APOMPK

As a kid, these stories were everything to him. With his head in the clouds, dreaming of another life where he's braver, prouder... more attractive, Hector spilled all the things he couldn't bear to say allowed into pages and pages of poetry. With the urgings of a great school teacher, Hector was encouraged to try publishing his work with a small publisher - under a pseudonym, of course, he was far too embarrassed to claim his own words.

His book of poetry certainly sold - it was no bestseller, but it did well enough that Hector dreamed of a future as a poet; a man inspiring deep emotion in his readers.

And so a poet he became...

As a side job. It never really paid the bills. While Hector needed money to support his favored job, it was a bit of a relief to be let go so quickly from Valdivian; at least he had more time to write.

At least, until the whirlwind that was Skylar Specs appeared, utterly flooring Hector as he stared at all his furniture in a brand new light. After the initial transition, Hector went to bed filled with elation, with hope.

He felt like he was given a chance to live a real story now.

Unfortunately, being able to speak with the things in his home did not magically whisk away Hector's nerves and low self-esteem.

He'd met several wonderful people (things), all far too attractive and far too intimidating. Hector made some friends well enough, but even with Skylar's encouragement he couldn't dare breathe a word of romance.

Feeling a bit pathetic, Hector finally turned to you for comfort.

You have always been Hector's radio. You were a particularly peculiar gift to a young boy on his birthday, but you fit so flawlessly with Hector's sensitive disposition. When he turned your dial, you'd sing, and laugh, and tell him stories - and Hector did LOVE your stories!

Yes, technically they were only ramblings from radio talk show hosts at first, but your Bluetooth feature really opened up the possibilities when Hector hit his teens. You'd whisper ASMR videos well into the night, keeping the background noise juuust right for Hector's dreaming figure. You would talk him through recipes, how-tos, study guides, and most of all - stories. Podcasts and audiobooks and anything else that captured Hector's attention is what he would listen to from you.

Is it really so strange that you love him? Your childhood best friend?

So, when Hector adjusts you to play some soothing music, your radio body does so, but your human(ish) body comes to stand beside him.

"I really love this song."

After Hector calms his heart, he is able to refocus on you and how you are apologizing profusely for scaring him. And even with a house of beautiful things, as he looks at you he can't help but think you were utter perfection.

Yes, your little headband had a crooked antenna, but Hector has the memory of when it bent that way, going from tearful panic that he dropped and broke his radio to ridiculous laughter when your station changed from the fall to one playing "Hit me baby one more time!" almost like you were... forgiving him.

Yes, your body type wasn't the ideal - you didn't have a perfect figure, but it was the perfect shape to mold into his side, just like he cradled your radio form when he moved for college.

Yes, you were a little scuffed and a little worn, and you weren't the newest or best radio model out there - but you were always reliable and you had such character.

Of course, Hector couldn't bear to say this to your face.

But you LOVE talking, and you've been waiting your entire life to be able to use your own words to speak! So you did. You spoke to Hector for hours - about memories you shared, about being an object and the others in the house, and - most importantly - how important Hector was to you. How much you love him.

You were well aware that you overwhelmed Hector at your first meeting, but your feelings were too strong to wait even a day to tell him! You are patient when it's important to be, however, so you tell Hector he can take all the time he needs to answer your feelings, and you keep to your word - not even mentioning your confession the next several times you speak, giving Hector a chance to know you in a new way, giving both of you a chance to explore how you interact.

Hector comes to a decision when he finds you reading his poetry one day. You hadn't noticed him come in, too engrossed in the words on the page. The poem was particularly romantic, and you let out the most wistful sigh after reading it aloud.

Something about hearing you speak HIS words lit a fire in Hector's soul. He ran to your side, grabbing one of your hands in both of his as if to pray.

"Oh my sweet melody, you have captured my heart in a way I can contain no longer. I... I-i love you. My love, can you forgive me my cowardice in making you wait?"

You didn't answer with words. The kiss felt incredible, like the hum of radio waves vibrating your heart.

Rod tilted his head, squinted. "Man…Nah. Noooope."

Curt thumped the windowsill with his palm. "Ain’t no way. That ain’t him… Oh, hell no! Not the motorcycle. He still riding that loud-ass tin can like it don’t got three recalls and a damn parking ticket?"

Rod finally leaned in, catching sight of the figure. A wheezy laugh escaped as he shook his head. "And look! He still got them damn glasses!"

Curt frowned, leaning closer for confirmation. "Them glasses ain’t even prescription. Man out here choosing to see blurry. Blind to red flags, blind to closure, blind to everything but his own bullshit."

Rod kept watching, head tilted. "I still don’t get how he pulled them."

"I know, right?" Curt threw his hands up. "Our baby. Sweet, hot, emotionally competent baby. And him ?"

Rod snorted. "Still managed to score. Got more game than you, apparently."

Curt turned with mock offense. "Wow. So I’m catching strays now?"

Rod raised both brows. "If the shoe fits, Casanova."

Curt glared at him, then looked back out the window with narrowed eyes. "But come on. You think it’s the cheekbones?"

Rod huffed. "Fuck no."

“Yeah, me neither.” Curt’s grin spread slow, mischievous. He gave his turquoise drapes a flick. “Think if I whip these open fast enough, I could smack him with ’em? Like—shmack! Right across the nose?”

Rod grinned too—lazy, mean. "You try it, I’ll drop the curtain rod. Straight to the dome. He won’t even know what hit him. We’ll blame it on Hector. Say it was a gust of fall air, tragic freak accident."

Curt opened his mouth to reply—then yelped.

"OW—hey! Buddy, off!"

Curt glanced down, already wincing, just in time to catch the culprit red-pawed—Sprite. Mateo’s little wire-made cat was pawing mercilessly at the hem of his beloved drapes, one thread already snagged and dangling loose.

Rod barked out a laugh and bent down, scooping up the wiry little menace like it weighed nothing. Sprite’s legs wiggled in the air, metal paws still swiping at the fabric like it had unfinished business.

Holding the squirming cat midair, Rod called over his shoulder, “Hey, Mat! One of your little goblins is acting up again!”

In the living room, Mateo didn’t look up. He was still kneeling by the couch, a folded blanket resting across his arms.

"Sorry, guys! I’ll come get her in a bit. She’s just exploring."

Mateo stayed focused, quiet in that way he always was when he was being careful. He folded the softest blanket twice over, smoothing it across the couch, checking the corners and tugging it gently into place.

He didn’t say much, but it was obvious what he was doing. He was getting the space ready, just in case your ex ended up coming inside.

Because if that happened, if you were going to feel even a little shaken, or small, or cold, Mateo wanted comfort to be waiting for you.

So he placed the blanket exactly where he wanted you to sit, right between Dante and Hector. 

Dante was busy flickering softly behind the grate, nudging at his logs with gentle warmth. Hector hummed low from the vent in the wall, sending out soft, warm air. Together, they made a quiet pocket of comfort at the edge of fall.

He wasn’t the only one moving around the house. It didn’t take long after that. With your hurried footsteps and rushed breathing echoing through the house, the others caught on quickly.

Needless to say, news of your ex’s impending arrival spread fast. And they were worried.

You hadn’t told them everything. You didn’t need to. They saw it in the way your voice dipped when you said his name, in the way your shoulders flinched at sudden footsteps, in the tension that never really left your body. 

Of course they noticed! They were made for you, after all.

That was the thing about being objects, they weren’t just things. They were yours. Your comfort, your routines, your love made real in whatever shape they could take.

Strange, not-quite-human companions tucked into the bones of your home. They’d long since adapted to their in-between state; Half here, half not, bound to objects. Not human, no. But still able to do things for you. 

They could still offer what they were made for.

Mateo’s blanket is never far, always finding its way over your knees the moment the room begins to chill.

Daisuke’s cup seems to know when you're reaching for it, the handle quietly turning to meet your hand, like it’s been waiting all morning.

Timothy’s alarm softens on the mornings after a hard night, letting you wake slow and safe instead of startled. 

Dorian opens a little wider when you come home late. He once told you that he can’t sleep until you’re inside.

Cabrizzio never lets you eat alone if he can help it. Even leftovers end up plated like fine dining.

Skips draws shadows across your room when it’s time for bed, like hands pulling sleep around your shoulders.

Volt and Eddie give the faintest zaps to your fingers when you get too close to the fuse box. Just enough to make you stop and think twice before you hurt yourself. 

Cam rarely moves through the house, but he always manages to tidy up after you. Wrappers, receipts, stray socks, all scooped away before you even notice they’re gone.

Hector leaves notes near every vent, tiny curls of paper with scrawled affirmations or half-written love stories just for you.

They all move with the house’s old bones, like ghosts with warm hands. 

They’d been shaped by you. By your routines, your comfort, your heart. Everything you needed, they became. And right now, what you needed was someone watching your back. 

They couldn’t touch your ex. Couldn’t throw him out or bar the door, (though Dorian would’ve loved to try), but they were there. 

You open the door slower than you mean to.

That early morning hush hangs thick in the air, the sky behind is still washed in that gray-blue blur just before the day begins. It’s the kind of hour where everything feels half-formed. 

And Iseul is standing exactly where you hoped he wouldn’t be.

You look up, and for a breathless second, the sight of his face catches you off guard.

