Peace was never an option

You had imagined this moment a hundred different ways. None of them looked like this though. No guards dragging you in. No dark, smoke-filled room. No immediate sense of danger pressing against your throat.

Instead he asked, “Coffee?” The question caught you off guard. You blinked, fingers tightening slightly around your notebook as you looked across the table at him. Min Yoongi, he didn’t look like a man people feared, not at first glance at least. He sat comfortably across from you in a quiet, upscale lounge tucked into the corner of a high-rise building downtown. Soft lighting, low music, the faint clink of glassware in the distance. Nothing about this was normal.

You cleared your throat, forcing yourself to refocus, “I’m fine, thank you.” A small nod. No pressure, “Suit yourself.” His voice was low, calm in a way that made it hard to read. You’d spent months chasing this.

Bangtan.

A name whispered more than spoken. A network that didn’t officially exist but somehow touched everything in business, politics, and crime. Untouchable. Untraceable. And sitting in front of you was their leader. Agreeing to an interview. It didn’t make sense. Which meant there was a reason. You just hadn’t figured it out yet.

“You said you had questions.”, Yoongi said, leaning back slightly in his chair, eyes settling on you with quiet focus, “You should probably ask them.” You swallowed, flipping open your notebook, pen poised even though your pulse had started to pick up. “Your organization.”, you began carefully, “has been connected to multiple…”

“Alleged connections.”, he corrected softly. You paused, “Alleged connections to several high-profile incidents. Care to comment?” A faint flicker of something crossed his face, “Not particularly.” Your lips pressed together. You expected resistance. You could work with resistance. You shifted tactics. “Then why agree to this interview at all if you’re not going to talk?”, you asked, meeting his gaze directly now, “You’ve avoided press for years. Why meet with me?”

For a moment, he didn’t answer. Just watched you. “Y/N I’m a big fan of your work.”, he said finally. Your breath caught just slightly. That wasn’t the answer you expected. “And?”, you prompted. “And you’re different.”, the words landed heavier than they should have. You frowned slightly, “Different how?”

“You don’t write for attention or drama.”, he said, “You write like you’re trying to understand something. Like you care about the story from the beginning not just the outcome.” Your pen stilled. That was accurate. Too accurate. A small shift happened in your chest. You leaned forward slightly, “Understanding requires truth. Something your organization isn’t exactly known for providing.” For a second, you thought you had gone too far but instead of irritation Yoongi smiled. Just enough to change the entire atmosphere between you. “Careful.”, he murmured, “That almost sounded like an accusation without proof.”

“Is it wrong?”, you challenged and for a moment, everything else, the lounge, the quiet music, the city beyond the glass windows, faded into the background. “Tell me.”, he said instead of answering, voice quieter now, “if you find the truth… what are you going to do with it?” The question threw you off. “That’s my job.”, you replied, “I publish it for public knowledge.”

“Even if it puts you in danger?”, he questioned. You felt uneasy but you nodded, “Yes.” Something in his expression shifted again, “You’re either very brave…or very reckless.”

He reached forward, slow, deliberate, and slid something across the table toward you. Your breath caught as you looked down. It was a file that was thin and unmarked. Your fingers hovered over it. “What is this?”, you asked cautiously. “Information.”, he shrugged. Your eyes snapped back up to his, “On Bangtan?” Another faint smile, “On some things you haven’t found yet.”

Your heart started to pound. This was it. A lead. Maybe the big one. Every instinct told you to be careful. Every ambition you had told you to take it. “Why give this to me?”, you asked. Because you knew nothing about this was free. Yoongi leaned back again, watching you with that same quiet intensity. “Because I’m curious.”, he said. Your brows furrowed, “About what?”

“You.”, he answered simply. Your stomach tightened. Your fingers closed around the file before you could second-guess it. This was what you came for. This was the story. You’d handle the rest later. You stood slowly, gathering your things, forcing yourself to stay composed even as something in the air felt different now. “Thank you for your time Mr. Min.”, you said. You turned to leave when you heard his voice, “Be careful with that. You don’t want someone dangerous coming after you.”

You paused. Glanced back over your shoulder. Yoongi hadn’t moved. But his eyes were still on you. “Information like that…”, he continued softly, “has a way of pulling people deeper than they intend.” A small chill ran down your spine, “I can handle myself.” For a second something almost dark flickered behind his gaze. Gone as quickly as it appeared. “I know.”, he said and that didn’t feel reassuring at all. You didn’t notice it at the time. The way this wasn’t just an interview. The way you hadn’t just gotten a lead but you had been chosen.

And as you stepped out into the city, heart still racing from the encounter, already planning your next move, Yoongi remained exactly where he was. Watching the space you left behind. Quiet. Certain. Like a man who had just set something in motion. Something that wouldn’t be easy to stop.

🐦‍⬛

You shouldn’t have come back to him. You knew that. You told yourself that at least six times on the ride over. Told yourself this wasn’t how you worked, that you didn’t meet sources twice without verification, without full control.

But the file…It was real. Every name, every transaction, every quiet connection you’d spent months trying to trace…it was all there. Which meant one thing. Min Yoongi wasn’t bluffing and if he wasn’t bluffing…Then why give it to you so easily?

That question sat heavy in your chest as you stepped into the same lounge as before, the same low lighting, the same quiet hum of a place that didn’t feel like it belonged to the world outside. He was already there. Same seat. Same posture. Same stillness that somehow made everything else feel louder. Your breath caught for just a second before you forced yourself forward. “You came back.”, he said, like it wasn’t a surprise. You slid into the seat across from him, placing your bag down carefully, “I had questions.” A faint shift at the corner of his mouth, “I assumed you would.”

“You gave me verified information on at least three major investigations.”, you said, leaning forward slightly, “Do you understand what that could do if I publish it?” His gaze didn’t waver, “Yes.” Your brows pulled together, “Then why?” There it was again. The question that didn’t have a clean answer. Yoongi watched you for a long moment , long enough that your pulse started to pick up under the weight of it.

Then, quietly he asked, “Did you read all of it?” Your stomach tightened, “yes.” A small tilt of his head, “And?” You hesitated because the truth wasn’t simple. “It doesn’t paint you as…careless.”, you admitted, “Everything is calculated like you knew exactly what you were doing every step of the way.”

Something about the way he looked at you, so calm, so matter-of-fact, sent a subtle chill down your spine. “You’re not worried about exposure?”, you pressed. “No.”, he shrugged, “Because you won’t publish it.” Your breath hitched. “And you’re so sure of that?”, you asked, trying to keep your tone steady. “I am.”, he nodded. Your fingers tightened slightly against the table. Silence hung between you because a part of you wanted to argue and another part, a quieter, more unsettling part wondered why he sounded so certain. You pushed past it. “I don’t work for you.”, you said firmly. He nodded, “I know.”

“I don’t owe you anything.”, you added and he smirked, “I know.” Your frustration spiked, “Then stop acting like you already know what I’m going to do!” Something flickered in his expression again. Not irritation. Not anger. Something…oddly warmer. “Alright.”, he said softly, “Then tell me…If you publish it,” he continued, “what happens next?” You opened your mouth and paused because you knew the answer. Investigations. Arrests. Chaos. Retaliation from people who would all be affected. People getting hurt. Maybe you. Definitely you. Your silence said enough. Yoongi didn’t push. He just watched you reach that conclusion on your own. Your jaw tightened, “That doesn’t change anything.”

“No.”, he agreed, “It just makes it harder.” Your chest felt tight. You hated this. Hated the way he wasn’t forcing you into anything, just laying things out until you had to face them yourself.

“You’re manipulating me.”, you said. He smirked his eyes not leaving yours, “Am I?…is it working?” Damn him. You looked away first. That was your mistake because the second you did the tension shifted. When you looked back he was leaning closer. Your pulse jumped. “Careful Y/N…”,he murmured, voice lower now, “You’re starting to hesitate.” Your heart pounded, “I’m thinking.” He leaned in even closer, “…About me.” It wasn’t a question.

Now there was no ignoring it. No pretending this was just an interview anymore. Something was shifting and you didn’t like how it felt or how much you didn’t want it to stop. And it didn’t happen all at once. If it did you would’ve seen it for what it was and pulled away before it got complicated. Instead it happened in pieces. Small ones. The kind you could justify.

The third time you met him, it wasn’t for an interview. Not officially anyway. You told yourself it was follow-up. Clarification because you needed more context. That was all. But the second you sat across from Yoongi again it didn’t feel like work.

“Eat.”, he said pointing at the plate in front of you. You blinked, glancing down, “I didn’t order…” he cut you off, “I did. I know you left home without eating this morning.” You looked back up at him. It should’ve unsettled you that he knew that. It did but not enough to make you leave. That was the problem.

The fourth time he walked you out of your office. You hadn’t asked him to. He just showed up and did it. Side by side, quiet city air brushing against your skin as the night stretched around you. “You shouldn’t be out this late alone.”, he said. You scoffed lightly, “I’ve been doing this a long time. I can take care of myself.”, you added. “I’m aware.”, the way he said it. It didn’t sound like doubt. It sounded like he’d seen it. Tested it even. Your pulse skipped.

The fifth time…he touched you. Nothing dramatic. Nothing obvious. Just your wrist. Light. Brief. Enough to stop you mid-sentence. You looked down at where his fingers rested against your skin then back up at him.

He didn’t move right away. Didn’t apologize.Didn’t acknowledge it at all. Just watched you like he was waiting but you didn’t pull away.

After that, it got easier. Too easy. You started staying longer. Talking about things that had nothing to do with the article. Laughing at things he said. Forgetting sometimes, who he was supposed to be. The violence he was capable of. You also forgot who you were supposed to be. You told yourself it was strategy. Getting closer. Gaining trust. Getting the real story.

But late at night when you weren’t with him you found yourself thinking about the way his voice softened when he said your name. The way his attention never wavered. The way you felt seen and…safe with him. And that was dangerous. More dangerous than anything in that file. Because you didn’t notice the shift in him. Not right away. Not when he started choosing where you met or when your schedule somehow always aligned with his without you telling him or when he began deciding things for you instead of asking. It was subtle. Wrapped in concern. In care. In something that felt a little too close to affection.

“You trust me.”, he said one evening as you looked out over the water from the pier. The words came out of nowhere, quiet between you as the city lights flickered. You hesitated, “I don’t trust easily.” A small hum, “But you trust me.”, he said again. You looked at him and realized you didn’t have an immediate argument.

Your silence stretched and that was all the answer he needed. Something in his expression softened. Like that confirmation meant more than it should have. “Good.”, he said quietly. Your chest tightened. You didn’t ask why or what he meant. Maybe you should have because by the time you started to feel it, that pull toward him, that warmth, that dangerous comfort, he was already past that point. Already deeper. Already thinking further ahead than you were. Further than you could even imagine.

And somewhere, without you realizing it this stopped being your story and started becoming his. You didn’t mean to end up there. That’s what you told yourself later, over and over again. That it was coincidence. That it wasn’t intentional. But deep down…you knew that wasn’t true.

”I want you to see something.”, Yoongi had said earlier that evening, voice quiet, unreadable as always. You should’ve said no but you didn’t.

The car ride had been silent and when the gates finally opened your breath stopped. The mansion wasn’t just big. It was imposing. Modern architecture carved into the dark, glass and stone reflecting the dim glow of the surrounding lights. It didn’t feel like a home. It felt like a statement. Like power, built into walls.

“You live here?”, you asked, trying to keep your voice steady as you stepped out of the car. Yoongi glanced at you, “Sometimes.” Inside your footsteps echoed faintly as you followed him in, your senses sharpening with every step. “You’re tense.”, he noted. “I’m in an infamously violent mafia leader’s house.”, you shot back, “What did you expect?” A faint flicker of amusement crossed his face, “That’s fair.” The words barely left his lips before you heard it, “You actually brought her HERE?”

Your body stiffened. You turned and suddenly you weren’t just with him anymore. You recognized all of them. Kim Seokjin stood near the staircase, arms crossed, expression unreadable but not hostile. Just assessing. Behind him, leaning casually against the railing was Kim Taehyung. His gaze met yours immediately like you were something interesting he’d just been handed. “Well...”, Taehyung hummed softly, tilting his head, “She’s definitely prettier than I expected.”

Your stomach flipped and your pulse spiked.

This was...Bangtan.

More movement caught your attention. Footsteps and voices and then Park Jimin appeared, soft features masking something much sharper underneath. His eyes landed on you and, unlike the others, there was no hesitation. “So you’re the journalist.”, he said quietly. Your throat tightened.“You’re making her uncomfortable.”, the voice came from behind them. Kim Namjoon stepped into view, eyes already scanning you like he was putting pieces together. “Relax.”, came from another voice. Jung Hoseok appeared with a grin that didn’t quite match the rest. “We’re not going to bite.”, he said, “Unless you give us a reason to.” Your stomach dropped.

“And here I thought we’d learned to be nicer.”, the last voice came from the back of the room. Jeon Jungkook sat sprawled across the couch, phone in hand, barely looking up. “We really have been trying to be more welcoming.”, he said, glancing at you now. Your chest tightened because that wasn’t possible. You hadn’t told anyone where you were tonight. Your gaze snapped to Yoongi.

He didn’t react. Didn’t deny it. Didn’t explain. “You didn’t bring me here just to meet them.”, you said quietly. Finally his attention shifted fully back to you. “No.”, he responded. “Then why am I here?”, you asked. “Because it was time.”, he said simply like it answered everything. You didn’t ask for clarification because suddenly you weren’t sure you wanted the answer.

Dinner that evening was worse. It was too normal and that was the problem. Conversation flowed. Food was served. Glasses clinked. And all of them, all seven men, acted like this wasn’t completely insane. Like you weren’t sitting at a table with the most dangerous men you’d ever researched.

Jin placed food on your plate and encouraged you to eat like it was routine. Hoseok asked you about your work with a smile like he was genuinely interested. Namjoon corrected a detail in one of your articles with accuracy that made your stomach turn because there’s no way the average person would’ve known that. Taehyung watched you more than he spoke. Jimin sat just a little too close for comfort. Jungkook scrolled, while listening to everything anyway. And Yoongi, he barely spoke at all. But you felt him watching you the entire evening.

You didn’t realize how overwhelmed you were until you stood up. “I need some air.”, you muttered. No one stopped you. The hallway was quieter. Your footsteps softer now as you moved, trying to steady your breathing. This was too much. Too fast. Something wasn’t right. As you made your way back down the hallway you heard the voices. You froze.

“…you’re moving too quickly.”, Namjoon spoke. “I’m not.”, Yoongi said. Your heart stuttered. “Attachment changes variables.”, Namjoon continued, “You know that better than anyone.” There was a pause then Yoongi reasoned, “I’ve accounted for it.” Your pulse started to race.

“What’s the end goal here?”, Hoseok asked quietly. Yoongi spoke, “She stays,” he said, voice low, certain, “and she can’t leave.” Your stomach dropped. “That’s not an answer.”, Jimin murmured. Another pause followed and then Yoongi answered, “I’ll give her enough of a reason to stay.” Your breath caught. A soft exhale came from the side. “You’re obsessed with her.”, Taehyung said. The words settled heavy in the room. Yoongi didn’t react at first. Taehyung tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing just a fraction. “..I know.”, Yoongi said.

Everything in you went cold. Silence followed. No one laughed. No one dismissed it. Which meant they were taking it seriously. Which meant so was he. You stumbled back before they could see you. Heart pounding so hard it hurt. No. No, no, no…That wasn’t…He wouldn’t…But the way he said it…The way no one argued…Your chest tightened, panic rising fast and sharp. You had to leave.

You didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t go back. You ran out the door. Past the gates. Into the dark stretch of woods that bordered the property. Branches caught at your clothes as you pushed forward, breath coming in ragged bursts, your mind spinning. You stopped and leaned against a tree trying to catch your breath. You’d been so stupid. So blind. Every moment. Every look. He’d been playing you the entire time. Every touch. It wasn’t just care. It was controlled obsession.

“Y/N you shouldn’t run away at night.”, The voice cut through the dark like a blade. You froze. Slowly you turned. Min Yoongi stood just behind you like he’d known exactly where you’d go. Your chest heaved, “Stay away from me.” A tilt of his head, “I’m guessing you heard.” Your hands shook, “You’re insane.” He stepped closer, “You weren’t supposed to find out like that.” Your stomach twisted violently. “You were going to trap me.”, you said, voice breaking, “You were going to…”

“No I am going to.”, he corrected quietly. You took a step back, “I’m leaving.” He shook his head, “No…no you’re not.” Your pulse spiked, “You don’t get to decide that.” He smirked, “I already did the moment I saw you.” He took another step closer, “You don’t understand yet Y/N.”, he said softly, “This is better for you.”

“You don’t get to decide what’s better for me!”, you shouted feeling your frustration and fear rise. For the first time his expression shifted. It turned to something sharper and darker. “I do.”, he said and before you could react his hand caught your wrist. You struggled, panic surging but it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter how hard you fought. He didn’t even look strained.

“Let me go…”, you cried. “Y/N I can’t,” he shook his head as he began dragging you back through the route you’d already come from, “I won’t let you go…ever.”

The mansion loomed again before you knew it. The doors closing behind you with a final, suffocating weight as he pulled you back inside as your heart pounded and your mind raced and everything finally clicked into place you realized the truth you’d been too blinded to see before.

This was never an interview. Never a story. Never something you were in control of. It was always him. Always what he wanted. And what he wanted was you.

The rules started the next morning. Your door didn’t lock. It didn’t need to because when you tried to leave, there was always someone there. Usually Jimin. Sometimes Jungkook. Once, even Namjoon, quietly reading a tablet in the hallway like your freedom was just another variable he was monitoring.

“You’re not a prisoner.”, Jin had said gently when you snapped one morning. But you’d laughed at that because it was starting to feel like something worse than prison.

You still tried. You weren’t going to just disappear into this. Not into them. Especially not into Min Yoongi. That night, you waited until the house went quiet. You slipped into the office they hadn’t bothered to lock, either arrogance or trust, you weren’t sure anymore, and found what you were looking for.

Your laptop. Your notes. Your half-finished article. Your lifeline. Your hands shook as you connected the device Namjoon had carelessly left behind earlier. A mistake. Or a test. You didn’t care which.

You just needed one thing. To get it out. To get it to your boss. To make sure someone, anyone, knew what was happening here. Your fingers hovered over send. Just one click. That’s all it would take. But when you turned he was already there. Yoongi. Leaning against the frame like he’d been watching for a while.

“How long?”, you whispered. He sighed, “Long enough.” Your heart slammed. “You were letting me try anyway.”, you said slowly, “This whole time.” He nodded, “Yes.” Your stomach dropped, “That’s sick.”

“No.”, he corrected softly, “That’s called trust.” You let out a sharp breath, “You don’t get to call this trust.” He stepped closer to you. “You’re still here.”, he said. You tried to take a step back, “I’m planning my exit.”

“No Y/N.”, he chuckled, “No you’re not.”

“You don’t own me.”, you snapped. “You keep saying that.”, he said softly, “but I don’t think you believe it.” You should’ve moved. You should’ve screamed. You should’ve done anything but stand there and feel the space between you shrink.

“Yoongi you’re not thinking clearly.”, you whispered. He reached for you. His hand caught your wrist gently at first like he was giving you the chance to pull away. You didn’t. His eyes searched yours like he was still giving you time to stop it. You didn’t and when he kissed you it wasn’t a question.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft. It felt like something inside you stopped resisting. Like something you’d been holding together for too long finally cracked. You hated it but you wanted it. When he finally pulled back you were still there. His forehead rested briefly on yours but then he pulled away, “Not yet.”

Just like that the warmth of him disappeared, his hand slipping from your wrist like it had never been there at all. Confusion hit first. “What…”, you started, but your voice faltered. Yoongi watched you carefully, like he was measuring something.

“You should get some rest.”, he said quietly. Like nothing had just happened. Like he hadn’t just kissed you. Your chest tightened, “Th-That’s it?” He nodded, “For now.” Then he turned and walked away and you stood there with your heart racing, thoughts unraveling, something restless clawing at your chest. Because this wasn’t relief. It should’ve been but it wasn’t. It felt like something unfinished Like he’d started something in you and then left it there on purpose.

That night, you didn’t sleep. Every time you closed your eyes, you felt it again, the way he looked at you, the certainty in his voice, the way he stopped. Not because he had to. Because he chose to. Because he knew you would come to him instead.

The next morning felt worse and when you stepped into the kitchen you weren’t alone.

“You look like you didn’t sleep.”

Your head snapped up. Jimin leaned casually against the counter, watching you with that soft, unreadable expression of his. “I’m fine.”, you muttered. He hummed, unconvinced. Jimin pushed off the counter slowly, stepping closer. “You know when Yoongi decides something.”, he said quietly, “he doesn’t change his mind.” Your pulse quickened. “Well…I’m not something he gets to decide.”, you snapped. Jimin smiled faintly, “That’s where you’re wrong. You think this just…happened?”, he continued, “That you found him? That the interview was your choice? Y/N…He found you first.”

Your breath caught, “what?” Jimin’s eyes stayed on yours, “You were already on his radar before you even knew Bangtan was real.”, he said, “Your articles. The way you dig. The questions you ask. The pictures of you circulating the press.” Your chest tightened. “He likes things that challenge him. Who do you think has been protecting you all these years?”, Jimin added, “Y/N you weren’t an accident. He’s…he’s wanted you for a long time.”

Everything in you went still. “You should stop fighting it.”, he said, voice gentler now, “It’ll be easier for you.” You let out a shaky breath, “You’re telling me to just…let him have his way?” Jimin stepped closer again. “I’m telling you.”, he said quietly, “that you’re already halfway there.”

You avoided Yoongi after that. At least you tried to but avoidance didn’t mean distance. Not in this house because no matter where you went you felt him.

Later that day you found the study dimly lit, quiet except for the soft rustle of paper. Namjoon looked up when you entered. “You shouldn’t be here.”, he said calmly. Namjoon set the papers down slowly, “You should leave.” Your head snapped up, “What?” He held your gaze. “You should leave.”, he repeated. “You’re worried.”, you said slowly. He took a moment then nodded, “Yes…For all of us. He doesn’t do this.”, Namjoon continued, “He doesn’t normally…fixate on things…especially people.” You scoffed, “You’re talking about me like I’m a problem.”

“You are.”, he said simply. That stung more than you expected. “Whether you want to be or not. He’s already changing things.”, Namjoon added, “Adjusting plans. Taking risks he wouldn’t normally take and if that continues…”, he said quietly, “it won’t just affect him.”

Your breath slowed, “What are you saying?”Namjoon didn’t look away. “I’m saying.”, he replied, “you need to decide what you are to him because if you’re nothing.”, he continued, “you need to leave before you become something that takes him down.”

“And if I already am something?”, you asked. Namjoon didn’t hesitate, “Then it’s already too late.” That should’ve been it. That should’ve been the moment you pushed away. Ran. Fought harder but instead you found yourself standing outside his door. Breathing uneven.

Heart racing. Your hand hovered then knocked.“Come in.”, his voice came muffled from behind the door. He didn’t look surprised when you stepped inside. “You did that on purpose.”, you said, voice quieter now, “Last night.” His gaze didn’t waver. “You wanted me to.”, you started but he cut you off, “Come to me,” he finished for you, “And you did.” Your heart pounded. “I hate that you’re right.”, you whispered. Something in his expression softened. Just slightly and this time when he reached for you he didn’t hesitate.

The mansion, which had once seemed like a cold architectural marvel, was starting to feel like a living organism, one that was reshaping itself around your presence. You found the first sign of it on your bed. A box, wrapped in heavy cream-colored paper. Inside was a silk dress in a deep emerald green. Your breath hitched. It was the exact dress you had mentioned liking in a social media post from six years ago, a post buried under thousands of words and photos of your life. You shoved the box aside, a cold shiver racing down your spine. They weren't just watching you now. They had backtracked through the ghost of your entire life.

In the hallway, you nearly collided with Jin. He looked impeccable, the sunlight from the arched windows catching the sharp line of his shoulders. He simply tilted his head, eyes sweeping over you with an unnerving, brotherly warmth. "The emerald will suit you.”, Jin said, his voice smooth. It’ll look better on you than it did in the shop window. Dinner is at seven, Y/N. Don't be late. Yoongi hates cold food and wasted time."

"I didn't ask for a dress.”, you snapped, your voice trembling. “You didn't have to.”, Jin replied, his smile widening just a fraction, “We know what you need before you do. It’s better that way." Seeking an exit, you retreated toward the sunroom, hoping for a breath of air. Instead, you found Hoseok. He was hunched over a stack of papers, a phone buzzing beside him. When he looked up, the "Sunshine" persona you’d seen at dinner flickered and died. His expression went flat, his eyes turning into two polished stones.

"You're the talk of the house, Y/N.”, Hoseok said. The cheerfulness was gone, replaced by a low, rhythmic cadence that sounded like a warning, “Just a word of advice…don't confuse Yoongi's patience for a lack of resolve. He’s letting you wander because he likes the chase." He stood up, walking toward you until he was inches away, “If you try to run again, I’m the one he sends to bring you back and I promise you…”, he leaned in, his voice a lethal whisper, "I am much less gentle than he is. Don't make me have to be the bad guy."

You backed away, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You turned a corner, looking for a way to the gardens, but ended up in a room lined with monitors. Jungkook sat there, bathed in the blue light of the screens. He didn't jump when you entered. He didn't even look away from the monitors. “You have a habit of biting your lip when you're thinking.”, he noted. You froze. On the center screen, a high-definition feed showed you standing exactly where you were, looking at him. Other screens showed you sleeping at 3:00 AM, pacing your room, even the moments you had been sure were private. “It's cute.”, Jungkook continued, finally turning his chair. His youth was a mask for the cold efficiency in his eyes, “But there are thirty-two cameras on this floor alone. Motion sensors in the woods. Biometrics on the gates. There is no 'out,' Y/N. There’s just here. You might as well get comfortable."

By the time you reached Yoongi’s office, you weren't just angry you were vibrating with a sense of profound violation. The air in the room was thick with the scent of sandalwood and whiskey. Yoongi was behind his desk, the light of a single lamp casting half his face in shadow.

"Is this what you do?", your voice cracked, slicing through the silence, “You find something you think is beautiful and you put it in a cage until it forgets how to fly?" Yoongi didn't look up from his ledger. He turned a page slowly, his movements deliberate, “I’m not keeping you in a cage, Y/N. I’m building you a fortress."

"A fortress has the guns pointed out.”, you spat, “Yours are pointed at me."

"The world out there is loud…messy, and dangerous.”, he said, finally closing the book. He stood up, the movement fluid and predatory, “People would kill for what’s in that brain of yours. Your editors would sell you out for a headline. Your 'sources' would silence you the moment you became a liability if it wasn’t for me. Here...here, you’re the only thing that matters. My only priority. My precious…little…bird.”

"You're talking about protection, but this feels like a life sentence.”, you said, backing up as he rounded the desk, “You've stripped away my life. My job, my friends, my identity."

"I didn't strip it away. I replaced it with something permanent.", he kept coming, his gaze heavy and dark, pinning you in place, “You spent your life chasing stories that end in a week. I'm giving you a story that never has to end."

You hit the glass of the window, the coldness of it pressing against your back. Yoongi stopped inches away, his presence overwhelming. “And what if I don't want to be a character in your story?", you whispered, your breath hitching. "Stop looking at the door, Y/N," he murmured, leaning in until his forehead almost touched yours. “You’re a monster.”, you choked out, even as your heart betrayed you, leaping at his proximity.

Yoongi’s hand came up, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with terrifying tenderness. He leaned into your ear, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that made your knees weak. “Maybe. But I'm the monster that’s keeping you alive and I'm the only one who knows exactly how you like your coffee in the morning. I'm the only one who knows you cry when you're frustrated but refuse to let anyone see it.", he pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, “Does a monster care if you're well-rested? Does a monster care if you ate or when your head hurts? Does a monster notice the way your pulse jumps when I touch you like this?"

He didn't wait for an answer. He didn't have to. The silence in the room was the loudest thing you’d ever heard, a heavy, suffocating blanket that told you the truth. The journalist in you was dead. The prisoner was waking up. And the terrifying part was how much she wanted to stay.

Outside these walls, you had a deadline. You had a landlord, a best friend who came over every Sunday, and a desk at the newsroom littered with half-empty energy drinks.

Someone had to be looking for you. You were a high-profile investigative journalist. You didn't just drop off the face of the earth without a notice.

You found Taehyung in the gallery on the second floor, staring at a canvas of swirling oils. He didn't turn when you approached, but his voice drifted toward you, smooth and haunting. "You’re thinking about the world outside.”, he said. It wasn't a question. “My editor.”, you began, your voice sounding thin even to your own ears, “My family. My friends. The police. You can't just erase a person, Taehyung. I know people are looking for me." Taehyung finally turned. He looked at you with a sort of tragic pity, the kind one might give a bird hitting its head against a window. He reached into his silk pocket and pulled out a phone, your phone.

"That’s been taken care of.”, he said simply. He tapped the screen and held it out. You saw your own social media feed. A post from two days ago, long after you’d been brought here, stating you were taking an indefinite sabbatical to travel and deal with "personal burnout." There were emails sent from your official account to your boss, resigning with a level of professional detail that only you could have written. Even a text to your friend, mentioning a last-minute flight to a remote retreat unsure of when or if you’ll be back.

"I didn't write those.”, you whispered, your blood turning to ice, “How…who wrote those?" Taehyung tilted his head, a dark, enigmatic smile playing on his lips, “We have people who specialize in nuances, Y/N. Your tone, your syntax, your common typos. To the rest of the world, you aren't missing. You’re just…gone…by your own choice.”

"You killed me.”, you breathed, “Without even shedding blood, you killed my life."

"No.”, Taehyung corrected, stepping closer to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His touch was light, but it felt hot like a brand, “We just cleared the noise so you could focus on what’s important. Yoongi is waiting for you in the dining room. Don't keep him waiting too long and wear the green dress. He’s been…restless." He didn't elaborate on what "restless" meant, but as he walked away, you felt the weight of his words. You weren't a missing person. You were a ghost of your former self.

🐦‍⬛

After that, Yoongi’s obsession was no longer a subtle undercurrent. It had become the atmosphere of the house itself. He no longer spent his nights in the office. He spent them in the doorway of your room, watching you sleep. He didn't ask if you wanted to join him for lunch. He simply took your hand and led you there, his grip possessive and unyielding.

One evening, the weight of it all, the digital erasure of your life, the constant surveillance, the suffocating proximity boiled over. You were in the library, and Yoongi was seated on the couch, a book forgotten in his lap as he simply tracked your movements across the room. "Stop it!", you shrieked, the sound echoing off the high ceilings. "Stop looking at me like I'm your prey to catch!"

Yoongi didn't flinch. He stood up slowly. “I want to go home.”, you sobbed, the fight suddenly draining out of you as you slumped against a bookshelf, “I want my messy little apartment. I want my boring life. I want to be a person again." He was in front of you in an instant. He didn't just grab you. He did something worse. He wrapped his arms around you in a hold so steady, so grounded and warm, that your body instinctively sagged into him.

"You were never just a person to me.”, he murmured into your hair, “You were the only one who saw through the smoke. You’re the only one who actually knows me." This was the torture, the duality of him. He was the man who had stolen your freedom, the criminal leader who had systematically deleted your existence from the outside world. But he was also the only man who had ever looked at you and seen the entirety of your soul.

Your hands came up, hovering between his chest and the air. You wanted to shove him away, to claw at his face and run until your lungs burst. But as his heart beat against yours, steady, calm, certain, your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt instead.

"I hate you.”, you whispered into his chest as you breathed in the scent of his skin. “I know.”, he replied, his arms tightening around you, pulling you so close there was no room for air, let alone escape, “But you’re still mine."

You hated that he was right. You were terrified of the abyss he represented, but in this strange, gilded prison, he had become your only anchor. You were caught in a horrific loop: the more he took from you, the more he became the only thing you had left.

"Look at me.”, he commanded softly. You lifted your head, eyes blurred with tears. Yoongi’s expression wasn't cold anymore. It was burning, a quiet, obsessive fire that promised to consume both of you.

"You can try to run.”, he said, his thumb brushing over your lower lip, “You can fight me, you can scream, you can hate me until it’s the only thing you feel. But at the end of every day, you will be here…With me. Because I have spent my entire life building a world that no one can touch and I built the center of it just for you."

He leaned down, his lips ghosting over yours and for a split second, you didn't feel like a prisoner. You felt like a queen in a kingdom of shadows and that was the most dangerous truth of all.

This time the kiss didn’t feel like a question anymore. It felt like an inevitability. Like every conversation, every look, and every carefully placed moment had been a funnel, narrowing the distance between you until there was nowhere left to go but forward… or under. Your hands pressed weakly against his chest, a reflex, a dying reminder that you should resist. But he didn’t rush you. Yoongi didn’t just take, he waited. His lips barely brushed yours, his breath warm and steady, as if he already knew the outcome. He knew you better than you knew yourself.

“Tell me to stop.”, he murmured against your mouth. You opened your lips to do just that, but nothing came out. Only a quiet, broken sound not a protest, but an invitation.

That was all it took. His hand slid up your neck, fingers threading through your hair to anchor you. The kiss deepened not frantic or messy, but controlled. Possessive. Your breath caught, fingers tightening in the fabric of his shirt as something inside you unraveled. You weren't cracking or wavering anymore. You were breaking.

“You’re shaking.”, Yoongi murmured. His voice was quieter now, but no less certain. “I should be.”, you whispered. His gaze softened, but the unwavering intent underneath didn't budge, “You’re still here.”You hated how much that mattered. You hated that he was right. When your silence stretched too long, his fingers brushed your cheek, slow and almost gentle.

“Do you understand what that means?”, he asked. Your brows pulled together, “That I made a mistake?” A faint, amused exhale escaped him, “No.” His thumb dragged across your lower lip, his eyes following the movement as if he were marking territory, “It means you’ve already chosen me.”

