No expectations. No pretending.

Just the quiet truth of things laid bare.

The park stretched before her in long ribbons of pale gray and white, the walking paths half swallowed by old snow that refused to melt despite the promise of spring lingering somewhere far ahead in the calendar. Each step gave a familiar crunch beneath her boots, steady enough to become a rhythm, steady enough to quiet the restless energy that rarely left her alone.

She came here often.

Sometimes before work. Sometimes instead of going home right away.

Movement helped when her thoughts grew too loud. Not that it worked particularly well today.

A strange tension had followed her since morning, subtle but persistent, like the feeling of forgetting something important without knowing what it was.

She tried to ignore it.

Focused instead on the brittle glitter of frost clinging to the iron benches, on the way her breath ghosted briefly in front of her before dissolving into the cold air.

It was only when a crow startled upward from the ground near the trees that she noticed she had drifted farther from the usual path.

Not lost.

Just… elsewhere.

She turned to retrace her steps.

And saw it.

At first her mind refused to understand what she was looking at.

Because there should not have been a door standing alone between two narrow hawthorn trees.

No wall. No fence. No ruined structure hinting that something had once stood here.

Only the door.

Small enough that she would have needed to bow her head slightly to pass through it.

Painted a red so vivid it seemed almost alive against the muted winter landscape.

She glanced behind her instinctively, expecting to see someone else noticing it. A jogger. A dog walker.

There was no one.

The park had fallen unnaturally still.

Even the crow had gone silent.

Curiosity nudged her closer before caution could gather ist voice.

The red was not fresh paint, she realized as she approached. Time had touched it. Softened it in places. Yet the color refused to dull.

Frost traced delicate veins across the surface, gathering along shallow carvings in the wood.

Letters.

She lifted her gloved hand and brushed the ice aside.

Stray not far from beaten way,

For watching eyes prefer the stray.

Teeth may smile and voices soothe,

Yet hunger walks in gentle truth.

A shiver slipped down her spine.

Not fear exactly.

Recognition.

As if the words were reminding her of something she had once known.

„Well,“ she murmured softly, „that is not ominous at all.“

She expected the sound of her voice to feel ridiculous in the empty park.

Instead it seemed absorbed by the quiet.

The handle was colder than she anticipated when her fingers closed around it.

For one fleeting moment, instinct spoke clearly.

Leave.

Nothing good waits behind doors that appear from nowhere.

Yet beneath that warning came another feeling.

Quieter.

Stronger.

The unmistakable sensation of being invited.

Before she could decide whether that thought was absurd, the door eased inward beneath her hand.

It had not resisted.

Had not even creaked.

One moment it was sealed.

The next it simply was not.

Air brushed her cheek.

Not winter air.

This carried the scent of damp earth and crushed leaves. Something green. Something living.

Her heart began to beat a little faster.

She should turn back.

Instead, she stepped forward.

The change was immediate.

Snow yielded beneath her boot and became soft moss.

The brittle hush of winter shattered into small snowflakes so bright and sudden it almost hurt.

She spun around.

The park was gone.

Behind her stretched a forest she had never seen before, dense and towering and impossibly deep.

There was no door.

No hawthorn trees.

No path home.

For several long seconds she could do nothing but stare.

Panic hovered at the edges of her awareness but never quite took hold. Wonder arrived first, threading through her chest with almost dizzying intensity.

„Alright,“ she whispered faintly. „Either I am dreaming… or I have made a spectacular mistake.“

Somewhere far off, a low howl unfurled through the trees.

It did not sound entirely like a wolf.

Too resonant. Too deliberate.

The forest seemed to listen to it.

And somehow so did she.

Still, she could hardly remain standing there forever.

After a steadying breath, she chose a direction and began to walk.

Time loosened strangely beneath the canopy. Light filtered down in fractured beams that made it difficult to judge how long she wandered. Minutes felt like hours, or perhaps the opposite.

Gradually, the air shifted.

Warmer.

Touched with something familiar.

Smoke.

Then came the faint murmur of voices.

Relief rose so sharply it left her almost lightheaded.

The trees thinned.

And the forest released her.

The village appeared with such gentle suddenness that for a moment she thought it must have been there all along, hidden just beyond her sight.

Stone cottages clustered around a wide central green. Thin ribbons of chimney smoke curled lazily upward, carrying the unmistakable scent of baking bread.

Somewhere metal struck metal in a measured rhythm.

Laughter followed.

It looked impossibly safe.

Almost painfully so.

A man near the well noticed her first.

Instead of alarm, his face brightened.

„There you are,“ he called.

Not who are you. Not what happened.

There you are.

As if she were late rather than lost.

Others turned.

Smiles spread easily.

No suspicion. No fear.

Only warmth.

„You must be exhausted.“

„Come inside quickly, it is colder at the forest edge.“

„Did you walk far?“

Gentle hands guided her forward before she could decide whether to protest.

The nearest cottage wrapped around her in golden heat, the sudden temperature change prickling pleasantly against her skin.

Someone removed her coat. Someone else pressed a steaming cup into her hands.

The smell alone made her realize how hungry she was.

Questions tangled on her tongue, yet none seemed capable of pushing past the simple comfort of being cared for.

„You are safe now,“ an older woman said kindly.

The words should have reassured her completely. Yet something about them felt rehearsed.

„You do not seem surprised to see me,“ Y/N said carefully.

The woman’s smile softened.

„We have been hoping you would arrive before deep winter.“

A quiet murmur of agreement circled the room.

Her pulse stumbled.

„Hoping?“

The woman studied her face with an expression that bordered on tenderness.

„The forest does not open ist doors lightly.“

A chill threaded through the warmth.

„You know about the door?“

„Of course.“

No hesitation. No confusion.

As if doors between worlds were as ordinary as rain.

Bread appeared before her.

Then stew rich with herbs.

She ate because refusing felt impossible beneath their attentive gazes.

Yet the unease inside her continued to grow.

Not sharp enough to alarm.

Just present enough to whisper.

Something is wrong.

When the meal ended, the woman disappeared briefly into another room and returned carrying a folded bundle.

Red spilled across her arms.

„For you,“ she said.

The cloak was heavier than it looked. Thick wool, beautifully made, lined with silk that gleamed faintly when it caught the firelight.

„It gets very cold after sunset,“ the woman continued gently. „Travelers are often unprepared.“

Travelers. Plural.

„You receive many strangers from other worlds?“ Y/N asked slowly.

A flicker passed between the villagers.

Gone too quickly to name.

„The forest sends who it sends.“

Not an answer.

Yet everyone behaved as if it were sufficient.

She fastened the cloak around her shoulders.

Warmth settled instantly through her, deeper than fabric alone could explain.

Pleasant. Almost too pleasant.

Her thoughts began to soften at their edges.

„You should rest,“ someone murmured.

„Yes,“ another agreed quietly.

The room seemed brighter suddenly.

Or perhaps her vision had blurred.

She blinked hard.

The floor tilted.

A small laugh escaped her, unsteady.

„I am so sorry… I do not know why I am suddenly this tired.“

The older woman caught her elbow.

„It is natural,“ she said softly.

„Travel between worlds takes much from the body.“

The words floated strangely.

Y/N tried to focus on the woman’s face.

Something in her expression had changed.

Still kind. Still gentle.

But no longer entirely warm.

Understanding came slowly.

Not panic.

Not yet.

Just a single, crystalline thought forming with terrible clarity.

The tea.

Her fingers loosened around the cup.

It slipped.

Shattered faintly against the floor.

„I…“ Her tongue felt thick. „What did you give me?“

Silence settled across the cottage.

Heavy. Final.

And for the first time since stepping through the red door no one smiled.

Darkness did not take her completely.

It hovered instead, thick and heavy, pressing against the edges of her awareness like deep water against glass.

Y/N drifted somewhere beneath it, suspended in a strange space between sleep and waking where thoughts came slowly and sensation arrived before understanding.

The first thing she noticed was movement.

Not her own.

A rocking rhythm surrounded her, gentle but relentless, accompanied by the muted crunch of footsteps against frozen ground.

Cold brushed her cheek.

Air.

She was outside.

Memory returned in fragments.

The cottage. The tea.

The warmth that had turned treacherous.

Her body felt impossibly heavy, as though each limb had been filled with wet sand. She tried to move her fingers.

Nothing happened.

Tried to open her eyes.

Her lashes trembled but refused.

Panic flickered faintly, then receded again beneath the lingering fog inside her mind.

Voices reached her next.

Low. Urgent.

„…later than expected.“

„We cannot wait for moonrise.“

„I know that.“

Bootsteps shifted.

Someone adjusted their grip beneath her shoulders.

Only then did she understand.

They were carrying her.

The realization struck with a clarity so sharp it cut cleanly through the drugged haze.

Run, her mind commanded.

Her body did not obey.

Branches whispered overhead. Once, something scraped softly across the cloak wrapped around her. Leaves, perhaps. Or reaching twigs.

The smell of woodsmoke had vanished.

Now the air tasted green and damp and ancient.

The forest.

„We should have prepared sooner,“ a man muttered.

„How could we? She came through nearly a full month after the last frost. We thought perhaps the forest would spare us this year.“

„It never spares,“ another replied quietly.

A pause followed.

Then, almost reluctantly, a woman spoke.

„She is lighter than the others.“

Others.

The word lodged inside her chest.

Y/N tried again to move. Tried to speak. Even a whisper would have been enough.

Her tongue lay heavy and useless against the floor of her mouth.

„Do not talk as though she were not here,“ the older braided woman said sharply.

„She cannot hear us.“

The certainty in that statement made something cold curl through Y/N’s stomach.

If only you knew, she thought wildly. If only you knew I hear every word.

Their pace slowed as the ground beneath them shifted. She felt it in the subtle change of their footing, the careful placement of each step.

Snow no longer crunched.

Leaves did.

Dry. Countless.

„You remember the last one,“ a young voice said suddenly, fragile in the dark.

No one answered at first.

Then a man exhaled heavily.