He’s too tall for your porch. Too sharply dressed for the quiet of your street. Too much, always too much. 

And for a moment, all you can do is stare.

God—He’s still beautiful. Devastatingly so. Dark hair, darker eyes, and a jaw cut from diamond. 

He hasn’t changed much. Or maybe that’s the problem. That same impossible elegance, untouched by time, untouched by your heartbreak.

Iseul smiles. Like your stunned silence is something he’d been waiting to hear.

"Oh," he says softly, like your appearance surprises him, even though it obviously doesn’t. "There you are. Finally, I was beginning to think I hallucinated the whole agreement."

You blink, voice dry in your throat. "You’re the one who scheduled this. For seven."

He grimaces in mock offense, placing a hand lightly over his chest like you’ve said something terribly cruel. "And already, I’m being punished. Deservedly, of course. Don’t worry. I’m not here to fight." A beat. "Well. Not with you, anyway."

You don’t respond to his joke. Just shift slightly, the weight of the box in your arms suddenly awkward.

He watches you, eyes dragging slowly across your face, over your hair, your clothes, your bare feet in the doorway. There’s nothing lewd in it, not exactly, but the weight of it lingers.

Then he exhales, soft and low. "You didn’t even get a chance to wake up properly. God, look at me, barging in like this. I’m such an ass."

You shake your head before you even mean to. "No, it’s… really, it’s fine."

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just shifts his weight, adjusts the set of his shoulders like he’s trying to make himself look smaller, even though his presence is anything but. 

‘"I didn’t sleep either," he says, almost thoughtful. "Kept thinking about how I left things. How I left you. Which…" He trails off, glancing down at the wood beneath his feet. A bitter little laugh escapes him. "Yeah. Not exactly my proudest exit."

You press your lips together, not trusting your voice. Because he’s right, and you hate how your chest tightens in response. How the ache of it feels familiar. 

He looks back up, and his expression is so gentle it’s almost cruel. "I’ll be quick. You don’t even have to let me in. I just…" He hesitates. "God… Baby, I wanted to see you. That’s selfish. I know."

He reaches for the box, hands brushing against yours as he takes it from you. His fingers are ice-cold, visibly raw at the knuckles, skin flushed deep red from the cold and chapped enough to crack. 

His hands, gloveless, tremble just faintly as he shifts the box under his arm. He says nothing about it. But he watches your face as you notice, his eyes catching the flicker of concern that passes through you like wind through a curtain.

A part of you wonders, not for the first time, if he did it on purpose.

That’s all he needs.

"…Unless you’d rather I wait out here," he says, adjusting the box slightly. Iseul makes sure to exaggerate the shaking of his hands. "I’d understand. Honestly. I mean—Look at me. Such a fucking mess."

He smiles, and it’s perfect. Crooked and bashful. His box of things is tucked neatly beneath one arm, but he makes no move to leave.

From the edge of your vision, you catch the faintest movement. Dorian’s hand settles slowly on the back of the door, his brows drawn in tight concern. Everything in him pleads for you not to let your ex in.

But then your gaze falls again to Iseul’s hands.

Skin too pale in the joints where circulation’s gone slack. He hadn’t even worn gloves. The sight of it hits you in the gut. That familiar, terrible pang, sharp and hot and blooming just beneath your ribs.

You know it’s a trap. You know how this goes. But guilt is already slipping past your guard, whispering that you can’t just leave him like this, not in the cold.

"…Okay," you murmur. "I’ll make you some coffee. But then…" your voice falters. "Then you have to go."

For a split second, Iseul’s mask slips. You catch the flicker of something triumphant just beneath the surface, just behind his eyes.

Then his smile spreads, slow and easy, all teeth and charm like a wolf who knows exactly where your throat is.

"Of course," he says brightly, as though your offer were the most natural thing in the world. "Lead the way."

You step back, and he follows, footsteps soundless. The second Iseul crosses the threshold, the front door slams shut behind him with a sharp, echoing crack that rings through the house like a warning.

You flinch, the sound jolting straight through your spine, but you don’t turn around. You can feel the heat of Dorian’s anger behind you.

Iseul glances over his shoulder at the door, his expression soft with confusion that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, lips curving into something light, almost amused, as if none of it touches him at all.

 "Huh," he says, the laugh he lets out thin and breathy. "Strong winds around here, I guess."

"Yeah," you say quickly, the words tumbling out as you turn on your heel and head for the kitchen. "I’ll, um—I’ll make you something to drink. You can warm up by Dan —by the fireplace!"

You nearly fumble, the syllables wobbling on your tongue before you smother them in motion, moving too fast and speaking too brightly. "Won’t be long!"

As your footsteps vanish down the hall, Iseul lets the act go.

The pleasant curve of his mouth disappears like mist in the cold. His shoulders settle, not from exhaustion, but from relief. 

That mask, the careful arrangement of charm and softness, the version of himself that you could still stomach, takes effort to maintain. Even now, after all the wreckage he left in his wake, you still need him to be palatable.

He exhales through his nose and drops the box of old things to the floor with a dull thud, not sparing it a glance. His gaze drifts across the room, slow and feline. He doesn’t expect to find much. You were never good at hiding the things that mattered.

His gaze lands on the blanket that Mateo draped across the back of the couch, something heavy and hand-knit, worn soft with use. He steps closer and lets his fingers trail across the weave, the faintest grimace tugging at his mouth. 

The fabric is wrong. The texture, the color, the way it slumps, this wasn’t chosen with him in mind.

From the far end of the room, just past the curve of the armchair, Mateo stands still as stone, cradling Davi against his chest.

You told Mateo once, in the lull between conversations, when you still couldn’t quite meet your own eyes in the mirror, that Iseul had hated soft things. Fuzzy blankets, plush rugs, anything that looked too lived-in or too comforting. He said they made your apartment feel cheap. You’d stopped buying soft things after that. Stopped keeping anything cozy within reach. Curated your home to keep him calm, polished it smooth so nothing could catch and spark.

That blanket, the one in Iseul’s hands now, doesn’t belong to that past. You bought it the week after the breakup. You wrapped yourself in it that first night alone and wept into its threads until the shape of you pressed into the fibers. 

And that’s why Mateo loves it. Because it loves you back. 

Davi shifts faintly in his arms as if the little creature can already sense the air turning heavier. Mateo sighs and soothes a hand along the top of his head. 

"Stay calm, cariño," he whispers, voice warm with love and low with knowing. "Don’t worry. They’ve been through worse than this… and they’re not alone anymore."

Iseul continues to drift through the space, his gaze sweeping lazily over the familiar angles of the room. When he reaches the coffee table, he pauses. 

A tea set rests there, simple and carefully arranged. Two handmade teacups sit side by side, slightly uneven, imperfect in shape. They’re not expensive, not delicate bone china, but they carry a quiet kind of care.

He lifts one cup between his fingers, turning it toward the light. The surface is smooth with no cracks and no chips. It’s beautiful, he can’t deny that. And maybe that’s why it irritates him.

His grip tightens, just slightly.

CRACK.

A hairline fracture splits along the handle. A satisfied smile creeps on his lips and he sets it back down too gently, like nothing happened.

From across the room, Daisuke flinches. His hand lifts to his upper arm, where a thin line now splits the surface of his form. He draws in a sharp breath but doesn’t cry out. Instead, his eyes snap to Iseul, dark with something quieter than fury. It isn’t the pain that gets to him. It’s the intent. 

The cups hadn’t been expensive. They weren’t part of some matching set. Just a pair of handmade pieces from a pottery class you took during one of the rougher months. One handle sat crooked, the glaze had pooled too thick at the base. But Daisuke had loved it from the moment you handed it to him.

On the mantle, Dante watches closely as Daisuke retreats into the kitchen, his posture rigid, every movement clipped with restrained anger. The faint clink of a glass being set down echoes from beyond the doorway.

Iseul shifts a step closer to the fire and Dante’s eyes narrow. A low, warning scoff crackles in his chest, the sound dry and sharp as ember-crushed charcoal. No warmth rises to meet the man. The flames in the hearth flicker once, then shrink, curling in on themselves. 

Iseul pauses in front of the fireplace, head tilted slightly. His eyes narrow as he watches the way the flames flicker and pull away from him, guttering low. For a moment, one flame flares sharp and fast. It looked almost like a face, twisted and bared.

Dante feels the heat surge, that old instinct to lunge, to reach out and scorch the skin clean off the man who once hollowed you out. But he pulls it back, swallows it down, chains it to the pit of his fire. 

The flames gutter. Iseul blinks, and the snarling flare is gone.

"Right," he mutters to no one. "Losing it already."

He assumes the fireplace simply hasn’t been stocked and turns to look for a heater, anything that might explain the biting chill still hanging in the air. His gaze catches on a vent tucked high near the ceiling, and just below it, three sticky notes cling to the wall. The edges are curled, the paper yellowing slightly, as if they’ve been left there long enough to become part of the room.

Without thinking, he reaches out and peels one free. The handwriting is careful, pressed deep into the paper like the words had weight.

"If I am to haunt this world, let it be only in your shadow. Let me linger on your skin, let me rot behind your walls so long as I am near you still." —H.

Iseul’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t mean to pick up the next one, but his fingers move before the thought can catch up.

"I loved you before I had the words for it. I will love you long after language or the air I give you to breathe fails me." —H.