“That’s not…”, you started but he cut you off, “It is.” Not harsh, not loud. Just final, “You can keep fighting it if you want, but your body doesn’t lie to me.” He stepped closer, backing you up until you hit the edge of the desk. Trapped by the sheer weight of him.

“Yoongi…”

His hand slid to your waist to steady you. He didn't wait for permission this time. He simply decided you needed him. “Y/N you feel it too.”, he said. It wasn't a question. Then something in his mind finally clicked into place. His hand moved from your waist, traveling with agonizing slowness until it rested low against your stomach. Your eyes snapped to his. The air in the room felt pulled from your lungs, “Yoongi…?”

“You don’t understand yet.”, he murmured, his thumb tracing slow, absent circles against the fabric of your clothes. It was the touch of someone imagining a future that hadn't happened yet but one he had already decided was inevitable.

“Understand what?”, you questioned. “When I decide something.”, he said, his voice dropping into a low, steady register, “I don’t do it halfway. I don’t bring people into my life unless they’re staying.” You shook your head, “I didn’t agree to stay.”

“You did. You just don’t want to admit it yet.”, his hand pressed firmer against your stomach. “You seem to think this is temporary.”, he said softly, “You think eventually you’ll leave, go back to your life, write your story but that’s not how this ends.”

“Then how does it end?”, you whispered. He looked at you and the obsession in his eyes had been replaced by a terrifying certainty. “You stay.”, he said simply, “Here…with me…forever.”

“That’s not an ending.”, you said. “For you…it is. For us…it’s a beginning.”, he smiled. The realization hit you in waves, cold and heavy. He leaned in, his lips brushing your temple, “I’ve spent my life building a legacy that no one can take from me. Now, I’m building something that’s mine in a different way.”

“This isn’t love.”, you whispered, your voice barely holding together. He stilled for a second, his grip tightening, “Maybe not…yet, But it’s real.” You were still standing in his arms, breathing him in, letting him close even as he laid out the blueprints for your captivity.

His hand lifted from your stomach, but the implication remained, heavy and unspoken. He was a patient man. He had a plan, and he could wait for you to realize there was no world left outside of him. Fingers tilted your chin up, he caught your gaze one last time. “For now.”, he added softly, “I’ll let you catch up.” You eyed him, “Catch up to what?” A faint, knowing look crossed his face, “To the fact that you’re already mine…you’ve always been mine…even when you didn’t know it.” You didn’t argue. The worst part wasn't that he believed it, it was that, deep down, you were starting to believe it, too.

🐦‍⬛

The silence of your bedroom was no longer a comfort. You were staring at the ceiling, the ghost of his hand still heavy against your stomach. Every time you closed your eyes, you heard the finality in his voice. It was a terrifying thought, yet it hummed through your veins. He hadn't just made a claim. He had rewritten the air you breathed.

You threw back the covers. Your bare feet were silent on the cold floor as you walked down the hallway. You didn't knock. You didn't have to. When you pushed open the door to his suite, the room was bathed in the low, amber glow of a single lamp. Yoongi wasn't sleeping. He was sitting up in bed, a book discarded on the nightstand, his back against the headboard as if he’d been counting your footsteps from the moment you left your room.

He didn't look surprised. He looked satisfied. “You're late.”, he murmured, his voice a low grate that skipped down your spine. “I couldn't sleep.”, you said, your voice sounding small in the vastness of his space. You stayed by the door, your heart hammering against your ribs, “I kept thinking about what you said. About... everything."

Yoongi tracked you with his eyes, dark, predatory, and entirely unblinking. He shifted, pulling the duvet back in a silent invitation, “Come here." It wasn't a request. It was the natural conclusion to the path he had set you on. You moved toward the bed, every step feeling like a deliberate surrender of your will. When you reached the edge, he reached out, his hand wrapping around your wrist. His skin was burning hot compared to the chill of the hallway.

With a single, firm tug, he pulled you onto the mattress. You tumbled against him, the scent of expensive shampoo and something soft filling your senses. "You knew I’d come.”, you whispered, your face inches from his. “I told you.”, he said, his fingers trailing from your wrist up to your shoulder, his touch possessive and heavy, “Your body doesn't lie. You've been fighting a war that was over before the first shot was fired." He adjusted himself, pulling you flush against his side so that your head rested on his chest. You could feel the steady, terrifyingly calm thud of his heart. It wasn't racing like yours. His arm draped over you, his hand sliding down to rest once more over your stomach, the same spot as before. It felt like a seal. A promise.

"Is this it, then?", you asked, your voice trembling, “Am I just...yours now?" Yoongi leaned down, his lips brushing your ear, his breath a warm, haunting caress. “Like I said, you were always mine.”, he whispered, “Tonight is just the night you stopped pretending you had a choice. Sleep now Y/N. When you wake up, your world will be much smaller. Just this room. Just this bed. Just me."

He tightened his hold, anchoring you to him with a finality that left no room for escape. And as the darkness of the room swallowed you both, the most frightening part wasn't his obsession with you. It was the way you finally felt calm, pinned beneath the weight of his shadow.

🐦‍⬛

Moving forward Yoongi’s hand always found you in some way, your wrist, your waist, the small of your back, but lately…it lingered lower. Rested there. Like it belonged there at your stomach.

The first time you noticed it, you told yourself it didn’t mean anything. You were overthinking. You had been doing that a lot lately but then it kept happening. When he pulled you into him, his palm settled there without hesitation. When you got too quiet, too lost in your own head, he grounded you the same way, slow, steady pressure like he was reminding you to breathe. Like he was reminding himself of something.

You tried to ignore it. You tried to ignore the other things too. “You need to eat.”, he encouraged with the plate was already in front of you. “I’m not hungry…”, you tried but he cut you off, “You are.” His tone wasn’t harsh. You still picked up the fork. It kept going like that. Your coffee tasted different one morning. You frowned after the first sip, glancing down at it. “I made it how you like it.”, Yoongi said from across the room without looking up, “It’s just decaf. You need less caffeine.” Later, when you reached for a glass of wine at dinner, his hand closed around yours before you could lift it. “Have water instead.”, he murmured. You blinked, “Since when do you care so much about what I drink?” His gaze lifted then, “Since I decided I do.”

That was how he did it. Until you weren’t meant to hear it.

“…you’re adjusting too many variables at once.”, Namjoon’s voice said from the other room. “I’m not.”, Yoongi responded with an annoyed sigh. “You’re not giving her time to question it.”, Namjoon continued, “That’s what’s going to make her notice something is off.”

“She already is.”, Yoongi replied. Another voice this time, Jimin, quieter, “And if she figures it out?” Yoongi didn’t hesitate, “Good. I want her to.” Something cold slid down your spine. “That doesn’t worry you?”, Hoseok asked. Your chest tightened. “No because by the time she does…”, Yoongi continued, voice softer now, but somehow heavier, “it won’t matter anyway.”

The pieces started to fall into place. His hand on your stomach. The food. The control. The quiet insistence. The coffee. The wine. The way he watched you not just now, but like he was waiting for something. For you to realize. Your breathing turned shallow. No, that wasn’t…

Your stomach twisted, your hand instinctively pressing like you could feel something that wasn’t there…not yet at least. Or…

A sharp knock startled your thoughts.

“Y/N.”

You flinched. Yoongi stood in front of you now. Closer than he should’ve been. Closer than you realized he’d gotten. Your pulse spiked. “You’re stressing too much again.”, he said softly. You shook your head, stepping back, “What did you do?” His expression didn’t change, “What do you mean?” His hand lifted, hesitated for just a fraction of a second, then settled exactly where it always did. Your stomach.

For a moment, he just looked at you. Then, softer than you expected, “I’m taking care of you.” Your chest tightened painfully, “That’s not what this is.” A faint exhale left him, almost like disappointment, “You don’t understand yet.” Your head shook, faster now. His thumb moved, slow, absent, tracing a pattern against you like he had all the time in the world. Like this was already decided. “You always figure things out eventually.”, he murmured, “That’s why I chose you.” Your heart pounded so hard it hurt.

The next morning the mug barely touched your lips before it was gone. You blinked. Jimin stood beside you, turning the cup slightly in his hand, like he was inspecting it. “That’s not the decaf you’ve been drinking lately.”, he said softly after taking a sip. “I know what coffee it is, Jimin.”, your patience snapped thin, “Give it back to me.”

His gaze flicked up to yours then, “You should be more careful with what you put in your body.” Jimin set the mug down on the counter, out of your reach, “Yoongi doesn’t do things halfway. He wants a future with you Y/N.” Your jaw tightened, “That’s not news. He made that clear from the start.” A small, almost sympathetic smile touched his lips, “You don’t have to agree to anything he does. If anything…that just makes him want it more.”

🐦‍⬛

Weeks passed and Yoongi didn’t come around for the first time since you arrived. At first, it felt like relief. You could breathe without feeling watched by him. Move without that constant weight at your back. Think without his voice quietly unraveling every decision you tried to make.

But the house felt…wrong. Like something important had been removed and nothing had replaced it. You found yourself noticing things you hadn’t before. The way dinner felt longer without his hand reaching for yours underneath the table. The way no one filled the silence the same way he did.The way your thoughts drifted to him.

“He’s on a business trip.”, Jungkook said. You stood in the doorway of the monitoring room, arms crossed tight over your chest. Jungkook didn’t look away from the screens. “For how long?”, you asked. He shrugged, “He’ll be back soon.”

The night he finally came back, you didn’t hear the car. You felt it. A shift in the house. Quick movements. Strained voices. Your heart raced before you could stop it. You told yourself it didn’t matter. That you didn’t care. Your feet moved anyway.

You saw the blood first. Dark. Stark against the polished floor. Your breath caught. Clothes were discarded in a pile. You followed the trail of blood. The door was half open. “Hold still.”, came Jin’s voice. You pushed the door open fully and froze. Yoongi sat shirtless in a chair, head tilted slightly forward, blood smeared across his skin, down his side, dripping onto the floor beneath him. Jin worked quickly, stitching a large wound just below his ribs like this was routine. Like this was normal.

Your stomach twisted violently, “Yoongi…” His head lifted and when his eyes found yours everything in your chest broke. Not fear or anger but relief. You didn’t think. You just moved. Your voice broke as you rushed forward, the world narrowing down to him, blood, too much blood to be okay. Up close, it was worse. His skin was pale under the dim light, a sheen of sweat clinging to him, jaw tight like he was holding himself together through sheer will. He didn’t look untouchable. He looked human.

“Careful Y/N.”, Jin muttered, not looking up as he worked, needle flashing under the light, “You’ll make this harder than it already is.” You barely heard him. “Yoongi…”, you whispered again, softer this time, like saying his name too loud might hurt him further

“Didn’t expect that reaction.”, Namjoon’s voice came from behind you, quieter, edged with something like surprise. Taehyung, leaned lazily against the wall and let out a soft hum. “I did.”, he said, a smirk pulling at his lips, eyes never leaving you. You ignored them. You couldn’t focus on anything but the way Yoongi’s breathing hitched, just slightly as Jin pulled the thread tight.

Your hand moved before you could stop it. You grabbed his. Warm. Slick. Blood-soaked. Your fingers tightened around his instinctively. His reaction was immediate. His hand closed around yours. His eyes flickered, just for a second, something softer breaking through the pain. “Stay still.”, Jin warned, sharper now.

Yoongi didn’t look away from you. Didn’t let go. It took longer than you expected. Every second stretching thin, taut with tension as Jin worked in silence, stitching him back together. By the time it was done, your fingers were still laced with his. You hadn’t even noticed.

“Done.”, Jin said finally, leaning back, “Try not to tear it open.” A dry exhale left Yoongi, but his grip on you didn’t loosen. Not even a little. “I’ll help him.”, the words left your mouth before anyone could offer. You felt it…everyone noticing and judging.

The bathroom filled with steam quickly, warm air curling around you as you guided him under the water. You expected resistance. You didn’t get any. Yoongi let you help him. Let you steady him. Let you touch him like this, careful, hesitant, your hands hovering before committing, like you were afraid he might break under them. You kept your movements light and gentle.

Avoiding the bandaged wound, your focus sharp, controlled, anything to ignore the way your chest tightened every time he winced. “Does it hurt?”, you asked quietly as you ran the cloth over a deep purple bruise. He smiled, “Not when you’re the one doing it.” You stilled for a second before continuing.

By the time you got him back to his room, exhaustion clung to him in a way you’d never seen before. You hesitated at the edge of the bed. His hand caught yours. Not forceful but firm enough to stop you, “Stay with me.” A faint, tired exhale left him, something softer than you’d ever heard before. “You won’t hurt me.”, he said quietly, “You’ll only make it better.” You hesitated again. His fingers tightened just slightly around yours, drawing you closer, “Come here.”

Slowly and carefully you climbed into the bed beside him. You kept space between you. At least you tried to but Yoongi closed it instantly. His arm wrapped around you, pulling you in against his side with a pained grunt, anchoring you there like it was the most natural thing in the world. His hand slid over you, settling like it always did. His grip tightened just slightly, his head dipping closer, his voice quieter now, roughened by exhaustion. Your fingers curled lightly into his shirt, careful of the bandages, your heart beating too fast for how still you were.

You should pull away. You should say something. You didn’t. Because for the first time since he brought you here you weren’t thinking about leaving. And that scared you more than anything else.

🐦‍⬛

Over the following weeks you did your best to help Yoongi heal. Bringing him coffee in the mornings, more blankets and pillows at his request, sometimes he simply wanted you to just lay down next to him.

On this afternoon you stood at the stove, stirring slowly, the soft sound of simmering filling the space. It felt…normal. Domestic in a way that didn’t belong in this house. You told yourself that’s all it was. Something to do. Something to keep your hands busy so your mind didn’t drift back to him.

It had been easier lately or maybe you’d just gotten used to it. The rhythm. The presence. The way Yoongi existed around you like something constant.

“You’re getting better at this.”, a voice said from behind you. Your hand stilled slightly. Jimin entered into the room. Leaning casually against the counter, watching you with that soft, knowing look that always felt like it saw a little too much.

“It’s just soup.”, you muttered, not looking at him. “Mmmhmm.”, he hummed, pushing off the counter slowly, stepping closer, “but you didn’t used to cook for him.” You shrugged lightly, “He’s injured and…people change.”

“Do they?”, he asked quietly. You finally glanced at him and that was your mistake. Because he was close now. His gaze flickered over your face, slower than it should have. “Y/N you look different lately.”, he added, voice softer now. Your pulse picked up slightly, “Different how?” A small smile tugged at his lips, “Softer…sweeter.” Your grip tightened slightly around the spoon, “You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?”, he tilted his head, stepping just a little closer letting his hand barely touch your waist, “Or are you just getting comfortable here?”

“Get the fuck away from her.”, Yoongi’s voice broke through the air. Both of you stilled. He stood in the doorway. His gaze wasn’t on you. It was on Jimin.

Jimin didn’t move away right away. Yoongi stepped forward. Dangerous in a way that didn’t need volume to be felt. “Relax.”, Jimin shrugged, glancing at you briefly before looking back at Yoongi, “I was just talking to her.” You stepped in before it could escalate. “Stop it.”, you said quickly, setting the spoon down. Yoongi’s eyes shifted to you. The anger didn’t disappear. It focused. “What else did he say?”, he asked. You panicked, “It doesn’t matter.” Yoongi scoffed, “It does to me.” Behind you, Jimin let out a quiet exhale, “You’re overreacting. You’re too obsessed with her.”

That did it. Yoongi moved. Fast. The chair scraped violently against the floor as he shoved past it, crossing the space in two strides. Jimin straightened, but didn’t step back. Not until Yoongi grabbed him and held him up by his shirt collar.

“Yoongi!”, you rushed forward as the tension snapped completely, hands grabbing at his arm, trying to pull him back, “Stop!” It wasn’t a full fight. Not yet but it was close. “Get out.”, Yoongi said. Jimin held his gaze for a second longer then he smirked and stepped back towards the door, “Careful boss...”, he murmured, glancing at you one last time, “You’re going to scare her off with your violence.”

You followed Yoongi to the bedroom. The door slammed. You barely had time to turn before he was already pacing, running a hand through his hair, breathing uneven not out of exhaustion but out of restraint.

“Yoongi…”, you started but he cut you off. He held up a hand, “Don’t.” You froze. He turned on you then, eyes sharp, dark, something volatile sitting just beneath the surface, “Don’t tell me it was nothing.”, he snapped, “I saw him touch you.”

“It was nothing.”, you shot back, heart racing now, “You are overreacting.” A bitter laugh left him. “Overreacting?”, he repeated, stepping closer, “He was flirting with you…touching you!”

“So what?”, you challenged, even though your heart was beating way too fast, “I can handle myself.” He shook his head, “That’s not the point…You don’t belong to him.”

“I don’t belong to anyone.”, you said, quieter now but it didn’t come out as strong as you wanted it to. His expression shifted. He turned away suddenly, grabbing something off the dresser then throwing it. It shattered against the wall. You flinched, “Yoongi, stop!”

“I should go find him.”, he muttered, already moving again, already heading for the door, “I should make sure he understands…”

“No.”, you said firmly. You moved before you could think. Your hand caught his wrist. He stopped not because you were stronger but because it was you. “Don’t.”, you said, softer now, breath uneven, “You’re going to make this worse. Don’t let him win.”, you added quickly. That made him pause. Just slightly. Your grip tightened. “You’re better than this.”, you said, stepping closer, your voice dropping, “Don’t prove him right.”

His eyes dropped to your hand on him. Then back to your face. You didn’t think. You leaned in and kissed him. It worked immediately. The anger didn’t disappear but it redirected. His hand came up fast, gripping your jaw, pulling you closer as the kiss deepened, rougher than before, edged with everything he hadn’t let out.

Your breath caught, fingers curling into his shirt as you held onto him, steadying him or maybe steadying yourself. But you weren’t pulling away. Not this time. Not when he stepped forward. Not when you stepped back. Not when your back hit the wall.

“Say it again.”, he murmured against your lips. Your mind spun, What?”

“That you don’t belong to anyone.”, his voice went low. His hand slid down, your waist, your hip, then lower. Resting there like it always did. “You don’t believe that.”, he said quietly. You swallowed. His forehead pressed lightly to yours. “Tell me you don’t want this,” he whispered.

Instead of answering, your hands moved. Your fingers shouldn’t have been shaking, but they were trembling with a frantic, electric energy as you fumbled with the heavy metal of his belt. The click of the buckle unlocking was deafening in the quiet of the room, a sharp, metallic punctuation mark at the end of your hesitation.

Yoongi didn't help you. He didn't move a muscle. He simply stood there, a predator allowing the prey to decide exactly how the hunt would begin. His dark eyes tracked every micro-movement of your hands, heavy with a hunger that made the air in the room feel thick, like you were breathing in heat.

“Y/N…”

Your name wasn't a question. It was a warning. It came out of his throat like crushed velvet and gravel, raw and dangerously low. You swallowed hard, your knuckles brushing the firm heat of his lower stomach. You didn't look away. “Don’t stop me.”, you breathed. That was the spark he was looking for. His hand lashed out, fingers tangling deep into the hair at the nape of your neck with a bruising grip. He jerked your head back, forcing your throat to arch, exposing the pulse jumping frantically beneath your skin.

“You think this is you taking control?”, he murmured, his face inches from yours, his breath smelling of dark coffee and something uniquely him, “You think you’re the one making a choice here?” Your body instinctively arched toward his.

A low, guttural sound vibrated in his chest, a growl of pure, unadulterated want. The kiss wasn't a meeting of lips. It was a collision. It was a violent reclaiming of territory. He stayed true to his word and there was no holding back. His tongue invaded your mouth with a possessive rhythm, tasting of desperation and years of suppressed need. His other hand found the small of your back, crushing you against him until you could feel the hard, unmistakable ridge of his arousal pressing into your thigh.

You let out a broken moan, your fingers clawing at the fabric of his shirt, desperate to get closer, to bridge the impossible gap between your skin and his. He tore his mouth away, trailing wet, biting kisses down the line of your jaw to the sensitive dip of your collarbone. “You don’t get to start something like this.”, he ground out against your skin, his teeth grazing your pulse point, “and expect me to be gentle. I’m going to ruin you for anyone else. You understand me?”

“I’m not asking for gentle.”, you choked out, your head falling back as his hand slid beneath your clothes, his palm searingly hot against your bare skin. He didn't waste another second. In one fluid, powerful motion, he hoisted you up. Your legs instinctively locked around his waist, the friction of your bodies sending a jolt of pure fire through your core. He slammed you back against the bed.

His hands were everywhere mapping you, claiming you, stripping away the last barriers of fabric with a frantic, focused intensity. When his hand finally slid between your thighs, finding you slick and aching for him, your breath hitched into a high, thin silver of a sound.

“Look at me.”, he commanded, his voice a rough vibration against your ear. You opened your eyes, blurred with heat, to find him watching you with a terrifying level of certainty. He looked like a man who had finally found the one thing he was allowed to destroy.

“You feel that?”, he whispered, his fist guiding him to you, moving with a slow, agonizing pressure that made your hips buck involuntarily, “That’s me. That’s all you’re ever going to feel.” He didn't wait for an answer. He took what you offered with a raw, primal hunger that left you shattered.

The rhythm between you had shifted from a controlled burn to a total inferno, the air in the room charged with the scent of salt and exertion. Yoongi’s composure, usually his greatest weapon, was fraying at the edges. Every time your hips arched to meet him, he let out a sound that was less like a man and more like a starving animal finally being fed.

He was deep inside you now, his forehead pressed against yours, sweat dripping from his chin onto your chest. His movements were no longer calculated. They were frantic, driven by a primal desperation that seemed to surprise even him. His hands, once possessive and firm, were now clutching at you as if he were drowning and you were the only thing keeping him afloat.

"Y/N.”, he choked out, his voice breaking, stripped of its usual smooth authority, “My beautiful little bird.” He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath coming in jagged, ragged hitches. He shuddered violently, his body locking up as he was close to reaching his peak and in that moment of total vulnerability, the filter between his darkest thoughts and his tongue simply snapped. "I’m gonna get you pregnant.”, he rasped, the words tumbling out raw and unfiltered, vibrating against your collarbone, “I’ve thought about it every goddamn night since I first saw you. I think about coming home and seeing you heavy with me. Swollen and beautiful because of me. I've gotten off to the thought of it so many times I've lost count."

He let out a sharp, fractured breath, his grip on your hips tightening until it would surely leave marks, “I want to fill you up so deep you can't ever walk away. I want to mark you from the inside out. You’ll be mine forever.” Even though you already had your suspicions, hearing the admission was startling, possessive, invasive, and objectively terrifying. It was a claim on your future, a desire to tether your biology to his forever. By all accounts, the sheer intensity of his fixation should have repulsed you. It should have sent a chill of fear down your spine to know he’d been privately obsessing over such a permanent surrender long before you ever met him. But as you looked up at his face, flushed, wrecked, and completely undone by his own craving of you, you felt a surge of heat that made your vision swim. The sheer, dark weight of his want didn't push you away, it pulled you under. The thought of him losing his mind to that fantasy, of him needing that level of permanence with you, turned your blood to liquid fire.

You didn't recoil. Instead, you wrapped your legs tighter around his waist, pulling him back down into you, your fingers digging into the muscles of his back. "Then stop thinking about it and do it.”, you whispered, your voice a defiant, hungry challenge. A dark, predatory light flickered back into his eyes, the realization that you weren't afraid of his darkness, but welcomed it. With a low, guttural growl, he reclaimed your mouth, any trace of hesitation incinerated by the heat of your response. He spilled inside you with such force that you were sure he’d never recover.

In the aftermath Yoongi pulled the duvet over both of you, his movements uncharacteristically gentle now that the storm had passed. He pulled you back against his chest, his arm draped like a lead weight over your waist, his hand resting once more over your stomach, a silent, lingering reminder of the words he’d breathed into your skin moments before.

For a long time, the only sound was the rhythmic ticking of a clock and the steady thrum of his heart against your shoulder blades. "Y/N.”, he murmured. His voice was no longer a growl. It was soft, almost tentative. He pressed a kiss to the back of your head, “…I love you."

The words hung in the air, shimmering and strange. It was the first time the syllables had crossed his lips. It should have been the crowning moment of a romance, the final piece of a puzzle. Instead, you stayed silent, staring at the moonlight filtering through the heavy velvet curtains.

You thought about the life you had before the gravity of Min Yoongi and Bangtan pulled you out of your orbit. You thought about your press badge now likely buried at the bottom of a drawer, gathering dust. You thought about the thrill of the hunt, the late nights in the newsroom, the sharp, acidic taste of strong coffee as you chased a lead that could change the world. Your journalism career hadn't just ended. It had been dismantled, piece by piece, sacrifice at the altar of his need to keep you safe and to keep you his.

You felt him stiffen slightly at your silence, his breath hitching as he waited for the one thing he couldn't take by force. You closed your eyes, feeling the warmth of him, the terrifying safety of his embrace. The fire he had started in you earlier hadn't died. It had simply settled into a dull, permanent ache.

He had effectively erased the woman who hunted the truth, replacing her with a woman who waited to hear his key in the lock. Your ambition had been traded for his obsession, and your freedom for his "love." He shifted, his hand moving with a slow, deliberate possessiveness over your abdomen. The heat of his palm felt like a brand. You remembered the raw, desperate confession he’d made at the height of his pleasure, his craving to fill you, to tether you to him with a life you both shared.

In the quiet, you realized that fighting was no longer an option. To live in this house, under his shadow, meant total integration. If you were to be his, you would be his entirely. You would let the world forget your name while you carried his. You would give him the one thing that would ensure you never looked at the horizon again.

"I love you too, Yoongi.”, you whispered, the lie and the truth tangling together until they were indistinguishable. You turned in his arms, pressing your face into the hollow of his chest and felt his satisfaction radiate off him in waves. You made a silent, internal vow to stop fighting the inevitable.

He kissed your forehead, his touch reverent, unaware that he was witnessing the final death of your spirit. You were his prize, his most precious possession, kept in a room where the light was always perfect and the doors were always locked.

You were a bird in a gilded cage and as you closed your eyes, you finally stopped beating your wings against the bars. You simply tucked them against your sides, settling onto the velvet perch he had provided, and prepared to sing the only song he wanted to hear.

The Christmas fair felt like a small universe that only existed for one magical December night. Lanterns hung from wires like tiny moons, glowing warm against the early evening sky. Street vendors laughed behind their carts, the air smelled like roasted chestnuts and warm sugar, and the sound of children’s shoes tapping against pavement blended with the faint melody of a holiday choir.

Your mittened hand was tucked securely in your mother’s, until it wasn’t.

A crowd swelled suddenly around a booth selling glowing balloons. People pressed forward, and without meaning to, you let go so you could see the bright red one shaped like a heart. In two steps, you were swallowed by noise and strangers. When you turned to point out the balloon to your mother, she wasn’t there. Neither was your father. Neither was your older cousin who had been checking every stall for the best chocolate-dipped strawberries.

The world suddenly felt too big.

You tried calling out softly at first, but your voice was lost under the festive chimes and laughter. There were so many legs moving around you, coats in every color, boots thudding on the cold ground. No faces you knew. No hand reaching for yours.

Your eyes blurred. The cold stung your cheeks long before the tears did. Without thinking, you wandered toward the softest sound you could hear, the lull of a tiny carousel tucked in the corner of the fair.

It was an old carousel, the kind that only carried wooden horses and chipped sleighs. Its lights flickered gently, making it look like it was breathing. A small boy with flushed cheeks and a green scarf stood beside it, holding a candy cane in one hand while watching the horses go round and round, as if he was waiting for someone.

You didn’t see him first. He saw you.

You were wiping your eyes with your mitten, looking so small against the winter night that he stepped forward without hesitation.

“Hey… are you okay?” His voice was gentle, a little shy, and surprisingly warm for someone so young.

You looked up. He had soft, bright eyes, the kind that made you feel seen even in a crowd of thousands. His hair stuck out beneath his hood, and there was a bit of melted snow on his eyelashes.

“I… I can’t find my mom,” you whispered, trying not to cry again. “Or my dad… or anyone.”

“Oh.” He shifted a little, like your sadness reached him. “That’s scary.”

He paused. “But I can stay with you. If you want.”

You nodded, because something inside you settled at the sound of his voice.

“I’m Hoseok,” he said softly. “But you can call me Hobi. Everyone does.”

You tried saying your name between small sniffles. He repeated it quietly, committing it to memory even though life would steal the exact shape of it later.

Then, the moment that felt like a tiny miracle, he held out the candy cane he hadn’t even tasted yet.

“Here,” he said. “My mom bought me another one earlier. You can have this.”

You stared at it, unsure if you should take it. “Are you sure?”

He nodded, offering a little smile that looked like a lantern warming the dark. “It’s sweet. Maybe it’ll help.”

It wasn’t the candy that helped.

It was the kindness.

You took it carefully, and he brightened as if he’d given you something precious.

He sat beside you on the low wooden fence that circled the carousel. Snow gathered around your boots, drifting down like soft confetti. The music shifted to another soft, tinkling holiday tune. For a while, the world seemed faraway, and the only things that mattered were the shared quiet, the laughter from the carousel, and the warmth slowly returning to your chest.

Hoseok spoke first.

“Are you scared right now?”

You nodded.

“Me too,” he admitted. “Sometimes I get afraid of getting lost. Or losing my jacket. Or losing my mom in the crowd. But then I remember something.”

“What?” you whispered.

He tapped his chest. “If you stand in one place long enough, the people looking for you will find you.”

You tried to inhale steadily. “I hope so.”

“I think they will,” he said with certainty that didn’t match his age. “And until they do… I’ll stay.”

His words were simple, but at eight or nine years old, simple could feel like a miracle.

You didn’t talk much after that. You didn’t have to. You sat shoulder to shoulder, watching the carousel spin slowly, its soft lights reflecting in your eyes. A wooden white horse passed again and again, and you both watched it like it was a friend circling back to check on you.

At one point, he kicked snow lightly toward your boots.

You laughed, and he looked proud of himself.

“See? Not so sad anymore.”

“A little,” you corrected.

“A little is okay. A little means you’re trying.”

You weren’t sure how a boy your age could say things like that, but it settled inside you like warmth.

Another few minutes passed before you heard your name being called frantically.

Your mother’s voice—shaky, worried, breaking.

You stood immediately, startled, and Hoseok also jumped to his feet.

“That must be them,” he said, eyes bright with relief for you.

You turned, and there she was—your mother, rushing with panic and tears, your father behind her, your cousin almost slipping on the icy ground as he tried to keep up.

Your mother pulled you into her arms, hugging you so tightly your feet almost lifted off the ground. You felt her heart racing against your cheek. Your father touched your hair, your shoulders, like checking if you were real.

“I’m okay,” you said softly. “Really. I wasn’t alone.”

Your mother looked down at Hoseok, finally noticing him.

“And this is…?”

“A friend,” you said quietly.

Hoseok bowed a little, awkward but polite. “She was scared. I just sat with her.”

Your father placed a grateful hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

Hoseok smiled, shy and proud at the same time.

You stepped toward him again because something inside you didn’t want to leave without saying something. The moment felt important, though you didn’t know why.

He scratched the side of his mitten awkwardly. “I’m glad you’re safe now.”

You nodded, gripping the candy cane he gave you. “Thank you… really.”

He noticed you still holding it. “Keep it. Maybe it will remind you you weren’t alone.”

Your heart warmed in a way you didn’t have words for.

He hesitated, then leaned in very slightly, like he wanted to say something special.

“If we meet again someday… let’s share another candy cane.”

The promise hung in the cold air, gentle and pure, as if the universe paused to listen.

You felt your face warm despite the cold. “Okay.”

Your mother called you again, gently tugging your sleeve. You gave Hoseok one last look, memorizing his bright eyes, his green scarf, the way he smiled like he wanted the world to be kind.

And then you walked away.

You didn’t look back because you were afraid the sight of him standing there would make you cry again.

Hoseok watched you leave until your figure disappeared into the crowd. A breeze lifted the ends of his scarf, and he pressed his own candy cane to his chest for a moment, as if trying to hold onto the feeling.

You both forgot each other’s names over the years.

But not this moment. Not the warmth. Not the promise.

The universe tucked it into some quiet place, waiting for the day it would bring you back to each other.

The campus was alive with the low hum of finals week. Students hurried past, juggling notebooks, coffee cups, and the kind of nervous energy that made every step feel hurried. The autumn sun filtered through tall windows of the library corridor, casting golden streaks across worn bricks and scattered leaves outside. The wind nipped at your cheeks as you rounded the corner, your bag stuffed with textbooks and loose notes threatening to tumble out at any second.

You didn’t see him until it was too late.

Your shoulder bumped into his, and the impact sent a stack of your notebooks teetering and then spilling across the stone walkway. Papers fluttered like startled birds, some landing near his feet, others skidding under the bench nearby. You gasped and knelt instinctively, reaching for your scattered things, your cheeks burning.

“I’m so sorry! I wasn’t looking—”

“Here, let me help.”

You looked up, and there he was.

The boy who seemed vaguely familiar yet somehow completely new, taller now, his hair curling just at the nape of his neck. His deep brown eyes were wide as he crouched to pick up your books, and the corners of his lips turned up in a soft, almost shy smile.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Something fluttered quietly in your chest, like a half-remembered melody. His eyes lingered on yours in a way that made your heart skip, the warmth of recognition brushing against your mind even before the name could form.

He handed you a notebook, and his fingers brushed yours lightly. You felt a tiny spark—a quiet, insistent pull you couldn’t place.

“Have we… met before?” he asked softly, the words careful, almost uncertain, but the weight in his gaze made your chest tighten.

You blinked, holding the notebook like a shield against the sudden racing of your thoughts. “I… I don’t think so?” you said, your voice small, uncertain. Something in him felt familiar, though you couldn’t quite put your finger on it.