„Do not speak of her.“

„They found her at the boundary,“ the voice continued, as if unable to stop. „Not a mark on her. Just… empty. Like something had looked inside her and taken what it wanted.“

„Enough.“

Another silence.

Longer this time.

„The forest does not always kill them,“ someone whispered.

„No,“ came the reply. „Sometimes it simply sends them back. In an empty shell.“

Sent them back.

Y/N’s pulse hammered so loudly she was certain they must hear it.

What were they giving her to?

Her thoughts struggled to gather shape, slipping apart before they could form answers.

At some point, her head lolled slightly, and she felt cool air against her throat where the cloak had shifted.

Immediately hands moved to secure it again.

„Careful,“ the braided woman murmured. „The red must remain visible.“

Red.

The memory of the cloak fastening at her throat surfaced with sickening clarity.

A uniform. A marker.

An offering ribbon tied neatly into place.

„Does it matter?“ someone asked hoarsely.

„It has always mattered.“

The forest opened around them gradually. Even with her eyes closed, she sensed the change. The air grew still. Watchful.

As though countless unseen things had paused to observe their passing.

No birds called. No wind stirred.

Only their breathing and the steady cadence of steps.

„I dreamed of this when I was a child,“ the young voice admitted quietly. „My mother told me if I ever saw the red door, I must pray it did not open for me.“

„You were never chosen,“ another said.

„Chosen,“ the voice repeated, hollow.

„We do not choose,“ the braided woman corrected. „The forest chooses. We obey.“

Obey.

The word fell with the weight of centuries.

Ahead, someone slowed.

„We are close.“

Y/N strained against the heaviness holding her captive, desperate for even the smallest movement.

Nothing.

A faint glow warmed the darkness behind her eyelids.

Firelight.

They stopped.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then she heard it.

The soft groan of old hinges.

The scent of ash drifted toward her, mingling with something older. Dust. Forgotten wood. Time itself.

„Grandmother’s house,“ the young voice whispered.

Grandmother.

The fairytale name brushed against her memory with eerie familiarity.

They carried her inside.

The air was colder within the hut than outside, untouched by recent warmth. Their boots shifted across wooden planks that creaked in quiet protest.

„Lay her near the hearth.“

Gentle hands lowered her.

The floor met her back, hard but not unkind.

Fabric rustled.

Someone knelt beside her.

A spark caught.

Then another.

Soon the tentative crackle of kindling filled the small space as flame began ist careful climb through waiting logs.

Orange light pressed faintly through her closed eyes.

„They should not wake alone in the cold,“ the braided woman said softly.

A bowl touched the floor near her shoulder.

Bread followed.

Water.

Preparation.

Provision.

Hope, perhaps.

Or guilt.

„I hate this,“ the young voice broke suddenly. „Every year I tell myself I will not come again. And every year I do.“

„You would damn us all if you refused.“

„I know.“

Silence trembled between them.

Then, so quietly she nearly missed it:

„I am sorry, child.“

Fingers brushed her hair back from her temple.

The touch lingered.

„You arrived smiling,“ the woman continued faintly. „That is what I will remember.“

Footsteps shifted.

„We must go.“

Already? Already they were leaving her here?

„But what if she wakes before…“ the young voice faltered.

„Then she will have fire,“ came the steady reply. „And food. More than most were given, in years long past.“

„Do you think,“ the voice whispered, „that any have survived?“

No one answered.

Which was answer enough.

Bootsteps retreated.

Then paused.

Branches scraped deliberately across the ground outside.

Erasing tracks.

Of course.

Even drugged, even half senseless, she understood the cruelty of that small sound.

They were not only abandoning her.

They were ensuring she could not follow.

The door closed with a quiet finality that echoed far louder than a slam.

And then there was nothing.

No voices.

No footsteps.

Only the soft breathing of the newborn fire.

Time stretched.

Panic rose slowly now that the drug began, little by little, to loosen ist hold on her mind.

Who?

The question pulsed through her.

Who are they sacrificing me to?

The forest answered with silence.

Something shifted outside.

So faint she might have imagined it.

Leaves compressing beneath weight.

Not the scattered tread of villagers.

Too measured.

Too deliberate.

Circling.

Her heart battered wildly against her ribs.

Move, she begged herself.

Please move.

Her fingers tingled.

A spark of sensation.

Not enough.

The fire cracked softly.

Beyond the fragile ring of ist light, darkness gathered thick and patient in the corners of the hut.

Waiting.

Just as the door had waited.

Just as the forest had waited.

And now, she understood with a terror far colder than winter.

Whatever lived beyond those walls…

Was waiting for her.

Warmth reached her first.

Only sensation.

It crept slowly through her fingers like thawing ice, sharp enough that she almost welcomed the pain.

For a long time she lay exactly as she had been layed, staring upward into the dim rafters while the fire breathed softly nearby. Each crackle sounded unnaturally loud in the stillness, as if the hut itself were listening.

She focused on her hand.

Move.

Nothing.

Again.

A tremor.

Small. Barely visible.

Relief hit so suddenly her throat tightened.

The drug was loosening.

Time passed in uneven fragments after that. Sensation returned piece by piece, never quickly enough to satisfy the rising urgency inside her chest.

When she finally managed to curl her fingers properly, the effort left her shaking.

„Those absolute monsters,“ she croaked, her voice rough with disuse.

Speaking grounded her more than anything else had.

Anger followed.

Hot. Stabilizing.

Good.

Fear alone would not help her survive.

She rolled onto her side with immense concentration. The room tilted violently, and for a moment she thought she might retch, but the feeling passed.

The fire had grown stronger while she drifted. Someone had stacked the logs carefully, as if determined that the warmth would last.

That detail unsettled her more than outright cruelty would have.

They had not wanted her to suffer.

They had simply been willing to let her die.

With effort, she dragged herself upright and leaned against the wall until the trembling in her arms eased.

„Think,“ she whispered.

The hut revealed itself slowly as her vision steadied. It was smaller than she had first imagined. Old, but not abandoned. A narrow bed stood against the far wall, layered with heavy quilts. Bundles of dried herbs hung from a beam overhead. A kettle rested near the hearth, blackened with age.

Grandmother’s house.

The name brushed unpleasantly against her memory.

A childhood story stirred somewhere deep inside her thoughts, but she pushed it away for the moment.

Later.

Survive first.

Questions later.

She tried the clasp of the cloak at her throat.

It did not move.

Frowning, she tugged harder.

Still nothing.

The metal looked ordinary enough, yet it might as well have been fused shut.

„Wonderful,“ she muttered. „Dress the sacrifice properly so it looks presentable when it gets eaten.“

The word slipped out before she could stop it.

Eaten.

Her gaze drifted toward the door.

What exactly were they expecting to come for her?

The villagers‘ voices echoed back through memory.

Found at the edge.

Not a mark on her.

Empty.

Her stomach twisted.

Staying inside suddenly felt unbearable.

If something was coming, she refused to cower on the floor waiting for it.

The thought surprised her with ist clarity.

She had always believed fear would root her in place.

Instead it propelled her upward.

The first step nearly sent her collapsing again, but stubbornness carried her forward. By the third, her legs remembered their purpose.

She paused at the door, listening.

Nothing.

Not even wind.

Slowly, she pushed it open.

Cold brushed her face, cleaner than before. Sharper.

Snow fell in delicate, wandering flakes, softening the world into hushed shades of silver and blue.

The forest loomed impossibly close.

Dense.

Layered.

Ancient.

Branches intertwined so tightly that darkness pooled beneath them even with the faint glow of the rising moon.

She stepped outside.

The snow accepted her quietly.

For a hopeful second she searched the ground for footprints.

There were none.

The villagers had been thorough.

Or the forest had already begun swallowing their passage.

„Fantastic,“ she said under her breath. „Abandoned in murder woods with no trail home. Ten out of ten hospitality.“

Her breath fogged faintly before dissolving into the night.

The silence pressed inward until it almost rang.

Then it broke.

A howl unfurled through the trees.

Low.

Resonant.

Close enough that her entire body went rigid.

Another answered it.

Then quiet again.

Her mind reached backward suddenly, grasping the memory she had shoved aside.

A small living room.

Firelight.

Her grandmother’s voice as she turned the fragile pages of a book worn soft with age.

Fairytales of the Brothers Grimm.

Red Riding Hood straying from the path.

The wolf with clever eyes.

The grandmother swallowed whole.

Slowly, she looked down at herself.

The cloak gleamed darkly in the moonlight.

Red.

Of course it was red.

A sound brushed the edge of hearing.

The careful compression of snow beneath weight.

Her head lifted.

At first she saw nothing.

Then the darkness shifted.

Two points of gold hovered between the trees.

Eyes.

Watching.

Her pulse thundered.

The shape detached itself from shadow with terrifying silence.

Large did not begin to describe it.

The wolf stepped forward as if carved from the night itself, ist coat pale enough to gather the moonlight while muscle rippled visibly beneath the thick fur.

Its gaze never left her.

Predator certainty radiated from every line of its body.

This was not an animal that doubted the outcome of a hunt.

A low growl rolled through the clearing, felt more than heard.

Every instinct she possessed screamed one command.

Run.

She did not.

Perhaps the drug had not fully left her.

Perhaps terror had burned itself out too quickly.

Or perhaps something inside her simply refused to give the forest the satisfaction.

A strange sound bubbled up from her chest.

For a moment she thought it was a sob.

Then she realized she was laughing.

The sound cracked wildly into the night.

„Oh, this is perfect,“ she said breathlessly. „This has to be a dream. I finally lose my mind and my brain chooses fairytale execution.“

The wolf advanced one step.

Then another.

Still she did not move.

„If you start talking, I am done,“ she informed it. „Absolutely done.“

The animal’s ears twitched.

Hysteria loosened her tongue further.

„What big eyes you have,“ she continued, the remembered line slipping free before she could stop it.

The wolf paused. Head tilted slightly.

She blinked.

„Do not tell me you get the reference,“ she muttered.

The absurdity tipped her into another quiet laugh.

„You know what, fine. Let us commit fully.“ She drew in a shaky breath and declared, „Hello, Grandma.“

The wolf’s head angled farther.

