kna

You don’t think, you just don’t move.

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

That’s how it becomes mutual.

That’s how you kiss back.

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

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

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

For a long moment you both just breathe.

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

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

Inside him, two truths clash:

He loves you.

He shouldn’t have done that.

They circle each other like animals.

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

You like it.

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

And you remember how you stayed anyway.

Because they loved you. And you loved them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m sorry, baby.

But I’d do it again.

You’d let him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he is gone.

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

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

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

And then there’s Mystery.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s sickening.

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

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

He wishes you’d never met them.

He wishes he could go back.

He wishes you loved him.

He cries himself to sleep.

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

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

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

And that makes you all exactly the same.

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

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

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

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

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

You think about Mystery.

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

You think about how fucked up that makes you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so he waits.

Still.

Quiet.

Breathing you in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But that night? Nothing.

It wasn’t luck. It was supernatural.

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

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

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

No one heard it.

No one could.

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

It knew.

He knew.

Abby, Jinu and Baby didn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Feeling bad?” Jinu asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wake up. Groggy. Not exactly… right.

Romance.

Yesterday.

Mystery.

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

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

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

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

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

Your throat tightens. You’re such an idiot.

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

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

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

“Mhm.” Romance hums.

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

“Yeah. Happy.”

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

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He just doesn’t know how to face you.

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

Romance shakes his head slowly. “No fight.”

“Then what?”

“Let it go, Abby.” Jinu says, soft.

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

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

He pauses near your door. Just for a second.

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

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

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

Jinu sighs. “Five minutes. Let Romance—”

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

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

“I’m sure.”

The door slams behind them when they leave.

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

They make you feel small.

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

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

They cost you everything.

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

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

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

It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine.

It isn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

You let both of them in.

You let all of them in.

And now you can’t find where you went.

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

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

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

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

Get it together, Y/N.

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

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

And yet, staying feels like dying slowly.

Not like you could do anything.

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

You kissed Mystery.

Then you kissed Romance.

Your fault.

No—wait.

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

You tell yourself that means it’s your fault.

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

Right?

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

You hate how easily that lie fits.

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

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

You wish you could tell them.

You wish you could make the words come out right.

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

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

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

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

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

It’s good they’re gone. It’s good.

You miss them.

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

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

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

Your throat tightens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe he didn’t.

Maybe none of them ever meant it.

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

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

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

You just want quiet.

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

It’s easier than believing you’re trapped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was subtle. Almost nothing. But it worked.

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

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

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

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

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

They scared you.

They controlled you.

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

That’s how deep it goes.

That’s how much they got into your head.

You were scared because they gave you reasons to be.

You stayed because they made leaving impossible.

You loved them because you’re human.

You survived them because you had to.

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

They didn’t mean it.

They were tired.

You provoked them.

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

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

Derpy pads into the room.

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

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

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

In. Out.

In. Out.

Your pulse starts to settle. Your fingers stop trembling.

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

Fun fact: Derpy thinks you’re cute.

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

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

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

Derpy breathes. You breathe.

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

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

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

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

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

Your breathing shortens again.

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

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

Then everything goes sideways.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Y/N?”

Huh?

“Y/N, baby, what happened?”

Abby.

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

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

God. Did you?

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

Fuuuuuuck.

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re burning up.” he says quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re right there.”

“I said no.”

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

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

Because Romance hasn’t moved closer. Not once.

And Baby’s smart enough to notice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I said I’m fine.”

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

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

You blink up at him. “You’re not—”

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

“I don’t wanna.” you mutter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod weakly. “Unfortunately.”

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

Jinu hands you another glass. “Drink again.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mystery stares, caught off guard.

You blink too. “Wait— what— no, I—”

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

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

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

You stare at it.

Mystery stares at you. “Eat.”

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

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

“Another?” he asks quietly.

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

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

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

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

Jinu hums. “That, I’ll admit.”

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

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

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

You shake your head. “No more.”

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

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

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

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

Mystery doesn’t answer. Just nods.