He shook his head, but there was a wistful smile playing at his lips. “You just… look like someone I knew a long time ago. Someone I… should probably have remembered better.”

You laughed softly, the kind of laugh that’s shy and hesitant, trying to smooth over a strange flutter in your chest. “Maybe we’ve both changed too much to recognize each other.”

He paused, crouched there with a few of your papers still in his hands. Then he said something that made the world feel like it tilted gently: “I’m Hoseok,” he added quietly, almost as if speaking the name might solidify the memory. “But you can call me Hobi, everyone does.”

The instant his name left his lips, a spark of recognition ignited inside you. Your heart stuttered as if it remembered something it had been waiting for all these years. Hobi… The boy with the candy cane, the carousel, the warmth under lantern lights years ago—he was him. It all clicked in a sudden, gentle rush. The memory didn’t come in a flash, but as a soft wave, washing over your chest and making it ache with nostalgia.

“Hobi?” you repeated, your voice trembling slightly, a mix of disbelief and wonder.

His eyes widened, and then a shy laugh escaped him, low and warm. “Yeah… that’s me. I think… maybe we met a long time ago?”

You laughed too, covering your mouth with your hand, a little breathless, a little shy. “I think we did. I… I remember a carousel. And… candy canes.”

A small, amazed smile spread across his face, and for a moment, the chaos of finals week, the rushing students, and the autumn wind outside disappeared. All that remained was the quiet bubble of recognition, the warmth of something old and precious rekindled.

“You were crying,” he said softly, brushing a leaf off his sleeve, as if speaking the memory aloud made it more real. “I remember that.”

You felt your eyes sting. “I… I don’t really remember that part,” you admitted, voice gentle. “Just… I remember feeling safe. I remember you being there.”

“I was scared too,” he said quietly, his hand brushing against the notebook you were holding. “But I remember wanting you to feel okay. To know someone was… there.”

You laughed lightly, shaking your head, a happy, slightly teary laugh. “And now here we are. Meeting again, like some weird twist of fate.”

He nodded, his gaze soft and warm, lingering just long enough to make your chest tighten. “Yeah. Fate’s got a strange sense of timing.”

For the next few minutes, you crouched together picking up scattered papers, talking in soft, tentative bursts. You learned about his classes, the professors he liked, how finals had him more stressed than he wanted to admit. You shared small laughs over mismanaged schedules and spilled coffee, and the warmth between you grew quietly, effortlessly, like a candle in a drafty room.

“You have a really nice laugh,” he said finally, brushing a loose curl from his forehead. “I… I like it.”

Your chest warmed at the simplicity of the compliment, at the way it felt like it was meant for you alone, even in a crowded corridor. “Thanks,” you whispered, smiling shyly. “I like yours too. It’s… nice.”

Eventually, the moment had to end. The students around you were moving, the campus alive with its hurried rhythm. You rose to your feet, brushing leaves off your coat, trying to store the fleeting feeling safely in your chest.

“I should head to class,” you said reluctantly, wishing for a moment that time could pause.

“Yeah,” he said, standing as well. “But… I’m really glad we ran into each other. Even like this.”

“Me too,” you murmured softly, your fingers brushing briefly against his as you adjusted your bag.

And just like that, the moment was gone. You walked in opposite directions, your heart carrying the warmth of recognition, the gentle pull of familiarity, and the quiet spark of a memory that refused to fade. He lingered for a moment longer, watching you go, and smiled to himself, a small smile that carried hope and wonder all at once.

Years later, the mall was alive with the glow of Christmas. Every surface shimmered under strings of lights, wreaths hung at every doorway, and the scent of cinnamon and roasted nuts drifted lazily in the air. A holiday playlist murmured softly, layered beneath the hum of laughter, hurried footsteps, and the occasional squeak of a shopping cart. Families bustled past, friends carried armfuls of gifts, and the chatter of strangers collided with the distant echo of a child’s delighted squeal.

You were walking hand in hand with your partner, your fingers intertwined, the warmth of their hand anchoring you against the cool draft that slipped in through the automatic doors. You had your coat pulled snug around your shoulders and your scarf tucked just under your chin. You had lists to check, gifts to pick, and the usual swirl of excitement and exhaustion that accompanied Christmas shopping.

And then you saw him.

Across the busy corridor, in a crowd of people hurrying past, your eyes landed on a familiar face. His hair was slightly longer than you remembered from college, the corners of his eyes carrying the same warmth, the same quiet attentiveness. He was talking to someone, his girlfriend, laughing softly, but when his gaze flicked up, it locked with yours.

Recognition clicked in an instant. Not the bright, blinding kind, but slow, almost painfully tender. Your heart recognized him before your mind did. The boy from the carousel, the boy from the college hallway, the fleeting smiles in crowded corridors and classrooms, he was here. And yet… here he was, with someone else, and so were you.

For a heartbeat, the universe seemed to hold its breath.

Neither of you moved, neither of you spoke. You allowed yourselves a soft, almost imperceptible smile, a smile that carried years of memory, of shared warmth, of feelings that never fully faded. It was a smile that said everything and nothing at the same time.

He returned it, and for a brief, exquisite moment, the noise of the mall fell away. You could see the golden highlights in his hair, the subtle way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, the warmth that had always been there beneath the surface. It was like catching a familiar melody you hadn’t heard in years.

Then reality intruded.

Your partner tugged gently at your sleeve, reminding you of where you were, who you were with, and what boundaries existed. He glanced at his partner, and you realized that fate had stepped back, drawing a quiet line between two hearts that were not available.

You allowed your lips to curve into a small, bittersweet smile and whispered softly, “Merry Christmas.”

He nodded almost imperceptibly, his own voice low enough for no one else to hear. “Merry Christmas.”

It wasn’t enough. Not really. Not for what stirred between you, the ache of recognition, the pull of a connection that refused to fade. But it was what you could allow.

You watched him for a few seconds longer as he turned, blending into the crowd again, and a strange ache settled in your chest. It was the ache of familiarity, of “almosts,” of the universe nudging your paths together just far enough to remind you of what was waiting for the right time.

Your partner squeezed your hand, bringing you back to the present. You nodded, returning the gesture, and forced yourself to focus on the brightly wrapped boxes and the laughter echoing through the mall. But even as you moved forward, even as you talked and laughed with your partner, you could feel it—him, there, lingering in the corner of your heart, a quiet ember that had survived the years.

It was a reminder that some connections were too deep to vanish, even when life pulled you in different directions. That some hearts recognized each other long before words could explain why. That sometimes, the universe asks you to wait.

And for now, waiting was all you could do.

The crowd swallowed him. You continued shopping, following the list in your hands, yet your mind kept returning to the warmth of his eyes, the faint echo of his laughter, the way his presence had made the noise of the mall fade for just a moment.

The world went on, the Christmas lights blinked on and off, families passed by, and you held onto that quiet, fleeting connection, tucked safely in your chest, waiting for the day it could finally be more than a smile.

The city was alive with the pulse of the holidays. Streetlights reflected off the slick pavement, storefronts glimmered with gold and red, and the faint smell of roasted chestnuts drifted from a corner vendor. Inside the high-rise apartment, the party roared: clinking glasses, loud laughter, holiday music spilling from hidden speakers. But you weren’t really part of it. You were part of the scene, technically present, but your chest felt tight, your stomach a coil of frustration.

Your boyfriend was in the center of it all, laughing a little too loudly with his so-called friends, a drink in one hand, his voice carrying across the room. You had tried to join in at first, smiling politely at introductions you barely cared about. But then, one careless joke at your expense, amplified by the echoes of others’ laughter, pushed you past the limit.

You pushed back from the table. “I’m leaving,” you said quietly, your voice swallowed by the hum of the party. Nobody seemed to notice, or maybe nobody cared. You didn’t wait for a response. You walked past the glittering lights, the warmth of the room fading behind you.

Outside, the air hit like ice. Snow had started falling in heavy, steady flakes, blurring the sharp edges of the city and coating the sidewalks in a soft, slippery white. Your gloves were thin, your shawl barely keeping the chill from settling in your shoulders. You stamped your feet, trying to will warmth back into your fingers.

Taxis passed in streams, their lights flickering, but none stopped. The cold began to seep deeper, biting at your cheeks, creeping through your coat, and making the air feel impossibly heavy. You hugged your arms to yourself, shivering, feeling the weight of solitude in a city that had never seemed so enormous.

And then, a car slowed beside you. Its tires crunched over the snow, the engine a low hum against the silence. The window rolled down, and you saw him.

Hobi.

Even before recognition fully registered, your heart stirred, the familiar curve of his lips, the warmth of a smile that had lingered in memory, the way his eyes seemed to notice you even in the flurry of snow and neon lights.

“Hey… do you need some help?” he asked, voice steady and calm, cutting through the wind.

“Yes… there’s no taxi,” you admitted, shivering slightly, teeth clicking against one another. “I… I just… walked out.”

He leaned back in his seat, running a hand through his hair and then gesturing toward the passenger door. “Get in. You’ll freeze to death out here otherwise.”

Sliding inside, the warmth hit immediately. The small space of the car felt intimate, safe, and impossibly comforting after the frigid streets. Hoseok typed your apartment address into the GPS, his fingers brushing the edge of your hand just slightly, and the faint spark of familiarity thrummed through your chest.

“I recognized you from afar,” he said, glancing at you with a small, teasing smile. “Good thing I’m going home. Otherwise… you’d be standing out here like an icicle.”

You let out a small laugh, half shivering, half amused. “Yeah… I got into a fight. With my boyfriend. So here I am, freezing.”

“What happened?” His tone was casual, but his eyes carried a quiet curiosity, an attentiveness that made your chest flutter unexpectedly.

“I… I don’t know. He made fun of me in front of his friends. I just—” You shrugged, brushing a lock of hair from your face. “I couldn’t stay in there. It was too much.”

Hobi let out a soft laugh. “Sounds like he’s a jerk.”

You laughed too, the sound light and surprised at how easily it escaped. “Exactly. He really is.”

For a few moments, neither of you spoke, letting the city blur past in streaks of light and falling snow. Inside the car, the warmth felt like a cocoon. You could smell the faint trace of his cologne, a clean, understated scent that was oddly comforting.

“You know,” he said, glancing at you through the corner of his eye, “I never realized… even casual acquaintances could end up in situations like this. Snow, cold streets, arguments with boyfriends…”

“I guess the universe likes to mess with people,” you replied softly, smiling despite the lingering cold. “Or maybe… it’s trying to teach me something.”

“Lesson one: don’t walk out in heels in a blizzard,” he teased lightly, and you laughed again, shaking your head. “Lesson two: always hope a familiar stranger will show up?”

“That too,” you said, eyes catching the reflection of city lights in the window, the snow swirling like tiny stars against the dark sky.

The ride continued in gentle conversation, easy and natural, as though you had known him for longer than just casual greetings at the mall or in a hallway. He asked about your work, your plans for the holidays, joking gently about the absurdity of city life during December. You told him about small things, the little victories and disasters that had filled your days. The warmth of his attention, combined with the heater blasting softly between you, made the cold, lonely moments outside fade.

Finally, the GPS announced your arrival. You sighed softly, reluctant to leave the car, the bubble of comfort, the quiet moments you hadn’t realized you were craving.

“Thanks,” you said quietly, voice soft, almost reverent. “For noticing. For stopping. For… this.”

He smiled, that same gentle smile that had made you recognize him before even realizing it. “Always,” he said simply. “That’s me. Always noticing.”

You stepped out into the snow, brushing flakes from your coat. The city continued to glow, bustling and chaotic, but for the first time that night, you felt warmth that had nothing to do with a crowded party, nothing to do with the heated apartment, and everything to do with the small, unspoken connection that had survived across years and fleeting encounters.

Hobi drove off slowly, the snow swirling behind him, and for a moment, you watched him disappear into the city lights, a quiet ache and a tender warmth blooming simultaneously in your chest.

The night had been unexpected, cold, and chaotic. Yet somehow, it had been perfect.

The airport was overflowing with bodies and noise, a restless tide of holiday travelers dragging suitcases and children and hope through brightly lit terminals. Announcements echoed from every direction, boarding calls layered over Christmas songs, the entire space humming with that familiar chaos that always clung to December.

You stood in the middle of it all—cold, overwhelmed, and exhausted. Your suitcase was open on the floor, your belongings spilling out in a disorganized heap that mirrored your heart. A scarf hung from the edge, half landing on the tiles, half caught in a zipper.

The airline staff had just informed you, with a sympathetic but firm tone, that you were four kilos over the luggage limit. And because your flight was boarding soon, you didn’t have time to repack properly, you just knelt on the floor and tried to somehow make fate bend.

You swallowed hard, your hands shaking as you tried to rearrange everything, your chest tightening with panic.

You had not slept in two days.

You had not eaten properly since the breakup.

And all you wanted was to get to New York, to breathe, to disappear for a while, to stop hurting.

Your vision blurred slightly as you lifted a heavy sweater, trying to decide if it was worth throwing away. Christmas in New York was ice-cold. You needed it.

“Y/n?”

The voice came from behind you—warm, familiar, soft enough to cut through the noise around you like a thread tying scattered pieces back together.

You turned.

Hoseok stood there, a backpack slung over one shoulder, his travel coat dusted faintly with cold air from outside. His hair was slightly messy from rushing, but his eyes—those soft, bright eyes—looked at you with recognition and something close to concern.

“Hobi?” Your voice cracked with disbelief, exhaustion, and a strange kind of relief you didn’t know you were allowed to feel.

He glanced from you to your open suitcase, then to the weighing scale. “You’re over the limit?”

“I’m over everything,” you muttered, forcing a shaky laugh. “The weight. The stress. My capacity as a human being.”

His smile formed slowly—familiar, quiet, almost nostalgic. “Where are you heading?”

“New York,” you said, brushing your hair behind your ear as you crouched on the floor. “I just… I need to get away for a while. Spend Christmas somewhere else. Move on.”

He blinked. “Move on?”

You hesitated, eyes dropping to the clothes on the floor. “We broke up. A few days ago.”

Something softened in his expression, a gentle shift that made your chest feel both warm and heavy. But before you could drown in the emotion of it, he set his bag down.

“I’m flying to New York too.”

Your head shot up. “You are?”

He nodded. “My girlfriend’s there. She moved last month for work. I’m spending Christmas with her.”

Your heart dipped, not because you wanted him, not consciously, not in any way you were allowed to, but because you had forgotten what it felt like to be the only one hurting in a moment where someone else was heading toward something whole and warm.

Still, you forced a smile. “That’s… nice. Last time I saw you two was at the mall.”

“She left recently,” he said gently. “It’s been tough with the distance. But yeah… I’m excited to see her.”

You nodded, even if it felt like someone had pressed a thumb to your bruised heart.

And then Hoseok crouched beside your luggage, scanning the scattered items before looking back at you.

“How much are you over?” he asked.

“Four kilos,” you whispered, frustration pooling in your throat. “I don’t know what to take out. Everything feels necessary.”

He unzipped his backpack slightly, showing the nearly empty interior. “I have space. Give me some of your things.”

You froze. “No, it’s fine. I don’t want to inconvenience—”

“Y/n,” he said with a soft smile, “it’s either my bag helps you or you toss your sweaters and freeze in New York.”

Your lips parted, caught between gratitude and disbelief. “I… thank you. Really. You always save me somehow.”

His gaze lingered on yours for a moment longer than expected. A tender warmth passed between you—brief, quiet, but unmistakably real.

“I’m just glad I saw you,” he said softly. “The timing’s… lucky.”

Together, you carefully packed two sweaters, a pair of boots, and a pouch of toiletries into his backpack. Seeing your things tucked safely into his bag made something tremble lightly inside your chest—a small, unexpected comfort.

When everything was settled, he pulled your suitcase upright with ease. “All right. Let’s get to the gate before they leave us behind.”

You fell into step beside him, the both of you weaving through crowds of hurried travelers, your suitcase wheels clicking rhythmically against the tiles.

“So…” he said gently as you neared the escalators, “what happened? If you don’t mind telling me.”

Your heart tightened, but his voice, steady and warm, made it easier to breathe.

“He kept making fun of me,” you said quietly. “Sometimes in front of people. Sometimes when we were alone. I tried to ignore it but… it hurt. It just took one last moment, and I knew I had to walk away.”

Hoseok didn’t interrupt, didn’t rush to fill the silence. He simply walked beside you, listening in a way that made your eyes sting.

“You didn’t deserve that,” he said finally, his voice deepening with quiet sincerity. “Anyone who makes you feel small… is not someone who should stand next to you.”

You blinked quickly, looking ahead. “I know. I just wish it didn’t hurt this much.”

“It means your heart works,” he replied softly. “That’s a good thing, even when it feels terrible.”

For a moment, you didn’t speak. You just felt the weight of his words settle somewhere deep inside your chest.

At the gate, the boarding announcement echoed through the speakers. Hoseok turned to you and adjusted the strap of his backpack, then smiled.

“I’m in a different seat,” he said. “But when we land, wait for me. I’ll help you carry your things again.”

You nodded slowly, warmth rising in your chest. “Thank you. I… really appreciate it.”

“It’s nothing,” he said, though his eyes suggested otherwise. “Just… don’t disappear before I find you.”

The smile he gave you before walking to his boarding lane was soft, kind, and familiar in a way that ached.

You watched him go, feeling a strange mixture of comfort and sadness, because he was heading toward someone he loved, and you were flying toward the unknown, hoping it might hurt a little less once you stepped into the cold New York air.

And yet, somehow, you felt less alone.

Because once again—

Hoseok had appeared exactly when you needed someone.

The arrivals hall at JFK was buzzing, overlapping voices, dragging suitcases, reunion cries that echoed against high ceilings dressed with garlands and fairy lights. The moment you and Hoseok stepped through the sliding doors, the world split: people rushed into open arms, couples collided in laughter, families waved signs painted with glitter.

You clutched your suitcase and stood beside him as he scanned the crowd for the one face he had traveled halfway across the world to see.

His girlfriend was supposed to be here.

But as minutes slipped by, his smile slowly dimmed.

You shifted awkwardly, pulling your coat tighter around yourself. “Maybe she’s running late,” you murmured, trying not to let your voice sound too hopeful or too apologetic on his behalf.

“Yeah,” Hoseok replied softly, though the word felt thin, stretched.

He checked his phone. And checked again.

Five minutes.

Then ten.

The crowd thinned, leaving mostly stragglers and one man holding a balloon shaped like a penguin. Outside the tall windows, snow thickened, dancing sideways in the wind.

When your eyes drifted toward the exit, anxiety prickled at your skin. You needed to find a cab before everything shut down. New York snowstorms were not gentle, streets swallowed cars like quicksand.

Hoseok finally spotted your suitcase approaching on the conveyor belt. He stepped forward quickly, hands outstretched, and pulled it off with practiced ease.

“Here,” he said, rolling it toward you. “And your other stuff…”

He tapped the side of his backpack. “Still safe.”

You smiled gratefully. “Thank you. Really. I would’ve had to abandon half my closet if not for you.”

He laughed softly, but the sound didn’t carry the brightness it usually had. Something clouded lingered.

You reached for the backpack when he opened it for you, retrieving the sweaters, the overstuffed pouch of skincare, the small gifts you had insisted on bringing. You placed everything carefully back into your suitcase.

“Well,” you said quietly, though your voice wavered. “I should let you wait. I don’t want to keep you.”

He nodded automatically, but his eyes were glued to the crowd, watching faces he didn’t recognize pass by. You lifted your suitcase handle and took two small steps backward.

You expected him to tell you goodbye.

To wave, smile, promise to message if ever you both wandered into each other again.

But he didn’t.

He kept searching.

Hope shrinking little by little, too slow for him to notice, too obvious for you to ignore.

You hesitated. Took another step. Paused.

And then the truth hit you like cold air through the automatic doors:

You couldn’t leave him like this.

You had been through heartbreak so recently it still stung every time you inhaled. You knew the exact shape of waiting for someone who didn’t come.

You knew the tiny humiliations, the biting worry, the way your chest tightened with every unanswered call.

You set your suitcase back down. “Hobi,” you said gently. “Do you want me to stay until she arrives?”

He turned toward you, surprise flickering in his eyes—as if he hadn’t expected anyone to think of him in this moment.

“You don’t have to,” he said, but his voice held a faint tremor. “You’ve had a long flight. You must be exhausted.”

“I’ll stay,” you whispered simply.

And you meant it.

A silence settled between you—not awkward, but heavy with unspoken things neither of you were ready to name.

He glanced toward the exit doors again. Snow crashed against the glass in thick sheets now, turning the world outside into a swirling curtain of white. His phone vibrated, just a notification. Not her.

After another few minutes, he exhaled slowly, sinking onto one of the metal benches lined up along the wall. You sat beside him, close but not touching, watching the same sea of faces.

He dialed her again.

Once. Twice. Three times.

Each call rang until the line cut itself off.

At some point, his shoulders sagged. Just slightly. Enough for you to notice.

“I told her I’d be here today,” he murmured, almost to himself. “She said she’d pick me up. Said she missed me.”

Your heart twisted from seeing something gentle inside him fold in on itself.

Snow clung to the windows so thickly that the city beyond was nothing more than shadows and light. The airport staff began announcing delays, then cancellations. People groaned, frustration filling the terminal like smoke.

Hoseok finally lowered his phone and rubbed his hands together for warmth.

“She’s not coming,” he whispered.

The words fell between you like something fragile.

You watched him breathe through it, trying to hold himself together, trying not to look like someone who had just been abandoned in the middle of the world’s busiest airport a week before Christmas.

“I’m sorry,” you said softly.

He looked at you then.

And for the first time, you saw the exhaustion in his eyes, the confusion, the hurt he didn’t want to admit.

A long moment passed before he spoke.

“I don’t think I want to wait anymore.”

The sentence was quiet, but it felt decisive.

Like a door gently closing behind him.

You swallowed, unsure what to do, what to say, how to comfort someone who had always seemed so bright, so effortlessly steady.

“What hotel are you staying at?” he asked suddenly.

You blinked. “What?”

He straightened, brushing snow from your suitcase handle as if preparing himself mentally for something. “It’s snowing too hard for you to walk out alone. Cabs are probably impossible to get. Let me take you. Please.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he said, and there was nothing forced in his voice. “Let me take you. And then… I’ll decide what to do next.”

You hesitated, but the sincerity in his eyes pulled your answer from you.

You told him the name of your hotel, a small one near Midtown, and he nodded without hesitation.

He stood, grabbing your suitcase handle and gesturing for you to follow. For a moment, he seemed to forget his own heartbreak while trying to shield you from the cold, the storm, the chaos.

Maybe that was his way of coping.

Or maybe it was something else neither of you were ready to acknowledge.

As you walked together toward the exit, you felt a strange warmth rise in your chest.

Familiarity.

Comfort.

The feeling of someone stepping closer when the world feels too big and too cold.

And when the doors opened and snow came rushing in, he instinctively moved closer, leaning in so the wind wouldn’t hit you.

In that small gesture, you felt it again—

That strange, unshakable truth:

You were never supposed to leave him sitting on that bench alone.

And maybe…

he wasn’t supposed to be waiting for anyone else anymore.

The hotel lobby was a cathedral of quiet warmth on a night that felt like the world outside was unraveling. Golden lamps glowed softly against polished marble floors, and the enormous windows trembled every time the wind hurled snow against the glass. You stepped inside with Hoseok, both of you dusted in white flakes like two travelers who had wandered too far from home.

Your boots leaving small wet marks on the floor, you walked toward the reception desk to check in. Hoseok stayed a few steps behind you, rubbing his palms together as if trying to chase away the cold that had wrapped itself around him since the airport.

When the front desk attendant confirmed your booking and asked for a signature, Hoseok drifted toward a seating area near the window. He kept glancing at his phone, the faint light illuminating the quiet worry in his expression. Every time he tapped the screen to check for notifications, his shoulders sank a little. You finished signing and gave your card with a polite smile, but your attention kept drifting back to him.

Hoseok sat alone on a deep emerald chair, his elbows resting on his knees, phone in both hands. You could almost hear his thoughts from across the lobby, a silent loop of maybe she’ll call, maybe she’ll text, maybe she’s just late, but the truth was already settling in the space between his breaths.

His girlfriend was not coming.

And he was trying so hard to pretend it didn’t sting.

You tucked your documents back into your bag and walked toward him. The snow outside thickened by the minute, swirling like wild white rivers against the dark sky. The storm was past the point of being romantic; it looked dangerous now, relentless, as if the city had been swallowed by winter.

“Still nothing?” you asked gently as you approached.

Hoseok looked up, trying to smile, but it wavered. “No. I tried calling again while you were checking in. Straight to voicemail.”

The pause that followed felt heavy, but not uncomfortable. It was the quiet you only hear at the end of something — a hope, a plan, a promise — dissolving slowly.

“Where are you staying?” you asked.

He blinked, then laughed lightly in a way that wasn’t truly a laugh. “I was… supposed to stay at her place. We planned it before I flew.” He glanced at his phone again as if expecting it to magically ring. “But since she didn’t show up, I don’t really have anywhere.”

The sentence ended with a shrug so soft and tired it almost broke something inside you.

You looked toward the windows again. The storm roared, stronger than earlier. Taxis were barely moving outside, headlights dragging through curtains of snow like weak lanterns lost in a blizzard.

“You shouldn’t be out in that,” you murmured, mostly to yourself.

He chuckled again, though it lacked its usual brightness. “I’ll be fine. I’ll figure something out. Maybe I’ll walk around and find a vacancy somewhere. It’s not like I have many options.”

You hesitated, the kind of hesitation that rises when kindness feels too bold, too intimate, but necessary.

“Hobi…” you said softly.

He turned toward you fully, eyes warm even in the middle of his exhaustion.

“You can stay with me,” you said. “My room’s for two people anyway.”

He didn’t react at first; he simply stared at you, processing your offer like he wasn’t sure it was real.

“You sure?” he asked quietly, almost shyly, as though afraid to accept something so gentle on a night that had been nothing but sharp edges.

You smiled, more to make him feel safe than anything else. “It’s okay. Really.”

Hoseok nodded once, slowly, like someone who had been holding a weight alone for too long and suddenly found someone willing to help him carry it.

“Thank you,” he said, and his voice carried a warmth that traveled straight to your chest.

A bellboy appeared to lead you both toward the elevator. Hoseok followed, rolling his luggage behind him, and for a few seconds, the two of you walked in silence. But it wasn’t awkward. It felt like the kind of silence that only forms when two people are quietly helping each other survive a night they didn’t expect.

The elevator doors opened with a muted chime. You stepped inside, and Hoseok entered after you. Your reflections stood side by side in the mirrored walls, both slightly snow-damp, both a little lost, both holding emotions you couldn’t quite name.

The ride up was smooth, the hum of machinery steady and comforting.

Hoseok let out a breath. “I didn’t think tonight would end like this.”

“Me neither,” you admitted, watching the numbers climb. “But maybe that’s not always a bad thing.”

He glanced at you, eyes softening. “Maybe.”

When the elevator doors opened, the hallway greeted you with warm lighting and plush carpeting that seemed to silence your footsteps. The bellboy guided you to a large door at the end of the corridor, opened it, and stepped aside for you to enter.

The room was breathtaking, a blend of luxury and calm. Wide windows stretched from floor to ceiling, showcasing a city swallowed by snow yet somehow beautiful in its chaos. The lights inside were low and golden, warming every corner.

Hoseok walked inside slowly, as if stepping into a temporary sanctuary he didn’t quite believe he deserved.

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” he said immediately, setting down his bag.

“Are you sure?” you asked.

“I’m sure,” he replied with a small smile. “I just… need somewhere to stay until I figure out what to do in the morning. I’ll sort out a hotel once I know what’s happening.”

You nodded, but your heart tugged at the sight of him — shoulders tired, clothes still cold from the storm, phone silent in his hand.

The snowstorm outside roared louder, whistling against the glass, but inside the room everything felt gentle and warm. It was strange, almost surreal, the two of you had never been close, just casual acquaintances whose paths crossed in little brushes of fate. But now, sitting together in a hotel room in a foreign city, wrapped in the quiet and the storm, the distance between you softened.

He sat on the couch, leaning back, letting out a breath that felt like it had been held all night.

You sat beside him, close enough to share warmth but not close enough to startle him. “Do you want to talk about it?” you asked.

Hoseok ran his thumb along the edge of his phone. “I don’t know. Maybe tomorrow,” he said softly. “Right now… I think I’m just grateful someone didn’t leave me behind tonight.”

Your chest tightened, but not painfully, more like a ripple of tenderness.

“You’re not alone tonight,” you said.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Snow fell endlessly outside, the room glowing with the softest golden light, and between the two of you, something warm began to form. A beginning. A shift. A quiet understanding.

Two people, both hurt in their own ways, both stranded by circumstances they didn’t choose, sharing four walls and a storm.

You had no idea what tomorrow would bring.

But tonight, for the first time in a long while, neither of you felt cold.

You stayed by the window long after you finished unpacking, palms pressed lightly against the cool glass. The storm that had been a roaring white curtain just hours ago had settled at last, leaving the world outside washed in a calm, shimmering quiet. Snow blanketed the sidewalks, the rooftops, the bare trees that lined the boulevard. Streetlamps cast soft halos onto the ground, each circle of light like a small island in the dark.

Behind you, Hoseok sat on the couch, his phone plugged into the charger, screen faintly glowing as it revived back to life. He had changed into a fresh shirt, hair slightly damp from the shower he’d taken earlier, and he looked… tired, but lighter. Less like someone bracing for disappointment and more like someone learning to breathe in the present moment.

You turned from the window.

“Hobi,” you asked gently, “are you hungry?”

He lifted his head, eyes meeting yours. There was something open and honest in his expression, almost boyish in its sincerity. “Yeah,” he said with a small nod. “I think I am.”

You glanced back outside, watching a couple carefully walk along the snowy path, their shoes leaving soft impressions behind them.

"The storm stopped,” you said. “Do you… want to walk outside a bit? Get some air? Eat something?"

Hoseok didn’t hesitate. His smile appeared, warm and gentle like a streetlight warming frozen pavement. "I’d love to,” he said, and the simplicity of his answer filled the room with a quiet softness.

Hobi fell into step beside you, hands tucked into his pockets, his scarf pulled up to his chin. He looked peaceful in a way you hadn’t expected, as though the cold air had swept away everything that had weighed on him earlier.

“Feels like the world pressed reset,” he said.

“It really does.”

You nudged a small mound of snow with your boot. “Everything looks brand new.”

He smiled — small, genuine, the kind that settled quietly into your chest instead of knocking into it all at once.

You walked without rushing, your footsteps matching the rhythm of the city easing back to life. Every few minutes, a car passed slowly, tires whispering over the slush. Couples walked hand-in-hand, bundled in coats, cheeks pink from the cold. Somewhere nearby, the faint sound of someone’s laughter drifted into the night.

After a few blocks, you found a cozy café that looked like it belonged in an old holiday movie, warm lights glowing inside, windows fogged from the heat, a wreath hanging on the door slightly crooked in the most charming way.

Hoseok pushed the door open for you, his hand hovering near your back without touching, as if he wanted to guide you in gently without crossing any line. Inside, the warmth wrapped around you instantly. The smell of cinnamon and vanilla lingered in the air, mixing with the faint scent of roasted coffee beans. You took a seat near the window, and Hoseok sat across from you, unwinding his scarf from his neck.

He looked… comfortable.

Comfortable with you. Comfortable being here.

You weren’t sure when that started mattering so much.

The conversation came easily.

It started simple, your favorite winter traditions, his least favorite Christmas songs, the most ridiculous gift he ever received (a singing fish), the worst one you ever gave (a coffee mug that cracked the first time it touched hot water).

He laughed with his whole face, eyes crinkling, shoulders shaking, and the café lights seemed to respond by glowing a little brighter.

Slowly, as the drinks warmed your hands and the snow softened outside, your conversation shifted into gentler places.

He told you about feeling like he had been giving and giving in his relationship until he had nothing left. You told him about holding onto someone who made you feel lonely in rooms full of people. And somehow, without forcing it, without intention, your stories overlapped in the most painful yet comforting ways.

He listened to you like everything you said mattered.

You listened to him like you’d been waiting years to understand him this way.

It didn’t feel like strangers reconnecting.

It felt like two people finally speaking in a language only the two of you understood.

When you stepped outside again, snowflakes still drifted gently from the sky — smaller now, slower, like the city was tucking itself in for the night.

As you walked, Hoseok stopped suddenly in front of a small holiday stall lit with tiny golden bulbs. You followed his gaze to a basket full of peppermint candy canes tied with ribbons, classic red and white, the kind kids held in old Christmas picture books.

“Wait here,” he said softly.

Before you could ask why, he walked over to the stall and picked through the basket with the seriousness of someone choosing gemstones. His brows furrowed a little, lips pursing as he inspected one then another, occasionally lifting them to check the curve or the shine or who-knows-what standard he was applying.

You bit back a smile.

He finally selected two, paid, then returned to you with the confidence of a man who had just made the most important purchase of his life.

You raised an eyebrow. “Did we need to conduct quality inspections on candy canes?”

He grinned. “Of course. These are high-stakes.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “You’re impossible.”

He held one out to you, eyes soft, a playful glimmer beneath them.

“Thought we should make up for that promise we never kept.”

Your breath stilled, not dramatically, not overwhelmingly, but in a warm, quiet way that made the world tilt a little.

“You remember that?” you asked, voice gentle.

“Of course I do.”

He looked at the candy cane, then at you. “You and I… we always ran into each other. Every time. I used to think it was just coincidence.”

“And now?” you asked softly.

His smile turned tender enough to melt the snow.

“Now I’m starting to think the universe has been tapping my shoulder for years.”

Your heart pushed against your ribcage, slow and warm, like it wanted to lean closer to the moment.

You lifted your candy cane and tapped it lightly against his, a tiny clink of plastic wrappers meeting under the streetlight.