Curiosity replaced a fraction of the aggression in its stance.

For one suspended moment, neither of them moved.

Then, astonishingly, the creature lowered itself onto the snow.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Its tail brushed once across the white surface.

Then again.

Wagging.

Y/N stared.

„I have officially lost whatever grip on reality I once possessed.“

The wolf watched her, golden gaze bright with unmistakable intelligence.

Not the vacant awareness of a beast.

Something deeper.

Measuring.

Considering.

Snow gathered lightly across ist back, melting slowly into the thick fur.

Tentatively, she took one step closer.

The growl did not return.

„What are you?“ she whispered.

The wolf’s ears flicked forward at the sound of her voice.

Waiting.

As if listening for something more.

Behind her, the hut glowed softly, firelight spilling through ist small window.

Before her, the forest breathed.

And between the two stood a girl in a red cloak that would not open.

For the first time since crossing the door, a fragile thought rose above the fear.

Maybe the villagers had not been entirely honest.

Maybe the forest had not been waiting to devour her.

Maybe.

It had been waiting to see what she would do when the wolf arrived.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

Snow drifted quietly between them, dissolving the sharp edges of the clearing until the world seemed suspended inside a pale hush.

Y/N became acutely aware of everything at once.

The cold biting through her boots.

The faint tremor still lingering in her muscles from the drug.

The heavy red cloak wrapped tight around her throat.

And those eyes.

Golden. Steady. Intelligent.

The wolf did not look away.

Most animals did, eventually. Even predators blinked, shifted, betrayed some small restlessness.

This one simply watched.

„You are not behaving correctly,“ she informed it.

Her voice sounded steadier than she felt.

„In the story, you are supposed to be trying to eat me by now.“

The wolf’s ear twitched.

Encouraging, strangely.

She folded her arms, considering it with exaggerated seriousness.

„Let us review. Step one. Lure the girl off the path. Step two. Race ahead. Step three. Devour grandmother. Step four…“ She gestured toward herself. „Dramatic reveal.“

Nothing.

The wolf continued to lie in the snow as if they were discussing the weather.

A fragile thread of courage wound itself through her ribs.

„Unless,“ she went on, lowering her voice conspiratorially, „you already ate her and are simply waiting for the right moment.“

The wolf’s tail brushed once across the ground.

Not quite a wag.

But close enough that she noticed.

Her brows lifted.

„Do not encourage me. I will absolutely keep talking.“

Silence answered.

Yet it no longer felt empty.

She shifted her weight, testing the steadiness of her legs. They held.

Good.

Because some stubborn, reckless part of her refused to retreat into the hut now that the creature had chosen not to attack.

Curiosity, she realized faintly, had always been her greatest flaw.

Or her greatest strength.

Depending on whether she survived the next few minutes.

„You know,“ she continued, „there is usually a woodsman involved. Very dramatic entrance. Axe. Heroics. Everyone learns a lesson.“

The wolf blinked slowly.

The movement was so calm, so utterly unthreatened, that something inside her loosened another fraction.

Perhaps she was still dreaming.

Perhaps the tea had done more than make her sleep.

Perhaps none of this existed at all.

The thought almost made her laugh again.

„Alright,“ she said softly. „If I am dreaming, I might as well commit to the performance.“

Carefully, she sank into a shallow curtsy, gathering the edges of her cloak with theatrical precision.

„Good evening, Grandma.“

The wolf’s head tipped sideways.

Not sharply. Not predatorily.

Curiously.

She straightened very slowly.

„You understood that,“ she whispered.

The tail moved again.

Definitely a wag this time.

A startled sound escaped her.

„That is deeply unsettling.“

Yet she did not step back.

Instead, she found herself taking one cautious step forward.

The wolf remained where it was.

Another step.

Still nothing.

Ist chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm. Each breath seemed too large for the fragile quiet surrounding them.

Up close, the creature was even bigger than she had first believed. Ist paws were broad enough that one could have covered her entire hand.

Teeth gleamed faintly as it parted ist jaws in a silent exhale.

Weapons.

Every one of them.

Yet it made no move to use them.

„I am going to regret this,“ she informed the night.

Very slowly, she extended her hand.

Every instinct screamed at her to snatch it back.

The wolf leaned forward.

Warm breath brushed her skin.

Then a rough tongue dragged gently across her knuckles.

She froze.

It licked her again.

The sensation was so startlingly ordinary that a disbelieving laugh burst from her chest.

„You cannot possibly be real.“

Encouraged, she let her fingers sink cautiously into the thick fur at the side of ist neck.

Heat radiated beneath the dense coat.

The wolf’s eyes slipped half closed.

A sound rose from ist chest.

Not a growl.

A rumble.

Deep. Resonant.

Content.

„Oh,“ she breathed. „You like that.“

Her hand moved again, bolder now, scratching lightly behind ist ear.

The reaction was immediate.

The wolf leaned into the touch with surprising weight, nearly unbalancing her.

„Careful,“ she scolded automatically. „You are enormous.“

The tail thumped against the snow.

Once.

Twice.

She stared.

„You are wagging.“

The absurdity of it cracked something open inside her, and before she could stop herself, she laughed fully this time.

The sound floated upward into the branches.

For the first time since the villagers had carried her into the forest, she did not feel hunted.

She felt… accompanied.

The thought was dangerous.

She knew that.

Yet she could not seem to summon the fear again with the same sharpness.

Tentatively, she dragged her fingers down along the wolf’s shoulder.

Muscle shifted smoothly beneath her touch.

Power.

Contained.

But unmistakable.

„You could still kill me,“ she said quietly.

The wolf opened one golden eye.

As if acknowledging the truth of it.

Then, in a movement so sudden she startled backward, the creature rolled onto ist side.

And then onto ist back.

Paws folding loosely toward ist chest.

Exposing ist throat.

Her mouth fell open.

„No wolf does that.“

Ist tail swept enthusiastically across the snow.

She crouched slowly beside it, half expecting the illusion to shatter.

It did not.

When her hand brushed the softer fur along ist stomach, the rumbling sound returned, louder now.

„You are behaving like a badly trained dog,“ she informed it.

The wolf responded by stretching one massive foreleg toward her, nearly knocking her sideways again.

She shook her head in disbelief.

„I should be terrified of you.“

Instead, warmth spread through her palms as she continued to pet the creature, each pass of her hand smoothing fur dusted lightly with snow.

The forest watched.

She could feel it.

Yet it no longer seemed poised to swallow her whole.

Minutes passed.

Or perhaps longer.

Time loosened ist grip when measured only by breath and heartbeat.

Eventually, the cold began to creep insistently through her clothes, but when she shifted as if to rise, the wolf lifted ist head immediately.

„You do not want me to go back inside,“ she guessed.

It nudged her knee.

Then settled again.

An idea formed.

Reckless.

Comfortable.

Impossible to justify.

„Just for a moment,“ she murmured.

Carefully, she lowered herself against the curve of ist side.

Heat enveloped her instantly, far warmer than the failing fire inside the hut.

The wolf adjusted without protest, curling slightly so her back rested securely against its ribs.

Its heartbeat pulsed steady and strong through the layers of fur.

Not the rhythm of a nightmare.

The rhythm of something vividly alive.

Exhaustion crept over her suddenly, heavier than before yet blessedly natural this time.

Her hand remained buried in ist coat.

„If you eat me after this,“ she murmured drowsily, „I want it noted that I was very brave.“

The wolf huffed softly.

Then, with surprising gentleness, it bent ist great head and nudged her hair aside before pressing ist muzzle lightly against the crown of her head.

A nuzzle.

Protective.

Almost careful.

Snow continued to fall around them, quiet as breath.

And there, beneath the watchful trees, the girl in the red cloak lay curled against the creature she had feared only minutes before.

For the first time since stepping through the impossible door, sleep came without force.

Above her, golden eyes remained open.

Watching the forest.

Not her.

He felt her before he saw her.

The forest always told him when the door opened.

It did not speak in words. It never had. Its language was older than sound, older than memory. A tightening beneath the roots. A tremor passing silently from trunk to trunk until it reached him wherever he walked.

The boundary had thinned.

Someone had crossed.

For a long time, Yeosang remained motionless among the trees, his pale gaze fixed on the narrow trail the villagers believed they alone knew how to follow.

Snow drifted lightly through the branches, catching in the dark fall of his hair before melting without trace.

Beside him, the wolf stood silent.

Waiting.

It had known before he did. It always did.

„They are late,“ Yeosang said quietly.

His voice barely disturbed the air, yet the wolf’s ear flicked in acknowledgment.

Below them, lantern light flickered weakly between the trunks as the villagers approached, their boots breaking the hush with careful, reluctant steps.

He did not move closer.

He never did.

This part belonged to them.

A ritual repeated so many times that even the forest had grown used to ist rhythm.

Still, familiarity had never made it easier to watch.

They carried her carefully. They always did.

As if gentleness could soften what waited at the end of the path.

Yeosang studied the girl in the red cloak, her head tipped slightly toward the braided woman supporting her shoulders.

Too still. Too trusting.

A familiar bitterness settled low in his chest.

„You should not have come,“ he murmured, though she could not hear him.

The wolf’s gaze remained fixed on the small procession. Her body was alert but not tense, like a blade resting within ist sheath.

It knew its role.

As he knew his.

„I had hoped,“ Yeosang continued softly, „that the door might stay closed this winter.“

Hope was a foolish habit.

The forest did not care for it.

Lantern light spilled briefly across his boots as the villagers passed below his vantage point. Not one of them looked toward the trees. Not one sensed the quiet presence observing their burden.

Humans rarely did.

Yet they always felt him afterward, in the way their voices lowered when speaking of the woods.

The things that lived there. The thing that walked within them.

The hut emerged slowly between the trunks.

Grandmother’s house, they called it.

The name had survived far longer than the woman who once lived there.

Longer even than her bones.

The villagers entered.

Firelight followed.

Yeosang exhaled slowly. „It will be done soon.“

The wolf shifted.

Not impatience.

Awareness.

„Yes,“ he said. „We will test her.“

The word tasted cold.