His lips curl, not quite a smile, not quite a sneer. 

Of course. You already had someone else.

You always were starved for affection. The kind of person who’d fall in love with anything that looked at you too long. A sad little sponge, he thinks, soaking up the first drop of attention like it was holy.

Another note waits beneath the vent, edges folded inward, like it wanted to stay hidden. He unfolds it anyway.

"You are my first thought. The one I bleed into morning, still tasting you on the cusp of sleep. And my final sin at night, when the vents groan and the air turns too still with the silence thick with the ghost of your warmth. I ache where you once pressed your name into me. A lie I forgive with trembling hands, because I cannot bear the truth of a house where even the air refuses to forget you." —H.

This one, Iseul crumples.

Behind him, unseen, Héctor grips the edge of the vent with both hands. His knuckles bleach bone-white from fury held tight beneath his skin. The metal groans in protest like it might tear away from Wallace just to mirror the rage building in him.

Frost begins to spread across the grille in delicate, violent veins, blooming outward like rot in reverse. A sudden current tears through the room and hits Iseul square in the back.

The man shudders at the sudden drop in temperature but doesn’t turn around. Instead, his eyes fall to the space beside the armrest of the couch. An open book lies face down, its spine creased with use. 

A romance novel. Its title in Italian, the cover soft and worn at the edges. He picks it up slowly, brows drawing together in mild confusion. You never liked this genre.

But as he flips through the pages, he finds margin notes scribbled in looping cursive. Passages are underlined. Tiny hearts, faintly highlighted, bloom in the corners of certain lines. The handwriting isn’t yours. The language isn’t one you speak.

His lips twitch into a humorless smile. "Some European lover boy, huh?"

He lingers on the page, thumb digging into the spine. “You always did bend yourself into whatever shape someone else found beautiful. Guess it only took the loudest voice to drown out the rest of you.”

Before he can read any further, a cabinet door slams somewhere in the kitchen. Iseul lifts a brow, head tilting just slightly as he sees you shuffle past the doorway, heading toward the sound. You disappear from view, but your voice carries low. It sounds like you're comforting someone.

Interesting.

With a hum, he slides the book back into place, just slightly off-center from the pillow beside it. Then he straightens his coat, adjusts the lay of his collar, and exhales through his nose.

So your new boyfriend is hiding in the kitchen. 

Noted. 

He’ll be sure to pay a visit later.

Cabrizzio was still buzzing, tight and coiled like a kettle seconds from screaming. His hip slammed against the counter as he helped Daisuke ease into the chair.

“Che bastardo,” he spat, teeth clenched. “Breaks you like you’re nothing.”

Cam rolled in from the sink, arms folded like steel. “Please. You know him. Give that guy anything good, and he ruins it—just to see what crawls out of the wreckage.”

Daisuke said nothing at first. He sat motionless, the fine crack down his arm gleaming like a scar etched in porcelain. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm as ever yet edged.

“He has not changed. Still rot beneath a fresh coat of paint. Still, I am… displeased he laid a hand on me.”

“Displeased?” Cam’s brow shot up. “Displeased is what you say when someone scuffs your finish. This?” He scoffed. “If I had fists, I’d be swinging.”

Cabrizzio circled behind Daisuke, movements gentler now. “Coward with a poet’s mouth and a spine made of string. Twists words into honey, then watches you choke on it. That’s why they stayed. That’s why they still tremble.”

The soft scuff of feet drew their attention. You stood at the threshold, teetering. Red-eyed, hollowed, holding yourself like something fragile. And tucked just behind you, Tony, carrying a repair kit in one hand, a bottle of ceramic-safe glue in the other.

"Don’ you worry, baby," Tony said, one gloved hand running firm and slow down your back. "I’m gonna get him fixed up real nice. Betta than new, eh? You’ll see. Like he never even chipped."

You opened your mouth, but no words came. Just that look. That quiet guilt spilling out of your posture, pooling in the space between you and Daisuke.

Cam clocked it instantly and made a sharp, disgusted sound in the back of his throat. "Oh, for fuck’s sake. Don’t. Whatever you’re about to say, don’t. If you apologize for that shitstain’s tantrum, I swear."

"I should’ve—" you tried, voice cracking.

"No."

Daisuke’s tone was soft but absolute. "You should not have had to."

Tony pressed a kiss to your head as he passed, then knelt beside Daisuke with the ease of someone who’d done it a hundred times before. He set the repair kit down and began sorting through his tools.

" Hey. This ain’t on you, alright ? You didn’t break nothin’. You just—" he gave a sharp sniff, working the cap off the glue, "—got stuck cleanin’ up after a stronzo who ain’t got the balls to own what he ruins."

Daisuke inclined his chipped side slightly toward you. "I am fine. Please. Let us not make too much of a fuss about this. You are already shaken as it is. There is no need to add to the pile."

You opened your mouth to protest, but Cabrizzio was already stepping in, holding a tray in both hands. His eyes found yours gently, earnest and sure.

"Here," he said. "Vai, amore. You have what it takes to get him out of here. Of this, we are certain."

"The blue mug, it is yours," he continued, gesturing lightly. "The other…" He gave a little, almost theatrical shrug. "That one is for him . It’s one of Kopi’s—how you say—special blends. Very strong. Very… unique."

You arched a brow, glancing over his shoulder to see Kopi stifling a laugh, steam coiling up around her like a mischievous spirit.

"What?" she said, grinning. "You think I wouldn’t doctor the brew? Please. That man needs something stronger than coffee."

Cam muttered from the corner, dry as ever. "And maybe a boot to the head."

Tony, still crouched by Daisuke’s side, didn’t look up. "Save the boot. I need both hands for the glue."

The tension, brittle just moments ago, had begun to thaw. Cabrizzio shifted closer and gently set the tray into your hands. His voice dropped, sincere beneath all its velvet.

"Va bene," he said. "We hold the line here. But you… you go face your ghost, tesoro."

By the time you return, the tray balanced carefully in your hands and the mugs of coffee cradled in both palms, your expression is already betraying you. There’s guilt in your eyes poorly hidden beneath the thin mask of a smile.

"Sorry," you say, voice too light, too rushed, as you set the mugs down on the coffee table. "The coffee machine was acting up. Took forever to heat."

Iseul nods, faintly, but his attention isn’t on your words. He’s watching you. The twitch in your fingers. The way your shoulders won’t quite relax. The way you avoid his eyes.

He hums like he’s listening, but he’s not.

His gaze drifts, catches on the mark just beneath your jaw. A bruise, dark and fresh, blooming where someone else had their mouth on you. It lingers there a moment, unreadable, but too still to be nothing.

Last night. Maybe this morning. Someone else got close. Close enough to touch, to make you laugh. The way you used to laugh for him.

Then his eyes land on the jacket draped around your shoulders. Oversized, deep green, a bold stitched H on the chest.

His jaw shifts.

In his pocket, his fingers close around the crumpled love note he swiped earlier. He doesn’t need to unfold it—he remembers the signature.

H.

His eyes narrow. He feels it now, that familiar heat building in the back of his throat. A greedy kind of ache. The sick, sour taste of something being taken from him. 

"Iseul…?"

He blinks slowly, shoulders rolling back as he forces out a breath and smooths over his reaction with something charming, almost bashful.

"Trouble with the machine, huh?" he says, eyes still locked on the bruise like it’s the only thing in the room. "That happens. You always did have a complicated relationship with appliances."

You can’t see many of them right now — the dateables. Not fully. Some seem to be giving you space, hiding just outside your field of vision, not wanting to crowd you. But their presence is still here. 

You laugh, awkward and light, trying to fill the space. "Yeah… never really did get along with them." 

You hear the soft rustle of a curtain shifting in offense, the faint clink of a teacup being set a little too hard on wood. You catch low murmurs, indistinct but annoyed, a collective grumble of affectionate protest.

You bite back a smile. They heard that. They didn’t like your little self-drag. And as always, they’ve got your back.

After handing Iseul his mug, you sink into the spot Mateo so clearly prepared for you, the cushion still warm, the blanket tucked and draped just right, soft as breath against your skin. 

Kopi’s coffee steams gently in your hands. You take a slow sip and exhale through your nose. It’s perfect, of course. She always knows exactly how you take it.

Isuel takes a sip of his own drink, eyes still fastened to your throat like he’s trying to memorize the bruised skin. His expression twitches, the blend clearly not to his taste. The bitterness punches through first, and his lips pull into a faint grimace.

You giggle at the look on his face, and almost on cue, the room begins to warm.

A quiet hum stirs from above, followed by the low, comforting sigh of heat drifting from the vents — Héctor. At the same time, the fireplace flickers to life, a lazy, gentle flame rising without fanfare. Dante, as always, never needing to be asked.

Only then do you realize how cold the room had been when you first came in.

You glance toward the hearth, searching for answers, but Dante pointedly avoids your gaze. You hide a small smile behind your mug.

Yeah. They don’t like him. Not one bit.

It’s been thirty whole damn minutes.

You’re tense, shoulders tight, knees drawn close, as you watch Iseul take his goddamn time with the coffee. He swirls it like a food critic, savoring it as if it’s aged wine and not a rushed brew from a coffee machine.

He glances over the rim of his mug at you.

"So," he starts, voice low and falsely casual, like this is just any other day. "Still living on your own?" 