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

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

Jinu glances over. “Oh.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cook what, exactly?”

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

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

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

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

“Well, that’s one way to thank me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Or until she stops trying to kick me.”

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

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

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

You hate that it hurts.

Jinu chuckles. “We’re getting there.”

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

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

Romance.

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

You hum in response, eyes half-open.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Romance scoffs. “Cute.”

“Wasn’t trying to be.”

You sigh, leaning back. “Can we not—”

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

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

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

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

Romance stares at him.

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

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

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

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

Baby nods solemnly. “Good. Good.”

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

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

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

Romance freezes. “You’re what?”

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

You blink. “What are you—”

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

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

You stare at him. “You’re joking.”

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mm?” he says, all sugar.

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

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

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

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

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

“Fever.” you croak.

“Oh. Cute.”

Romance groans, rubbing a hand over his face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Y/N.” he drawls. “I’m cold.”

You blink. “You—what?”

He pouts. “Cold.”

Romance stares at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m all ears.”

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

You raise a brow. “Stop what?”

“Thinking.”

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

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

“I don’t have one.”

“Then make one up.”

“I can’t think right now.”

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

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

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

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

“I wonder why.” you mutter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aaand then the room tilts again.

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

“Hm.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He freezes. You freeze.

Silence.

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

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

Both you and Romance go absolutely still.

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

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

Romance looks like he might pass out next to you.

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

“Baby—” Romance starts.

“Ohohoho.”

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

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

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

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

“Stop talking.” you say weakly.

“Right. Sorry.”

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

“Sit down.”

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

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

“Alright, alright.” he says. “Jeez.”

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

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

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

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

The silence after that could cut glass.

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

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

Neither of you answer.

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

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

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

“Romance.”

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

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

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

“Don’t start.” Romance says, tired.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Baby shifts. “Cute speech.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Still—”

“I said drop it.”

The air in the room goes still again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Alright, move over.”

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

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

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

You blink. “What?”

“Say ‘aaah.’”

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

Jinu sighs. “He’s not.”

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

“Your what?” Jinu laughs.

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

“Don’t.”

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

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

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

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

He smiles. “Try me.”

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

You hum a tiny sound of approval.

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

Abby is terrifying.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You whine but open your mouth anyway.

“There we go.” he says, gentle.

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

“Careful.” he mutters.

“Thanks.” you mutter back, looking away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“C’mon, Y/N, last one.”

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

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

“Damn right.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something’s not right.

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

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

You nod, even though it’s a lie.

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

“It’s fine.” you mumble.

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

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

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

“Drop it.” you whisper.

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

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

Abby sighs. “He’s just worried.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He tilts his head. “Isn’t there?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jinu tilts his head. “The truth.”

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

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

The silence that follows is thick.

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

“I’m fine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod automatically before you can think.

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

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

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

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

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

We’ve got you.

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

You hate that Jinu’s right.

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

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

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

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

And you fall asleep here, just again.

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

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

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

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

You looked so small.

You always look small.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They’re trying, you know.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You let it all happen.

Because it’s easier to live like this.

Because they love you too much.

Because you love them just enough.

But sure.

Whatever.

You get used to it.

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

BABY

On the surface, he was so compact, skinny frame, messy hair, a sneer most of the time. He was a chain-smoker, a brat who would stub out cigarettes wherever he wanted. But you adored him. For some insane reason, you adored him. You were innocent. You’d never kissed anyone before Baby. Never had a boyfriend. Never so much as let a guy’s hand linger on your thigh for longer than a second. He was a scowler. A kicker. A brat who’d put his cold feet under your thighs and laugh when you squealed. But the second you reached for him, just to hug him, or press your cheek against his bony shoulder, he’d go still. And then, slowly, he’d melt.

And you loved him like that. Loved him for being an asshole. Loved him for being bratty. Loved him for being so obviously full of sins and still trying to be soft for you.

But you had no idea what you were doing to him.