Test.

Such a harmless sound for what it meant.

Long ago, before the villages pressed so close to the forest’s edge, before fear taught humans the comfort of ritual, there had been no need for offerings.

The woods chose ist own. But time changed all things.

Now the villagers delivered their daughters like winter tithe, praying that obedience would keep the hunger turned away from their doors.

Sometimes it did. Sometimes the forest wanted more.

He remembered them all.

Every red cloak. Every pair of frightened eyes. Every still form discovered when dawn came.

It had been centuries since he learned how not to carry those memories visibly.

Yet they had weight. They always would.

The door of the hut opened again.

The villagers emerged one by one, their movements subdued.

Guilt clung to them like frost.

Good. It meant they had not yet forgotten what mercy should feel like.

„They left food this time,“ Yeosang observed.

The wolf glanced toward him.

„A small kindness,“ he allowed. „Though it has never been enough.“

Branches whispered as the villagers swept away their own tracks, erasing the path with the thoroughness of those who understood the danger of leaving doors open behind them.

Soon their lantern glow vanished entirely.

Silence reclaimed the clearing.

Yeosang did not approach immediately. He never rushed this moment.

The forest listened now.

Waiting to see what the girl would do when she woke alone.

Time passed.

Snow gathered faintly along his shoulders.

Then the hut door opened.

He stilled.

The girl stepped into the clearing, her movements unsteady but determined.

Faster than most, he noted.

Some did not wake until dawn. Some never woke at all.

Interesting.

She searched the ground first.

Smart. Many ran blindly. Few thought to look for the vanished trail.

The wolf’s muscles tightened beneath ist fur.

„Go,“ Yeosang told it quietly.

It slipped forward without sound, pale as drifting frost between the trees.

He followed at a distance. Always unseen.

The howl came first.

A warning.

The girl froze.

Good.

Fear kept prey alive longer than panic.

Golden eyes emerged from shadow.

The wolf advanced. Waiting for the moment when terror would fracture her composure.

It always did. Yet instead of running, the girl stood.

Instead of pleading, she laughed.

Yeosang blinked once.

Had she lost her senses already?

Her voice floated through the clearing, bright with disbelief as she spoke to the wolf like an unruly actor who had forgotten his lines.

For the first time in many winters, surprise stirred faintly inside him.

„What big eyes you have.“

The wolf stopped.

Its head tilted.

Yeosang felt something dangerously close to amusement brush the edge of his thoughts.

When she called it grandmother, the creature’s ears lifted sharply.

Then, impossibly, it lay down.

Its tail moved.

Once.

Then again.

Yeosang stared.

The wolf did not wag ist tail.

It had never wagged ist tail.

Not for him.

Not for anyone.

„What are you doing?“ he murmured.

The girl stepped closer.

Extended her hand.

He felt the exact instant the wolf chose not to bite. Or kill.

Curiosity flickered, unfamiliar and unwelcome.

When she touched it, the deep rumble that answered carried clearly through the trees.

Contentment.

He almost stepped forward then.

Almost revealed himself without thought.

Instead he remained where he was, watching as centuries of predictable pattern quietly unraveled before him.

„You like her,“ he said softly.

The wolf rolled onto ist back.

Yeosang exhaled.

A quiet sound that might, in another life, have been laughter.

„I see,“ he murmured. „So that is how this winter will be.“

The girl lowered herself against the creature without hesitation, trusting a mouth built for killing to remain gentle.

Reckless.

Brave.

Or something stranger still.

Snow gathered in her dark hair.

The wolf nudged her with unmistakable care.

For a moment, Yeosang forgot the forest entirely.

Forgot the test.

Forgot the role carved into him long before memory.

Instead he found himself studying the small, impossible scene with reluctant fascination.

„It seems,“ he admitted quietly, „that you may not be like the others.“

The wolf’s gaze lifted to meet his across the clearing.

Understanding passed between them without need of words.

Yes.

It agreed.

This one was different.

Yeosang looked back toward the girl, now curled safely against the creature’s ribs as sleep claimed her.

A dangerous thought surfaced.

Perhaps the forest had not summoned her to be devoured.

Perhaps.

It had summoned her for him.

He dismissed the notion immediately.

The woods did not grant gifts.

Only bargains.

Still, as he stepped silently from the shadows at last, stopping just beyond the reach of firelight and moon, he allowed himself one quiet confession meant for no living ear.

„Do not make me regret hoping,“ he whispered.

Snow thickened as the night deepened.

At first it had fallen quietly, drifting between the branches like ash.

Now it came in slow, heavy flakes that softened the clearing and blurred the edges of the world until the hut, the trees, and the sleeping girl seemed suspended inside a pale, breathing silence.

Yeosang stepped from the shadows.

The forest parted for him without sound.

It always had.

Even the oldest roots bent subtly beneath the soil, easing his path as though they recognized something of themselves in the shape of him.

The wolf did not lift its head when he approached, though its eyes tracked his movement with quiet awareness.

"You should not let her sleep out here," Yeosang said softly.

The wolf's tail brushed once against the snow but did not disturb the girl curled against its side.

He stopped beside them.

For a moment, he simply watched.

Snow gathered along the deep red of her cloak, each white flake vanishing slowly into the wool. Strands of her hair clung damply to her cheek. Her breath came steady and slow, ghosting faintly in the cold.

Most who reached this place trembled even in sleep.

Her face was calm.

"You trust too easily," he murmured.

Or perhaps she trusted nothing at all.

He could not yet decide which unsettled him more.

Another flake landed against her lashes and did not melt.

A faint crease appeared between his brows.

"Is she not cold?"

The wolf exhaled softly, warm air stirring the snow near her shoulder.

"You cannot shield her from winter forever."

He crouched then, lowering himself with the unhurried grace of something that had never needed to fear sudden movement.

Up close, the strangeness of her presence deepened.

Humans always carried a scent that marked them as separate from the woods. Smoke. Iron. Harvested grain.

She smelled faintly of frost.

And something else.

Something that did not belong to this world at all.

His gaze traced the line of her face with quiet intensity, cataloging details without conscious thought.

The delicate curve of her brow. The softness of her mouth. The stubborn set of her chin even in sleep.

A thought surfaced before he could stop it. She is the most beautiful of them.

The realization irritated him.

Beauty had never mattered before. Fear. Defiance. Resignation. Those were the expressions he remembered when winter ended.

Yet looking at her now, it felt impossible to imagine this face emptied of life at the forest's edge.

The wolf made a small sound. Not quite a growl. Not quite a warning. More a questioning whine that vibrated faintly beneath her.

Yeosang's eyes shifted toward it. "You think so too."

The wolf's ear flicked.

"You forget yourself," he continued quietly. "She is not ours to keep."

The wolf huffed. A soft disagreement.

His hand lifted without thought and sank briefly into the thick fur at the creature's neck.

"You are already attached," he said.

The wolf nudged his wrist once before settling again.

Snow gathered along Yeosang's dark sleeve but never seemed to cling for long. Each flake dissolved almost immediately, as though reluctant to remain.

He looked back at the girl. Carefully, he reached forward and brushed a melting crystal from her cheek with the back of his finger.

Her skin was warm. Alive.

Such a fragile thing, warmth.

The forest took it easily.

A faint sound escaped the wolf again.

"You would have bitten any other," Yeosang said.

The wolf's gaze remained steady.

"Yes," he answered after a moment. "I noticed."

Silence settled between them, companionable in the way only long familiarity allowed.

"It has been many winters since you chose gentleness first."

The wolf blinked slowly.

Yeosang exhaled, the sound nearly lost beneath the falling snow.

"I had hoped the door might forget us this year."

The forest never forgot. It remembered everything.

Even him.

For a fleeting instant, an older memory stirred. Cold water closing overhead. Roots tightening like chains. A voice without sound asking a question he had never truly been allowed to refuse.

He pushed it away. The past had teeth. Better not to let it bite.

His attention returned to the girl just as her breathing shifted.

Subtle. But unmistakable.

Her lashes trembled.

The wolf stilled instantly.

"Too close," Yeosang murmured.

Yet he did not step back. Curiosity held him where he was.

Slowly, her eyes opened.

For several seconds, she did not seem to understand what she was seeing. Her gaze drifted across the clearing, unfocused with sleep.

Then it found him.

Confusion bloomed first, soft and unguarded. He watched the exact moment awareness struck.

Her pupils widened. Air rushed into her lungs. And then she screamed.

The sound shattered the quiet so violently that birds burst upward from distant branches.

She scrambled backward, cloak tangling around her legs as panic tore fully through the fragile calm of moments before.

"You," she gasped, horror sharpening every syllable. "What are you?"

Yeosang did not move.

Did not speak.

Humans always demanded answers as though the world owed them explanations.

Her gaze darted wildly between him and the wolf, betrayal flashing across her face.

"You were watching me," she said, voice rising. "You were here the entire time."

Still he said nothing.

Her fear rolled toward him in waves, sharp as winter air.

Interesting.

Most froze beneath his gaze.

She burned.

"You need to stay back," she warned, though her voice trembled. "I am serious. I will fight you."

A faint tilt touched his head.

Fight him.

The notion brushed something dangerously close to amusement again.

The wolf rose slowly beside her, stretching once before stepping forward.

She spun toward it, aghast.

"Oh, now you remember you are a wolf?"

The creature ignored her indignation entirely and moved to Yeosang's side, pressing briefly against his leg.

Understanding dawned in her expression.

Slow.

Terrible.

"You belong to him," she whispered.

At last, Yeosang spoke.

"Belong is a human word."

His voice was quiet, yet it seemed to settle into the clearing with unnatural weight.

Her attention snapped back to him.

Something flickered behind her fear then.

Recognition without memory.

As if some buried instinct urged her to know him.

He studied her openly now, unconcerned by the scrutiny.

"You should not sleep in the snow," he said.

The absurdity of the statement seemed to strike her all at once.

"You think?" she snapped. "Perhaps you could have led with that instead of looming like a nightmare."

Nightmare.

If only she understood how often he had been called worse.