He takes another sip before setting the cup down with deliberate slowness. Shifts on the couch. Something about it clearly doesn’t sit right with him. After a beat, he stands.

A slow step forward.

“You always said you liked the quiet,” he murmurs.

You don’t answer. Your lips part slightly, but nothing comes out. Your grip on your mug tightens.

He steps even closer, and the heat of him creeps into your space. "But too much quiet? That starts to feel lonely."

Your body pulls back before you even realize it. Your spine presses deeper into the couch, legs curling tighter, breath caught in your throat. The moment’s too close, too familiar. His words feel like fingers trying to pick a lock in your chest. You wrap the blanket tighter around your shoulders, wishing you could disappear into the fabric.

Then the window slams open.

BANG.

A gust of wind bursts through the room like a thrown punch. Curt’s turquoise curtains fly up, sharp and sudden, catching the draft like sails in a storm. They whip straight into Iseul’s face with the kind of precision that feels personal.

"Ow—what the hell?" He stumbles back, arm flailing, mug sloshing dangerously. The curtains wrap and slap around his head like they’ve got a score to settle.

You jolt upright, clutching your own mug as you watch the scene unfold. Just as Iseul manages to peel one curtain away, the rod above gives up entirely. It tears loose from the wall and crashes down with a sharp, metallic thunk.

Right on his head.

He yelps again, the sound half-muffled by fabric, as the rod bounces off his shoulder and clatters to the floor. 

Silence follows. 

You glance over at Curt and Rod. Rod was still sprawled out on the floor, and Curt was still draped over Iseul, both of them laughing like idiots. Clearly proud of what they just caused.

And even with the knot still tight in your chest, their laughter is infectious. You feel it bubbling up before you can stop it. You duck your head behind your mug, trying to swallow it down. But it’s there, warm and bright at the back of your throat. You laugh. Loudly.

Iseul hears it.

“For fuck’s sake, I’ve had it!”

His mug slams down on the table, coffee sloshing out in a sharp arc. The crack of ceramic on wood snaps. Then he’s moving, crossing the space with all the weight of a storm breaking loose.

You barely set your cup aside before he’s on you.

Strong fingers twist into the front of your tank top. He yanks hard, dragging you upright. Your spine jars against the couch. Your breath catches. And suddenly, he’s right there. Face contorted, jaw clenched, eyes no longer pretending.

“You think you’re better than me now?” he snarls, voice rising. “That what this is? One taste of someone giving a damn and suddenly I’m beneath you?”

“Iseul—” Your voice trembles. “You’re hurting me.”

He leans in. Sneering.

Your hands push against his chest, trying to create space, but he doesn’t budge. His grip only tightens.

"Only thing you were ever good for was serving someone else . Smiling real nice, keeping quiet, doing what you were told. That’s what he likes, right?" His gaze drops to your neck, to the bruise there. His mouth curls. "Bet you make it easy for him. Real easy."

His grip tightens again, and you cry out, short and sharp.

"You think you’ve got power now? You think this is yours ? You think this quiet little house makes you strong?"

The light above flickers once. Then again. Then again.

The air shifts. Thickens. The hairs along your arms stand up. The room hums in energy. But Iseul doesn’t notice.

"I fucking built you!" he shouts, spit flying. "I was the only one who saw you when you were nothing! You’re useful. That’s all you are. And when he’s done using you, you’ll come crawling back just like you always do—"

SNAP.

The lamp beside you explodes in a shower of sparks.

A searing bolt of electricity arcs from the socket and strikes Iseul directly in the shoulder. The sound is blinding, a sizzling pop followed by the sharp smell of burning fabric and ozone.

Iseul screams, a real scream this time as his body jerks from the force. His hand rips from your shirt and he stumbles backward.

Smoke curls from the seams of his jacket. His fingers twitch, convulsing slightly. His mouth works soundlessly for a second before breath finally claws its way out of him.

You're frozen, heartbeat hammering in your ears, until you feel a hand, Mateo’s, press gently against your back. A blanket falls over your shoulders, warm and grounding, as he eases you away from the couch. His voice is quiet in your ear, his hands snaking up to cover your eyes.

He guides you out of the living room just as Curt and Rod snap the blinds shut, one after the other. A moment later, Dorian turns the lock on the front door with a click.

Iseul’s head snaps upward.

His eyes flick wildly across the room, darting from shadow to shadow, searching for something that makes sense of what just happened. But nothing answers. 

From the corners of the room, shadowed tendrils begin to unfurl along the walls, crawling slowly. Electricity crackles wildly through the air, lightbulbs pulsing in rapid flickers. The vents scream to life, spewing blasts of blistering heat. At the same time, the fireplace surges upward, flames roaring with such intensity they seem desperate to claw their way free from the stone.

Then the voice comes. One thAT does not belong in any human throat.

It is low and massive as if spoken through bone and ash. The sound slithers through the room with a crushing weight that makes the walls creak.

"You dare lay hands on my penumbra?"

The words strike Iseul like a blow. His chest seizes. His breath falters. His feet scramble for purchase, slipping on his spilled coffee and the mess of his own panic.

From the darkest stretch of shadow near the hearth, something begins to rise.

Claws drag against the floorboards as the figure pulls itself upright. It straightens slowly, body is nothing but thick, writhing shadow, built like smoke given mass, trembling at the edges where reality tries and fails to reject it.

Horns curve back from its head, the bone chipped and darkened with time. The creature’s jaw hangs open in a twisted grin, and beyond it lies nothing but blackness, cavernous and unnatural, rimmed with glinting teeth that don’t belong to any animal that ever walked this earth.

It steps forward once.

Iseul stumbles backward, mouth open, lips shaping a scream that never comes. It dies somewhere in his throat, strangled by fear. 

The voice returns, softer now.

"You think this house is yours to haunt?" it rasps, almost gently, though the fury hasn’t left. "You think they are yours to hurt?"

Then, from somewhere else, a second voice cuts in. “Oh, dear… you’ve really done it now.”

A crack of blue light splits the ceiling, blinding as a camera flash. Electricity tears through the air, hissing like a live wire. It strikes without warning, snapping at Iseul’s feet, then coiling up his limbs in spiraling arcs of white-blue light.

Then the shadows come. They pour in fast, fluid and wrong, slithering out from corners, crawling from beneath furniture. One clamps tight around his ankle. Another coils around his wrist, then his throat, then his chest—Iseul is yanked upward an inch from the floor. 

Then, everything goes black.

You’re nestled in Mateo’s arms, wrapped in the soft cocoon of blankets and his warmth. He holds you close, his chest rising and falling against your back, and every now and then he leans down to press gentle kisses to your cheek.

Betty and Dirk are curled up beside you, equally content. Betty snores lightly at your other side, her arm twitching every so often in some lazy dream, while Dirk is sprawled across your stomach. He lets out a little grunt when you shift but doesn’t move.

The Hanks have claimed every inch of your room that isn’t bed. The boys are stretched across the floor, perched on chairs, hanging off the dresser. At least two of them are attempting to build a fort using your laundry. 

They’re loud and ridiculous and refuse to let the heaviness settle too deep. Jokes fly across the room. Laughter spills over itself.

Downstairs, the sounds change. You hear Volt’s low, crackling growl, Eddie’s deeper rumble, Skip’s voice cutting through every now and then, and under it all, Dorian’s voice echoes.

A sudden shout erupts and you flinch before you can stop yourself. Mateo notices and pulls you closer, wrapping an arm around your shoulders as he presses a kiss to your temple. 

His voice is soft in your ear. "Don’t worry, mi vida. They’ve got it."

You just nod and let your head rest back against Mateo’s shoulder, the warmth of him grounding you in a way that nothing else can right now.

"Babe, watch this!" one of the Hanks calls out and when you glance over, you see Hank 4 trying to do a handstand in the narrow space between the dresser and the door.

He manages to hold it for maybe two seconds before toppling over in a chaotic tangle of limbs and laughter, knocking into Hank 2 on the way down.

"Bro!"

You shake your head with a quiet smile, the corner of your mouth tugging up despite everything. Absolute idiots.

You must have drifted off at some point, but when you wake, there’s a stillness to the house. There are no more raised voices echoing from downstairs. No snarls. No low growls vibrating through the floorboards. 

Then, the door creaks open, quiet and cautious.

You lift your head from Mateo’s shoulder to see Curt and Rod stepping in. They hover in the doorway for a moment like they’re not sure if they’re allowed. Curt offers a small, tentative smile as he approaches.

"Hey, baby," he murmurs. He leans down and presses a soft kiss to your temple, lingering there for a second longer than usual.

Rod trails behind him, hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets. His shoulders are hunched, his jaw set tight.

“We just came to say that we screwed up,” Curt says at last, his voice barely more than a whisper. “We never meant for it to get that far.”

Rod nods, stepping forward slowly. "We thought pissing him off would throw him. Knock him off balance so he wouldn’t try anything. But it backfired. He zeroed in on you." His voice wavers. "And you got hurt. Because of us."

Curt sits on the edge of the bed beside you and gently brushes his knuckles across the back of your hand. "We love you, okay? We were trying to protect you — in our own dumb way. We didn’t think he’d snap like that."

You shake your head, not in anger but in exhaustion. "Guys, it’s okay. Really. I’m just glad it’s over. Iseul has a temper — you didn’t make him like that."