“A promise finally kept,” you whispered.

He chuckled, the softest sound, almost shy, and tapped his candy cane back against yours.

“A new one made,” he said in return.

Something inside both of you warmed in a way that felt like home.

The two of you resumed walking, candy canes in hand, shoulders brushing just lightly enough to feel the spark but not enough to call it anything yet.

Snowflakes landed on his hair.

Your fingers grazed his once, accidentally, and neither of you apologized.

And for the first time in a long while, the night didn’t feel lonely.

It felt right.

Too right.

You wake to the sound of soft footsteps, the kind that carry a strange gentleness, like someone trying very hard not to disturb anything that’s still at peace. For a moment you can’t tell if you’re still dreaming, because everything feels hazy and warm, the leftover glow from last night still clinging to you like a second blanket. The laughter you shared with Hoseok still hangs somewhere in your mind. The memory of walking through snowfall with him, of the way his smile softened when he handed you that candy cane, of how he whispered goodnight before settling on the couch. You remember the way he thanked you—quiet, sincere, almost shy, telling you he didn’t know how he would have handled being abandoned if you hadn’t been there. That last line loops in your chest now like an echo you’re desperate to hold onto.

When you finally open your eyes, the room is still dim, lit only by the pale morning light sneaking through the curtains. The world feels muted, soft, fragile. And there he is, leaning over his open backpack, neatly folding his clothes and slipping them inside with slow, almost careful movements. His hair is a little messy, like he ran his fingers through it too many times. His shoulders seem tense, as if he’s holding the weight of something you cannot yet see. You blink, trying to gather yourself, trying to understand why your heart suddenly feels heavier than it did last night.

“Hobi?” Your voice is groggy, soft with sleep. “Why are you up so early?”

He freezes for a moment, as if he didn’t expect you to wake. Then he straightens, turning toward you with a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. It’s the kind of smile that feels like a goodbye long before the words arrive. He holds his phone loosely in his hand, the screen still lit with a message. When he finally speaks, his voice is gentle, but it carries a mix of relief and something quieter, something like guilt.

“She finally texted me,” he says, lifting his phone slightly as if to show proof.

The words land like cold water poured straight down your spine. For one aching second, everything inside you stills. You sit up slowly, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself as though it can protect you from whatever is unravelling in your chest. There’s a small smile on your lips, you force it there because it feels like the right thing to do, because he deserves to see happiness rather than disappointment, because anything else would be unfair, but it trembles.

“That’s… good,” you manage, even though something deep inside you twists painfully. “I’m glad she reached out.”

Hoseok’s eyes soften. He zips his backpack and lets out a long exhale, but it isn’t a peaceful one. His gaze drifts briefly to the window, to the fading traces of snow still resting on the balcony railing. Something in his expression flickers, a hint of uncertainty, a shadow of hesitation, but he wipes it away too quickly for you to fully understand it. He brushes his palms on his jeans before walking closer to the couch to gather the charger he used last night.

“She said she wanted to talk about what happened. So… I should go.”

You nod again, even though your throat feels tight. “Right. Of course.”

He pauses then, looking at you with an expression so gentle that it makes your chest ache. “Thank you again. For everything,” he says. “I mean it. I don’t know what I would’ve done last night if you weren’t here. I probably would’ve sat alone at the airport until morning. Or… I don’t know. Fallen apart. You kept me grounded.”

You look down, letting your fingers fidget with the edge of the blanket, because looking at him right now feels too overwhelming. “I’m just glad I was there,” you whisper. And it’s true. Every part of last night felt like a gift you were never supposed to receive.

He gives you a smile—warm, grateful, heartbreakingly sincere. “I’ll get going once I’m done packing,” he murmurs. “I don’t want to intrude on your morning.”

But that’s the thing, you don’t want him to go. You don’t want the room to feel big and empty after he walks out. You don’t want to pretend that the cold air outside won’t creep inside the moment he’s gone. You don’t want the memory of last night to become just that, a memory that stings instead of warms.

Still, you nod, because that’s what kindness is, isn’t it? Letting people go where they believe they need to be.

He slings the backpack over his shoulder, and the way your heart tugs at the sight feels almost ridiculous. It’s only been one night. One snowstorm. One unexpected meeting after years of accidentally crossing paths. And yet your chest is heavy, as if you’re losing something you didn’t realize you were holding.

“Will you be okay?” Hoseok asks suddenly, his voice softer than before. “I mean… staying here alone?”

The question cracks something inside you. It’s simple. Innocent. But the concern in his eyes, the way he lingers even though he’s halfway to the door, it makes you realize that maybe last night wasn’t only special to you.

“I’ll be fine,” you reply, but your voice is gentler than your words. “Really.”

He nods, but he keeps standing there, as if his feet won’t move until he’s certain you mean it. For a long, quiet moment, neither of you speak. The sunlight brightens slowly behind the curtains. The heater hums softly in the background. And in the middle of it all, you sit in bed with your heart aching in a way you’re not ready to examine.

He hesitates again, one last second, one last chance to stay, but then he opens the door with a soft click and slips out into the hallway. And just like that, the warmth he carried with him all night leaves the room.

You stare at the door long after it closes, feeling the silence settle around you like snowfall. The bed beside you still holds the faint warmth of where you slept. The couch still carries the shape of where he lay last night. The candy cane wrappers, two of them, sit on the nightstand like a tiny reminder of something that shouldn’t mean anything but somehow means everything.

And even though you try to take a deep breath, your chest tightens anyway.

The room feels too quiet now. Too big. Too cold. Like the universe gave you one fleeting moment of warmth… only to ask you to let go of it all over again.

When Hoseok stepped out of the hotel room that morning, you waited for the sound of his footsteps fading down the hallway. You thought that would be the moment it would finally settle, the truth that the little world you shared during the snowstorm had ended. But the moment he disappeared, the air seemed to shift. The room felt colder, quieter. It felt like something had been lifted out of it, leaving behind a strange hollow space, as if warmth itself had followed him out the door.

You told yourself you would be fine. This was supposed to be your trip, after all, a trip you planned months ago to escape life, breathe, wander. But as hours turned into a full day, and then the day stretched into two, you realized that moving through New York alone felt different now. The city was enormous, a living thing filled with noise and lights and rushing footsteps, but you walked through it with that familiar ache in your chest, the one that made every bright thing shimmer a little differently.

Still, you tried.

You wanted to rediscover what it meant to be on your own. You tried local food, warm pretzels from a street vendor, a steaming cup of clam chowder you bought from a small shop tucked between two towering buildings, and a slice of pizza so big it felt like a joke. You wandered through museums, letting the hush of wide galleries settle into your bones. You watched strangers talk in the cold, their breath forming soft clouds in the air, and you wondered what stories they carried.

Some moments were beautiful. Some even made you laugh under your breath. But no matter where you went, your mind kept circling back to Hoseok.

You would see bright winter scarves in shop windows and remember how he shivered when you stepped out of the café that night. You would pass a street musician playing old love songs, and his smile from your snowy walk would drift into your mind so vividly it startled you. Whenever the wind blew right, you remembered how he tilted his head as he listened to you talk about the places you wanted to visit.

And then there was the amusement park.

You weren’t even planning to go, but something pulled you toward the lights blinking just beyond the river. The carousel glowed gold against the dusk sky, music floating gently through the chilly air, and for some reason, it made your throat tighten. You stood there for a long time, watching the painted horses rise and fall in slow circles. Children laughed. Couples leaned into each other. And you stood with your hands tucked into your coat pockets, staring at the lights as if they held the answer to something you couldn’t name.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t need to. The sadness was quiet, settled, like snow resting on rooftops after a long night. You were trying to convince yourself that it was just the loneliness of traveling alone, not the echo of someone you’d known for less than twenty-four hours.

Then you saw him.

Or you thought you did.

Someone in a familiar coat. Someone with the same tilt of his shoulders. Someone who walked with that soft bounce in their step. For half a second, you moved without thinking. But when the stranger turned around, it wasn’t him. Not even close.

You laughed at yourself, a small breath of disbelief leaving your lips. “Get it together,” you whispered into the chilly air. But the ache in your chest didn’t disappear.

And somewhere else in the city, Hoseok was feeling the same thing.

He had left that morning with hope. Or maybe it was desperation, disguised as hope. He met his girlfriend in a small bakery she said she always loved. He walked toward her expecting anger or tears, maybe both. But what he didn’t expect was the quiet confession that cracked the ground beneath him.

She cheated.

It wasn’t loud. She didn’t even pretend to fight for the relationship. She simply told him the truth, as though she was discussing weather or errands.

Hoseok stood there holding his coffee, feeling the city spin around him. The noise of the bakery felt too bright, too sharp. He didn’t shout. He didn’t cry. He didn’t even beg for an explanation. He simply stood there, everything going still inside him.

Maybe it was the shock. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe he had already felt it coming, but standing there, all he could think about was the snowstorm, and how the one person who showed genuine concern for him wasn’t the woman in front of him.

When he finally walked out of the bakery, he didn’t look back. He wandered for hours. He found a small hotel near Times Square, booked a room with a view that felt too big for one person, and dropped onto the bed with his phone in hand.

Your name filled his thoughts more than he wanted to admit. He didn’t want to barge back into your trip. He didn’t want to look needy or clingy or lost. He didn’t want to make you feel responsible for him. Last night, he told himself, was an accident, one the universe arranged under a snowstorm. He didn’t want to burden you again.

Even so, he thought of you constantly.

He explored the city too. He watched people skate at Rockefeller Center, stopping long enough to take a deep breath and remind himself he was here to start fresh. He walked past bookstores, imagining you inside running your fingers along the spines of novels. He stopped at a bakery and wondered if you would have liked the peppermint hot chocolate they served. At the park, he looked around once, twice, three times, half-expecting to see you sitting somewhere on a bench with your camera or phone held up to the winter light.

He missed you. But he didn’t let himself say it, even inside his own mind.

Two days passed like this, two days of wandering around the same city, both of you searching for yourselves, both of you thinking of the other at every unexpected corner, both too scared to reach out first.

Christmas Eve in New York was unlike anything you had imagined. You had seen photos, movies, scenes where thousands of people gathered under the lights of Times Square, waiting for midnight to arrive like a promise. But being there in person felt entirely different, like stepping into the heartbeat of the world.

The cold nipped at your cheeks, but the energy around you was warm, alive, electric. Music echoed from giant screens. People held cups of hot chocolate with mittens wrapped tight around them. Children sat on their parents’ shoulders, waving sparkly sticks that glowed pink and blue. Everywhere, laughter floated through the air like drifting snowflakes.

You tried to let the joy fill you. You tried to let yourself forget the ache that pressed quietly in your chest each time you thought of Hoseok. You told yourself you were here to move on, not just from your past relationship, but from everything heavy that had chained your heart for months.

But as the crowd swelled, as lights shimmered and voices rose, you felt overwhelmingly alone.

You lifted your camera from your coat pocket, snapping aimlessly at the blur of colors, hoping it would distract you. Yet even behind the lens, nothing felt right. It was as if the city had too much space around you, too much distance, too much noise that didn’t belong to you.

You stepped back, away from the loudest parts of the street. Somewhere quieter. Somewhere to breathe. Somewhere to keep your tears from slipping out.

That was when you heard it.

Your name clear, warm, familiar cut through the cold air.

At first you thought the city was playing tricks on you, the way it sometimes repeats the same tune in your head. But then you heard it again, stronger this time, carried by a voice you hadn’t allowed yourself to hope for.

“Y/N!”

You turned.

And there he was.

Hoseok stood a few meters away, breath slightly visible in the crisp air, scarf wrapped loosely around his neck, eyes wide with disbelief, like he had been searching for you without knowing he was searching.

For a moment, everything else fell silent. The screens, the music, the crowd, none of it mattered. It felt like the universe had pressed pause on the entire world, leaving only the two of you blinking at each other in the middle of Times Square, wondering if fate was simply stubborn… or if it had been waiting for this moment all along.

He stepped toward you first, weaving through people without taking his eyes off you. You didn’t move at first, your legs felt frozen, your heart stumbling in your chest like it was trying to catch up with what your eyes were seeing. But when he finally reached you, when he stood close enough for you to see the pink tint on the tip of his nose from the cold, something inside you softened.

“You’re here,” he said, almost in a whisper, as though speaking too loudly might break the moment.

“So are you,” you replied, voice small, almost shy.

Neither of you reached out, but somehow the space between you felt warm, like invisible threads had woven themselves gently back together.

“I thought… you’d be with your girlfriend tonight,” you said quietly.

His expression shifted, not pained, but honest. “We’re not together anymore.”

Your breath stilled, not in shock, but in the kind of aching empathy that comes when you care without meaning to.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

He shook his head gently. “No, I’m the one who’s sorry. For disappearing. For letting you spend the last few days alone.” His gaze softened in that way that always felt like sunlight. “I tried not to bother you. I thought you deserved space.”

“And you… deserved better,” you murmured.

Silence drifted between you—heavy, warm, full of unspoken understanding.

“You look… different,” he said after a moment, voice low. “Happier. Braver.”

“Maybe it’s the city,” you said lightly. “Or maybe I’m finally trying.”

He smiled softly. “I thought I saw you yesterday near the carousel.”

Your heart fluttered. “I thought I saw you too.”

“Well…” His smile widened, a little teasing, a little tender. “Maybe we really were near each other. Maybe we kept missing each other by a few seconds.”

You stared at him then—a long, quiet stare you didn’t know how to break. “But not tonight.”

“Not tonight,” he echoed.

The night pulsed with excitement. People held their loved ones close. Strangers shouted together. Phones rose into the air to record the moment.

Hoseok stayed in front of you, his face illuminated by swirling lights. You watched him, and you realized you didn’t want to look away.

He leaned in ever so slightly, not touching you, not crossing a line, just close enough that you could hear his voice even in the chaos.

“I’m glad I found you.”

Your heart wavered. “I’m glad too.”

And just then, the bells rang out across the city, soft and clear, announcing Christmas Eve as snowflakes drifted lazily through the golden glow of streetlights.

Merry Christmas!

The words flashed across every screen. Confetti rained down like a shower of glowing snowflakes.

And you and Hoseok stood there, caught in your own small universe.

“You want to walk?” he asked softly.

“Yes,” you said without thinking.

He gave a tiny nod. “Okay. Let’s walk.”

And with that, the two of you stepped away from the crowd, snow clinging to your coats, hearts beating in a rhythm the city seemed to recognize.

For once, you weren’t strangers passing.

You weren’t people with bad timing.

You weren’t two lives running parallel.

Tonight, you were simply two souls the universe kept returning to each other.

The apartment smelled faintly of pine and cinnamon, the lights from the small tree in the corner casting a soft glow across the room. You and Hoseok moved slowly around each other, carrying boxes of decorations, laughing quietly when ornaments rolled from your hands, or when a string of lights refused to cooperate. Outside, snow fell gently against the window, frosting the city with a delicate quiet, but inside, everything was warm, glowing, and impossibly soft.

By the door, a framed photo caught the light, your Christmas Eve in New York, just a year ago. You hadn’t stopped looking at it for weeks after returning to Seoul. The two of you, hands brushing as you held candy canes, snow settling on your coats, your eyes wide with disbelief and quiet joy. It was a frozen moment, a memory stitched into your heart, and now it hung in your apartment like a talisman, reminding you of the journey that had finally brought you together.

Hoseok leaned against the doorframe, watching you untangle a string of fairy lights, his expression soft and full of warmth. “Do you remember the rest of that night?” he asked, voice low, almost reverent.

You smiled, a mixture of wistfulness and playful mischief tugging at your lips. “Of course I do,” you said softly. “We wandered through the streets until our toes were numb, drank peppermint hot chocolate that was far too sweet, and you bought two candy canes again, for a promise that no matter what, we would always find each other.” A quiet laugh escaped you as you turned to meet his eyes. “I never imagined a candy cane could feel so… romantic.”

He chuckled, a gentle, low sound that vibrated in your chest. “It wasn’t the candy cane. It was you. That moment… it felt like the universe had been saving us for years.” His hand found yours, fingers intertwining naturally as if they had always belonged together.

You nodded, heart full and a little heavy with nostalgia. “I know. I remember feeling that pull even when I couldn’t place it. Something warm, something… safe. And then it took snow and New York and a little bit of chaos for us to finally… be together.” You pressed your forehead gently against his shoulder, breathing him in, letting the years of longing, almost encounters, and quiet heartaches melt away.

Hoseok kissed the top of your head softly. “And now we have every Christmas to look forward to, together.”

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “I can’t believe this is real.

He smiled, that perfect mix of warmth and teasing light dancing in his eyes. “I guess the universe got tired of waiting and finally decided to do its job properly.” He ruffled your hair gently, making you laugh as you tried to fix it with a pout.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of quiet domestic joy. You decorated the tree side by side, exchanging ornaments that each carried a story. Hoseok picked the ones you loved the most, while you insisted on putting the star on top, even if he had to lift you up to reach it. You shared chocolate cookies, spilling a few crumbs onto the counter, and Hoseok pretended to scold you, only to end up sneaking one himself when you weren’t looking.

Every touch felt electric, yet safe. Every glance carried a history, an intimacy that didn’t need explanation. You lingered longer than necessary over small things, holding hands across the kitchen counter, brushing snow from the window ledge, stealing quiet moments leaning against each other as the city’s distant hum carried through the walls.

At one point, Hoseok paused, sitting cross-legged on the couch with your head resting on his shoulder. He traced patterns on your hand with his thumb, soft and deliberate, and whispered, “Do you remember the first time I gave you a candy cane?”

You smiled against his chest, eyes closed. “How could I forget? You were so kind, and I felt… safe. Even then.”

“I remember thinking… even as a kid, that maybe I’d see you again,” he murmured. “And somehow, all the almosts, all the missed chances, they led to this.” He tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear, looking at you like you were the only person in existence. “I’ve wanted this—for us—for years.”

Your heart felt like it could burst. “I’ve wanted it too,” you whispered. “Even when I didn’t know it. Even when I tried to move on, every city, every street, every snowstorm… it was always you.”

Hoseok leaned down, brushing his lips softly against yours, a gentle seal on everything unspoken, everything remembered, everything finally true. You closed your eyes, letting the warmth and the love of a thousand quiet years of longing settle into you both, filling every corner of your heart.

You pulled back just enough to smile, resting your forehead against his. “This… this is the first Christmas I’ve ever felt like I really belong somewhere.”

He chuckled softly, resting his nose against yours. “And I can’t imagine spending another one anywhere else.”

You both lingered in that quiet warmth, the lights of the apartment twinkling around you, the city muffled beneath a blanket of snow, your hands and hearts intertwined. Somewhere in your memory, the carousel of childhood flickered, a reminder of all the years, the paths crossed, the universe nudging you together, step by step, almost impossibly, until finally, here you were.

Hoseok kissed the top of your hand, whispering, “Merry Christmas, Y/N. For everything we’ve been through… I’m glad we’re here now.”

You smiled, leaning your head against him, and said softly, “Merry Christmas, Hobi. For everything… I’m glad too.”

The night stretched quietly around you, full of love, soft laughter, and gentle memories. The city outside was alive with lights and music, but inside your apartment, the world had shrunk down to just the two of you. And for the first time in what felt like forever, everything was exactly as it should be.

You had found each other. The universe had finally, perfectly, brought you home.

End.

A/N: Hi lovelies! I hope this story gave you all the warmth, comfort, and gentle magic of the season. Writing Hobi was such a joy, he’s one of those characters who feels like a warm hug, and I loved exploring every little moment with him. I’d love to hear your thoughts and feelings about the story. If it brought a smile to your heart, and you feel like sending some Christmas cheer, you can support me on Ko-fi, but it’s completely optional! Thank you so much for reading.

These thoughts kept you up until your alarm sounded, telling you it was time to get ready for the day. You felt abnormally sluggish as you got changed, usually a night awake wouldn’t have such a harsh effect on you. Looking at yourself in your bedroom mirror was a bad decision, bags forming under your eyes, hair a mess from tossing and turning all night, and your sweater was completely inside out. You looked rough to say the least, maybe being out all night with someone else had a different effect than sitting in bed on your phone, different levels of energy being drained. You let out a frustrated huff before fixing yourself and leaving your room, meeting the others in the kitchen as they were eating breakfast. Everyone’s eyes catching on your exhausted face for a second before they quickly looked away, surprise and concern written all over their faces, you must look worse than you originally thought.

“Noona, did you sleep at all?” You felt Jimin’s hands cup your face and tilt your head back just a bit so he could get a better look at you, as much as you wanted to let him hold you up like this, you moved away from him with a sheepish smile.

“Don’t worry about it, Jimin-ah. I’m alright.” You turned your gaze over to Yoongi, expecting to see an expression similar to your own, but he looked the same as always. No bags, no tired eyes, no slumped shoulders… that just isn’t fair.

“Are you sure? I don’t want you falling asleep on us.” Jimin continued, turning your attention back to the concerned ginger, rolling your eyes playfully to brush off his worry.

“Do you know how often I stay up all night? I’m not gonna fall asleep.”

You fell asleep. Not even an hour after your confident claim, but in your defense, you certainly wouldn’t have fallen asleep if you were in any other situation. Squished between the two mini-heaters, Hoseok and Jungkook, in the middle seat of a van, driving down gently winding roads just outside the inner city, quiet chatter slowly lulling you to sleep as the driver took the eight of you to a park just an hour away for an outdoor shoot. You felt like passing out the second Hoseok and Jungkook started heating you up from the cold, but you stuck it out until you left the city, it wasn’t until the outside was just a haze of green and white flying by your window that you knew you were done for. Not even Jin’s windshield wiper-esque laugh was able to snap you out of it, the second your head hit Jungkook’s shoulder, you were out. Jungkook himself went stiff as a board when he felt a sudden weight on his right side, turning his head like it was controlled by an old stone wheel until he was able to look down at your sleeping face. Your cheek squished against his shoulder and your body slumped against his arm, slowly he raised head back up with a terrified expression, as if you were a rabid dog ready to pounce at any sudden movement. The maknae turned his head to look at Yoongi for help, but to his horror, the man next to him had fallen asleep as well. With no other option, Jungkook let out a helpless whimper of a call for help.

“Guys, what do I do?” His big brown eyes darted around his friends faces, a few of them started to laugh at how nervous he was over something so normal. Jungkook has always been a little too shy for his own good, it took him long enough to become comfortable with the members, and once he did he was happy living the way they were. Then you came along, you with your sweet face, and confusing attitude, you messed everything up. But he can’t blame you for that, it was his fault he fell for you so early on, and you probably just see him as a kid… He can’t blame you for that either. Even Yoongi has made more of a move on you than he has- and he hated you until yesterday! Jungkook had to do something soon or he was going to be left in the dust, he just has to work up the courage.

“Do you want me to wake her up? She can always lean on me instead.” Hoseok brought Jungkook out of his thoughts, he knew Hoseok's words held no ulterior motive, unlike if it were Tae or Jimin. But Jungkook stopped his elder before he ruined his chance.

“No!” The maknae exclaimed in a hush, “Don’t… I got it.”

“Jungkookie’s finally making a move, huh?” Jimin grinned.

“He’s confident. Just not when someone talks, looks, or stands too close to him.” Taehyung joined in, the two giggling from the backseat. But Jungkook endured their teasing, carefully letting his arm slip out from beneath you and slowly sliding it behind your back, his hand awkwardly resting off your hip. His face as pink as a peach, but to Jungkook, this was a success.

You finally stirred when the cold winter wind rushed through the open doors of the van, your eyes barely opening before you remembered where you were. Looking up at Jungkook’s nervous smile as you lifted your head from his shoulder and sat up straight, your lips were stuck in a pout as you rubbed your hand over your face in attempt to wake yourself up more.

“Have a nice nap?” Taehyung asked in a teasing tone as he stepped out of the van, you followed suit.

“How long was I out? Are we here?” You looked around at the vast field of green and white, answering your own question easily. Following the crew to the shooting space, snow covered trees and frozen grass that crunched under the weight of your steps, you made your way over to the little dirt patch taken up by the rest of the crew. Setting the members things down in a small pile and sitting in front of it, your lap covered in a makeshift blanket of seven coats. This would be the last photo shoot before the guys started preparing for the Seoul Music Awards, and honestly you were ready for a break from outdoor shoots, sitting on the cold ground in the middle of winter is not how you’d typically like to spend your work days. You watched the members pose, following the directions of the main photographer while other cameras snapped monotonously around them. You didn’t envy their single layer outfits, skinny jeans can only protect someone’s legs from the cold so much. Every once in a while one of them would run over to you to throw on their coat, which you were happy to keep warm in your lap, just for a few pitiful moments of warmth before they were called back to continue shooting. This went on for nearly an hour, the droning voice of the director, the camera snaps, the rest of the crew chatting amongst themselves… you found yourself slipping back into your tired state. Not again, I can’t fall asleep sitting on the ground… But you did, your head hanging in dead weight, which you will definitely regret in a couple hours when your neck is stiff and sore as hell.

“Her lips are turning blue.” Jin stood over your hunched body with a frown, having ran over with Yoongi to put his coat on for a second, but he left it on you when he saw you were sleeping. Yoongi turned his head to the director as the older man called Jin back, Yoongi was the first done with all his pictures, so he took a seat next to you. Maneuvering his arm to let your head lean against it before taking off his scarf, which was technically part of his costume, and wrapping it around your neck to keep your face warm. It didn’t take long for the heavy scent of tangerine to wake you back up, letting out a groan in frustration of your own actions.

“You sure talk a big game about staying up all night for someone who can’t stay awake on the job.” Yoongi glanced down at you from the corner of his eye, it didn’t go unnoticed that you were awake now, but not moving away from him. 

“I don’t normally, do I?” You muttered in irritation, “Clearly this is your fault for keeping me out all night.” 

“Oh is it? Sorry, I didn’t know you needed to be in bed at eleven, grandma.” You glared at Yoongi for a second before you realized that the two of you got back to the dorms around one in the morning, which wasn’t truly that late for you anyway. Your exhaustion must be coming from your stressful thoughts keeping you up instead.

“No, that's not it. I just-” Watch your words.

“You just?” Yoongi raised an eyebrow down at you as you finally lifted your head off his arm and sat back up, pulling his coat off your lap and handing it to him.

“I have a lot on my mind, I guess.” Letting a scowl rest on your face after finally finishing your thought, hearing the rustle of Yoongi putting on his coat as you stared forward at the rest of the members, Tae and Hoseok having broken off from the others to play with the snow.

“Sounds like you need to blow off some steam. I can help you with that.” Yoongi spoke cooly, not paying much mind to his words. But you felt your heart lurch into your throat, you wondered if it would choke you if you didn’t respond in time. Turning your head to face Yoongi with a cautious expression, your eyes darting away quickly before returning to his pale face.

“...what?” 

“There’s a bar not too far from the dorms, its kind of a hole in the wall. I’m sure a couple drinks will take whatever's stressing you out off your mind.” You visibly relaxed at his clarification, of course that’s what he meant. “Why, what did you think I was offering?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. I had no idea what you were going to say.” Your words were too quick to be convincing.

“Yeah, okay.” Yoongi chuckled, clearly amused by your wandering mind, “Pervert.” Yoongi leaned away from you with a grin as you smacked your hand down against his arm, laughing as he called for you to stop and when you put your head in your hands afterwards. Honestly a drink or two couldn’t hurt, as long as you didn’t go too hard, you were a pretty graceful drinker.

That’s what you had told yourself at least, before you and Yoongi started mindlessly knocking back drinks over the course of two hours, too lost in conversation to realize how much you had been drinking. Between your mostly empty stomach, exhaustion, and the heavy cocktails Yoongi kept ordering- you were more than tipsy at this point. You looked at Yoongi who sat next to you in the bars rounded booth, the two of you taking a spot in the back corner of the bar, as the guys often did when going out together. No one likes getting mobbed at dinner, and BTS was more than a household name, you were “lucky” to have such a hidden away bar so close to home. You shifted against the uncomfortable leather booth, your head resting in one of your hands as you watched the blonde next to you finish his glass of whatever burning liquid he chose this time, a deep frown on your face even as he looked down at you with a chuffed smile.

“You look absolutely miserable. Drinkings not working, huh?” He took your half finished glass away from you and pushed it towards the edge of the table. 

“No. Not at all.” You almost pouted, if anything, the horrid thoughts you normally keep caged up were running wild like monkeys in a zoo. You had no other choice than to trust your mouth to not spill any of your feelings, it was your last barrier of defense. 

“What’s got you so stressed now anyway? Didn’t we work everything out? It should be smooth sailing from here on out.” You turned your head away from Yoongi, as if physically ignoring his question, pushing your cheek into your other hand. 

“I don’t want to talk about it…” You muttered, a dry chuckle coming from behind you, Yoongi shaking his head before admitting defeat.

“Alright, we wont talk about it.” The rapper looked around the bar for a second before turning his attention back to you, “You know, Namjoon was pissed when I told him I was taking you out.” This perked you up easily, turning yourself around to look at Yoongi in surprise.

“He was angry?” 

“Yeah, he said something about keeping you out so late again.”

“Why? He’s not my handler.” You rolled your eyes, resting your elbows on the table in front of you and cupping your face with your hands, there was nothing you hated more than being controlled.

“I know. He knows that too, he’s just worried.” Yoongi started, your slumped over form making his smile falter, “Honestly if I knew you were going to get so sloshed I would have kept a better eye on your drinks.” 

“Yoongi!” You looked at him annoyed, making the older man jump in surprise before you continued, “You don’t need to ‘keep a better eye’ on me, Namjoon doesn’t need to worry about how late I stay out, and no one needs to know where I am every second of the day! I’m not a child, I can take care of myself.” 

“Are you sure? Because you’re slurring your words like a drunken sailor.” Yoongi snapped back at you, never one to lay down and take someones berating. “God forbid we care about you and your well being.” 

“Well stop caring…” You didn’t mean that.

“I don’t think it’s up to you to decide who we do and don’t care for.” Yoongi pushed back again, “You know, most people like hearing that they’re friends like them.”

“I do like it.” You admitted, your head filling with slightly wavy memories of times the guys have shown their affection for you. Hoseok always coming to comfort you whenever you’re upset, or Yoongi giving you his outer layers to keep you warm. Namjoon frantically calling you last night to make sure you were okay, even Taehyung asking you to sleep in bed with him was because he worried about your sleep- for the most part. All of these things made your stomach twist like you were going to be sick. You let your head fall to the table, hiding your face in your arms, “I like it too much.” 

“...We should get you home, you’re getting all weepy.” Yoongi called over the waiter and handed him his card before putting his coat on, draping yours over your shoulders. As much as he wanted to push you further for an explanation of what “too much” meant, he couldn’t take advantage of your inebriated state in good conscious. He wouldn’t want you to say something you’d regret later. You turned your head to the side to peek up at him from over your arm, waiting for him to look down at you as well.

“Do you really care about me?” Your words were muffled by your hidden face, but it was clearly audible enough for Yoongi as he looked away from you instantly.

“What, are you gonna make me say it?” The blonde picked up his card from the bill after signing for it, putting his wallet in his coat pocket before sliding out of the booth and walking over to your side. “Come on, lets get going.” 

“Yoongi..!” You frowned sadly up at him, pushing your arms through your sleeves and inching yourself away from the table.

“Alright alright, I care. Now can we go?” Yoongi pushed his lips into a line at the sight of your pleased smile. His arms held out cautiously towards you as you stepped out of the booth in case you started to fall, and despite you trying to push them away, he quickly wrapped both of them around you once you tripped over yourself. Your head was spinning horribly in a sort of rush that wouldn’t leave and after a few seconds of trying to regain your composure and stand up straight, you gave up- letting yourself lean into Yoongi’s body and rest limply against him. This was a problem, you were too drunk to stand let alone walk, and an idol shuffling an unknown girl home in the middle of the night was not a good look. Calling a taxi held the risk of the driver recognizing him, all of the companies drivers clocked out long ago, and his manager would chew him out for hours if he called. Yoongi only had one option.

A black car pulled up to the back of the bar where you and Yoongi stood, the blonde raising one of his hands to give an awkward wave to the man in the front seat. You were fading in and out of consciousness but you could still recognize the frantic voice of Hoseok, who has come to save you once again. 

“I knew the two of you going out was a bad idea. What did you do to her?” The dancer picked your head up off Yoongi’s shoulder and frowned at your guilty looking expression.

“Sorry Hobi…” You looked at him like a kicked puppy, guilt overwhelming your soul for becoming such a burden on your friends, who apparently cared for you very much. 

“I didn’t do anything to her, she can’t hold her liquor as well as I thought.” Yoongi explained to Hoseok before looking back towards the car at the sound of another door shutting, watching a very stern looking Namjoon walk over to the three of you, the eldest looking back at Hoseok with a glare. “Weak, dude. He’s gonna kick my ass.”

“Get in the car.” Namjoon scowled at the sight of you dangling off of Yoongi before he looked over your wobbly stance, taking your arms gently away from Yoongi and putting them around his own shoulders instead. You let out a sound of surprise as Namjoon scooped you up and held you in a princess hold, carrying you to the car and helping you into the backseat. Despite his tense and frustrated face, he didn’t actually seem to be angry at you or even Yoongi, just worried. Somehow that felt worse. You watched him silently as he got into the front seat and Hoseok rushed into the drivers side, backing out of the alleyway and heading home, you turned your head to watch the street lights fly by instead.

You can’t even remember how you managed to make it up the intense flight of stairs to the dorm, your night was flashing in and out of view, but for now you stood leaning your weight against Namjoon in between the kitchen and livingroom. You couldn’t make out anyone's voices, but people were definitely talking about you.

“She looks like a zombie…”

“Is she even awake? We should help her to bed right?” 

“Should someone help her… get dressed?” 

“I can do it.” That must have been Jimin, but he didn’t sound flirty like you would have expected, his voice laced with worry instead.