The wolf nudged her hand suddenly.

She flinched, then stared down at it in disbelief.

"Traitor," she muttered.

Yeosang almost smiled.

Almost.

Instead, he held her gaze, pale eyes unreadable in the falling snow.

For the first time in many years, something unfamiliar stirred beneath the stillness he carried so effortlessly.

Something adjacent.

Something dangerous.

Winter had brought him another girl in red.

Yet as he watched her stand there trembling and furious and vividly alive, one quiet thought slipped through the silence of his mind.

This one might change eveverything

Fairytale Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Yeosangs Masterlist

Intro | HJ | SH | YH | YS | SN | MG | WY | JH

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

He hadn’t bothered to post a new job listing. He’d rather deal with the paperwork himself then pester Mr Porter for a new round of employment contracting and HR bullshit. Soobin could already visualize the look he’d get from Mr Porter when he introduced another new secretary for onboarding. 

He supposed it’s not all bad. At least now Soobin can eat in comfortable silence in his office, as opposed to the dreadfully awkward silence that came with sharing lunch three feet away from someone who didn’t pretend to like him at all. It also enabled him to form a closer bond with clients. Hearing first hand about their financial predicaments, talking payment plans-it all allows him an inside look at the struggles he had to try accommodating. 

From every failed girlfriend, every friend he never had, and now the empty secretary desk facing his? Each one had thoroughly convinced that he’d been pre-destined to repel his fellow man. 

He worked in solitude for nine hours a day only to come home to nothing and no one. 

It must be why he’s so eager to forge a bond with you. Soobin frankly didn’t care about the more complex details of your presence. He wouldn’t have cared if you were ugly, hunchbacked, and had a glass eye. 

Although he won’t be so willfully ignorant as to pretend you’re not gorgeous.  

It actually wigged Soobin out. He wished you were ugly. Soobin doesn’t want a relationship forged on the basis that you’re reliant on him. He can sense a vast, untapped well of warmth inside you. He can feel that you’re the one he needs to keep from sinking deeper into himself. Unfortunately your beauty is a constant reminder that he’s a guy, you’re a girl, and you’re to be living together. He might have an easier time loosening up to flirt if he weren’t consciously aware of the social discrepencsies between you two. He found it would be cruel, manipulative, even, if he allowed himself to entertain the idea of anything romantic or intimate. 

His major concern was the marred color of his soul.  It’s obvious and ugly; no one keeps close to him. Everyone who’d ever skimmed into his depths ran away. He moreoften than not feels he is a ragged granite chunk in a riverbed of fine, smooth skipping stones. 

If you can stand to be close to him, just enough that he has someone to talk to at the end of the day? That would be enough catharsis to get him onto the end of his days. 

That being said, he determined he cannot push, hover, or fucking pace outside of your door. Ever. There’s nothing to be gained in forming expectations and forcing you-a stranger-to adhere to them. Soobin knows that the idea he has of you isn’t real. In the hours you’d been here, he’d formed his idealistic images of what you might be. Brief had the hours been, but it didn’t stop ideologies from internally dictating how frantic he’d become when you didn’t come out after your shower. 

Selfish, he thought. So fucking self centered. None of this should be about him. He ought to stay focused on taking care of you. Is it really a wonder you’d slunk from the shower to the bed? You’re exhausted, no doubt. While Soobin could internalize with great ease thoughts of how you might fare in the household, he’s got to stay aware that is perception isn’t your reality. He knew this place. You didn’t. 

He hadn’t been the one taken from the singular residence he’d known for the majority of his life and expected to integrate elsewhere as if it was a dormitory expedition. 

Control yourself. Don’t put the weight of fixing you on her shoulders. She might come to despise you. It might happen sooner than you think.  

Soobin eased into the sofa cushions. He found the quiet bitter and unbearable. He needed noise. He’d always had it. His father’s cursing and shouting or the rapid pounding of a washing machine on the wall outside his bedroom. The house of his childhood was ridiculously small-no wonder he felt like silence was a punishment. He’d grown up listening to everything. 

What had you mentioned earlier? Kingsmen? He debated selecting the film. It’s a little loud for his taste. He preferred easier films. He preferred Pride and Prejudice, actually. As if he couldn’t be any more pathetic. He ought to hide the Jane Austen books. The last thing he needed was for you to lay eyes on them and piece together you’d gotten the worst man of all time. 

His eyes go to the cellphone next. The latest Apple phone remained in its manufacturer’s packaging. He bought it for you. Though now he’s regretting it. It’s just a boring, white glass model. You might have enjoyed the lavender better. Or mint green. Hell, maybe you would have rather had the black one. Every time he felt he’d done something good, he managed to retroactively figure ways he could have done it even better.  

──────────────── .✦

How long had you slept? 

Rays of sunshine pillared through the window, right onto your face. You had woken in an immediate burst of consciousness, as though your brain flipped a switch and decided it was time to wake up. You had only intended to doze for a while. 

You’re surprised you slept so long. The Center had a day to day schedule which had otherwise been ingrained into you. 

Anxiety washed over you. Now it seemed you were a castaway to sea without the usual sense of structure. You sat up, smacking your lips together at the foul morning breath which marinated there. You went to your bathroom. For each one of your anxieties is a corresponding gratitude. As an example, the private bathroom: tfact you didn’t have to grab a toothbrush from a one-by-one locker that had your name on it was a fairly attractive trait  of your new home. A private bathroom seemed both daunting and liberating. A taste of freedom. 

You tidy everything back into the way it had been when Soobin showed you. You want it to remain that way forever. 

From your childhood you’d had a tendency to dislike change even by the slightest degree. You would sit to admire the presents from Santa Clause or the cellophane on an Easter basket brought by Peter Cottontail himself. Your mother and Mrs Cleve had to encourage you time and time again to tear into the gifts. Birthdays were a ritual; unfolding wrapping paper from the seams by which they’d been folded. 

You had been intent to keep your gifts in the pretty presentation you’d found. Just as now you try to adjust the shower curtain along the edges of the tub to be precise. 

You hadn’t thought about Christmas in a long time. Easter, Christmas, birthdays-those aren’t remarkably important in the Center. It was at the time you’d been taken into the Center you learned the hard way that Santa Clause wasn’t real. You cried all night in a bed that smelled like something sterile. 

Your new bed smells sweet. Fresh linen that isn’t rough or thin cotton that couldn’t shield you from the shivers. This linen is a fluffy, cool quilt. The mattress layered with a fluffy topper for extra cushioning, a silky fitted sheet. Not to mention the four huge pillows that seemed as long as your torso. You fretted over the bed after your teeth are minty fresh. Tugging on the quilt edges, bouncing from side to side to determine if the blanket is perfectly centered on your mattress. It’s longer on the right, you think. You adjust. 

A step backwards and-

Perfect. 

There’s not much to do but sit and admire the room that’s all yours. You hadn’t had a proper bedroom to yourself in a while. In those final days at the Center, you did have your dorm to yourself, but that was only because Brittney had gotten booted out of state. You’d hardly say you were used to sleeping alone. 

There’s no point in changing for the day. It would be trading Soobin’s pajamas for a different pair of Soobin’s pajamas. The oversized shirt is butter soft, but the boxers are far too big. You had to roll the hem down four times to keep them upright on your hips. 

You peek out the door. It’s dark in the upstairs hall. You glance down each side, straining to recall the layout of the place, Soobin’s bedroom door is ajar. The landmark directed you to the left, towards the stairs that crawl with the plush carpet into the kitchen. 

“Soobin…?” you called. Rather it was a low murmur, half worried you’d summon someone you didn’t want to see. 

Soobin is there in an instant. He rose from the round kitchen table, as if standing in ceremony. He just watched you creep into the kitchen. “Good morning,” he said. His voice is thin, like he forgot to breathe before speaking. He coughed. “Hi, good morning,” he repeated, trying to fix his voice. 

“Good morning,” you replied. You can’t help the timid lowness in your voice. “What time is it?” 

“Eight thirty, ish,” he estimated. His eyes flicked to the digital clock on the fanciest coffee maker you’d ever seen. 

Ah, perfect timing, you think. By now you’d have been filed into the cafeteria for breakfast. You’re about fifteen minutes behind schedule, however. By now you’d also have taken a morning walk around the fenced in courtyard. 

“Did you sleep well?” Soobin asked. His voice sounded hopeful, as though he genuinely cared to know if you had. “Do you want breakfast? Come sit.” 

You swallowed as he pulled a chair for you. 

“Yes and yes,” you answered the successive questions. You watched for a moment before shuffling over, eyes on your toes as you took a seat. 

Soobin is sitting in front of you in an instant. The chair scraped on the tile as he moved closer. He leaned an arm on the table to peer at you. “Hey,” he said softly. “You sure you’re feeling alright?” 

You nodded. 

He sighed very quietly. “...Then can you look me in the eye?” he asked. It’s a lulled, easy request, like he was hoping you’d say yes and not at all expecting a thing from you. 

You brushed the fringe of your hair back. You sit straighter. 

“Better,” Soobin said with a tiny smile. “You look refreshed. Well rested. I-I was worried,” he admitted. A stammer leaked into his words for such a brief second you didn’t even notice. 

“Worried? About me?” you inquired. Your eyes shifted away as you wondered why on earth he’d be worried about you. He’d given you luxury on a silver platter. You felt as if you’d slept on a marshmallow last night. 

But Soobin nodded, confirming as much. “Yeah. You said you’d come out after your shower. I waited. Not that it’s a big deal, I just worried that you were feeling sick or nervous. I checked on you. You’d already fallen asleep…” Did he sound strained? No, Soobin couldn’t possibly sound awkward or strained. He’s a lawyer. He’s Soobin. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you quickly said. Had he been put out waiting for you? “I was tired after the shower. I enjoyed it. The warm water. I sat there for a long time,” you beamed at him. 

Soobin’s eyes crinkled as he laughed. “You sit down during showers?” he asked, the smile on his lips audible. 

The question sent a surge of warmth in your face. “You don’t do that?” you questioned shyly. You rub your hands together under the table, eyes drifting down. “...You should,” you told him. “It’s relaxing..” 