You’d sit next to him on the couch, legs tucked under you, talking about some nonsense from your day. Baby would nod, eyes half-lidded, smoking, pretending not to care, but his hips would shift against the cushion. His jaw would tense.

He’d press his thigh harder into the edge of the couch, subtle, moving just enough to get a hint of friction. Not enough for you to notice, but enough to survive the torment of you sitting there being sweet.

You were sweet. You had no idea how your fingers on his sleeve, your soft voice, your shy little kisses on his cheek, how all of it lit him up like fire under his skin.

He’d get up sometimes, muttering “I need another drink” when really what he needed was to go to the bathroom, shut the door, and breathe, or jerk himself off to the memory of your smile. But later when you turned those big eyes on him, all shy and affectionate, it didn’t matter. He let you cuddle him, let you kiss his jaw, let you climb into his lap even though his entire body was stiff with restraint. And you? You never noticed. You thought he just liked having you there.

You’d curl against his chest on the couch, tracing his skin with your finger, and he’d suck in a sharp breath, tilt his head back against the wall, eyes shut.

“You okay?” you’d ask, wide-eyed, genuinely concerned.

“Yeah.” he’d mutter, voice hoarse. “Just… tired.”

And you believed him. You didn’t think about how tightly he was gripping the cushion under his other hand. You didn’t think about the way he sometimes bit his lip hard enough to leave marks when you shifted in his lap. You didn’t think about how he’d go smoke another cigarette five minutes later, because he needed something to keep his hands busy.

He’d snarl at the others if they got too close to you. He’d kick Jinu’s knees out when he tried to get smug. He’d get bitchy, even though you didn’t mind. And then he’d go back to his room, shut the door, and drink, trying to drown out the image of your soft mouth.

You’d knock sometimes. “Baby? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” he’d call back, voice flat. But his hand would already be down his pants, eyes squeezed shut, forehead pressed to the door.

And still, despite all that darkness inside him, when he was with you, he softened. He’d let you sit in his lap and feed him bites of your food. He’d let you steal his cigarettes just to toss them out the window. He’d let you cuddle him when he smelled like smoke and whiskey, and when you kissed his cheek and wrinkled your nose, “You smell bad.” he’d only laugh quietly, tugging his hood lower.

He loved you. God, he loved you.

And the fact that you were so innocent, that you didn’t even know how much he wanted you, that you thought his restless shifting was just him being fidgety, drove him absolutely insane. It wasn’t just that he wanted to sleep with you. It was that you were untouched. That every time you hugged him, kissed him, clung to him, it wasn’t something you thought about. It was real. He didn’t deserve it, and he knew it. But he couldn’t let it go either.

So you stayed with your asshole of a toxic boyfriend<3

And he stayed with his sweet little human girl.

And you had no idea how much of him you were undoing just by sitting there, smiling, brushing his hair out of his eyes. You had no idea how often he pressed his hips against the couch when you were talking to him, biting his lip, trying to look bored. You had no idea how badly Baby, the brat, the smoker, the drinker, wanted you. The only thing that proved it was the little rolls of his hips into the couch cushion when you talked. Adjusting himself under a throw blanket while you sat next to him, unaware, just being your sweet self. Grinding against the armrest while you leaned over to show him something on your phone.

He’d rather be your asshole of a toxic boyfriend than risk losing you by showing you just how much of a freak he was.

But one time, you were in his lap. That wasn’t unusual. Facing him this time, legs folded on either side of his skinny thighs, and you were rambling about something, something dumb, something sweet, something only you could talk about with so much light in your face.

Baby wasn’t listening. He couldn’t. Not when your lips were that close. Not when your eyes were darting between his and his mouth. Not when your innocent little body was sitting right there, pressed against him, soft and warm and completely clueless.

You didn’t notice the way his jaw flexed. Didn’t notice the way his hands twitched against your waist like he had to actively stop himself from digging in. Didn’t notice the way his hips shifted once, subtle, desperate, just to get the tiniest scrap of relief from the ache in his jeans.