“No.” The dorm spoke at once.

“If anyone’s gonna help her it should be me, I’ve already seen her in a towel.” And there’s Taehyung. The room fell silent.

“Okay, we’ll talk about that at a later time. No one needs to help her get dressed, if she wanted to sleep comfortably then she shouldn’t have gotten shitfaced.” You could tell Namjoon was speaking from the rumble in his chest against your cheek. The leader helping you stumble down the hallway and into your bedroom, before he let you down gently against your bed, you watched him through a haze as he worked at taking off your shoes. You let your body act on it’s own whim and pushed your fingers through his pink hair, moving it away to get a look at his concentrated face. Namjoon took your hand out of his hair and held it tightly in his own as he pulled your blanket over your body, his grip loosening as he tried to leave, but you only tightened your fingers around his. 

“Stay, please.” You muttered softly, your eyes hooded but pleading as you looked up at the taller man from your pillow. That seemed to work well enough, one look at your face and Namjoon was sitting down beside your legs, holding your hand in his lap and letting his thumb mindlessly trace circles into the back of your hand.

“I’ll stay until you fall asleep.” His deep voice floated in the air around your head, but you didn’t let yourself sit in comfort just yet, you had guilt to express.

“I’m sorry…” 

“For what? We all get too drunk sometimes. Next time you’ll be more careful, and now you know never try to keep up with Yoongi.” He smiled down at you, but you weren’t satisfied, letting quiet settle over the room before speaking up again.

“For making you worry.” Silence followed for an uncomfortably long time, long enough to accept your new role as the worst person alive- maybe you should avoid drinking for a while.

“It’s alright, Y/n.” If Namjoon was as angry as Yoongi said, he was handling it well, but that’s to be expected from the leader. You’ve never experienced anger that felt like a warm hand rubbing against your back as if trying to put you to sleep before, but that’s what you were feeling now. Peaking over your shoulder to study Namjoon’s clenched jaw and thoughtful eyes staring down the rug before your bed, you wanted to tap into his mind to know what he was thinking, but at the same time you know you’re too scared to hear something negative about yourself come from him. And maybe he was right to be worried, what would you and Yoongi have done if Hoseok didn’t pick up the phone? You’d be screwed in so many ways, it’s not even worth trying to count.

Namjoon’s thought process wasn’t too different from your own. As the leader he needs to make sure everyone’s image stays in tact, as their friend he needs to make sure everyone's health and feelings stay in tact, and at this moment he’s failing. Two of his friends out every night, falling asleep in the middle of the day, the rest stuck worrying about them in the dorms. When Hoseok told him that Yoongi needed help getting you home from the bar, he wasn’t even angry, only worried for your wellbeing and what this would mean for yours and Yoongi’s friendship. The idea of asking BigHit to take away the personal assistant position had crossed his mind a few times in your first couple days, despite how much he and the others liked having you around. If one member was unhappy then it effects the whole team, and he saw the aftermath of keeping you around despite this, fights… secrets. So why, now that everyone's on the same page on you being here and in their lives, are more problems arising. Something clicked in Namjoon’s head. He turned his head to glance at your sleeping face before slowly taking his hand off your back and quietly stepping out of your room, meeting Yoongi who stood directly outside your door. 

“Is she asleep?” The blonde looked up at Namjoon with a semi concerned look painted over his face. Namjoon only furrowed his eyebrows.

“Yeah, she is.” He grabbed onto Yoongi’s arm and brought him away for your door just a bit before continuing to speak, “What’s your game here?” 

“What? What are you talking about?” 

“You taking her out all night and requesting all her time, what are you playing at, you hated her for months and now you’re suddenly best friends.” Namjoon scowled at his friend.

“I’m making an effort. That’s what I’m playing at. You told me to get to know her and give her a chance, that’s what I’m doing.” Yoongi’s face was unmoving as he defended himself, finding the leaders words ridiculously out of left field. 

“You’re not trying to sabotage her job or how we feel about her actions..?” Namjoon’s words suddenly sounded crazy to himself as well.

“No, quit worrying so much. You’re not in charge of her, you know? She was very adamant to let me know that she’s an independent person who doesn’t want anyone to care for her.” Yoongi crossed his arms over his chest as he remembers your drunken words, rolling his eyes a bit. 

“She said that?” Namjoon was surprised to hear that from you. 

“Yeah, but she didn’t mean it. She said that too.” Namjoon looked back at your door along with Yoongi, a little frown planted on his lips over the thought of you being upset with him for caring about you.

“I don’t want you taking her out every night anymore.” Yoongi let out a scoff at the leaders demand.

“Then tell her that, she doesn’t have to say yes every time I invite her out.” 

“I’m telling you because I don’t want you staying out either. It’s not good for you.” Namjoon glanced down at Yoongi from the corner of his eye, watching the older man rub the back of his neck and look away. A little smile returning to Namjoon’s face, just big enough to show his dimples. 

“Yeah well… whatever.” Yoongi let out a little huff before he walked down the hall to his room.

“And stop smoking.” Namjoon called after the blonde, earning a pale middle finger peaking out past the door frame.

If you looked bad yesterday, today you looked like death incarnate. Your hair was unstyled, your clothes wrinkled, and you could barely raise your shoulder enough to align with your hips, droopily following the guys around like an old hound dog. You were lucky that today would be mostly dance practice as they started to prepare for the music awards next week, letting you sit up against the wall and watch them rework choreo instead of running around. If you were conscious enough you would have noticed the worried glances, and almost guilty look on Yoongi’s face, every time they spotted you slumped over, still you insisted you were fine when asked. Namjoon was planning his conversation with you in his head the whole day, how he’d be calm and understanding to your feelings of needing independence, but all of that flew out the window during your break for lunch. 

“Did she get hit? Why is her cheek all puffy?” Jungkook looked at you in concern as he leaned over the lunch table, looking over you as you slept against Jin’s shoulder.

“There's food in her mouth, Jungkook.” Hoseok muttered, his lips twisted up in a grimace.

“Should we wake her up? I don’t want her to choke.” Taehyung’s deep voice helped you to stir from sleep, your eyes barely open as you try to recombobulate yourself and your surroundings. 

“Oh Jin, she’s drooling on your sweater.” Your eyes widened at Jimin’s comment, closing your mouth and covering it with your hand as you sat up and looked at the little line of drool on Jin’s shoulder.

“There are worse things.” The eldest reached over to pick up his napkin and wipe himself off. Your face burned in embarrassment as you swallowed the rice that had been sitting in your mouth for who knows how long, you couldn’t believe you fell asleep in the middle of lunch. 

“What happened? You got tired of chewing and just gave up?” Jimin teased with a grin. You looked over everyone's mixed reactions, the three youngest thought it was funny, Hoseok looked grossed out as usual, Jin was just happy you were able to sleep, and Yoongi looked sheepish as he stood next to Namjoon- who’s face was as stiff as a board.

“I don’t know what happened, I was just-”

“I know what happened.” Namjoon cut you off, “You can’t keep yourself awake because your staying up all night and it finally caught up to you. It’s irresponsible for you to be here any longer today, I want you to go home.” This was not a request, you didn’t know how to respond. If you didn’t do what he said you would be seen as stubborn and argumentative- which you were, but you didn’t want them to know that. But if you followed his demand then you’d relinquish a piece of your autonomy that you desperately cling to. You didn’t want to be seen as someone who couldn’t make their own choices and needed to be taken care of, but clearly that’s the path you were heading in. Your face falling as your eyes cast down towards your lap, wordlessly following Namjoon’s directions felt like you were stabbing yourself in the back, all that time you spend on your own trying to become the person you wanted to be was suddenly flushed down the drain. But you continued, taking your things and walking out of the cafeteria for one of the drivers to bring you back to the dorms. The seven others watched you trudge out of the room like a scolded child before going back to their food, the mood slightly dampened if anything.

“For someone who doesn’t want to be controlled, she sure is good at doing what she’s told.” Yoongi quipped before glaring over at Jimin, five sets of eyes doing the same. Jimin looking around in exacerbation.

“I didn’t even say anything this time!” The ginger exclaimed haughtily before he sat back down in his seat.

Your heart was moving erratically around your chest as you stepped through the front door of the dorms, marching straight to your room to rip off your shoes and coat instead of putting them in their normal spots at the entrance. You sat down your bed, committed to staying still like a deer in nonexistent headlights, just for a few moments. That was mortifying, but he can’t order me around like that. You finally ripped your eyes away from the floor with furrowed brows, frustration and embarrassment burning in your stomach as you wandered around for something to do, lord knows you wouldn’t be able to sleep now anyway- not with the looming anxiety of what will happen when everyone comes home. You kept yourself busy, washing dishes, cleaning out and reorganizing the fridge, finally throwing out the rest of the cake from New Years. You picked up the laundry and folded it all, you washed the shower, you even dusted every little nicknack in sight. By the time the members got home, the house was sparkling, and you were sat up straight on the couch, watching some mindless TV. You looked at the clock on the wall once you heard the door unlock, it was only six-fifteen, they must have come straight home from the dorms. Locking your fingers together and toying with them anxiously as you watched them look around the spotless house impressed.

“Aish, Y/n, maybe we should hire you as a maid instead.” Jin gave you a playful smile but you couldn’t reciprocate, looking instead to Namjoon whose eyes were focused on you as well.

“You didn’t sleep then?” His voice was calm, but you saw his eyebrow quirk up in irritation.

“No. I was-” You could barely get yourself off the couch before the leader stuck out his hand and pointed at it, stopping you in your tracks.

“Sit.” He commanded you once again and you glared in response, having full intentions on telling him off but you instinctively sat back down, chewing at your bottom lip and looking forward towards the table in front of you instead of him. You’re heart fluttered at his demanding tone. That’s not good. You thought with slowly widening eyes, until now Namjoon had been nothing but caring and concerned, you must have snapped his last nerve. And against your own better judgment, you liked the idea of pissing him off.

“She’s not a dog, Hyung…” Tae muttered softly as they crowded around the living room, Hoseok leading Yoongi to sit next to you on the couch, the rest of them either sitting in the chairs or standing around you. This felt too familiar, for some reason, you thought once you left home the scoldings and punishments would stop. No more walking on eggshells or sneaking into the house to avoid getting in trouble, but here you were, in the same position you ran away from years ago. You looked up at Namjoon, Jin, and Hoseok who sat on the table in front of you, the three attempting to get on yours and Yoongi’s level to talk to you. Jin spoke first.

“Now, no one is in trouble.” He started, “We just wanted to talk to you both about your… recent habits.” Your face was still harsh and Yoongi looked bored if anything, was this some sort of intervention?

“I don’t really think this is necessary.” You mumbled, but Namjoon huffed in response.

“I was going to wait, but after seeing you asleep with a spoonful of rice in your mouth, I thought now would be a good a time as any to have this conversation. Don’t you agree?” He raised his eyebrows, as if daring you to rebuttal. You stayed silent.

“It’s not like either one of you had a good sleep schedule to begin with, but you getting together and going out all night is different.” Hoseok continued for the other two, “You’re exhausted all day, Yoongi you’ve never been sloppier in practice and Y/nie you haven’t been able to accept a request since this weekend. That’s going to effect your pay, and none of us want that.” You cast your eyes down, you hadn’t even thought about being unavailable for requests while you’re either too tired to stay awake or out with Yoongi, or how staying out with you would effect him in return.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make anyone upset, I’ll do better and work on my sleep schedule.” You spoke formally, hopefully indicating that you’re being sincere.

“You’re damn right you will. That’s why both of you are going to bed at nine.” You and Yoongi looked up at the leader in shock of his demand, but you couldn’t find it inside yourself to defy him, feeling more like a child than a friend at the moment. 

“I could use a few extra hours…” Yoongi nodded his head to the side, looking out the window as the others got up to start preparing dinner. But you sat still in your spot, slowly pushing the pad of your finger against your thumbnail as you relived similar moments before you left home, you even stayed when Yoongi left to help Jin in the kitchen- leaving you alone on the couch, a heavy cloud over your head. You didn’t snap out of your thoughts until you felt Taehyung replace Yoongi on the couch and pull you to his side, your head falling onto his chest as you distracted yourself with the goings on in the kitchen.

Jimin had watched your body language change during the conversation, how you became frigid once the idea of a sort of punishment was placed on your shoulders, and your blank stare long after the last words were spoken. The dancer frowned in concern and nudged Tae to comfort you while he moved down the hall to catch Namjoon, stopping before the leaders door and speaking quietly.

“Hyung, do you think that was the right move? Did you see her face?” Jimin wasn’t normally one to question Namjoon’s actions, he was the leader for a reason, but he couldn’t stand making you feel so bad. Namjoon glanced down the hall before meeting Jimin’s eyes.

“I’m not sure.” Was all the leader said before he gently shut the door. Jimin grimaced as he walked back down the hall and leaned against the countertop, watching Jungkook bumble around the kitchen in attempts to be Jin and Yoongi’s assistant since you were preoccupied having some sort of existential crisis. And while he waited, Jimin started planning something to fix your mood.

It was already seven by the time you finished dinner and did the washing up, only two hours until you were confined to your room to try and get a full nights sleep. The worst part of all this is that they were right, and you knew it. The way you’re living is unhealthy, skipping meals, not sleeping, drinking on an empty stomach, you’re living a party girl lifestyle while working the equivalent of a nine-to-five. You already know what happens when you have a mental crash, it never ends well, so despite your wounded pride, you were determined to fall asleep at a reasonable hour. For you, that starts with a hot shower to wash away the stress of the day, the hot water dripping down your back and shoulders as you stepped out of the tub in a towel. You wiped the steam off the small mirror and opened the small cabinet to gather your skin and hair care products, but they weren’t there. The small section of shelf you claimed was empty of everything except your tweezers, your eyebrows furrowing in confusion as you spun around in the tiny bathroom in case someone moved your things. Great. This is exactly what I wanted. I bet Jungkook stole my moisturizer again. You dressed yourself in your nightwear and stepped out of the bathroom, ready to face a guilty maknae before you heard someone call your name in the living room.

“Noona!” You recognized Jimin’s melodic voice easily, following it down the hallway and seeing him and Taehyung sat on the couch, white flimsy sheet masks on their faces and all of your products set on the table in front of you.

“What is this..?” You couldn’t help but smile at the sight of your friends in their “spa-wear,” matching pajama sets, hair pushed back with cushiony headbands. You sat in the space between them, letting a grin break out on your face when Tae ripped open another sheet mask and helped you set it on your face, Jimin pushing his fingers through your wet hair to get it away from your face and the mask.

“We thought it would help you relax.” Jimin hummed from behind you as he picked up your brush and started to work it through the tangles in your hair. You couldn’t believe how sweet the two were being with you, your eyes grazing over Taehyung’s concentrated face as he pushed his thumbs over the curve of your cheeks, working the sheet masks moisturizer into your skin. Only looking away after the two of you make eye contact for a second, thanking the white sheet over your face to hide the bashful blush creeping onto your cheeks. The three of you sat together for the rest of your time, Jimin raking his fingers through your hair to distribute the products you use, your eyes closing each time you felt his fingernails gently drag against your scalp. Tae having to rip his eyes away from your blissful face quiet a few times throughout the night and focus his attention back on the TV, eventually sliding his arm around your waist once you sat back against the couch, sending a smug look over your head to Jimin once he tried to do the same.

“It’s nine, Y/n-ah-” Hoseok’s eyes widened at the sight of you in between Jimin and Tae, three masked faces looking up at him blankly from the couch. Hoseok’s laugh rang throughout the dorm as he snapped pictures of the three of you, cooing over how cute you looked together before he pushed his phone back into his pocket, smiling as you stood from the couch and gathered your things into your arms.

“Thanks for the spa guys, you’re too sweet to me.” You started to follow Hoseok down the hall but stopped once Taehyung called for you.

“Noona wait.” The taller man stood as he pulled his mask off, reaching out to peel yours off your face as well before giving you a smile. “Sleep well, Noona.” 

“I will.” You smiled back and let Hoseok walk you to your room, the rubbing your shoulder affectionately as he stood before you.

“Please try to sleep, Y/n. It’s important.” He looked at you with an almost pleading smile.

“I’ll try, I promise.” You weren’t lying, you were going to try your best to sleep tonight, which is why it’s so frustrating to still be tossing and turning three hours later.

You tried everything, you listened to relaxing music, you made a very quiet cup of tea, you tried watching a boring movie, you even tried to put away all electronics and simply meditate. But nothing worked. On your fortieth attempt of getting comfortable you nearly gave up, staring at the crack of light under your bedroom door for what felt like thirty minutes, you had no idea what to do. Why is it, when the one time you wanted to fall asleep, you couldn’t? Does the universe have some vendetta against you? Maybe this is Karma for your winter break shenanigans, you couldn’t sleep then, and you basically went crazy until- …

“No.” Your voice felt foreign in the silence of your room, but you needed to audibly hear yourself deny the idea that popped into your head. Turning onto your back to stare up at the ceiling stiffly and cringing when your eyes darted back to your door, forcing yourself to sit up and look at your clenched fingers as if they held the answers to your plight. Yes, it’s true, you couldn’t sleep well over vacation until you got into Taehyung's bed, but that doesn’t mean Taehyung’s bed is the answer here- also, there was no Taehyung in Taehyung’s bed then! You pushed the heels of your palms down your thighs as you contemplated your options, this was your fault of course, you wouldn’t be in this situation if you just acted like a responsible adult. Namjoon wouldn’t hate you, no one would be disappointed, and the idea of cuddling up to Tae would be a very very very secret consideration. It’s almost worse knowing he wants you there as well, he’s the one that said to join him if you couldn’t sleep- which you can’t. I have to make some sort of decision. You thought to yourself, a thought you wished you had before you already left your room and nervously stood with your hand hovering over the throuples door handle. Touching your fingertips to the cold metal and twisting the handle at a snails pace, not wanting to wake anyone up as you struggled to work up the courage to do what you were already doing. The latch clicked open and you gently pushed the door, opening it to almost complete darkness aside from the night sky lighting up a small square of the floor, tinting the room blue as your eyes readjusted to the darkness. You could hear three very distinct snores come from the members, which would have been charming if you weren’t about to turn to dust at any sudden sound or movement.

“Tae…” You whispered, clearly not loud enough, only getting a low snore in return. “Taehyung.” You tried again, nothing. Looking around the room before tiptoeing over and sitting yourself down on the edge of the bed, your hand shaking as you gently pushed against Taehyung's arm but the man still wouldn’t budge. Now what? Do I leave? You bit down on your lip and looked away towards Hoseok’s side of the room before whipping your head around at the sound of Taehyung’s groggy voice.

“Noona..?” You watched him push his bangs out of his face and squint at you tiredly.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t, uh. I’ll just go.” You were committed to bailing the second you saw Taehyung’s eyes open, but he only pulled you back down to the bed when you tried to stand up.

“You can stay with me, Y/n.” He let his hand slide down from your wrist to hold your hand and gently pull you towards him as he pushed himself further towards the wall. Your face was clenched and unmoving as you crawled over to lay next to him, your hand shaking in his until he pulled your arm over his shoulder and slid his long fingers against your stomach and around your waist. A squeak escaping your mouth at the feeling of the pads of his fingertips gently pushing against your middle until his arms were wound tightly around your waist, your own fingers digging into the fabric of his sweatshirt. He tangled your legs together messily as he pushed his face into the crook of your neck, forcing you to raise your head up and jolting each time the slight stubble on his chin scratched against against your collar bone.

“Tae…” You managed to squeeze out a slight plea for him to let up on you, your eyes cracking wide open when you heard Hoseok's voice break through the tense moment.

“I don’t care what you two are doing, but keep it quite or take it somewhere else.” The elder grumbled as he turned over to face his wall, throwing his blanket over his head. The implications of that sentence were a mess, if he thought the two of you were… anyway- how could his only complaint be the noise?! You glanced down at Tae to see if he were going to defend your honor from Hoseok’s insinuation, but the younger man only hummed in satisfaction of annoying his Hyung. Your teeth clenching as he moved his face to point down towards you, his lips pressed up against your shoulder blade before he let out a hefty sigh, then he was out like a light. How he managed to fall asleep in this position was beyond you, between his hands flat against your back and his thigh ever so slowly nudging up to get in between yours, you feared you cursed yourself to another sleepless night- this time featuring some sort of ever thrumming provocative panic. But as the minutes slowly ticked away, and you were left with nothing new but the steady pattern of Taehyung’s breaths hitting your shoulder and his chest slowly rising and falling against yours, you found yourself feeling the same comfort you sought out last month. The smell of chamomile and his expensive shampoo, your arms hanging off his shoulders just how you imagined when you held his pillow, only this time he was holding you back. Your heart finally steadied in your chest and you let yourself drift off to sleep, only three and a half hours late.

Namjoon didn’t sleep well last night either, guilt licking like flames against the inside of his stomach. He knew that he overstepped with the amount of control he had over you, he wasn’t technically in charge of you the same way he was with the other members, still he felt responsible to make sure you’re safe and well. The little moments of sleep he got was interrupted each time with worry of how his actions would effect how you see him from now on, and how he’s changed your relationship. It was around five in the morning when the mechanical sound of a faded alarm clock pulled him from his last attempt at sleep, he recognized it as yours, having heard it distantly a few times before. The leader let out a sigh as he slid himself off his bed and trudged himself to the bathroom, rubbing a square hand over his face and grabbing his toothbrush from the cup on the sink. Looking over his reflection in the mirror as he brushed his teeth, the dark circles under his tired eyes, the little lines forming in the corners of his mouth. Namjoon turned his head to the side and slid a hand along his jaw, feeling the stubble scrape against his fingers before he spit and washed out his mouth. Opening the medicine cabinet and raising his hand to grab his razor but something made him pause, an empty space where your things used to sit. Namjoon squinted at the vacant shelf before he closed the door, looking at himself in confusion before the sound of your alarm still going off in your room came back into focus.

“Oh no…” The leader muttered to himself as he rushed to open the bathroom door and stumble out into the hall.

“Jesus, Namjoon! Are you trying to break another door?” Jin jumped back to get out of the way of the frantic leader, Jungkook doing the same as he stepped out of his bedroom and nearly collided with Namjoon as he made a b-line for yours. The maknae giving Joon a strange look before he headed to the kitchen to make himself something to hold him over until breakfast, Jin instead watching his pink haired friend frantically knock on your door only to open it with no reply from you. “What are you doing?” 

“Y/n’s gone.” Namjoon slammed his hand down on your alarm clock, looking at your empty and unmade bed with dread written over his face before he turned back to Jin who stood in the doorway, “She’s missing- she ran away!” 

“Okay, she didn’t run away, she’s not a child.” Jin dodged Namjoon once again as he ran down the hall to see if your coat and shoes were at the front door- they weren’t.

“That’s exactly why she ran away! I treated her like a child, I knew I went to far I shouldn’t have said anything…” Namjoon’s heart was in his throat as he let himself fall into one of the living room chairs, he chased you away, bad enough to leave everything behind and skip town without another word. He couldn’t even raise his eyes to look at Yoongi as he came out of his room.

“What’s with all the running around? It’s like five in the morning…” The blonde scowled but looked on in concern at the sight of the nearly soulless Namjoon and Jin comforting him gently, Jungkook scarfing down a bowl of cereal with an unbothered expression next to them. “What’s going on?” 

“Namjoon thinks he chased Y/n-ah out of the house.” Jin looked over at Yoongi with a tight expression, honestly he was starting to believe you left as well.

“She’s not here and all her stuff is gone from the bathroom, what else could it mean?” The leader pushed his hands into his face in frustration, how could he be so hot headed and reckless? Yoongi walking into the living room and joining Jin beside Namjoon, the two questioning where you could have gone and how far could you make it on foot in the middle of winter.

“Good morning, Noona.” Jungkook smiled as he watched you enter the kitchen already ready for the day and make yourself your own bowl of cereal, Namjoon ripping his hands from his face in surprise before he pushed himself past Jin and Yoongi to stand next to you at the counter. The eldest turning slowly to look at Jungkook with a twitching eye.

“Jungkook-ah. How did you know Y/n was here?” His tone was sickly sweet.

“Jimin hyung told me.” The older two whipped their heads around to see Jimin raise his hand in a wave from the kitchen before looking back at Jungkook.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?!” Yoongi joined in on Jin’s berating of the maknae.

“No one asked me.” Jungkook grinned cheekily at his Hyungs, showing off his bunny like teeth.

Truth be told, you were awake for the entirety of Namjoon’s little freak out, and you could have gotten up at anytime to assure him that you were still here. You woke up just as the sun was peaking through the window and lighting up a streak across your eyes, living in a room facing the sunrise must be a pain, you blinked yourself awake and turned your head away from the sun only to be face to face with a seemingly knocked out Tae. Your breath caught in your throat at the sight of his face so close to yours, the tips of your noses nearly touching before you tried to scoot away from him to no avail, holding onto you tightly in his sleep. Huffing softly through your nose, admittedly you didn’t really want to leave his hold anyway, and you really didn’t want to wake him up, so you settled back into his arms and let your eyes wander over his face. You had never been this close to Taehyung for such a long amount of time, you could see every pore on his face, a little smile coming to your face at the ridiculousness of the situation. You never noticed before now that his eyelids were different shapes, one mono and one double, or the little freckle on the tip of his nose. And how he must shave every morning before seeing you, because his five o’clock shadow had only gotten bigger from last night. You let your fingers slowly trace his jawline, his stubble rough against the pads of your fingertips, ripping your hand away once you felt a pair of freezing hands slide up the back of your top and flatten against your bare back. You let out a squeal, pushing against Taehyung’s arms as he laughed, you nearly got away from him but he grabbed onto your wrists and pulled you under him. Taehyung hovering over you with a big boxy smile plastered over his face.

“Don’t leave yet, Noona. I’m sorry.” He giggled at your bright red face and embarrassed expression, fully understanding the position he’s put the two of you in. The taller man letting himself lay almost fully on top of you once you nodded your head in agreement to stay, his head resting on your shoulder and his arm and leg thrown over your body. You almost let yourself relax for a second before your eyes met with a set of dark brown ones almost five feet above you, Jimin peeking over the railing of his bed with a smug smile, you shook your head in response to a question he didn’t ask, watching him hop down the ladder and leave with the same smug look never faltering.

By the time Taehyung let you get up, the two of you had heard most of the “Y/n ran away” debacle happening outside the door. You managed to sneak out to your room in the mess of it all and get ready for the day before you walked out into the kitchen like nothing odd was going on, waving to Jungkook but not turning around to face him as you poured a bowl of cereal. Jimin was still giving you a sort of look that you didn’t really know how to process, nor did you have time to as Namjoon ran up to your side, you didn’t turn to look at him.

“Y/n… Uh, where were you? I checked your room and you weren’t there.” The leader spoke almost timidly, so far you’ve seen three different Namjoons- Leader Joon, who was calm and caring, the one who requested to take you on walks and ask you how you’re doing. This sheepish and embarrassed Namjoon, who appeared when he admitted to stealing your perfume. And the Joon you saw last night, who was short tempered and demanding, that’s the Namjoon you’ve made your new duty to bring out as much as possible, as a sort of revenge… no other reason. 

“I stayed with Taehyung last night.” Now that turned some heads, you could feel three sets of eyes burning into your back. But while Jin and Yoongi’s faces were still, Jungkook’s jaw had dropped to the floor, he had only asked Jimin if he had seen you this morning, he didn’t think to clarify where. Jungkook knew he needed to step up his game, he just thought he had more time, soon Jimin would be all over you as well, then he’d be stuck waiting for an opening that would never come. Namjoon shook off his dumbfounded face to clear his throat, of course you had to be in someone else's room, he should have thought of that first before freaking out.

“Oh. Well… How’d you sleep?”

“Wonderfully.” You grinned, finally looking up at the towering man beside you. You weren’t lying, being lulled to sleep by Taehyung’s gentle snoring and his long arms holding you securely to him had you feeling like you slept for a week straight, you were still trying to convince yourself that it had nothing to do with your feelings for him. “You were right, I should have listened to you from the start.” 

“About that. Y/n-ah, I really overstepped last night. I shouldn’t have spoken to you so-” 

“Don’t you have to get ready, Joon?” You cut him off, tilting your head to the side with a little pout. Namjoon’s eyes widened as he glanced at the clock then to himself still in his boxers and sleep shirt, having to hold back your laugh as he tripped over himself trying to rush to his room and get ready before he ran out of time. You smiled cheekily down at your bowl before looking up at Yoongi as he leaned over the island towards you, his arms resting folded on the countertop, the blonde having migrated over as you and Namjoon spoke.

“You just love to cause trouble, don’t you?” His eyes were sharp as he looked down at you, not hiding the entertained grin playing at his lips. You only leaned in as well, suddenly not afraid to throw his attitude back in his face.

“What can I say? I’d hate to be a bore.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

authors note: 2025 has been rough to me and that's really no secret. but thanks to this blog, this community, and all of you, my mutuals, casual readers, and even the silent lurkers - i live to write another year. this blog and all of you on it give me something to look forward to even on my dimmest days. and here's a special round of love to all you who made me smile even brighter. no matter how much we interact or speak, you made this year worth it. thank you.

˖°࿐pilot: the unlikely alliance ˖°࿐

Namjoon was freaking out.

Not the dignified, angelic kind of concern they teach you in orientation—the calm, glowing, “it is what it is” sort of thing. No. This was the sweaty-palmed, wide-eyed, “oh my God, I am going to get fired from Heaven” kind of panic.

He had looked away for two minutes. Two bloody minutes. One hundred and twenty seconds. The time it takes for a kettle to almost boil or for Park Jimin to cause catastrophic levels of chaos. And in those seconds… his kid disappeared.

Like—poof.

One second she was there, happily reading, breathing, existing. The next second she was nowhere. Not behind him. Not beside him. Not even doing the little kid thing where they hide and giggle behind curtains.

Gone.

This had never happened before. In his 200 years of existence—two centuries of guarding babies, toddlers, teenagers, and once a 35-year-old man-child who skateboarded without a helmet—he had never lost a kid. Not once.

And yet here he was.

It was all because of that sneaky, pink airhead Park Jimin. Namjoon was sure of it. He was the root of all his problems. Always. Jimin had come floating in, smelling of strawberries and disobedience, distracting him with some “urgent celestial paperwork” (which turned out to be a doodle of a duck in a suit). And during that tiny distraction—gone. Kid lost. Record ruined.

Bet he plotted this, Namjoon thought miserably. Busy Namjoon with nonsense so his sparkly clean record gets dirtied by irresponsibility. Then Jimin will finally be able to say, “See? You’re not that perfect.”

No. No. Absolutely not. This could not be happening.

He needed to find her. Before his superiors found out. Before his perfect file got a red line across it. Before… before his kid got hurt.

He swallowed. His wings twitched behind him—they always did that when he was nervous. They were big and white and glowy and completely, infuriatingly useless.

Think, Namjoon. Think.

Where could a little seven-year-old have actually gone?

He pictured her—tiny ponytail, mismatched socks, eyes too big for her face, the way she always stuck her tongue out when she coloured. She wasn’t the type to go running off recklessly. She was a good kid. A really good kid. She said please and thank you and “good morning, mister angel” even though he told her not to call him that.

So where would she go?

Well, there was only one way to find out.

Namjoon started searching.

And when Namjoon searched, he really searched.

He checked every public restroom in a three-mile radius—even the ones with scary graffiti and no toilet seats. He cleared out a museum because he thought he saw a tiny shoe in the Ancient Egypt section (it was not her; it was an exhibit). He stopped an ice cream van mid-drive and interrogated the ice cream man like a detective in a crime drama.

“Have you seen a little girl? About this tall? Smells like cotton candy?”

The man blinked. “This is a Mr Whippy, mate.”

He looked through parks, toy stores, and libraries. He questioned street performers. He asked a pigeon. He even looked through every trash can along his way—every trash can—because kids can be weird and sometimes they crawl into places they shouldn’t.

The thing about Namjoon—the guardian angel—was that although he had wings, they were only for show. Purely decorative. Like the gold cutlery humans bought but never used. He couldn’t actually fly. So he had to do all that searching on foot.

And by the time he was done looking through every trash can in the city, five whole days had gone by.

Five. Days.

His kid was still missing.

To make matters worse, if she had been kidnapped—which he was now strongly starting to suspect, because what normal disappearance lasted five days—then he had completely missed the golden hour to get her back. Angels had guidelines about this. There were PowerPoints. There were seminars. He’d missed it.

Namjoon was truly, fully, heavenly-committee-level fucked.

His brain started going to the worst places. Angels were supposed to be composed—but Namjoon was a soft one. An overthinker.

Oh my God, what if his kid was somewhere tied up and her kidnappers were requesting a huge ransom?

He didn’t even have money. You didn’t get paid to be an angel. You got grace points. You couldn’t trade grace points for cash. He’d tried.

Or worse… what if they were forcing her to eat broccoli? She hated broccoli. She once cried because it was “a tree and trees are friends.”

No. No. No.

This could not be happening.

What if… what if… what if she was dead and lying in a pool of her own blood?! 

He slapped his cheeks. No. He refused to let his brain go there.

There was only one place remaining for Namjoon to look.

He had left it for last on purpose. Like when you do a maths exam—you try every possible formula and leave the question you’re certain is definitely wrong for last. This was that kind of scenario.

Her house.

He didn’t want to check there because if she wasn’t outside, she should be home, and if she wasn’t home… then something was really wrong.

So Namjoon took the bus—because once again, he could not fly—and headed to the kid’s house. He sat stiffly in the plastic seat, wings squished and folded as much as possible, trying not to glow too much so humans wouldn’t stare. A toddler across from him waved. Namjoon waved back weakly.

When he arrived, he expected noise. Crying, at least. A distressed mother. A panicking father. The butler yelling into a phone. Police tape. Something.

Instead, he was met with silence.

The house—which was usually alive with footsteps and vacuuming and the distant sound of cartoons—was still. Too still. Like it had taken a big breath and held it.