“I might try,” Soobin grinned at you. He wasn’t lying. “I’ll have to see what’s so spell binding…maybe I can actually get a good night of sleep if I do. I’m glad you slept well,” he repeated finally. “Now. Breakfast.” He rapped his knuckles on the table. “We can go somewhere. Eat out. I’m sure I can find a sweatshirt for you. Pancakes, omlettes, anything you’d like. Or I’ll make something for you. What do you like?” 

“No, no, it’s okay. At the Center I always ate cornflakes for breakfast. And a carton of applejuice,” you explained. 

Soobin’s mouth twitched down at the corners. “Is that what you like, though?” he asked. “I can buy cornflakes. Applejuice, too,” he quickly assured you. “What are you in the mood for, is what I mean. Shall we look at the pantry?” he suggested. Before you can even answer, he’s up, opening the food stores. “Choose anything you want,” he told you in earnest. He backed away, guiding himself across the room towards the coffee maker, as if his absence might encourage you to take a look.

You obliged him. Only because he offered. You scanned the shelves. 

“What are you having?” you asked him without looking over your shoulder. “I’ll eat whatever you eat.” 

He poured his coffee as if on perfect cue. “I don’t usually have a meal for breakfast,” he admitted. “Typically coffee. Do you want coffee?” 

You shrugged. “Eh…I’ve never really tried it,” you admitted. During the course of life at the Center, coffee hadn’t gotten integrated into the daily schedule. For a moment you felt your chest tightening at the idea of eating anything else then a single serve cereal cup and Honest juice. Your nose wrinkled up as you headily snatched the first box you saw. 

“This.” 

Soobin lifted a brow. “...Instant rice?” he asked in a low voice. He released a long, heavy sigh. “Alright. Put it back. I’ll make something,” he said. 

“No, no, I can have cereal,” you argued, beelining for the box of wheaties that gathered dust. 

“Y/n,” he said firmly. “Let me make you breakfast.” That firm voice again. The one that you’d come to understand meant business. He is a lawyer after all. Like Mr Darcy in Bridget Jones. He’s not nearly as rigid as Mr Darcy, though it’s not as if Mr Darcy is entirely rigid to begin with. Isn’t that the beauty of his character? 

You couldn’t help but return the instant rice to its designated spot the moment he told you. 

“Good,” he said fondly. “Now, sit, relax. How does a cheesy omlette sound?” he suggested. He opened the fridge to gather his ingredients. 

You shrugged, eyes fixed on him. “That sounds yummy,” you supposed. “You’ll eat with me, won’t you?” 

Soobin swallowed. His throat bobbed for a moment as he struggled to reply-he hoped you didn’t notice. “Of course,” he said happily, turning his back to you as quickly as he could in hopes to hide the blush on his cheeks. 

You watched him bustle around. A pan on the oven, drizzled with olive oil. Butter, salt, pepper, cream whisked into the bowl of eggs he’d cracked open with remarkably nimble fingers. 

“Gourmet,” you said randomly. 

“Hmm?” Soobin cocked his head over his shoulder. 

“You’re making fancy omlettes,” you explained. “Gourmet.” 

Soobin’s head of dark hair shook in exasperation. “This is gourmet?” Soobin guffawed. He grinned over his shoulder. “You haven’t seen anything yet. Remind me to go all out for dinner.” 

Something about the way he spoke sparked a warmth in your belly. Like comfort, but far more raw. You found yourself content in watching him at the stove. He’s already dressed for the day, trousers and a button down tucked in with a belt. The sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. His forearms have vines of blue veins, wrapping up along the inside of his elbow. He’s well defined. You look down at your own hands. Your fingers are small, almost like sausage links. There’s no definition of the tendons that run over your knuckles. Soobin, though, his fingers are long and nimble. Either palm is large enough that you’re certain he could burst a watermelon with only a slight squeeze. 

“I don’t have apple juice,” Soobin interrupted your thoughts. “Lemonade?” 

You nodded. “That sounds delicious,” you said happily. Sometimes it was afforded in the Center to have lemonade parties during the summer. All the females, young and old, would get to watch an outdoor movie. The little girls would be able to run around in sprinkler water, or use a slip-n-slide if the Center’s budget was well topped off. Glasses of lemonade, all day…

Something you’d associated with luxury. Funny how something simple can turn into an icon. Sure, as a child Mrs Cleve kept the fridge stocked with lemonade that you once got griped at for drinking right out of the container. Things vastly changed for you after your mother passed. Mrs Cleve had already been old and fragile. She went three months after mom. So with no legal guardian, the state pulled you out of school and sent you to the Elizabeth Blackwell Females Center (It was later renamed the Elizabeth Blackwell Center for Ladies). 

You practically bounce in your chair as Soobin poured a tall glass’s worth. “Here.” He had a real smile on his face as he brought your plate and drink. A cheesy omlette with chunks of roma tomato and flecks of basil. To you it seemed the overt definition of gourmet. 

You smiled up at him. 

“Well, take a bite,” he insisted. “I want a good honest review.” 

You used your foot to push his chair out. “You said you would eat with me,” you reminded him. Soobin’s mouth pursed for a moment. A brief second more of being alone at the table, then he was sitting down, his own omlette steaming on a plate and his coffee still sloshing at the rim of its mug. 

When he finally settled for his meal, you sectioned off a bite size piece with your fork. Cheesy, flavorful, rich. You nodded excitedly as you chewed your food. “Mhmm,” you vocalized. 

Soobin nodded back, grinning. “Yeah? Good?” he asked. “Well, I’m glad.” And he seemed genuinely pleased with himself as he started to eat, too. 

You’re almost embarrassed at the way you scarfed it down. You wiped your mouth clean with a napkin. Your belly is full. It was a far more satisfying meal than the 0.75 ounces of Kellog’s corn flakes you were used to having every morning. 

You settled back in the chair, smiling unbearably wide. “This is the first omlette I may ever have had in my life,” you admitted. “This is the first breakfast I’ve had in…in fifteen years that wasn’t a cup of cereal.” You couldn’t make yourself sound less giddy even if you tried. 

Something hooded flicked in Soobin’s eyes as he chewed slower. He set his fork down, nodding. “That’s nice,” he said. Reserved. Withdrawn. No more warmth. 

Why? What did you say? You replayed it all in your head. You meant to sound thankful. “Thank you,” you said firmly, intending to clarify your meaning. Soobin shook his head as he poked around at his egg. 

“You don’t need to thank me,” he replied quietly. A distant sadness soiled the shared joy that had sparkled in the dark brown depths just a minute ago. “I’ll make omlettes every morning. No,” he hastily corrected himself. “Every morning will be something different.” The vow is clearcut and unnegotiable. He used it again. The lawyer's voice. 

You could only stare at him, your eyes glued to his face. When he looked at you with vague expectation, you nodded quickly. “Yes, every morning,” you agreed. “Deal.” 

Soobin’s shoulders lifted as he took a breath. “Deal,” he repeated. Soft again. He slowly finished his plate, unable to move or do anything else as you sat there sipping the lemonade, simply watching him eat like it was a hobby. 

“So,” he drawled. He wiped his mouth clean with a paper towel. “Up for shopping?” 

You blanched at the thought. “Uhm…I don’t know,” you fidgeted. You did know. You don’t want to leave the house at all. It’s warm in here. Cozy. It smells of allspice. cinnamon, and him. There’s no real traits of Soobin’s scent. It’s distinctive, however, and quite pleasant. It’s all over you-the pajamas he gave you seemed soaked in his essence. You’d grown accustomed to it in the single night you’d so far lived here. Now that you’re cozy, fed, and happy, he wants you to leave? 

Soobin nodded in understanding. “You just…” he trailed off. He hesitated. “You don’t have any clothes,” he said carefully. 

Your brows furrowed. “Well, you don’t have to whisper it,” you assured him. “I know I don’t. I have my outfit from yesterday, though,” you insisted. 

Soobin’s brow quirked up. “And that’s what you want to wear every single day? Like a cartoon character that has a single outfit? Come on, I think you’d have fun,” he encouraged. You didn’t budge on the notion. 

The thought of having to try on a million things while Soobin sat outside a dressing room was remarkably nauseating . 

Soobin made a thoughtful sound. “Alright,” he decided. He reached over to your place setting, taking your cleared dishes. “Easy work around,” he smiled, staking the plates in the sink. “Online shopping. It’ll give you a chance to use your new phone,” he added. “I didn’t set anything up, yet. I’m not sure if you have an email already…but I charged it overnight,” he added, the final part of his words twined with something hopeful. 

You shake your head. “No,” you said simply. 

Soobin watched you for a pointed moment. “You’re funny,” he said decidedly. “Phone’s there,” he pointed off towards the living room. “Charged and ready to go. Let me know if you need help.” 

You didn’t move from that spot. “What do you mean?” 

“Set up your phone,” Soobin repeated-there wasn’t any annoyance in his words, but he sounded certain in the stance you’d do it on your own. “You’re a big girl,” he added, and you swore his voice dipped into a low tease. “I’m sure you’ll do fine. And if you mess it up, there’s always factor reset,” he assured. 

The distance from the kitchen to the living seems unbearable in that moment as your chest tingled from the lemonade you’d finished off. You shuffled to the sink first, washing your hands with warm water and the plain Dial handsoap. You never liked the way excess food smelled. Your senses are rather heightened when it comes to scents and tastes. You prefer keeping clean and fresh. Excess scents tend to give you a headache. Besides, you don’t want anything clouding Soobin’s clothes. Part of you wants to hide your face into the fabric and lay completely still for hours. 

Unfortunately, Soobin seemed adamant that you do this. His kindness is beyond compare. You’d never known someone so willing to help, so willing to give. It seemed all he’s done for you thus far is give. He carved a space out of his home solely for you, gave you clothes, gave you food. 

You don’t have much to give in return. Therefore it’s the least you can do to follow his instructions. Afterall, being asked to loiter on a sofa and play with a cellphone is among the easiest tasks he could have given you. He could be insisting you scrub the baseboards, do the dishes, or warm his bed. But he isn’t doing any of that. 