And then you leaned forward. Just a soft little peck. You pulled back, smiling shy. “Hi.” you murmured, sweet as sugar.

Baby lost control. He leaned in again, faster, rougher, and his hand snapped up to the back of your head, fingers tangling into your hair. His mouth pressed to yours again, harder this time, firm.

You froze for half a second. Then melted. Because it wasn’t scary. It was just… new.

When he finally pulled back, his hand still in your hair, his dark eyes were on yours like he was daring you to call him out. To call him bad. To call him what he was.

But you only blinked at him, dazed, lips parted. “Baby…” you whispered, shy. “again?”

He leaned back in with that bratty little “whatever” look on his face, muttering, “You’re so annoying.” but his lips were already on yours again. This time, he didn’t stop at pressing. His mouth moved against yours, coaxing, opening, and then, he licked into you.

Tongue.

Your first taste of it, wet and strange and hot, and your whole body jolted because what was that.

Baby groaned low in his chest, almost laughing against your lips. He could feel it, how stiff you went, how clueless your mouth was under his. He pulled back just enough to mutter, “Relax. It’s just a kiss.”

“That’s not just a kiss!” you whisper-shouted, flustered, cheeks burning as your fingers clutched at his hoodie.

He smirked, smug and bratty, and leaned in to press his mouth to yours again, slower this time, tongue stroking yours, teasing, patient only because he knew it was melting you into pieces. Your body softened against him. You didn’t know what to do, so you just let him lead, let him tilt his head, let him slip his tongue in again and again until your head spun and your lips tingled.

When he pulled back this time, your chest was rising and falling fast. Your thighs tightened around his skinny hips without you realizing. And Baby noticed. He always noticed. He leaned in again, brushing his nose against yours.

You swallowed, shy and trembling. “Do it again.”

And so he did.

This time deeper. This time longer. This time until your nails dug into his hoodie and your hips squirmed in his lap. You didn’t even realize what you were doing, but he did. Every little gasp, every little shiver, you were learning. And he was teaching you without saying a word.

The kiss went on until you had to break away, panting, eyes wide and lips swollen. Baby sat back, head tilted, looking at you.

You touched your lips, shocked at yourself. “That was… different.”

Baby grinned, lazy and mean. “That was kissing. For real.”

“I…” Your voice dropped to a whisper. “I liked it.”

He leaned in close, lips brushing yours again, and murmured, “Yeah, I know.” And then he kissed you again. The hand at the back of your head slid lower. To your neck. Then your shoulder. Then, slowly, down your back. He was still kissing you, still messy, but now his palm was flattening against the curve of your spine, pulling you closer until your chest was flush against his.

And then his hand cupped your ass.

You gasped into his mouth, jerking back a little, but his bratty smirk just curled against your lips. He gave your ass a slow squeeze, kneading like he’d been dying to do it for months, his bony fingers digging through the fabric of your sweats.

You whimpered, soft, confused, aroused. Because you weren’t thinking about sex. You didn’t know this game. You just knew that the pressure of his hand there felt good, and the movement of your hips as you squirmed to adjust ended up doing something new. You ground into his hand. Accidentally. Unconsciously. But Baby froze for half a second, then groaned into your mouth. His tongue flicked against yours harder, desperate now, and his palm pressed into you, encouraging that little roll of your hips against his.

And oh, you did it again.

Not because you knew what you were doing, but because his lap was warm, his mouth was hot, and your body was buzzing.

You shifted, soft and hesitant, grinding into his hand as his fingers dug harder, guiding you. His knee twitched up under you, giving you something to rub against, and your thighs clenched involuntarily.

Baby nearly lost it. Every nerve in his body screamed to slip his hand between your legs. To tug your sweats down and find out what you sounded like with his fingers buried inside you. To finally get rid of the ache in his chest that had been clawing at him since the moment you sat down in his lap.

But then, you wiggled. Not angrily. Not with fear. Just a small, shy squirm, pulling your hips back an inch and breaking the kiss, cheeks flaming. Your eyes were wide. Not tearful. Not scared. Just overwhelmed. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to. Baby knew.

