinu can tell him to get lost, the doorway fills with Abby’s broad frame. He’s nursing some protein shake the color of wet cement, sipping through a straw. Baby trails after him, cigarette dangling from his lips.

“Morning, babe.” Abby drawls at you, leaning against the doorframe. “Look at you, sitting up like a champ.” He raises the shake in salute, takes another long, slurping sip.

Jinu exhales through his nose, long-suffering.

Baby’s eyes flick over you, quick, before he flops into your desk chair, already pulling out a lighter.

And just like that, Jinu’s sanctuary is destroyed. He holds you closer, an arm protectively curled around your shoulders, and says through gritted teeth, “Only if you’d clean up after yourself with this energy. Or pick up your clothes? Or maybe—just once—help me out?”

Romance, still crouched in front of you, looks up with wide, innocent eyes. “Aren’t you just a ray of sunshine in the morning?”

“Yeah, man, nobody wants to hear this.” Abby chimes in, dead calm, taking another obnoxiously loud sip of his shake.

Baby exhales smoke and adds, “Who do you think you are, my fucking mom? Go away, man.”

Your lips twitch, trying not to laugh.

Jinu scowls at all three of them, his hand absently rubbing your arm. “I think I’m the only one who gives a fuck about this apartment and our career.”

“Glad you woke up too, man.” Abby says blandly, not even looking at him, and then he makes a face at his protein drink as if Jinu isn’t even in the room.

Romance tilts his head. “You know, Jinu, complaining looks good on you. Really brings out that whole grumpy-single-dad energy you’ve got going on.” He glances at you. “Don’t you think? He’s glowing.”

Baby smirks faintly. “Glowing with something, yeah.”

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. The way they gang up on Jinu is merciless, but funny. Fucking hilarious. It’s also hilarious how Jinu drags a hand down his face, muttering something under his breath. But he doesn’t shove them out, doesn’t get up. He just holds you tighter, as if he can make up for their chaos by keeping you firmly against him.

You shift, a small laugh slipping out despite yourself, and the sound makes Jinu’s chest loosen even while his jaw clenches tighter. Because this is exactly the problem. This ridiculous mess of demons, this pile of trauma and obsession, they’re the ones who make you laugh. And for better or worse, he can’t bring himself to take that from you.

So Jinu sits there, stiff, listening to Abby slurp, Romance flirt shamelessly, Baby smoke, and he grumbles, “One of these days, I swear—”

“—you’ll what? Lecture us again?” Abby cuts in.

“—nag us to death?” Baby adds, flicking ash into a coffee mug.

Romance clasps his hands together dramatically. “—or, god forbid, love us?”

The three of them look at Jinu with perfectly straight faces, waiting. It’s fucking hilarious. I’m holding my head as I’m writing this. I’m so fucking done with them too.

Jinu glares. You press your lips into your tea to hide the laugh bubbling up.

Abby slams down the last of his whatever shake with an obnoxious slurp and smacks his lips. “Alright.” he says, stretching his huge arms out. “This is depressing as shit. Someone’s gotta cheer Y/N up.”

“Leave it to me.” Romance purrs immediately. “I could solve all her problems with one good fuck.”

Jinu groans. “Don’t.”

Abby barks out a laugh, choking a little on his shake. “Yeah, yeah, try that line again, bro. See if she doesn’t throw the tea in your face.”

Romance fans it away dramatically. “Don’t be jealous. There’s enough of me to go around.”

You stifle a laugh into your cup, but it escapes anyway, a small sound that makes all three of them snap their heads toward you instantly.

Abby wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Rom, tell her about the time you got your ass handed to you at that afterparty. With the champagne bottle.”

Romance’s smile falters for exactly one second before snapping back into place. “Ah, but see, context matters. It was part of the seduction.”

“Yeah?” Baby cuts in flatly. “Getting tackled into a fountain by security was part of the seduction?”

Abby snorts. “Rom thinks getting his ass kicked is foreplay.”

Romance lifts his chin dramatically. “If suffering makes me hotter, then yes, it worked. I am irresistible.” He blows a kiss at Abby.

“Oh, we’re doing this?” Abby leans forward, pointing at Romance. “Alright then. Remember that time Baby found your little stash of—”

“Do not.” Romance cuts in, holding a hand up like a stop sign.

Baby’s grin twitches, smoke curling from his lips. “Oh, I remember.”

Romance groans.

Baby flicks ash into the mug on your desk and adds, “At least you didn’t almost cry when your favorite brand stopped making those protein bars. That was tragic.”

Abby turns red. “It was one fucking time—”

Romance collapses onto your floor. “You should’ve seen it. Big scary Abby sulking in the corner because he couldn’t get his little snacky snack.”

Even Jinu’s mouth twitches like he’s trying not to laugh, though he covers it with a cough.

Abby points at Baby. “Don’t even start with me, man. Mister ‘I don’t care about anything’ feeding the birds on the balcony.”

Baby sits back, smoke curling around him. “You almost fell from there once, asshole.”

Abby leans back against your wall, smirking, about to say something else, Romance moves faster, wanting to shut Abby up already. So Romance, full hand, shameless, grabs Abby’s dick through his pants(to shut him up, though saying shut up could’ve been enough too) and Abby doesn’t even flinch. Just raises a brow.

“What the fuck.” Baby mutters, flicking ash.

“I’m not even mad.” Abby says. “Feels nice.”

You’re still smiling when they finally start to move toward the door, the three of them spilling over each other. At the doorway, Romance turns back, pointing at the pile of bags at the end of your bed. “Don’t forget to check those, love.”

“Yeah.” Baby adds, deadpan. “We let Abby pick shit out, so, you know. Lower your expectations.”

“Fuck off.” Abby snorts, shoving him out the door.

And just like that, they’re gone, their laughter and bickering fading down the hall. You look at the bags. Your chest is still heavy with all the things you can’t say, the kiss you can’t forget. (You don’t want to see him. You do want to see him.) But your lips are curved, and the tea is still warm in your hands. They didn’t fix anything. They couldn’t. But they made you laugh. And that’s something.

You sip your tea and watch Jinu’s expression. He’s got that vein at his temple throbbing, the one the others seem to take as a personal challenge. Ragebaited again.

You can’t forget Mystery. No matter how loud the others are, how stupid they get, there’s that knot inside you. Did he come home? Is he down the hall? Sleeping? Awake? Thinking about that kiss? You almost wish you could hear his claws scratching the walls, just so you’d know where he is. But at the same time, you don’t want to see him. Not yet. Not like this.

“Y/N.” Jinu says finally, voice low. “You know you can tell me anything, right?”

The way he says it is soft, coaxing, dripping with that fake patience he wears so well. It sounds like an offer, like kindness, but god, you don’t know that it’s a net. A hook. A lie. Of course you don’t. You’re tired. You’re hurting. You want someone to lean on.

Jinu tilts his head, studies you with those eyes, and adds, “I’d never judge you. Not for anything. You tell me what’s in your head, what’s in your chest, I’ll hold it for you. Always.”

What a fucking liar. He would weaponize every scrap of vulnerability if it meant pulling you closer, chaining you to him. He wouldn’t “hold it.” He’d keep it, twist it, feed on it like sugar. But you don’t realize. You only hear that smooth tone, the way he speaks to you like you’re precious. Special. You shift closer without thinking, leaning your head just slightly against his shoulder. It helps. His presence helps. And that’s all he wants, for you to believe that you need him.

“You’re too quiet.” Jinu murmurs, his breath stirring your hair. “That means you’re keeping something in. And you don’t have to, not with me.”

He wants to bite the words into you, to scar them into your skin so you never forget. You don’t have to, not with me. A lie. A hook.

He imagines, for one dizzy second, dragging you into his chest and never letting go. Imagines snapping at the others to stay the fuck out, locking every door, drowning you in his attention until you finally understand, you belong to him. Only him.

But he keeps his voice calm. He keeps his hand still. He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t push too far. Not yet. He’s not stupid. He knows how fragile humans are. He knows you’ll break if he comes on too hard, and god, that’s the last thing he wants. So he feeds you careful lies instead. “I don’t care if it’s ugly.” he says. “I don’t care if you think it’ll make me hate you. You could spit poison in my face and I’d still—” He cuts himself off, swallowing the word love, but it’s right there, hanging in the air between you like smoke. “—still stay.”

Oh, Jinu. You dramatic, manipulative asshole.

He’s not staying because he’s noble. He’s not staying because he wants to heal you. He’s staying because he can’t fucking leave. Because he’s hooked on you, because you crawled into the cracks of his rotten heart and made yourself at home, and now he’s choking on the need for you. If you vanished, he’d go mad. If you left, he’d burn the earth down looking for you.

But you don’t see it. You can’t. You only see the curve of his jaw, the way his eyes soften when he looks at you. You only hear the warmth in his tone. And you sigh again. Lean a little more of your weight into him.

Inside, Jinu is screaming. His heart claws at his ribs, demanding more, more of you, more closeness, more confessions, more skin, more everything. He wants to crush you against him, bruise your lips with his, drag every sound out of you until you’re hollow. He wants you to know what you’ve done to him. But he doesn’t. Not tonight. Tonight, he just tilts his head slightly, rests it against yours for the briefest second, and whispers, “It’s okay. Whatever it is. I’ve got you.”

The truth is, he’ll never “have” you. Not really. He’ll tear you apart in his need. He’ll drag you down with him. He doesn’t even care. He just wants you. All he ever wanted was you.

The sick thing is, he almost believes his own lie. He’s so far gone he almost convinces himself that he’s good for you, that his obsession is love, that his possessiveness is care. That maybe if you let him close enough, he could save himself through you. And oh, if only you knew how deep that goes. But you don’t. You just breathe beside him, fragile and warm, and he soaks it in.

“I mean it.” he says. “Anything. Every ugly, messy thing in your head. I won’t judge you. I won’t hate you. I won’t leave.”

When he finally stands, it’s like tearing himself away from a drug. His body resists it. His chest aches. He stares down at you for a long, silent moment, memorizing every detail of your tired face.

“Get some rest.” he says quietly, forcing a little curve of a smile onto his lips. “I’ll be nearby if you need me.”

Another trick. Another thread to tie around your ankle. If you need me. Of course you’ll need him. He’ll make sure of it. And then he leaves, pulling the door shut behind him, his footsteps retreating down the hall. You’re alone again. Alone with your tea, your tangled feelings, the heap of bags, the silence. But Jinu’s words linger, sticky as blood. You can tell me anything. You don’t have to, not with me. I’ll hold it for you. Always. Lies, every one of them. But you don’t know that yet. Not yet.

The sun had shifted high by the time you finally looked at the bags. They’d been sitting there all morning, with the weight of whatever the boys thought you needed, or wanted. Or maybe what they wanted for you. You lasted longer than you thought you would, sipping cold tea and staring at the paper handles, thinking maybe if you ignored them, the bags would vanish. But no. They sat. They waited. And eventually, your curiosity cracked you open.

You slid off the bed, the floor cool against your feet, and pulled the first bag closer. It was… full. Overflowing. Clothes. All kinds. Shirts in colors you usually picked for yourself. Sweaters softer than anything you’d ever tried on. The second bag, that one was practical. Sort of. Toothpaste, but a luxury brand. Lotions, body scrubs, perfumes. And tucked at the bottom, a pack of hairbands. The thing you actually needed. The third bag was lingerie. Oh, for fuck’s sake. Lace, silk, satin, all in cuts and colors that screamed not for you but for them. But goddamn it, one or two pieces were pretty, and you hated yourself for thinking so. Bras that fit your size, panties delicate enough to tear in one tug, slips that would never stay on long if they had their way. You shoved the lace back into the bag too quickly, your face hot. And then, the fourth bag. You pulled out candles first. Dozens. Some small jars with woodsy scents, some tall ones dyed black, one shaped like a skull that made you roll your eyes but also smile despite yourself. Matches too, a fancy box. Incense. They thought of everything. Then, buried beneath the wax and jars, came the things that made you freeze.

A vibrator. Expensive. Still boxed. Lubes, too, tucked beside them. A feather tickler that made you groan aloud. You dropped the box back into the bag like it burned.

Alright. Okay. Fuck. Anyways. Another bag yielded jewelry, rings, bracelets, a necklace. You didn’t even want to guess how much they stole or spent for it. Another bag, food. Exotic sweets. Chocolate boxes lined with velvet. Teas and coffees, rare-looking labels. Even dried fruit. They didn’t half-ass it. And then, a little box of watercolor paints, brushes tied together with ribbon. Art supplies? For you? It was too much. All of it. Way, way too much.

They knew you better than they should. Better than anyone should. This was love, in their way. This was obsession, spilling over. They wanted to drown you in things until you couldn’t breathe, until you had no room in your life that wasn’t filled with them. And maybe, maybe, part of you wanted to drown too. Because the perfume smelled good. Because the sweater was soft. Because the watercolor called to your fingers. And because, even though you shoved the vibrator back into the bag, you couldn’t erase the thought that they thought of you in that way. That they wanted you to touch yourself and think of them. That they wanted to live in your skin even when they weren’t in the room.

The boys were out there, somewhere, thinking they’d done the right thing, thinking you’d be happy when you opened the bags. And maybe, in some way, they were right. Because you did feel something, warmth, even in your fury. Because the truth was, nobody else in the world was giving you sweaters and vibrators and hairbands in the same fucking breath. Nobody else was insane enough to drown you in this. Only them. Always them. And you hated it. And you loved it.

They love you. They do. Brutally, ferociously, with no filter and no restraint. They love you enough to remember the color of the clothes you usually wear around the house. Enough to burn their money on things you never asked for. Enough to embarrass you with toys you can’t even look at without your stomach tightening.

But they’re demons. They’re monsters. They hurt you. Over and over again, they tore you apart, shredded you down to pieces until you barely recognized yourself. And now? Now they want to wrap you in sweaters and lavender candles like they can pretend none of it happened. It’s sick. It’s fucked up. And you let yourself sink into it. Because who else do you have? Who else has stuck around? The girls are gone. Rumi, Mira, Zoey, they’re memories now, ghosts of something you could have had, should have had. But the boys are here. Always here. Filling your room with gifts, filling your chest with contradictions.

Eventually, the clothes went into your dresser, folded too neatly because the act of smoothing fabric gave you something to do with your shaking hands. Sweaters stacked on sweaters. The lotions and perfumes, you tried to shove those into the little shelf in your bathroom, though they didn’t fit, bottles crowding each other. You left the most glittering ones on the counter. The jewelry you didn’t touch for a long while. But eventually, you placed the necklace back into its box and slid it into the bottom drawer of your desk. You didn’t want it out, didn’t want to look at it every day. The rings, though, you tried one on. Just for a second. It fit too perfectly. You ripped it off and shoved it back in the drawer. The food was easier. Chocolate in your desk. Tea and coffee tucked into the kitchen cabinet. The art supplies, those sat on your nightstand, next to Romance’s nudes. Too personal to hide. Too personal to throw away.

And then. The bag you kept pushing aside. The vibrator. The lube. The feather tickler. You stared at them, throat dry, face hot. They didn’t belong in your room, not with your sweaters and hairbands and whatnot. They belonged to whoever thought this was a good idea. And you didn’t even have to guess who. Romance. Of course. Who else would handpick sex toys for you? You pressed your lips together, grabbed the bag, and stood before you could think twice.

Romance’s door creaked open too easily. The room smelled faintly of cologne and candle wax, that too-sweet mix he carried. At first glance, it was clean enough, bed made, clothes tossed across a chair.

But then you looked around more. And oh. My. Fucking. God. You’d seen it before, yes. You knew what was there. But knowing didn’t soften the impact of seeing it again. You won’t even look at the whips. And sitting innocently on the nightstand, a bowl of condoms like candy mints.

Your stomach twisted, not entirely with disgust. There was something magnetic about it, like staring at a car crash you couldn’t look away from.

Attractive. That was the problem. Because it was attractive. And that realization made you want to scream.

You walked fast, threw the bag onto his bed with more force than necessary. The vibrator and lube and whatever-the-fuck landed against his silk sheets, a match made in hell. And then you turned, almost ran, because if you stayed another second in that room, you’d start looking closer. You’d start wondering about the cuffs, about the ropes, about how often he used them. About who he used them on. About whether he thought of you when he set them up, when he laid in that bed with his ridiculous ego. You didn’t want to wonder. But oh, you were really wondering.

Your breath caught as you shut his door behind you. The hallway felt colder. Your room was safer, even with its mountain of gifts. At least your room didn’t look like a sex dungeon disguised as an idol’s apartment.

When you went back to your room, you stopped at your nightstand. Your hand hovered above it like you’d been burned before. And maybe you had, burned by curiosity, by what you let yourself keep there, hidden but never gone. The stack of photos sat where you left them. And beside them, folded, the letter.

You sighed. Deep, heavy. Then you picked them up. One by one, you looked. The first photo, Romance sprawled naked on his sheets, cuffed hands above his head. A pretty smile. The second, him kneeling. Rope biting into his thighs, his arms tied behind him. His head tipped to the side, hair falling into his face, mouth parted. The third, too much. Way too much. He was fully naked, tied to a chair with dark leather straps, thighs spread. A vibrator, yes, a vibrator, half inside him. The camera caught the arch of his back, the strain in his jaw, the glint of sweat. He wasn’t even looking at the lens. The fourth, chains. Heavy iron, looped across his chest, cinched to the bed frame. His cock hard, proud, shameless. His tongue between his teeth. He wasn’t embarrassed. He wasn’t vulnerable. He was showing off. Every bit of him said, look how far I’ll go for you, angel. Look how far I’ll let you see. The fifth photo, ropes. His arms behind his back, his torso bare, the lighting moody enough to make it look actually good if you didn’t look too closely at the bulge in his pants. He had his head tilted back, mouth parted, eyes closed.

You weren’t a prude. But this, this was so far past what you expected from a guy who spent his public life dancing and smirking at cameras. It was obscene, and weirdly vulnerable.

You flipped to the next one. Romance blindfolded, wrists shackled to a bedframe. Naked again, but one leg laid over his crotch. Red marks across his chest like someone had scratched him. His lips parted around a moan you couldn’t hear. The angle was intimate, invasive. And the seventh you nearly dropped. A knife to his throat. But the way he tilted his chin, eyes locked with the camera, daring you to imagine holding that knife yourself… it did something ugly inside you.

You swallowed hard.

What the fuck, man.

You hadn’t expected, no, scratch that, you had expected this level of insanity from Romance. But still. Seeing it laid out, undeniable, was different. Your pulse jumped against your throat like you’d been caught doing something wrong.

Another, sprawled on his stomach, hands cuffed behind his back, a knife resting gently on his spine. The next softer. Him clothed again, just his head on a pillow, smiling without the smirk. A hint of sincerity that somehow was cuter than the filth. The tenth, his hand wrapped around himself, mid-stroke, messy, shameless.

And then, the letter.

You set the pictures aside carefully, and unfolded the paper. His handwriting was ridiculous. Loopy, sprawling, dramatic as his stage persona.

And the words—

Oh.

“To the one that keeps me up at night. I don’t care if you laugh at these. I don’t care if you shove them in a drawer. I don’t care if you never look at them again. I just wanted you to know I’m yours. Every inch. Every part. Every scar and sin. I don’t belong to anyone else, never did, never will. I’m the fool in love with you, and I’ll play the fool until the end of the world if that’s what it takes.”

You blinked hard, throat tight.

“When you look at me, even if it’s just once, even if it’s to roll your eyes or tell me I’m an idiot, I feel alive. Do you get that? After everything I’ve done, after everything I am, you make me feel human. You make me want to be human.”

The loops tangled, words running faster, darker.

“You don’t have to love me back. You don’t have to touch me. You don’t have to say a word. Just let me love you. Let me burn for you. Let me be yours in the only way I know how. And if one day you want me, if one day you even think about me, remember these pictures and know I was already waiting.”

Oh, god.

“One day, you’ll understand that no rope, no chain, no bed, no camera means anything compared to the way you already hold me. Yours, always—Romance.”

You sat there, silent, letter trembling in your hands.

Romance, evil, shameless Romance, loved you. Not just with his body, not just with his ego. With every fucked up piece of himself. And he hid it inside pictures of himself tied up, grinning, obscene. Because that’s who he was. Because that’s the only language he knew.

God, you didn’t expect this. You didn’t expect to see a man with a vibrator in his ass while being kidnapped and find a love confession in the same damn minute.

Love, in their hands, was just another weapon.

You sat there, tears in your eyes, photos stacked at your side, letter open in your lap, and wondered how the hell you were supposed to breathe in a world where men like this loved you. Evil. Shameless. Ridiculous. And still, so brutally sincere it broke you.

You wiped at your eyes, folded the letter, and collapsed onto your back, staring at the ceiling. To the one that keeps me up at night. You laughed once, bitter and small. And then you whispered into the silence: “Fuck you, Romance.”

But your hand tightened around the paper. And you didn’t let go.

Hours later, the front door shuts behind the boys. The five scatter. They do not look for you. They know where you are. They leave you in the dark end of the apartment, tucked away. They’re tired, they know you’re tired, it’s a day like that. That’s it. Baby disappears first, always. His lighter clicks, the scent of smoke trailing him like perfume as he slips into whatever corner he calls his own. Abby follows, broad shoulders brushing the wall as he heads toward the kitchen. Jinu vanishes. He does not need to see you to feel you in his chest. He does not go to you. Not yet. He waits. He always waits. Mystery stays in the hall for too long, unmoving. His eyes drag down the corridor, to the door at the end. Your door. His pulse beats in his ears. He forces himself away, into his own darkness, jaw tight, Gwi-Ma’s shadow whispering at the edges of his thoughts. He will not disturb you now. He has patience. He has obsession. He has time. He knows you’ll come to him, no matter how fast his heart beats whenever he thinks of the kiss. Romance shuts his door.

Someone has been here.

You have been here.

The bag is there. On his bed. It sits half-spilled, fabric crinkled. Oh, okay, all right. He steps closer. His hand skims the edge of the bag, fingertips brushing the fabric. The items inside shift. His mind flickers through them quickly, cataloguing, certain of what belongs, what doesn’t. Everything belongs, though few things are missing, but none of them dirty. You left everything sexual there.

It’s okay. This is what he wanted. Not silence. Not ignorance. He wanted you to see him. To know him. To see the vibrator, to feel something. The knowledge fuels him. His chest rises, falls, too quickly. His body feels alive, pulsing, restless. The rope in one corner of his bed seems to pull him in. The polished cuffs on the wall gleam as though mocking him.

If you won’t use the gifts, then he will.

His hand plunges into the bag, taking the things out. His breathing grows shallow, sharp, as though every item fuels him more.

He thinks of you again. The way your hands look, or how could they have looked when you held the bag. The small shake of your shoulders. Maybe you laughed. Maybe you cried. Maybe both. He doesn’t care which. He only cares that you held it close. That you didn’t throw it away.

His fingers tighten around the vibrator as he takes it out.

It doesn’t matter what you think of him. Doesn’t matter if you recoil, if you curse his name. You saw him. You let him inside your head. And now, he’ll stay there. If you won’t come to him yet, he’ll come to you eventually. And if you resist, he’ll only tighten his hold. He always wins. Always.

Romance lies back in the middle of his bed. His cock’s been aching since he saw the bag on his bed, heavy against his thigh, and it’s all your fault.

He starts unbuttoning his shirt. His fingers are shaky, too eager. The soft fabric slides down his shoulders, revealing skin that’s flushed already, nipples stiff in the cool air. He tosses the shirt aside, then starts undoing his pants. He pushes the fabric down, then his boxers, his cock slapping free, thick and flushed, already leaking.

He looks down at himself, grins at the sight. “All for you, baby.” he murmurs, thinking of you. He strokes once, a long drag of his palm up the length, and groans deep. He could finish like this, raw and needy, but he wants more tonight. He wants to ruin himself for you.

The vibrator. He holds it in his palm, heavy, promising. Just the thought of using it, of imagining your sweet little hands holding it instead, your lips parted as you watched him, makes his cock twitch.

He positions himself on the bed, spreads his legs wide. He looks like he’s posing for someone, like he expects you to walk in and see him like this, hair messy, chest gleaming with sweat, cock hard and proud against his stomach.

“Hope you’re watching.” he breathes, then presses the vibrator against the base of his shaft.

The first buzz makes him jolt, hips bucking. “Ohh, fuck—” The vibration hums against him, deep, and he groans, head tipping back. His thighs tense, muscles flexing, his abs tightening as he drags the toy up the length of his cock. Precum spills from his tip, wetting his stomach.

He closes his eyes, picturing you. Picturing you curled on the bed beside him, watching with wide, beautiful eyes as he plays with himself. You wouldn’t know what to say. You’d be shocked, probably flustered, but you wouldn’t look away. You’d bite your lip and watch, cheeks pink, thighs pressing together.

The thought makes him whimper.

He pushes the vibrator against his tip, right where it aches most, and his whole body jerks. “Ohhh, shit, that’s— fuck—” His toes curl, his thighs squeeze together, his cock twitching violently under the buzzing pressure. He holds it there, gasping, drool threatening to slip from his lips.

It’s obscene, how loud he is. His moans fill the room, shameless, pornographic. He doesn’t care. He wants the walls to know. He wants the whole house to know. He wants you to know.

He slides the toy down, circles his balls, presses it to his perineum, and cries out. “Fuck, baby, ohhh— yeah, just like that. Just—” He breaks off into a helpless groan, hips rutting up into the air. His cock smears precum across his stomach with every twitch, every spasm.

He grabs himself with his other hand, stroking while the vibrator buzzes against his base. The combination makes him see stars. He arches off the bed, hair sticking to his damp forehead, his mouth open, spilling every filthy sound his body rips out of him.

“Ohhh— god— baby, baby, baby—”

He imagines your sweet little voice asking what he’s doing, if it feels good, if you can try. He imagines your soft fingers replacing his, your mouth opening for him, your thighs pressed together while you watch.

“Fuuuck… ahhh, god, baby—” He presses the vibrator hard to the base of his cock, fists himself desperately, and the orgasm tears out of him with a hoarse scream. His back arches off the mattress, every muscle straining, cock pumping thick ropes of cum across his chest and stomach. It shoots high, messy, dripping down his abs, smeared by his fist as he strokes through it. The vibrator hums mercilessly, dragging his orgasm out until he’s shaking, until he’s sobbing soft little moans into the air.

“Baby— ohhh, baby— god, that’s— mmmnhh—”

Finally, finally, he rips the toy away, his body collapsing limp into the sheets. His cock twitches, oversensitive, dripping the last of him onto his stomach. His chest heaves, sweat slick across his skin, his thighs still trembling.

He reaches lazily for the tissues, half-heartedly wiping himself down, smiling. The vibrator lies discarded beside him, still buzzing faintly until he flicks it off. He curls onto his side, sticky, messy, blissed-out, and murmurs, “One day, baby. One day you’ll see. And I’ll make it so, so good for you.”

You’re in your room, lying flat on your back, staring at the ceiling, and the nausea still hasn’t gone. The taste of the bathroom floor, the stress, the kiss, Mystery’s eyes, all of it’s still swarming in your gut like you swallowed bees. It’s horrible. Fucking horrible. The boys are back. You heard them come in hours ago. You’ve stayed put, quiet, hoping if you made yourself small enough you wouldn’t have to see anyone, especially Mystery. You can’t. Not tonight.

You press a hand to your stomach. It’s still churning. God, you feel like shit. Your mind flashes to when you were younger and your dad’s old friend used to hand you a bottle of beer when you’d get motion sick. Not to drink-drink it, just a few sips. The smell. Whatevs. It used to help. Maybe placebo. Who cares. You know exactly one person in this place who might have something like for you.

You swing your legs off the bed, bare feet. Every step toward his room feels heavier, like your stomach might spill itself again. You keep praying under your breath, please don’t let Mystery be in the hall, please please.

The hallway is quiet. Dark. No sign of him. You pad up to Baby’s door and knock softly, knuckles just brushing wood.

A moment. Then the door swings open. Baby stands there shirtless, ribs and collarbones sharp under his skin, shaving cream still smeared across half his jaw. His eyes flicker down at you, and he leans his shoulder against the doorframe. “Yeah?” he says. One word. Dry. Bratty. Inside, though, his heart goes off like fireworks. He’s so fucking happy you’re here, at his door, of all people. But god forbid he show that.

You bite your lip and mutter, “When I was younger, beer used to help me with nausea. Like, not drinking-drinking, just… it helped. Do you have anything like that?”

He stares for a beat. “Sure. Come in.” He swings the door open wider. The room smells faintly of smoke and some kind of cologne. His bed’s a mess, clothes in piles, a half-played video game still paused on the screen. You step inside and he closes the door behind you with a soft click. He wipes a hand across his face, smearing the shaving cream worse, but he doesn’t care. “Sit.” he says, gesturing at the edge of his bed. He’s already crossing to his closet, silent.

You sit down gingerly. The mattress dips under your weight. You’re still nauseous, still jittery, horrible, honestly. So stressed.

He starts rummaging. His shoulders are narrow but tense, tendons shifting under skin as he digs. “You’re lucky I keep this crap around.“ He pulls out a bottle. “This is some shit Abby bought and hated. Been in here forever. Don’t fucking tell him it’s still in here.”

You take it from him, your hands brushing his. Cold glass. For a second the nausea spikes again but then settles, like just holding it is enough. “Thanks.” you whisper.

Baby shrugs, grabbing a towel from the floor and wiping the shaving cream from his face. “Yeah, whatever. Don’t puke on my bed.” But inside, he’s screaming. You’re here. In his room. Asking him for help. He sits down next to you, a little too close but still pretending it’s casual. He crosses his arms, eyes fixed on the floor. “So, uh. Still sick?”

“Yeah.” Your voice cracks.

He nods once. For a minute you both sit there in silence. The bottle sweats against your palms. He smells like smoke and minty shaving cream, and his skinny shoulder brushes yours. And he’s still happy. God, he’s so fucking happy. But instead of showing that, he just sits with you, letting the silence stretch, his knee bouncing once, twice. His whole body feels alive. He feels alive. He wants to reach out, wants to hold you, but he knows if he does it wrong you’ll slip away. Instead, he mutters, “You, uh… you wanna open that? Or you just gonna hold it?”

You let out a soft laugh despite yourself. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” he says, too quickly. Then clears his throat. “Just drink.”

You manage to open it and the hiss of carbonation fills the small room. You take a small sip. It’s not the same as when you were a kid, but it’s something. Baby watches you from the corner of his eye, trying to look uninterested. His fingers drum against his thigh. Every nerve in his body is aware of you sitting there on his bed, sipping from the bottle he gave you, trusting him with something small and weird and vulnerable.

He wants to tell you he’d get you anything, beer, diamonds, blood, the fucking moon. He wants to tell you he’d carry you out of this apartment, out of the city, out of everything, if it meant you’d feel safe. But he doesn’t. He just sits there, a skinny brat with a mouth full of unsaid words, pretending he’s not the happiest he’s been all century. And you sip your little beer, stomach still twisting, but some small part of you feels warmer than before. It’s wrong. All of it is wrong. But tonight you’re here, and he’s here, and that’s alright for now.

The bottle is almost empty now. There’s still a patch of shaving cream on his jaw he missed, and it makes him look both ridiculous and weirdly endearing. You want to laugh but don’t. You’re trying to keep the peace in your stomach, and laughter feels risky. So you sip again. The taste sticks to your tongue. It’s not good. You can already feel that soft little looseness. “It’s helping.” you say.

He shrugs.

The nausea’s fading. In its place comes that giddy tilt of calm that’s rare for you. The world still hurts, but it’s a quieter kind of hurt right now.

You lean back on your hands. “So, what about you? Why’re you up so late?”

He hums. “Shaving, apparently.”

You glance at the half-clean patch on his face and smirk. “Yeah, you missed a spot.”

He gives a low grunt, grabs the towel from his nightstand, and wipes at his jaw again without looking. “Better?”

“Still there.”

“Fuck.”

You giggle, actually giggle, and it surprises you more than him. You clap a hand over your mouth, cheeks going warm. “Sorry, I’m—”

He cuts you off with a lazy wave of his hand. “You’re fine. Laugh or whatever. You look better like that.”

You laugh again, and he can’t help it, his lips twitch, almost a smile, before he looks away. His heart is running faster than it should.

He taps the empty bottle in your hand. “Another?”

You hesitate, then nod. “Sure.”

He stands, moving like a cat, you just noticed that. He pulls out another bottle and pops the cap off with the side of his lighter. He hands it to you, then sits back down.

“Thanks.” you say quietly.

He nods once, still not looking at you. “Yeah.”

After a while, you feel yourself swaying a little, and he notices. You’re smiling, soft, lazy, sleepy. “You’re actually nice when you’re not acting like a dick, you know that?”

He looks up, meets your eyes finally. “Yeah, don’t tell anyone.” he says quietly.

You nod, eyes heavy, the edges of the room blurring just a little. The beer bottle rests against your knee, half-empty. He leans back, arms crossed. Watching you. Dying a little inside, because you’re here and laughing and looking at him.

You’re not sure why the nausea’s gone now. Maybe it’s the beer. Maybe it’s the boy. Maybe it’s both. Whatever it is, for the first time in days, you feel okay.

“Alright.” you murmur, standing up. “I should… go back.”

He doesn’t answer, but his eyes flick up at you from under his lashes. He sits the same way he always does, slouched, arms folded, pretending he doesn’t care, but the second you start to move, his whole body goes tense. His heart is trying so hard to stay cool while everything inside him’s screaming, don’t go.

You stand up a little too fast. The floor tilts, and you press a palm to the wall to steady yourself. “Whoa.” you mumble, laughing softly. “Okay, alright.”