Effortlessly kind, and for the most part gentle and soft when he speaks to you. Sure, he pushes you just a tad to break out of your shell. It’s only out of true care and kindness. 

Your situation could be horrible. You could have ended up with a pervert, expected to be an intimacy partner. Or a housemaid. A servant. A person in a space meant to complete menial tasks. Soobin could have brought you home and forced you to be anything other than what you are right now-a curled up ball, subtly rubbing the throw blanket along the isnides of your wrists so your scent can linger in your new home. 

──────────────── .✦

“Here’s my location,” Soobin explained. “I’d prefer that we’re able to track one another. In case of emergencies,” he explained. “That okay?” 

You nodded, your eyes fixed on the screen. “Yes.” 

You have a rather adorable habit of giving blunt, one word answers and leaving a silence palpable enough he expects a punchline. It always makes Soobin want to laugh. “Right, then. Just double checking. Got your email all set up, got your phone number activated. Seems perfect to me. Pretty soon I’ll compile a list of all the important household passwords,” he explained. “We’ll get you access to the accounts. The internet service, music subscription, Netflix, everything we’ll share,” he explained.  “I think that’s officially everything,” he figured, rubbing the back of his neck. “Hm…here.” He fished his wallet out of his pocket. “For your shopping.” 

He shucked his credit card out, sliding it over between two fingers. He’d already budgeted everything out. Soobin might be pathetic but he’s well prepared. He spent a month readying for your arrival. Now that you’re here-now that it’s you-he’s so glad he did. There’s a wild urge to spoil you rotten festering inside him. 

“Don’t argue,” he said quickly. You had jeered back from the plastic card like it was on fire. 

“I can’t pay you back,” you insisted. “I can’t accept this.” 

Soobin lifted his brows. “...Fine,” he relented. He leaned back, watching you watch him. Like a game of who will break first. “But you know you can’t leave the house in boxer shorts. Let alone my boxer shorts,” he said. 

You shrugged. “I guess I won’t leave the house,” you said. 

Cheeky, he thinks. “DIdn't you mention you enjoy fresh air and exercise?" he teased. "What if there’s an emergency?” he asked.

Leave it to you to have a rapid fire response. “I’ll call you.” 

Soobin leaned forward,his elbows on his knees. He can’t help but size you up. Wrapped in the fuzzy blankets, swallowed into the sectional cushions. “My office is twenty minutes away,” he retorted. 

“I’ll call the police,” you further jousted. 

“And then you’ll have to wait outside with strangers, regardless,” Soobin pointed out. “Don’t comment,” he stopped you when you opened your mouth. “Just. Take. It. You can give it right back when you’re done,” he promised. “I fully intended on taking you to the boutiques in Tribeca,” he added. “You’ve got more than enough allowance to do some shopping.” 

With a great deal of hesitiance, you accepted the card. “Fine,” you said. “Fine…” Your voice trailed off as though you had nothing to rebut. Triumphance swarmed Soobin’s head as he let you be. 

 A few minutes later, he heard your shrill shock. “Clothes are expensive, Soobin!” you exclaimed. “One pair of jeans is fifty dollars.” 

Soobin nodded with sympathy. “Yeah, I know. Get yourself a few pairs. Pretty sure you’ve got eight hundred to spend,” he informed you. 

Obviously, having a child was his dream after becoming an idol, but not this soon.

And he knew he couldn't tell you that.

But he let that resentment fester inside of him.

When he held his Beomwoo, in his arms for the first time, he thought everything would be okay, especially when his first cry stopped the moment that he made skin to skin contact with him. He felt a fulfillment that he thought would keep that void of dread filled so that he wouldn't disappoint you.

But then the crying wouldn't stop.

It was normal, his mom told him, for babies to cry incessantly. It would get better with time. The first few months were always the hardest.

But then you went back to work.

Both of you discussed it before. He'd have to do most of the parenting for at least a little while until you got back into the swing of things at work.

...Did he mention that you were a CEO?

You weren't a chaebol or anything, but to be honest you were the one making more money between the two of you. Objectively, your job was more important than his for the sake of your marriage finances. Wooyoung had to be practical. He had to suck it up for at least a couple of months just so that you could find a rhythm at work that you could comfortably incorporate Jiwoo so that he could go back to being an idol full time like he always had.

It was a good plan, and you promised you were going to make sure that he'd be okay going forward. You were going to follow through.

But one day it all rose to the surface.

You walked in, ready to greet your husband after a long day of work. The smile on your face when you saw him was nothing but relief.

Little did he know that this was the last time you'd look at him like this for a very long time.

"Hi, Woo-"

"This has to stop, y/n."

You froze, your blood stilling in your body. "I'm sorry," You said instinctively, though you didn't know what you were apologizing for. "Wh-what needs to stop?" The question slipped reluctantly from your lips as if you were afraid that he would consider questioning him as an act of defiance.

"I can't keep taking care of Beomwoo," he said, running his hand down his face, "I know I'm good at it, and I reassured you that I wouldn't let you take on all of the work, but now I'm taking on all of the work."

You took a tentative step toward him, putting your hands on his face, "I- I know, but we agreed that once I got into a rhythm at work then I'd-"

"When is that going to be, y/n?" Wooyoung asked tightly, taking her hands off of his face, "I love Beomwoo, I do, but sitting at home idly like this is torture for me. I'm an idol, I have an active career. While you- you've gained weight-"

That was not what you were expecting to come out of his mouth. Truthfully, he didn't mean it like that it was more just word vomit while trying to convey that your job was stationary compared to his, but it didn't hit you that way.

"O-oh," you said, feeling small. You tried to pacify him but he shook his head.

"I can't do this anymore, y/n. I'm missing so many things and this is such a vital time in my career, don't you see that!?"

"I do! I do see that," you said, softly, calming him down, "Okay. I'll take him to work with me. You can go back to being a full-time idol. I didn't- I didn't mean to burden you."

But Wooyoung couldn't stop while he was ahead.

"I love you, y/n. You knew I didn't want to get married so young, but I did it for you, so that you could get away from your family and be this great CEO that you always wanted to be. We had a baby even though I wasn't ready for one, but I love kids, so you've been taking advantage of that, so that you could keep doing your job knowing fully well that I would never abandon Beomwoo the way you've been doing."

"H-hey, Wooyoung, that's not-" Your eyes were furrowed with confusion, a bit heartbroken at his words. "Don't you care about us, y/n? Or did you really just marry me for your career? It's like you don't even see me anymore," He spat despite it being nowhere near the truth.

"I couldn't work for months, Wooyoung," You said softly, "With my maternity leave, the interim CEO took on way more than they were prepared to, my company was just- there was a huge mess and-"

"I don't want to hear your excuses. I just want action, y/n. I just need action. I'm tired of this."

"Okay," you said softly, "I'll work it out. You just go back to KQ, alright? I'm sorry for troubling you. P-please don't yell at me, okay? I'll take care of it."

Wooyoung softened for just a moment before shaking himself out of it. You always did this. At the slightest feeling on tension you retreated into yourself and he wasn't allowed to get mad at you. But he was angry. Why couldn't he be allowed to feel angry?

You wouldn't have been so angry if you had just talked to me sooner. That was what you believed.

The next morning, Wooyoung was gone from bed before you woke up. Beomwoo was crying, and you instantly shot up to check on him.

To your surprise, he was dressed appropriately and had just dropped his pacifier.

Even though Wooyoung was angry with you, he was still taking care of you in his own way... you supposed.

You gave Beomwoo his pacifier and he instantly stopped, looking up at you curiously. You smiled at him, caressing his head until you looked at the time.

"Shit!" You were so late.

The night before had taken a toll on you. Your body responded by sleeping the stress away, and that made you wake up an hour later than you normally would have. Your phone, usually on silent during your sleep, was blowing up with soundless notifications.

You got ready quickly, packing the baby bag while you brushed your teeth.

It wasn't until you looked in the mirror, half dressed with a toothbrush in your mouth that you remembered what Wooyoung said yesterday.

"You- you're gaining weight-"

You cringed, staring at yourself in the mirror. Pregnancy had not been kind to you. You hadn't really had time to exercise nor did you think you would have time considering that now you had Beomwoo to think about.

Once upon a time, you wouldn't have thought of that as an issue. Wooyoung told you that he thought your body was beautiful during your pregnancy, that there was nothing your body could look like that he wouldn't be attracted to.

But if he noticed that you'd gained weight... he must have found it an issue. Wooyoung wasn't attracted anymore. What other conclusion could your mind come to?

You took a deep breath as you pinched the loose skin around your stomach, tears pricking your eyes.

You wore a looser fitted business outfit today.

"You brought the baby with you!?" your assistant whispered loudly as you stalked in through your office doors.

"Wooyoung didn't- he needed a break, so I took care of it for him. It's fine." "But you didn't hire the babysitter, yet!" "I said it's fine! What's on the agenda for today?"

That's how you ended up in a board meeting with your wailing son in your arms as you tried to give a Powerpoint presentation.

The head of the board stood up, a brow raised as he looked at you who was trying your best not to break down in front of them.

"I think you're a bit overwhelmed today. Maybe we should have this meeting another time."

Beomwoo conveniently decided to stop crying the moment that all the board members were out of the room. You let out a breath, trying so hard not to cry.

Over the next week, you tried so hard to find the right babysitter, but Beomwoo had attachment anxiety, and he refused to be in anyone's arms but yours.

He did not take after his father, clearly, considering that Wooyoung was usually the friendliest person in the world.

But maybe he did, considering that Wooyoung could steep to the lowest forms of mean if he wanted to.

All the while, Wooyoung was practicing choreo until late hours of the night, trying to get back in step with his members.

"Bro, don't you have a newborn baby?" San asked incredulously as he walked into the practice room.

"Uh, he's 6 months old now, and my wife is handling it," Wooyoung said, not stopping his movements, though it was hard for him since he wasn't as in shape as he usually was from being stationary for so long.

"So suddenly?" San asked doubtfully.