"You’re too good to us, baby," Rod says quietly, a guilty smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He lets out a slow breath, then tilts his head toward the hallway, listening. 

"Um. So... what’s going on down there?" you ask, hesitant, a twist of anxiety in your stomach.

Rod’s lips twitch into a smirk. "Oh, they’re jumping him."

“ Were jumping him,” Curt mutters, elbowing Rod sharply before glancing at you with a flash of guilt.

“It’s fine now, though!” he adds quickly, trying to sound reassuring. “They’re just doing cleanup. Hoove, Kopi, Wyndolyn—everyone’s on it. They’ve got it handled.”

“And he is not coming back here again, baby,” Curt says firmly as he strides across the room. With a little flourish, he yanks open the bedroom curtain. “See for yourself.”

You twist in Mateo’s arms and peer out the window. Down on the street, Iseul is scrambling across the lawn, blood on his collar and panic in his step. He throws one last look over his shoulder before kicking his motorcycle into gear. The engine screams as he peels away, tires skidding across the pavement before disappearing into the night.

Behind you, Curt mutters, "That’s what I thought," under his breath.

You exhale, slowly, like the last of the tension is finally allowed to leave your body.

Rod flops down onto the foot of the bed with a familiar, lazy grin. "Anyway, there’s a lot of people asking for you."

You groan, burying your face deeper into Mateo’s arms. "Let me guess. House meeting?"

"You bet," Rod says. "Mayor Celia’s already planning it. Full agenda and everything."

You sigh again. "Everyone’s going to treat me like I’m made of glass."

"Well, duh, babe," Hank 5 says, raising his eyebrows like it’s obvious. "You almost got hit by your nerd ex. We’re not just gonna not worry."

"Facts," Hank 1 calls from the closet, digging through a pile of hoodies. "You're the house baby now. Minimum of five check-ins a day from us!"

"They’re  already our baby," Hank 3 grins, popping his head up from behind the couch. "I’ve just been waiting for everyone else to catch up."

You roll your eyes. "You’re all idiots."

Curt smirks, flopping beside Rod. "Certified, baby. But we’re your idiots."

Mateo chuckles and nuzzles your cheek. "I swear this is all coming from a place of love. You’re not alone in this. Not for a second."

From your stomach, Dirk snores loudly.

"See? Even he agrees, babe." 

IT HAD STARTED AS A QUIET MORNING, just you, the sink full of dishes, and the hum of the house stretching itself awake.

"Daisuke," you giggled, squirming as a cold hand brushed the exposed skin just beneath your shirt hem. "Stooop—I’m trying to give the dishes a bath."

You were elbow-deep in suds, fighting a hardened chunk of rice that refused to let go of the ceramic plate. The faucet hissed, warm steam curling around your face. But even through that, through the clatter of dishes and the citrus scent of dish soap, you felt him before you heard him. He pressed in behind you, quiet as always, but present. The faint scent of warm porcelain and stainless steel polish clung to him like cologne.

"And yet," he murmured, voice low and smooth like ceramic, "you neglect me."

His breath was cool against your nape, sending goosebumps scattering across your spine.

You laughed as you squirted soap onto a plate. "You are not one of the dishes."

"Is that so?" he replied softly. 

One hand slid past your waist, plucking a mug from the drying rack. His fingers, pale and long, traced the rim as if it were a sacred object. "A forgotten favorite. Used, scrubbed, and left to dry without affection."

"Oh my god," you muttered, trying and failing to hide your smile. "You are so dramatic."

He said nothing, but you could feel the ripple of amusement beneath his stillness. A moment later, both hands returned to settle at your waist.

"You’ve been standing for too long."

You blinked. "I’m fine?"

"Your back will ache. Again." He paused, gaze dropping deliberately down the line of your spine, as though mentally cataloging every knot of tension waiting to bloom. "Sit. I’ll handle the rest."

You turned to face him, suds clinging to your forearms, a soft frown tugging at your brow. "You’re such a worrywart."

Daisuke’s expression barely shifted, but you caught it. That tiny pull at the corner of his mouth. 

"You exhaust yourself," he said, voice low and clipped. "Running about this house, tending to everyone but yourself. It has been less than twenty-four hours since your last injury, and already you are moving."

Your breath caught at the softness buried beneath his deadpan delivery.

"…You’re such a dork," you whispered.

He leaned in, tapping his forehead gently to yours.

"And you are a menace to dishware. The plate you’re holding is from my spring collection. Irreplaceable."

"Then don’t leave it where I can touch it," you challenged, even as you let him pluck it gently from your hands.

"Exactly my point."

You rolled your eyes and huffed, but didn’t protest when he dried your hands with a towel, fingers brushing yours with infuriating tenderness. He guided you away from the sink with a hand at the small of your back, leading you toward the dining table.

When he pulled out a chair and sat down, you didn’t bother with the other seat. Instead, you just flopped sideways across his lap, limbs loose, arms slung around his neck like it was your throne by birthright. Daisuke let out a quiet, almost exasperated sigh, but his hand came up without hesitation to steady you, palm resting warm and certain against your back.

You tilted your head toward the other end of the dining table, where Timothy sat primly on one of the chairs. Legs crossed, clipboard angled just-so, and his sleek golden timepiece cradled delicately in his gloved hand.

His ears twitched once. Tail flicked twice.

Without glancing up, he announced in his smooth, static-laced cadence, "Thirty minutes, thirty-nine seconds until the next schhhhedule."

You leaned over Daisuke’s arm to reach Timothy, your hand settling between his twitching ears. His fur bristled beneath your touch, but he let out a soft, involuntary purr as he leaned into your palm.

"Morning, baby," you cooed, scratching gently behind one velvety ear. "What schhhhedule?"

Timothy rolled his eyes at your teasing but didn’t dignify it with a response, not right away. He just exhaled, slow and pointed, then flipped the clipboard toward you with a flat glare.

"The one you instructed me to note." His ears twitched. "Precisely thirty minutes from now. A meeting schhhheduled to take place here, in your residence."

It hit you all at once, like a cold glass of water hurled in your face.

Your brain stalled. It completely locked up. You could practically hear the internal hard drive spinning, whirring uselessly in search of a backup you never bothered to make. The rest of the room blurred into background static. All you could see was the clipboard in Timothy’s hands… and the slip of paper pinned dead center like a death warrant.

Your handwriting. Your pink gel pen. That dumb, cheerful to-do list, scrawled.

Pick-up for clothes – 7:00 AM. Don’t let it get weird.

It was already weird.

Your chest tightened, and then you launched off Daisuke’s lap. The chair leg caught your ankle mid-motion, nearly sending you sprawling face-first into the hardwood. You caught yourself just in time, one hand gripping the back of another chair, breath coming fast and uneven.

The living room snapped into focus, and now that you were seeing it, really seeing it, every flaw screamed at you.

No vacuuming. Of course there wasn’t! Why would you think ahead like that? A fine layer of dust still clung to the side table, right where you’d been chatting with Dolly last night.

Three jackets were flung over the coat rack, thanks to Dirk. Sock ropes, actual tied-up sock ropes, dangled off the couch, remnants of the "couch climbing" the Hanks did two nights ago.

The coffee table was a disaster zone from your last drink experiments with Kopi and Beverly. Powdered creamer clung to the surface like a dusting of snow, several half-empty cocktail glasses were scattered across limp napkins, and one mug of oat milk sat forgotten, slowly spoiling, still bearing a lipstick stain on the rim.

No coaster, of course.

And worst of all, you hadn’t told anyone your ex was coming over.

"Tim!" you finally choked out. "Why didn’t you remind me earlier?!"

Timothy, unfazed by your panic, tilted his head and reached calmly into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a small black cube, thumbed the side, and clicked it once. Your own voice crackled out in tinny audio:

"If I forget, that’s a sign from the universe that I wasn’t meant to remember."

You stared at him, jaw open. "You’re supposed to override me when I’m being stupid!"

Timothy sniffed, flipping the clipboard closed with a tidy little snap. "Beloved, if I overrode you every time you were being stupid, I wouldn’t have time to wind myself."

You nearly screamed.

Behind you, Daisuke shifted in his chair. You heard the quiet rustle of fabric, followed by the soft clink of a plate being set down on the counter with care.

"Who’s coming?" Daisuke’s voice came from behind you, but you couldn’t get a word out. Just stood there like an idiot, mouth working uselessly, opening and closing like a fish pulled out of water.

Timothy, sensing the spike in tension like a radar ping, clicked his stopwatch again. The sound was sharper this time, more clipped.

"Twenty-nine minutes, seventeen seconds," Timothy murmured. His ears flattened, and unease flickered in his eyes as he shot you a quick glance from the corner of his vision. "You’re unraveling? You are never this worried over your schhhedules."

You let out a shaky, half-laugh of a breath and dug your fingers into your hair, close to spiraling.

"Oh my god," you rasped. "Oh my god, I gotta—I have to shower. I have to get ready. My ex is coming over here!"

The silence that followed hit like a dropped weight.

Timothy froze, every line of his body drawn tight and still. Similarly, Daisuke’s hand slipped slightly, fingers curling hard around the edge of the chair like he’d just remembered it was there. Neither said a word, but something bristled in the air.