Baby glances up, expression the same as always, but there’s a flicker, somewhere in those half-lidded eyes, of worry. Not that he’ll admit it. “You gonna hurl again?” he asks.

You shake your head, giggling at the word. “No. Just dizzy. I’m fine.”

You start toward the door but don’t open it. The air feels light, and you can’t bring yourself to leave yet. You take a few small steps, brushing your fingers along the edge of his dresser, tapping at the random junk scattered there. You laugh again, louder this time. The sound fills the room. You stumble to the other side, nearly trip over a shoe on the floor, and grab the back of his chair for balance. “Oh my god, you’re a disaster, Baby.”

He raises an eyebrow, watching you move. “And you’re tipsy.”

“Just a little.” You pinch your fingers together to demonstrate, wobbling as you do.

He rolls his eyes but there’s that twitch again, the not-quite smile that he keeps trying to kill before it shows. You don’t notice how his gaze follows every movement. He can’t stop it. He watches how you wander toward the window, push the curtain back, and look out at the city. The light from the buildings paints your face, and Baby’s breath catches. He can feel the pulse in his throat. You’re just standing there, a little unsteady, cheeks flushed, and it’s like the world’s trying to show him something he’ll never deserve.

You turn back to him. “It’s pretty out there.”

“Sure.” He keeps his voice low, lazy, like it’s nothing.

“You ever go out at night?”

He raises his chin faintly. “You mean for fun?”

You nod.

“Not really my thing.”

You smile. “Yeah, I guess fun isn’t your thing.” You cross your arms, leaning against the wall. You start rambling about nothing in particular. He listens, throwing in the occasional grunt or nod, the same rhythm as always. He doesn’t need to talk. You fill the space just fine. After a while, you wander closer to the bed again. “You’re not gonna shave the rest?”

He glances toward the mirror. “Maybe tomorrow.”

“Hm.”

“Hm.”

You laugh again, the sound spilling out soft and small. You’re standing beside the bed now, looking down at him. He tilts his head up, eyes catching the low light, and you see something there that makes you stop. You can’t quite name it, but it’s enough to make your stomach dip. You tear your gaze away first, rubbing your arms. “I should, um… go to bed.”

He shifts slowly, voice flat. “Sure.”

You pause with your hand on the door, glancing back at him. “Thanks for the beer, seriously.”

He shrugs, trying to look unaffected. “Don’t mention it.”

“I will.” you tease.

“Then I take it back.”

You grin, soft and tired. “Good night, Baby.”

He nods once. “Night.”

You start to pull the door open, but your hand lingers on it. For some reason, you look back one more time. He’s still sitting there on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor. The lamplight cuts across his shoulders, outlining every bone, and for a second you see what no one else does, the loneliness underneath the sarcasm. The way he’s so young and so old at the same time. You almost say something. Almost. But then you don’t. You just smile faintly, and he finally looks up. Those eyes. God, if anyone else saw the way he looks at you right now, they’d know. They’d know he’s gone, lost, done for. There’s no joke left in it, no mask. Just this quiet, raw thing that he’ll never say out loud.

You step into the hallway, the air cooler out here. You close the door behind you, the latch clicking softly. Inside, Baby exhales a breath he didn’t know he was holding. The room feels emptier now. He drags a hand down his face, wiping away what’s left of the shaving cream.

You’re still smiling when you close Baby’s door behind you, the faint buzz of the beer and the giddy, stupid warmth lingering in your chest. It’s late, so late the air of the hallway feels different, softer. Your bare feet make no sound against the cold floor as you drift toward your room, your fingers grazing the wall for balance.

The light under your door glows faintly, and you’re already reaching for it when a shadow moves at the edge of your vision. Romance. He’s leaning against the opposite wall, arms folded, his head tilted just a little like he’s been waiting. He’s not smirking this time, not teasing. His expression is open, worried even, he doesn’t bother hiding it.

“There you are, love.” he murmurs. “I was just about to come looking for you.”

You blink, your heart tripping. “For me?”

“For you.” His gaze slides over your face, down to your hands, then back up, scanning, reading you. “You weren’t in your room.”

You nod slowly. “I was with Baby.” you gesture toward your door. “Come in?”

He studies you for a second, your flushed cheeks, your slightly unsteady steps, and something in his face softens. He nods. “Of course.”

You open the door and slip inside, Romance following close behind. You sink down onto the edge of your bed. He stays standing for a moment, watching you, then lowers himself beside you carefully.

Romance can feel that you’re drunk. He rests his hands on his knees, leaning forward slightly. “You alright?”

You blink at him. “Yeah.” you say automatically, then frown. “I mean… I don’t know. Maybe.”

He gives a small hum in response. He came here with a dozen jokes loaded on his tongue, wanting to ask about the bag you left on his bed. But the moment he saw you like this, he let them go.

You glance at him. “What about you? What’s up?”

“Me?” he echoes, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What’s up with me…” He trails off, glancing at his hands. “Nothing special, really.“ Then, because he can’t help himself, he reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers are warm against your skin. “You look flushed.”

“Maybe. A little.”

“You’ve had something to drink.”

You nod. “Baby gave me beer.”

“I can smell it.” he says gently.

“Sorry.” you murmur.

He shakes his head.

You nod, biting your lip to hide a grin. “It’s not what it sounds like.”

Romance makes a low noise in his throat but doesn’t press. “I’m not judging, darling. Just making conversation.”

You shake your head, still smiling. You can breathe. You do feel better. So much better.

Romance watches you for a long moment, his expression softening again. “You’re beautiful like this.” he murmurs.

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks warm. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

You want to argue, to make some sarcastic comment, but the words die on your tongue. Because he’s looking at you like that again, like you’re the only person in the room, the only thing worth seeing. And for all his sins, for all the things he’s done to you, there’s a sincerity in his eyes that’s hard to fight.

He shifts closer, just enough to press his shoulder fully against yours. “Eat anything?” he asks after a while.

“Bread.” you murmur.

He chuckles softly.

Silence. You’re a little drunk. He can feel it. You can feel it. But it’s nice.

“So,” he says lightly. “what’s on that pretty mind tonight, babe?”

…

You pick at the edge of your sleeve. “Can you… keep a secret?”

He tips his head, one eyebrow quirking. “Anything for you, Y/N. You know that.” And he means it. He always means it.

You breathe out. “Promise?”

He nods once. “Promise.”

It should be comforting, but it isn’t. You shift on the bed, knees drawn up. You look down at your hands. “You remember earlier? Before you all went out? I think to get me gifts?” Romance hums. He’s patient, which is new for him. He doesn’t interrupt. “I was with Mystery.” you continue. “We were just… playing. It sounds stupid now.”

He raises an eyebrow, but keeps quiet. Inside, though, his pulse spikes. Mystery. Always Mystery.

“I asked him to chase me.” you say. “After last time, I wanted to see what he was capable of. Like a game. It was stupid. I just wanted to see that part of him, the… feral one. Because I trust him, I guess. Or I thought I did.”

Romance’s jaw tightens. His face doesn’t change much, but his knuckles flex against his knee. He’s scared. The only possibility he can think of that could fuck you up this bad and could’ve happened in this context, is sexual assault. God, no. Please no. He forces his voice to stay light. “And?”

You stare at the wall. “He caught me.” That’s all you say at first. It’s like you expect the sentence to explain itself. Romance waits. The silence stretches. “It’s so stupid. I don’t even know what happened next. One second I’m laughing, the next—” You stop.

Romance leans forward slightly, not touching you. “The next?”

Your throat feels dry. It’s brutally hard to spit the words out. “We kissed.”

For a long time, Romance says nothing. The air feels tight around you. His gaze doesn’t leave you. His expression doesn’t change. But inside him, it’s a mess. Jealousy. Rage. The sick, bright spark of pain that comes when someone takes what he wanted, what he thought was his. But it’s not even about the kiss, not really. It’s about what it means. Mystery crossed a line, and you let him.

He forces a smile, gentle, practiced. “So,” he says quietly. “that’s what’s been eating you up.”

You nod, eyes wet. “It’s wrong. I know it’s wrong. He—he’s hurt me before. You all have. But I—” Your voice cracks. “I wanted it. That’s the worst part. I wanted it.”

That’s it. That’s the part Romance can’t bear to hear. He looks down, running his tongue over his teeth, and when he speaks again, his tone is so soft it sounds almost kind. “You don’t need to explain, love. You’re human. You get… confused. You mix things up. Fear, comfort, all that.”

You shake your head. “No, I’m not confused. I knew what I was doing. I just—” You clutch your knees tighter. “I don’t know.”

Romance exhales slowly, the sound low and bitter. He wants to laugh. He wants to scream. He wants to kill Mystery. But he does none of those things. He reaches out and rests a hand on your shoulder. So sweet. “You don’t owe anyone an explanation for how you feel.” he murmurs. “Not even him.”

You look up at him, eyes glossy, desperate. “Then why do I feel like I ruined everything?”

Because you did, he thinks. Because now it’s real, and now every time he looks at you he’ll see Mystery’s mouth on yours. But he doesn’t say that. Instead, he smiles faintly, thumb brushing the fabric on you. “You didn’t ruin anything. You just—” he hesitates, then finishes quietly, “—you just made a change.”

You laugh weakly. “That’s not comforting.”

He huffs a laugh of his own. “Didn’t mean it to be.”

Silence again. He wants to keep you talking, just to hear your voice, to make sure you’re still here, but he can feel you fading. You rest your forehead against your knees, murmuring, “I hate that it happened.”

Romance looks at you for a long moment. His expression softens, the anger shifting into something deeper, sadder. He feels horrible. He just pats your back once, gently. “Get some sleep, love.” he says, voice quiet. “You’ll feel clearer in the morning.”

You nod without looking up. “Will I?”

He doesn’t answer. Because he knows you won’t. Because none of them ever do.

You don’t realize you’re crying until he reaches out and wipes a tear from your cheek. His thumb lingers, feather-light, and he smiles again, small, crooked, the mask slipping back on just enough. “Hey. Look at me. You don’t have to tell anyone else. Not Abby, not Baby. Not even him. This stays right here.”

You nod. You believe him.

He wants to fix you, to fix himself through you, but he knows better. He knows he’s poison, knows he’ll rot whatever he touches. So instead, he just sits there, brushing your hair back, humming some quiet tune he doesn’t remember learning. For the first time in three hundred years, he wishes he could be good. He wishes he could be worthy of you. And he knows he never will be.

You pull back slightly, wiping at your face with the heel of your hand. “I’m sorry. I’m just… tired.”

He nods. “Then be tired. You don’t have to apologize for that.”

You laugh weakly. “You sound like Jinu.”

He smiles. “Don’t insult me.”

That pulls another tiny laugh out of you, and the sound is enough to loosen the tightness in his chest. He studies your face for a second too long, the glassy eyes, the flushed cheeks from the beer and the crying, the fragile calm settling there. God, this is a horrible feeling. Both for him, and you. You hear yourself sniffle. “I just— I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Romance shakes his head. “There’s nothing wrong with you, baby.” His thumb wipes away the tears that keep breaking loose. “You’ve been living in hell for months. You’re tired. You’re scared. Sometimes the lines get blurred.” He sighs, looking down, voice turning heavier. “We blurred them for you.” You glance up. His eyes don’t waver. He keeps his hand steady on your back as he continues, “You didn’t deserve any of it. The things we’ve done to you, the way we’ve made you question yourself, that’s on us. Not you.”

Your stomach twists, the nausea shifting into something like grief. “Then why do I miss it sometimes?” you whisper. “Why do I—” You break off, voice shaking. “Why do I miss the way it felt when he caught me?” That makes you cry harder. When you can finally talk again, your voice sounds raw. “I don’t feel that bad about it. The kiss, I mean.”

His hand keeps moving on your back. “I know.”

You can tell he’s remembering things too, the fights, the screams, all the moments the boys went too far, the fear they put in you. He’s not pretending it didn’t happen. Not tonight.

He finally says it. “We were cruel. You know that, right?”

Your throat tightens. You nod.

“And not just cruel because we had to be.” he continues, looking past you now, at some invisible point on the wall. “We were cruel because we could be.”

You stay silent.

“That doesn’t go away easy.” he says. “Nobody expects you to forget about that. We knew what we were doing, Y/N. But that’s not on you.” he adds. “Don’t carry our shit.”

You shake your head weakly. “But you’re here now. And you’re different now.”

Romance lets out a breath. “Different’s a big word.”

You look away. “You’re still better to me.”

“We try to be. Doesn’t erase what came before, but we try.” His hand moves slowly to your back. He rubs gentle circles. He wipes a tear from your cheek with his thumb. God, what a man.

You almost laugh through your tears. “You’re too good at this.”

“I’ve had a long time to practice.” he says, with the faintest tilt of a smile.

You look at him. You’re shaken up, but don’t know by what. Maybe the kiss. Maybe the fact that Romance actually acknowledged what happened before this. “Do you regret it? What you’ve done?”

He look at you. “Every day.”

You believe him. You can feel the warmth of him beside you, the weight of his gaze. It’s disorienting. For a moment, it feels like he’s deciding whether to say something else. Then, he doesn’t.

Then, quietly, he leans in.

Romance kisses you.

AN: I just want to explain why reader confessed the secret of the kiss. So, it’s a trauma response. After everything she’s been through, her sense of safety and trust is fractured. Keeping a secret feels unbearable because secrecy was part of her captivity. By telling someone, she’s subconsciously seeking validation, wanting the boys to comfort her. Just wanting comfort, her poor little heart needs it so much. Plus it’s so heavy on her heart that it’s hard to keep it in. Plus she trusts Romance.

You shift in bed, the blanket sliding down, rays of sun on your pretty face. You’re just waking up, your pretty body moving around, your leg stopping at something.

Mystery.

Curled at the foot of your bed, hair spilling across the sheets. The bulk of his shoulder presses lightly against your calf, his breathing slow and even. He doesn’t move, but you know he’s awake.

“Hi.” you whisper, voice raspy.

“…Hi.” he mumbles back, quiet.

You tug the blanket a little higher, careful not to disturb him.

“Didn’t mean to wake you.” you murmur.

“You didn’t.”

Silence.

Finally, he closes his eyes again, lashes brushing his cheek. “Go back to sleep.” he murmurs.

“You too.”

Mystery doesn’t move. His breathing stays slow, but he’s tuned in to you. Listening.

You breathe in. Out. He hears every inch of it. The whisper of air through your throat, the flex of muscle around each lungful. You shift slightly, and he hears that too, the glide of a tendon, the rustle of cotton.

It isn’t creepy. Not exactly. It’s…otherworldly. Intimate in a way words can’t quite reach.

He’s tracking your heartbeat. Every pulse of blood through the vessels of your leg where his head rests, every subtle surge through your body.

You glance down, and a single visible eye is open, catching the morning light. Yellow, endless.

His fingers slide across the blanket until they rest against your calf, light, but warm. Then a gentle pull, barely a question, as he slides closer. The blanket stirs as he curls in, fitting himself more fully against you. He’s folding around your leg. Around. Wrapping his strong, warm body around your leg, his legs and arms hugging you, face on you. His forehead rests just above your knee, hair brushing your skin. All his senses are full of you. His senses only sense you at this point, all of you.

He knows you.

You like this, actually. A lot, to be honest. He feels nice there, warm and strong and heavy in the good way. You like Mystery a lot. Not just romantically, or whatever this thing developing in you is, but in the platonic way too. He’s probably the first of the boys that you started to like platonically.

You flex your foot once, testing. Nothing. The man could be a living lock. You tilt your head toward him. “We should get up.”

Aaaand there you go breaking it again, just as it was starting to build.

No answer. He simply tightens his hold.

You huff a half-laugh. “Mystery.”

He buries his face deeper against the side of your calf, the faint brush of hair against your skin the only reply.

“You know Jinu’s gonna rip your head off if he finds you in here.” you try again, a little louder.

Still nothing, except the smallest shake of his head. Slow. Stubborn. Which means Jinu can suck my dick.

You push at his shoulder with your free foot, gentle. “Seriously.”

The only answer is another tiny movement, his arms drawing in tighter, him shaking his head again, a subtle, wordless no. It’s not aggressive, more childish.

You sigh, but let him stay there. If he wants it, let it be. Not like it hurts anybody, right? (Except your mental health, of course, ruining you more and more)

“You tired?” you ask after a moment.

He nods once against your leg.

“Is it… the idol stuff?” you murmur. “Keeping up the act. All the shows. That what wears you out?”

Another hum. Affirmation.

You brush a stray piece of his hair back with the edge of your foot, gentle. (LMFAO I know imagining it is ridiculous but it’s actually so intimate if you think about it!!) “Figures. I don’t know how you do it. All of you. Must feel like living two lives.”

Mystery doesn’t answer with words, but the small squeeze of his arms around your leg is enough.

You stare at the ceiling, letting the silence speak for you both. “You know Jinu loves you, right?” The words come out quieter than you intended. “He’s just… strict because this needs to be done. Someone’s gotta hold it together.”

“No he doesn’t!” Comes a voice shouting from somewhere in the apartment. Baby, loud.

You laugh, clapping a hand over your mouth to keep from waking the whole building.

Mystery finally lifts his head just enough to glance toward the door, yellow eyes sharp. He doesn’t speak, but the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth says plenty. Then he lowers his pretty head back to your leg.

You know Baby’s words aren’t the whole truth. For all their drama and fights, the Saja boys are bound together. They fight. They bite. But underneath it there’s a kind of loyalty.

Ruining your thought chain though, is the sound, then the vibration of Mystery’s purring. It’s rich, resonant. You smile without meaning to. The first time he’d done this you’d thought you were imagining things. Now you know better. This is just… Mystery.

You let your hand drift to the blanket, tracing an absentminded pattern while the sound fills the room. It’s comforting, steady.

These boys have turned out to be far more complicated than the stories whispered about them. By them I mean demons, and I could’ve said that, but it sounded cooler like this. Anyways. They’re attracted to each other, we know that, but attraction isn’t even the right word, it’s more instinctive, coming from their souls purely. It’s messy, sure. They argue, push, retreat. They don’t always find the mental harmony that real peace requires. But they keep coming back. They keep choosing each other.

You think about that, about how rare it is to see people, or whatever they are, who can be so fiercely tied to one another without pretending it’s neat or simple. And then there’s you. Not so hostage anymore. Something else. Something all of them are tied to.

Mystery shifts slightly, the purring deepening for a second before settling back to normal again. This is his way of saying he’s comfortable, that he’s found calmness.

Strange, strange boys.

And god, why are you so sympathetic? So good in your soul, even while they don’t deserve it? They carry things no one should. They live between worlds, human enough to ache, inhuman enough to never quite belong anywhere.

And now they’re tangled up with you.

Part of you feels guilty for that. Not because you did anything to encourage it, you’ve tried, over and over, to keep them away, but because you can feel the depth of it. Their attachment isn’t casual. It’s wild, instinctive, unbelievable, really. How could you not ache for that? For the vulnerability behind their acts? For the way they look at you?

You exhale slowly, the sound almost lost beneath the steady purr beneath the blanket. Maybe you’re fragile because you’ve always seen the soft in people first. Maybe that’s just who you are. You’ve never been able to look at pain and not reach for it, even when it isn’t yours.

Mystery shifts slightly, tightening his hold around your calf, and the purr deepens, richer now. The sensation works its way through you. Your breathing slows without you trying. The warmth of him, the rhythm, is coaxing you back toward sleep.

You’ve learned that Mystery doesn’t talk much about what he wants, but he understands cause and effect. He knows that when he does this, when he settles and purrs and breathes with you, you relax. You drift. He can feel it in the way your heartbeat slows, in the muscles easing beneath his arm.

For him, that’s reward enough.

The purr vibrates through the mattress, steady and hypnotic. Your breathing matches his.

Your last clear thought before sleep slips in is this: for all their darkness, these boys love each other, and they love you even more.

When you wake up though, he’s not there.

You sit up fast, blinking at the pale shape of light across the floor. The blankets are cool where Mystery had curled around you, like it never happened. If not for the faint indentation on the mattress, you could almost believe you’d dreamed it.

The house always feels bigger when they’re gone. You pull on a sweatshirt, and try to convince yourself that the hollow under your ribs is just leftover sleep. But it follows you out of the room. The living room is empty, chairs shoved back from the table like they’d left in a hurry.

Either way, you’re alone.

You make coffee just to fill the silence. The machine’s hiss is too loud, and that got you a little attached to it to be honest. You named it too. For a while you wander the apartment with the mug warming your palms.

Their absence hangs in the air.

You find yourself glancing at every door. Jinu’s room, door closed, robe probably slung over a chair. Abby’s door open, a mess in there. Baby’s door closed, because he doesn’t want anyone in there. Romance’s, door also closed, and that’s fine with what’s going on inside. Mystery’s door, no surprise, closed. You don’t dare to snoop around now. You don’t want to face consequences.

You keep waiting for a laugh from somewhere, a growl, the scrape of a chair. Nothing.

It’s ridiculous, you tell yourself. They’re not gone forever. They always come back. This is what they do, vanish into the city then appear on TV you watch with Derpy in your lap and Sussie eating from your hand.

Still.

The apartment feels wrong without them.

Derpy saves you from it.

The tiger pads into the hallway. He’s enormous, and yet his paws make no sound. He blinks once, golden eyes calm, then walks straight toward you.

“Hey, gorgeous.” you whisper.

He leans his head into your stomach, a gentle nudge that nearly knocks you over. You bury your fingers in the thick fur of his neck, breathing in the warm, wild scent of him. The tension eases a fraction.

“Looks like it’s just us.” you say.

Derpy chuffs softly, a sound somewhere between a purr and a sigh, and follows you into the living room. You sink onto the couch and he settles beside you, a living mountain of muscle and fur, tail flicking lazily. For a while you just sit there, stroking his fur.

Sussie finds you next, landing on the back of the couch. He tilts his head, eyes bright and curious. Hops closer, then closer again, until he’s pecking gently at the sleeve of your sweatshirt. You offer a finger, and he steps onto your hand, claws careful on your skin.

You try reading, then abandon it. You turn on the TV, then turn it off when you see HUNTR/X in it. You can’t even look at the girls anymore.

Which is brutally unhealthy, but why would you realize it?

You miss the boys instead.

Really, truly miss them.

You stop trying to deny it.

But they’ll return. They always do.

It’s not that you’re helpless without them. You know how to fill a day. It’s just that the apartment doesn’t feel like itself when they’re gone.

You go to the kitchen. You climb onto the counter to reach a jar on the top shelf, stretching awkwardly. For a heartbeat you can almost hear Abby’s voice: “Why are you like this? Just ask for help, babe.” You roll your eyes at the phantom sound, but it makes you smile anyway. You miss the way he’d inevitably appear, just to tease you before grabbing whatever you couldn’t reach.

Jar secured, you stay perched there for a while, legs swinging, letting the memory linger.

Later, you slide open the balcony door. This is usually Baby’s spot, leaning against the railing, cigarette dangling. You lean against the railing, the cold metal biting your palms, and imagine Baby here beside you. He’d have a cigarette dangling from his fingers, eyes half-lidded, voice low. Side profile beautiful.

You miss them.

You go back inside, restless. The afternoon drags. You read a few pages of a book you don’t really see. You make tea you forget to drink. You put Derpy to sleep(yes, you do that sometimes) and let Sussie fly outside. Later, you might have rubbed one out… at… god, this is hard to say, at the thought of the boys. The thought of their faces. How they look when they fight, when they laugh, when they think you aren’t watching. How close they’ve come to you, closer than you ever expected to let anyone. Or that night specifically, when four of them jumped on you to touch you. And at the memory of Baby’s hand on your tit, you might’ve grabbed that very same breast, kneading, imagining it’s him. Might’ve.

It’s a human need, alright? Nothing shameful about it. You’re alive, they’re alive, and your heart is only human. Let’s ignore how evil these boys are.

By evening you’ve given up pretending you’re fine. You drop onto the couch, pulling a blanket around your shoulders, and watch the city lights flicker on beyond the balcony.

One moment you’re watching the windows, the next you’re falling asleep, legs tucked under you, a soft, steady breath the only sign of life. Derpy lies stretched beside the couch. Sussie has tucked itself onto the lamp’s curved arm, head under wing. The apartment is warm, quiet, safe.

The door opens about an hour later.

“…and then she jumped.” Abby says, laughing.

“Don’t exaggerate.” Jinu answers, calm.

“Pretty sure she jumped.” Romance insists.

The noise cuts off, senses tuning in to you.

Five sets of eyes go to you. Asleep, the blanket rising and falling with each slow breath, face softened.

For a long beat, nobody moves.

Abby grins, wolfish, so fucking hot. “Well, would you look at that.” he whispers, stepping closer.

“Shh.” Jinu shushes Abby, but stepping closer to you too. Abby rolls his eyes and falls quiet.

Baby follows, eyes catching what little light there is, dark and gleaming. Mystery kneels beside the couch, Romance standing just behind him. Derpy cracks one golden eye, registers them, and decides they’re no threat. His tail gives a single slow sweep across the floor before he settles again.

If you woke now, it would be unreal to see five men hovering over your sleeping body. Hilarious. Maybe terrifying. But you don’t wake up.

Romance slides a shopping bag from his shoulder and sets it down gently in front of you on the coffee table. Inside, small gifts. Then he pats his pockets, frowning. “Paper” he mouths, barely audible. He tiptoes toward the kitchen, until he finds a notepad near the fridge. He scribbles a quick note “for you ♡︎“ the heart on it beautiful, romantic.

Jinu checks the fall of the blanket on your shoulder and, after a thoughtful second, lifts the edge and tucks it higher around your shoulders. Derpy rumbles a low approving sound, tail giving a single thump. Abby scratches the tiger’s chin on instinct, earning another quiet chuff. He smirks at that. Besties. Baby hangs back a step, hands in pockets, watching. His gaze lingers on your face, then flicks to the floor. Mystery is barely breathing, watching you intensely.

Romance returns from the kitchen, his little note folded neatly. He crouches and tucks it halfway under the bag so it will catch your eye when you wake. His smile is soft, almost shy.

When Jinu stands, they sense that it’s time to go.

Abby’s hand slides from Derpy’s head. Mystery straightens up. Baby lingers a heartbeat longer, gaze fixed on you, before turning away. They leave as quietly as they came. On the little table in front of you, the shopping bag waits, the note peeking out, for you ♡︎ the only proof they were ever there.

Abby kicks his bedroom door shut with his heel. The room smells… manly. He heads straight for the full-length mirror he adores so much. He starts unbuttoning his shirt, but getting impatient, he just rips it off. His muscles catch the low light, beautiful.

Flex.

Left bicep, then right.

Abs.

Turn.

He angles himself to catch the side profile, jaw tight, flawless. A few shadow-boxing jabs, fast, showy, just to feel the strength snap through his arms. He’s not posing for anyone but himself, but it’s obvious he loves the sight. For a moment he pictures you half-asleep on that couch and feels a quick spark of something, pride, heat, maybe both.

Another flex, another grin. Abby’s night is officially made.

Across the hall, Romance is already peeling off layers before the door even clicks shut. A huge mirror leans against one wall, framed with a string of lights. He stops in front of it wearing nothing but jeans, hair a little wild, eyes glittering. First, the classic, a slow head-to-toe once-over, hand dragging down the line of his chest. He winks at his own reflection. Then he spins sideways and checks his ass.

For a second his smile softens as he thinks of the bag he left by the couch, the gifts, the scribbled note. It’s ridiculous how much he hopes you’ll smile when you see it. The thought lingers, warm, before he flicks the lights to a lower glow and turns back to admire the curve of his own back.

Romance loves a lot, but tonight, he very clearly loves himself most.

Jinu’s door closes with barely a sound. His room is a little more organized ever since you snooped around, in case you want to try that again. He goes into the bathroom, then pauses in front of the mirror above the sink. For a long moment he simply studies himself, the broad shoulders, the flawless face, then by piece he undresses until the cool air touches every inch of bare skin. He stands there, still, the soft light catching along the lines of everything.

Finally the hiss of the shower fills the room, steam rising to blur the mirror behind him. God, how much he loves hot water.

Baby’s room is dark with a hint of citylight. He doesn’t bother with lamps, the neon glow from a neighboring building paints the walls in soft blues and pinks. He drops into the chair by the window, long legs folding effortlessly, and fishes a cigarette from a pack. The lighter’s flick cuts through the silence. First drag, slow, until the tip burns a dull orange. On the table beside him sits a half-finished bottle of something alcoholic. He grabs it. A sip. Another drag.

Every now and then, though, his gaze flicks toward the door, toward the hallway where you sleep. The faintest crease touches his brow before he hides it behind another drag of smoke.

You, though, about half an hour later, wake to the world’s most annoying combination of things, a stiff neck, a mouth that tastes like blanket, and a brain that can’t remember a single fuckass detail about where the hell you are.

The room is a blur of shadow and dim amber light from the lamp. Your head jerks upright too fast, a bolt of pain shooting down your spine. “Ow—fuck.”

For a solid five seconds you just… stare. Couch. Coffee table. Giant tiger stretched out. Oh. Right. Okay, yeah, Saja boys.

You blink hard, trying to remember why you passed out here instead of in your own room. Then you spot it, a paper bag on the coffee table, perfectly placed where you couldn’t not see it. It’s not just any paper bag either. It’s romantic as fuck. A little square of paper is tucked under it, and the handwriting on it makes your stomach drop. Loopy, a little dramatic.

For you ♡︎

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

The bag could have literally anything in it. And that handwriting? Way too lovesick to trust. You grab the handles and pick the bag up. It’s heavier than you expect, the bottom swinging against your knee as you stand.

Derpy cracks one lazy eye, grunts, and goes back to sleep. Thanks for the moral support, big guy.

Your door’s already ajar, which is weird because you’re pretty sure you closed it. You push it open with your foot and flick on the light—

—and almost die on the spot.

“Jesus fuck!”

There’s a figure in the far corner. Tall. Still. Not moving.

Your heart launches into your throat before your brain catches up. Oh. It’s just Mystery. Alright.

“Holy shit, Mystery.” You clutch the paper bag to your chest like it’s going to fend off a demon, oh wait, he’s the demon. “Don’t stand in the dark like that. I almost had a heart attack.”

He just tilts his head slightly, which in Mystery-language probably means my bad but who knows.

You kick the door shut with your heel. “Could you at least, I don’t know, breathe louder? Rattle a chain? Something?”

A half-shrug. That’s about as talkative as he gets.

You drop onto the mattress with a sigh, setting the bag between you. “Whatever. You wanna see what this is? I’m not opening it alone. Could be something cursed for all I know.”

Mystery hesitates for a second before moving. He crosses the room in that soundless, predatory way of his and lowers himself onto the bed beside you. He smells good.

You nudge the bag with a finger. “Okay, stalker. Any idea which one of you idiots left me a mystery present?” It’s supposed to be a joke, but the word mystery lands with an accidental pun that makes you wince. “Not you, obviously. Unless you’ve taken up gift-giving as a new hobby.”

“Romance.” he says, voice low.

You snort, leaning back on your hands. “Figures.”

You tug the bag onto your lap. Mystery just sits there, big and dark and quiet. You pull the first thing out, it’s a bottle of oil. Then another. Then another. You blink at the collection now building on your blanket. Lavender, sandalwood, something labeled “moonlit amber.”

You twist one open and sniff. It’s fine, you guess. (Fucking heavenly.) Then you shove one toward Mystery. “Here. Smell test. You have a better nose than me.”

He takes it, flips the cap with long fingers, and inhales once. His face stays neutral, but he grunts softly and passes it back. Translation: tolerable.

“Great.” you say, piling bottles beside you. Next out, lotion. Scented. You keep digging. Candles. A folded paper catches your eye, creased neatly, like a letter. Your heart does a dumb little flutter for a split second. Maybe it’s actually… sweet?

You open it carefully. The handwriting is messy, dramatic flourishes that look like he wanted to make the ink moan. The first line reads: To the one who keeps me awake at night…

Before you can roll your eyes again, something slips free from inside the fold and scatters across your lap.

You freeze.

Mystery leans just enough to see.

They’re photos. Glossy, printed, high-resolution. And not just photos. Nudes. Romance. Half-naked. Naked. Posing. His back arched. His mouth open seductively. His… fuck’s sake, his dick hard. You have to admit, it’s pretty. He has a pretty dick. In some photos it’s just… standing there, in some it’s peeking out from his waistband, and half of the photos are still face down on your lap. You’re pretty sure you saw an ass pic too somewhere.

You two watch the photos, speechless. Mouths open. Then, without a word, Mystery picks one up between two fingers, holds it up to the light, and squints. Puts it down. Then flips another over. His brows draw slightly together, judging. You swear he’s rating the angles.

You groan and bury your face in your hands. A small sound escapes Mystery, something between a low hum and a snort. It’s not quite a laugh, but close enough to count.

You shove the offending photos aside and dive back into the bag. “Just—just leave them.”

The next item, a mug. Pretty, pink, ceramic with little gold stars painted around the rim. Actually… really nice.

“Oh.” You run your thumb over the glaze, trying not to soften too much. “This is… actually sweet.”

Mystery tilts his head slightly, like he agrees.

You set the mug aside carefully and dig again. When you pull the next item out, you almost drop it.

It’s underwear.

Lace, soft, beautiful, your size, multiple pairs.

You stare.

Mystery blinks at it once, then looks away with the patience of someone who doesn’t want to be accused of anything.

You groan and toss it back in the bag.

The next handful is safer, hair ties. A full pack, black and simple. Okay, fine. That’s thoughtful. You lose these fuckers every day. Well, not knowing the boys are the reason, but you still lose them.