Wooyoung looked at him, annoyed. "What? Are you going to lecture me? Butt out, San." "Okay, okay," San said, raising his arms in surrender, "I was just saying."

San exited the room. He had only been checking in on Wooyoung before planning to leave for the day.

But he decided to make a detour.

San gave you an innocent smile when he appeared at your door with a bag of food.

That smile faded when he saw the state you were in.

"Woah, you look- sick- y/n, are you okay?" he asked, genuinely concerned as you backed up so that he could enter.

"Hello to you, too, San," you chuckled, closing the door behind him, "I'm sorry, Beomwoo is down for a nap, now."

"That's okay, it's not like he can eat this food," he said with a warm smile, going into your kitchen to put it down on the counter, "Wooyoung's been busy so I figured you could use a pick me up. I bet you miss him."

"Ah, yeah," you said softly, "I do miss him, but this is his dream, so... can't hold him back."

San furrowed his brows, "Hold him back?"

You waved your hand dismissively, "Anyway, what brings you here other than that? You can't tell me you just came here to feed me."

"I did," San said proudly, "And to see how you were doing. But clearly, you're not well, though."

"No, I'm fine, but thank you," you chuckled, "for thinking about me."

"Of course," San said, "Now come eat with me."

"A-ah, I gained some weight, though, San, so I've been trying to cut down," You said sheepishly. He furrowed his brows, the information not deterring him from the action of opening all of the containers.

"So? You had a baby like a couple months ago and you're a working mother? Have a little grace for yourself," he said nonchalantly, "You can cheat for today if you're so adamant on dieting."

"I really-" "You really can," San interrupted you, putting a paper plate down in front of you, "For me?"

San pouted at you, pretending to be cute and you shook your head. He was normally a really manly guy, especially around women, but since you and Wooyoung had become "one" in marriage, he lost his shame in acting cute in front of you.

"Fine," you sighed, sitting at the table. You looked up at him with a sincere expression on your face, "Thank you, San. I do appreciate the gesture."

"Of course," He said with a warm smile.

You didn't take much, just enough that San nodded in satisfaction. He put the rest of the leftovers in the fridge for you and Wooyoung instead of taking it home himself. He wondered if the two of you were eating well considering that both of you were so busy.

You felt warm when San left that night. It was the first act of kindness you'd felt in a while. You loved your job, but that environment was so cold. And Wooyoung....

You sighed, rubbing your temples tiredly after you closed the door behind San.

You could feel your gut twisting already. You hated feeling full.

You made the conscious decision to purge.

Crouched over the toilet, you cried, feeling disgusted with yourself to succumbing to this, but you couldn't risk gaining weight. You were already undesirable to Wooyoung. You couldn't risk losing him.

You didn't know how such illogical thoughts began to plague you. But they swirled around until it became dire for you.

Purging hadn't been something you considered until now. Cutting down your portions came naturally so you never felt full enough to feel like you needed to throw it all up. It scared you, the fact that you felt like you needed your stomach to feel empty.

But you pretended that it was all fine.

When Wooyoung came home exhausted that night, he found the leftovers in the fridge, assuming that you'd ordered out, completely unaware that San had been here. He ate, washed up, and went back to your shared room where you were once again faced away from him.

He didn't think anything was wrong. He was busy, you were busy. Obviously there hadn't been much time to be romantic. Things would go back to normal soon.

He took a look at Beomwoo in his crib who was sleeping soundly, a smile on his face as he looked at his beloved son before finally tucking himself into bed.

He felt cold, but it would be fine. Things would be fine. Right?

3 baddies 1 daddy | Teezers

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

"Nonu," you sigh at the brooding black cat hybrid. His lips pouting, arms crossed defiantly, and his tail swishing briskly behind him.

It's been almost a week since you brought Mingyu home, and Wonwoo still hasn't accepted him. He's been cold towards both you and Mingyu—constantly sulking in a corner and hissing whenever Mingyu tries to get close. Every time you approach him, he scoots away with a dramatic little huff and turns his back on you, a pout clearly visible on his face. A stubborn kitty to the core.

You sigh and walk away, already knowing he'll sneak into your bed later that night to cuddle. As headstrong as he is, he's still a softie at heart—and he can't fall asleep unless he's wrapped up in your scent. It's why your hoodies occasionally go missing—Wonwoo steals them to snuggle with during his naps.

While you've given Wonwoo space to warm up at his own pace, Mingyu has taken the complete opposite approach. Every day, without fail, he tries to make peace—offering gifts, doing little acts of kindness, anything he can think of. One time, he gave Wonwoo a toy mouse…that already belonged to Wonwoo, which earned him a furious growl and a firm warning to keep his paws off. Another time, he proudly presented a really cool stick he found, only for Wonwoo to shove it aside with a look of pure disinterest. Then there was the time Mingyu offered to clean Wonwoo's beloved toy box—home to an array of treasured cat toys—to say Wonwoo was furious would be an understatement.

Mingyu's puppy ears droop as he watches Wonwoo sulk in his usual corner. You give him a comforting scratch behind the ears and tell him not to lose hope—that Wonwoo will come around eventually. Mingyu gives you a small smile, then turns back to Wonwoo, determination sparking in his eyes.

If Wonwoo's going to be stubborn, then Mingyu's going to be even more stubborn.

Mingyu paces around the living room, his fluffy tail swishing behind him in restless arcs as he mulls over what to do to win Wonwoo's favour. With you out at work, the golden retriever hybrid was left alone with the ever-grumpy black cat hybrid.

As he continued pacing, a loud grumble from his stomach broke his train of thought. He clutches his belly and glances at the clock—it was already lunchtime, and he hadn't even noticed. That's when it hit him—he could cook for Wonwoo! It was an amazing idea, Mingyu thought proudly.

He dashed into the kitchen, full of energy…only to come to a sudden halt. There was a slight hiccup in his master plan: Mingyu didn't actually know how to cook. Life as a stray meant he'd survived on scraps and leftovers, and cooking had never exactly been part of the picture. Now that he was staring at the stove, he had absolutely no idea where to start.

With a determined huff, he rummages around the kitchen to find something easy to make and ends up pulling out packets of instant ramen. That shouldn't be too hard, right? He'd seen you make it loads of times, for both him and Wonwoo. All he had to do was copy whatever you did.

He grabs a vegetable—he had no idea what it was called, but he'd seen you toss it into ramen before, so it must be important. He set it on the cutting board and picked up a knife, tongue peeking out as he focused on slicing it just like you did.

Unfortunately, his clumsy nature takes over—his hand slips, and the blade nicks his finger.

Mingyu let out a loud yelp and clutched his hand, panic bubbling up as he stared at the blood. Whimpering and unsure of what to do, he started howling in distress.

The wailing quickly drew Wonwoo into the kitchen. The cat hybrid stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of Mingyu sniffling with teary eyes, cradling his injured hand.

"What the hell did you do, mutt?!" Wonwoo snaps, rushing over to inspect the damage.

"I-I was trying to cook something yummy for you, but I cut my finger," Mingyu sniffles, ears drooping and tail limp.

"God, you're an idiot," Wonwoo mutters under his breath, though there was no real bite behind it. "Thank god the cut's not too deep."

With a sigh, he grabs the first aid kit and carefully tends to the wound, his touch surprisingly gentle. Mingyu watches him with soft eyes, a smile spreading across his face at the unexpected kindness.

"There," Wonwoo huffs, giving the bandaged finger one last look to make sure it was okay.

"Thank you," Mingyu beams, his tail wagging with joy.

"Whatever, just don't do anything that stupid again," huffs Wonwoo, and Mingyu only smiles wider, earning an exaggerated eye roll.

Wonwoo glances at the kitchen counter and spots the ramen packets scattered around.

"Were you trying to make ramen?" he asks.

"Yeah! I wanted to make it taste just like Y/N's," Mingyu pouts.

Wonwoo hesitates. Damn it. He really liked ramen. After a long pause, he sighs.

"I'll help you finish cooking," he mumbles, and Mingyu gasps.

"Really?!" Mingyu lit up, tail thumping against the floor.

"Only cause you're hurt and I don't want Y/N coming back home to a bloody mess," Wonwoo grumbles.

But Mingyu was already giggling, too busy cleaning up the mess and buzzing with excitement at the thought of cooking together. He didn't hear a word of Wonwoo's grumbling—just too happy to finally be spending time with him.

The rest of the cooking went surprisingly well—mostly thanks to Wonwoo, who took the lead while Mingyu watched on with wide, awe-filled eyes. Before long, a big pot of instant ramen was steaming on the dining table, with both hybrids happily slurping it down.

The sound of the front door opening suddenly interrupted their feast.

"I'm home!" you announce as you enter.

"Oh? What's going on here?" you ask with a grin, tilting your head as you take in the unexpected sight of your two hybrids eating together peacefully.

"Y/N!" Mingyu beams, jumping up and running over to you. He sweeps you into a tight hug, his tail wagging wildly behind him. You laugh and hug him back, completely enveloped in the golden retriever energy.

"Wonu and I cooked ramen together!" he says proudly, eyes shining.

"Oh?" you peek over Mingyu's shoulder and spot Wonwoo, cheeks pink and eyes glued to the floor. "The both of you cooked?" you tease, raising a brow.

"Only cause I didn't want him to burn the place down," Wonwoo mumbles, refusing to meet your gaze.

You chuckle and walk over, gently wrapping your arms around him. Wonwoo melts into your touch almost immediately, arms wrapping around your waist as he buries his face into your stomach, soft purrs rumbling from his chest.

"I'm so proud of you, Nonu," you whisper, fingers scratching behind his cat ears. He grumbles under his breath, but the flick of his ears and contented purring betray him.

"Group hug!" Mingyu announces and runs back over, throwing his arms around both of you.

Wonwoo lets out a dramatic whine and tries to wriggle free, but Mingyu's too strong. With a sigh of resignation, he lets himself be sandwiched between you two, tail flicking as he gives in to the affection.

You giggle, heart swelling at the sight. It wasn't perfect, but seeing your two hybrids together like this, it was more than enough.