His hand hovered against your ass for one second longer, then he dragged it back up to your waist instead, steadying you, holding you still like he hadn’t just been about to finger you on the couch. He tilted his head back, eyes shut, breathing through his nose, forcing himself to calm the fuck down.

You shifted nervously in his lap, whispering, “Sorry—”

“Don’t.” His voice was low, rough, not his usual bratty tone. He opened his eyes, locking on yours with a look that pinned you in place. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But—”

“Shut up.” His thumb brushed your hip, almost tender despite the bite in his words. “You’re fine. I’m fine.”

You weren’t sure you believed him. His body was tense under yours, his jeans straining in a way you didn’t understand yet. But the way he was looking at you, dark, frustrated, but so full of restraint, made your heart ache.

Listen, he could’ve kept going. He wanted to. You have no idea how fucking bad he wanted to. But if he pushes it, you’ll freak out. And you’ll leave. And then he’s fucked. So… You sat there in silence for a while, perched in his lap, your heart racing. His focus was all on you, even if his eyes were shut and his breathing still ragged.

Finally, you whispered, “Can we… still kiss?”

His eyes snapped open. For a second, he looked surprised. “Yeah.” he murmured, leaning forward again, lips brushing yours. “We can kiss all you want.”

And so you did. Just kissing. Just soft, messy kisses that stretched on until your lips were swollen and your body was trembling with feelings you couldn’t name. Every time he deepened it, sliding his tongue against yours, he pulled back before it got too far. Every time his hand slid low on your back, he caught himself before he squeezed again. Every time you shifted and brushed against him, he groaned but didn’t move.

Because he was smart. Because he knew. One day, you’d let him. One day, you’d be ready. One day, you’d give in to the hunger he’d been choking down for months. But not tonight. Tonight, you were still innocent. Still learning. Still his sweet, clueless girl. And Baby—brat, asshole, addict, demon—wasn’t going to ruin that. Not yet.

From that night on, everything between you and Baby changed. He didn’t ask anymore. He took. Not roughly, not cruelly, but impatiently, hungrily. He kissed you on the couch, against the counter, in the middle of sentences. He kissed you until you were breathless and dazed, until your thighs clenched and your face burned. And you let him. Because Baby wasn’t gentle, but when he kissed you, when he held the back of your head, you realized that he needed you.

The next step started with a movie. Just the two of you sunk into the couch cushions with a bowl of popcorn balanced between you, some dumb thriller playing loud enough that it should’ve distracted him. Should’ve kept him occupied. But nothing in the world could’ve distracted him from the way you sat. You weren’t even trying. That’s what killed him. You just had one leg tucked under you, the other stretched out, so casual, so sweetly unaware. And it left you open, not vulgar, not obvious, just open enough that his eyes kept dragging down, flicking to the space between your thighs and back up to your face as you watched the movie.

It was torture. Pure torture.

He lit a cigarette halfway through just to give his hands something to do. Stared at the screen like he cared about it. Even mouthed some of the cheesy lines under his breath. But the whole time his thigh was bouncing, his jaw grinding, his knuckles going white against the cigarette filter.

He didn’t last. Of course he didn’t. Baby leaned in, like he was just going to say something in your ear. Instead, his mouth brushed against your cheek, then your jaw, then finally your lips.

You giggled, that sweet clueless giggle of yours, turning your head halfway toward the screen again. “Baby, the movie…”

“Fuck the movie.” he muttered against your mouth, and then he kissed you harder.

You melted. You always did. His lips moved against yours, messy, impatient, tongue swiping at the seam until you sighed and opened up to him. Your fingers curled in his hoodie, nails scratching at his chest.

And while you kissed, his hand moved.

At first it was nothing, just resting on your knee, casual. Then sliding higher. The heat of his palm pressed against the inside of your thigh, so close but not quite. You didn’t notice, or maybe you did and pretended not to. Either way, you didn’t stop kissing him.