Bewildered, Namjoon checked every room. Kitchen. Study. Guest room. Even the wine cellar. Nothing. He opened a bathroom door very slowly, thinking, If I see a human corpse, I will simply pass away, but it was empty too.

Not a single living soul.

No parents. No annoying butler. No housecleaners. No bodyguards. Not even the house cat.

Something was not right.

He rubbed his chin, wings rustling, and made his way to the place he knew best: his kid’s room.

The moment he opened the door, her smell hit him—that particular mix of cotton candy, bubble bath, and clean laundry. The curtains were drawn halfway, letting in a soft afternoon light that made the room look warm and quiet. The bed was freshly made, which was strange, because she was not a bed-making child. Toys were thrown in a messy-but-organised way in one corner, like she’d been playing some elaborate game and then vanished mid-story. Her books were in a pretty pile, The Jungle Book left open as if she’d only looked away for a second.

Namjoon sat on the edge of the bed.

It was too big for a little child.

Just like this world.

Where was she? This world was too big for her. Too sharp around the edges. He thought of all the things she could be exposed to—cold, hunger, people who didn’t care about her favourite plushie. He thought of her small hands. He thought of the way she always shared her snacks with him even though, technically, angels didn’t eat.

He felt himself sink into a sad, dramatic pity-party. He was good at those.

He stared at the floor.

He did not stare at the bed.

He should’ve stared at the bed.

Because from under the bed, two long, green, sharp claws shot out and grabbed him by the ankles.

Namjoon looked down slowly, like a man realising too late that he, in fact, should have looked down sooner.

He screamed.

Then, he passed out.

“I told you I should have been the one to approach him.”

“I didn’t think he’d get scared!”

“Obviously he did. You’re hideous. I would get a heart attack every time I see you—only I don’t have a heart.”

“You’re so mean.”

Namjoon’s eyes fluttered open. His head was pounding. His wings were splayed out awkwardly. He was on the floor now. He blinked… and the first thing he saw was claws.

He nearly passed out again.

“Oh, he’s awake—wait, wait, please don’t faint again!” you—the hideous creature, apparently—yelled, scooting back on your… tail? Limbs? Whatever monsters under the bed used.

“So,” Namjoon said slowly, voice full of utter disbelief, “you’re telling me you’re the monster under the bed… and you’re not actually a bad monster.”

You straightened up a little. Up close, you were… well, monstrous. In a cute way. Too many teeth, too many eyes, claws a little too long, but your expression was very much please don’t hate me.

Before Namjoon could process that, someone very small and very fluffy marched forward and planted himself between you and the angel like a bodyguard.

“Hey,” he said, voice deeper than a stuffed toy had any right to have. “Don’t keep looking at her like that. We can’t help how we look.”

Namjoon’s eyes went even wider, which should not have been physically possible. “And you’re the talking favourite plushie?”

“The name’s Kim. Kim Taehyung. A pleasure to meet ya,” Taehyung said, and held out a soft, stuffed hand like this was a business meeting and not a supernatural crime scene.

Namjoon slapped himself with both hands. “I am going crazy.”

“Maybe he’s a little shy, Taehyung. Let’s give him a bit of space,” you said, lowering your claws so you looked less like a threat and more like an anxious roommate.

“Oh my God, I am going crazy,” Namjoon repeated, rubbing his temples. “A talking plushie and an ugly monster.”

You were personally, deeply offended. “He didn’t have to call me ugly,” you muttered.

“Hey!” Taehyung shouted, turning on Namjoon. “That’s funny coming from you, walking sparkly man with wings!”

“Exactly,” you said quickly, seizing your moment. “Having wings is not that normal, you know. And—and for the record, they’re not very pretty!”

Taehyung nodded like a judge. “Burn.”

Namjoon exhaled and tried to sit up. “Alright. I think I can get my head around you… abnormal creatures. I’m not very normal myself to be rational.”

“Yeah,” Taehyung said, folding his little felt arms. “Your shiny white wings and glittery aura helped us figure that out. Let me guess—guardian angel?”

Namjoon’s mouth fell open. “How—how did you know?”

“It’s Taehyung’s cur—” you started to explain, but Taehyung whipped his head toward you with such a deadly plushie glare that you shut your mouth instantly.

“Right…” Namjoon said, looking between the two of you. A frown pulled at his brows. “Why do I keep feeling like I forgot something?”

“Me too,” you said, blinking all your eyes.

“Yes,” Taehyung said, slow and dramatic, “it feels like I’m forgetting something extremely impor—”

He froze.

You froze.

Namjoon froze.

“KIRA!” all three of you shouted at the same time.

Namjoon looked at you like he’d just found comrades in stupidity. “What, you guys are looking for my kid too?”

“Well, of course,” you said, claws twisting shyly. “My job was mostly to scare her into being a good girl, but I did really like the kid.” Your voice wobbled.

Monsters under the bed had feelings too. Namjoon nodded immediately, because he got that.

“And I—” Taehyung tried to say.

“You don’t need to explain,” Namjoon interrupted, turning to Taehyung. “You’re the favourite plushie for a reason.”

Taehyung’s little stitched mouth twisted. “Do not patronise me, birdy. I am more than a favourite plushie. I am the ultimate plushie.”

“Birdy? Who are you calling birdy, you stuffed little—”

You jumped in before you had to watch an angel bicker with polyester. “Well, if we’re all here for the same purpose, why don’t we form an alliance and search for Kira together?”

You fiddled with your hands, looking at the floor. It was a good idea. Monsters could be shy about good ideas.

Namjoon tilted his head. “I mean, it’s not a bad idea, but how will you two even walk out of here?” he asked, glancing pointedly at your claws and Taehyung’s very obvious plushie-ness.

“That’s true,” Taehyung said, looking down at himself like he’d just remembered he was 80% fluff. “How will you walk out?”

You blinked. “I can just say I’m cosplaying?”

They both gasped.

“What a genius!” Taehyung cried.

Namjoon’s shoulders dropped in relief. “Alright,” he said, trying to look authoritative again even though he’d fainted twice in front of you. “So we have an alliance.”

Notes: Phew, hello, hello!! Welcome! So this took a looot of time to write because there was just soo much to fit in there. But! It's done! And I hope that you enjoy, this was so much fun to write (Except on the days I simply stared at my screen blankly willing it to write itself lmao) I hope yall are ready!! Because boy oh boy hehehehehe (no, i do NAWt wanna see smth "funny") Anyway!! go forth and enjoy!!

There were stories, whispered from one generation to the next, of a time when the world thrived under the watchful eyes of the gods. When trees never withered, their leaves forever lush and green. When fields stretched endlessly, golden with grain, and the land was generous in its bounty. The sun would rise on honey-washed mornings, bathing the earth in warmth, while the moon chased it away, unveiling a vast expanse of stars that pulsed with the rhythm of the universe. 

The seasons were ruled by four divine siblings, each shaping the world in their own time. The God of Winter wove the ice and snow, sculpting the world into quiet stillness. The God of Spring painted the land in color, coaxing life from the frozen ground. The God of Summer brought the sun’s embrace, ripening fruit upon the vine and warming the rivers until they shimmered. And the God of the Harvest---the keeper of abundance, the silent hand that ensured fields bore fruit and autumnal rains softened the soil. 

The harvest season had once been a time of celebration. The air would cool, a gentle prelude to winter’s embrace. The people would gather in gratitude, offering songs and laughter to the heavens, their voices carried by the wind in praise of the gods who watched over them. Among them, none was more revered than the God of the Harvest. 

Under the full moon’s glow, they honored him with feasts and revelry. They danced beneath lantern-lit skies, sang hymns woven with devotion, and laid offerings upon his altar. A gesture of thanks for his toil, a promise to never take his gifts for granted. 

But time is unkind to gods who demand remembrance. 

As the world expanded, as men turned their hearts toward conquest and coin, there was little room left for worship. The feasts grew smaller. The songs faded. And slowly, the God of the Harvest and his brothers became nothing more than a tale---told in passing, then only to children, until even that, too, was lost. 

He felt It, the unraveling. 

It was slow at first---a whisper of power slipping through his grasp, a hollowness where once there had been warmth. Then came the cold. The absence. The silence where prayers had once been. He turned to his siblings, seeking solace, only to watch as they too withered. The Winter God’s frost grew bitter; it brought nothing but storms of hail and ice so thick that the halls of his house froze over. The Spring God lost his bloom, the flowers he once breathed to life struggling to root, fruit withered on their vines. The Summer God, who had burned the brightest, flickered and dimmed, like a candle in the wind.  

One by one, they faded. Slipping away, like grain through open fingers. Forgotten. Dismissed. Abandoned. Until only he remained. 

And he raged. 

His name would not be spoken in reverence? Then let it be spoken in fear. Let them cry and beg and plead.  

The land, once fertile, turned against those who had forsaken him. Crops withered before they could take root. Rains became scarce, leaving fields cracked and barren. The seasons themselves fell into ruin---winters sharpened into bitter, unyielding cold; springs bore fruit too weak to survive; summers stretched long and dry, a relentless blaze that stole the breath from the earth. 

For centuries, the people repented. They scraped together what little they had, offered prayers beneath the waning moon, pleading for mercy. But he did not listen. 

The god who had once given so freely had turned to stone. Spiteful. Unyielding.  

And he let them suffer. 

The day started off with a series of unfortunate events; your father had sworn up and down his ancient pick-up was A-ok for the trip, and you ended up spending two hours and a little too much cash at a mechanic. The sun glares down from the cloudless sky, hot enough that the distance for miles ahead looks like a liquidized mirage. The AC gave nothing but warm air pulled in from outside, and the window on the right wouldn’t roll down.  

Your phone beeps for the second time in three minutes --- battery draining faster than you anticipated. It’s old and you promised yourself you’d replace it. Your father was never known for being tech savvy, so a car charger was out of the question. It slides along the glossy surface of a brochure you picked up from the gas station a couple miles back, screen lighting up, and then tunking softly against the backrest of the seat as the truck gives a little – concerning – jerk.  

Road stretches on for miles, and if you hadn’t been down this one at least once a year, you’d think you were lost in the backrooms.  

This chapter of unfortunate event is yet to close, and it comes with a sputter, a clinking of something, and the truck slowing down. You lead it to the side of the road, the crunch of little stones and hard dirt unpleasant.  

“No, no. Please don---” despite your pleas, the truck defiantly rolls to a stop, wheezing on its wheels. A hundred dollars down the drain. Your hands grip the steering wheel, leaning forward to press your forehead against it with a loud, drawn-out sigh.  

“I swear to God.” You mutter, reaching for your phone. It vibrates in your hand, the ringtone you’d set specifically for your mother blaring from the speaker. You glance at the top – not much power left.  

Your mother calls your name when you answer, “You should’ve been here by now.”  

Your father yells something in the background, “Oh, your father is asking if you can pick up something from Jerry’s on your way in.”  

“Mom…” She keeps on going, asking you what time you think you’d be rolling into town, and you sigh, watching a tumbleweed tumble across the wide road. “Mom. The truck broke down.”  

“Oh dear.” She says, “Honey! She said the truck broke down. Where are you?”  

“I’m out on route twenty. I---mom? Hello?” Your mother’s words crack in between, dipping in and out of your ear. You pull the phone away and the screen lights dimly. Cupping your hand over the top, you squint. The network bar winks at you before it blips completely. 

“Can this day get any worse?”  

Your phone dies.  

You let out a pitiful groan, smacking a hand against the steering wheel before sighing again. Unbuckling your seatbelt, you grab your phone, the charger, your purse and keys and step out into the sweltering heat.  

You, decidedly, reach into the glove compartment for the bottle of water you stored there. It’s more than a little warm, but it’s better than being without it.  

You roll the window up and slam the door shut. Tucking your phone into your jeans pocket, you start your trek forward. There’s supposed to be a town somewhere near, hopefully.  

The walk Is long, and looking behind you, you can still see the truck, dancing in the heatwaves.  

You don’t think you ever remember it being this hot out here, especially for this time of year. It feels like the dog days of summer, sweat trailing down your spine, your tee-shirt sticking to your tummy uncomfortably. You’re thankful you’d decided on jean shorts for the ride.  

There’s a rickety old sign hanging off of a wooden pole, swaying in a gentle blow of hot breeze. The name of the town is faded, bleached by the elements, some letters completely missing from the sign. The dark green paint on it is wrinkled and peeling, and you don’t bother to try and figure out what it’s saying. 

The road it’s situated on veers off the road, and you could just about see the beginnings of buildings in the distance. It looks like an even longer walk, but, if you can just get someone to come out here and help you with that stupid truck, you’ll be just peachy.  

Drinking from your bottle of hot water doesn’t offer much reprieve, all it does it makes you even more thirsty. Oh, the things you’d do for a tall cold glass right now.  

The buildings grow clearer as you trudge forward, their worn exteriors glowing faintly under the harsh sun. It’s not a big town by any means---just a single stretch of road lined with modest buildings: a diner, a general store, a mechanic’s shop with a rusted sign swinging in the wind. It looks like every small town you’ve ever seen on TV, like a place where the most exciting thing to happen is a bake sale. 

Some of the shops have what seem to be homes above them, curtains drawn over small, dusty windows, the occasional planter box perched on a ledge with flowers. Beyond the main strip, more houses dot the landscape, modest and quiet, their porches sagging slightly under the weight of time. Some have wind chimes that barely move in the still air, others with rocking chairs that sit empty, facing the road. 

But something feels…strange. 

You shake it off, chalking it up to your exhaustion and the oppressive heat pressing down on your shoulders. A low hum fills the air as you approach---a constant noise you can’t quite place until you notice the small generator outside the diner. It rattles and puffs out bursts of exhaust, the smell of gasoline mixing with the faint scent of fried food. 

“Finally,” you mutter, quickening your pace toward the diner. The thought of cold water and a working phone makes your steps lighter, despite the stickiness of your clothes clinging to your skin. 

A bell jingles softly as you step inside. The blast of cool air feels like heaven, even if it carries the greasy tang of old oil. A handful of people sit scattered in the diner, their voices blending into the low drone of conversation. A man leans over his coffee cup, a couple by the window shares a plate of fries, and a teenage girl in a stained apron wipes down a table with slow, methodical movements.  

“Can I help you, hon?” a voice asks. 

You turn to see a small middle-aged woman stepping out from behind the counter, a dish towel slung over her shoulder. She’s smiling warmly, but something about the way her eyes linger on you sets your nerves on edge. The smile doesn’t quite reach them, like someone wearing a mask they’ve long since forgotten how to take off.  

Maybe you’re paranoid.  

“My truck broke down,” you explain, forcing yourself to smile back. “I was hoping there’s someone who could take a look at it?” 

“Truck, huh?” she says, her gaze dropping to your dust-covered sneakers. “Must’a been quite the walk.” 

“Yeah,” you reply, your laugh coming out more strained than you’d like. You’re hoping to not become the first three minutes of a Supernatural episode. “Not my best day.” 

The woman chuckles, the sound short and clipped. “Well, Mae’s husband is the mechanic around here. He’s out right now, but you can check in with her over at the inn. She’ll know when he’ll be back.” 

You nod, glancing around the room again. The teenage girl scrubs the same spot on the table, her head down like she’s listening to every word. The couple by the window stops talking for a moment, both turning to glance at you before going back to their fries. Your stomach twists, but you push the feeling down. 

“Thanks.” you say, turning toward the door. 

This is normal, you think. Perfectly normal. The town is small, probably, not even a blip on a map. Doesn’t look like they offer much in terms of tourist attraction, and you’re just a stranger passing through.  

Your mouth feels impossibly dry when you step back outside, glancing around. Well, you can only look in one direction, as the other way is back where you crawled from.  

The Inn sits at the far end of the road, between two houses, a two-story building with faded white paint and a wraparound porch. Flower baskets hang from the posts, the blossoms long since wilted from the sun. A hand-painted wooden sign swings above the entrance: The Winding Oak Inn. You pause, glancing around. No oak trees in sight. 

Another generator hums louder here, vibrating through the porch steps as you climb them. It grates against your nerves, a constant buzz in the background like a gigantic insect. You tug the screen door, and it opens with a little jingle, stepping into the dim, cool interior. The air smells faintly of lemon polish and old wood. 

The lobby Is quaint, like something out of an old postcard. A small desk sits against the far wall, next to a bulletin board pinned with faded advertisements for long-past events. A couch and two mismatched chairs form a seating area near the window, their fabric worn but clean. A single fan turns lazily overhead; you can tell it’s rickety from the way it sways side to side on every spin but can’t hear it over the humming generator. A polished counter takes up half the wall in front of you, within the space behind it is a single beige door and framed photos hung on the wall. 

“Hello?” you call out, hoping you’re loud enough. 

A moment later, the door behind the counter creaks open, and a woman steps out. Mae, you presume. She looks to be in her late forties, with a kind face framed by loose dark curls streaked with gray. She’s wiping her hands on a kitchen towel, the faint sheen of sweat on her forehead makes her olive skin shine.  

“Oh, hello there!” she says, her voice and eager like you’re the first person she’s seen in a long time. “You must be the girl with the broken truck. Dottie called ahead.” 

You blink. Already? You hadn’t seen the diner lady touch a phone. 

“Uh, yeah, that’s me,” you say, brushing the thought aside. Small towns. Gossip probably travels faster than cell service here. 

Mae’s smile widens as she steps behind the desk, tucking the towel into her apron. “Well, you’ve come to the right place. My husband’s the town mechanic. He’s out on an errand right now, but he should be back by evenin’. Why don’ya get yourself a room while you wait? It’s much cooler in here than out there.” 

“That sounds… great,” you reply, though you hesitate. “Is there… maybe a phone I could use? Mine’s dead, and I need to let my parents know what’s going on.” 

Mae’s smile falters for a split second, so brief you almost miss it. “Ah, we don’t really use phones much ‘round here,” she says, her tone apologetic. “Reception’s spotty, and the landline’s been out for weeks. The only connection we’ve got is between businesses. But don’t worry, hon, when my husband gets back, we’ll have you fixed up and on your way.” 

Something tightens in your chest, but you force a smile. “Thanks. I’ll just... get a room, then.” 

Mae nods, pulling out a large, leather-bound ledger. She turns it toward you, sliding a pen across the counter. “Sign here, and I’ll get you a key. It’s forty for the night. Cash only.” 

Only one name is signed on the page, the ink of the date is too faded for you to make sense of.  

You scribble your name, fishing bills from your wallet. Mae hands you a brass key attached to a wooden tag with the number ‘3’ carved into it.  

“Your room’s up the stairs, second door on the right,” she says. “I’ll bring you up some water and a fresh towel in a bit. Let me know if you need anythin’ else.” 

“Thanks,” you mumble, taking the key and heading toward the staircase. Mae’s gaze lingers on you as you climb, her warm smile never wavering. 

Upstairs, the hallway is narrow and dim, lit only by a single bulb at the far end. Your footsteps creak on the wooden floorboards as you reach your room. The door sticks a little before swinging open, revealing a small, tidy space. A bed with a patchwork quilt, a nightstand with a glass oil lamp, and a dresser with a mirror that looks like it belongs in an antique store. The single window offers a view of the street below, the horizon shimmering in the heat. 

Sighing you sit on the bed; it creaks its complaint. You wonder if this old town has seen anyone in the past fifty years. It seems so out of place in modernity, like they’re living in a time capsule and have no idea what Wi-Fi is.  

The quilt Is soft under your fingers, and blessedly cool. Sighing, you wander around the room looking for an outlet – you don’t find one, of course. You think briefly, if you should ask Mae to charge it for you, but something makes you decide against it.  

It's just about noon, and you sit quietly in your room until Mae comes knocking. She’s brought you fresh towels and a glass of cold water that you take gratefully.  

“Bathrooms the last door.” She smiles, “This lil’ old place don’ offer much, so if you’re hungry you can head on down to Dottie’s for a bite.”  

She turns, taking a few steps back down the hall before she pauses and then, “Oh! The generators turn off at six sharp, so I’ll bring by some candles if you like? For later?” She leans her head to look around your frame, pointing with her mouth, “We’re ou’ta kerosene for the lamps.” 

You hold tightly to the soft cotton towels, “Would your husband not be back?”  

You’re not particularly thrilled at the idea of spending the night, you’d rather avoid it if you can. Mae looks a little sheepish, and she smoothens the invisible wrinkles in her apron with a terse smile.  

“Well…he said he wouldn’t be long today. He goes ou’ta town a lot but never too far.” She says, taking a breath, “He would usually be back before sundown.” 

“Oh…That’s okay. I’ll wait, Thank you.” You slowly close the creaking door and carry everything over to the little nightstand under the window. Perhaps, later when the sun’s a little more forgiving you’ll make to get your things from the truck.  

You spend the next couple of hours not doing much but twiddling your fingers, peeking out the window at the sky and listening to the generator’s buzzing. Over the course of the last few hours, you watched people move from building to building or sit in little groups on porches. Children ran through the road, playing and laughing.  

From the window, the houses further away seem like they’re sitting on what used to be farmland. A couple of barns scattered about, their red roofs look pale and dance less in the distance at this hour. You can just make out the blobby figure of a lone cow in a fenced off area, chewing on God knows what. The land looks so dry over there, whatever wind that blows kicks up nothing but dust.  

When the sun looked to be about three pm, you make your way downstairs. Mae is nowhere in sight, but the door behind the counter is propped open with a wooden chair weighed down by a couple thick books.  

Looking around, you eye the framed photos that hang on the wall. You don’t make much out, but you do see a photo of a younger looking Mae, standing next to a burly man with a beard in overalls.  

“Mae?” You call out, placing your palms on the counter you lean forward a bit to peer through the door. The light back there is dim and flickering and lights the short corridor that turns sharply left at the end. “Hello?”  

The sound of the bell jingling makes you jump, turning around to find Mae coming in. She’s carrying a brown paper bag, “Oh!” she smiles, “Did’ya need something hon? I just went ‘round to Paul’s for them candles.”  

“I’m alright, thank you.” You wave a hand, “Just thought I should let you know I’m heading out…”  

Mae nods as she walks along the side of the countertop, reaching her hand over to the corner closest to the wall. She flips a latch and the door swings inward. “You take your time, don’ lose your key. I’ll give you the candles when you get back.” 

The air outside is still pretty warm, but not as stifling as it was at noon. You pat the pocket of your jeans, double checking that your phone is in there. The charger cable and adapter are sitting comfortably in your back pocket.  

The town seems more alive at this hour, and you keep saying it, but it really does look like something out of a movie. One of those hallmark ones about family life and getting back to your roots. Children run by with dust covered shoes and knees, paying no mind to the adults around them.  

You stop outside the mechanic shop; that’s only a few houses down from the inn. You’ve not seen a single car today, just like you haven’t seen anyone leave or enter this town. Though, it’s quite likely there’s only a few people that knows it’s here.  

Dottie’s chatting animatedly with some people outside the dinner, two young men in stained overalls. She offers you a wave as you walk by.  

The trek out the dirt road seems to take a lot longer than it had going in, but looking back, you’ve gotten a good way away from the town already.  

Your father’s truck is exactly where you left it, rolled off the road, your bag safely inside. Unlocking the door, you decide to try your luck, and spend a good ten minutes willing the engine to start with every turn of the key. The truck does nothing but gurgle and sputter. You sigh harshly through your nose.  

You grab your bag from the back seat and slide out of the truck. Maybe someone in the town has jumper cables? You really don’t want to be stuck out here for longer than you have to be. It’s already almost four pm, and you’ve seen no sign of Mae’s husband. The next town is at least one hundred miles off, not a reasonable walking distance. Who knows when he’d be back and if he’ll be able to get your truck sorted in enough time for you to get back on the road.  

You stand and stare at the wooden sign, the faded paint, and the dirt road leading back into the town. You look down the asphalt stretch of road to your right and contemplate going back. There’s nothing wrong, of course there isn’t. It’s just a normal town, no need to fret. But that little tinkle in the back of your mind sounds like a warning bell.  

Honestly, you don’t have many options, on one hand, you could go walking to the next town---which is very, very far---or you can wait it out. With a sigh, you make your way back down the dirt road. You were only planning to stay with your parents for the weekend, so you don’t have many clothes in your bag, but hopefully, that shouldn’t be an issue.  

You go back to the inn to drop your bag off in your room, and Mae gives you the candles and matches to take up with you. It’s nowhere near dark yet, so you set them down on the bed with your bag and head back outside.  

Dottie’s diner is near empty, and the teenage girl from earlier is behind the counter this time, writing something into a book with pencil. When the bell jingles, she looks up and offers you a halfhearted greeting before dragging her feet to where you stood.  

“Hello,” you smile, and she bobs her head once back, looking very much like a kid who got stuck working for her parents when she would rather be anywhere else. “Do you guys sell any sandwiches?” 

Can’t go wrong with a good sandwich.  

The girl blinks at you, and the raises a finger to point at the menu behind her. The words are neatly chalked onto a mounted blackboard, their prices reasonable, and you go for a simple ham sandwich.  

After paying, the girl walks to the door behind her and pokes her head in, “Emmet…a ham sandwich.”  

It wasn’t long before you had your ham sandwich, coupled with cheese that strings with every bite. It’s wrapped nicely in brown paper that you tuck under your fingers as you walk back to the inn. The townsfolk seem to pay you no mind but give you too much attention at the same time as you go by. You just keep reminding yourself that it’s a small place.  

The mechanic shop is still closed, and a look back down the dirt road shows no sign of anyone coming in.  

Mae is sitting at the counter when you get back to the Winding Oak. Horn-rimmed glasses perched on her nose; she thumbs through a stack of ancient looking books. She carefully dusts them off with a cloth and sets them aside in a little stack.  

She peers over the frames of her glasses at you and smiles, “Had a nice walk?”  

You swallow your bite of sandwich, giving her a soft ‘mhm!’ as you wipe your grubby fingers with a napkin.  

Mae chuckles and then sets aside the cloth she was using, “Want somethin’ cold? Heat won’t get much better till nighttime m’afraid.”  

Without waiting for your answer, she’s off her little chair and through the door behind her. Not long after, she’s back with a tall glass of fizzy red soda.  

“The old fridge ain’t doing so hot these days, wouldn’t want these to waste. Gave some out to the kids a bit ago, and I thought you woulda liked somethin’ sweet.”  

You accept the soda with thanks, taking a few sips of it, cherry flavor bursts on your tongue.  

Mae watches you with a smile until the glass was empty and takes it back when you were finished. “My husband shouldn’t be long again, hon.”  

“Yeah, okay.” With nothing else to do, you thank her once more for the soda and climb back up to your room.  

You really hope it won’t be much longer.  

You sigh as you sit on the bed, tucking your wallet and keys into a pocket of your bag before using it as a pillow. Staring up at the ceiling, sleepiness tugs at your eyelids.  

The ceiling is plain; there’s no patterns for you to count from one side to another. Just a plain white slab of roofing with a few cracks running along the corners.  

You take a breath, and then another. You blink once. Twice, eyes blurring at the corners the longer you stare at one spot. You raise a heavy hand to cover a sudden yawn, frowning as you smack your lips; mouth suddenly dry as the desert. Your head feels heavy and you’re thankful you’re already laying down. With some effort, you turn your head to stare out the window with a frown, watching the way the windowsill dances in your vision.  

You blink. 

A muffled sound drags you from unconsciousness. Voices, low and hushed, words slipping through the thick fog in your mind like water through cupped hands. You can’t grasp them, not fully, but they’re there---murmuring, weaving in and out of your awareness. 

“…finally save our town… No longer have to suffer…” 

Mae’s voice. But it’s wrong. The warm, familiar lilt is gone, stripped of its easy drawl, left flat and distant; devoid of kindness. 

Your eyelids feel like lead, heavy and unwilling to lift. Your body is worse---numb at the edges, but tingling, like you’ve been lying still for too long. Something cold wraps around your wrists, your ankles. A damp breeze kisses your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. 

Not the inn. 

Not the bed. 

Panic surges through the sluggishness, a sharp spike of clarity cutting through the fog. You wrench your eyes open, blinking rapidly. Shapes loom above you, dark against the glow of the full moon. The world tilts, your vision swimming as your breath stutters behind something---fabric, thick and coarse---tied around your mouth. 

You’re outside. The sky above is vast, endless, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and something faintly metallic. A forest, dense and stretching far beyond what little you can see. You try to move, but the bindings bite into your skin. 

Then you see them. 

Mae. Dottie. A handful of others, men with sharp faces and hands dirtied by labor. They stand around you, forming a circle. The lanterns they carry flicker strangely, their light casting jagged shadows that seem to dance, stretch, shift. 

You have no time to wonder what’s happening, how you ended up here. 

Mae steps closer. She no longer looks like the woman who handed you a glass of cherry soda, all gentle smiles and kindness. Her expression is empty. Her dark eyes hold something unreadable. She’s dressed differently now cloaked, the fabric deep and worn, marked with symbols that twist in ways that make your head throb. 

“You are awake,” she murmurs, more to herself than to you. Then, she turns to the others. “It is time.” 

You try to speak, to scream, but the gag swallows your voice. 

Dottie kneels beside you, her movements slow, deliberate. She reaches for something at her belt---a knife, thin and gleaming in the moonlight. Your pulse roars in your ears as she takes your hand, turns it palm-up. 

The blade bites into your skin. 

A sharp, burning pain blooms across your palm, and you jerk, a muffled cry ripping from your throat. Blood wells up, dark and glistening. Dottie catches it in a small, shallow bowl. Beside her, one of the men holds out a lock of your hair, cut from your head without you even noticing. 

The bowl Is lifted toward the altar---a stone slab, ancient and worn, standing at the heart of this twisted gathering. The air grows heavy, thick with something unseen but felt. 

Mae’s voice rises, weaving strange words into the night. The others follow, their voices joining in a cadence that makes your head spin. 

You thrash, desperate, wild---but it doesn’t matter. 

The symbols on their robes shift. The air hums. The earth beneath you feels like it’s vibrating, pulsing with something old, something wrong. The edges of your vision blur. The last thing you see is the sky, vast and endless above you. 

Then--- 

Nothing. 

Strangely, Seokjin only notices the absence at night. 

When the moon sits high in the sky and his books can no longer keep him company. When the birdsong gives way to the murmuring of insects, the occasional hoot of an owl, and the wind carries a chill from over yonder. It isn’t the kind of cold that bites---it’s softer, quieter, settling into the marrow of his bones like an old ache.  

Before, his brothers would converge here, in his domain, and bring with them warmth. Laughter would fill these halls, bouncing off the stone and timber, seeping into the very foundation of his home. Since their absence, Seokjin’s home has felt hollowed. As though someone had reached in and pulled out the most vital parts of it, and scattered them on the wind. 

His brothers who shadowed his every step, who clung to him and never gave him a moment’s peace. They’ve left him now. Gone to a place he could not follow. 

His footsteps echo as he wanders the halls, a lonely sound swallowed by the dark. The glow of lanterns casts long, shifting shadows across the walls, stretching long dark fingers as if trying to grasp something just out of their reach.  

He’s wandered this particular hall too many times, and the first days into his grief he never left it. The hallway housed three doors that were above the rest. They were one of the few things he has left of his brothers; they lead into specific rooms in their houses. They had these doors to save themselves the trouble of walking from one domain to another, but after their fading Seokjin sealed them off.  

As time passed, the three doors look dimmer, flickering and fading with the last remnants of their energy. The vines that once curled and stretched across Namjoon’s door had long withered, brittle remains crumbling to dust at the slightest touch. He had tried---many times---to bring them back. To coax life into the tendrils, to breathe warmth into the wood. But spring had no keeper now, and he was not Namjoon. 

Hoseok’s door hums with an energy that has dulled but not yet disappeared. The echoes of his laughter still linger, soft and fragmented, like whispers slipping between the cracks in the wood. They chase the shadows down the hall, fading in and out as though playing a game of hide and seek. Seokjin doesn’t try to call them back and he doesn’t try to hold onto them. He knows better. 

Yoongi’s door had frosted over so terribly that the door beneath can’t be seen. When Seokjin presses a palm against it, a bitter chill seeps into his skin. It’s the kind of cold that burns, that freezes things brittle. 

He suspects that they would only worsen. Hoseok’s door had already begun to darken. The magic in them is fading, though not completely gone, Seokjin has some hope for them, at least.  

Every now and then, Seokjin stands outside them in the hall, when his duty of care comes to a pause, and he simply listens. The silence is suffocating. Eons have passed, and still, some foolish part of him hopes. Hopes that he might hear the rustle of new leaves, the quiet bloom of flowers pressing up from the cracks. 

Hopes that the door might open, and Namjoon will be standing there, smiling like he never left. Hoseok would leave his door open, and Seokjin would complain about the hot air he’s letting in. Yoongi would slink in, quiet like a mouse, talking to him about winter flowers he found growing in his snow. 

It’s a painful, pitiful thing to do, and he tries not to dwell on those thoughts for too long.  

Instead, he turns away, allowing his fingers to trail along the wood for just a moment longer. Then he walks back down the hall, the weight of their absence pressing down on him with every step. 

He stands at the top of staircase, watching the first rays of the sun peek into his domain. The dawn chases away twilight, painting the sky in an array of orange and lilac. The light spills through the windows, catching on the gilded embroidery of his robes, setting the threads aglow like embers woven into fabric. A new day is beginning, and with it, the turning of the seasons rests in his hands. 

The days are short, and Seokjin has much to tend to. He makes his way from the upper level of his home, the polished wood cool beneath his feet, down the winding stairs. As he steps into the foyer, he whistles lowly---a quiet call, something habitual, something the walls of this place have learned to listen for. 

“Dusk,” he calls, glancing around. There’s a small chitter, followed by the soft sound of scuttling feet, and then a fox comes trotting in from the direction of his kitchens, her copper fur dusted with flour. Seokjin lifts a brow. 

“Did you get into the milk again?” 