Mystery’s eyes flick to your wrist, where one stretched-out tie always lives.

There’s more. A tiger keychain, obviously a Derpy reference. A tiny notebook with a pink cover. A pair of fuzzy socks that feel stupidly soft. More candles.

By the time you’ve emptied the bag, your bed is covered in Romance. Oils, lotion, a mug, lace underwear, hair ties, socks, nudes.

You flop backward, arm thrown over your face. Mystery leans back slowly too until his shoulder almost, almost brushes yours, then lies down too, facing the ceiling. The two of you lie there in silence, surrounded by oils and socks and explicit polaroids. Absurd.

The room falls into a companionable silence, no words, just the quiet of the city beyond the glass and the oils, hair ties, and very explicit evidence of Romance’s ego.

You draw a slow breath, push yourself off the mattress, and gather the loot. Mystery doesn’t move. He sits exactly where you left him. Only his eyes follow you from behind his hair. You cross to the little shelf near the window and start arranging the bottles. A soft click each time you set one down. You’re not even sure why you bother lining them up so neatly, but the small order of it feels good.

Behind you, a single quiet breath. He’s watching. You can feel it, not in a creepy way though. Warm. Constant.

You scoop up the bunch of folded underwear with a shake of your head and drop them into the underwear drawer. Back to the bed for the rest, hair ties, candles, keychain. You carry them to your bathroom, bare feet silent on the cool floor. You place the candles on the counter, tuck the hair ties into a small dish by the sink, clip the tiger keychain to the knob of the cabinet where you’ll see it every morning.

Everything finds a place.

When you step back into the bedroom, Mystery is sitting on the edge of the bed, one knee drawn up, fingers loosely clasped around it. His hair falls forward. From behind it, his eyes track you. You pause by the doorframe, one hand resting against the wood. For a second you think about saying something, anything, to break the silence. A thank you, maybe, or a joke about Romance’s nudes. But the words don’t come. They don’t need to. Instead you move back to the shelves and start arranging again, fussing with the bottles until they stand in perfect lines.

You glance over your shoulder.

He hasn’t looked away once.

It should feel strange, being watched like that. But it doesn’t. Not anymore. It feels… steady.

You cross to the closet to hang the bag itself on a hook. The paper crinkles softly as you flatten it. Behind you, the bedsprings give the quietest groan, Mystery leaning back, maybe, or just breathing deeper.

Finally, everything has a place, except those photos.

They still sit in a tidy stack on the edge of the bed, facedown after your initial attempt to banish them from existence. You eye them.

Mystery’s gaze follows yours.

You cross the room and drop onto the mattress beside him, the cushion dipping under your weight. For a long moment neither of you speak. You break first. “What the fuck am I supposed to do with those?”

“Keep them.”

You turn, eyebrows climbing. “Excuse me?”

His eyes flick toward you from behind his hair. “Nice to keep.” he murmurs. He means it’s nice towards Romance to keep his gift. Not that it’s a pleasant thing to keep.

You stare at him for a beat. He’s dead serious, or whatever passes for serious in his strange, quiet world.

“Okay.” you say finally. You reach for the stack, careful to keep the images hidden from view, and set them beside the bed, facedown where they can’t ambush you again. “There. Happy?”

A nod.

You chuckle at him, then get up again, walking back to the bathroom. You catch your own reflection, hair a sleepy mess, skin ugly, and grab your toothbrush. You know these boys don’t care about how you look, which is an amazing feeling, to be honest. You rinse, spit, wipe a splash from the mirror.

When you cut the light and step back into the bedroom, the dark folds around you again.

Mystery hasn’t left. He’s shifted, though, one knee drawn up, one arm draped over it. Watching or waiting, you can’t tell.

You sigh, quiet, more breath than sound, and cross the room. The mattress dips as you climb in, blanket cool against your skin. You settle on your side. The air smells faintly of the oils you set on the counter, sweet.

A soft rustle. Mystery moves without a word, without hurry, sliding closer to you, then just like this morning, he drapes himself around your leg, arms looping, legs hooking lightly over your calf. His breathing steadies almost instantly, calming at the touch, smell and knowledge of you.

You stare at the ceiling, the corners of the room disappearing into shadow. Part of you wants to laugh at the sheer strangeness of it, but the thought dissolves before it reaches your mouth. Because you like this. Because you find it unbearably adorable.

All through the night he never really moved. You shifted once, twice, trying to find a cooler patch of pillow, but Mystery stayed latched around your leg. When you finally drifted off, his breathing followed you down, slow and even, two heartbeats synchronized.

Morning. He was awake before you, of course. No sound, just the weight of him. So loyal. When you dragged yourself into the bathroom to start your routine, he padded after you without a word. Watched while you splashed water on your face, toothbrush in hand. Watched until you finally sighed and told him, half-pleading, “Cover your eyes, Mystery.” He did.

Citrus, you think? Anyways, you put some of the oil you got from Romance on your body. You caught the faintest hitch of Mystery’s breath behind you, inhaling. Sniffing around. He didn’t comment. He didn’t need to.

Now, fully dressed and almost awake, you stand at the foot of the bed, looking in your mirror, making sure you look okay today. “Alright.” you say. “Your turn. Go get ready.”

For a second he stays where he is. Then, he obeys. No argument, no question. Like a good boy. Mystery slips out the door toward his own room, no noise of steps fading down the hall.

Soon, you step out into the hallway. And immediately, a door swings open so fast it clips the wall with a soft thud. Romance comes out like he’s been waiting all night. He sees you, blinks once, and beams.

“Angel.” Before you can react he’s crossing the space and pulling you into a hug that smells… heavenly.

You stiffen for a second, but he doesn’t care. His nose finds your shoulder, and that’s when you realize what’s coming. He inhales. A long, dramatic breath. Then he freezes. Pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes wide and shining.

“You used it.” he says. “The oil. My oil.”

You roll your eyes, already regretting every life choice that led to this. “Yeah. Smelled nice. Thanks.”

That’s all it takes. Romance is glowing, practically vibrating. He steps back only enough to see your face, hands still warm around your arms. “Tell me.” he demands, a beautiful smile across his face. “Tell me what you thought of everything.”

“Everything?” you echo, but he’s already counting on his fingers.

“The mug. Did you like the mug?”

“It’s… pink. It holds liquids. Good mug.”

He nods. “The candles?”

“Sure. Smell nice.”

“The lotions. The oils.” His grin turns wicked. “Obviously.”

“They’re fine.”

“And the underwear?” He wiggles his eyebrows, too amused with himself to be embarrassed.

You give him a flat look. “Good size.”

He laughs, delighted. “So you love them. Perfect. And—” He leans in, conspiratorial. “—the pictures?”

Your face must give you away because he bursts into laughter before you can answer.

You open your mouth to say something, you don’t know what yet, and Romance wipes a mock tear from the corner of his eye. “Beautiful. Truly beautiful.” Then, softer: “And the letter?”

You pause. “Oh. Haven’t read it yet. Forgot to, sorry.”

For a heartbeat you expect a dramatic gasp, maybe a fake faint. Instead Romance just… softens. The smile eases into something quiet, eyes warm.

“That’s okay.” he says, almost whispering. “Whenever you want.”

You frown, friendly. “Sorry, Rom.”

He waves it off. “You used the oil. That’s enough for me, love.”

And suddenly he’s staring at you again, the way someone might stare at something they find beautiful, and see for the first time in their lives. His eyes shine, not metaphorical shine, actual wetness catching the hallway light.

“Romance,” you say slowly. “are you… crying?”

He wipes his pretty eyes. “No.”

“You’re literally—”

“Shut up, I’m not.” he insists, voice thick. He blinks hard, a rogue tear sliding anyway. All because you used what he gave you. That’s how happy he is about it.

You don’t press, just watch as he tries, and fails, to pretend nothing’s happening. His smile wobbles, sincerity.

He’s so unique, god. You wonder if you’ll ever meet someone like him again, someone who didn’t kidnap you. Because Romance is actually, you have to admit, the funniest, most sincere, most fun, and to top it off the most attractive person you have ever met. All five of them are fun in their own way, you can’t deny that, all five attractive and great and bad in their own ways, but Romance is so unique that you’re actually sad he turned out to be an evil person.

He reaches for you again, another quick hug, his voice a murmur against your ear. “You smell perfect.” When he pulls back, the tears are mostly gone, but the glow remains, bright enough to light the hallway on its own.

“Thanks.” You murmur, and to do something, you start walking. Romance falls into step beside you like immediately.

And he keeps smelling you.

Every couple of steps he tips his head down, breathes in with a little hum, and sighs.

The kitchen comes into view, sunlight cutting sharp lines across the marble. Abby and Jinu are planted at the island, arm wrestling.

Romance looks at them. “You two gonna break the counter or just each other?”

“Counter’s fine.” Abby grunts without looking up. “Jinu’s the one about to lose.”

“Keep dreaming.” Jinu says, voice calm but jaw tight, the robe somehow still on despite the struggle.

You slide toward the fridge, already searching for breakfast, but Romance drifts closer and turns back to you, his voice softening instantly. “What do you want for breakfast? I’ll make anything.”

You blink. “You cook?”

“For you? Obviously.”

Abby doesn’t even look up from the match. “Hey, if you’re cooking, make me something too.”

Romance freezes mid-reach, then turns his head with the slow precision of a predator. The smile drops. “No.” he says flatly.

Jinu, still locked in, chuckles under his breath. “Harsh.”

Abby leans harder into the match, muscles flexing. “I just wanted some eggs, man.”

The tension hangs for a beat, then Romance turns back to you, and the change is instant. His whole face softens, eyes warm. “What about pancakes?” he asks, gentle. “You like pancakes?”

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. The whiplash is ridiculous. “I’m good with whatever.”

He beams, already reaching for a pan, muttering something about blueberries.

Out of the corner of your eye, a flicker of motion draws you toward the sliding glass doors of the balcony. Baby stands against the railing, cigarette glowing between his fingers. Smoke curls lazily around his face, hair stirred by the faint morning breeze.

You lift a hand in greeting through the glass.

He notices immediately, turning his head just enough to meet your eyes. He raises his cigarette as a greeting before he exhales a long stream of smoke and goes back to his silent watch.

Back inside, Abby shakes his head and finally pins Jinu’s arm to the counter with a thud. Abby curses in victory, happy with himself, Jinu just adjusts his damn robe, and Romance hums under his breath.

You lean against the counter, watching the swirl of Romance’s wrist as he makes you food.

“Thinking we might wrap early today.” Jinu says. “Could be home before dark.”

It sounds casual. Simple. But inside Jinu it’s anything but. His chest is tight, that started the second he heard your footsteps in the hall. He can hear his own pulse, thud, thud, thud. The words he’s just managed to give you are the bare minimum, the only ones that don’t betray what’s happening inside of him.

You glance at him with a small nod, polite. Jinu swallows, but the knot in his throat doesn’t budge. He can’t understand how you do this to him, how a simple glance, a casual smile, can knock the breath from his lungs harder than any fight, any action of Gwi-Ma, any wound he’s ever carried.

First love. He’s old enough to know the phrase, to think he’d outgrown it. But that’s what this is, undeniable.

Next to you now, Abby is laughing, flexing. “C’mon,” he teases, rolling his shoulder so the muscle jumps, hoping it’ll make you drool like it makes any fan of his. “you gotta feel this. Solid, baby.”

Romance just slides closer to you, curling a pretty arm around your waist even as he balances the pan. “She’s got better things to admire.” he purrs, glaring at Abby over your shoulder.

Jinu watches it all. He could never be like that. Flashy, loud, demanding space. Every time he sees someone else draw a laugh out of you, every time you tilt toward another voice, it burns through him. He loves you. The realization was slow, and now it’s all he knows. His first love, raw, terrifying, and so strong it almost feels like another sense. You stand there and he wants to memorize everything, the way you lean your hip against the counter, the way your hair catches morning light, the way that citrus scent clings.

Outside on the balcony, Baby catches the entire scene through a thin veil of smoke. He snorts, but it doesn’t carry through the glass. No one inside hears it. Everyone is busy being on you, always you.

Romance flips the last pancake, pan angled just so, and puts it on your plate. He slides the plate toward you, eyes glittering. “Best you’ll ever taste.”

Before you can thank him, Abby leans across the island, shoulder nearly the size of the pan itself. “Yeah, no, hold up.” he says, voice lazy. “She’s not eating that without my official inspection.” He snags one pancake straight from the plate and bites in, grinning at your mock glare. “Yeah. Safe for human consumption. Barely.”

Romance swats at him with a spatula. “Hands off. These are Y/N’s.”

Abby only smiles wider and slides closer to you, muscles flexing. “You sure you don’t want me to whip something up instead? Could cook you an omelet with these guns.” He curls an arm, the bicep bunching.

You laugh despite yourself, shaking your head. Abby keeps at it. Romance hovers at your other side. And a step back from it all, leaning against the counter with arms folded, Jinu watches. He’s quiet, as always, but inside everything is loud. Romance has you laughing, Abby’s got you rolling your eyes in a way that still looks a lot like flirting, and Jinu, he just stands there. Background. The thought needles him in places he doesn’t like to name. His heart trips hard enough that he presses a palm to the counter behind him.

Will he ever be as smooth as them?

Will he ever have a line that makes you lean in the way you do when Romance murmurs something against your ear?

He’s not inexperienced with the world. But love? Touch? Both in romantic sense? That’s new territory for Jinu. And the longer he watches the way Abby and Romance are around you, the more the doubt gnaws.

He wonders, absurdly, if he’ll die a virgin.

Would you ever look at him the way you look at them?

Jinu’s gaze drifts down his own frame, broad shoulders under the familiar robe, abs even. He knows he looks good. Should he… show it off? Would flexing like Abby earn even a fraction of your attention? The idea feels foreign, a performance that doesn’t fit, but the temptation flickers all the same. If that’s what your attention takes, he could try it.

He catches your laugh again. His chest tightens.

Baby steps inside from the balcony, a trail of smoke following. He doesn’t greet anyone, just walks next to the kitchen. He stops beside Jinu. For a heartbeat they stand in the same stillness, Abby and Romance on your dick a few feet away. Then Baby blows smoke straight into Jinu’s face.

Jinu flinches back a fraction, blinking through the haze. So cute. Before he can react, Baby’s already moving again, flicking ash into the sink. He doesn’t say a word, just walks toward the hallway and disappears, the faint smell of tobacco lingering after him.

Jinu exhales slowly, a sigh that’s half smoke now too. The noise is loud again, Romance praising himself, Abby flexing and fighting for your attention, you laughing as you finally get a bite of pancake.

Poor, poor Jinu boy.

He leans harder into the counter, watching you. He can’t compete with their noise, but he stays, silent, hoping that somehow you’ll notice the one thing he’s never said aloud.

You fork another bite of pancake and glance up, straight into Jinu’s eyes.

He’s already looking at you.

Not a quick glance, not a casual check-in. Looking.

Romance is still narrating every heroic detail of his cooking, Abby is cracking his knuckles, but all you register is Jinu leaning against the counter, dark gaze locked on you as if the rest of the world doesn’t matter.

They’re looking at you, sure.

But you are looking at him.

“What’s up?” you ask, soft.

Jinu startles, barely, but you catch it. “Nothing.” he says, smooth, too smooth. Then he pushes off the counter and steps toward you.

The robe shifts with the movement, parting just enough to flash a slice of chest. A brief glimpse of warm skin and muscle, a hint of collarbone. Maybe it’s an accident. Maybe it isn’t.

It buys him exactly half a second of attention before Abby notices.

“Look at you, peacock.” he says, reaching out. His big palm lands with a smack against Jinu’s chest, right across the exposed skin. “Showing off now? About time.”

Jinu jolts, more startled than hurt. The robe slips further open, baring another inch of muscle.

Abby grins. “Nice pecs, bro. Solid work.”

Romance spins towards Jinu, eyes shining and beautiful with glee. “Well, hello, sunshine.”

Abby smirks down at Jinu’s body. “Careful, you’ll scare him.”

Jinu’s ears flush a deep, betraying red. He tries for a calm smile, but it wavers under their teasing. He’s into this too.

You step back once, still holding your plate. “Thanks for the breakfast.” you say, voice light, much lighter than these kidnappers, thiefs and horrible men in general deserve. “I’m gonna go to my room.”

Jinu’s chest is still warm where Abby’s hand landed. The robe still loose where he’d hoped, just for a second, that you might notice. But you’re already stepping back. He failed again. He tried. He crossed the space, loosened the robe. He still hasn’t found a way to let you see his feelings, all of them.

Romance is sliding beside you. “Not without your goodbye.” he murmurs, and plants a quick kiss on your cheek, warm, sweet, smiling as he pulls away.

Behind you Abby makes a move, hand moving to slap your ass,(thinking he has the right to do that the moment the mood is light is actually a horrible trait) but Romance catches his wrist without looking, still smiling at you. “Behave.” he says lightly.

Abby throws his hands up, laughing, boyish. “Kidding. Mostly.”

Jinu watches you disappear down the hall, the swing of the door cutting off your shape, your voice, the small glow you always seem to leave behind. For a moment he lets the smile drop.

He tried. A small step forward, a fraction of skin, a move he’d never usually risk. And you left with a kiss from someone else.

Again.

The robe falls back into place as he exhales, heavy and slow.

Romance turns then, catching Jinu’s eye with a romantic smile. “You know,” he says, voice low. “if you’re gonna flash the goods, you might as well let someone appreciate them.” Before Jinu can react, Romance is crossing the space, cat-quick, fingers teasing at the edge of the robe. “C’mon.” he whispers with a wicked smile.

Abby whoops from the other side of the counter, delighted.

Jinu closes his eyes for a second, looking like someone who has survived far worse but still can’t quite believe this is his morning. He steps back, but Romance follows, obvious that he never takes no as a defeat, just a challenge.

Jinu failed again.

He’d had your eyes on him for a breath, and all he managed was a mumbled “nothing” and a half-second of exposed skin before Abby and Romance started hitting on him. He’d wanted to say something, anything, while you were looking. And he fucked up again.

Long time skip because I really want to write what’s coming next. But first I’ll explain that the guys had gone out hours ago. By the time the evening settled in you’d almost forgotten to expect them back. But they came back about an hour ago, earlier than usual, just like Jinu told you they will. Now it’s later, and you’re in the kitchen with nothing more on your mind than a bowl of fruit. The knife glints under the overhead light as you cut neat slices.

One slip. A bead of red wells up on the pad of your finger. Ow.

“Fuck.” you mutter, turning around to reach for something to wipe the cute little bead of blood, and when you glance up—

Mystery.

Just… standing a breath away, hair over his eyes. Silent.

“I—” You start to say you’re fine, that it’s nothing.

Before you can pull back, his hand closes around your wrist, rough, uncontrolled, and he brings your injured finger to his mouth. Then his mouth is on your finger. Closing around it, sucking the blood off.

Your breath catches.

Then he starts sucking the blood out.

It hurts.

You stand there, frozen, watching him. Trying to decide if this is care, or something you should be afraid of.

“Hey.” you manage, voice thin. “That’s—enough.”

He doesn’t stop.

“Mystery.” you say, firmer now.

He doesn’t react.

Doesn’t look up.

Doesn’t stop.

You tug gently, meaning to free your hand, but he follows the movement, mouth still on your skin as if he hasn’t heard. The smallest sound escapes him, low and hungry. Chasing your finger.

You’re afraid. Something in him feels… different.

You pull harder. “Mystery.”

Then, finally, he lets go.

The air rushes in cold where his lips had been. Your finger throbs, it still hurts and feels weird. The faintest smear of red stains the corner of his mouth.

He stays very still.

Something’s off. You can sense it.

You’re not sure if you’re safe.

You take a step back. Mystery follows, one step for yours. He tilts his head slightly and the curtain of hair shifts, catching a stripe of light. The glimpse of his cheekbone is too perfect, sharp. Beautiful. Dangerous.

Your pulse spikes. Instinct shouts move.

Another step back.

Another forward.

The room shrinks. Counters, chairs, walls, they all feel too close.

Mystery’s shoulders rise and fall in a slow rhythm. Something beneath his skin seems to be active, like an energy. He’s turned on. So turned on.

And when you start to run, so does he.

Okay, adrenaline, a lot of it. The hallway blurs, doorframes flashing past. Your bare feet slap against cool floor, heartbeat pounding in your ears. Behind you, he follows. You can feel the air shift every time he closes distance, an invisible… something, force maybe, that brushes the back of your neck.

And it took one little thing to activate this side of him.

Your blood.

Your scent.

Okay, it’s two technically, I know. It just sounded way cooler as one little thing.

Somewhere in the afraid corners of your mind you understand that it isn’t about violence for him. It’s the call of instinct. A predator responding to the one thing he cannot fake or fight.

You dart around a corner, heart hammering so hard it hurts. You aim for the living room, wide enough to maneuver, but he’s close, so close you swear you feel the brush of his hair on the back of your arm.

This isn’t just about a cut. It’s yours. The tiny chemical signature unique to you, salt, iron, the trace of the oil you rubbed on your wrists. To a creature like him, it’s an entire language. An invitation he can’t refuse. He barely survived the big cut across your forearm, your only luck is that he didn’t get a taste of that, only indirect through your used bandages, but only when you didn’t see it. But now Mystery got a direct taste of you.

You are running for your life, but part of you watches, detached, cataloguing the way his instincts override everything. How something as small as a single drop of your blood can break through whatever discipline holds him together.

It’s stunning, actually. You’d be in awe if you weren’t so scared.

You vault over the arm of the couch, landing hard. A jolt spikes up your legs. You spin toward the far hallway.

He’s there.

Not blocking your path, he doesn’t need to. He’s just there, sudden as a blink, hair swinging forward as he stops, chest rising slowly. He’s not even tired yet, and you’re panting, breathless.

For a heartbeat neither of you move.

Your own breath rasps in the silence.

His head tilts again, predatory and curious all at once. The fall of his hair hides his eyes, but you feel them, the weight of a gaze that’s no longer entirely human.

It’s mesmerizing. Terrifying.

You edge sideways, never breaking eye contact. Not eye contact, you can’t see his(which makes this ten times harder), all you know is that you’re watching him. The cut on your finger throbs.

He takes another step.

Every cell in your body screams to run again, but something deeper keeps you rooted. Because in the tilt of his head, in the way his chest rises, you see the conflict. The instinct to chase, to claim, to taste… and the thin strand of will that still holds him back.

This is what the stories never say, how thin the line is between predator and companion. How a single drop of blood can strip away the years of practice, the polite masks, the almost-human habits, until only the raw biology remains.

Your lungs are already on fire, but you don’t think, you move. Again. Feet pound the hallway, fuckfuckfuckfuck. You fling yourself around the corner, shoulder skimming the wall, hair in your eyes, heart trying to punch its way out.

Behind you you can feel a shift of air that says Mystery isn’t just close, he’s right there.

You don’t look back. Looking back is death. You just run.

A figure comes out of a room. For a split second your brain can’t process, just a darker shadow in the dark, broad-shouldered, huge, still as stone. Then a face catches a shard of light.

Abby.

You almost slam into him. “Abby—!”

Before you can spit a word, he shows teeth. Teeth. Animal. He grins. Not a friendly grin. Eyes shining, teeth sharp. And then he bares them fully, a flash of predator, the kind of grin meant to stop a heartbeat. A low, animal noise rumbles out, half laugh, half growl. Oh, he loves this.

You skid, a strangled yelp bursting free, and bolt the other way.

A flash of movement to your left, Mystery cutting through space with that impossible speed. You yelp, and dive down another hallway.

Abby whoops, walking after you too. “YEAH! MAKE HIM WORK FOR IT!” He doesn’t chase. He doesn’t need to, he just walks after the two of you. The fun is in the startle, the spark of panic he just lit.

Mystery, though, he’s the real problem.

Your mind scrambles through options, none good. Doors blur past, storage, bathrooms, someone’s room. Too slow, too obvious.

keep moving keep moving—

You cut left into another living space, lungs burning. The city’s night glow pours through the tall windows, painting everything in colors. Couch. Chairs. Table. Obstacles and maybe, maybe, a plan.

A plan you don’t have.

fuckfuckfuck—

The scent of the citrus oil you used this morning doesn’t make your situation any better. You might as well have lit a neon sign saying HERE I AM.

You risk a glance back. Two shadows now. Mystery, silent. Abby, a few steps behind him, big, smiling in excitement.

Fuck.

A part of you wants to say that this is insane, impossible, that part of you can’t believe this is real. But deep down, you always knew that these boys could get out of hand anytime. Deep down this is no surprise, just fear. Adrenaline. Excitement, actually, because you can finally see these forms of them again after months. But back then, they used it to keep you scared, to get information out of you. Now though, they love you and… and you would say they can’t control it, but you know they’re controlling it even now. If they weren’t controlling it, you’d know it. If they weren’t controlling it, you’d be pounded into the bed by now. No, your first thought isn’t death, it’s sex. You know they’d never actually hurt you, and you can only think of one alternative that they can turns this wildness into, which is fucking. Hardcore fucking sex.

Are they going to fuck you?

…Maybe, actually. Your blood, just that tiny cut, has flipped a switch in all of them. It’s not about violence, it’s biology, pure and sexual. Every demon sense they own is turned all the way up.

Abby’s laugh echoes once more down the hall, pure mischief. Just a spectator to it, letting Mystery do the real hunting. This is no ordinary game of tag. It’s biology running the show now.

You whip around a corner, lungs burning, and slam straight into a solid chest with your back.

A low voice right at your ear: “Boo.”

You flinch so hard you almost fold in half. Hope spikes, someone to save you, and you look up with wide, desperate eyes.

Romance grins, evil. He doesn’t say a word for a beat, just drags the flat of his tongue across his teeth, slow and lazy. Then a tiny click of his jaw, something that tells you that he’s just as hungry as the other two.

Great. Perfect. Absolutely nobody is on your side.

“Romance.” you hiss, but he only waggles his eyebrows.

He steps back just enough to give you a “head start” it would be gentlemanly if he wasn’t mocking you with it. Behind you, Mystery’s presence closes in, soundless and inevitable. Somewhere down the hall Abby chuckles again, low and delighted.

Romance is having the time of his life. His senses were already tuned to you on a good day, now, with that hint of iron in the air, it’s like a fucking orgasm. If you looked down right now, you’d see how hard he is, twitching against his pants and fucking aching for you, only for you. Your scent, salt, citrus oil, warm skin, rolls through the apartment. He can actually taste it.

The three of them are practically glowing with it, this ridiculous predator-play, instincts sparking. Your blood is about to make them cum in their pants, and their biology is eating it up.

You dart past Romance, heart hammering, and hear his laugh, low, delighted, wicked, join Abby’s in the hall.

Behind you, three sets of inhuman senses lock tighter to your trail.

They’re not hunting to hurt. They’re hunting because you’re theirs, and tonight they’re not holding back… that much. The sentence would be cooler without the “that much”, but they are still holding back. You can only be glad they are.

You whip around a corner, bare feet sliding on the smooth floor, heartbeat hammering so hard it’s practically an alarm for anyone with demon senses, which, unfortunately, is everyone here.

You skid through the long gallery hall, mind racing for exits. And then a hand shoots from a dark doorway.

A strong grip clamps around your arm.

You shriek, an honest, undignified yelp, half twisting mid-run. For a flash you’re sure Mystery has caught you.

It isn’t Mystery.

Baby leans out of the shadow, smiling. Now smiling. “Relax.”

Pure instinct takes over, you kick at him. Not a graceful martial-arts kick, just a panicked flail that clips the edge of his shin.

He laughs. A cackle, deep. He holds on just long enough to feel the jolt of your startle before letting go, fingers sliding away like he never touched you.

You stumble forward, momentum carrying you a few steps before you can glance back.

Baby is doubled over, laughing so hard he nearly folds in half, one hand braced on the doorframe.

“Not funny!” you bark, but your voice cracks in a way that makes him laugh harder.

The sound follows you as you bolt again, heart about to fall out your ribs. Behind you Baby calls something indistinct, maybe to Abby or Romance.

They’re everywhere.

This is their nature, and tonight they’ve let it off the leash.

But you begin to realize.

Nobody’s really trying to catch you.

Even Mystery, who started this whole madness, has eased off the silent predator act. You can sense him at the far edge of your awareness, not striking, just… coming around. Enjoying this. Close enough to keep the scent, far enough that you can keep running.

They’re playing.

You skid around another corner, breath ragged, and the thought grows. Abby’s earlier growl, Baby’s quick grab, Romance’s gleeful “boo”, every move has been a game. A chase they couldn’t resist once your blood lit the air.

It doesn’t mean your pulse stops trying to break out of your chest, but something else slides in alongside the fear, understanding.

And maybe, if you’re honest, the tiniest spark of adrenaline-fueled thrill.

You slow, just enough to listen. The apartment is alive with them, footsteps, the faint creak of wood as someone shifts. They could surround you anytime they wanted. Maybe they already have.

But if they wanted to, they would have already done it.

At the far end of a long hallway you finally stop, chest heaving. You brace a hand against the wall, force a breath in, another out.

Abby catches up first. Broad shoulders, smiling, eyes bright with leftover laughter. Behind him, Baby drifts into view, skinny, an evil little smile tugging at his pretty little mouth. Romance steps out next, slow, perfect, licking a stray drop of saliva from his lip that formed when he caught a smell of your blood.

And then, of course, Mystery. He doesn’t so much appear as condense from the shadows, silent, head tilted slightly down so that the fall of his hair hides most of his face. But even without seeing his eyes you feel them, a gravity that pulls and pulls.

They fan out without a word, forming a loose half-circle that hems you against the end of the hall.

Your breath scrapes in and out, fast. You don’t know what to do. You don’t know what’s happening.

You see little flickers of their demon selves peeking through, faint shimmer of pattern along Abby’s strong arms, Baby’s face picking up glowing patterns too, the faintest outline of sharp, sharp fangs when Romance grins wider, Mystery’s claws coming out.

They are beautiful in a way that makes your throat go dry, otherworldly, dangerous, magnetic.

Four sets of eyes, each tuned perfectly to you. Your heartbeat. Your scent. The single drop of blood that started this absurd dance.

You straighten slowly, pressing back against the wall, forcing your breathing to match theirs, or maybe it’s the other way around.

The game is obvious now. They aren’t hunters tonight. They’re something you accidentally called, and now they’re simply reveling in it, every sense drunk on the chase, every laugh a language of their strange affection.

Abby lowers himself slightly, big frame folding down so his face is closer to yours. The grin that chased you through the apartment softens into something different, too soft, too warm.

“Hey.” he says, almost a whisper. “It’s okay, baby. You’re safe.”

The sudden gentleness makes the air feel heavier. A second ago he was a blur of muscle and teeth, now he sounds like someone soothing a startled pet. You’re confused. Scared. Getting terrifying flashbacks of when they chased you to torture you. It feels horrible.

Romance picks up the thread. He tilts his head. “Yeah.” he murmurs, words slow and hot. “Easy now, sweetheart. We’ve got you.”

It’s disorienting, how fast they pivot from chaos to comfort. Your body is still screaming run, every nerve afraid, but their voices… they slide under your skin.

Abby reaches out, thumb and forefinger gentle on your cheek. He gives the smallest pinch, a playful tug that sends a shock of heat to your face. “Look at you.” he says, almost laughing. “Heart’s going a mile a minute.”

Romance leans closer, eyes bright as moonlight. “Can feel it from here.” he adds, pressing two fingers lightly against the air near your throat, not touching but close enough you can imagine it. “Beautiful.”

The contrast is dizzying. These are the same men who chased you through dark corridors, who let their demon edges show just to watch you run.

Create the storm, then offer the shelter.

Frighten, then soothe.

A cycle that can trap someone without them even noticing.

“See?” Abby whispers. “Nothing to be scared of.”

“Not with us.” Romance adds, and it sounds like a promise, though you can’t tell if it’s one you’d ever want.

You glance past them, toward Baby, toward Mystery in the shadows. Neither speaks. Baby’s eyes gleam, a spark of adrenaline still dancing in them. Mystery remains the usual, his hair covering anything you could work with, but you sense the same awareness of every breath you take catalogued, every micro-movement registered.

The strange, toxic comfort they radiate is undeniable. They know exactly what they’re doing, how to shift from predators to protectors in a heartbeat. It’s control disguised as affection, and it’s dangerously easy to sink into.

You breathe, slow and shaky.

And when Abby brushes a knuckle under your chin and murmurs, “That’s it, baby, just breathe.” a traitorous part of you wants to lean into the touch.

Romance notices the way your shoulders drop half an inch, and his smile widens, satisfied, gentle, a little too knowing. “Good.” he says softly. “You’re perfect.”

To them, this is proof of their devotion, their own fucked up way of saying we love you.

Romance pulls you against him, your cheek pressed to the hard plane of his chest. His heartbeat is fast, too fast, but steady, like a drum. Comforting. He lowers his chin until his jaw brushes the crown of your head and cups the back of your head and guides you until your cheek rests against him.

“Shhh.” he breathes. “Easy, baby. It’s all right. I’ve got you. Nothing can touch you here.”

Abby steps in behind, all warmth and size, his palm spreading across the center of your back. It’s huge, steady, deceptively gentle. He rubs a slow circle between your shoulder blades. “You’re fine.” he rumbles. “We’d never let anything happen to you. Never.”

Your mouth parts, some instinct trying to speak, why, stop, what is this, what are we doing?, but nothing comes. The words dissolve before they form. Your head feels light, confused, and frighteningly calm at the same time. The adrenaline is still there, but their heat pulls it into something different, a low, drugging hum.