His knuckles brushed between your legs.

Accidental, you thought. It had to be. Just the back of his hand grazing over your sweatpants when he shifted. But then it happened again. A deliberate drag, slow, the hard ridge of his knuckles gliding right against where you were softest.

“…Baby?” you whispered.

He raised a brow, smug. “Yeah?”

Your cheeks burned. “That’s… um. You’re… touching me.”

“No shit.” he muttered, but softer than usual. His knuckles rubbed, slow, back and forth through the fabric. “Don’t like it?”

Your breath hitched. You shook your head fast. “N-no, I— I do. I just—”

“Shh.” He cut you off with another kiss, sucking your bottom lip until you sighed against his mouth. “Then don’t think about it. Just feel it.”

You knew what this was. In theory. You weren’t dumb, you’d heard things, read things. But knowing and feeling were two completely different worlds, and now you were on the other side of the glass for the first time.

He bit back a groan and shifted his hand so his fingers pressed instead. Two fingertips, pressing through the thin cotton of your sweats, circling until he found your clit. The way your body jolted, the way your lips parted around a sound that wasn’t quite a moan but close, yeah, he knew he had it.

And he just… stayed there. Not even moving at first, just pressing, watching your face as you blinked at him with wide, uncertain eyes.

“Baby…” you whispered, half a question, half a plea.

He didn’t answer. His fingers moved in a small, rough circle, and your breath hitched so sharp it punched right into his chest. Your hips twitched. Your thighs trembled. And your hand, god, your sweet little hand, clutched at his wrist. He took that as permission. The circles got faster. Sloppier.

You wanted it. He could see it in your eyes. Hear it in the breathy little whines spilling from your throat. Feel it in the way you unconsciously rolled your hips up to meet his hand, searching for more without even knowing what more was.

For him, it was the filthiest kind of bliss. For you, it was the first time. The first time anyone had touched you there. The first time you realized your body could work like this. The first time a movie played in the background while you didn’t hear a single second of it.

And god, when you finally moaned, not a whimper, not a giggle, but a real, raw moan, Baby thought he was going to lose it right there. He pressed harder, faster, sloppy circles against your clit through the damp spot spreading in your sweats. His mouth was on your neck now, teeth grazing, breath hot, groaning into your skin like he couldn’t take it. You were trembling, clutching at him, trying to breathe and failing. You didn’t know what was happening, not really, but you knew it was too much, too big, too hot—

You came. Your whole body clenched, thighs tight, hips jerking once before you collapsed into him. And Baby, fucking Baby, felt it all. Felt the way you shook, the way you gasped against his shoulder, the way his hand got wet even through your clothes.

And when your breathing slowed, when your cheeks flushed with that adorable shy glow, when your wide eyes peeked up at him like you didn’t know what to say, he smiled.

“Guess you liked the movie after all.” he muttered.

You buried your face in his chest, mortified. “Shut up.”

But he just chuckled, flicking his tongue against his teeth, fingers flexing once against your thigh before pulling away like he hadn’t just given you your first orgasm.

It never stayed at just rubbing. Of course it didn’t. Baby wasn’t the kind of man who could leave a door half-open without kicking it down. After that first messy orgasm on the couch, you swore things would settle. You swore it had been a one-time slip, something you both could tuck away and laugh off. Except Baby didn’t laugh. He didn’t joke. He just kept looking at you like he was starving and you were the last thing on earth to eat.

It didn’t take long for him to have you in his lap again. Same setup, some movie playing, a cigarette dangling from his lips, your sweet little body curled into him like you thought you were safe. And then his hands wandered. They always did.

This time, he didn’t stop at rubbing you through your clothes.

You had one leg hooked over his, innocent as ever, chatting about the dumb plot of whatever was on TV. He wasn’t listening. His hand was already between your thighs, palm pressing, fingers sliding against you in slow strokes. You gasped, clutched his hoodie, tried to pull back enough to look at him.

“Baby—”

“Shut up.” he muttered, not even looking away from the screen, his voice rougher than the smoke in his lungs.