Dusk trails around him, brushing against his shins, her tail flicking playfully as she chirps in response. The faint scent of cream lingering in her fur gives her away.  

Seokjin exhales a slow sigh, but the corner of his mouth betrays him, curving just slightly. “Come now.” He crouches, offering a hand, and Dusk presses her nose against his palm before bounding ahead. 

The day awaits. 

Seokjin’s days have become routine. When the old aches dull enough to allow rest, he takes it, but when morning comes, so does duty. He rises with the sun and makes his rounds, visiting his brothers’ domains---watching over them, ensuring they have not yet fallen to ruin. He weaves as little magic as possible, just enough to keep them from collapsing in on themselves. There is a balance, and he must keep it. 

Hoseok’s warmth and Yoongi’s cold must remain in harmony, never one overtaking the other. The barriers between them require constant reinforcement, careful adjustments to prevent encroachment. But it is Namjoon’s domain that demands the most from him. 

Autumn brings change---death and decay. Spring harbors life, and life only. The two forces were never meant to be at odds, yet without Namjoon’s steady presence, the balance falters. For hundreds of years now, Seokjin has struggled to keep the domain in order. 

Its tiring work.  

When Namjoon was here, Seokjin could walk freely through his lands; his brother’s magic naturally countering his own. But now, death keeps a garden that refuses to grow. Seokjin does not have the aptitude for it. He has his own gardens, where he grows things that pertains to his season. Namjoon’s glades are vastly different. 

So, he spends most of his days watching over Namjoon’s domain, trying and failing to bring life and keep it there. 

Seokjin kneels in the soft, loamy earth, his fingertips brushing the pale edges of a tulip whose petals curl inward, brittle and faded. Even the grass lacks its usual vibrancy, the green muted, as though life itself has dulled in his brother’s absence. He pushes a slow breath through his nose, steadying himself. A whisper of power trickles down through his fingertips, sinking into the soil, coaxing strength into fragile roots, weaving life back into wilting veins. The flowers lift their heads, standing taller, brighter---but only just. 

He must be careful. Too much, and the balance will tip. His own power, rooted in endings and decay, clashes with Namjoon’s inescapable renewal. Death cannot cradle rebirth. If Seokjin lets himself slip, even for a moment, the flowers will blacken at the edges, the trees will rot from the inside out, and the fragile equilibrium will collapse entirely. 

His gaze flicks toward one of the apple trees lining the gentle slope. Its blossoms have been sparse this year, the fruit even more so. A handful of green bulbs cling stubbornly to the branches---small, stunted, as if afraid to ripen. A few pears have fared slightly better, their golden skin soft and faintly speckled, but even they have fallen far from the abundance Namjoon’s presence had once promised. He can see the sickness at their cores, the rot that builds slow and steady from the inside despite his efforts. 

It Isn’t enough. It will never be enough. Not without Namjoon. 

Seokjin rises, brushing soil from his palms. The weight of it all presses at his chest, but he ignores it. There is work to be done, duties to tend to, even if he fails countless of times. He’s kept them for this long, and he’ll continue to do so.  

Then he feels it. 

A shift---small, but unmistakable, ripples through the air of Namjoon’s domain. 

His hand clenches at his side as he turns, his sharp gaze scanning the grove. It doesn’t take long to find the source. 

You. 

A figure crumpled among the wildflowers. A human figure. 

Seokjin stills. 

For a moment, he thinks it must be some trick, some illusion. But as he steps closer, the slow rise and fall of your chest betrays you. His lips press into a tight line as he crouches beside you, eyes narrowing in silent scrutiny. 

How? How have you entered his world? How have you slipped into the divine---into Namjoon’s domain of all places? The thought rankles, anger unchecked bristles beneath his skin. You are human. Fragile. Fleeting. And utterly unwelcome. 

His fingers ghost over your shoulder, searching for any trace of divinity, any lingering echo of a god’s touch. But there is nothing. Just the warmth of mortal life. 

And then he sees it. 

A mark, etched just below your collarbone. The mark alone is something ancient, the edges of it looks irritated as though branded into your flesh. A whisper of old rituals, of forgotten temples and offerings meant to appease gods long abandoned by the people who once built them. 

Seokjin straightens sharply, his jaw tightening as realization sets in. 

You’ve been sent here. Offered, like a lamb to the slaughter. 

His chest tightens, resentment rising like a tide. They dare---those humans dare to try and appease him with this, after all they have done? His fists curl at his sides. 

No. He will not have this. 

Power flares at his fingertips as he lifts his hand, magic coiling sharp and certain. He will send you back, cast you out of the divine realms and back into the mortal world where you belong. 

But the instant his power reaches for you, it recoils. Confused, he blinks and then tries again, but it’s like pressing his hand against a wall he couldn’t see.  

The mark. 

Seokjin’s eyes darken, resentment twisting into something colder. He can’t send you back. You are bound now, a tether he hasn’t asked for, a burden he refuses to bear. 

He could just leave you here.  

And he considers it, watching your furrowed brow and the steady breaths you take. There’s a metallic scent, wafting up from your person, and Seokjin finds a deep cut across your palm. 

Dusk comes skipping through the wildflowers, her red fur standing out against the dull green weeds. Chuffing, she sniffs curiously at your clothes and then sits beside you. Seokjin stares at the fox, and she stares back with a look he could only describe as expectance.  

“What?” He bites and Dawn makes a low sound, ears pinning back before she dips her head, nosing at your bloody palm. She huffs, looking back up at him, and Seokjin rolls his eyes to the sky.  

He stares at the soft blue, listens to the wind as it walks through the field. The sigh he lets out is long suffering, and he feels Dusk’s teeth tug at the end of his robe, “You’re insufferable.”  

Maybe he’s weak.  

He crouches, studies your face with disdain before he picks you up. Dusk makes a happy sound, making a full circle around his legs before she darts off, leading the way. Seokjin grumbles as he follows.  

He walks through the glade, a stray butterfly flutters haphazardly about your head, Seokjin blows at it with a puff of air. You’ve tainted enough of this domain with your mortal self; he doesn’t need the butterflies spreading it around.  

You smell strange. Underneath the scent of blood, there’s a sweet sort of smell with an underlying bitterness. Like burnt herbs. It makes Seokjin wrinkle his nose.  

Something like this has never happened before. Seokjin and his brothers weren’t for offerings of this kind. They were more pertained to the old gods of war. Yet, you’ve been sent here and bounded to the realm, made sacrifice for something those witless worms caused themselves. 

Your voice trails upwards in a broken mutter, quiet, but it nearly startles Seokjin, and he falters in his step to look down at you. Your grimace of pain tells a lot more than he could see, and his eyes flit down to your hand that’s tucked against your lap with the way he’s holding you. Blood has dried and pooled again, staining your clothes and he frowns, trying to scan himself to see if he’d gotten it anywhere else. He turns slightly; eyes trained to the floor where your blood had dripped onto the leaves and grass blades. He rolls his eyes.  

Dusk lets out a chirping whine from far ahead, sitting on a large rock. Seokjin meanders on.  

He keeps his eyes on you as he passes through the veil that separates Namjoon’s domain from his own. The shift in temperature is something he’s used to, but goosebumps litter your skin, and you squirm like some undulating worm and Seokjin almost drops you.  

He nudges the door of his home open with his foot and goes down a hall right of the kitchens. The room here was almost never used, and now that it’s just him it has no use at all. There isn’t much to it; a bed wide enough to fit three people – at least, he doesn’t have to worry about you rolling off it---tucked against the wall. The wood and glass window near the foot of the bed goes up the wall in a little arch, shows an odd ray of light. In his domain, it’s quite dreary, whatever light there is, is almost always covered by cloud, stuck in the point where autumn is at its peak. Namjoon’s domain is on the edge of his, and the clear sky and warm sun intrudes.  

He wonders if he should open the window when his nose tingled at the musty smell. It smells earthy and damp, not at all pleasant…not that it matters.  

He lays you atop the plain linen sheets, and glances at the oak wardrobe. There’re other, fresher cottons in there for him to wonder at later, if your blood gets anywhere else. For now, he looks you over and finds no other injury. He shuffles a lone chair over next to the bed and then properly checks his robes for any sign of blood. He hums to himself when he finds none.  

He walks out of the room and down the hall into the kitchen. Filling a bronze basin with warm water, Seokjin mutters to himself as he rummages around for bandages and cloth. Glass vials and bottles clink together as he shifts them about. They’re filled with different dried herbs and tree bark he’s foraged in his lonesome, some of them there far too long and should definitely be thrown out.  

Finding what he was looking for, he carries the basin and cloth back to where he left you. You’re still in the same spot he laid you, and that should be a reason for concern. The spell that sent you here is ancient, as is the spell that bonded you, he has no clue what that could’ve done. You could be dying for all he knows. And that’s another problem entirely.  

He sets the basin down, sits in the chair with a long, drawn-out sigh and draws your hand closer. Seokjin is no healer, so he does what he can. He wipes away at the blood that’s coagulated and the bit that’s dried into the creases of your palm, this of course causes it to sprout more blood. The cut is quite deep.  

He had stopped keeping up with the goings-on of the mortal realm, even if their prayers reach him every now and then. He knows that the times are quite different now than they were when he and his brothers were revered.  

The mortals had their advancements and had grown as a people in recent centuries. This was an outlandish practice, to have it happen was even stranger. He was certain that people had stopped doing sacrifices to gods a long time ago. At least, where he was focused.  

He wonders If you’ve much sense about you. Back when he and his brothers were young gods, and the gods of war were younger still, sacrifice was commonplace. They were ritualistic and frankly barbaric; he still thinks there was no need for such.  

Most sacrifices were unwillingly willing; children grown into customs and forced to lay down their lives to old, hungering deities. 

Perhaps, you were one of them. 

Though, this is something that’s never happened before. Sacrifices involved a lot more than a simple cut on the hand and what ancient spell they’d casted to send you here. No one would willingly let themselves be spirited away. 

There was a mix of two spells; transportation and binding. He wonders what the moon phases are at this time. There’s one period when the veil between this realm and the earthly one is at its weakest, he supposes something like this could happen. The mortals must’ve waited a very long time; that doesn’t happen very often, a couple hundred years between them at least.   

Something in Seokjin’s chest tightens at the thought. A mixture of contempt that after all these centuries, these mortals, stuck in their ways would still attempt to reach him, and to go so far. Resentment. They have taken everything from him, and now he clings to the edges of his own existence because he has no other choice. 

He was left alone in the aftermath, forced to continue this loathsome existence. Watched as his brothers died one by one, and by curse he remains. He’d prayed for years that the divinities above his order let him fade too that the mortals forget him too. It would’ve been margins better to have followed his kin into the ether. The mortals, faced with his wrath held on too tightly.  

This desperate attempt to be seen by him does nothing but make him sneer. His lips curls against his teeth and he stares at the blood pooling again in your palm, he looks up at your pinched face and wonders what he’s done to deserve this on top of it all. Your fingers twitch, and Seokjin dips the blood-soaked cloth into the basin and goes again. He presses the cloth against your palm tightly, not caring much for the sharpness of your inhale then, the sweat on your brow or the grimace.  

It takes a while for the bleeding to stop, and Seokjin had sense to bandage your hand tightly. He wraps the bandage around your hand and has a harrowing thought of looking through his cupboards to see if he had any comfrey or lavender. He owes you nothing... nothing at all.  

Once he was done, he gathers the bloody bundle of cloth and basin. The water sloshing around is now tinged pink and assaults his nose with its metallic scent. It makes his stomach turn. 

Dusk is laying just outside the door, head resting on a paw, and she looks up at him when he passes by.  

These blasted mortals have caused him nothing but strife. As he dumps the water down his kitchen drain, his temples pulse with a telling pain. He’s sure it'll only get worse later whenever you feel to rise yourself. The thought of having to begin explaining something you wouldn’t understand is already giving him a headache.  

He looks through his cupboards of herbs. 

You feel warm. And cold. But mostly warm.  

… You’re actually not sure what you’re feeling at all. 

The surface you lay on feels soft, almost too soft, like you’re going to sink into it if you move the wrong way. Your palm is burning. It smells damp, and there’s a sharp earthy smell that makes you feel like something’s stuck in your throat.  

You feel sluggish as you peel your eyes open, the action taking too much energy and effort to do. Once again, you're staring at an unfamiliar ceiling. You stare at it, brows furrowed for a moment, and then, the furrow gets deeper as you study it. It’s not the ceiling from The Winding Oak, not the dark canopy of trees you remember last.  

…You blink hard.  

Sitting up causes the world to tilt in a way that makes your stomach turn over. You clamp a hand over your mouth, holding your breath as you will the nausea to taper down. You feel particularly green, head swimming like you drank a liquor store. You’re confused, panic beginning to bleed through the cracks as the sounds of the world pours into your ears unfiltered. Which is nearly no sound at all.  

It's quiet.  

The kind of quiet that makes your ears ring.  

Lifting your other hand you find a tightly wrapped bandage, staring at it makes the sting underneath come alive, and drags up the missing fragments of your memory.  

The town. Mae and Dottie. The forest that seemed to pop out of nowhere. The townsfolk were dressed strangely, saying strange things, they took your hair and sliced open your palm. And…nothing.  

Scooting towards the foot of the bed, you struggle to wiggle off it. It’s large and feels too soft, your palm sinks into it as you press down to move forward. Swallowing a wad of spit, you turn your head to look out the window. There’s a dark tree just beyond it, red-brown leaves trembling in a wind, a couple floating down towards the earth. Beyond that tree, you squint, blinking hard. Nothing but lush green as far as you can see, as if just beyond the tree is a different place entirely.  

You’re even more confused, staring as your brain tries to catch up to your eyes without stuttering.  

The floor is cold when you get your feet on it. Your shoes are missing. You take a breath, swallowing the bile rising up your throat, and then another as you look around. The room seems bare, much like the one back at the inn, when it feels like you’re not going to throw up, you stand.  

You can feel your heartbeat in your palm, and looking down at it, blood has soaked through the carefully wrapped bandage. You wince, letting your hand fall limply at your side. Trying to stay quiet, you inch towards the heavy looking wardrobe, wrapping the fingers of your uninjured hand around one of the handles, it opens easily.  

Unfortunately, there is no weapon or even something you can use as one. Just folded up, thick looking materials.  

Maybe you’re having a mental break or ended up in the backrooms.  

You eye the door; the dark wood is opened just a hair; very little light comes through the crack. Thinking better, you turn towards the window, but the latch is too high even if you stood on the bed and tiptoed. So, climbing out through there would be hard.  

So, you walk quietly over to the door, and slowly, carefully push it open wide enough for you to slip through. The hall you find yourself in is empty looking down right and there’s nowhere to go the other way.  

The air is fresher out here; you breathe steadily as you press your back to the wall. A rumble of thunder outside makes you jump; it sounds low and angry like some caged beast. The hairs along your arms and the back of your neck raises, and you try to calm down.  

Following the hall, you come to a serpentine curl in the wall that leads to an area much brighter than where you are. Directly across from you is a door that’s opened wide enough for you to see hanging pots through the gap.  

A kitchen.  

Peeking around the corner, you dart across to the door and slip into the kitchen and pull the door closed behind you.  

The door clicks softly, and for a moment, you just breathe. 

The room you’ve stepped into smells of thyme and old smoke, earth and something faintly sweet…like apples left too long on a windowsill. It’s warmer here, but not by fire. 

The kitchen is large, but not extravagant. Wood everywhere; dark-stained beams crossing the ceiling overhead, smooth countertops worn soft at the edges. A wide table stands at the center, legs thick and sturdy, a faint nick here, a scratch there, as if someone’s spent years slicing bread or gutting game right atop it. 

Pots and pans dangle from hooks over the workspace, some copper, some iron, blackened by age and open flame. You spot a few ladles and long-handled spoons with carved handles, and something in you stirs; a deep, unsettling feeling at how strange all of this is. No hum of a fridge. No glint of steel appliances. No blinking lights or outlets. Just lived-in quiet. 

You’re not sure if any of this is even real. You’ve not forgotten whatever the heck was going on outside that window.  

You creep silently around the kitchen. A row of shelves lines the far wall, and they’re packed. Jars --- dozens of them --- in mismatched shapes and sizes. Some filled with amber liquids, others with shriveled herbs or twisted roots. There’s a whole jar of something pale and round that might be teeth. Another holds long, papery pods you don’t recognize. Each is labeled in a script you can’t read. Long curling lines etched in deep brown ink. 

A dried bundle of lavender hangs near the window, half obscured by the gauzy curtain fluttering in a breeze you hadn’t noticed before. There’s a small basin tucked under that window, and a ceramic bowl beside it, filled with round, unfamiliar fruit the color of dusk. 

There’s another door and inching it open to peek inside confirms dark pantry. 

Your eyes sweep the room again, this time searching for something, anything, that could be used as a weapon. 

You move toward a tall cupboard in the corner. It creaks softly as you open it, the hinges stiff. Inside: more tools, most culinary, none of them looking reassuring. But your hand pauses on a knife, its blade is thick and slightly curved, the handle smooth with years of use. It’s not a weapon in the traditional sense, but it’ll do. You don’t know where you are. You don’t know who brought you here. It’ll give you a fighting chance at least. 

And your palm still aches, wrapped and red. The ache makes you think of childhood summers getting cuts and bruises playing in places you shouldn’t have been.  

As easily as the hinges allow, you close the cupboard.  

“I’m fairly certain it’s rude to rummage around someone’s kitchen.”  

The knife slips from your hand, landing on the ground with a clatter before it glides under the dining table with a scrape of the blade. 

You freeze. 

The voice is low and dry, curling like smoke under a door, and it sends a jolt up your spine. 

Slowly, heart pounding in your mouth, you turn toward the sound. 

There’s a man in the doorway. 

Tall, broad-shouldered and lean. For a second you think he might be a statue, what with the way he stands there. Carved from something old and sun-warmed, left to gather dust in a field of wheat.  

He’s dressed in layered robes, fabric draped like flowing water, deep wine red, amber, the bruised gold of dusk. They hang from him like the memory of summer clinging to early autumn, heavy and brushing the floor without a sound. You don’t see a single seam. Only swaths of color, woven with tiny glints of thread that flicker when he shifts. There’s no metal, no jewelry, no crown. And yet he holds himself like something more than royal. Something set apart. 

His eyes scan you from head to toe, dart between you and the knife under the table for a moment. His nose, softly rounded at the tip, bunches at the elegant bridge as his brows draw inward with a sneer. He makes a sound, something that sounds like a garble of syllables you’ve never heard before.  

Your brain scrambles to make sense of it, while he stands there looking at you with such…disdain. Like you’re wet food at the bottom of a sink. Still grappling with the why’s and the how’s, and the fact that there seems to be something…ethereal about this man.  

He says something again, another garble of foreign sounds and you suddenly feel insulted by his tone alone.  

“You’re bleeding.” He says, and then, clicks his tongue against his teeth, “it’s very hard to get blood out of cobblestone.” 

“I---sorry?” You look down at your hand, and sure enough, your blood has tip-tapped away onto his floors. “Oh…I’m…”  

“Hush.” He waves his hand and takes three steps into the room. You move around the table, trying to keep distance between you both. He begins to rummage through the cupboard of jarred things, muttering to himself.  

You eye the knife on the floor and the doorway. The later seems much closer, so you inch towards it, eyes on the back of the man’s head.  

He turns then, a jar of something in his hand. He raises an unimpressed brow, “Don’t you think you’ve made enough of a mess already? Stay put.” 

Okay. Rude.  

You read somewhere that in hostage situations it’s best to comply to your captor’s demands. So, you stay put, back pressed against a countertop.  

The man sets the jar down, frowning at the floor before stepping over the stains. He makes no sound as he walks over to the window and grabs the bronze basin and fills a smaller one with water.  

“Come here.” He says, setting the bowls down on the table with a soft thud. He opens the jar and pulls a little root out of it and puts the jar back on the shelf with the others. He briefly turns, grabbing what looked to be a spool of some sort of fabric and a mortar and pestle made of stone. 

“I don’t think I should.” You say, feet rooted to the floor. “Tell me who you are first.”  

The man looks up at you without raising his head, something shines in his eyes. You feel like he’s shot your soul with that look, and you swallow uncomfortably the longer he holds your gaze. He drops the root into the mortar and starts grinding it. He looks away and you feel like you could breathe again.  

“If I wanted to harm you, I would’ve left you out in the meadow.” He says, then he dips his fingers into the small basin with water and let the drops slide off them into the pestle. “Come here. I don’t have all day.” 

You take a breath and make the three steps forward, still keeping the table between you both. He says nothing and extends his hand for yours. Despite the contempt in his dark eyes, he takes your hand gently. He unwraps the blood soiled fabric with a look you could only describe as blatant disgust, pulling on one end with his pointer and thumb, he sets it to the side.  

Then, he drags the larger basin over and under your hand. The cut stings, a shock of pain running up your arm as he uncurls your fingers. He doesn’t look at you, and there’s a rustle of fabric when he turns slightly, reaching behind him. A soft sound of wood on wood, and he turns back with a bundle of nearly folded beige cloth.  

He takes one from the top of the pile and dips it into the small basin of water. He cleans along your fingers first, wiping away the blood that had trailed there. The silence is beginning to unnerve you, and you feel restless standing there. The closer he gets to the wound, the gentler he wipes the blood away. Doesn’t stop you from flinching back when he presses the clothes directly under it, though.  

As you instinctively pull back, he swiftly grasps your wrist and pulls you forward again.  

“Be still.” He says, raising his head. “I will be as gentle as I can, but it must be cleaned.”  

“Can you just…tell me what’s going on?” You ask, watching as he dips the cloth he’s using into the water. It turns pink as he squeezes the blood out of it, and you look at a spot just above his head when he goes at your wound again.  

He sighs through his nose, as though your question troubled him greatly. Or like you’re and unruly child asking too many questions. You’re not quite sure.  

It takes a minute to realize he wasn’t going to answer that. So, you try something else.  

“…Okay.” You try not to pull your hand away when he presses down on the wound. You squeeze your eyes shut and take a breath, “How about telling me who you are, then?” 

“There isn’t a word in your tongue for my name. You wouldn’t know it if I told it to you.” He mutters and sets the bloodied cloth into the water. You glance down at your hand and feel faint. The cut goes clean across the middle of your palm, and the open air makes it sting. It looks deep at the very center, where the worst of the throbbing pain is coming from.  

Honestly, it looks like it’ll need stitches.  

“You may call me Seokjin.” He says, pulling the mortar over, there’s quite a bit of paste inside. He looks at you, thoughtful for a brief moment, “This is comfrey root. It will sting.”  

Appreciative for the warning, you simply nod. He moves his hand to your wrist and holds firmly, and with his other hand, he scoops a bit of the paste up. The stuff clings to his fingers like soft clay; off-white with a faint yellow hue. It smells faintly of earth and something medicinal. 

“If you must know.” He says, dryly, almost bored. Like he’d rather be doing a million different things, “You appeared in my brother’s domain yesterday.”  

Before his words can fully register, he spreads the paste over your wound.  

A sharp hiss slips through your teeth as the sting bites deep. He tightens his grip, not harshly, but enough to still you, and continues. The paste is cool against your skin, tingling as it dulls the ache.  

He covers the wound completely, and then, wraps your hand again with some soft fabric he pulled off the spool. He ties the fabric at the back of your hand and turns swiftly without another word.  

“Wait I don’t understand…” 

“I didn’t expect you to.” He says flippantly, quiet again as he clears the table and put everything back where they’re meant to be. “You are in the divine realms.”  

“I’m dead?!” You screech, stumbling back, “I can’t…my parents…” 

“You’re not dead, foolish girl.” Seokjin rolls his eyes, “You wouldn’t end up here had you died.” 

“Then what?!” Panic crawls up your throat like a feral cat, squeezing at it comes and you struggle to take a breath. “What is going on here? What is this place?” 

Seokjin studies you, that same disdain from earlier lighting his eyes, it dims when he narrows them. “If you were foolish enough to willingly offer yourself as sacrifice, then you should have enough sense to know whom you speak to and where you are.” 

You blink at him. Once. Twice. 

“…Willingly?” you echo, voice cracking between the syllables. “I don’t---!” You take a full step back, heat rising behind your eyes. “I don’t know what the fuck is going on! I didn’t offer myself for anything! I was waiting for a mechanic! My truck broke down outside some weird town, and---and they drugged me!” Your voice pitches up, desperate. “That woman, Mae, she gave me something! And I woke up in a forest!” 

He’s already turning away, stacking things, utterly unmoved. He grabs the basin of water and pours it out in the sink. He shuffles around his jars and pulls out a small one to scoop the rest of the root paste into, and seals it with a cork stopper.  

“You have to do something,” you press, chasing after his apathy with growing panic. “My parents…they’ll go crazy looking for me. You don’t understand, I need to get out of here.” 

Seokjin sighs through his nose, brows furrowed. “If I had the means to do so, you wouldn’t be here.” 

“What does that mean? You can’t send me back?” You grip your hair, and Seokjin continues to stare at you with resigned indifference. You feel miniscule, like you mean nothing and everything is throwing its weight on your shoulders.  

“You aren’t very bright, are you?” Seokjin tilts his head, and the dim daylight makes his hair look darker, He mutters something again in his strange language, and it feels like another insult.  

You tears spill over your cheeks and Seokjin sighs again. And frankly, it doesn’t make you feel much better. You take a breath and then sob and bring your uninjured hand to wipe at your face.  

“I don’t want you here as much as you do.” Seokjin says, scowling as though your tears offend him. “I’ve spent centuries alone and would rather keep it that way.”  

You’re barely listening to him, but briefly in the back of your mind, the words register. With his attitude, you wouldn’t want to be here with him anyway. The thought is fleeting with panic gripping at your chest. Your lungs feel as though there isn’t enough air in the room, unable to fully expand.  

Seokjin rounds the table, reaching you in three steps and raises his hand. There’s the slightest pressure of his fingers against your temple and then nothing.  

When you wake, you’re back in the room from before. Your head swims, feeling as though you’ve been on a very fast merry-go-round and stepped off. Staring up at the ceiling makes you feel sick, and your hands tremble when you try to sit up.  

What did he do?  

The panic you felt earlier is less, but no less present, under your skin like needles. And you give up on trying to sit, instead, you lay there and close your eyes, trying to will your head to stop spinning.  

A knock at the door pulls you from the dizzy half-sleep you’d drifted into. 

Seokjin steps inside without waiting for an answer, a shallow wooden bowl balanced in one hand. Steam curls up from it, carrying a scent that’s faintly herbal and comforting, though unfamiliar. 

“You slept long enough,” he says, matter of fact, setting the bowl on a small table near the bed. 

Your gaze follows it, but you make no move to rise. 

He straightens and looks at you properly this time, dark eyes sharp, unreadable. “Eat.” he orders, as though that might settle the matter. 

You make a small, stubborn sound at the back of your throat and look away. 

He watches you for a heartbeat, lips pressed into a thin line. Then, without another word, he turns and leaves the room. The door swings softly shut behind him. 

You stare at the bowl for a long while before your stomach growls; traitorous. Still, you don’t touch it. 

Some time passes, the light outside fading into the gold of late afternoon, then the deep purple of early dusk. Eventually, the door opens again and Seokjin returns. 

He glances at the untouched bowl and exhales slowly, as if he’d been expecting nothing else. 

“Have it your way,” he mutters, shaking his head as though your defiance is a great disappointment. 

He takes the bowl up with one hand and turns toward the door. “Come,” he says. “You’ll want to wash. Or perhaps you’d like to wallow in that filth forever…your choice.” 

You hesitate, fingers knotting into the blankets. The ache in your palm pulses. Your head doesn’t feel as bad as it did when you woke, and you feel like you could trust your feet should you stand.  

“Where?” you manage, voice rough. 

“There is a bath.” he replies without turning.  

There’s nothing kind in his tone, but there’s also something pragmatic in the way he’s already moving into the hall as though expecting you to follow. 

You do, because what other choice do you have? 

The halls are winding, dim. Warm light flickers along rough-hewn walls, but it doesn’t make the place feel any less strange. Every step you take, more questions rise up. 

“How long will I be here?” you venture. 

Seokjin doesn’t slow his stride. “As long as fate keeps you,” he says. “Or until I’m free of you.” 

That answer settles like a stone in your gut. 

“You mean you can’t find a way to send me back?” 

“Most mortals believe that things are fated,” he replies, voice flat. “There is nothing I can do against that.” 

Your brow furrows. “That doesn’t make sense. Who decided that? How did I even end up here? The last thing I remember was Mae and those people at the inn…” 

He sighs, long-suffering and sharp, and the sound carries down the hallway. “You ask far too many questions.” 

Your mouth twitches with fear and frustration. “That’s what happens when someone wakes up in a strange place with a stranger,” you shoot back, quick and breathless. 

“As I’ve said, you appeared in my brother’s domain yesterday; old magic.” he says. “More than that, I cannot tell you.” 

“You can’t or you won’t?” 

That earns you a glance, a glint in his dark gaze that’s halfway between irritation and something like bitter amusement. “Eat. Wash. Rest,” he says, voice low. “And do try to hold your tongue. That is all that’s required of you.” 

You hug your arms around yourself as you trail him into what looks like a bathhouse. Quiet and dark save for the warm lantern light glinting off a deep stone tub. 

Your hands tremble as you step inside. Maybe tomorrow you’ll have the strength to fight him properly, to demand more answers. Or at least have strength to run away from here.  

But tonight? Tonight, you’re exhausted, your palm aches, and you feel far, far too small in this endless house. 

“Don’t get that wound wet.” He says and then turns on his heel.  

And as Seokjin’s footsteps retreat down the hall, you let the door close and lean back against it. The sound of his fading voice and his colder indifference making your chest feel tight. 

You turn, glancing around the room. The tub is already filled, steam rising off the surface, smelling herbal. You’re so tired of that stupid herbal scent. It’s like it’s in the damn walls. Your eyes burn as tears spring up unbidden, and you wipe under your nose with your hand. Squeezing your eyes shut, you take a breath. Crying won’t solve anything. If you cry, you’d panic again.  

Your hands fumble at your waistband as you peel yourself out of your shorts, the coarse fabric dragging against chilled skin. The tank top and your undergarments are next, pulled over your head in one jerky motion. You stand there for a moment, naked and trembling in the warm, herb-scented hush of the room. 

The bath chamber Is modest but carefully made. Smooth wooden planks stretch across the floor like aged amber, the dark grain swirling like water under your feet. Shelves of pale cedar flank the walls, stacked neatly with rolled linen towels, glass stoppered bottles filled with what you think are fragrant oils, and odd lumps of green soap that glimmer faintly in the lantern light. Thick woven rugs in rusty reds and burnt golds lie like islands on the floor, plush and a little worn at the edges. 

The tub itself is carved into the floor, round and deep, its interior gleaming like polished stone. Pale steam unfurls in slow, sinuous waves that catch the light, and tiny dried petals float on the surface; muted orange and brown, releasing a faint spice into the air as they spin lazily. Beside the tub is a battered wooden stool with a single clay bowl perched on top, its contents a coarse powder that smells of cedar and crushed seeds. 

You draw closer and hesitate, lifting your injured hand instinctively. Blood has seeped through the wrapping again, the bandage damp and reddened, and you can still feel the sharp sting at its center. Careful not to jostle it too much, you unwind the soiled cloth, the fabric sticking briefly to your palm before peeling away. The cut looks angry, but at least the bleeding’s slowed. 

The bathwater laps at the carved edge as you slip one leg in, then the other. The heat is startling at first, a pleasant shock up your calves, then it soaks into your bones with a depth that steals your breath. You sink in slowly, mindful of your hand as you rest it along the smooth rim and let your tired body melt into the water. 

The silence is deep in here. Only the occasional drip of water from a wooden spout breaks it, and the scent of steeping herbs settles into your hair. You close your eyes. The tension unspools from your shoulders bit by bit, and for the first time since you awoke in this strange realm, you allow yourself to simply exist. You scrub at your skin with your uninjured hand. 

You almost fall asleep, lulled by the warmth until a door creaks somewhere outside.  

You freeze; breath held tight in your chest as quiet steps cross the floor outside. A shadow passes across the narrow gap at the bottom of the door, and then it swings open. 

Seokjin. 

Your mouth opens, alarm prickling your spine as you sink deeper into the water on instinct, but he doesn’t look your way. Eyes fixed firmly on the low wooden bench; he simply places a folded pile of clothing there and a cotton towel before turning without a word. 

That’s it. 

The door swings shut as softly as it had opened, and you’re left with the lingering impression of his back --- broad and impassive --- as though this were simply a ritual as unremarkable as closing the windows at dusk. 

Your heart hammers. 

You wait a long moment before moving, uncertain whether he’ll return. Then you rise carefully, water streaming from your skin, and retrieve the clothes. It’s a tunic, you think, cut long enough to brush your knees, the fabric light but woven close. 

The deep green is threaded with rust at the hems, curling in patterns that mimic climbing vines, the embroidery catching faintly in the dim light. A leather tie gathers at the waist, though it sits a little too loose on your frame, meant for broader shoulders and taller stature. You’re grateful that the pants has a drawstring, you’d have to go around without it otherwise. You do however have to roll the legs so that you wouldn’t walk on them.  

Beside it lies a mantle of soft wool, grey-brown as river stone, clasped at the throat with a small bronze pin. When you draw it about your shoulders, warmth settles close, carrying the faint weight of someone else’s presence, old yet comforting. 

By the time you leave the bath, dressed and hair damp, the halls are quiet again. Seokjin is no where to be found and you’re left to fumble your way back to your room on your own. You feel like a kid wearing her mother’s clothes with the way the clothes swallow your form.  

Seokjin appears in the doorframe of your room sometime later with another bowl of soup. 

You hardly look up. 

He watches you for a breath too long. 

“You ought to eat,” he says, setting the bowl down. 

Your eyes burn with exhaustion. “I’m not hungry.” 