Romance tips his head, cheek brushing your hair. “Breathe, pretty thing.” he murmurs, voice low, beautiful. “Just breathe.”

Abby adds a gentle pat. He’ll never admit how much he feeds on the little shiver when you first relax under his touch. “Yeah. You’re fine now. We’ve got you.”

That’s their pattern, their worst habit, hurt, then be there for you. They don’t even need to talk it through, it’s instinct. Scare you, then soothe you. Make themselves the only place where the fear eases. It’s toxic and they don’t even see it. It lets them feel powerful, needed, adored. It lets them keep you close. To them, this is affection.

Romance’s thumb strokes the side of your face, slow and hypnotic. Abby’s massive hand moves in steady circles on your back.

You feel… loved.

Your thoughts scatter: Am I okay? Do I want this? Why does it feel good?

Romance tilts his head, breath skimming your ear. “Shhh.” he whispers, and it eases you into him. Abby’s thumb traces another slow shape on your back. Romance leans down, lips near your ear. “There you go.” he whispers. “Breathe with me. You’re safe. We’ve got you, sweetheart. Always.”

He is frighteningly good at this, the cooing, the shushing, the illusion that you’re protected instead of cornered.

Abby’s touch matches him, the gentleness of it at odds with the wild chase that came before.

Your chest tightens with something you can’t name.

Romance starts rocking you a little, bouncing with you to calm you down. “That’s it. Breathe. You did so good. We’ve got you.” His fingers trace small, reassuring patterns across your scalp. “You’re safe. With us, you’re always safe.”

You don’t know what’s happening. You’re confused. Your brain and body stopped when you started feeling similar to back when they tortured you. Fear and comfort, threat and tenderness, your brain can’t decide which signal to trust.

When you lift your eyes, just for a heartbeat, you catch Baby leaning against the wall, legs casually crossed. His gaze is half-lidded but sharp. There’s no softness there, only the satisfaction of someone who enjoyed the whole thing. Mystery stands beside him, hair falling in his face, unreadable as always. But you feel the intensity behind that curtain of hair, a quiet gravity that pins you in place even from across the hall.

You look away fast.

Romance notices the flicker and tucks your head closer, as if shielding you from their stares. Abby’s hand rubs a slow line down your spine. It’s absurd how good it feels.

Romance presses a kiss, not quite, to your temple, just a brush of warmth. “See? We’d never hurt you.” he whispers, as if the last ten minutes didn’t happen. His thumb strokes a lazy line along your jaw, the motion almost enough to lull you into forgetting why you’re shaking.

Romance croons soft nonsense, “good girl, so good, perfect, perfect”, while Abby hums. They feed on the adrenaline they stirred in you, drinking in the way you melt despite every warning in your head. They feed on your energy.

Then a new sound cuts through the hallway, footsteps.

You lift your head.

Jinu.

You peel out of their arms so fast Romance’s hand hangs in midair. Abby’s palm falls away, fingers curling into a fist as you slip past. Your body knows where to go. Which is Jinu’s space, colliding with a chest that didn’t chase you through the house.

He catches you instantly, an arm firm around your shoulders, the other hand cupping the back of your head. Protective. Certain. No performance.

Your breath shakes against him. For the first time all night, you feel something close to actual safety.

Jinu’s eyes lift over your head to the four behind you. The temperature of the hallway seems to drop.

Romance’s smirk fades to something tighter, offended. Abby’s eyes narrow, a spark of anger flashing, directed at Jinu, never at you. Baby shifts his weight, mouth going into a bratty, aggressive sneer. Mystery tilts his head, a flicker of something so animal that his claws are coming in and out.

The four of them glare back, offended, possessive, almost wounded, but not at you.

Never at you.

The anger is for Jinu, for the way you chose him, for the unspoken message that his arms feel safer than theirs. (No shit man y’all chased her across the whole place)

You press your face against Jinu’s chest, heart still unsteady, and feel his breath slow and even. His hand stays on the back of your head, a quiet promise of protection.

Jinu dips his head, eyes sweeping over you. The bandaged forearm first. A tiny furrow forms between his brows as he checks that the wrap is still snug, no fresh red seeping through. Then your finger, the culprit, still tinged faintly pink. He takes it lightly between his own, a brief squeeze, realizing that it was the cause before releasing it. Your face next, searching for anything off, scratches, swelling, tears. Finally a quick sweep of your shoulders, ribs, hips, as though measuring for injuries you might not even feel yet.

Satisfied, or as close as Jinu ever gets, he slips an arm around you. “Come on, Y/N.” he says, voice low enough that it belongs only to the two of you.

He turns, guiding you away from the four still blocking the hall. His hold is protective, hot and strong, his body a shield.

Abby flexes his jaw until it clicks. Rage, yes, but not at you. Never at you. It’s Jinu who makes his teeth itch, no matter how he looks so hot coming out of the shower sometimes that Abby starts fucking drooling. He crosses his arms, muscles flexing in irritation. He hates that he agrees with Jinu’s timing. If Jinu hadn’t stepped in, the play would’ve gone too far. Mystery’s instincts were peaking, even Abby’s own pulse was running wild. He can admit that.

But watching you lean into Jinu, watching you choose him? That digs deep.

He’s scowling at Jinu, at your small figure pressed to Jinu’s side. It burns, because he likes you, damn it, because he’d been the one cooing soft words to you a heartbeat ago. And yet, even through the heat, Abby knows the truth, Jinu arriving when he did probably saved everyone from a night they’d regret. He just doesn’t have the language for that admission, so the anger stays.

Romance tells himself he isn’t jealous, he’s Romance, jealousy is beneath him. But the sight of your head against Jinu’s chest sparks a hot, sour ache he can’t name.

He knows Jinu’s no saint. None of them are.

Still, watching you melt into the one man who didn’t play the game makes Romance want to break something. He wanted to be the comfort. Instead he’s left standing in the wreckage, empty-handed.

He tells himself Jinu’s only winning because he walked in late, because he didn’t join the game, because little virgin boy wouldn’t go wild like this. But deep down, a stubborn flicker of reason reminds him: if Jinu hadn’t come, you might actually be hurt now.

It’s a truth he hates almost as much as the glare Jinu threw his way.

Baby leans back against the wall. He knows the chase went too far. He knew it even as he grabbed your arm for a scare. So there’s a sliver of reluctant relief, too. Mystery’s blood-drunkness had been real, and Baby knows it.

The Jinu thing? It’s fair, yeah. Jinu plays the long game, always the calm one, the one who never slips. But Baby’s gut twists anyway. Because he wants that trust, and he doesn’t know how to earn it without breaking everything first. He wanted a moment, just one, and instead Jinu gets everything.

Jealousy, yes. But also a grudging respect for Jinu’s timing. Baby has always trusted instincts over talk, and even he can feel that the night was seconds from tipping into something none of them could laugh off. He won’t say it aloud, but Jinu’s interruption was the only thing standing between their game and a real wound.

Mystery is stone. Hair curtaining his eyes, shoulders still. But inside, the animal part of him snarls at the distance growing between you. He doesn’t like being pulled off the trail. Doesn’t like someone else claiming you when his senses are still ringing with the taste of your blood. And yet, even he knows the chase had went closer to a dangerous point. Jinu’s interruption saved you. He knows Jinu’s timing stopped him from proving how badly he could fail you. He hates that it’s true.

Seeing you pressed against Jinu is a silent verdict: you’re safer there than anywhere near him. He is not safe for you, not tonight.

It’s true. It still stings.

They all know Jinu isn’t better. Just… steadier. If he hadn’t come, none of them can say where the night would have ended.

They hate him for it.

They respect him for it.

They hate that they respect him.

Jinu walks you down the hallway, steps measured. To anyone watching, he’s calm. Inside, his thoughts are a tripping over each other.

He hates the others in moments like this, not because they played too rough, but because they are just like him. He behaves, yes. He plays the gentleman. But the impulse underneath is no cleaner, keep you near, keep you away from them, keep you where only he decides. Because he needs your blood, your scent, you just as much, he’s just not as deep into being a demon yet as the other four are.

He doesn’t trust the others. Not with you. Not with the blood, the hunger, the instincts that sometimes win.

And, if he’s honest, he doesn’t trust himself either. He knows the same hunger lives in him, smoothed over, hidden behind polite smiles and robes, but still there. Keeping you away from them feels righteous. It also feels good. That’s the part he doesn’t examine too closely.

Manipulation by restraint.

Tonight it worked.

His arm tightens fractionally around your shoulders as if to seal the victory.

He likes that you chose him.

Likes the way you tucked yourself into his side without a word.

Likes it enough that a thin, possessive streak hums beneath his ribs.

Jinu is not innocent, no. He’s an evil, manipulative man too deep in his first love. He likes the way you lean into him when you’re unsettled. He likes that you choose him when the others scare you. He tells himself it’s because he’s gentle, but underneath that calm is a darker satisfaction: you trust him, and that trust is leverage. You’re calmer beside him, you breathe easier, and he wants to keep it that way, wants to keep you that way, next to him and nowhere else.

Pressed to Jinu’s side, your thoughts are a mess. Relief first, pure and dizzying, to be out of that hall. Jinu’s arm is a wall you can finally lean on, the steady rhythm of his steps holding you safe. But underneath, it’s a tangle.

You love them. All of them.

You hate that you love them.

You crave the moments when they’re funny and bright and so breathtaking it hurts.

You fear the moments like tonight, when the game slides sideways and you can’t tell where play ends and danger begins.

You wanted to run to them all, once. Now you can’t stop shaking from the memory of Abby’s teeth, Romance’s whispers, Mystery’s silence, Baby’s sudden grip.

And still, still, a traitorous warmth lingers from the way they cooed, the way their hands steadied you after the mess they made. Knowing it was about to go to something even messier. If Jinu hadn’t shown up, who knows what could’ve happened. More blood sucking. Or maybe sex.

You would be too weak to resist any. You would be willing to anything, too traumatized and in love with them. You want them. You want them so bad, even after this. You miss them already.

Jinu’s arm tightens fractionally around your shoulders, and you lean a little closer without meaning to. He smells so good. So calming.

You love them. But love doesn’t mean trust. And tonight you’ve been reminded, hard, of how quickly their games can turn. How easily affection blurs into something that feels like danger wearing a friendly face.

Jinu’s arm around you feels like heaven. But you know he’s not pure either. He plays his own quiet games, always there, always the rescuer, the one you run to when the others tip over the edge. And you can’t ignore the flicker of satisfaction you sense in him, the way he tightens his grip just enough to claim you without a word.

Your heart beats against his side, messy and complicated. You’re in love with all of them, and you know it. But you’re also tangled in their unpredictability, never sure which version of them you’ll meet, the protectors, the hunters, the tempests, the perverts.

You are safest with the one who might be just as dangerous as the rest.

Jinu’s room is quiet enough to hear the soft click of the door closing. He guides you to the edge of his bed with the same unhurried steadiness he used in the hallway. The mattress dips beneath you.

For a moment he studies you, dark eyes tracking the tremor in your hands, the uneven rise of your shoulders. He can feel the tension rolling off you, even if you try to hide it. He knows fear when he sees it, he’s worn it himself.

Jinu slips a hand through your hair once, comforting, then he draws it back and slips into the bathroom. A cabinet opens. A quiet rustle.

When he comes back he’s carrying a single band-aid and a small brown bottle of betadine(do they have betadine there?? If not let’s just say some disinfectant). He settles beside you, close. “Give me your hand.” he says quietly.

You extend it. He takes it in both of his, warm, careful. The scent of antiseptic rises as he twists the cap and lets a drop fall onto the cut. The sting is not bad, just a little uncomfortable, but his thumb steadies your wrist, keeping you still.

Jinu leans closer, tongue caught briefly between his teeth as he concentrates on the tiny wound. The look of focus, lashes lowered, hair falling forward, is disarmingly adorable.

Your chest tightens.

…Why do you want to kiss Jinu?

He looks up at you, meeting your eyes, beautiful. “What happened?”

“I—I was cutting fruit.” you mumble. “And the knife slipped, just a little, and then Mystery was there and he—uh—he, like, grabbed my finger with his mouth which sounds way weirder than it actually was, I swear, it wasn’t—it was just—instinct, I think? And it was scary. I stepped back, and, uh, he followed. And then Abby was in the hall laughing and then Romance and Baby and suddenly everyone was everywhere and—” You break off, breathless. “I didn’t even know what was happening, they were chasing me and I was—running, I guess—and they were… it was like a game but not, and then—” You gesture helplessly with your newly bandaged finger. “And then you came. That’s…that’s it.”

Jinu only nods once, slow. You watch him for a long moment. From the outside, it would look like the gentlest scene, a man tending a small wound, a quiet room, two people sharing breath. I am begging y’all to stop sometimes while reading and visualize the scenes in your heads because I pay so much attention to actually building up something nice every time.

Jinu feels the smallest tremor run through you as you shift on the edge of the mattress, a subtle tightening of shoulders, the faint change in your breathing that only someone built of predator instinct would catch.

You’re still scared.

He knows the signs. Every micro-movement broadcasts it, even though you sit so still.

For a second he hesitates, torn between restraint and the pull in his chest. Then, awkwardly, almost shy, virgin fuck, he slides an arm around you. The motion is careful, testing.

You lean into him.

Just enough for the tension in his body to ease. He shifts back until his shoulders meet the headboard, drawing you with him so you both settle more comfortably. He just holds you, the warmth of your weight against his side grounding him as much as it steadies you.

But Jinu’s mind is never quiet for long.

“Sweet little human.” Gwi-Ma croons. “So warm, so fragile. You think you can keep her safe? You can’t even keep yourself clean of me.”

Jinu closes his eyes, jaw tightening. He’s had years of practice ignoring this parasite, but Gwi-Ma knows every crack in his defenses.

“Look at her.” the voice presses, low and taunting. “She’ll die long before you. Maybe by her own kind. Maybe by mine. Maybe by the hands of the very boys you call bandmates.”

A flicker of anger stirs in Jinu’s chest. He pulls you imperceptibly closer.

Gwi-Ma laughs, a sound like smoke. “You think holding her stops fate? When her blood runs out, you’ll taste it. You’ll love it. You already love the scent of it tonight.”

Jinu forces a breath, focusing on the subtle rise and fall of your shoulders against him. You’re safe. He will keep you safe. That’s the mantra.

“Admit it.” the voice whispers, suddenly soft, almost seductive. “She fits against you perfectly. She leans into you because she knows you’d never let her go. Doesn’t that make you want more?”

Heat climbs Jinu’s neck before he can stop it. He’s getting hard.

“You could keep her.” Gwi-Ma purrs. “Make her yours. The others are too wild. She already runs to you when it matters. You could have every heartbeat of hers if you just—“

Jinu tries to close the voice out. Tries taking big breaths, shifting his legs to hide his boner, burying his nose in your hair.

“You’ll see. She’ll see.“

Jinu keeps his arm firm around you, the quiet strength of his body a shield against both the outside world and the noise inside his skull.

You shift slightly, head finding a more comfortable spot against his chest. The simple trust of that movement cuts through the dark voice in his mind more effectively than anything.

You start to fall asleep against him. For a moment, Jinu almost smiles. This, right here, is everything he’s wanted for longer than he’ll admit. You, trusting him enough to fall asleep in his arms. You, not pulled by Abby’s muscles, Romance’s flirting, Baby’s attitude, or Mystery’s charm. Just you, tucked against him, choosing him.

But the smile doesn’t last.

Because Gwi-Ma never lets it last.

“Look at you.” the demon sneers. “You think she chose you? No. She collapsed. Out of fear. Exhaustion. That isn’t trust.”

Jinu’s jaw tightens. He strokes your arm once, steadying himself.

“She would’ve run again if she had the strength. Don’t lie to yourself, Jinu. She’s not yours. She never will be. And when the others come clawing, when their bloodlust peaks again, you’ll watch them tear your little human apart. And what will you do? Hug the corpse?”

Jinu swallows hard, staring at the ceiling. You shift slightly in your sleep, nuzzling closer against his chest, and it’s like pouring gasoline onto an already raging fire.

Every nerve in his body is lit. His heart hammers too loud, too fast. His pulse claws at his throat. And beneath it all, yes, the shameful truth, he’s so brutally turned on.

It’s unbearable. Unbelievable.

And Gwi-Ma knows it.

“Ah.” the demon croons. “There it is. The boy who wants. The boy I know. The true you. Look at you, Jinu. Look how close she is. That scent. Her hair brushing your jaw. You could lean down an inch. An inch, Jinu.”

Jinu squeezes his eyes shut. He mouths a no.

“You’re a fool. You’ll never forgive yourself for what you want.” Gwi-Ma spits, suddenly crueler, sharper. “You starve yourself on scraps of affection while the others devour. You’re the worst of all.”

The words pierce because they’re not wrong. Jinu knows it. He feels it in the way his body reacts to you. In the way his mind spins. In the way his heart threatens to tear itself open just from the weight of your head on his chest.

“Do you see?” Gwi-Ma hisses. “How helpless you are to this?”

Jinu’s breathing stutters. He wants to scream. He wants to break something. He wants to press his forehead to yours and beg you to never leave. He wants, he wants everything, and it’s too much.

“You’re weak, Jinu. Weak and desperate. Pathetic little boy.”

And yet under all of it, under the torment, under the shame, under the feverish ache in his chest and body, there is something else.

Something so simple it nearly floors him.

Joy.

Because even if Gwi-Ma is right, even if this is fleeting, even if tomorrow you run back to Abby’s games or Romance’s gifts or Baby’s sharp-tongued comfort or Mystery’s silent closeness, right now, you are here. Against him. Breathing steady. Safe.

And that’s all he ever wanted.

It makes the torment worth it. The fire in his chest worth it. The unbearable, unbelievable pressure worth it.

Because this moment is his.

And Jinu, aching, burning, trembling Jinu, would let it break him a thousand times if it meant you’d fall asleep against him again.

“Four centuries walking the earth and you still shake at a mortal’s touch. Look at you. A first love at your age, laughable.”

Jinu doesn’t answer. He keeps his palm spread across your back, counting the small rises. One. Two. Three.

“You were always my favorite, Jinu. I give you what I never gave the others. I could make it easier for your little human, if you want. So easy to break. So easy to keep. Tell me, isn’t it delicious to want?”

Jinu exhales through his nose, slow, careful, as if that might quiet the hammering in his chest. He focuses on the weight of you, your hair brushing his chin, the faint hum of your sleeping breath.

“You think you protect her.” the demon presses, tone sharpening. “But you protect only yourself. You want her because she is the first thing in centuries to make you feel alive. Admit it. You want to keep her because she is your first. Your only love.”

The word lands heavy. Love.

He hates that it fits.

It terrifies him that it fits.

“Do you see?” The demon’s tone softens again, coaxing. “I could have stripped this from you long ago. But I left it. For you. For moments like this. Feel how fragile she is. Hear that tiny heart against yours. Every beat is a miracle you don’t deserve, and still, I let you have it.”

Your hand shifts in sleep, fingers brushing his ribs. A tremor runs through him so strong he nearly startles you awake.

“Sleep now.” the voice murmurs at last. “Dream of her. I’ll watch. I always watch.”

Silence.

For the first time in centuries, Jinu’s body loosens. The weight of four hundred years, the endless nights, the gnawing hunger, the careful distance he keeps from everything living, drops away piece by piece until only this remains. You.

He draws in a breath that tastes almost human.

Lets it out.

He falls asleep against you. And it is the best sleep Jinu has known in all the long, cold stretch of his existence. Jinu had not truly slept in centuries. But this time was different.

Your warmth had worked its way into every corner of him. The faint scent of your shampoo lingered on his sleeve, the gentle pulse of your heartbeat pressed through his ribs until it felt as though his own heart had been reset to match it.

Demon or not, his body responded like any creature seeking safety.

And his senses, those brutal, sharpened gifts, remained alert even as the rest of him floated. Every tiny sound in the room threaded into his dreamless dark, the shift of the blanket as you moved, the barely-there rustle of your hair against him, the way your breath hitched once before settling. Each detail, he caught onto.

He turned toward you in his sleep. One arm slid across your waist, his forehead found the curve of your shoulder. The scent of you, warm skin and the faint trace of the oil Romance had given, was calming.

His heartbeat synced to yours. His temperature shifted, matching the subtle warmth of your skin. Even his breathing adapted, micro-adjustments so small they were nearly invisible but undeniable to a creature of instinct.

While Jinu lay heavy and blissfully unconscious, wrapped around you, the others were far from peaceful. Their biological responses were tuned to you, your scent, your warmth, the faint lingering of your oils and the trace of your skin on every surface you’d touched.

Abby prowled his own room first, restless. Muscles coiled and uncoiled without conscious thought, every heartbeat syncing involuntarily with your presence somewhere in the apartment. He caught himself sniffing himself in hopes of anything left over from you, tongue briefly wetting dry lips. His hands found the edge of his pants.

He fucked his fist, animalistic and brutal, snarling. He wasn’t thinking, but biology was screaming, blood racing with need, and testosterone pumping. Thinking about you. Always thinking about you.

It didn’t help that he could smell faint iron from the cut on your arm. He could hear your heartbeat. Every sound from the hallway made him listen hard, half hoping you’d wander past his door. He hated how much he wanted that. He hated how the memory of your small yelp when he’d flashed his teeth during the chase still tasted sweet.

When he finally collapsed onto the mattress, it wasn’t sleep that claimed him but a long, impatient stare into the dark. He could picture Jinu’s calm face too clearly, the way you would breathe easier next to him. Abby wasn’t used to second place, and the unfamiliar weight of it burned.

Purple streaks laced his shoulders, glowing faintly. He flexed a hand, watching the tendons ripple with his demon patterns all over himself. His body wanted more, more running, more noise, more you.

“Calm the fuck down.” he muttered to no one, but even his own voice vibrated with a low, otherworldly growl.

He didn’t sleep properly, not really. His body finally slackened at the asscrack of fucking dawn, eyelids drooping but ears still pricked to the faintest movement that might indicate you.

Romance was no better. He sprawled across his bed, one arm flung over his face as though he could hide from the way his body throbbed with longing. Every faint memory of your head brushing against him, every hint of oil on your skin, every trace of your perfume left an ache he could not ignore.

He flipped his pillow, punched it flat, rolled to the edge of the mattress, then back again. Nothing helped. He told himself he was just keyed up from the night’s chase, that he’d eventually crash. But every inhale reminded him that you weren’t in your room. And that someone else knew exactly where you were. He could almost see you, even with his eyes closed, the way you’d stiffened when he hugged you in the hallway, the slight shiver when he’d pressed his cheek to your hair. He rolled onto his side, cursing under his breath. “Lucky bastard.” he muttered, half about Jinu, half about himself for caring this much.

Okay, there was one possible way left.

Romance reached under his bed, fumbled around a little, but then his manicured fingers finally found the fabric he was looking for. With a gleeful smile, he pulled it out, and—

Oh. That’s Abby’s underwear.

Huffing and puffing in frustration, Romance threw that back under the bed and went scavenging with his hand again, successfully this time.

Your underwear.

His demon blood hummed under the skin, sending faint violet lines pulsing along his arms. Patterns, usually hidden, flickered to life as he settled back on the bed with your panties now in his hand. He stared at them, then quickly started pulling his pants down, impatient and unashamed.

Quick jerk done. He started chasing a second orgasm, that also came, but it took a little longer. He was too lost in his own head to focus on the pleasure, poor Romance even stopped stroking himself a few times when he got unfocused.

His eyes fluttered closed only to dream of you leaning in, soft and helpless, and his hands would twitch, even in sleep, as though he were trying to draw your warmth to him. He knew the others were doing the same, and he… was actually proud of them. Too bad they turned down his multiple offers of circle jerks. One day though, one day.

Baby never even tried to lie down. Your scent had threaded through the apartment. He followed it without thinking, bare feet silent on the cold floor.

When he reached your room and found it empty, a sour spike of jealousy hit, childish. The space smelled like you, skin and faintly citrus, and the pull of it was a physical thing.

He stared at the bed, the soft dent in the pillow. Without a word, he slid onto your bed. The blanket was cool where you’d left it. He stretched out on his stomach, face buried in that faint scent, and let the tension leak from him.

He told himself it was only to steal a little warmth. It turned into sitting on the bed on his heels, kneeling on the sheets. He was hot. I mean his temperature, not only his looks. He was burning up, because your presence, even in absence, made him ache.

Kneeling on the sheets turned into spreading his legs on either side of his body, as if he was riding something. And god, Baby was so, so hot. So hot that he just had to take his shirt off. So hot that he gathered some of the blanket together between his legs, and slowly, started grinding his little hips into it.

He wasn’t humping it, ew.

At least until two minutes in, then he was humping your blanket. Holding the bunch of blanket in place with his little hands, thrusting into it, soaking his pants with pre, throwing his head back and letting quiet little breaths out. Then whines. Then quiet little moans, unable to close his pretty mouth, a trail of drool sliding down on his jawline.

The violet tracery of his demon pattern flickered along his neck and arms as he panted and thrusted against the fabric, faint but unmistakable in the dark. It pulsed in time with a heartbeat that refused to slow.

He just wanted to be near where you should have been, it’s not his fault that it turned into desecrating your sheets!

Mystery was the most affected, no surprise there. In the dark of his room, curled up in the dark, hair falling over his face, he kept smelling the air, smelling you. Every breath carried your oils, the faint iron of your blood still lingering in his mouth from earlier. His body reacted without his permission. Fingers ghosted over the blankets, over his own skin, small sighs leaving him as he jerked off.

But he was so, so overstimulated. And not sexually, no. His senses were overstimulated, and he couldn’t do anything about it. It got him horny, so unbelievably horny. Stroking his pretty cock wasn’t even relieving anymore, he had to take a cold shower to calm down.

He’d heard the subtle difference in Jinu’s breathing as soon as you’d settled against him earlier. Heard it from across the apartment. A part of him was relieved that you were safe, for now. Another part, something primal and wordless, bristled at the knowledge that someone else held you while you slept.

Every nerve, every instinct, every synapse was keyed to you. You were a presence burned into him. It felt so good but so unbearable, to the point Mystery thought the only cure to this would be death.

The logical part of him knew you were safe. Knew Jinu wouldn’t hurt you. But instinct doesn’t care about logic. Instinct only knew that someone else had you.

They were all tethered to you biologically, psychologically, emotionally, each in his own way. Their obsession was pure instinct wrapped in centuries of learned cruelty and devotion. The smell of you, the memory of your touch, even the faint taste of blood from earlier, it was an intoxicant none of them could resist.

Even as they tried to rest, none of the others could touch the kind of sleep Jinu had found. Not even close. They were restless, raw, untethered. Their bodies knew what they wanted, their minds tangled in obsession and jealousy, and nothing, nothing, could erase the pull you had on them.

It was maddening. It was chaos. Biological, chemical, instinctual, obsessive chaos. And even in their exhaustion, in their private indulgences, in the throbbing pulse of longing, the devotion was undeniable, every twitch, every sigh, every secret, selfish act carried the same truth.

Their worlds revolve around you.

They didn’t speak of it when morning finally came. But when they crossed paths in the hallway while you and Jinu were still asleep, they all shared the same look, a quiet, grudging acknowledgement of what they’d each felt all night.

Jealousy.

Frustration.

And a strange, painful admiration for the one of them who, for once, had managed to bring you a night of peace.

Peace, exactly. Even when you wake up, it’s peaceful. Jinu is everywhere, an arm snug across your waist, a leg hooked loosely over yours, the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest pressed to your back. It’s peaceful. For a disorienting half second you don’t even remember falling asleep like this.

You shift just enough to breathe a little deeper. The movement is tiny, but it’s all he needs. Jinu’s senses snap awake the way a predator’s do. Before you can even blink, the muscles around you tighten slightly, a subtle check that you’re still there. Then his breathing changes, deeper. Awake.

You turn your head, just a little.

His eyes are open, dark and clear despite the half-light. The very first thing out of his mouth is, “Are you okay?”

Hm. Good question, Jinu.

Your voice comes out rough from sleep. “I… yeah. I’m fine.”

And that’s when you see that look. Not hunger. Not the sharp gleam you’ve seen when he’s in a fight with one of the boys, even if it’s just a play fight.

Awe.

You push a hand through your hair, suddenly conscious of the mess of limbs between you. “You—you’re warm.” you mumble, because your brain can’t find anything more intelligent.

His mouth curves the faintest bit into a smile, but he doesn’t look away. If anything, his gaze grows more intent, cataloging every detail, the crease his pillow left on your cheek, the way the morning light touches the edge of your jaw, the way your voice still wavers from sleep.

It’s the first time he woke up with a girl. Yes, in all 400+ years Jinu lived, it’s his very first time waking up with a girl he likes. Likes likes, I have to clarify that, because back then of course, he used to let his little sister sleep next to him when she had a nightmare or when anything upset her. Obviously. But those were old times. He can’t even remember how it felt like.

You can practically feel him trying to process it.

“Did you…” you start, then stop, because what question could possibly fit? Did you sleep well? Did you mean to hold me all night? Did you know you curl up to me when you’re unconscious?

He beats you to it, his voice still low. “You sure you’re okay?”

The way he asks, careful, makes your chest tighten. You nod. “I promise. I’m okay.”

It’s disorienting, this much quiet, this much closeness. You’re used to chaos, to teasing voices and footsteps and still flinching when someone moved too fast. But here it’s only breath and heartbeat.

Your heartbeat.

His heartbeat.

Close enough that you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

Jinu finally exhales, slow and deep, his breath skimming the back of your neck. It sends a shiver down your spine before you can stop it. He notices, you feel the subtle tightening of his fingers, but he doesn’t comment. Instead he moves just enough to rest his forehead against the curve of your shoulder. It’s so intimate.

He shifts, a small, careful movement, but you feel it alright. Those dark eyes track you, and you push a sleeve up, pretending to smooth your hair just to break the silence.

He clears his throat, quiet. “Last night… you were scared.” His voice is soft, but there’s something under it. It isn’t a question.

You swallow. “Yeah. I guess.”

Your heart stumbles, remembering the chase, the wild, animal beauty of the others. Terrifying and breathtaking all at once.

Jinu notices the flicker in your expression.

He leans a fraction closer, lowering his voice. “You don’t have to act like it didn’t matter. They were out of control.”

Something in the way he says out of control lands like a stone in your stomach.

He keeps going, slow and careful. “They forget how strong they are. How easily they can hurt someone who isn’t… like us.” A pause. “You’re not safe when they start acting like that.”

There it is, the first twist. His words are designed to carve a wedge, tiny. To plant the seed in your head.

He shifts again, angling his body so his shoulder becomes a wall between you and the rest of the apartment.

His next words drop lower, almost a whisper.

“You shouldn’t have to keep your guard up in your own home. You deserve someone who can stay calm. Who won’t… lose it.”

He doesn’t say someone like me, but it hangs in the air. Plus your own home? Jinu knows what he’s doing.

Your breath catches.

Because you remember last night’s chaos, the blur of teeth and glowing patterns, the speed and raw instinct.

It was dangerous.

It was also stunning, alive in a way nothing else has ever been.

You keep that to yourself. Not out of fear. Because it feels private, complicated, and you know Jinu wouldn’t understand. Or maybe he would, too well.

He studies your silence, reading every micro-expression with those hunter senses.

“I’m not trying to tell you what to do.” he adds, all quiet reason. “I just… don’t want them to hurt you.”

Liar.

Jinu watches you carefully, mistaking your silence for agreement. He leans a little closer, lowering his voice as if the walls themselves might eavesdrop. “They lose control.” he says. “You saw it. They don’t always stop themselves.”

He speaks like it’s a simple fact, but there’s a subtle pull beneath each word, the suggestion that he’s the steady one, the safe one. That only he can keep you from the chaos outside this room.

Part of you recognizes the manipulation, some small, rational corner of your mind filing it under warning signs, but the memory of last night tangles everything. Because those boys, for all their danger, were breathtaking. And now here’s Jinu, quiet, beautiful, there for you.

You exhale, finally answering. “It… it was a lot.” you admit, careful. “I was scared.”

“It’s okay.” He whispers, so manipulative. “I just don’t want them to hurt you. You deserve better.”

What he is doing, subtle as a shadow, is wrong. He’s isolating you, nudging you toward the belief that he alone is the safe harbor.

“I know them better than anyone.” he says, lying. “They care about you, in their way. But they don’t always stop to think what that means for someone… human.”

Another small pause, expertly placed.

“You don’t have to worry when you’re with me.”

I’m the one you can trust. I’m the one who keeps you safe.

You study his face, trying to untangle the layers. The morning light catches on his features, flawless all of them. He looks like someone you could fall into.

You glance down at your hands, replaying last night.

The chase.

The thrill that had spiked through you, electric.

Yes, you’d been scared, heart-in-throat terrified. But you’d also been amazed, by the speed of Mystery’s shadow, by their power, by the sheer wild beauty of creatures who existed outside every rule you’d ever known.

Jinu could never erase that, no matter how quietly he tried.

You meet his eyes again.

He’s waiting, patient.

“I’m okay.” you say finally.

His eyes change, a little twitch, but you don’t notice. He reaches out, fingertips brushing a stray lock of hair from your forehead. “Stay alone today.” he murmurs.

The touch is soft.

The intention is not.

You shift to the edge of the bed, stretching your legs. His gaze follows, still protective, still possessive. Hoping he can keep you to himself. It’s weird, actually, because he wouldn’t be that upset if they would end up sharing you. It’s not something he’s against, but he sure would like to keep you all for himself.