You didn’t stick around to explain. Your heart was already thundering in your chest as you turned on your heel and bolted up the stairs, two at a time.

As your footsteps faded up the stairs, Timothy’s expression soured. He stared down at his clipboard, ears still flat against his skull. The pen in his hand clicked once, twice, three times. Each press sharper than the last until he slashed angry lines of ink across the scheduled meeting on the page.

Daisuke glanced over, brow raised, but said nothing. 

Timothy’s tail gave a single flick behind him. 

"Well," he muttered, voice clipped and cool, almost mechanical in its precision, "perhaps I ought to have let them forget."

You burst into the laundry room mid-strip, breath coming fast, one arm still jammed halfway through your shirt sleeve. A towel dangled from your teeth, and your socks made a pitiful slap-slap against the tile as you skidded to a halt. 

"Hey," Dirk said casually, without even glancing up. He had a hip propped up against Drysdale, folding a towel one-handed.

You made a sound that was meant to be words but came out closer to a dying goose. Then, in your frantic tangle of limbs and laundry, one of your socks decided to fling itself from your foot and strike Dirk squarely in the chest.

"Wow," Dirk said flatly, holding the sock between two fingers. He held it between two fingers, arm fully extended as if the thing might bite him. His nose wrinkled ever so slightly in mock disgust, and he gave you a look. "Bold choice. Weaponizing laundry."

"Emergency," you wheezed, still halfway trapped in your shirt like it was trying to strangle you. "Defcon Five. Incoming Ex-Situation. Shower critical."

Dirk quirked a brow. "Oh, so we’re panicking."

"I’m not panicking!" You finally yanked the shirt off, hair sticking up like static. You flung the shirt towards Harper. It missed. Badly.

With a frustrated groan, you started unzipping your pants with one hand while rummaging through a pile of your towels with the other. "Okay, I didn’t plan for this. Obviously. I forgot. I forgot on purpose. And now I have to de-gremlin myself in under twenty minutes before they walk in and think I’ve been living in a hoarder den slash emotional bunker!"

Dirk raised both hands in a slow, exaggerated shrug. "So... Thursday."

"Dirk."

"I’m just saying, baby," he said, completely unbothered, swinging one leg over the edge of Drysdale. "You keep describing your normal day and calling it an emergency."

Before you could throw a quip back, you tripped over your half-peeled jeans and slammed shoulder-first into the open dryer door with a loud thunk.

Dirk cringed. He straightened immediately, legs dropping to the floor as his relaxed posture vanished in an instant. 

"Okay," he said slowly, "let’s not concuss ourselves in a towel. That’s a very unsexy way to die."

You groaned, wincing as you pressed a hand to your shoulder and used the washer to keep from sliding straight to the floor. "Fantastic. Just kill me. Honestly. I’d prefer that to facing my ex."

"Don’t say that." His voice cut in fast, sharper than he meant it to be. He paused, then sighed through his nose, arms folding. "You know I hate it when you make jokes like that."

There was a beat of silence. Then, like flipping a switch, he looked away and rolled his eyes.

"Anyway," he muttered, "if you do keel over, I’m not dragging your corpse upstairs. I’ll throw a blanket over you and call Farya. Let her deal with it."

"I’m fine," you groaned, "Look. If they get here before I’m out of the shower… stall them, okay?"

"Define stall," Dirk said blandly. "I’m literally a pile of clothes."

You let out a strangled noise and buried your face in your hands, palms digging hard into your eyes. "Oh my god. This is such a mess!"

Dirk’s smirk cracked just slightly. He crossed the room and slung an arm around your waist, draping himself over your barely-toweled form. He pressed a kiss to your cheek. Then another, soft and slow on your jaw. Then lower, trailing warm across your neck.

"Does he really have to come get those clothes?" Dirk murmured, low and careful, like he didn’t want to startle the moment. "I mean… we could throw them in Cam. Or leave them in the front yard. Let him fetch. Like the dog he is."

You turned to glare at him, but your breath hitched before you could speak because his lips brushed under your ear again.

"You could stay," he said, quieter now, fingers tightening at your waist. "Forget the damn guy. Stay here. With me."

Then his mouth dragged slowly along your jaw, the scrape of his teeth light. His next kiss landed just below your ear, then lower. He sucked a mark into the soft skin at the curve of your neck, and the sound that left your throat wasn’t voluntary.

Your hand shot out to grip the edge of the dryer, knuckles white. Your knees barely held.

"Maybe bring the Hanks in," Dirk added, his breath hot where it ghosted across your skin. "Make it a whole event. Let them watch while I remind you how his name hasn’t come out of your mouth once while you were under me."

You swallowed hard, mind blanking. The tension between your bodies was molten, heavy. The towel was barely staying on.

"Are you—" you tried, throat dry, "—are you seriously seducing me out of taking a shower?"

Dirk just smiled. That crooked, lazy smirk of his that always spelled danger. His thigh slid between yours, hand still low on your towel, thumb brushing the dip of your spine.

"Wouldn’t be the first time," he said smoothly, tilting your chin so you met his eyes. They were dark now, full of unspoken things. "And honestly? If it keeps him from seeing you like this… I’ll do a hell of a lot more than kiss your neck."

Your breath stuttered. Every nerve in your body seemed tuned to his touch.

Dirk leaned in, mouth brushing just below your collarbone now. "Why should he get a version of you I have to live without?"

You exhaled hard, arms crossing over your towel. 

"Dirk…"

"I know," he snapped. "I know. You’re not going back to him. You’re just... doing the responsible thing. Tying up loose ends."

You nodded, barely.

Dirk’s jaw clenched. "Still feels like hell."

You reached up, cupping his cheek, your thumb brushing the skin just beneath his eye. "It’s not about him," you murmured. "You know that, right?"

He didn’t answer. Just stared at you a moment longer, then finally stepped back.

"Fine. Whatever. Go on," he said, voice flatter now, retreating into something colder. "Get cleaned up."

You hesitated. Then kissed him on the corner of his mouth. "No loose ends."

And then you turned and disappeared down the hall. Behind you, Dirk stayed rooted in place. He dragged a hand through his hair and let out a low, shaky breath.

"Don’t take too long."

The shower was already running, the room thick with steam and the scent of soap clinging to the air like a second skin. You barely managed to close the door behind you before the heat kissed your cheeks, curling the edges of your hair and drawing sweat from your skin. You tossed the towel aside and stepped in without ceremony, urgency buzzing under your skin.

"Well, well," came that slow, familiar drawl. Slick as honey over warm porcelain. "Ain’t you just the prettiest little storm I ever did see?"

Johnny stood inside, already half-formed from mist and heat, one hip propped against the fogged glass wall like he’d been expecting you. His eyes swept over your naked form with zero shame.

"Thought maybe you were ignorin’ me today, darlin’," he went on, voice slow and syrup-thick. "But here you are. Lookin’ like heaven and hell got together and made a mess just for me."

"Johnny," you groaned, stepping in and letting the spray slam against your shoulders. You tipped your head forward, water tracing down your spine. "This is not the time. I am officially spiraling."

"Mm," he hummed, unconcerned. "And you spiral so pretty. Plus, that’s cruel, baby. Walkin’ in here all glistening and flushed and expectin’ me to act like a gentleman."

"My ex is on the way," you hissed, yanking open the shampoo. "I forgot. I literally blocked it out. And now I have—" You stopped mid-sentence, scrambling through your mental schedule with wild-eyed dread. "—Five minutes. Maybe."

Johnny let out a low whistle, folding his arms across his chest. "Mmm. Sounds like you need a deep soak and a whole lotta Johnny love." 

Then, stepping in a little closer, eyes gleaming with mischief. "But I s’pose I can work with five."

You gave him a flat look. "Johnny. I am naked. In you. That does not mean this is a flirt window."

He raised both hands in mock surrender. "What? You always look like you got it together, sweetheart."

Johnny’s voice dropped, warm and low like the water wrapping around your shoulders. "Even when you’re fallin’ apart, you shine. Makes me wanna hold you ’til the world forgets how to hurt ya."

You blinked up at him, just for a second. Just long enough to feel your pulse slow beneath the heat and the quiet care in his gaze.

"Johnny…"

He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

"Ain’t gonna stop ya from washin’, baby," he murmured. "But don’t you go thinkin’ you gotta face that fool out there without knowin’ there’s a whole mess’a people in this house who already worship the ground you trip over."

You sighed, letting your shoulders relax. "Thanks, Johnny."

He hummed softly, then slipped into one of his off-key tunes—just for you. The melody wobbled all over the place, a half-sung mess, but it made everything feel a little less frantic.

A few minutes later, you stepped out of the shower, towel cinched tight around your body. Your hair dripped steadily onto the tile, and water still clung to your arms and shoulders. You were halfway to the sink, reaching for your toothbrush, when Johnny’s fingers brushed across your collarbone.

"Hold up, sugar," he said, stepping into your space. "You got somethin’ right here…"

He tapped just below your neck with the back of his knuckle, casual as anything. "Little love bite, bloomin’ like spring."

You froze. Then turned sharply on your heel, bare feet squeaking slightly on the tiled floor as you leaned in toward the mirror. The glass was fogged up, but not enough to hide the purpling splotch on the side of your neck. It was front and center, impossible to miss.