A sigh. “Starve yourself, then.” he replies, voice as dry as tinder. There’s an undercurrent of irritation despite it. “It’s hardly my concern.” 

And then he’s gone again, like a ghost.  

Outside, dark clouds roll across whatever passes for a sky in this place, rain starting as a light tap against the windows before swelling into a steady drumming. Thunder growls in the distance. 

Your hands are trembling as you lie back on the too-soft bed, listening to the rain and wondering how long you’ll be trapped in this strange house with this strange man who regards you like a trespasser. 

The soup goes cold yet again, and by then you’ve sat up, thinking too hard and crying again. Seokjin had come back not ten minutes after bringing the soup and lit a few candles in groves embedded into the wall and left. You stare at the flickering flames with disdain.  

You hug your knees to your chest, eyes burning and dry from all the tears you’ve cried already. But your body still finds a way to make more, and a dry, broken sob leaves you.  

You hate it here. You’re tired, scared. Your parents must be out of their minds looking for you. They probably think you’re dead. You don’t know if they’ll ever find your dad’s truck or find that town; they’ll never know peace.  

The thought only makes you cry harder.  

The sound of the door hitting the wall makes you jump. The hinges give a pathetic whine as the door swings back only to be stopped by Seokjin’s raised palm. He takes up a lot of space in the doorway, shoulders impossibly wide. The flickering candlelight sends shadows dancing across his face; you can barely see the deep burgundy of his robes.  

There’s a soft swish, fabric brushing against the stone floor as he moves into the light. The robe clings and flows in places, embroidered with copper thread that catches the flame’s glow---like burning leaves trembling in a dying forest. Hints of muted gold and earthy brown glimmer at the edges, layered over deeper greens that shift like moss beneath fallen trees. He looks like autumn incarnate; faded splendor, regal and tragic all at once. Something out of a storybook, or a dream. 

You’d rather wake up. 

“Would you stop that insistent wailing?! You’re disturbing my peace!”  

His words slide across your skin like a melting ice cube: cold, sharp. And as quickly as the goosebumps rise, they’re soothed by the rush of heat that chases behind.  

Anger crawls its way up from your toes, “If I wasn’t stuck here, I wouldn’t be crying!” You unfold, pressing your back against the wall. Angry as you are, the shadow Seokjin casts against the floor, large, imposing, scares you into a corner. “I don’t want to disturb your fucking peace! I want to go home!”  

“Do you think your blubbering would get you there faster? I have enough to deal with without that racket!” Seokjin yells, and there’s static in the air as thunder rumbles outside. “If you want to cry do so silently, wretched girl. I cannot think!”  

It occurs to you that this is the most emotion you’ve seen from this man the entire day. Though, he sure picked a time to show it.  

You make a frustrated sound at the back of your throat, hands curling into the soft cotton sheets beneath you. “It’s no wonder you’re alone here! No one would want to stay here with you being such an asshole!”  

Seokjin descends upon you faster than you could blink. There’s a creak from the headboard as he’s suddenly in front of you, weight supported by a hand. His other hand squeezes your cheeks, hard enough that you can feel your teeth painfully pressed against them.  

His eyes are gold.  

“One more word out of you, varmint, and I won’t be as hospitable. I will cast you out to sleep in the rain. Mind your tongue, or we’ll see how you fair without it. Be quiet.”  

Your heart Is hammering so loudly you’re certain he could hear it. You swallow the lump in your throat and let out a pitiful, “I’m sorry.” 

He stares at you a moment more, the anger in his eyes like lava, and then he releases you and backs away like he’s been burnt. The door slams behind him.  

You curl up into a ball and cry silently. 

Eventually, the rain lulls you to sleep.  

It doesn’t feel as though you’ve slept very long before morning comes. And you’re awakened by the sound of a whistle.  

There’s a weight on your legs that takes a moment to register, and you raise your head to find a great red fox curled into a ball atop your shins. You startle, legs shifting and jostling the creature. It opens an eye slowly, sleepy and amber, it stares at you before it opens its maw of sharp teeth with a yawn.  

There’s another whistle and its ears twitch to the sound but doesn’t seem too bothered. It stretches, the fur of its bushy tail puffing up before it nonchalantly hops off your legs and onto the floor without a sound.  

“Dusk.” Seokjin’s voice travels from wherever he’s at, a little muffled, and the fox chirps, nosing at the crack in the door. Then it stops and sits, turning to stare at you.  

You slip off the bed, walking cautiously to the door before pulling it open. The fox slips out and goes down the hallway.  

“Do you think I’ve all day to wait for you, vixen?” Seokjin’s voice trails off, getting softer the further he goes before it’s quiet.  

You press your palm against your stomach, the emptiness of it turned sharp and uncomfortable. You go down the hall, following the serpentine curl but go past the kitchen.  

Past it is a wide, open space, a foyer that feels more like the heart of some forgotten sanctuary than part of a home. The ceilings soar high overhead, held aloft by dark wooden beams carved with curling motifs; shapes you can’t quite make out in the half-light. Wall sconces with copper bowls of flame cast a steady, amber glow that gleams against polished stone floors. 

Your bare feet sound too loud against the tiles as you cross into the center, and you realize the entire floor is set with intricate patterns; copper and deep green inlaid into obsidian like fallen leaves frozen under glass. Pillars rise here and there along the walls, their surfaces wrapped in intricate vine work, winding up into shadows that cling to the vaulted ceiling. 

A grand wooden door anchors one end of the room; its face etched with unfamiliar symbols. Heavy drapes hang in a few spots, rich green-brown fabric that pools on the floor like moss. Beyond the curtained windows, rain hisses against the glass, a rhythmic, distant sound. 

And just off to the side, a broad hearth glimmers with embers, casting faint warmth that doesn’t quite reach you where you stand. The entire space hums with a quiet energy, an old, measured power that feels centuries deep. 

Seokjin was nowhere to be found.  

You’re glad for it, after last night, you’re certain he doesn’t want to see you either. Thinking about everything makes your head swim, which, doesn’t do well paired with the dizziness your hunger caused.  

You probably should’ve eaten something. Seokjin had brought you soup twice yesterday, but you very well can’t just trust him giving you something. Last time you did that you wound up here.  

You turn, wondering how big this place is. To your left, there’s a staircase that leads up, spotted with dim light from the windows that sink into the wall on the landing above.  

You go up them, feet made soundless by the worn carpet below. You keep your hands to yourself, watching the designs on the walls; bronze vines crawling up the length of them lazily. When you get to the top of the staircase, the hall goes both ways left and right of you.  

You step towards the window and peer out of it. The glass is fogged by rain; droplets sliding down through the condensation and disappear into the wooden pane. Beyond the window is a thick forest, trees of all sizes sway in the downpour, their nearly skeletal branches trembling as the rain knock the leaves off them.  

It seems to stretch on for miles, and in the distance, tall mountain peaks covered in snow. If you tilt your head just right, and perhaps press your nose against the glass pane, you could see the odd brightness of the lush green running perpendicular to the forest. Domain…Seokjin had said. It's like two different places sown into a tapestry, and the only thing that separates them is thick thread. 

You glance down the hall to your left and find nothing but doors and moss green rug. It’s the same on your right, except that the hallway continues on, curving to the left at the end.  

You take a step forward, and it feels like there’s static running through the air.  

“Your curiosity knows no bounds, it seems.” Seokjin’s voice trails up behind you. Startled, you turn and find him at the foot of the staircase. His robes are darker today, a stormy grey and deep earth browns. He doesn’t look particularly upset, but there’s a warning you can feel in his gaze even from so far apart. “I’ll forgive you this just once, but you aren’t permitted to go down that hall.”  

You make your way back down the stairs and feel like it would be better to shrink into yourself than face him.  

His eyes are brown.  

“I didn’t know.” You mutter, staring at the end of his robes that brush the carpet as he turns away from you.  

“I am aware.” He says, tersely, his upper body turns only slightly towards you, “there will be no other instance. You do not wish to cross me.” Then, a sound---something like a hiss of words, soft and sharp at once. You recognize it from yesterday, a string of syllables that don’t belong to any language you know. 

“What does that mean?” you ask quietly. “You said something… strange.” 

“I assumed everything I’ve said to you thus far has been strange,” he replies. There’s something like amusement in his eyes, though he doesn’t smile. 

“Nemira meun,” he says, tone flat. “It means little mouse. You remind me of one.” 

You stare at him, confused for a second but then decide not to question it. Your stomach gurgles loudly just then, and Seokjin raises a brow.  

“Are you done being stubborn?” He asks simply, walking toward the hall that leads to the kitchen. Dusk, the fox, trails ahead, nails clicking against the floor.  

You follow him, reminded by his words how faint you feel. Your hands tremble slightly at your sides. He pushes the door to the kitchen open, and then suddenly, he speaks sternly.  

“Dusk. Out.” He bends at his waist on the other side of the table and then lifts with his arms around the fox. She wiggles against him, licking at her snout and lets out a screech. As Seokjin rounds the table and walks towards the door, Dusk changes tactics and starts licking at his chin instead. 

“Miserable creature.” Seokjin turns his head away from her lapping tongue, “you were fed this morning, greedy girl. Go on, away with you.” He drops her rather unceremoniously outside and shuts the door while she whines indignantly.  

“She gets into the milk if I’m not careful. I don’t know why she likes the stuff.” Seokjin explains and then seems to catch himself. He looks as though he hadn’t intended to say much of anything to you at all. He narrows his eyes at you like you’d tricked him into speaking, and you stare back.  

Dusk scratches at the door.  

Seokjin blinks twice and then look away. He walks around the table, to the left of the room and flicks at a latch on the wall with a finger. When the latch flips, there’s a near inaudible pop before a rectangular portion of the wall seems to unhinge. It drops open slowly, like the maw of a great beast, but there are no teeth inside.  

You can’t see much but a dark space beyond, before Seokjin moves away. From above the rectangular hole in the wall, Seokjin picks one of the hanging pots, it’s a small thing, stout and wide; something you’d make broth for one in. Then he turns and makes a few steps to plop it on the table with a metal clunk.  

You keep your eyes on the space on the wall, watching a soft glow build from inside. It’s a pale orange light that seems to come from deep inside it. It climbs up the walls in vein-like cracks, bleeding upwards until the glow fills the space. 

Seokjin moves around silently, but it doesn’t bother you much anymore. Frankly, you’re too hungry to care what he says or doesn’t. You can only hope he doesn’t poison you.  

You don’t think he would, though. Hopefully. Although, he doesn’t seem too keen on you intruding on his space; ‘disturbing his peace’, as he’d so kindly said last night.  

Seokjin says nothing as he retrieves a few things from the pantry: a wax-wrapped parcel that smells faintly of thyme and something earthy, and a small jar filled with cloudy amber liquid---broth, you realize, as he unstoppers it and pours it into the pot. The scent wafts quickly into the room, warm and savory, with a faint touch of garlic and something woodsy that makes your stomach curl in on itself with want. 

The hearth glows more brightly now, that strange rectangular space pulsing with soft, unseen flame. There’s no wood, no crackling, but the warmth rising from it feels strangely natural. You suppose it would be, in a place like this. 

Seokjin works with quiet precision; chopping root vegetables, by the looks of it. Something orange like carrots, something pale and dense like parsnips. A few herbs as well, plucked from a bundle hanging upside-down over the pantry door. You sit silent, listening to the soft thunks of the blade hitting the cutting board and watch as he scoops the neatly cut vegetables and drop them into the pot. Then he picks it up, setting it into the little oven’s mouth and it’s a lot deeper than you expected because he leans forward a bit and when he pulls his hands away, the pot has disappeared.  

He doesn’t speak, but you can feel him watching you from the corner of his eye. He moves back to the table and unwraps the parcel. It seems to be some sort of meat, looking fresh as though it was caught and preserved just this morning. You wonder at how that could be.  

Like he’s read your mind, Seokjin glances at you. He takes a knife to the slab of red meat, the blade slides through the flesh with ease. “There is a rune over the door.”  

You nod at his words as though they made much sense to you. Eyes darting to the pantry to squint at the frame above the entry. You don’t see anything. He slices about four thick pieces and then cuts those slices into wonky squares, setting them aside in a little bowl. He takes a moment to wash his hands carefully, cleaning up the table and disappearing into the pantry before he comes out again and shuts the door behind him.  

There’s the sound of flowing water and he turns and slides a cup across the table towards you, “Drink.” 

It’s only water and you drink slowly.  

When the kitchen smelled of seasoned broth; thyme, marjoram and bay leaf, Seokjin unlatches the little door again and dumps the meat chunks in.  

“How does that work?” you ask, not really curious, but more trying to fill the silence in the room. Seokjin doesn't spare you a glance, taking the little bowl over to the sink to wash.  

“Runes, mouse.” He replies.  

A little while later, he sets an earthenware bowl in front of you, the contents still bubbles as it settles from the shift. The broth is a warm gold, made thick from the root vegetables that swim within it, the meat soft and a deep brown. It smells amazing and your tummy rumbles.  

“Finish the water first.” Seokjin says and you do so obediently, drinking the water down in a couple gulps. On a saucer, he puts a slice of brown bread and some pieces of dried fruit.  

“Thank you.” You say softly, taking the silver spoon he hands you.  

“No need.” Seokjin replies, surprisingly gentle, setting about cleaning the pot he’d used. Just as you feel the softness of his tone sink into your small smile, he opens his mouth again, “I’d rather you not die. I’d have to bury you somewhere and that’s quite tedious.”  

Biting your tongue you decide not to answer that and waste your precious energy on what would be a fight with him if you say what you want to say right now.  

You blow on the spoonful of broth, sipping at the warm liquid. The flavours burst on your tongue, and despite the heat of it, you start eating in earnest.  

Seokjin mutters something in his strange language but he isn’t looking at you, he’s still standing at the sink, holding the gauzy curtain open and staring out the window.  

“At least the rain has stopped.” He says and then turns, “I will return. I’ll be gone for a while but I’ll leave Dusk in your company.” He glances down at your almost empty bowl and the crumbs of bread left. “There is bread and smoked meats in the pantry. Do try to keep your curiosities to a minimum, mouse. I will clean your wound again when I return.”  

With that, he rounds the table and is out the door. You finish your broth and bread, and nibble on the dried fruit that tastes like apricot and dates and hum softly to yourself.  

Once you were done, you gather the wares and carry it over to the sink. The pipe looks rustic and spouted water as you set the bowl and saucer in the sink. With no soap, you rinse them as thoroughly as you can before setting them aside to dry.  

You had to roll the sleeves of your robes up and away from your hands, and you continue to fuss with them as you walk to the door. Pulling the door open, you stop just shy of running into Dusk, who’d laid curled up before the door.  

There was no trace of her outburst from earlier, and she peeks an eye open, head raising off her paw to look at you. You simply stare down at her, not sure how to react. She seemed friendly enough, but regardless, she’s a fox. Foxes are like cats, right? Like, the cats of the canine species. Maybe if you blinked slowly she’d think twice about biting you.  

She chuffs, a puff of air through her shiny black nose before she uncurls and stretches.  

The movement is languid, almost like she’s showing off. Her russet coat catches the light; warm, burnished red fading into cream along her throat and belly, with black socks up her legs like she’d dipped her paws in ink. She arches her back, yawning with pointed teeth on full display, then flicks her white-tipped tail once as she steps leisurely across your path.  

You take a quick step back, giving her room as she walks down the hall towards the bath area. When she was about five steps away, she pauses and looks over her shoulder and back at you. Her amber gaze seem to glow and seems far too intelligent for a simple fox. She’s waiting for you to follow.  

You leave the kitchen behind, following Dusk as she trots on ahead.  

You follow her quietly for a while, her nails clicking against the cold stone floor the only sound besides your rustling clothes. You wrap your arms around yourself, folding your hands into the sleeves of your robes warmed by your body heat.  

You wonder how long you’ve been here, days? Surely not weeks. You can only imagine what your parents are going through right now. You’re not sure of the passage of time, there are no clocks or anything of the sort to tell you. You don’t even remember what day of the week it was when you’d ended up here.  

Dusk goes past the door you remember to be the bathroom, and down a narrower corridor you’re pretty certain wasn’t there the night before. Just how big is this place? It seems like it can go on forever no matter how deep you go, and then, it’s like your brain can only process half of what you see at a time. You’ve come to the conclusion that this house, Seokjin, and even Dusk was confusing. You think a scientist would have a grander time stuck in this place.  

Someone with a notebook and no fear of things that don’t make sense. Someone who wouldn’t flinch when a fox turns a corner and waits like she knows your thoughts are drifting. 

Because that’s what she does. Dusk pauses again, just ahead, one paw already lifted as if she was mid-step but stopped, waiting. 

You catch up slowly, watching her. 

Her ears flick once. Then she looks back at you. 

It’s that look again. That impossible, wrong look. The one that feels too aware, too sentient. Her eyes glow low gold in the dimness, like dying sunlight caught in amber. You swear she narrows them just slightly like she’s thinking.  

And it unsettles you. 

You look away first. 

She turns again, satisfied, and keeps walking. 

You try not to let it bother you. After all, she’s just a fox, isn’t she? A clever one, maybe even enchanted. But still an animal. Probably. 

The corridor opens at last into a wider hallway. You smell parchment before you see it. Something dry, papery, and old. You pass under an archway and stop.  

A door yawns open to your left, tall and dark. Beyond it: shadows, shelves, a hundred thousand thin lines of spine and script and age. 

A library. 

You step in slowly, your breath caught somewhere in your throat. 

Books line the walls in every direction, stretching high enough to make you dizzy. Ladders lean against shelves, and more shelves spiral up toward a dome ceiling painted with stars you’ve never seen in your life. A massive window spills pale light across the floor, dust dancing in it like gold-threaded snow.  

“…How?” is the only word you can mutter, dust tickling your throat a minute later. You must be in a castle or something. Rooms just pop up. You turn to look back through the archway and Dusk is gone.  

Maybe she decided that you’d be better off in here than wandering about listlessly and getting yourself into trouble. The thought doesn’t bring you comfort, instead it further uproots your unease about everything.  

There’s large oak table near the center of the room, covered with little stacks of books, scattered rolls of parchment and ink bottles. An unlit fireplace sinks into the wall on your far right, and you walk towards the table quietly.  

The tabletop is covered in a thin layer of dust, a singular chair toppled over on the other side of the table and partially under it. Like someone had gotten up too fast and didn’t stop to right it.  

One of the pages of parchment is spotted with dark ink, a string of words you don’t understand stops halfway down the page. The words are written prettily, but in a hasty looping scrawl. The ones folded under it seems to be diagrams of plants, herbs and roots that grow in different climates, all noted in the same hurried handwriting along the sides of them.  

You peek at the books, but they’re also written in that strange language and most of them are blank. Bored, you neaten everything; rearranging the books, stacking the ones that are empty together and the ones that have words written into them. You tidy the parchment, all the ones with diagrams and the ones that look like scholarly and the ones that are just words. The ink bottles are placed into little lines of twos. 

The table is a lot less cluttered now, and you go around and pick up the chair and tuck it under. Over at the fireplace is a large square rug of deep brown and leaf green, swirling gold go around the edges of it.  

You look up again, slower this time, eyes adjusting to the quiet grandeur around you. 

The further back your gaze travels, the more the space seems to unfold. It’s not just rows of books---it’s alcoves carved into walls, reading nooks with velvet cushions half-sunken from use, curious little lanterns hung from thin chains swaying slightly despite the still air. There’s a staircase curling like a ribbon into the upper levels, its railing forged from what looks like blackened ivy wrought in iron. 

Along the walls of the upper level, there are windows, long, narrow ones with colored glass panes. The light filtering through them paints the spines of the books in gentle hues: rose, honey, moss and dusk-blue. Some shelves are tucked into the walls at strange angles, half-tilted like the books themselves are too tired to stand straight. The further you explore with your eyes, the more impossible the geometry becomes, like the space folds over itself quietly when you’re not looking. 

You drift toward one of the shelves with books written in the same swirling language, touching the spine of one hesitantly. The texture is soft, almost leathery, with strange notches pressed into it like braille. 

You frown. “There’s gotta be something I can read in here…” 

After spending a good amount of time trying to read the spines of the books on the lower level---most of them in that same strange, looping script---you give up with a quiet sigh and glance upwards. The second level of the library winds around the room like a balcony, shelves curving into the walls, ladders nestled into every few columns. 

You climb the winding staircase carefully, your hand trailing the smooth banister, steps hushed under your bare feet. 

Up here, the air feels quieter somehow.  

You step out onto a dark wood landing, where the shelves are tighter and more packed. The smell of old paper and something slightly metallic fills your nose. Ahead is a soft seating area; low couches of moss green velvet, the cushions plump and pressed with age. A side table holds a delicate, empty tea set, and there’s a small oil lamp beside it, though it clearly hadn’t been lit in a long time. 

You pass glass-fronted shelves next, taller than you, lined with heavy tomes that give off the same feeling as things behind velvet ropes at a museum. Some have locks. Some glint faintly with symbols you don’t recognize. You don’t dare touch them. 

Wandering past, you turn a narrow corner and almost miss it. 

A small shelf, tucked into a recess between two beams. Like it was meant to go unnoticed. 

You lean in, squinting at the titles. 

And for the first time since you entered this sprawling, shifting place, your eyes fall upon something familiar.  

English. 

They’re different sizes, with titles in English, Latin, French and even a few written in languages you recognize but can’t read. A weathered copy of The Secret Garden sits beside something that looks like an old herbal grimoire. You spot a familiar name: Jules Verne. And then another: Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. 

You draw one of the books off the shelf carefully, the cover worn but the spine intact. A collection of fables, by the looks of it. The next book is a volume on constellations. Another is handwritten, in neat blocky letters…not printed. A journal, maybe. 

You sink into the little velvet couch nearby, curling your legs beneath you, and open the fables book across your lap. The ink is faded, the pages yellowing. The first Fable is The Man and the Lion. 

You didn’t know when you fell asleep, your fingers lay limp under the small printed text, halfway through The Wolf and the Crane. You jerk awake for no reason in particular, wiping at the corner of your partially opened mouth and looking around in a slight daze.  

Frowning you look down at the book in your lap and you mark your page and hug it to your chest as you stand to stretch. Your palm tingles a little as you do, and as you go back down the curling staircase you sniff at the bandage. You can only smell the comfrey root paste, which you suppose is a good thing.  

When you get to the bottom, you’re startled to find Seokjin looming in the doorway. You almost drop the book your holding, freezing like a deer on a highway.  

He's holding a tray in his hands, a cup of something that steams and a plate with bread slices is all that you could see.  

“Sorry.” You say, automatically, standing now awkwardly.  

Seokjin’s brows furrow and he steps into the room, striding over to the table where he pauses. He stares at it for a while, long enough for you to wonder if you’d did something wrong by cleaning it up. He says nothing about it and sets the tray down on the cleared space. His broad shoulders rise with a deep breath and then he glances back at you, “Come eat. You’ve been in here for hours.”  

You do as instructed, pulling back the chair to sit. You realize now that there’s more dried fruit and slices of cheese to pair with the bread, and the tea smells like berries. There’s a small bowl of water as well.  

Seokjin turns away from you when you thank him, wandering off to a shelf. You watch him out of the corner of your eye, the way he seemed to trail his fingers along the spines with some sort of reverence. He pauses a couple of times and simply stares at a spot. You focus on eating.  

When you’re done, and you’re sipping at the tea, Seokjin comes back and rummages around his robes. He pulls out the little vial with the comfrey paste, a cloth and the roll of bandage fabric, “Your hand, mouse.”  

You present your hand to him, and he carefully removes the bandage and cleans the wound. It still looks bad, but not as bad as it had the day before. It looks raw and pink now, and a film had developed over the deeper part at the center of your palm.  

His fingers are cold, and he dabs gently at the wound until the ache settles to a dull throb. Like before, he covers it completely with the comfrey paste. Then, he goes about wrapping your hand with the clean bandage fabric.  

“Can I ask you something?” You ask, breaking the silence.  

Seokjin sighs through his nose, “if you must.”  

“Where did this library come from? Is it yours?”  

Seokjin’s hand pauses briefly, his brows draw together and relax so quickly you almost miss it.  

“No.” he says, tone clipped, and he says nothing more as he ties the ends of the bandage at the back of your hand and then he takes the tray and leaves.  

The days here are odd, and they go by quickly, and Seokjin is no more receptive to your presence now than he was a couple of days ago. When the morning comes, he calls for Dusk and he disappears for a couple hours, and then he returns and makes you food and disappears again.  

You keep pestering him when you have the chance to, asking him when you’d be able to be sent back, and his answers are pretty much the same as he’s told you before. Utterly vague and unhelpful. You don’t know how long you’ve been missing from home, how your parents are fairing. Sometimes you lay in your room and stare at the ceiling wondering if you’ve just been hit over the head and you’re in a coma in some hospital, and all of this is simply a dream. 

But each day you wake up, it becomes more and more apparent that you’ll be here for a while. A good long while. You’d sometimes cry yourself to sleep, missing your life before this, your parents, your friends. Sometimes you’d cry because that’s all you can do being stuck here. 

You spend most of your time poking around the place, got lost on more than one occasion trying to find your way back to the library without Dusk’s lead. There are more rooms in this place than you think possible, winding corridors and doors that lead to nowhere. You even found a piano in one room. 

Seokjin doesn’t talk much, and you think he sometimes forgets that you’re there. Sometimes he stares at you with an irritated draw to his brow like you’re a stain on a white dress, and sometimes he looks at you like he doesn’t know where you’d appeared from.  

Other times, you sit in the library and read all the books you could understand. It kept you occupied and keeps your mind from thinking too much. You’re incredibly homesick, but there’s nothing you can do for it. Time seems to go by quickly, but slowly all together; you have no way to measure the days. 

One day you grew stir-crazy, unable to stand the walls of his strange house any longer and you asked him to go out.  

He was in the kitchen, sitting at the table with bundles and bundles of roots and plants. Glass jars and vials spread around the table, parchment folded neatly into tags as he meticulously punched holes into them to run twine through. Dusk, who typically wasn’t allowed in the kitchen, was sprawled contentedly in a spot of rare sunlight that bathed the ground from the window.  

He looks up at you with a brow arched, like a father waiting for his child to convince him to let them go to a party. He pursed his lips, dipping a quill in ink before writing neatly on the tags the names of roots.  

“Am I supposed to say no?” He asks, using a knife to snip some tough looking root into smaller pieces before packing them into a jar. “You’re free to go out if you wish, you are not a prisoner here.”  

Excited, you thank him, but he simply goes back to his work, muttering that you take Dusk with you. When you got to the door, he calls your name and you’re startled because you hadn’t known he knew it at all.  

He levels you with a look, “My borders are clear, do not go beyond them. Stay within my domain. If you wander and should be lost I will not spend my day searching for you.”  

Sometimes you’re confused on where he stands. Perhaps he has a strange duty of care? Or perhaps he sees you as a child he’s forced to look after. Like when your parents would have you babysit your young cousins as a child and made you miss out on doing things you wanted.  

Since that night he quite literally threatened to maim you, you haven’t seen him angry or even particularly upset. You still don’t know who or what he is or why he’s here alone.  

Now you’re standing outside and the weather today is fair, but the sun was once again hidden by cloud. Though overcast, it’s not raining. It rains a lot here, you’ve noticed, but you’re somewhat glad for it. The air is crisp and fresh, and you’re finally breathing it after who knows how long, but you’re unable to fully enjoy it.  

You know that the house is strange, but standing outside makes it more difficult to comprehend. On the inside, there’s a staircase that leads upwards from a foyer, where Seokjin had told you not to wander, but…there’s no indication of a second level. Rather, the house looks like a large countryside cabin, with no space to fit the library or all those rooms you saw. Unless it goes underground. Which is impossible since the library has windows and you’ve never went down. Of course that doesn’t explain anything at all if the whole upper floor is missing.  

You feel a headache blooming at your temples and decide not to bust your brain thinking about any of it.  

You look around, try not to think too hard at the way the dampness of Seokjin’s domain is abruptly cut off and lush green starts like a spring garden. Though, behind you and to your right, is a forest, the one you saw through the window upstairs. It looks dense, nothing but trees in various stages of autumn. Like just at the beginning of October when the leaves darken and turn but still cling to their branches, some of them are nearly bare. It stretches endlessly as far as you can see.  

The cabin sits in the center, you believe, like the round edge of a puzzle piece. There’s a clear line between this place and spring next to it.  

Dusk looks as bored as a fox can manage, her white-tipped tail flicking as she trots along the wooden fence of a garden. You follow her, more curious than cautious, and stop when you see the rows within: curling pumpkin vines heavy with orange bulbs, brambles jeweled with blackberries, and thin branches bowed under the weight of blueberries just beginning to shrivel in the cool air.  

You don’t step inside. Something tells you that would be a trespass. Instead lean against the post, taking a deep breath of the smell of near overripe fruit and damp earth.  

The door opens. You turn, startled. Seokjin steps out, two wicker baskets hooked against one hip, his sleeves rolled to his elbows. He stops when he sees you, unreadable, dark eyes fixed in that unnerving way that always makes you wonder if he’s measuring your soul against some ancient ledger. 

“Why are you simply standing there?” His voice cuts through the silence like frost. 

“I just wanted some fresh air…” you murmur. 

He regards you for a beat too long, as though debating whether that was an offense worth naming. Then, with a soft scoff, he shifts the basket into his hands. “Very well. Since you’ve nothing better to do, come help me.” 

The words fall like command, not invitation, yet he turns toward the garden gate without looking to see if you’ll follow. You do, and he does not stop you. 

He presses one of the basket into your hands, brusque, and gestures at the berry bushes. “Pick what’s ripe. Not the green ones, not the shriveled ones. Do you at least know the difference?” 

You nod quickly, relieved when he doesn’t pursue it further. While you move carefully among the brambles, he strides into the rows with practiced ease, bending to lift the sagging bellies of pumpkins, knocking on their rinds as though they might answer him. The sound of his hands moving through leaves, tearing away weeds, settling fruit in neat piles, is strangely calming. 

You glance up once to find him watching you---not critically, not even harshly, but with a look you can’t quite name. When he notices your stare, he clears his throat, straightens, and busies himself with the soil. 

The silence is companionable, almost. The garden hums with the rhythm of autumn itself: endings ripening into sustenance, the last sweetness before the frost. 

And for the first time, you feel less like an intruder, and more like someone being folded into the edges of his solitude.  

After a long while of picking berries, your fingers stained dark purple from their juices, you look over your shoulder at Seokjin who’d moved away from the pumpkins to pulling root vegetables from the ground.  

“Seokjin.” You call, and he doesn’t glance your way, but replies none the less.  

“What is it?”  

You continue picking the berries, “Are your domain and that one the only two?” 

He looks at you then, something like amusement in his eyes, “There are four in total. Winter and Summer are on the other side of the realm.” He informs, and then, chuckles like he thought of a joke, “if I tried explaining it to you, you’d most likely end up confused.”  

“I’m not stupid.” You say hotly, and Seokjin waves a dirt stained hand.  

“I never said that you were.” He says, “It is simply a fact. You cannot bring your mind to comprehend the vastness of this house.” He points a thumb over his shoulder, “You wouldn’t be able to comprehend the dimensions of this place.”  

He pauses a moment, dark eyes catching the soft autumn light as he surveys the orderly rows of his garden. Carrots, parsnips, beets, and radishes peek through the soil. Small pumpkins, their skins mottled orange and green, cluster near the fence. The air hums quietly with life, the rustle of leaves, the distant call of a bird. 

He turns, brushing dirt from a turnip before setting it into his basket, “Winter is that way. As you may have seen from the window.” He points beyond, in the direction you’d seen the winter capped mountains from upstairs. “But it is also that way.” He points to his right, where Spring begins, “Though, for you, if you go that way, it would take you days to reach it. But if you go through Spring, it would only take you a couple of hours to cross the entire two domains to get there.”  

You stare at him blankly and he stares back, and then he sighs. He gets up from his spot and walk through the rows to you. Dusk flits past, tail flicking with quiet curiosity, sniffing at the tops of the carrots before retreating to a sun-warmed stone. 

He crouches, and with one long finger he draws a circle. “Pay attention, mouse.”  

He divides the circle into four. “We are here.” He points at the bottom left of the circle, “But we are also here.” He draws a line from his section to the one above it. “Spring is here, but it is also here.” He does the same for the other side. “Everything is layered, but directly across from each other. Think of it as four separate worlds, divided by a border. Some borders are closer than others. My domain is directly against Spring. As Spring is directly against Summer and Summer is to Winter. Getting to winter from my domain would take you a day either which way you walk. Through Summer you can simply walk through the divide.”  

Halfway through his explanation you feel like your brain can run out your ears, and he nods as though he’d expected your blank stare. And then he goes back to his work, “Best not dwell on it, Nemira meun.”  

You hum, and go back to your berry picking until your basket is full. “Seokjin…” 

“Yes?” He’s back to knocking on pumpkins and shaking his head, dragging out the word like he’d expected you to call him again.  

You poke around the basket of berries, plucking the fattest one to toss into your mouth. “Who… are you? You never said.” 

He eyes you for a moment, and then casually, “I am a God.” He stands, lifting his basket of provisions as though he hadn’t just declared something world-breaking. “I have many titles. Keeper of the Harvest. Warden of the Waning Days. But to you, I am simply Seokjin.” 

Your mouth goes dry around the berry you’ve just eaten. “So…you’re the god of autumn?” 

“Autumn is part of me,” he says smoothly, with a faint shrug. “As much as your breath is part of you.” 

“Then…the other seasons have gods as well?” 

He doesn’t look at you. He just adjusts the basket on his arm, the line of his shoulders taut in a way that makes your question feel like you’d crossed an invisible barrier.  

“Then why are you here alone?” you press, softer this time. 

Seokjin says nothing. He only strides toward the cabin, boots crunching against the soil, leaving your words to hang in the air like a chill. 

“Come, I’ll show you what to do with those berries.”