You stand, but your mind stays laid. It’s like the air in Jinu’s room is thicker than the hallway outside, like leaving will mean tearing yourself out of a warm current. You don’t want to leave, but you know you have to.

You’re not really here anymore. Not the clear-headed version of you who could list pros and cons, set boundaries, laugh this off. The version left standing is softer, blurred. Not strong enough to realize how wrong this all is, not strong enough to not fall for it.

Fear floods the body with adrenaline. After a night of running, being cornered, being soothed, your system is still a chemical soup. Terror mixed with comfort, an evolutionary trick that bonds prey to whoever calms the danger. And they played this too many times.

It’s the same cocktail that makes hostages identify with rescuers. The same that keeps people in unhealthy relationships because the brain links relief with the person who caused the panic.

Rapid swings between fear and tenderness wire themselves into craving. The body wants the “safe” touch, the gentle voice, because that’s when the alarm finally stops. It doesn’t matter that the alarm came from the same pack of demons who chased you in the first place.

So yes, you’ve fallen in love with them, all of them, in some reckless, chemical way. Brutally, helplessly, and so sweetly.

You shift your weight, trying to will yourself to get yourself the fuck together.

Jinu watches, eyes following every fidget.

“I can walk you back.” he says, voice soft enough that it almost sounds like a question.

You shake your head. “No. It’s fine.” But you don’t move. Your feet stay planted like the floor just grabbed them.

He notices, of course. That hunter’s intuition again. A quiet sigh slips out of him, not annoyed, not impatient. Just… knowing. Sweet. “Come on.” he says, getting up.

Before you can argue, he’s already at the door, waiting. Just standing there until you follow.

You do.

The hallway light feels thinner than the air in his room. Jinu keeps a careful half-step ahead, his presence a wall between you and the rest of the apartment. The other four can hear everything. Demon senses don’t miss a footfall, a heartbeat, a whispered breath. They know Jinu is with you. They know you’re walking these few quiet steps with him alone. That’s why they don’t appear. Not because they trust him, but because they register him, a silent territorial signal.

Another psychological trick. Your nervous system can’t tell the difference between being guarded and being controlled when you’re still coming down from fear. It just reads the steady presence and says: stay close.

You reach your door. Jinu stops, finally turning to face you. His expression is almost ordinary now, like any human boy.

“You’re okay.” he says quietly. Not a question.

You nod because words are too heavy.

For a long second he just stands there, watching for some signal you don’t know how to give. Then he exhales, a tiny puff of warmth in the cool hall.

“Get some more sleep if you can.” he says, almost like nothing supernatural ever happened. And then, with a small tilt of his head that could mean goodbye or remember who brought you here, he steps back.

You slip inside your room.

Through most of the day, you stay in your room. First thing, a scalding bath. You stay until your fingers wrinkle and the mirror fogs so completely it can’t even remember it’s a mirror. After that you wrap yourself in a towel big enough to qualify as a tent and wander around the room, getting and using things. Lotion. Face mask. Nail file. A five-minute argument with the blow-dryer. You even reorganize the tiny mountain of hair ties Romance bought you.

By early afternoon you start to feel trapped. You finally pull on clean clothes and crack your door.

Silence.

They left.

You walk the hallway. Same hall where Mystery stalked you, where Abby bared teeth just to watch you flinch, where Romance jerked off to you, where Baby got so drunk he almost walked in on you changing. The memory of yesterday hits, adrenaline blooming even though nothing’s happening.

Your heart spikes.

And, annoyingly, you like it.

That bright, dizzy rush feels good in a fucked up way, like touching a bruise just to prove it’s there. You mutter a curse at yourself, shake it off, keep moving.

Lunch is fruit and a piece of bread you toast until it’s practically a weapon. You eat it standing at the counter, watching Sussie walk on the table, where Jinu told him not to btw.

While you’re busy entertaining yourself, not sure if you miss the boys or not after what happened last night, the boys have a meet-and-greet hell. Flashbulbs. Fans screaming. Jinu is signing photos, calm and charming while internally calculating how fast he can escape. Abby soaks it up, flexing every time a camera blinks, practically hearing the collective gasp of the crowd. Romance signs autographs with hearts, finger-guns at strangers, and asks three different reporters if they “believe in love at first sight, or should I walk by again?” Baby sits there looking like he’s there for a mugshot, not a fan meet, but when a fan comes, he immediately picks the baby act up. Jinu would beat his ass otherwise. Mystery is physically present but mentally somewhere else, half the fans swear they never even saw him.

The second they’re done, Romance and Abby want to do something for you, feeling bad about last night. Not guilty, they only feel bad because you felt bad. Otherwise they wouldn’t really care.

Clearly the way to calm your kidnapped maybe-girlfriend-maybe-hostage is with a shopping spree. And these two LOVE modern shopping. They hit the mall at full sprint(because paparazzi is fucking AFTER them), grabbing everything shiny, scented, or vaguely “cute.” Lotions? Ten. Candles? Twelve. An entire display of hair ties? Gone. Romance buys you a lava lamp(oh how amazed he was when he saw one for the first time) and then convinces Abby to carry the bags because “you’re the muscle, babe.”

Abby finds a sports store, tries on three basketball jerseys over his black tee, flexes in the mirror, and announces he could “bench-press the moon.” The fans outside of the store keep screaming. Then he promptly gets distracted by a fountain outside the mall. It looked nice, alright? At the end of the day, walking on the dark streets, he peed on someone’s lawn.

Baby tags along, completely silent, chain-smoking outside every shop. He buys nothing but somehow ends up with a free sample bag because a perfume rep is too scared to say no.

Jinu? He’s there purely to keep them from fucking the whole plan up and blowing their cover. He’s following three steps behind, arms crossed. He confiscates a pair of sunglasses Romance tries to steal “for the thrill” pays for Abby’s protein-bar tower when Abby “forgets” his wallet, and tells Baby to fucking behave, then still smiles at fans like an angel. It doesn’t help that the others are mad at him.

Somewhere between the candle aisle and Abby’s impromptu fountain stop, Mystery simply vanishes. Nobody notices until they’re halfway to the food court. Romance looks around, mouth full of pretzel, and says, “Huh. Guess he ghosted us.” Jinu just sighs, disappointed.

Because, of course, Mystery is already heading home.

The apartment is dark with cold light from the fridge spilling across tile, the rest of the place drowned in shadow. You stand in the kitchen barefoot, humming some half-remembered melody just to keep the silence from swallowing you. The sound is soft, shaky, more vibration in your throat than an actual tune. It’s become a habit, humming like this. I think I already said this though, right?

Bread, knife, a slice of tomato. You’ve noticed that you’ve gained a little weight lately, probably because you eat all day to cope with boredom. But it’s all right, those curves have the boys biting their lips and fantasizing about bending you over any available surface.

The lock clicks.

Every muscle in your back stiffens.

Too late to hide, too late to pretend you’re not awake.

You glance toward the door, heart suddenly double-timing.

Not all of them.

Just one.

Mystery.

No roar of the others, no banter, no Abby laughing too loud. Just him.

Your chest knots tighter. After last night, after the chase, the teeth, the game, you’d spent all day trying to file it into something that made sense. Jinu’s calm words had planted their seed. You’d let that seed grow, used it to breathe. And now the door opens and it’s not Jinu standing there. It’s the one who started the hunt.

Jinu can’t save you now.

You turn back to the counter, slow. Sandwich. Tomato. Bread. Normal. The hum in your throat almost dies, but you force it back, a thin thread of sound. Anything is better than the silence.

Mystery walks up right beside you. He doesn’t speak, Mystery never wastes breath on words. He just watches, the weight of his gaze sliding over your hands as you spread something.

Your pulse answers.

You keep working, pretending you don’t notice the shadow at your side. Knife against bread, the soft slap of tomato slices.

He stays silent.

You stay silent.

“Mad?” His voice is rough, low, but still heartbreakingly beautiful.

You keep your eyes on the counter. “No.” you say. “Not mad, Mys. Just… scared.”

A beat of silence.

“Of me?”

You turn enough to see him through the curtain of his hair, that half-face. “Yeah.” you admit, because lying feels stupid. “Of you. Of last night. Of all of it.”

He watches you, wordless, not a change in his expression.

“You were like a damn animal.” you say, each word sharp. “Wild. Fast. Terrifying. I didn’t know if you were playing or if I was about to die. I couldn’t tell where the line was. I didn’t know if you even had one.”

He doesn’t defend himself. Just listens, head tilted the slightest bit.

You breathe hard, fingers drumming against the counter. “I’ve been replaying it all day.” you confess. “Every second. The way you moved. The way it felt to run. Scared the hell out of me.”

Silence again, thick, waiting.

You glance up at him fully now, heart still doing its own reckless percussion. His face is a shadow, not telling you anything, but you can feel his focus.

And you bite your lip, squeezing your thighs together subtly, and whisper, barely audible:

“Do it again.”

You are so fucking peaceful it almost looks fake. Like someone carefully placed you there under the blankets, hair fanned on the pillow, lips parted in your sleep, breathing deep and even.

And across from you, in the dark, sits Jinu. The chair he dragged in from the corner of the room creaks when he shifts, but you don’t stir. You’re used to the house being alive at night, their footsteps, their movements, their whispers leaking through walls. You’ve learned to sleep through it. Which is exactly what he counts on.

Because his hand is on his cock.

He strokes slow at first, watching you. Watching the way your lips relax, the way your lashes flutter sometimes like you’re caught in some dream. You’ve never looked more defenseless, and god, if Jinu wasn’t already obsessed, this would be the nail in the coffin.

When you’re awake, you’re fire, you fight, you tease, you dodge. You keep them all at arm’s length. But asleep? You’re… soft. Trusting. Vulnerable.

And it makes him fucking ache.

He palms himself harder, sucking air quietly through his teeth. He has to be quiet. He has to be careful. Not because he’s worried you’ll scream, he knows you won’t scream. You’d gasp, you’d look at him with those huge betrayed eyes, and maybe you’d hate him even more. But that’s not the point. The point is this. This right here. Watching you. Loving you the only way he knows how.

He tilts his head, eyes glowing faintly yellow in the dark. He can see you clearly, every curve of your body under the sheets, every twitch of your fingers, the slight shift of your thigh when you move in a dream. And he wonders, is it about him? Do you dream of him? Or do you dream of running? Do you dream of your friends, the girls you left behind? Do you dream of a world without him?

The thought makes his hand twitch rougher, spite bleeding into the arousal. Because he doesn’t want you dreaming of anyone else. Doesn’t want you thinking of anything else. He wants to be the sun and the moon of your fucked up little world.

And in some ways, he already is. They all are. Your life revolves around them now, no matter how much you pretend to resist. They know it. He knows it. You know it, somewhere deep down.

Jinu exhales through his nose, shaky, when you sigh in your sleep and roll slightly to your side. Your shirt slides up your waist just enough to expose a strip of skin, and his eyes lock on it. His pace quickens.

God, you don’t even realize. You don’t even know the things they do when you’re not watching. Mystery touching himself with your shirt. Romance moaning into your pillow. Baby sniffing your perfume bottles. Abby muttering your name when he comes into his hand in the shower. And now Jinu, the so-called leader, the one who’s supposed to keep everyone controlled and in line, sitting in your room at midnight, jerking himself raw while you sleep like an angel.

His angel.

He groans under his breath, cutting it short and muffled into his teeth. His thighs tense. His other hand grips the side of the chair. His cock pulses in his fist, hot and aching, slick with precum.

He closes his eyes for a second and imagines what it would be like if you woke up right now. Would you scream? Would you throw the blanket at him, spit curses, demand he leave? Or… would you just blink sleepily, rub your eyes, and tilt your head, asking, “Jinu…?” in that small, confused voice you use sometimes?

He’d lose it. He’d lose it completely. And he’s close now, too close, because he can practically hear it. You saying his name like that, soft and helpless, while he strokes himself inches away from your bed.

He bites down on his lip so hard blood floods his mouth, muffling the guttural groan that escapes as his orgasm hits. His hips jerk, cock twitching, spilling hot across his own stomach, across his hand.

And you don’t stir. You keep sleeping, peaceful, mouth slightly parted.

Jinu slumps back in the chair, chest heaving. For a second, he’s quiet. For a second, there’s shame, but it doesn’t last. Them satisfaction. Because this is intimacy in his head. This is closeness. He’s shared something with you, even if you don’t know it. Especially because you don’t know it. It’s his secret. His bond. His proof that you belong to him, even like this.

He wipes his hand on his shirt absently, still watching you. Still protective, even in his filth. If anything came near you right now, he’d tear it apart without hesitation. Nothing touches what’s his.

And that’s what you are.

His.

Even if you don’t know it yet.

Even if you never consent to it.

Even if you hate him forever.

The chair creaks again when he shifts, cock already stirring back to life at just the sight of you rolling slightly and hugging your pillow.

He’ll sit here all night if he has to.

All week.

All month.

Because watching you sleep is the only time he gets to have you unfiltered. Unmasked. The only time you don’t fight. The only time you’re his without question.

And in his sick, fucked up heart, that’s love.

Let’s hear it for Jinu.

The man, the myth, the legend.

The biggest fucking virgin in the world.

👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏

He deserves it. Really, he does. Because only Jinu could pull some shit like that, sit hunched in a chair for hours, jerking himself raw to the sight of a girl sleeping, and then still manage to look all sad about it afterward. What kind of demon, what kind of demon, with centuries of carnage and sin under his belt, reduced people to ashes, turns into a shaking, guilty mess after nutting in his pants to the sight of his human crush hugging a pillow?

That’s right.

Jinu does.

And when he finally gets up from that chair, he moves so careful, like if he breathes too hard you’ll wake up and catch him. He picks the chair up, sets it back against the wall where he found it, smoothing the legs against the floorboards so it won’t scrape. That’s how pathetic he is. Murderer. Kidnapper. Leader of demons on a mission to destroy legendary hunters. Afraid of making a little noise.

He glances at you one last time. You’re curled in your sheets, face soft with sleep, unaware. If he were anyone else, he’d climb into that bed and take what he wants. If he were Abby, he’d be bold about it. If he were Romance, he’d be on his knees beside you. If he were Baby, he’d already be sprawled beside you, shameless. Mystery would’ve bitten your thigh for the taste of blood in his dreams.

But not Jinu.

Never Jinu.

He just stands there for a moment too long, fists clenching and unclenching, cock still half-hard in his pants, and then finally turns. The door creaks when he opens it. He winces. Holds his breath. Looks over his shoulder at you. Still asleep. Good.

The hallway is empty when he steps out.

Late. Borderline morning. The floorboards are cool under his feet, the walls still heavy with the scent of Baby’s smoke and sex and blood that never leaves this house. There’s light seeping under one of the doors, Mystery’s, but Jinu doesn’t hear voices. Doesn’t hear laughter. He exhales, slow. Relief.

No one saw him.

No one knows.

Which is exactly how he wants it. Because the shame clings to him, hot on his skin. He can feel the mess dried across his stomach under his shirt, sticking uncomfortably. And if the others did see him? Oh, they’d eat him alive. Romance would never let him hear the end of it. Abby would mock him to hell and back. Baby would smirk, cruel, and say Jinu has no balls at all. Mystery would just stare. Maybe grin a little. Because Mystery knows. Mystery always fucking knows.

So Jinu keeps it to himself. Keeps walking. He makes it to his room. Door closed. Lock clicked. He exhales hard, dragging both hands through his hair. His reflection stares back at him from the mirror across the room, eyes glowing faintly, shirt rumpled, jaw tight. And for a split second, he doesn’t look like a demon at all. He just looks like a boy. A tired, desperate, horny boy who doesn’t know what to do with himself.

He scrubs his hands over his face.

He hates himself.

But he’d do it again tomorrow night. And the night after. And the night after that. Because no matter how much shame burns him alive, no matter how many times he swears he won’t go back into your room, he will. He always will.

Because he’s in love.

Pathetically. Obsessively. Sickly.

And the others notice. They always notice. Because in this house, there are no secrets. No matter how careful you are. The walls hold sound. The air holds scent. Their demonic senses are sharper than blades. And even if none of that were true, they’d still know, because they’ve memorized Jinu the way they’ve memorized you. Every flicker of his expression. Every twitch of his fingers. Every time his mouth goes tight like he’s choking on something unsaid. They know he has never even held a girl’s hand before, yet alone lose his little virginity.

Baby’s the first to say it out loud. Well, “say” is generous. More like he smirks across the counter one morning and flicks his spoon against his bowl like he’s tapping a mic. Then, in his lazy, drawling little voice, he mutters, “Virgin boy smells different.”

That’s all. No explanation. No context. Just that. Then he goes back to his food.

Romance bursts out laughing. Abby spits water out his nose. Mystery only tilts his head, like hm, confirmed what I thought.

And Jinu? Oh, Jinu. Baby, baby boy Jinu. He doesn’t even look up from his plate. Just mutters “eat your food” like a father scolding a kid. But his ears burn red. His jaw goes tighter. His shoulders curl in just slightly.

Baby doesn’t care tho. Really. Couldn’t give less of a fuck. He’s seen weirder. He’s done weirder. If Jinu wants to sit in a chair and beat it, whatever. Not Baby’s problem. He’s got other hobbies, like bothering you, picking at Abby, or laying around like he’s god’s gift to the earth. Virgin boy jerking it in the dark? Yawn.

Baby only cares about you. Your blood. Your laugh. Your warmth. Whether you’ll look at him tomorrow, or let him into your lap, or scream his name when he does something to scare you. Jinu’s private jerk-off sessions? Irrelevant.

Now Abby noticed. And he smirked. Because he knows exactly what’s up, and he’s evil at heart, he loves to have something to lord over someone else. But at the same time, Abby’s not actually cruel about it. He doesn’t mind. If anything, he finds it a little… cute?

Not that he’d ever say that. No, he’d just save the info. Store it away. Maybe use it to needle Jinu later if he feels like being an ass. But for now? He doesn’t care enough to bring it up. Not when there’s pasta in the fridge and a spider mug to fuck with.

Mystery? Oh, he knew. Mystery always knows. He thrives on knowing. He thrives on watching the others squirm. And Jinu’s virginity, his guilt, his pathetic little crush on you? That’s pure gold to him. He doesn’t mind. He likes it. It’s alright. Entertainment. Another lever to pull, another weakness to exploit, another string to pluck when he’s bored. But for now he’s not being evil with it.

Romance has a sixth sense for virgins. A demonic, sick, unholy gift. We know that already. He can smell it. Taste it in the air. Feel it in his bones. And it makes him feral.

And Jinu? Oh, Jinu’s his favorite flavor.

He sees him in the morning, stiff and pale, avoiding your eyes, sipping his coffee he got so addicted to lately, and Romance almost laughs. He almost claps his hands and sings about it. But he doesn’t. He holds it in, just barely. Because this is delicious. This is divine. This is better than blood.

Not too long ago Romance leaned in close to him while the others were talking. He whispered just loud enough for Jinu to hear, a hiss right at his ear: “You reek of it.”

He knows Jinu heard him. He knows Jinu knows he knows. And Romance loves it.

Romance is attracted to Jinu now.

Not the way he’s attracted to you, that’s on another level entirely, that’s obsession, that’s religion. But Jinu’s virginity? His pathetic restraint? His secret shame? That does something to Romance. Because Romance is a freak. He always has been. He gets off on suffering, on humiliation. And Jinu happens to have the biggest problem of all, he’s never been touched. Not properly. Not lovingly. Not with want.

And Romance wants to be the one to ruin him.

Not because he loves Jinu (though in some fucked up way, he does). Not because he cares. But because he wants to see it. He wants to see the leader of their pack fall apart, flushed and gasping, begging for something he doesn’t know how to ask for.

Romance imagines it sometimes, late at night. The way Jinu would look up at him, furious and humiliated, cheeks burning red. The way his hands would twitch, like he doesn’t know where to put them. The way his voice would crack when he tried to bark an order, when really he just wanted to moan.

But you’re still the center of everything. You’re the sun, the reason they’re all getting worse. Or healing a little. And Romance knows, deep down, that Jinu’s virginity is tied to you. He hasn’t touched anyone when he had the chance from the fame and fans who would willingly fuck him, because you exist. Because he’s saving it for you. Because he’s too wrapped up in you to care about anyone else.

And Romance finds that hysterical.

And tragic.

And fucking hot.

Sometimes he licks Jinu’s cheek. Just to see him flinch. And Jinu does flinch. Every time. Which only makes Romance worse. Abby joins in too, sometimes, but in his dumbass fuckass way. Clapping Jinu on the back at random, laughing too loud, saying things like, “Cheer up, man! We’ll get you laid one day!” Totally unhelpful, but at least Abby means it lighthearted. He doesn’t savor it like Romance does. Doesn’t sink his teeth into the humiliation and roll it around his tongue.

Because Romance, oh, he’s such an asshole about it. He stretches out on the couch one afternoon, head tipped back, lazy grin on his mouth, and singsongs to no one in particular: “Virgin boy wants to put it in, but he doesn’t know how~”

And Abby almost dies laughing. Baby doesn’t even look up from his phone. Mystery smirks, eyes glinting.

Jinu doesn’t look up. He just mutters, “Shut the fuck up.” But Romance isn’t deterred. If anything, it fuels him. Romance isn’t just teasing Jinu to be cruel. He’s teasing him because he finds it hot. Disgustingly hot. There’s something about knowing Jinu’s untouched, about knowing you’d be his first. First kiss, first fuck, first everything. The thought of that makes Romance dizzy. He imagines it too much, Jinu fumbling, awkward, desperate, his cool exterior shattered. He imagines guiding his hands. Imagines showing him how. Imagines the moment Jinu finally breaks and admits how badly he wants you.

Romance wants it. Wants to see it. Wants to be there when it finally happens.

So yeah. They all noticed. They all know Jinu’s little secret. But do they mind? Not at all. Baby doesn’t care. Abby finds it funny. Mystery finds it useful. Romance? He finds it intoxicating. Jinu just burns with shame.

So, Jinu. After his humiliating little walk of shame down the hallway, he goes to bed. Collapses in his room, face down on the sheets, fists still clenched. Slept, too. No tossing, no turning, no cute little leg sticking out from under the blanket.

But the others, the night was far from over for them. Let’s start with Mystery. What did Mystery do? That freak sat at his mirror for hours. I mean hours. Just staring at himself, touching his jaw, licking blood off his own fingers like he’s the hottest thing to ever happen, which, okay, kind of true, but damn, is this man deranged. And don’t even get me started on what he did after. It involved his hand and your name. Multiple times. Over your shirt he stole yesterday. Don’t even act surprised. SICK man. Perverted man. He isn’t okay.

Abby falls asleep on the couch. Shirtless, spread-eagle, remote in one hand, half a soda in the other. He doesn’t mean to fall asleep there, but he always does, big dumb body sprawling across furniture way too small for him. He snores, but only sometimes, and the others don’t even complain anymore.

Now, Baby and Romance. These two. Jeez. While Jinu’s busy being tragic in his bed, Abby sleeping, and Mystery’s stroking his ego (and other things) in the mirror, Baby and Romance set up in the living room. They’re playing poker. Not even playing properly. Cheating, constantly, aggressively. Cards hidden up Baby’s sleeve. Romance sliding whole stacks under his thigh. (Does that make any sense in poker? Like as cheating? I don’t know shit about poker) Both of them caught each other over and over, accusing, laughing.

Romance leans back against the couch, shirt hanging off his shoulder, head tilted like he’s the sexiest dealer in the world. Abby’s passed out right behind him, one huge arm dangling over Romance’s shoulder, drool soaking into his hair. Romance doesn’t care.

Baby sits cross-legged, hunched forward, tongue sticking out in concentration. Doesn’t even notice how sweet it looks. Just mutters “full house” or “your ass is grass” under his breath.

They look… cute.

Yeah, disgusting, I know. These freaks who’ve murdered and suffered their way through centuries, who could snap your spine in two seconds flat, sitting there in the dim glow of the lamp playing cards. Romance humming under his breath. Baby kicking his legs. Abby’s snores filling the background.

All while you slept. Cute. So cute. Oh yeah. They think it’s the cutest thing in the fucking world. You, in your bed, all curled up, face pressed against your pillow, breathing soft and steady. Completely defenseless. It drives them insane. Because you’re normal. You’re soft. You’re human. And they’re not. They’re demons, jerking off in corners and cheating at cards and drooling on furniture. And yet you sleep like you trust the world. Like you trust them. The only one in the house who sleeps like you should. Like the human you are. Like the sunshine you used to be.

And that’s why they adore it. Why they don’t even try to fix their own schedules. Why they stay up until dawn listening to your little breaths, your quiet turns in the sheets.

Because to them, you’re the baby sun. The only thing that rises in this fucked up apartment.

They think it’s adorable. They think it’s precious. They think it’s unfair, actually, that you can just roll over and drift off while they’re stuck being animals crawling around the house at 3 a.m. It makes them hungrier. Makes them softer, too. They’re obsessed with the fact that you can sleep. That you trust yourself to sleep here, in this house, with them. That you don’t bolt awake every ten minutes screaming. That you just… curl up, close your eyes, and dream.

So yeah. Jinu got his few hours of sleep. Mystery made love to his reflection. Abby snored. Baby and Romance played poker until one of them almost fell asleep, cards scattered across the floor.

And all of them, in one way or another, thought about you.

But we also have Gwi-Ma around.

And he never. Fucking. Shuts. Up.

“Useless.”

“Pathetic.”

Ehhh. Not a good feeling.

Romance’s mind is the noisiest to begin with. He’s on the floor, playing poker with Baby, lips curled in a half-smile, but inside? His head is ringing.

“She doesn’t want you. She’ll never want you. You’re a clown. Pathetic. If she ever spread her legs, it wouldn’t be for you.”

Romance bites the inside of his cheek so hard he tastes blood. Doesn’t show it, though. He just tosses down his cards with a dramatic little flick and announces he’s won again. Baby rolls his eyes, accuses him of cheating. They bicker. Out loud, it’s playful. But inside, Romance is screaming.

Baby gets it too, though his is different.

“Why are you sitting there like a child, flicking cards? She’s right down the hall. Sleeping. You can smell it. Why not just take her?”

Baby clenches his jaw. Pretends he didn’t hear. Kicks Romance under the table just to have something else to focus on. “Shut up” he mutters, not to Romance, but to the voice inside. Romance smirks, thinks Baby means him. Lets it slide.

Abby sleeps, but he doesn’t rest. Even in dreams, Gwi-Ma worms his way in. Abby twitches, groans. His giant frame sprawled across the couch. Drool on his chin. But in his head, he’s back in the pits. Gwi-Ma’s voice booming: “You were built to fight. To bleed. To break. And now, what? You disgust me.”

Abby jerks awake for a second, heart pounding. He rubs his face. Romance turns to glance at him, frown softening. “You good?” he asks. Abby grunts, then sinks back into unconsciousness.

But the voice keeps echoing. Dog. Disgusting dog.

Mystery’s the quietest on the outside, which means Gwi-Ma gets to run wild in his silence. Mystery sits at his mirror, touches his own throat, stares at the sharp gleam of his teeth. He tries to ground himself in the image, in his own beauty. But Gwi-Ma knows exactly what to say.

“Pretty face. Pretty mask. But peel it back and what are you? Nothing. She’ll never want the real you. She’ll scream when she sees it. Scream, and you’ll eat her alive, and all this pathetic fantasy will end.”

Mystery exhales. Long. Slow. Traces his fingers down his chest. Pretends the whisper isn’t real. Pretends it’s his own thoughts, not the leash-holder in his skull. But deep down he knows that it’s Gwi-Ma. It’s always Gwi-Ma. And he will never ever be able to get rid of him.

In Jinu’s sleep, he can hear: “Do you know what they whisper behind your back? That you’re weak. That you’re human inside. And her? You’ll never have her. You’ll die untouched.”

He shifts in his sleep but doesn’t wake up. He just lays there and takes it. Like he always has.

That’s why they stay awake. That’s why their sleep schedule is shredded, their sanity thin as glass. Because Gwi-Ma doesn’t let them rest. Not really. Not fully.

Gwi-Ma uses you. Every taunt, every sneer, every poisoned whisper, it always circles back to your name.

“She’ll never want you.”

“She’ll see what you are.”

“She’ll leave. She’ll run. She’ll die.”

He twists the knife with your voice, your face, your body. He makes you their torment. Their obsession. Their salvation dangled just out of reach. And it works. Because when the night stretches long, they picture you. Not food. Not prey. You. Your warmth. Your softness. The way you smiled earlier. The way you yawned. The way you curled into your blanket and let yourself fall asleep.

It drives them insane.

And Gwi-Ma laughs. Because he knows they’re his. Always his.

They’ll never let you go. Not now. Not ever. Because in a world where Gwi-Ma owns their souls, you’re the only thing that feels like freedom. Even if that freedom is just another chain.

Abby twitches on the couch. Big body, sprawled everywhere, one hand behind his head, the other dangling to the floor. His muscles contract. A low sound slips from his throat. Not quite a groan, not quite a growl.

Romance pauses mid-deal. His painted nails hover over the deck. He glances up, watches the big man twitch once more. He reaches back to pet Abby’s bare stomach, his hand running over the hard abs, muttering “S’alright, big guy. Just dreaming.”

Abby’s chest rises once. Then it settles. The nightmare eases. His body slumps heavy into the cushions, muscles uncoiling.

Romance clears his throat like he didn’t just soothe a demon back to sleep and snaps his wrist, flipping another card for Baby. “And you, my friend,” he purrs. “are about to lose again.”

Baby snarls, baring his teeth, shoving a pile of mismatched coins and bottlecaps forward like they’re chips at a casino. “You cheat every round.” he mutters.

“And you fall for it every round.”

Baby kicks his ankle under the table, hard. Romance just laughs, head falling back against Abby’s side. “Don’t be a sore loser.” he teases. “You’ll wrinkle that pretty face.”

About an hour later Baby sprawls on the rug, half-curled, cards sticking to his bare chest. Mystery fell asleep in his bed too, eventually. Romance is the only one still awake when the sun starts coming up.

Another hour later Abby groans, pushing himself upright, stretching until his back cracks like a gunshot. On the rug, Baby sleeps, quiet. Romance is still sitting there cross-legged, shuffling the bent deck of cards for no one. He glances up as Abby stirs.

“What’s up, man?” Abby rumbles, voice deep, rough.

Romance tilts his head, cards slipping between his long fingers. “Same as always.”

Abby studies him for a moment, scratching at his chest, hair sticking up every direction. “Y/N awake?”

Romance shakes his head slowly, strands of his hair falling in his eyes. “No.” he says.

Abby rubs his jaw, eyes narrowing against the sunlight. “…Should she be?”

Romance looks at Abby. He doesn’t answer right away. Just flicks the cards into the air one by one, watching them spin and flutter to the floor. “Yeah.”

Abby stretches again, cracks his neck, then swings his heavy body off the couch. His feet hit the floor with a thud. Romance rises too, brushing past him, touching Abby’s side on purpose.

This is my newest timeskip idea, which is… nothing new, really. Sorry. This timeskip is like, a five minute timeskip.

You wake up.

The first thing you see isn’t the ceiling, or the glow of light creeping through your curtains.

It’s Abby and Romance.

In your face.

Standing directly over your bed.

“…Okay.” you croak, voice dry. “Wow. Morning.”

You pull your blanket up a little higher.

“Why,” you start carefully. “are you two… standing over me… while I’m asleep?”

Romance tilts his head, innocent smile that is absolutely not innocent. “We were just looking.”

“Looking.” you repeat.

“Admiring.” he corrects, as if that’s somehow better. “You’re pretty when you sleep.”

Abby reaches down, tugging the blanket down. “You always hide.” he says. “You look better without hiding.”

Romance nods along, enthusiastic, hair bouncing as he leans even closer. “Exactly! I told him you’re like a little sun. But then you cover yourself up like this,” he mimics your hands pulling the blanket up “and it’s—” he makes a dramatic pfft noise with his lips, waving his hand like nonsense.

You stare at them.

They stare at you.

Silence.

The three of you stare at each other for a while.

Abby’s eyes study your face, your almost healed but still a little burned shoulder, your bandaged arm. He doesn’t say anything, but the way his jaw tenses tells you everything. Concern, hunger.

Romance, on the other hand, is shameless. His gaze tracks from your eyes down to your mouth, lingers, then dips lower. He bites his lips. When he notices your hand fisting the sheets, his smile softens. “You’re nervous.”

“No shit.” you snap, voice cracking. “Go. Away.”

But instead the fuckers climb in. Abby first. Romance, of course, follows. Not climbing in so much as sliding, draping himself on your other side before you can scoot away. He tangles his long legs with yours, nestles his face into your shoulder.

“Excuse me—hello?!” you sputter, shoving weakly at Abby’s arm. He doesn’t budge. Might as well try to move a refrigerator.

Your bed is now you in the middle, Abby sprawled on one side, Romance already draping an arm and a leg over you.

You make a noise. Somewhere between a groan and a scream.

“Remember that one time,” Romance murmurs into your skin. “when you let us sleep here with you?”

You blink at them. “That was—” You pause. You hate that you don’t have a strong counterpoint. “—different!”

“Mm. Was it?” Romance murmurs, his voice sweet, nails tracing the edge of your blanket. He wiggles closer, chin brushing your shoulder. “Felt the same to me.”

Abby slings a whole arm around your waist, pulling you against his bare chest. The size difference makes you feel crazy. You try to shove him off, but the second you push, you hiss in pain, your bandaged arm reacting.

Instantly, both of them freeze.

“Careful.” Abby mutters, the word surprisingly soft as his big hand steadies your wrist, careful not to squeeze too hard.