Your jaw dropped. "DIRK!" you shrieked, voice bouncing off the walls. "I swear to God!"

Right on cue, Barry’s voice drifted in, light and sing-song. "Darling, breathe. Stress gives you texture."

You spun toward him, panicking. "Barry, I have four minutes and a full-on hickey on my neck!"

"Four minutes? Four? Hun, that is nothing. Right, then! Let's start moving. We are focused and we’re fabulous under pressure!" He was already hovering near the vanity, makeup brushes orbiting his shoulders like tiny satellites. 

"Brush... where’s your brush? No, not that one, that one—!" He snatched a toothbrush from the cup, passed it to you, then shoved a bottle of foundation into your palm in one seamless motion. "Toothpaste. Yes. Open—mouth, not complaints."

You blinked. Then sighed through your nose and obeyed as he popped the toothbrush between your lips.

Mouth full of foam, you grumbled around the bristles, "I hate this."

"Oh, I know, darling, and I cherish you for it," he said breezily, already rearranging his brush set. "Hate gives you an edge. Very retro."

After brushing, you leaned over the sink and spat, then wiped your mouth with the back of your hand. When you looked up, your eyes went straight to the blotchy mark blooming across your neck.

You jabbed a finger at your reflection. "When this is over," you said flatly, "I’m slapping Dirk’s smug little grin clean off his face."

Barry didn’t even blink. "He’ll love that. Start with the left cheek. It’s his better side. You’ll get a cleaner echo on the second slap."

You just shook your head and started fumbling with the bottle of foundation, the cap already halfway off, ready to slap some dignity back onto your neck. But before you could even squeeze a drop, the weight disappeared from your hand.

You blinked. "Huh?"

Your eyes darted to the counter just in time to catch Barry sliding the bottle back into the drawer. The soft click of it closing felt louder than it should have. His fingers lingered on the handle, but his gaze was fixed on Amir.

"…Did you just take that away from me?"

He didn’t flinch. "Mm. Yep."

"Why?!"

"I changed my mind, darling."

"I need that."

"No, no, no—no," Barry said, swatting the air like your argument was a mosquito. "You want that, but what you actually need, boo boo bear, is to strut out that door in the next sixty seconds with your chin high, your energy radiant, and that bite on full, glorious display."

You pointed wildly at your own reflection. "My ex is going to see the mark!"

Barry turned, squinted at your neck, and made a thoughtful noise. "Mmm… yes! Bold placement. Strong colour story. Bit messy around the edges, but honestly? I’ve seen worse lining."

"You’ve lost your mind," you groaned, dragging a hand down your face. "New plan! After I slap Dirk, I’m slapping you."

"Ooh, spicy," he chirped, already spinning you toward the door by the shoulders. "Just use the wrist, not the elbow. Now go! Shoo! Time is ticking!"

With a groan and a muttered curse, you bolted from the room, towel flapping around your legs, damp footprints chasing behind you.

The moment the door clicked shut, Johnny let out a low whistle, his grin already stretching ear to ear.

"Damn thing’s redder’n a fox in a henhouse," he drawled, arms folded across his chest. "Plain as day. Lookin’ like it was hand-delivered. Hoo—their ex’s gon’ take one look and forget his damn name."

Barry didn’t even glance up. He just gave a hum of satisfaction as he tidied the counter. "Good. I hope he chokes on it. I hope it’s the first thing he sees, and I hope it haunts him in every mirror for the rest of his sad little life."

He reached for a lipstick tube, uncapped it with a satisfying click, and held it up to the light, eyeing the color. "Mm. Should’ve outlined it. Crimson would’ve been stunning. Maybe a little shimmer. No... black. Black with a gloss finish. Or! Oooh! Ombre. Scarlet fading to wine. Very femme fatale, very sexy, very fabulous. Honestly, missed opportunity."

Johnny let out a low whistle, amused. "You’re cold, sugar. Still. Gotta admit. I like the bite. Looks real fine on them. Real fine."

You trudged up the stairs, one hand gripping your towel, the other clutching the banister. Your fingers were damp, still a little pruny from the shower, but it wasn’t the water making them shake.

The railing slipped a little under your palm. Your breath caught.

"Get it together," you muttered under your breath.

At the top landing, you slipped into your room and shut the door behind you, careful not to let the knob click too loudly. Then you just stood there, forehead resting against the wood, letting the silence wrap around you.

Your hair clung to the back of your neck, still wet. Your skin, warm from the steam, prickled in the sudden cool. The air in your room felt sharper than it should have. Colder.

It was stupid. You knew that. Just a box of clothes. Just a simple, civil drop-off. He was coming to get the last of his things. Some stuff you’d forgotten was even his. A hoodie, maybe a book. Socks. Nothing that should’ve been heavy. Nothing that should’ve made you feel like your spine was caving in.

And yet, the thought of hearing his voice again. Of opening the door and seeing him standing there, same face, same tone, that awful familiar pause before he said your name, tightened your throat like a noose. 

You didn’t notice the shift in front of you until your balance tilted just slightly. The door didn’t feel like a door anymore. It was warmer now. Solid in a different way.

You blinked and looked up to see Dorian.

"Hey, love," he murmured, arm already wrapped securely around your waist. And then, gently, the fingers of his other hand slipped into your damp hair, slow and careful, and pressed to the back of your head in the lightest cradle. His thumb moved once behind your ear, and for some reason, that was the thing that unspooled your chest.

"You don’t have to open the door," he said simply. Like he was stating a fact. 

"He’s just coming to pick up his stuff," you said, the words small in your mouth.

Dorian was quiet for a moment. Like he was weighing something he didn’t want to press you with. Then, without shifting his grip, he drew his palm slowly down your back, letting it settle against the middle of your spine. His touch was warm. Centering.

"He’s not coming in," he said finally, like he'd already decided it, and the world would bend to that decision.

You swallowed hard. Your hands were still gripping the towel too tight.

"I can handle it," you said, barely louder than before.

He sighed and just raised one hand and brushed your hair back behind your ear, knuckles trailing lightly along your temple, then let his fingers rest for half a second more before they dropped.

"Fine. Get dressed," he said gently. "You know where I’ll be, love."

With a final kiss to your forehead, Dorian vanished out through the door.

You stood there for a moment, the ghost of his touch still lingering. Then, smiling faintly to yourself, you crossed the room and reached for the closet handle.

But when you opened the door, instead of seeing your closet, you blinked against a sudden change in light.

The soft creak of the door gave way to a humid wave of warm air, thick with the scent of eucalyptus muscle balm, energy drinks, and the faint tang of sweat. The floor beneath your bare feet was no longer the cool wood of your bedroom, but the familiar give of rubber matting. A thunk-thunk of someone hitting a punching bag echoed from somewhere deeper in the room.

"HOUSE BABE!"

A blur shot out from behind the squat rack. Hank 4 practically flung himself across the floor like a golden retriever let off leash. His curls were an unruly tangle of sweat, his tank top clinging to his muscles like second skin, and his grin stretched so wide it nearly split his face.

"You’re in a towel!"

You didn’t break stride. You stepped into the converted closet gym like it was any other day. "Closet gym day again?"

"EVERY day is gym day," Hank 4 declared, sweeping his arms wide. "But now it’s the best gym day! Because you—" He gestured up and down at the towel. "—are here. In that!"

Hank 2 raised a brow from the pull-up bar. "Please tell me they’re not still dripping wet. You’re gonna catch a cold, babe. Seriously. Where are your socks? Did you at least dry your hair a little?"

"Oh, they’re dripping," Hank 3 purred, already sprawled out sideways across the weight bench. His shirt was off and he was grinning wide at you. "Drippin’ like they’ve been marinating in sin. Babe, you step in here glistening like that again, I’m gonna start conducting research."

You raised an eyebrow. "Research?"

"Yeah," he said with a wicked grin. "Wanna come here and find out my methodology, baby? Real handy stuff."

"You’re so cringe bro," groaned Hank 2, letting go of the pull-up bar and dropping to the floor. "You need a muzzle."

Hank 4 cackled, clutching his side. "Lowkey embarrassing, bro! But let him cook! He’s spittin’ truth, no cap!"

From the back of the room, Hank 5 stepped into view with a roll of wrist wraps. "Ignore him," he said simply. His gaze swept over you. "You walk in like that, the whole room tilts, babe."

"All right," came Hank 1’s voice. He clapped once, loud enough to snap everyone’s attention back to center. "Five-minute timeout. Let our baby breathe. Hydrate. Focus up."

Across the room, Hank 3 purred, "Hydrate them, maybe."

"Bro!" Hank 2 hissed, scandalized. "Stop talking!"

You couldn’t help but laugh as you shook your head. "Thanks for the group thirst. That’s… very affirming. Really. But I’m just here for clothes."

You padded barefoot toward the corner of the room, past tangled resistance bands and tubs of protein powder stacked like bricks. A pair of laundry baskets waited near the wall. You crouched beside them, fingers curling around familiar fabric. Your voice dropped, quieter now. 

"My ex is here."

Hank 1’s posture straightened. "Wait. Here here?"

You nodded, trying to make it casual and failing. "Just to pick up some stuff. It’s not a big deal. I just need to change. And maybe not cry. Or puke. But mostly get dressed."

Silence settled, the weighty kind that only falls when a room full of idiots collectively decides they’re about to become dangerous.