Romance tilts his head, lashes batting, and whispers, “You okay, baby?”

You glare. “No, because you’re both in my bed.”

“Correction,” Romance coos. “our bed. Temporarily.”

“Forever, if you ask me.” Abby throws in, grinning.

Your brain tells you to kick them out. You want to. God, you should. But the truth is… they’re warm. And your cut hurts, your body aches, the sunburn still stings under your shirt. You’re still tired, literally just woke up, bro. And their hands are careful.

“Still hurts?” Romance asks, running a finger over your bandage.

You nod. “Yeah. A little.”

Romance hums. Abby just squeezes you tighter, careful of your arm but unrelenting everywhere else.

And you’re trapped.

And their heartbeats are so calming.

Both of them are careful. Even in their pushiness, even as they bulldoze your boundaries, they don’t touch your bad arm. The bandage is left alone, respected. They care.

Abby tugs your blanket lower, peeking at your shoulder. “How’s the burn?”

“None of your business.” you mutter, pulling it back up.

You lie back. Let Abby’s arm drape across you. Let Romance’s fingertips toy with your hair. Let them be cuddly idiots in your bed. Let yourself melt into them. They’re so warm. So warm.

“We wanna do something nice for you.” Romance says suddenly, nuzzling into your hair. “Something you’ll remember.”

You blink at them, still half in a dream. What the fuck? You JUST woke up omfg can they leave you alone with this bullshit?

“What do you even mean, ‘nice’?” you ask, suspicious, because with these two, nice could mean “picking flowers” or it could mean “digging you a grave.”

“Like,” Abby says. “make your life easier. Fun. We dunno. Just… y’know. Treat you.”

Romance nods, eyes bright. “Yes.. Anything you want.”

Okay. Wow. You think. Think of something normal. Something harmless. Hm. “You know… I used to go to the bathhouse with the girls. I liked that.”

Abby goes stiff, and Romance… oh, you know that little fuckface is smirking. He should die. Die. Die. Die. Die. Or maybe live a little more and love you a little longer. Maybe…

“Ohhh?” Romance’s voice drips with suggestion. “The bathhouse, hm? Naked, wet…”

“Jesus.” you groan, covering your face with your good hand. “No. Not like that.”

Abby, trying to play it off but failing spectacularly: “…So you, uh, went there to get clean?”

“Yes!” you snap. “Like normal people. Wash, soak, gossip. Not sex!”

Romance chuckles. “Mm. Still sounds like sex.”

“Shut up!” You shove him weakly, though he doesn’t budge an inch, just flops back against you, pleased with himself.

Abby raises his brows. “But you liked it, huh? With your friends?”

“Yes.” you say, glaring between them. “It was… nice. Relaxing. And if you idiots actually want to do something for me instead of acting like this, maybe you could try something like that.”

For once, they’re silent again. Considering. And they’re actually… touched. That you gave them something. That you helped them out with this. That you let them into a memory of yours and shaped it into a possibility for them.

It’s cute. Infuriatingly cute.

This is the closest thing to permission you’ve given them yet.

But also, Romance’s eyes flutter. His breath slows. One hand stays tangled in your hair as his head drops against your shoulder, face soft and perfect.

He’s asleep. On you.

You freeze. Because holy shit. He’s beautiful.

For the first time since you’ve known him, he looks… innocent. Your warmth, your presence, your shoulder he decided was worth collapsing on. You’re the reason he looks like this. Your heart aches. Against your will, against all your attempts to keep yourself intact, it aches. Which means you’re starting to genuinely like these boys.

And you stay awake with Abby.

He shifts a little closer, careful not to jostle Romance. His arm is heavy where it drapes over your stomach, but not crushing, just warm. Protective.

“You tired?” he asks softly.

You shake your head. “Not really.”

“Good.” He pauses, then smirks faintly. “Means you can talk to me.” He looks at you for a few seconds. “So. Be honest. Which one of us do you like best?”

“Are you serious?”

“Dead serious. C’mon. Just between you and me. Everyone’s asleep. So tell me. Who’s your favorite?”

“You’re all equally annoying.”

“Wrong answer.”

“Fine. Baby.”

Abby barks a laugh, too loud, making Romance stir a little. “Baby? That brat? No way.”

“He doesn’t smother me as much as you guys do.” you point out.

“That’s a lie.” he says. “But fine. I’ll let it go.”

For a moment, there’s quiet. Romance’s steady breathing, Abby’s thumb tracing absent circles against your side. Then he pipes up again quietly. “You’re different when it’s just us.”

You stiffen. “…What do you mean?”

He shrugs. “You don’t push as hard. You’re funny. Sweet.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. You take a moment to process all this. Romance sleeps on your shoulder, pretty and quiet. Abby watches you. And you… you let yourself sink into it. Even though you shouldn’t. You let yourself have this moment. Because this is nice.

Abby shifts his weight on the bed. His gaze flicks down at Romance, the bastard’s lips parted, breathing soft, head pillowed on your shoulder.

“Gotta wake him up.” Abby mutters, His voice is low, a rumble more than words, like he’s trying not to disturb you. Or maybe like he wants to disturb Romance.

You blink sleepily up at him. “Why?”

He shrugs one broad shoulder. “We’ve gotta head out soon. Plans. Things to do.”

“Just let him sleep a little more.” you murmur, almost cooing. You. Cooing.

Abby freezes. For half a heartbeat, his face slackens like you’ve slapped him. But you didn’t slap him, you did something worse.

You picked Romance.

“Uh.” Abby says, like his brain misfired. “You… want him to stay?”

“He looks tired.” you murmur, brushing a strand of hair from Romance’s forehead before you even register what you’re doing. “Let him rest. He’s harmless like this.”

Harmless. The word lands like a rock in Abby’s gut. Harmless? You think Romance is harmless? The same asshole who spends his every waking moment trying to get his hands, mouth, and fucking soul on you? The one scratches your name across his skin? Harmless?

Abby wants to laugh, but it comes out too close to a growl. You, meanwhile, are oblivious, staring at Romance. Abby sees it. The way your body’s relaxed. The way you let him stay pressed against you. The way you’re defending him.

That sets off a crisis.

Because Abby can’t stand it.

But Abby can’t ruin it either.

If he reaches down and shoves Romance off you, you’ll see it. You’ll know. You’ll be mad, maybe even push him away, and god, Abby can’t risk that. He needs you to look at him the way you just looked at Romance. So he swallows it. He swallows it and forces his voice low, steady, reasonable. Manipulative.

“Y’know,” he says, leaning closer to you. “he’ll get cranky if I let him sleep too long.”

You give him a dubious look. “…Cranky?”

“Yeah.” Abby says with too much certainty. “Rom’s a bitch when he wakes up late. Won’t shut up. Complains the whole day. You want that?”

You hesitate. And Abby sees the hesitation, sees it and presses in.

“Besides,” he adds, softer now, like he’s letting you in on a secret. “you shouldn’t carry him like this. You’re hurt. He’s dead weight. Bet your shoulder’s already sore.”

At the mention of that, you instinctively glance at your arm, then back at Romance. And Abby knows he’s got you. He keeps pushing, but gentle. Always gentle.

“I get it.” Abby says, tone halfway between sympathetic and teasing. “He looks pretty when he’s asleep. But you can’t—” He pauses, lowers his voice to a whisper. “You can’t take care of him and heal yourself. You gotta put yourself first, babe.”

The guilt-trip lands clean. He sees it in your eyes, the flicker of doubt, the way your hand twitches away from Romance’s hair.

“…I guess.” you say slowly, reluctant.

Abby smiles. He’s careful to make it soft, like he’s on your side. “Yeah. You guess. So let me wake his ass up. I’ll take the heat if he whines about it.”

You sigh, half-defeated, half-torn. “Fine. But don’t be mean.”

“Me?” Abby chuckles, leaning back, pretending innocence. “Never.”

Then his hand, big, warm, lands on Romance’s shoulder. He shakes once, firm. “Up.”

Romance makes a noise, somewhere between a groan and a purr, burrowing closer to you. Abby’s jaw flexes.

“Rom.” he says again, sharper this time, tugging.

And when Romance finally stirs, blinking blearily at you first, always you first, Abby feels the flare of jealousy again. Hot. Sick. Abby would tear himself apart if it meant you’d look at him the way you just looked at Romance. He’d burn whole cities just to keep you cooing at him. And now he knows, he has to try harder.

“Up, princess.” Abby mutters.

Romance lets out a muffled growl, nose burying back into your hair. “Fuck off.” he says, and it’s so low and animal that for a second you’re reminded these boys aren’t boys, they’re demons wearing skin.

Abby chuckles. “See? What’d I tell you.” he says to you, jerking his thumb at Romance. “Cranky bitch.”

“I’m not cranky.” Romance’s hand shoots out, clutching at the blanket like he’s fighting for his life. “I’m comfortable. You’re the problem.”

Romance knows he’s clinging. Knows Abby’s looking down at him. But he doesn’t care. He’s angry and horny and in love and so fucking tired. Not a good mix.

“Rom.” you say softly. You don’t even realize how soft. “You should get up.”

He freezes. That voice. Your voice. He could get on his knees and worship it if he wasn’t too stubborn to move. So instead he tilts his head up just enough to meet your eyes. He just looks at you, hungry, exhausted, torn between wanting to curl up and die here and wanting to drag you under with him.

“Five more minutes.” he murmurs, almost pleading. “Please, love.”

Abby cuts him off with a firm tug at his arm.

You gasp because Romance’s claws come out for a second, just a flash before he pulls them back. His demon patterns are bleeding through, faint glowing lines tracing down his throat and wrist. Half-asleep, his control slips.

“Rom.” you warn, panic in your voice.

He hears it. That tone, you still care. And it’s enough for him to rein it back in, the patterns fading. He exhales, sharp, frustrated.

Abby just smirks down at him. “See? Told you he’s cranky when you let him stay down too long. He’s practically foaming.”

“I’ll foam on you.” Romance snaps, voice cracked, then immediately regrets giving Abby more ammo.

“Bet you’d like that, huh?” Abby grins, teeth flashing.

Romance snarls. “Fuck you.” He makes one last desperate move, burying his face back against your chest, arms sliding around you. He slaps Abby’s hand away. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

“Or what?” Abby challenges. He knows Romance won’t actually swing. Not while you’re here. Not while you’re pressed up against Romance’s side. He dips down instead, presses a boyish kiss against your cheek, paired with a loud smack, before pulling back. Then he gets up and moves around to Romance’s side. He just hooks a hand under Romance’s arm and hauls.

Romance yelps, actually yelps, furious and humiliated, claws snapping out instinctively before he retracts them again. Abby’s too strong, though.

“Stop—fuck off—Abby—”

“Quit your whining.” Abby says, laughing, ignoring the claws barely grazing his forearm. “You’ll thank me later.”

“I’ll kill you later.” Romance spits, but even that lacks heat. Because when his feet hit the floor, when he stumbles upright, when he finally looks at you again, his anger softens instantly.

You’re watching them. Both of them.

That’s all they ever wanted.

Abby finally gets Romance to stand steady, and they’re both glaring daggers at each other. Abby jerks his chin toward the door. “C’mon. We’ve got places to be.”

Romance doesn’t move right away. He lingers, always lingers, eyes glued to you. His hand twitches, like he wants to reach back down, touch your cheek, your hair, anything. But Abby’s hand clamps firm on his shoulder, steering him away.

You’re left staring after them, mouth left open a little. Because they were cute. So fucking cute.

About half an hour later after that, you’re still curled up in bed, halfway debating if you should try for more sleep when there’s a knock on the door. Then it creaks open just enough for Jinu’s head to poke through.

“Y/N?” His voice is low, careful, like he’s not sure if you’ll throw something at him. Which, fair.

You lift your head. “Yeah?”

He leans a shoulder against the doorframe, one hand in his pocket, the other braced against the wood. His eyes rake over you, just a flash, just enough, and then he sniffs. His brows knot.

“Romance and Abby climbed in earlier.” you clarify quickly.

Jinu lets out a short, dry laugh through his nose. “Oh. Alright.” He stands there a beat longer, watching you, then clears his throat. “We’re heading out. Do you need anything?”

You think about it. Bite your lip. Then prop yourself up on your elbows.

“…Yeah, actually. Could you grab—uh, lotion? The one I like? The other one’s almost out.” You hesitate, then add, “Also… snacks? Something salty. Chips. Maybe. And—” you glance down at yourself, grimace, and mutter “pads.”

“Got it.” he says simply.

You wave it off, literally, lifting a hand and waving at him. “Okay. Bye, Jinu.” And maybe it’s because you’re still tired, maybe it’s because you’re softening, maybe it’s just habit now, but you tack on a smile with it. Small. Real. Plus the little wave.

God, you’re cute. The wave. The soft “bye.” That smile. His stomach lurches like he’s falling and his chest feels too tight and his brain is screaming at him that he’s pathetic. Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. But oh his god Y/N Y/N Y/N Y/N Y/N it’s all Y/N!!!

Finally he clears his throat and steps back. “Bye, Y/N.” His voice comes out hoarse, thinner than he wants. He hates it.

You just nod, still smiling, and flop back onto your pillow. He closes the door behind him, heart pounding in his chest, face hot. Dork.

Another timeskip… lame, right? I’m starting to get attached to them though, because they’re so cute. So pathetic. Guys I feel maternal towards my timeskips.

The day passed as usual. You got yourself together. Breakfast. Sitting in the hot bath with your cut arm on the side. Playtime with Derpy and Sussie. Lunch. A nap. Playtime with Derpy and Sussie again. Read a book. Sun goes down. Now, it’s late. The kitchen light is on above you, and you’re perched at the counter with Sussie on your finger, cooing at him like he’s your whole world. You’re whispering nonsense, half lullabies, half complaints about the boys, when the front door clicks open.

Jinu. Bag in hand. Baby’s a shadow behind him, posture genuinely ass. The other three are… not here? They didn’t come home?

Jinu walks over immediately, placing the bag on the counter next to you. “I got what you asked for.”

You glance at the bag, peek inside, everything what you asked for and even a few extras. You smile. “Thanks, Jinu.” You tilt your head, the bird hopping up your arm as you continue, “How was your day?”

For a split second, he looks caught off guard. Then his mouth quirks faintly. “Fine. Long.” A pause. “How’s your arm? Did you change the bandage?”

You wiggle your wrist at him. “Yeah, doctor. I’m fine.” Then, softer: “Where are the other three?”

Jinu exhales through his nose. “Went somewhere together. Don’t know where. Didn’t ask.”

You hum, tapping your finger against the bird’s beak playfully. “Hm.”

From the corner of your eye, you catch Baby. He’s been lingering, quiet as usual, but the second you lift the little cup of bird seeds to refill, his pale hand darts out. He snatches a fistful of seeds, tosses a few into his mouth like a child stealing candy, then walks off. The brat.

Jinu shakes his head. “Don’t mind him.”

You sigh, still glaring at the hallway Baby disappeared into. “He just wants me to chase him.”

You’re right, of course. Baby’s not even hungry. What he wants is your attention, all of it, your voice calling after him, your little sighs, your annoyed glare. He’s starving for it. But you turn back to Jinu, softening again.

Where are the others, you may ask. Well, since you told Abby and Rom about the bathhouse, they decided to go check one out. To completely get what you’re talking about(even while they go to a men’s, they don’t think there’s a big difference in it from women’s) and they’re dragging Mystery along to the real thing in town, to “research.” That’s how they justify it anyway. “We just wanna see it, man. So we can bring it home for her. That’s all.” Yeah, right.

So, there’s steam in the air. Tiles gleam under low lantern light, droplets everywhere, stone, whatnot. It’s quiet, eerily quiet, this late, no humans left inside, no chatter. Just three demons, towels knotted low around their hips, standing on wet tile.

Romance is the first to tug his towel loose. His hips cock, hair dripping against his shoulders, and he grins when Abby snorts at him. “Don’t pretend you’re not looking.” Romance says, walking toward the edge of the water.

Abby scoffs, but yeah, he’s looking. Because it’s impossible not to when Romance preens like that, pale skin gleaming under lantern glow. Abby untucks his towel too, just yanks it off and drops it on a bench. And of course, of course, the fucker looks carved out of granite. Holy fuck.

Romance, already lowering into the water, whistles at him. Abby just rolls his eyes and steps in too. The hot water makes their muscles melt, steam rising against their faces, soaking the ends of their hair. Both of them moan, actual, unashamed moans. The kind that sound way too close to sex sounds.

“Oh, fuck, this is good.” Romance sighs, tilting his head back, hair clinging wet to his throat.

Abby agrees, eyes half-closed. “You weren’t wrong about this, babe.” he’s saying it as if you’re there. Sadly, you’re not. One day though, one day.

Mystery, still standing and not in the water, grips the knot of his towel, undoes it, and lets it fall.

Romance chokes. Out loud. A sputter of air, almost drowning himself in the pool before he even gets a chance to enjoy it. His head snaps forward, eyes wide, mouth falling open.

Abby doesn’t make a sound at first. He just stares. At Mystery’s dick. Stares too long, too hard. And then he’s shoving Romance’s shoulder.

Mystery has a huge dick.

Romance is already gaping. “That’s—holy fuck.” He slaps Abby’s chest hard, scandalized but gleeful. “Are you seeing this?!”

“I’m seeing it!” Abby snaps back, though his voice cracks halfway, betraying him. He laughs, loud, shocked, almost manic, and then shoves Romance again, like it’ll make sense if he shares the physical disbelief.

Mystery just steps into the water like nothing happened. Like he doesn’t have two demons practically falling over each other gawking at him. His face is calm. Blank. That little grin tugging at the corner of his mouth like he knows exactly what he’s doing. And god. He’s huge. Brutal, heavy, half-hard just from the warmth of the air, veined thick, the kind of thing that makes the world tilt for a second because how does anyone even handle that?

Romance groans, throwing his head back with a hand over his forehead. “I cannot believe this.“

Abby bursts out laughing again, clapping him on the back. “Oh my fucking god, dude. Mystery—Mystery.” He gestures wildly, still half-laughing, half-offended. “You’ve been—what the fuck—carrying that thing around this whole time?!”

Romance slaps his palm flat against Abby’s chest like he needs to steady himself, but he’s laughing too hard to even breathe properly. “No, no, no, I can’t. I literally cannot. This is—this is unfair. He’s cheating. That’s cheating!”

Mystery? Completely unbothered.

Abby is cackling, water sloshing around him as he shoves at Romance’s arm. “I refuse to believe that’s natural.”

Romance gasps dramatically, flopping against the pool edge. “I have literally been working my entire life—” He gestures at his own body, slick with water, muscles shining. “—to be the prettiest, and then this guy just—just—” He waves his hand, then claws at Abby’s shoulder again, still laughing like a maniac. “I’m actually offended. Offended! Like—hello? How did we miss this?” And then because he’s Romance, he reaches out. With the vibe of “let me just see how heavy it is—”

Abby smacks Romance’s hand away so hard the splash hits Mystery’s chest.

Abby hisses at Romance. “You don’t need to grab it.” then he looks at Mystery again, now at his face, but eyes still flicking down occasionally. “Do you—” he points, both hands, gesturing wildly. “Do you—do you know what you’re carrying?”

“Yes.” Mystery murmurs, then lowers himself into the water too. Just sits there, calm as a saint.

Abby covers his face with both hands, shoulders shaking with laughter. “It’s like—intimidating, bro.”

Mystery closes his eyes, tips his head back, and lets the steam curl over his face. Calm. Serene. The other two keep elbowing each other, whispering shit. “Dude, DUDE, he’s not even hard.” “Shut up, shut up, I’m not thinking about that!” “You are thinking about it, look at your face!” “Romance, fuck you, I’m not!” “Oh please, you wish you could.”

By this point, they’re just splashing water at each other. Mystery doesn’t even look at them. He just rests an arm on the edge of the pool, tilts his head back, closes his eyes.

Eventually, they calm down. Now Abby sits with his arms braced on the stone ledge behind him, posture wide. Mystery mirrors him in silence, head tilted back against tile, hair falling out of his face. Romance doesn’t stop moving, even underwater. He stretches, kicks his legs, flicks water droplets into Abby’s face just to be annoying. And then he sits forward, scooping up a handful of steaming water, letting it fall through his fingers. His eyes gleam, lashes heavy with wet. “Hey, I can put my hair in this, right?” he asks, tugging at the long strands where they cling to his shoulders.

Abby snorts, head tipped back against the stone. “How the fuck would I know?” He drags his hand over his face, wiping off beads of water. “It’s water, Ro. Your hair’s already wet.”

“I don’t wanna ruin it.” Romance insists, pouting. “What if it’s, like, bad for the color? What if it turns green?” He shudders.

Abby shakes his head, smirking. “It’s fucking water. Not acid.”

“Not helping!” Romance huffs, crossing his arms. Then he whirls to Mystery, because if Abby won’t give him what he wants, surely Mystery will. “What do you think? Should I risk it?”

Mystery tilts his head lazily. “It’ll be fine.”

Romance stares at him for a second, then, without hesitation, he dunks his entire head under, hair fanning out in a cloud. He surfaces quietly, water streaming down his face, shaking his head.

Abby takes a good look at him. “You look disgusting.”

Romance just makes a “done with you” face, then scoots closer, letting his head fall against Abby’s massive shoulder with a wet thunk. His hair drips down Abby’s chest, and he sighs. Neither of them acknowledges that they’re completely naked. Neither cares. It’s not a thing.

Romance hums, eyes slipping shut. “See, this is nice. Why don’t we do this more? Just us. No chaos, no yelling, no blood all over the floor.”

Abby chuckles low in his throat. “Because it’s never ‘just us.’”

Mystery hums at that quietly. An agreement. Romance notices it. He notices everything Mystery does, and tonight he’s bold enough to do something about it. He slides one wet hand over, and lays it right on Mystery’s bicep. The muscle jumps under his fingers. Big. Solid. Veins raised under damp skin. Romance squeezes once, groaning low in his throat.

“Jeez.” he mutters. “What are you eating, man? This is unreal.”

Abby, watching from the corner of his eye, snorts at them, then looks away. Couldn’t give less fucks, really.

Romance slides his thumb along Mystery’s arm, tracing the ridge of his muscle. “Seriously, look at this. Abby, back me up, this is insane, right?”

Abby grunts. “Looks fine.”

He’s two times bigger than the guy anyway. You sure like his muscles more. It’s not like he’s afraid you like Mystery’s shape more, right? Right?

Mystery leans his head slightly toward Romance, his lips curling into that evil smile. He’s still pure evil, by the way. Let’s not forget that. Romance tilts his head back. He lets his hand linger, sliding further along Mystery’s arm, fingers brushing his forearm now. Then his fingers trail up again, slow, to Mystery’s chest. He laughs softly under his breath, looking up at him with those ridiculous siren eyes.

“You could crush me.” he says, voice low, almost teasing. “One hand. Just—” He squeezes Mystery’s chest lightly, grinning. “Gone.”

Mystery doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. The way he tilts his head, the curve of his lips, it’s enough. He’s confident about that too.

Abby clears his throat. Loud. Too loud. Romance turns to him and pokes his tongue out at him. Abby laughs under his breath. Mystery just closes his eyes again, sinking lower into the water until it laps at his pretty jawline.

Romance leans back against Abby’s shoulder, not moving away this time. He sighs, tilting his head, staring at Mystery with open fascination. “Tell me I’m wrong.” he says softly, to Abby. “Tell me he’s not beautiful.”

Abby doesn’t answer right away. He glances at Mystery. And he doesn’t disagree. He can’t. “Eh. Seen better.”

They didn’t invite Baby. They didn’t invite Jinu. That wasn’t an accident, though none of them said it out loud. The three of them wanted this for themselves. Well, Abby and Romance did, and they just like dragging Mystery along. Even if the guy’s a little weird and bites a lot(and has a huge dick, that’s new information though) they like him. They wanted this to be the three of them. Wanted something quiet, where no one was barking orders (Jinu), or tormenting them mentally (Baby). Just them. They’re comfortable like this. They’ve been through worse. They’ve been through everything.

And somehow, sitting in hot water, knowing they’re in love with you, makes it better. Hotter water, sweeter air. Because being in love with you, that is new. It changes the temperature of everything else in their lives.

For Abby, it’s strange. He never thought he’d find happiness in something so… still. Well, not completely still because you still kick sometimes, but more still than his life so far. His whole life has been noise. Screams. Metal clashing. Gunfire. Steel bars slamming shut. Prison was hell, for an example, but not in the way humans mean it. He didn’t talk much inside. Didn’t need to. He had a look that kept people away. He carried silence good, and it kept him mostly untouched.

But there was one exception, one category of man that broke his vow of silence. Rapists. Pedophiles.

Abby made their lives miserable.

He broke bones. He shoved heads into metal sinks until water and blood swirled the same color. He made predators scream, and when he killed, he killed them slow. He was proud of it. Still is. He can’t say he’s a good man, but at least he wasn’t a coward. At least he didn’t let the worst of the worst go unpunished.

War was worse. He killed men by the dozens, by the hundreds, each one with a life and a family, and he didn’t lose sleep over it. Didn’t blink.

Except when it came to women. To children. Anyone who couldn’t fight back. He didn’t touch them. Never would.

So yeah, in a summary, hurting horrible people like that gave him something close to joy, in a world where joy was rare. He would hunt them down in the showers, in the corners, in the dark. The screams didn’t bother him, they were the point. He killed countless men in war and enjoyed it, but hurting women? Children? Sexual assault? That was his line. The only line. And every time he found someone who crossed it, he made sure they suffered. Long, slow, until begging didn’t work anymore. (That was part of why people mostly left him alone in prison, they saw what he did and respected it.)

So what was happiness, for Abby? Back then, it was the look on a predator’s face when he realized Abby was coming for him. The fear. That half-second before impact when the man knew exactly why he was about to die. That gave Abby satisfaction. It was ugly, it was brief, but it was something.

Now, though, now it’s different. Sitting in hot water, steam on his skin, with Romance draped against him and Mystery across, Abby feels something he hasn’t in centuries. Peace. And it’s because of you. Because you smiled at him once, and it burned hotter than fire. Because you touched his arm. Because you’re real.

Romance is a different story. His happiness has always been tied to sex. Always. Before you, everything was about bodies, fast, fleeting, thoughtless. Sex was power. Sex was distraction. Sex was a way to feel alive when immortality made the centuries blur. He fucked anyone. Everyone. Men, women, sometimes both at once, sometimes three and more at once. From the beginning, from the first time his body even learned what pleasure was, he was chasing it. Chasing the next mouth, the next body, the next high. He would ruin people for fun, husbands, wives, whatever, it didn’t matter. He’d kiss blood off Mystery’s face in one second and crawl into bed with Abby the next, shameless.

And if anyone asked why, he’d just shrug. Because it felt good. Because life was short for humans, and too long for demons, and the only thing that cut through the boredom was sex.

He lived for it. Almost died for it once or twice, probably. But all of that was shallow. Fleeting. Every orgasm faded, every partner left. Nothing lasted. Nothing stayed.

He used to lie in bed after and stare at the ceiling, wondering if he’d ever feel anything real again. Sometimes he thought he had, in a moment, in a look, but it never lasted. And the cycle would start again. More bodies. More sweat. More nothing.

Now, with you, it’s terrifying. Because for the first time in centuries, Romance feels content just lying next to someone. Just touching a shoulder. Just talking. He doesn’t need to fuck you to feel alive. You being in the room is enough.

If he loses you, he knows he’ll completely lose himself. Knows he’ll burn out trying to replace you, and he never will.

Mystery’s was always the loneliest. He’s the one who walks alone at night, the one who slips out the door when the others sleep, the one who lets the silence of the city be around him until he can’t tell where his shadow ends and the dark begins.

Mystery didn’t chase noise. Didn’t chase sex or violence. He chased absence. Because absence was safe. Absence meant no one could get close enough to leave. He loved the sound of his own footsteps, the echo of them in empty tunnels, the way rain felt on his skin when no one was watching. He loved interacting with animals, they were a hundred times better than any human built creature.

Aloneness was his drug. His safety. His armor.

Now he can’t stand it. The silence is too loud without you in it. The nights are too long. He still walks, still slips into the dark, but he finds himself circling back sooner. Always circling back. Always back to where you are.

Being in love with you makes them happier. Period.

And for creatures who’ve spent centuries clawing tiny scraps of happiness out of violence, sex, and silence, that’s new. That’s everything.

For half an hour, they let themselves have it. For half an hour, they let themselves believe in the impossible.

They’ve fought wars. Broken bones. Burned cities.

But this? This feels stranger. Stronger.

They ended up getting attached to you. And to each other.

Not their weirdest adventure yet. But definitely their most favorite.

Romance hugs Abby’s arm, pressing his face into the thick muscle, cheek smushed and eyes half-lidded. He does it partly because he’s tactile, partly because he’s annoying, and mostly because he wants comfort he’ll never admit out loud. Abby lets him, sighing through his nose, too tired to push him off. Under the water, Romance stretches out one of his legs until his knee bumps Mystery’s thigh. Then his calf. Then his foot drags lightly against him.

“Not your dick, right?” he murmurs into Abby’s arm.

Mystery just shakes his head once, calm.

Romance clicks his tongue. “Alright, just checking.”

And then… silence.

The truth is, they are traumatized. Utterly. Beyond reason. They are unsaveable, and they know it. Gwi-Ma made sure of that.

Romance turned into a creature that sought touch in every form, because Gwi-Ma had made pain his constant companion. Romance learned to survive it by folding it into pleasure, until the wires crossed so deeply he can’t tell them apart anymore. That’s why he chases sex the way he does, it’s not lust, not really. It’s the ghost of survival instinct, warped into hunger.

Abby broken into a soldier, a machine. He killed, and killed, and killed, not for justice or pride, but because Gwi-Ma demanded it. And once you’ve killed that many, once the blood is baked into your bones, there’s no coming back. He built rules for himself, lines he would never cross, because that was the only way to cling to a shred of identity. But those rules are barbed wire, cutting him every time he leans against them.

Mystery left alone. Always alone. Gwi-Ma isolated him, withheld, let silence rot his insides. He became a shadow, a ghost in his own skin. He stopped expecting anyone to look at him, let alone love him. And when you live like that for centuries, what else is there but silence?

They’re unsaveable. Or at least, they should be.

But then there’s you.

You’re not stupid, you know what they are, what they’ve done. You’ve seen glimpses of it, heard pieces of their pasts. And yet, you’re still normal to them. Still cooking pasta. Still scolding them for messing with mugs. Still teasing Jinu, still rolling your eyes when Romance drapes himself over you.

You’re still human. Still kind. Still alive. After all the things they’ve done to you.

You could be their savior.

Romance, cheek pressed into Abby’s arm, is on the brink of drifting off. Abby grunts down at him. “Don’t fall asleep in here.”

Romance doesn’t even crack an eye. “Wake me up when we’re getting out.” he mumbles, clutching Abby’s arm tighter. Mystery just watches them. Lowkey still touched by all the compliments of his dick. That sure was a confidence boost.

They stayed in like that for almost an hour. Romance did start slipping into sleep, little hums leaving his throat every time Abby shifted under him. Abby let him, because god forbid he admit he liked the warmth of another body after decades of being hard as stone. Mystery just soaked.

After about an hour, they dragged themselves out. First thing, Romance made another attempt at Mystery’s dick. Yes. Again.

Listen, he’d spent an hour pressed up against Abby’s beef and staring at Mystery in water. Did anyone think he was not gonna try? So he made another attempt at brushing a hand against Mystery’s cock. Abby caught Romance’s wrist before contact was made. Romance just rolled his eyes, but left it alone for now. Mystery didn’t move. Which, let’s be clear, was not a no. Abby knew it. Romance knew it. Everyone knew it.

Romance hissed and tried to wiggle out of Abby’s grip. Abby just twisted his arm behind his back.

“Cockblocker.” Romance mumbled.

By the time they reached the showers, things went downhill fast. Romance snagged a towel, flicked it like a whip, and cracked it across Abby’s back with a sound that could’ve killed Jinu. Abby did the same with the force of a man who’d spent centuries breaking bones. The smack echoed like a gunshot. Romance howled with laughter, darting behind the nearest pillar, towel snapping wildly. Don’t worry, they had towels around their hips.

Mystery mostly just watched, until Romance turned around and with the towel in his hand, he hit Mystery’s towel-wrapped ass.

For a single moment, everyone held their breath.

Mystery slowly turned. Then the towel in his hand hit Romance across the thigh. Romance yelped. Abby laughed so hard he nearly dropped his own towel, slapping his abs.

Eventually, after enough noise to wake the entire district, they stumbled into separate rinse stalls. “Separate” being a generous word. Abby actually tried to get clean, scrubbing the sweat and bathhouse minerals off. Romance spent more time talking to the other two. Mystery was, of course, silent. He finished first, stepped out without a word, and wrapped his towel. The fucking boss. I’m writing this and getting intimidated by his aura tbh.

Back in the dressing area, Romance attempted put his hair into a bun, failed spectacularly, and nearly face-planted into Abby’s shoulder. Abby shoved him upright with the reflexes of someone who’s saved teammates from worse. Mystery, fully dressed and clearly over it, sat on the nearest bench, watching them.

Three demons who’d spent centuries killing, hiding, stealing, now wasting an hour smacking each other with towels, Gwi-Ma a little more quiet, even. Put these three together without you? They’re feral. Just boys. They’d kill entire armies but can’t be trusted with towels.

It’s late when the front door clicks open. When they come home. The three of them pause for a heartbeat. Silence. Listening. From the far end of the hall, there’s the soft, steady rhythm of your breathing. You’re asleep. Good. Baby’s also asleep.

But the living room isn’t empty.

Jinu sits on the couch, laptop open in his lap, but his eyes on the three boys. “You’re late.”

Romance raises an eyebrow. “You were waiting up? Cute.”

“I wanted to talk.” Jinu’s voice stays low, but he’s obviously pissed the fuck off. “All of you.”

Abby flops onto the arm of the couch, towering over Jinu. “Kid, it’s past midnight. Whatever you’ve got can wait.”

Jinu doesn’t look up. “Where were you?”

Romance smirks. “Where weren’t we? World’s a big place.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“That is an answer.” Abby corrects, lips curling. “Just not the one you want.”

Jinu knots his brows. “You can’t keep doing this. Disappearing. You didn’t say you’d be gone all night.” Jinu presses. “It’s—” He glances at the clock, jaw tightening. “—past midnight.”

Abby puts his huge hand on Jinu’s shoulder. “Relax, rookie. We were out. That’s all.”

“Out where?” Jinu’s gaze darts from Abby to Romance to Mystery. “It matters.”

Romance rolls his eyes, cocking a hip, knocking Mystery’s hip with it, and crossing his pretty arms. “We’re adults. We can go wherever we want. What, you missed us?”

“Not the word I’d use.” Jinu mutters. “Where were you?”

Abby watches Jinu’s face. “Out.”

Those three are the top Jinu ragebaiters. And they’re so good at it.

“Out where?” Jinu watches them, so frustrated. Successfully ragebaited. “It’s nearly two in the morning.”

Mystery leans against the wall. “Bathhouse.”

Fucking finally. Was that hard?

Romance hums, nodding along. “Yeah.”

Jinu blinks. “The bathhouse.” he repeats flatly.

“Yeah.” Abby nods, so unserious. “Why do you care?”

“Someone has to be responsible.” Jinu says. “You disappear all night. No message. No explanation.”

“And why are you waiting for us?” Romance murmurs, words soft, but they slide under Jinu’s skin.

“I was making sure nothing happened.” Jinu says. “Not that you care.”

Romance shakes his head. “We’re touched. Look, if you wanted a bathhouse invite, all you had to do was ask.”

Abby slides off the couch arm and stands, towering over Jinu but no longer smiling. “You done?”

“For tonight.” Jinu answers, meeting his eyes. “But think about it. All of you. Next time, just text.” he says. “So I don’t have to sit here wondering if you’ve gotten yourselves killed.”

Mystery nods. Romance hums. Abby gives a thumbs up. Then he exhales through his nose. “You’ve got a spine after all. Good for you.”

“I’m not looking for compliments.”

Romance leans back, stretching until his joints pop. “Then what are you looking for, kid?”

“Limits.” Jinu says simply. Then he shakes his head, and heads toward the hallway, disappears down the hall, door clicking softly behind him.

Ass timeskip because literally nothing happened thru the night. Well, Gwi-Ma did fuck with their heads a little, but not worth to mention. Just the usual. Now though, in the morning, your arm throbs just a little when you roll onto it, better than days ago. When you peel the bandage back to check, the gash is clean, the edges knitting into a narrow pink seam. A deep scratch still, but no angry redness.

Good.

You can manage a shower without worrying the gauze will get soaked. Good enough to reach the top shelf in the kitchen. Good enough to…

Your dry skin complains as you move, though. You think of the aloe you already used up and sigh. Lotion maybe. Oil would be better though. Someone here has to have body oil.

You swing your legs out of bed, and pad down the hallway.. You stop at Romance’s room. You raise your knuckles and knock, three soft taps.

It only takes a few seconds. The door cracks open, and his hair is a little flattened on one side from the pillow, a faint red mark on his cheek where he slept on it wrong, a sleepy half-smile already tugging at his mouth.

“Morning.” Romance says. “Didn’t think anyone else was up.”

You clear your throat, suddenly aware of how early it is. “Sorry if I woke you. I, um… I was wondering if you have any body oil. If it’s… okay.”

For the briefest moment he just… freezes. He should invite you in. He knows it. You can almost see the thought cross his face. Inviting you would be smooth, casual, a kind of silent yes to everything that’s been simmering between you. And he wants to, of course he wants to. He does have body oil. Several kinds, actually, scented, unscented, warming. He knows exactly where they are. That isn’t the problem. The problem is everything else. His room is chaos. Sheets twisted from restless nights. Clothes piled in careless drifts. And worse, the unmistakable evidence of his private habits scattered like confetti, open lube bottles, a handful of toys he didn’t bother to hide after last night’s fevered thoughts.

Inviting you in as it is?

Impossible.

But not inviting you?

That’s failure. Because an invitation would be bold, effortless, the kind of confident move he wants you to see. It would tell you there are no barriers, that he’s unshaken, that he’s man enough to let you into his space.

“Uh.” he says finally, rubbing a hand over his neck. “Yeah, I’ve got something. Just—give me a second, okay?”

Before you can answer, he slips out of sight and the door shuts.

Inside, Romance spins, scanning the room. The sheets tangled, a trail of clothes from the door to the bed, a stack of glossy magazines leaning at an angle that suggests a collapse waiting to happen. A packet of condoms on the dresser. A pair of handcuffs hanging from a drawer pull where he left them last night.

He snatches up the magazines and drops them into a laundry basket. He yanks the cuffs free and tosses them into the closet, door banging shut behind them. Hides the condoms under his pillow. The lube bottles, three of them, are snatched off the floor and shoved into the drawer of his nightstand. Toys vanish beneath the bedspread with a flick of his wrist. A shirt, is flung onto the back of a chair to cover a questionable stain. He yanks the blanket over the mattress, smoothing it with a sweep of his palm. Kicks a pair of shoes behind the door. Spraying something, maybe perfume, to blur the scent that clings to everything he owns. The panic says more than any flirtation ever could. He cares about what you see, about how you see him. About you.

A few more thumps. The metallic clink of a drawer locking. A whispered “shit, where—” cut off by another slam.

Then silence.

The door opens again.

Romance stands in the doorway, hair now finger-combed into something artfully tousled, shirt changed to a fresh one that still smells faintly of the perfume mist. Making a pretty, seductive face.

“Sorry.” he says smoothly, though his cheeks carry the faintest flush. “Didn’t want you to trip over, you know, laundry.” A beat. “Come in.”

This time, when you step past him, the room looks almost… normal. Almost. Romance closes the door behind you with a soft click.

“Over here.” he says, gesturing toward his vanity, bottles all over it. “Take your pick.”

You lean in, scanning the names. Behind you, there’s the faint scuff of a foot.

A quick glance over your shoulder shows Romance nudging something with the side of his foot, sliding it under the bed with the smallest kick. He catches your eye, grins sheepishly.

“Just… shoes.” he says.

You turn back to the bottles, fingers brushing cool glass. “You have a lot.” you murmur.

“Hm. I like options.” He moves closer. “That one—” he reaches past you, pointing to a slim vial of golden liquid. “—is my favorite.”

“You always smell good. Now I know why.” you say without thinking.

He laughs under his breath. “Perks of the job, I guess.” Then, quieter, “I like how you smell, too. Always have.”

You stay quiet for a bit, then murmur: “Thanks.”

You feel, rather than see, him lean beside you. He does smell good, now too.

“Any favorites?” you ask, keeping your attention on the bottles.

“Depends.” he says. “What do you want to be my favorite?”

It’s an innocent question on the surface, but it’s much deeper than that.

You pick up a bottle, small and dark. “This one feels appropriate. Thanks.”

He leans a little closer, voice softer. “Good choice.”

You hold the little bottle in your hands and glance around the room now that your eyes have adjusted. He’s done a decent job of tidying, but you can sense the hurried cover-up. “You cleaned up fast.” you say.

He arches an eyebrow. “Did I?”

“Mm-hmm.” You tap the vanity with one finger. “Either you’re the neatest person alive or you just kicked half your life under the bed.”

He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “You caught me. I wasn’t expecting company.”

There’s something disarming in the way he says it. You can see the faint pink at the tips of his ears, the way he avoids your eyes for a second. It makes him feel less like the impossible, ageless creature you know he is and more like… a guy. A messy, flustered guy.

“You don’t have to hide stuff.” you say, surprising yourself.

His gaze lifts to meet yours. “Some things are better shown when someone’s ready to see them.”

The words hang between you. You’re not sure if he’s talking about the literal ropes and bottles you glimpsed earlier, or something wider, stories he hasn’t told, parts of himself you couldn’t yet imagine.

You nod.

He tilts his head, studying you. “How’s the arm?”

“Better.” you admit. “Almost back to normal.”

“Good. I’m glad.”

Silence stretches.

“I should…” you start.

He nods once, as though he’s been expecting it. “Yeah.”

At the door, you pause. “Thanks, Romance. Really.”

“Anytime, baby.” he says. “Take care of yourself.”

You step back into the hallway, the door clicking softly behind you. You’re so happy with your little oil. You begin walking back to your room, but soon you notice that this fuckass of a kid(hundreds of years old demon), Baby, is leaning against the wall just past the corner, Shirtless. Narrow shoulders, pale skin. His pretty, so pretty blue hair sticks up. You realize that that color is what suits him the best. Like, ever. You can’t imagine him with anything else. He’s flicking a lighter open and closed, the little metal click echoing in the hall. Eyes half-lidded. Expression bored to death.

You stop.

He doesn’t move, but his eyes slide toward you, quick, a flicker of attention before drifting back to the lighter.

You lift the bottle a little, letting it glint.

“Look, Romance just handed me this.” you say. Radiating happiness. You’re so satisfied with your little oil. So happy.

Baby flicks the lighter again. Click. “Mhm.”

You tilt the bottle back and forth, watching the oil coat the glass. “You ever use this stuff?”

Another click. A soft breath through his nose. “No.”

“Didn’t think so.” You step closer. “But you could. It’s nice, I think so at least.”

He finally glances at you. Another hum. Low. Could mean maybe. Could mean don’t care. With Baby, it’s impossible to tell.

You lean a shoulder against the wall opposite him. “It smells like coconut.” you say, twisting the cap and holding it out a little.

His eyebrows lift a fraction. The lighter snaps again. Click.

You study him. His collarbones are sharp, so sharp, ribs visible. You think you can see a few scars on his body, but you’re not sure about that. (AN: IMPORTANT NOTE, when it’s written somewhere that the given character is not sure about something, it can totally mean that the thing is actually not there and their minds are playing tricks on them. One person can’t be always right, back when reader imagined them as kids, it’s totally possible that what she imagined wasn’t the reality at all. I’ll leave the truth to your imagination. It’s just more realistic :P)

The lighter clicks. Snap. Tiny spark. No flame.

You roll the oil bottle between your palms, letting the glass warm. “I’m going to sit out on the balcony later.” you say. “Maybe use a bit of this. It’s gonna be great.”

Another hum from him, higher this time, like a question.

You smile faintly. “What? Think it’s stupid?”

His gaze flickers from the bottle to your face and back. He finally speaks, voice soft despite how deep it is. “Do what you want.”

“That’s the plan.” You say.

The lighter snaps shut with a final click. He pockets it, arms crossing over his chest.

“Balcony’s gonna be nice.” you say casually. “My favorite place around here, maybe.”

Another hum, deep in his chest.

“You could come out.” you offer.

He tilts his head a fraction, meeting your eyes. There’s a spark there, bright, heartbreakingly beautiful, but his voice stays flat. “Maybe.”

You twirl the bottle idly. “Think this’ll actually work? I don’t want to end up sticky for no reason.”

Baby, the brat ever, gives a tiny shrug, another hum. “Will.”

“You sound sure.”

“Romance buys good stuff.” he murmurs.

You hold the bottle of oil in your hand and twist the cap until it clicks. A soft pop. The scent blooms immediately, coconut, warm sugar, something faintly smoky. You lift it to your nose and breathe in. “It’s good.” Then you step closer. You tip the bottle slightly toward him. “Here.” you say quietly, offering it under his nose.

Baby doesn’t move for a heartbeat. Then he leans forward a fraction, just enough that the tip of his nose almost touches the rim. He inhales once, slow.

His eyes flick up to yours. He hums once, approving.

You hold his gaze for a beat, then lower the bottle. Your voice quiet. “Arm.”

It’s not a question.

Baby blinks, then without breaking eye contact he extends one lean arm toward you, palm up, wrist loose. Brutal trust this takes by the way.

You pour a thin ribbon of oil into your palm. The scent is heavenly. You rub your hands together once to spread it, then press them gently to his forearm. The oil slicks across his skin in a slow glide. Warmth meeting coolness. His skin is softer than you expected, smooth, the faint ridges of bone and tendon shifting as you move. You start at his wrist and work upward in quiet circles. The light catches where you’ve been.

Baby’s breath changes. His head tips slightly forward. You keep working, thumb tracing the inside of his arm, fingers sliding over the hollow where muscle meets elbow.

If he’s a brat around the others, here he’s something else entirely. Quieter. Softer.

You finish one long pass and start back down, smoothing what’s left of the oil toward his wrist. His fingers twitch once, a tiny involuntary flex.

Your own thoughts drift to how different he is when no one’s watching.

You glance up. He’s looking at you now. Beautiful, really. There’s a lot sitting behind that stare. For an example, he thinks of how rare it is when you’re nice to him like this.

You spread the last of the oil across his wrist, your thumb brushing the faint beat of his pulse. “Done.” you murmur.

You meet his eyes again. Neither of you says anything.

Oh, how much you like him like this.

Baby finally lowers his arm, slow. He glances at the slick shine on his skin, then back at you. A corner of his mouth lifts, barely there, almost nothing, but it’s real.

You just smile faintly and cap the bottle, the soft click echoing in the quiet. You glance at Baby’s arm, gleaming now, the smell of the oil between the two of you, and brush your palms together, rubbing away the last trace of oil.

“That’s enough for now.” you say, voice soft, so soft that it makes Baby want to giggle. “Don’t want you sliding off the balcony railing later.”

A tiny huff of air leaves his nose, almost a laugh. He lowers his arm but doesn’t step back.

You tilt your head toward your room. “I should go. Thanks for letting me test the oil. Smells better on you than in the bottle, honestly.”

Baby gives a barely-there nod.

You start to move past him. The coconut-sweet scent trails behind you as you slip by, close enough that the air warms between you for a heartbeat.

“See you in a bit.” you murmur, and disappear into your room. The soft click of the door closes the moment.

Baby stays exactly where you left him, shoulder pressed to the wall. The oil glistens along his forearm. He rubs thumb to fingertips once. The scent clings, coconut, sugar, a faint trace of your skin. He closes his eyes for a second, breath dragging deep.

You’re so much nicer when it’s just the two of you. No Abby hollering, no Romance turning everything into a joke. Just you, patient and sweet, because that’s the real you.

It brushes against the old stuff he never talks about. The late nights when silence meant something bad was coming. The years of being told that softness was weakness. The part of him that’s sure affection is always a trick with a price.

He breathes in again and it’s still there, the smell of you. It pulls at something low and painful in his chest.

Love.

He hates the word. Too big. Too heavy. But it sits there anyway. Because what else do you call this? The way every careless gesture of yours burns into him. The way his pulse jumped when your thumb pressed the inside of his wrist. The way you never point out his silences, never mock the space he needs to breathe.

It’s… terrifying.

Footsteps break the silence.

Baby straightens automatically, mask sliding back into place just as Abby rounds the corner, towel slung over one shoulder. He slows when he spots Baby still leaning there. Abby frowns. “What’s up, man?”

Baby flicks his gaze sideways and makes a face, a sneer.

Abby raises both hands. “Alright, alright.”

Baby just arches a brow, silent.

Abby shakes his head, muttering something like “creep” but it’s light, almost fond. He likes Baby, so he doesn’t mind. He keeps walking.

Baby exhales through his nose, the hall falling quiet again.

It’s ridiculous, honestly, the way they fell for you. Pathetic doesn’t even start to cover it. These five are supposed to be the nightmare under the bed, and yet one mortal little assistant has them like this. You, and the way you used to sit on their stupid couch with your wrists raw from the zip-ties you already wriggled out of twice, are apparently the center of the universe.

Jinu is really doing well despite his lack of experience. He’ll bring you things, ask if you’ve eaten, slip a blanket over your shoulders when the night gets cold, then look you dead in the eye like you understand what I’m offering, don’t you? Manipulative bitch. Horrible, horrible man, but so in love.

The others have way more experience, but are just as pathetic. They’re ruined by it. They try to keep the upper hand, but the obsession is a leash around their own necks. They don’t just like you. They cling. This is attachment. Plus super senses, so they track you without trying, your scent in the hallway, the exact rhythm of your heartbeat. If you so much as step toward the door, five sets of instincts snap to attention.

You went back to your room. Put the oil down. Did your hair. (nothing fancy, I didn’t go into detail about what you did to your hair because everyone’s hair is different and needs different care) Missed the girls a little. Then got hungry, so you decided to go to the kitchen. You pad in barefoot. Jinu’s there, in his robe. That fucking robe. He’s genuinely attached to it at this point. Abby is leaning on him as usual, head tipped toward Jinu’s shoulder while Jinu murmurs something about their next appearance. Abby’s nodding like he understands anything, which, let’s be real, he would, he just doesn’t want to.

You clear your throat. “Hi.”

“Hi.” Jinu says quietly.

“Hey, babe.” Abby adds, smiling at you.

“You’re up early,” Jinu says, looking at you. “Did we wake you?”

“No.” you mumble around a yawn. “Just hungry.”

He gives a small approving nod, and you slip past them toward the cabinets. You reach for a box of cereal that someone shoved way too high. Up on your toes, fingers stretching, almost there. Behind you, Jinu’s voice drops back into business. Abby pretends to listen for a full thirty seconds before the sound of you rattling bowls pulls him like a magnet.

“Why,” he drawls, pushing off Jinu’s shoulder. “are you climbing the cabinets when you could just—” He steps up behind you, plucks the box down with one lazy reach. “—ask the tall people?”

You glance over your shoulder. “I had it.”

“Uh-huh. Sure. Totally looked like you had it.” He drops the box on the counter, leans a hip next to your elbow. “Want me to pour it too? Maybe chew it first, baby?”

You shoot him a flat look while you measure out cereal. “No.”

Jinu doesn’t even look up from his phone. “Abby, stop harassing Y/N.”

Abby nudges the milk toward you before you can reach for it. You grab the milk, mutter a thanks, ignoring them, but Abby follows your every move, commenting on how much cereal you pour (“bold”), how you add exactly three raspberries (“fancy”), how you stir (“professional”). It’s less nagging and more… hovering. Smth like annoying hovering.

“What are you even making?” he asks, peering over your shoulder. “That cereal that tastes like drywall?”

“It’s called oats.” you say, arranging your little raspberries on it.

“Hm.” He leans in closer. “You know we have actual food, right? Stuff humans enjoy.”

“I enjoy oats.”

He snorts.

You ignore him, twirling your spoon in it. Abby stays anyway, one hip against the counter, arms crossed, huge arms by the way, but we know that. He watches every small movement, how you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, the way you tap the spoon against the bowl, and he would die for it. He’d die for you.

Behind you, Jinu chuckles under his breath. “Let her eat, Abby.”

“She’s eating. C’mon Y/N, take a bite.”

You take the first bite of your tragically healthy breakfast and glance at Jinu. Then back at your bowl and try to take another bite. A large hand casually stops the spoon halfway to your mouth. Abby doesn’t grab it, just blocks it.

“Excuse you.” you murmur.

He doesn’t move his hand.

You shift to the other side. He mirrors you. “Move.” you say.

“Say ‘please.’”

You inhale through your nose. “Please. Move.”

“Convincing.” he says, finally lowering his hand… only to slide two fingers under the bottom of your bowl and nudge it an inch away.

Your teeth grind. “Are you five?”

“Five times more charming than Jinu, yeah.”

Jinu, robe and all, stays at the island, only raises his brows. “Don’t bring me into this.” he says mildly, eyes not leaving his phone.

You glare at Abby, who is clearly thriving under the attention. You reach for the bowl again. He blocks you with a casual arm, muscles tensing just enough to remind you he’s basically a walking wall.

You set the spoon down and square your shoulders, refusing to give him the satisfaction of storming off. “If I stand here long enough, maybe you’ll get bored.”

He tilts his head. “You’re betting against me getting bored?”

“Yes.”

A beat. Then he laughs, low, rough. “God, I like you.”

Jinu finally looks up, one eyebrow raised. “Abby.”

“What?” Abby’s innocence is pure theater.

“She’s trying to eat.”

“Mhm.”

You go back to the bowl, spoon clinking. No such luck. He leans an elbow on the counter so close his shadow spills across your breakfast.

“Big bite.” he says, like you’re five. “Come on, champ.”

You stab a spoonful of oats without answering.

Abby hums an exaggerated oooh, then slides a finger under the bottom of the bowl and tilts it just enough to make the milk slosh. “Careful.”

You yank it back with a scowl. “Knock it off. Go…do pushups or something. I’m trying to eat.”

You say that, but you could simply just go back to your room and eat there without them. But you don’t.

Abby reaches past you, not touching anything important, just brushing the air near your ribs, grinning when you instinctively shift. “Ticklish?” he asks.

“No.”

“Hm.” He slides the spoon out of your grip with the reflexes of a pickpocket and holds it just out of reach. “Mine now.”

“That’s my spoon.”

“Finders keepers.”

“It was in my hand!”

“Uhum.”

You stretch for it, he lifts his arm higher, grinning down at you.

“Abby.” you warn.

“Yeah?”

“Give. It. Back.”

He pretends to think, gaze dropping to your narrowed eyes. “Hmm… nah.”

You plant both palms on his chest and shove. It’s like trying to move a wall. He barely rocks back, just laughs, delighted. Then he sets the spoon neatly beside the bowl and steps back, hands raised. “There.” he says.

You pick up your spoon again, refusing to give them the satisfaction of seeing how flustered you are.

He reaches for you again.

You slide the bowl an inch away and shoot him a warning look. “Stop.”

He tilts his head. “Stop what? Breathing?”

“Existing would be a start.” You stab another spoonful and he flicks the spoon mid-air. Oats splash against your knuckles.

You shove back from the counter, squaring up to his six-foot wall of muscle. “What the fuck is your problem?”

He leans down until you’re nose to chest. “You. Clearly.”

“Abby.”

“Y/N.” He copies your tone exactly. He’s surprisingly good at it.

Jinu watches from the island, maybe considering whether he needs to intervene. He doesn’t. Mistake number one.

You snatch your bowl to leave, Abby blocks you with an arm like a steel bar.

“Move.”

“Where to?”

“Anywhere you’re not.”

“Say please.”

You shove at his arm. He doesn’t budge. You shove harder. He laughs.

Before your brain can go over the idea, you duck under his elbow and sink your teeth into his forearm.

Hard.

Abby yelps and jerks back. “Fuck!”

You taste salt, copper. Your own heartbeat pounds in your ears. For half a second the room freezes, you with your jaw clenched, Abby staring at the neat half-moon marks reddening on his skin, Jinu blinking like he’s not sure he saw it happen.

Then Jinu finally moves. “Enough.” He steps between you, one hand on Abby’s chest, the other a quiet barrier in front of you. “Both of you. Breathe.”

You step back, chest heaving. Abby rubs his arm, grinning.

“You bit me!” Abby’s laughing outright now, big and bright. “Oh, I love you.”

Jinu inspects the bite, expression flat. He clicks his tongue, examining the mark. “Great. The fans will love this. Dating rumors explode.”

Abby snorts. “Worth it.”

The weight of Jinu’s gaze settles on you next. “You two will talk this out when we get back tonight.”

Oh, you didn’t want to cause them trouble. Will it be harder for them because of you? Weeks with these have left reflexes you can’t switch off. Your body braces for consequences before your mind catches up. Old memories flicker, nights when they’d corner you when you fucked something up. You swallow hard, guilt and a flicker of fear tangling in your chest. “I’m… sorry.” you whisper, almost too quiet to hear.

Abby’s grin falters. He notices the way you shrink back, the subtle shift in your shoulders, the way you refuse to meet his eyes. Jinu notices too.

“Hey.” Abby says, soft. He steps forward carefully, palms up. “Whoa, no. No, baby.”

You take a half-step back anyway, chest tight. “I… sorry.” you say, quieter than you meant. “I didn’t think.”

“Sweetheart.” he tries again. “I was being an ass. You didn’t do anything wrong. I asked for it.”

Jinu’s hand lowers from Abby’s arm and finds your shoulder instead, warm and steady. “He’s right. Nobody’s angry.”

You stare at the bite mark blooming on Abby’s arm. “I didn’t want to cause trouble.”

“We know.” Abby says quickly, crouching slightly so you don’t have to look up. “I was being an idiot. You defended yourself. End of story.”

You stare at him, confused by the sudden warmth. “But I—”

“It’s fine.” Jinu interrupts, steady as stone. “Really.”

Abby’s mouth twists into a pretty smile. “Honestly? Kind of deserved it.”

The part of you that learned to brace for consequences keeps waiting for the snap that never comes. It’s disorienting, the sudden gentleness from two men who once held you captive without a second thought.

You blink rapidly, but not crying. “I just… don’t want to—” The words stall. Don’t want to what? Get hurt? Be here? Need them? You can’t pin it down.

Abby tilts his head, waiting, but you shake your head before the silence swallows you.

“I don’t want to.” you repeat, softer, and take a step back.

Jinu folds his arms loosely, giving you space. “Okay.”

“Yeah.” Abby echoes. “Okay.”

You nod, a jerky little motion, and turn toward the hallway. The sound of your own heartbeat fills your ears as you retreat. You half expect them to stop you, to block the door again, but neither moves.

The kitchen feels different the second you’re gone. Abby stands exactly where you left him, one hand rubbing the spot on his forearm where your teeth left the mark. For a guy who can bench-press a car, he suddenly looks… unsure.

“Think she’s pissed.” he mutters.

Jinu sighs, not fucking believing Abby, tilting his head down. The famous robe hangs on his shoulders. He looks so good, fuck.

They might have said more, but a set of footsteps echoes down the hall.

Abby groans before the figure even appears. “Oh, great.”

“Helloooo.” sings Romance, coming in, hair perfect now. “Did I hear something about a bite? And I wasn’t invited?”

Jinu doesn’t even turn. “Leave.”

Abby rolls his eyes. “We’re not in the mood, man.”

“That’s what makes it fun.” Romance purrs. He leans on the counter. “Tell me everything.”

“No.” Jinu says flatly.

“Let me see.”

“No.”

“C’mon.” Romance purrs, already reaching for Abby’s arm. “Show me.” Before Abby can block him, Romance catches the wrist and pulls it forward, inspecting the bite, his face fake caring, in that so funny way. “Ohhh, that’s adorable.”

Romance tilts his head, inspecting the mark. Then lowers his face, and before either of them can stop him, he drags the flat of his tongue across the mark.

Abby doesn’t even blink. He just lets it happen. He freezes slightly though, because he’s letting Romance do it, and he’s aware of how much he wants to react.

Romance inhales with his mouth still on Abby, senses flaring, picking up the taste and smell of you. His nostrils flare, tongue tracing the curve of the bite. He laps slowly, letting the sensation of it sink in.

Abby doesn’t pull away. He’s fully aware of what Romance is doing. In fact, he leans into it slightly, just enough to let him explore.

Romance murmurs under his breath, a low, almost feral sound. His eyes half-close as he continues, tongue sliding along the skin in slow circles, tasting, memorizing, inhaling the faint heat of Abby’s body too. He can smell the faint trace of your presence still clinging there, can taste the saliva, and it drives something primal in him.

Jinu watches silently, hands folded in front of him. The robe(that FUCKING robe) sways as he shifts slightly, but there’s no interference. He’s seen this before. Romance’s instincts flare whenever there’s a physical mark of yours on someone.

Romance tilts his head, eyes tracking the way Abby’s pulse jumps beneath his touch. The tip of his tongue brushes again, slower this time, pressing against the hollow of the bite. He licks along the line, feeling it. Abby hums softly, almost a purr, and lets him. There’s a weird intimacy in it, a silent agreement of understanding. Romance can feel the spike of Abby’s heartbeat in his chest and it does something visceral, almost painful, to him. Abby shifts slightly, brushing the side of his palm along Romance’s arm. Just touching, nothing behind it. Romance growls softly, tongue still tracing the bite, heat radiating through him, senses screaming. He’s aware of the taste, the smell, the subtle quiver under his touch, and it’s overwhelming. He’s not trying to be sexual, exactly, it’s something more instinctual, something feral. He’s tasting the connection between Abby and you, marking it in his own way, claiming it.

Romance tilts Abby’s arm just slightly, pressing the skin against the curve of his mouth, tasting, memorizing, inhaling deeply. He can feel the tension in Abby’s muscles relax slightly, can smell the faint trace of your essence lingering there, can feel the pulse quicken beneath his tongue. His senses flare. It’s hunger, it’s fascination, it’s love, and it’s obsession all at once. He growls under his breath, low and throaty. Abby hums in response, small, soft, and it only drives Romance harder. Not in a sexual way, exactly, not yet, but in a possessive, territorial, deeply intense way.

Romance draws back, slow, the wet shine on Abby’s forearm catching the light. His pupils are still blown wide, pure predator reflex, dark as ink. He inhales once more, sharp and deep.

Abby lets out a low laugh. “You done there, Dracula?” His voice is warm, teasing, but it carries a little rasp from holding so still.

Romance wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, the movement lazy. His senses are still buzzing, salt and heat from Abby’s skin, the faint trace of you. His own pulse thuds in his ears. It’s almost painful, too much input, too much electricity running through a body that isn’t designed to hold it.

Abby gives a boyish pat to Romance’s cheek. Not a slap, more of a heavy tap. Friendly. Rough.

Romance tilts his head into it like a cat leaning into a scratch. “Mhm.” he hums, voice low.

Jinu finally clears his throat, a quiet, pointed cough that carries across the kitchen. Both of them glance over. The robe shifts around his shoulders as he straightens, expression dry but faintly embarrassed.

“You, uh…” He gestures vaguely toward Romance’s lower half, then looks away, almost sheepish. “You’ve got a…problem.”

Romance follows the glance, looks down at himself, at the bulge against his pants, then back up with a crooked half-smile. “Do I now?” His tone is unbothered, loving the way Jinu’s shy about it.

Jinu’s ears pink just slightly. He shakes his head like he’s already regretting saying anything.

Romance smiles, unhurried, and walks toward the sink, letting Abby’s huge arm go. He reaches for a glass, the cabinet creaking softly as he pulls it open. The scent of you still lingers on his tongue, warm, and every nerve in his body hums with it. The other two are surprised he didn’t whip it out right there and started jerking off. He fills the glass. Takes a long drink. Lets the cool slide down his throat, almost shocking. The metal taste of tap water can’t compete with the memory of skin and salt, but it steadies the buzzing in his head.

Abby watches with a lopsided grin, leaning his weight back against the counter. “Better?”

Romance lowers the glass and exhales, a low satisfied sound. “Not even close.” Then he sets the glass down, fingers drumming once against the counter. “Problem solved.” he says lightly, looking at Jinu, but the problem is not fucking solved. He’s still hard, and the taste of you, even secondhand, will stay with him for hours. Maybe longer.

Abby just smirks. Jinu just exhales.

Eventually, as usual, the boys left. Did fake boyband things. Mystery behaved well, they trained him not to attack people now. Baby rolled his eyes at a fan but Jinu beat some sense in him away from the people, so after that he behaved. Romance and Abby did good as usual, that’s why they’re Jinu’s favorites. And Jinu himself survived it. None of them really love the fame and the amount of dumb people they have to deal with, but they’re here for a goal. Which they’re getting closer and closer to, because HUNTR/X, no matter how much they want you back, still can’t defeat the Saja boys. Let’s be fr, the boys didn’t plan to fall in love, but they’re still here, still getting closer to success, and you do make them happier, so, so far, this is going well.

The front door swings open when they come home. They’ve been out late again. You don’t bother standing from the living room couch. Derpy has you pinned anyway. The tiger’s head is in your lap, eyes half-lidded, tail flicking. He’s the size of a small car and still somehow believes he’s a lap cat.

“Hi.” you call, scratching behind the tiger’s ears. His deep rumble vibrates straight through your ribs.

Mystery smiles, friendly. He raises a hand in a tiny wave before going down the hallway toward his room, about to do… something. Who knows what. Baby hums, his voice deep. He thinks about sitting down next to you, but he knows what’s about to happen, so he decides to go to his room too. He’ll eavesdrop from there, max.

Derpy yawns, a jaw-cracking stretch that shows every inch of fang, and you giggle. “That’s it baby, good.” you murmur, rubbing the broad forehead. The tiger leans harder against your hands, a living tank that could flatten Abby without breaking stride. You coo at him the way other people talk to toddlers.

“Hey Y/N. Come here for a sec.” Jinu says. His voice is calm as always, but it always makes people listen without thinking. He’s standing near the edge of the open kitchen.

You give Derpy one last scratch and stand, brushing fur off your pants. The tiger lifts his massive head as if you’ve just insulted him by moving, so you lean down and cradle his cheeks in your hands. “Be good, love of my life.” you whisper. You help him adjust his paws even though he obviously doesn’t need help.

You’ve barely taken two steps toward the kitchen when a warm arm snakes around your waist.

Romance.

Of course.

He pulls you against him, hugging you. “Love, you didn’t even come say hello.”

You tense automatically, not because you’re afraid, not anymore, lately Romance has never been anything but careful with you(though if he did this three months ago, you’d shake from fear) but because he’s so warm and you can’t confess that you need this.