"Or," Hank 3 said suddenly, voice smooth as ever but with something darker under it, "you cry, puke, and get dressed. At the same time, we go out there and break every bone in his body. Alphabetically."

"Yup," Hank 2 said.

"Sounds fair," added Hank 5, who had already begun rolling up his sleeves. "Honestly. I’ve been itching to hit something."

"These muscles ain’t for nothing, baby!" Hank 4 shouted, flexing both arms. "Let me at him! I’ll fold that man like a gym towel and wring him out!"

"Guys," you started, but your voice cracked halfway through, and you swallowed hard before trying again. "Guys, no fighting. I don’t think he’s here for a brawl. I just… I need to change. Please."

You turned back to the laundry basket, but your hands didn’t quite work right. You reached for a hoodie and dropped it. Picked it up again, fumbled the sleeve. Your fingers were shaking.

Hank 1 crossed the room without a word and knelt behind you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders. His chin came to rest gently on the top of your head, and for a long, quiet moment, there was nothing but the steady rise and fall of his chest, the warmth of his body pressed against your back, shielding you from the rest of the world like a wall.

"We got you, baby," he murmured into your hair, his voice low and sure. "You’re safe."

"Yeah!" Hank 4 chimed in, softer than usual but still bright. "Like, for real. Why’d he even come back after fumbling a ten outta ten? Peak dumbass behavior."

You let out a shaky breath, the corners of your mouth twitching. "I just feel stupid."

"Hey," Hank 1 said, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. "Nah. Don’t. Don’t ever feel dumb for caring. That’s not weakness, babe! That’s heart. And you’ve got the biggest one in this whole damn house. Fo’ real."

He gave your arms a little squeeze. "Dude was just too mid to handle it."

"Certified goober," Hank 3 muttered, throwing an arm over his eyes like he couldn’t bear to witness the stupidity of it all.

"No, seriously," Hank 2 said, spinning in a short frustrated circle before planting his hands on his hips. "I straight-up can’t even believe the guy. Who fumbles someone like that? You break up with us and I’d like… stop going out Hank gliding, brah."

Hank 4 reeled back, hands in his hair. "Not the Hank-gliding!"

"You know I only glide when I’m at peace, brah," Hank 2 said solemnly, placing a hand over his heart. "That’s sacred."

A wet snort slipped out before you could stop it, and you wiped your eyes with the edge of your towel. "God. You guys are the worst," you mumbled. "But seriously... thanks. I should get dressed."

"You got it, baby!" Hank 1 said, already backing up with a grin.

And just like that, the room broke back into chaos. Foam rollers hit the floor. Someone stubbed their toe on a kettlebell. Hank 3 tripped over Hank 4, who was trying to dive behind the bench like it was cover fire.

"Go! Go! They need pants!" Hank 4 shouted.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help your smile as you slipped past them toward the back of the gym where your actual clothes, mercifully, were still neatly folded on the shelf.

You dropped the towel and stepped into your pants, pulling them up quick. You grabbed a tank top next and pulled it over your head, smoothing it down over your ribs. As you bent to adjust the hem, you heard the soft shuffle of movement behind you.

You turned, instinctively bracing for another Hank being Hank, but stopped short when you saw Hank 5 standing quietly in the doorway. One hand rested against the frame, light and hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to step further in.

"Hey, babe," he said, his voice quiet and easy in that way only he ever managed.

"Hey," you breathed, surprised but not startled. You offered a small smile, a tilt of your head. "Wanna come here?"

He didn’t answer right away, just stepped forward, slow and steady. Like he was checking in with every step, making sure you were still okay with it. You stayed put, arms loose at your sides, breath coming a little too fast for no clear reason.

A few more steps and he was in front of you, a crooked smile tugging at his lips before he leaned in and kissed you.

His hand hovered for a moment, like he was still giving you the chance to say no, then settled gently at your hip. The kiss deepened, slow and unhurried, and when you gasped softly against his mouth, he chuckled, tilting his head to press in a little more.

You hadn’t even realized how tense your shoulders were until they started to drop, your body slowly remembering how to breathe.

When he finally pulled back, it wasn’t far, just enough to speak near your face, his breath still warm against your cheek.

"Thought you might wanna wear this," he murmured, and lifted a familiar jacket between you.

It was his letterman jacket. Green and white, worn at the sleeves, soft in the places where it had been handled a hundred times. The stitched H on the breast was unmistakable, and your stomach did that stupid swoop it always did.

Without saying a word, you stepped into the space between you and let him guide the jacket onto your shoulders. His hands were gentle as he helped you into the sleeves, tugging them down and smoothing the fabric. His fingers hovered for a second longer at the back of your neck, brushing lightly at the edge of your damp hair.

"It looks better on you," he said, barely above a whisper. "No cap."

You huffed out a breath that might’ve been a laugh, the jacket already warm against your skin. "You’re such a dork."

He leaned in again, voice dropping low near your ear, the words brushing over you like static. "Still better than your ex."

You snorted, shaking your head, but the smile that curled your mouth was real this time. "Not exactly a high bar."

His grin curved in reply, but he didn’t press it.

It was already past the time you were supposed to meet your ex, but he hadn’t shown up yet. So instead of waiting around like a chump, you holed up in the gym closet with the Hanks, letting the himbo hive distract you with whatever nonsense they were on about now. 

"You’re wrong," Hank 4 was saying. "Protein powder totally counts as soup."

"It’s not soup!" Hank 2 snapped. "It’s not liquid. It’s dust. You’re drinking wet dust."

"Wet dust in water," Hank 4 argued, throwing his hands up like that settled it. "What the hell do you think soup is, bro? Broth is just seasoned water, brah."

"That’s not—" Hank 2 made a strangled sound and pointed to Hank 3. "Back me up. You meal-prep for us. Is protein powder soup?"

Hank 3 didn’t even bother to open his eyes. He was laid out across your lap like a cat, your fingers moving absently through his hair as his arms curled tighter around your waist. 

"Soup’s a state of mind," he mumbled, voice lazy and content. "’S long as you can chew it, brah."

"You’re not supposed to chew soup!" Hank 2 barked. "If you have to chew it, it’s stew!"

"You’re just scared to think outside the bowl," Hank 4 shot back. "Soup can be thick. Soup can be chunky. Soup can have macros, bro."

Before Hank 2 could explode again, the doorbell rang.

Your chest clenched instantly, and before your brain could catch up, your body had already gone still. Hank 3 stopped drawing absent circles on your thigh. Hank 1 looked up from where he’d been sorting weights, head tilted like he was already listening for movement down the hall. 

You inhaled and slid out from Hank 3’s arms, pushing yourself upright with careful hands as you moved toward the back shelf where you’d stashed his box. 

The worn cardboard felt lighter than it should’ve when you picked it up, like the contents had evaporated into meaninglessness but still managed to drag at your chest all the same. Just a few leftovers: his hoodie, still clinging to that cologne he always overused; the beanie he never washed, soft from wear; socks rolled the way he liked them, even though he probably wouldn’t notice. You’d folded everything too carefully, like maybe if it looked clean and orderly, it wouldn’t sting so much. Like presentation could make any of it easier.

Behind you, the silence stretched like the whole room was holding its breath right alongside you.

Then, after a beat too long, Hank 3 muttered, "…Can we still hit him?"

"No," you said firmly, not slowing your pace as you walked toward the closet door, the box steady in your grip.

"Throw something at him?" Hank 4 asked, hopeful as ever.

"..." You paused. "We’ll talk about it."

"Fuck yeah!" someone whispered, triumphant.

You tugged Hank 5’s jacket a little tighter around your shoulders and turned just enough to flash them a crooked smile. "I’ll see you guys later."

Without saying much, you stepped out of the closet and headed down the stairs. The wooden floor was cool under your bare feet, the letterman jacket heavy around your shoulders. Each step echoed down the hall, louder than it needed to be.

But just before you reached the corner, Dorian stepped clean into your path.

You nearly walked straight into him at the foot of the stairs. "Tryin’ to stop me again?" you muttered, already bracing for whatever speech he had locked and loaded.

He didn’t move. Just looked at you, one brow arched slowly like it was doing all the talking for him.

"Not tryin’, love," he said, dry as old stone. "Just thought I’d head off the trainwreck before it makes it to the bloody doorstep."

You grimaced. "Again. He’s just here to pick up his things. He's been asking for it all week."

"Mm," Dorian hummed, unimpressed. "I liked Dirk’s plan better. Chuck it all on the lawn, let the twat fetch it. Bit of exercise might do him good."

You rolled your eyes, but the box in your arms suddenly felt heavier. "I just want it over with."

His gaze dropped to the box, then up to your face. He let out a slow breath through his nose, then stepped aside.

"You’re stronger than ’im on your worst day, yeah?" he said, voice low, almost a murmur now. "Just don’t let the bastard see you flinch."

You gave a small, wobbly breath and nodded once.

As you walked past, Dorian added. light, but not joking, "I’ll be nearby. Just in case he gets clever. Been dyin’ to see if this umbrella can crack a skull."

You huffed a laugh, and the box in your arms shifted slightly as you adjusted your grip. The doorknob was cold under your fingers. You took one last breath, steadied yourself, and turned it.

The front door opened with a soft creak.

NOTE: suggest characters for the next chapters!