You mean to wriggle free, you really do. But the truth is the day has been long, and there’s a part of you that aches for contact, even if you’d never admit it. He feels it. Of course he does. Romance knows you need a hug so bad, but it’s hard when you just don’t hug back. He holds you there, still as stone. His chin rests lightly on your shoulder. The warmth is comforting, and when he murmurs “Missed you.” you believe it without a doubt.

You keep your arms stiff at your sides. After a beat, you lift one hand and give his back a pat, halfhearted, awkward. He exhales, and he relaxes more against you. It’s almost just you holding him up at this point.

Then he lets you go, fingers trailing down your arm, reluctant to break the connection. Wanting to be the next you bite, but not wanting to provoke it out of you. His expression is beautiful and heartbreaking, a smile, yes, but softer, almost sad. He presses a quick kiss to the crown of your head. “Go on.” he murmurs, loosening his hold.

You slip from his arms, careful with your bandage, and continue toward the kitchen. Jinu is there, Abby behind him.

“Everything okay?” you ask, trying for casual.

Romance comes too, standing behind and leaning his weight to one slutty hip, the picture of someone who knows more than he’s willing to say.

“You and Abby,” Jinu says. “are going to make up. Now.”

You stop dead. “…What?”

Abby nods behind Jinu, smug. There isn’t a single word in the language that nails the expression on his face, satisfied, maybe, but with a spark of something hungrier. He’s enjoying this.

“Seriously?” you ask, looking from Jinu to Romance. “Because I bit him?”

“You bit me.” Abby cuts in, and taps his arm where your teeth had found him, though the skin shows nothing but a faint blush. “Kind of hot, not gonna lie.”

You glare at him. “I…”

Jinu’s eyes glint, calm as ever. “You’ll sit down and sort it out.”

Romance finally pipes up, lazy and delighted. “Mhm, love this.”

Abby lifts his eyebrows at you like he’s already won. “C’mon, baby. Let’s not disappoint management.”

You should walk away. You know you should. You thought they’d leave you alone with this. You even apologized, and you remember how quickly they softened up. Instead, maybe because Jinu’s gaze is too pretty, or maybe because a tiny part of you wants to prove you’re not rattled, you move past them into the living room. Abby follows, unhurried.

You drop onto the couch. Abby sits beside you, manspreading, an arm draped across the back of the cushions, close.

Romance walks to the edge of the coffee table and perches there, watching the two of you with glee. Jinu stands just behind him, arms folded, the faintest shadow of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

They’re so enjoying this.

You fold your arms. “What, exactly, is supposed to happen here?”

“Conversation.” Jinu says simply.

“Bonding.” Romance adds, licking his bottom lip. “Maybe a pillow fight. I’m flexible.”

Abby tilts his head, eyes glinting. “Could be fun.”

You shoot him a look. “Don’t start.”

Romance hums, clearly savoring every second. “They’re adorable.” he tells Jinu.

“They’ll figure it out.” Jinu replies.

Abby glances past you toward them. “You two just gonna stand there and supervise?”

Jinu shakes his head. “No. You’ve got it from here.”

Romance hops off the table, stretching. “Don’t kill each other.” he says lightly, and follows Jinu toward the hallway.

You watch them go, incredulous. “You’re seriously leaving us—”

A door clicks shut before you finish. You don’t know who’s, but it clicks and it’s final.

Silence settles, thick. Abby shifts beside you, the couch dipping under his weight. He just leans back, watching you. Derpy is next to you two, but he’s not bothered. You’re aware of every inch of space between you and Abby, and how little there actually is.

Abby tilts his head, studying you. “Still mad?”

“Shush.”

“I’m sorry.”

(“Me and my girl don’t argue, she tell me to shut up and I do” ahh😭✌️)

Silence.

“You know,” he says after a beat, voice low and easy. “the bite didn’t cause any trouble with the fans.”

Your stomach dips. “Oh.” You run a hand over your face. “Great. Actually, I really could’ve handled that better.”

“Relax.” He shifts slightly, his knee brushing yours in the process, accidental, maybe, but he doesn’t move it away. “I’ve been stabbed more times than I can count. A bite’s basically a handshake compared to that.”

You turn to face him, caught off guard. “You’ve been… stabbed? Like, multiple times?”

“Yeah.” He says it like he’s talking about bad weather.

“How—” you frown. “How was it? Getting stabbed? If that’s not rude to ask. It’s not, right?”

Abby leans back, eyes fixed on some invisible point in the ceiling. “No, it’s not. Hard to explain. Hurts. A lot.”

The room feels smaller. You swallow. You know what he means by hurts a lot is probably unexplainable pain. You can’t even imagine. “I’m… sorry. That you went through that. It sounds awful.”

He glances at you. “It’s alright.”

For a moment, silence. Even Derpy doesn’t purr. There’s only the slow rhythm of Abby’s breathing. You hear his breathing, not hearing yours. He hears your breathing, not hearing his. It’s unexplainably intimate.

Then, almost too quietly to catch, he says, “I’m sorry, too.”

You turn to him. “For what?”

He meets your eyes. “For stabbing you.”

Abby’s been stabbed countless of times, and yes, he did it to you too. He knows the pain. Back then he didn’t care about your pain, but now it haunts him that he did that. That he tortured you the way he’s been tortured. Well, he had it worse, but torture is torture, and he knows you haven’t quite let go of it yet, he can see it. He knows the pain you felt. He feels horrible about it.

You don’t speak right away. You think about the way you’ve both been circling each other for weeks, his relentless teasing, your stubborn defiance, the bite that morning. Somehow this confession slots into place, a puzzle piece you didn’t know was missing.

Finally you say, “Thank you.”

He blinks. “For what?”

“For telling me. For… apologizing.” Your voice is softer than you mean it to be. “I didn’t think you cared enough to.”

Abby lets out a low breath that could almost be a laugh. “I do, I guess.” He doesn’t look at you when he adds, “I was an asshole.”

You watch him, the giant who usually fills every room with noise, now sitting there, still huge but also so small. Small means he’d let you do anything to him. Slap, kiss, tug at his hair, fuck, stab him now that we bought it up.

You study his profile. You remember the way he teased you this morning, the way he pushed until you bit him, and you realize this, this, is the same man. Just a different side of him.

“You’re really bad at apologies.” you say finally.

He laughs, a low, warm sound that vibrates through the air between you. “Yeah. I know.”

“But…” You hesitate, surprising yourself. “It means a lot.”

Abby turns his head, eyes meeting yours. They’re beautiful, but not because of his looks. It’s because they’re honest. “Good.”

This is what growth looks like for people like them, for people like you, now.

The two of you sit there. Abby’s arm is still stretched across the backrest, not touching you but close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, but his unbelievable size also helps with that.

You stare at the coffee table for a long moment before speaking. “Do you guys… still think about it?”

“…Yeah.” he says. “I do.”

You look at him, surprised by the bluntness. “Really?”

“Yeah.” He drags a hand through his hair, eyes fixed on some point beyond the window. “Don’t know about the others. Romance is the only one I’ve ever talked to about it.“

You weren’t expecting honesty. Not like this. “I thought you’d all gotten over it.” you admit.

Abby turns his head toward you, brows knitting. “No.“

The room goes still. You find yourself tracing the faint pattern of the rug with your eyes. You can hear Derpy’s breathing in, the slow inhale-exhale of the man beside you.

Then Abby asks, quieter than before, “Are you over it?”

…

Are you?

Your first instinct is to say yes, to shrug it off. But you remember the cold of the chair against your skin, the fear that lived in your chest for days, the way their faces blurred together until they were nothing but one demon with different looks. You still feel it.

“I…” You swallow, the word sticking in your throat. “I don’t know.”

Abby nods once, slow. The two of you sit with it, your not-knowing, his quiet acceptance.

They were the ones who hurt you, yes. They pressed the blade, they made the threats. But now they’re also the ones sitting in the same room, offering apologies, bringing you things. It’s confusing. Forgiveness doesn’t erase the nights you flinched at every sound. Kindness doesn’t rewrite memory. But maybe memory doesn’t stop evolving, either. You think about how your heart still sometimes jumps when someone moves too quickly, and how you’ve gotten good at hiding it. You wonder if that will ever change.

“I’m still figuring it out.” you say finally. “What it means. What it did to me. Some days I don’t think about it. Some days it’s… right there.”

Abby nods again, slower this time, eyes steady on yours. “That’s fair.”

This conversation isn’t about erasing what happened. It’s about naming it. About not letting it stay hidden anymore. You feel a strange, small shift inside yourself, not forgiveness exactly, but a loosening. A recognition that the person who hurt you is also the person trying, clumsily, to understand the damage. That your trauma isn’t a one-sided story, both of you carry it, just the two different sides of it.

Then soft footsteps pad across Jinu’s beloved hardwood floor. You and Abby turn your heads, and it’s Baby.

“Hey.” you say automatically.

Abby lifts two fingers. “Sup, kid.”

Baby answers with a grunt that could mean hi or drop dead, then he slides right onto the couch beside you. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that you feel the gravity of him.

He pulls his legs up, folding into himself, knees angled toward you.

Then, he looks at you.

Those eyes, good god. You’ve seen them a hundred times, but never like this. He’s doing it on purpose, but it’s hypnotic anyway. You can’t stop staring at his eyes. Cat-like. Siren-like. It’s… disorienting. You feel your heartbeat stumble, the room narrowing until it’s just the two of you and those impossible eyes. For a second you forget Abby is even there.

Baby just watches, the barest tilt of his head making it feel like the whole apartment is leaning toward you. It’s not magic, at least, you don’t think so, but it might as well be. He’s just that beautiful and he’s using it to turn your head from Abby. To charm you.

It’s not an accident. You can feel it in the way his gaze lingers, not looking away, only looking at you. He’s doing this.

Your chest tightens. It’s not just beauty, it’s a gravitational pull. You try to keep your breathing even, but there’s a dizzy slide somewhere behind your ribs.

“Hi.” you manage.

“Mm.” His voice is soft compared to how deep it usually is. He tucks his chin against his knees, still watching you, unblinking.

You clear your throat, trying to break the spell. “How was your day?”

He shrugs, and it looks so good on him. “Loud.”

“That’s all I get?”

Another shrug. “Not like you were out there.”

Abby shakes his pretty head. “It was fine and he’s bored.”

Every time you think to glance elsewhere, your focus slides back to Baby’s cat or doe or siren eyes. Who knows. The contrast between his delicate bone structure and the shine in his gaze is brutal. He tilts his head, catlike. Doing it on purpose. Wanting a reaction, wanting your attention, wanting your attraction, all of it. He’ll never get enough of it.

Abby wraps his huge arm around your shoulder now. “Ain’t it past your bedtime?”

Baby flicks his eyes toward him just long enough to say “Door’s that way.”

Abby puts his hands up, huffing a breath out, and Baby’s eyes are immediately back on you. Your mouth moves, your heart skips multiple beats, your stomach drops again and again and again, and Baby sees it. He smiles, and it’s beautiful too. He’s doing this on purpose.

Baby’s expression doesn’t change when his mouth moves. “What were you two whispering about?”

“Not whispering.” you say, though your voice feels thinner than it should, your eyes moving along his face.

“Sure.” He shifts slightly, and the lamplight catches his irises. It’s ridiculous how perfect they are. His secret weapon fr, it’s honestly a surprise he didn’t use it until now. “Looked cozy.”

Abby raises a brow. “Jealous much?”

Baby doesn’t even flick his gaze toward him. “Not my style.” He drags the words out slow, still aimed at you, every syllable meant to test the air between you.

You swallow, forcing a small smile. “You’re awfully chatty tonight.”

He shrugs, shifting his knees pulled up to his slim chest, though he’s (sadly) wearing an oversized shirt, so it’s not that visible. “Got bored.”

“You were the one hiding in your room.” you counter, really just trying to make conversation so you don’t collapse from his eyes alone.

Another shrug. “Better company out here.” The corner of his mouth curves, almost, but not quite, a smile. “Sometimes.”

Abby snorts. “He means you. Obviously.”

“Kill yourself.” Baby says to Abby without hesitation. His eyes don’t move. They hold yours like a hook under the skin.

It’s unfair, the way he uses it. He knows exactly what he’s doing. Every slight tilt of his head, every blink timed. It’s a weapon. A weapon made to get you into his bed.

You clear your throat, forcing some air back into the room. “I’m hungry.” you say. “Either of you want anything?”

Abby shrugs. “Surprise me.”

Baby finally moves, turning his head away to take a breath. “Sure.” he murmurs, turning his pretty head back towards you, but now his eyes flick downward, straight onto your tits.

“Alright.” You say, getting up.

After making them what they like(which is intimate, considering you know what they like) you left the living room. You could hear Abby’s quiet whistle cut off mid-note, Baby’s soft exhale, both reactions to your ass.

Inside your room, the air is cooler. But you like it that way. You sit on the edge of the bed and finally let the truth in.

You’re still not whole.

They kidnapped you. They tied you to a chair, demanded things, threatened things you can’t forget no matter how many times you tell yourself they were bluffing. They hurt you. Hurt and hurt and hurt you time after time. Sometimes they drew blood, sometimes Jinu waved food in front of your eyes when he knew you were starving, sometimes they fucked with you mentally. Trauma isn’t a single moment. It’s a house you get locked inside. You can redecorate, you can light candles, but the walls never move. You’ve been pacing those halls for weeks.

And yet, god, you hate admitting this, even inside that house there are windows. Tiny cracks of light where they’ve tried, in their ways, to be more than the monsters who dragged you here.

They’re all carrying things heavier than the ones they gave you. Hurt people hurt people, as I said many times already. It’s impossible to untangle what they did from what they are.

They are all haunted. And they wear their trauma like second skin, same as you.

You tell yourself you’re just tired. That the buzz in your chest is only from the long day. But that’s a lie, and you know it.

It’s everything.

All of it.

The memory of how you ended up here never really softens. Hands pinning you. A flash of silver. The shock of a blade when you wouldn’t talk fast enough. Their voices, calm, evil, because hurting you wasn’t personal. You can still taste the moment you realized nobody was coming to save you.

It should have ended you.

Maybe a part of you wishes it had.

Instead, somehow, you stayed. You kept breathing. And somewhere between the questions and the quiet, the world twisted. Because they didn’t kill you. They patched the wounds. Fed you. Gave you space. And over weeks that turned into months, the terror blurred at the edges. Not erase the past. Just… soften it. You learned the sound of their footsteps, the rhythm of their voices. You learned the difference in their moods, in them. You caught yourself laughing again. You started sleeping without the light on.

It’s not forgiveness. It’s something stranger. A chemistry starting to form between you and them, a love and a connection beginning to develop. A slow, stubborn return of the you that you were before, a sweetheart. It’s in the way you talked to Baby, putting oil on him, knowing it’s good for his skin. In the way you patted Romance’s back even when you didn’t hug him. In the way you listened to Abby’s clumsy apology instead of throwing it back at him.

It’s terrifying to realize that you’re healing here, in the same place you were hurt.

You lie back on your bed and stare at the ceiling. Somewhere outside, a door shuts softly.

They are not good men.

But they are no longer just the villains who stole you.

And you, against every instinct, are no longer just their hostage.

You feel that old warmth stirring again, the one that lets you care, even when it hurts. The one that makes you human. The spark isn’t loud. It doesn’t need to be. It’s the quiet decision to keep being gentle in a world that isn’t. It’s the heartbeat you give these boys.

They are killers. Horrible, ruthless, evil people. Literal demons. Beautiful disasters. Formed by violence and loss. And somehow, impossibly, they are also the first people to really see you.

It’s wrong. And it’s true.

And they are yours.

You catch yourself humming sometimes. You find yourself smiling at nothing. You stroke Derpy’s fur and baby talk him. Which has nothing to do with this mental dilemma and romanticizing of toxic relationships, I just mentioned it because Derpy deserves to be mentioned. Anyways, it scares you, how much of yourself you are getting back. It scares you even more that they are the reason.

Attraction. Gravity. The pull you feel when Jinu brushes past you in that damned robe. It looks hot on him though, so hot, you think even the others noticed how hot he is in it. The heat that crawls up your throat when Abby leans too close. The electricity in Romance’s hands. The quiet magnetism of Mystery’s gaze. Even Baby, with his siren eyes, you feel it when he looks at you like he’s already inside your head.

You’re not supposed to want them. They’re not supposed to want you. But the truth is written in every glance, every quiet moment when the world falls away and you catch each other breathing.

It’s a sickness, this attachment.

It’s a balm, too.

They hurt you. You hurt them. And somehow, through all of this, you all found something that looks disturbingly like healing.

You are theirs.

They are yours.

They’ve seen you at your worst and still hover, relentless. They are dangerous, yes, but they’re also… here. And that presence, for someone who’s spent too many nights alone, is its own seduction.

You are starting to heal because of them. Not in spite of them. Because of them.

And they notice. They watch that spark come back with a hunger that’s almost frightening. You see it in the way Jinu’s gaze lingers, eyes shining, face in awe. In the way Romance’s smiles soften. In the way Baby uses those unreal eyes to keep you tethered to him without a single word. In the way Abby smiles when he sees you, like you walk in and his face is immediately glowing. Happy. In the way Mystery clings to you, even if the guy has problems understanding personal space and privacy, it’s still you he always comes to, and, shows his problems with understanding personal space and privacy, but he means well. They are drawn to it, to you.

Attachment is a dangerous word, but it fits.

They are attached to you, there’s no other explanation. They are predators who have found a center of gravity in you. And you… you are not immune. You think about Abby’s awkward apology. You think about Romance’s heartbeat pressed against your collarbone. You think about Baby’s hypnotic stare, how it made the air itself feel electric. You think about Jinu doing anything you say. You think about Mystery going at the others teeth and nail, but never at you. They have become something you can’t quite live without, even as you remind yourself what they did to you.

You are attracted to them. All of them. Not just their beauty, though they are devastatingly beautiful, but to the strange, bruised humanity that leaks through the cracks. It’s terrifying. It’s real.

One wrong move and the delicate balance could shatter. You could still run. They could still break you. The world outside would call you a fool for staying, for finding comfort in the hands that once held a knife to your skin. But you also know that you are changing them. Healing them in ways they can’t even articulate. And they’re healing you back, doesn’t matter that they’re the ones who ruined you first place. (It matters, actually, you’re just too in love to realize how wrong this is)

It’s the closest thing to hope you’ve felt in a long, long time. And love.

Your door shakes with one soft, careful knock. A single, almost weightless knock.

You wipe at your face, though you’re not even sure there are tears yet. “Yeah?” Your voice is small, rough from the silence you’ve been sitting in.

The door opens just enough for a shadow to slip through.

Mystery.

“Hi.” you whisper.

He raises one hand in a short, wordless wave.

“What’s up?” you ask, because someone has to break the quiet.

He shrugs.

For a moment it’s just the two of you breathing. He doesn’t move farther into the room, but he doesn’t leave either.

Your throat tightens without warning, your eyes stinging. “I—” The word fractures. You swallow and try again. “I’m… not in a good mood. I’m sorry.”

Mystery tilts his head, like a wild animal. Then he steps fully inside and closes the door behind him with a quiet click. The bed dips as he sits beside you. He reaches out, slow, and lays a broad hand on your shoulder. Just a pat, then he lets his hand stay there.

You start to sob, and he watches from behind his hair. You don’t even try to explain. How could you? The conversation with Abby is still moving your brain. Then Baby’s eyes, dragging confusion and feelings to the surface you weren’t ready to admit. And Romance, his hug had felt so good you keep replaying the warmth of it, even though you didn’t hug back then. And under all of it, the ghosts of what they did to you and what you’ve let them become.

It’s all too much. Too tangled. Too loud inside your own head. It’s like someone kicked the bottom of a pond. Dirt and silt swirl up everywhere. You can’t see straight.

You look at Mystery through the blur building in your eyes. His face is mostly hidden by hair as usual. But his body looks solid. Safe, even.

Romance’s hug felt good now that you think about it. You miss it, even. And now, looking at Mystery, knowing the body he hides under those clothes(even as only Romance and Abby know what he hides in his pants) is built…

Your voice comes out smaller than you mean it to. “Can I… would it be okay if I… hugged you?”

For a second he doesn’t move. Then he gives a single, slow nod.

You lean into him, sliding your arms around his torso. Mystery shifts just enough to make space for you, one arm wrapping around your back. What’s happening to you, your crying, can only be explained ugly, unstoppable, a flood that’s been waiting all day, maybe all month. You bury your face against him and let it happen, loud and disgusting.

This is probably the most innocent thing you’ve had with any of them so far.

Mystery doesn’t say a word. His breathing is slow, unhurried. His hand moves in slow circles on your back, patient, his body solid as you press your face harder into his chest.

It’s not just today. It’s every sleepless night since they dragged you here. It’s every moment of terror when you thought you’d never escape. It’s the warmth that’s grown between you and these men who once held you captive. It’s the shame of wanting them near. It’s the ache of knowing you’re changing, that they are too, and that nothing about it makes sense.

Through it all, Mystery stays. His breath is slow against your hair. His heartbeat, steady and deep, drums a rhythm you can almost match your own to. At some point his other hand finds the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair.

The scent of you is everywhere now, skin, salt, a trace of something soft and sweet that he can’t name. His senses are too sharp, they always have been. He feels your pulse through the side of your neck where it brushes his collarbone. Hears the wet catch of every inhale. It is almost unbearable. Feels your hot tears.

A part of him wants to close the distance entirely. To fold himself around you until the world can’t reach either of you. To keep you here, where no one can hurt you, where nothing can take this small, accidental peace. That hunger has teeth. He knows it. It’s the same instinct that used to drive him to lash out, to bare claws when he felt cornered. A survival reflex that can look a lot like violence. And it’s right there, just under the surface, thrumming with every heartbeat.

Protect. Hold. Don’t let anything near.

It’s brutal, the way that instinct lands. Not gentle at all.

He wishes he knew how to give you words. But language has never been his weapon.

He will stay. That’s what he can give you.

He feels lucky. Because you’ve chosen to lean on him. You trust him. It’s a fragile gift, and he will keep it and watch out for it. Forever.

But then you sniffle, a small broken sound that doesn’t belong to any fight. You shift slightly, and his arm tightens without thought, a reflex, a shield.

Mystery’s chest aches. It’s a physical thing, a deep pressure that isn’t pain and isn’t exactly joy.

Stay as long as you need.

He can hold this.

He can hold you.

Even the violent parts of him can learn to be gentle.

Minutes pass like that. Gradually the sobs fade to hiccups, then to a faint, exhausted tremor. You pull back only when you need to breathe. Your face is hot and wet. His shirt is a mess. You start to mumble an apology, but the words crumble before they form.

Mystery tilts his head slightly, his hair shifting just enough for you to catch a glimpse of his eyes at last. He shakes his head once—don’t apologize.

You lean against him again, not crying now, just… there. It feels safe, really, really safe. You think he could keep you safe.

You don’t tell him about the conversation with Abby and how it stirred up everything in you. You don’t tell him how Romance’s hug was needed, or how Baby’s eyes left you confused. You don’t tell him how much it terrifies you that you want them near, that you need them.

“Thanks.” you whisper, voice ragged.

Mystery gives a small nod.

You pull away to swipe a sleeve across your face. Your eyes are red and wet, but the lamplight catches in them anyway, and he freezes.

Beautiful.

He’s seen you a hundred different ways, in pain, panicked, face twisted from pain, angry, but this is something else. Fragile. Unreal. The prettiest he ever seen.

“Stay.” you murmur, voice small, so cute that it crushes his fragile soul. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go. Whatever.”

He nods before the word even finishes leaving your mouth. Of course he’ll stay.

You stand, and go to the bathroom. The door swings almost shut behind you, a slice of light spilling into the dark.

Mystery sits where you left him, palms flat on his knees. Every sense keeps cataloguing you, the soft scrape of the faucet handle, the faint scent of your toothpaste drifting back into the room, the memory of your weight against his side.

Through the half-closed door he catches a glimpse, your reflection bending over the sink, the fall of your hair as you rinse, the quick flash of a towel. Simple, ordinary movements, and yet they hold him the way a battlefield once did: absolutely.

A better man, hell, even a decent one would give you privacy. Would find something else to look at, maybe step into the hall. But Mystery doesn’t move. He doesn’t even notice that listening and watching you through the crack of the door is wrong, creepy. This is simply how he’s always moved through the world, close, too close, taking in everything because that’s how you survive.

The bathroom light clicks off, leaving only the dark of the city through the window. You rub your hand over your pretty mouth, then glance toward him. He hasn’t moved from the spot where you left him.

“You can stay.” you hear yourself say. “If you want.”

His head lifts a fraction, hair shifting just enough to reveal the outline of one eye. For a heartbeat he’s perfectly still. Then a single, slow nod.

“Thanks.” you whisper.

You slip beneath the sheets, the fabric cool against skin still warm from the biology of crying. Mystery remains where he is, quiet.

For a while you just talk, half sentences about nothing. Mystery listens without interrupting, the occasional tilt of his head the only sign he’s hearing every word. He’s a presence you can feel more than see. Beauty and the beast, almost, though it’s never been that simple. He’s untamed.

When your words finally fade, you catch the smallest shift of fabric, and realize he’s moved. Without a word he stretches out, curling at the foot of the bed. He folds in on himself, knees drawn up, an arm tucked beneath his head.

It should feel strange, this arrangement, you beneath the sheets, him silent at your feet. But it doesn’t. It feels… safe. You know he watches you, and watches out for you.

You rest your cheek against the pillow, eyes half-closed, watching the slow rise and fall of his shoulders. His hair spills across the blanket, catching faint streaks of city glow. There’s something startlingly beautiful about the sight. The closest is maybe moonlight on water, at least the same vibes.

Your own breathing slows to match his. You let your eyes drift shut, the last thing you feel the faint warmth at the end of the bed, a living weight that keeps you safe.

These boys were born to be like this. Abby still dreams of the first time he killed for sport, not survival. He was too young to know better and too angry to care. Romance learned early that a pretty smile and a pretty body can be a weapon. He’s worn a hundred faces and left a hundred hearts bleeding behind him, none of it enough to quiet the hunger that drove him. He has a kill-count whispered about in the underworld, demons still flinch when his name is mentioned. But sometimes, late, you’ve seen him stare at his own reflection with a look that isn’t love at all, just quiet horror. Baby uses his pretty face to get what he wants, he did since he was born. He never had to work for anything, not for love, not for rewards, not for sex, not for anyone or anything. Which left him utterly useless. Jinu hides his feelings good, but the past is still there, tucked beneath the mask. (Or that FUCKING robe) He will never ever find peace, not like this. Mystery doesn’t talk about the things he’s done. He’s not like the other four, and the other four are not like him. He’s different, still part of the pack, but lived through different things and carries them with himself.

They are, each of them, monsters wearing human skin. And they know it.

Then there’s you.

A human. Soft. Mortal in a way they can’t comprehend. You stepped into their world like a match struck in darkness, small, flickering, impossible to ignore. At first you were a toy to kick sometimes, to hurt, to get something from. They told themselves that. Over and over. It was easier than admitting how quickly you became more.

They hate how badly they crave it. How badly they crave you. They catch themselves watching the way your hands move, the way you breathe, the pulse in your throat. Their senses, so sharp, so predatory, pick up every heartbeat. It’s a temptation, a serious one at that.

Sometimes, when you’re not looking, their thoughts turn to the usual, old instincts rise, possess, protect, consume, bite, fuck senseless. They hate it, fight it, but the habits of predators don’t vanish overnight. It scares them, how easy it would be to take instead of ask. How much the thought alone makes their hearts race, their breath come faster, their cocks harden, their claws and patterns to come out.

But when you’re near, when you see them, they can’t be those creatures. Not with you. Around you, the claws retract.

It’s maddening.

They’ve spilled blood without blinking, but the thought of scaring you is unbearable.

And you… you feel it. Against your will, against your better judgment, you start to sense the gravity of them. Their awe. Abby pacing in circles until dawn, muttering to himself as if he’s back somewhere he hasn’t told you about yet. Baby staring at nothing for an hour, cigarette burning down between his fingers until it singes skin and he doesn’t even react.

They are half-wild things trying to pass for human.

Every smile is a learned trick.

Every careless gesture covers the restless urge to bare teeth.

When Romance drapes himself across you, it’s not only lust, it’s also the frantic need of you staying, because he needs you to stay. He tries to kiss every pretty thing because he’s terrified of the moment the room goes quiet and there’s no one left to distract him from himself. Except he only wants to kiss you, so he doesn’t kiss anyone else now. Which, to be fair, did cause withdrawal at first, but even to that you were the medicine. When Abby’s arm circles you, the weight is comforting, also, a reminder that even the strongest need warmth. When Baby listens to you talk, even while his face looks like he couldn’t give less of a fuck, his heart jumps out of his little chest. When Mystery slips into your room and finally sleeps, letting his animalistic guard down, it’s a big word. When Jinu meets your eyes after you thank him for the smallest kindness, your own breath catches.

They don’t become harmless.

They simply…choose to be gentle.

For you.

One night when you made tea, you also set a cup of it in front of Baby without a word, and he drank it. Once you brushed a bit of blood from Abby’s cheek after a play fight with Mystery and he stood there, still as a statue, eyes wide. Romance once fell asleep with his head near your knees while you read. When he woke he didn’t make a single joke. He just stayed there, breathing. Mystery lets you stand close enough to feel the vibration in his chest when he growls at the others. He never growls at you. Jinu looks at you and already sees future with you, sees you staying with him and healing his little soul.

Your own scars speak to theirs.

All of this is built on a single, unshakable truth.

Everyone here stays because they want to.

Oh my fucking god it would be so hilarious if we could cut the teletubbies morning music in with the baby sun and all. Anyways, there’s golden light spilling lazily through the curtains, dust motes drifting in the air. Your arm aches, the burn across your skin pulling as you shift, but it’s background noise at this point. You’ve lived with worse. You survived worse. You’re just waking up now.

You roll over, ready to pull the blanket closer—

Romance is looking at you.

Lying next to you in your bed, one arm folded behind his head, the other resting on the sheets. His hair spills across the pillow, silk-smooth, eyes glowing faintly yellow even in the daylight. He looks beautiful.

Your heart stops.

“Fuck me, Romance!” you gasp.

He smiles, lips curving like he’d been waiting for exactly that phrase. “Tempting offer, darling, but I’ll take that as the morning greeting it was meant to be.”

You slap your chest, trying to will your pulse back to normal. “You scared me. Jesus christ, don’t—don’t just crawl into bed with me like that.”

Romance props himself up on an elbow, his eyes dragging over your face, memorizing every flicker of panic, every twitch of muscle. “Scared you? Me? Never. I’m here to keep you safe. From nightmares. From loneliness. From…” He trails off, gaze flicking toward your bandaged arm. “From pain.”

“Why are you here?” you ask finally, trying to sound casual. Trying not to acknowledge the fact that he’s under your covers, inches from your bare legs.

Romance tilts his head, unbothered by your suspicion. “Because I wanted to spend time with you. Simple as that.”

“Look,” you sigh, rubbing your temples. “you can’t just crawl into my bed like—like some stalker. What if I wasn’t alone? What if Jinu came in? Or Baby?”

“Then they’d have been jealous they didn’t think of it first.”

…Shit.

You like that he’s here. You hate it, but you like it. There’s something dizzying about waking up to someone already looking at you. Someone who’s not here to hurt you, not here to demand anything, but just… here.

You remember the night before last night. The hands. The touches. The near-collapse into something you can’t take back.

And now, here he is, in your bed.

You can’t keep pretending. You can’t keep running away and running back, half-hating them, half-craving them. Your mind says it’s wrong, but your body, your traitorous, aching body, wants nothing more than to let go.

“Spend the morning with me.” he says finally.

You look at him with big eyes, pulse loud in your ears. And all at once, you realize, this is how it happens. Not in one explosive moment, but slowly. In mornings like this. In touches you don’t push away. In words that stick like honey in your chest.

Piece by piece, he’s weaving himself into you.

And maybe… maybe you’re letting him.

He chuckles at your expression, low and rich. “What, you thought I was gonna chain you to the headboard the second you opened your eyes?”

“Well…” you mutter, heat creeping up your neck. “With you, yeah. That sounds about right.”

“Fair.” He smiles, then he stretches out, the blankets shifting with his movements, and lets out a sigh so genuine it startles you more than his presence did. “I just like being near you.”

You stare at him. “You can’t just—sleep in people’s beds.” you mumble weakly.

“Why not? Worked out fine, didn’t it?”

“No! No, it didn’t! You scared the shit out of me!”

Romance laughs then, loud, throaty, unrestrained. He faces you fully, head propped on his hand now, watching you with delight. “You should’ve seen your face.” he cackles. “Thought you were gonna faint right then and there.”

“Asshole.”

He reaches out slow. His fingers graze your bandaged arm lightly, carefully. “Still hurts?”

You swallow. “…Yeah. But I’ll live.”

“Good.” His thumb brushes once over the fabric before pulling back. “You better.”

For a second, you imagine it. Letting him stay. Letting him pull you close, tangle his long limbs around you, breathe into your hair until you fall asleep again.

Peaceful.

Safe.

Loved.

You try to fight it, you do, but your body is tired, your mind is still heavy with sleep, and the warmth of Romance’s long frame beside you is strangely… great. Against every scrap of logic screaming in your head, you don’t kick him out of bed. You don’t bolt for the door. You just… lay there. Your pillow is half-stolen by his wild hair, his shoulder brushing yours now and then.

“When did you even crawl in here?” you ask finally, voice still hushed, like you’ll get in trouble if you’re caught.

“Mm… three? Maybe closer to four.”

Your eyes widen. “You’ve been here that long?”