And then he pushed your sweatpants down. Just enough. Just enough to get his hand inside.

You froze. Heat seared up your neck, embarrassment prickling under your skin because, god, you hadn’t shaved. You hadn’t thought about it.

“Wait.” you whispered, mortified, trying to squirm back. “I’m not— it’s not—”

Baby finally looked at you then. And the look on his face, bored, annoyed, that half-lidded sneer, made your stomach flip.

“You think I give a fuck?” he said flatly, fingers already sliding lower, parting you. Pussy’s pussy. Doesn’t matter. Respect.

He didn’t even blink at it. His fingers slid through your folds, rubbing, circling, learning you by instinct, then he found your clit again, bare this time, slippery with heat, and you forgot all about the hair, all about the embarrassment.

Because his fingers were inside you.

It happened so fast you barely had time to process. One second, he was rubbing, the next, a finger was pushing past your entrance, thick and rough, sinking into a place no one had ever touched before.

You gasped like you’d been punched, body jolting forward. “Baby—!”

He groaned, his forehead dropping against yours. “Fuck, you’re tight.”

It hurt. A little. Not much, but enough that you stiffened, clutching his wrist, eyes wide. He noticed, he always noticed, even when he pretended not to, and he stayed still. Let you adjust. Let you clutch him, panting, until the burn melted into something else. Something better.

And then he moved his finger, slow at first, dragging his finger out and pushing it back in, watching your face. Then faster, deeper, a rhythm building until your hips lifted to meet him, until you were gasping into his mouth, begging without words for more.

He gave you more. Two fingers, scissoring, curling just right until your back arched and your nails clawed at his shoulders. The movie was forgotten. Everything was forgotten except the wet sound of his fingers working inside you.

He fingered you until you were dripping onto his hand, until you came, clenching around him, trembling, hiding your face in his hoodie, he laughed. Smug and mean, kissing your hair. Then the fucker pulled his fingers free and stared at them, glossy and dripping, then shoved them into his mouth without hesitation, sucking them clean, tongue curling around his own knuckles.

You slapped at his chest, horrified. “Baby!”

Days later, it escalated again. You were lying in bed with him, scrolling through your phone while he smoked beside you, when he suddenly tossed the cigarette out the window, rolled over, and shoved his face between your thighs.

No warning. No asking. One second you were teasing him about some baby act Jinu forced on him, the next his rough hands were yanking your shorts down, spreading you open, his mouth hot and wet and everywhere. Though, you have to admit, you did shave this time. Which meant you expected something to happen.

You squeaked, trying to sit up, to push him off. “Baby— what are you—” Your thighs squeezed together automatically.

He slapped the inside of your knee. “Don’t. Fucking. Hide.”

Your face burned hot. But you spread them. Slowly. He growled, and then his tongue was on your clit. You collapsed back, shaking, fists tangled in his hair. It was overwhelming. Too much. You didn’t even know this was something people did, not like this, not with this kind of messy hunger. He licked like he was trying to drown in you, like he needed it to live.

And god, it felt good. So good you couldn’t breathe. So good you couldn’t think. His tongue circling, pressing, flicking, then plunging inside you, his nose bumping your clit until your thighs crushed his head and you cried out.

“Baby, I—oh god—”

He groaned against you, the sound vibrating straight through your body. His fingers pushed inside you again, curling just right, while his mouth worked you. You couldn’t hold back. Couldn’t stop the cries spilling out, the way your hips bucked into his face, the way your thighs squeezed around his head.

You came hard. Shaking, gasping, tears slipping down your temples as you clamped around nothing. He didn’t let go. He licked you through it, sloppy and greedy, until you shoved at his forehead, whimpering that it was too much.

He sat back finally, face wet, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Smirked at you, then lit another cigarette. Pfft.

And then came the face-sitting. You never thought you’d do something like that. You were too shy, too innocent. But Baby… he had a way of getting under your skin, of making you forget yourself. It happened one night in his bed. You’d been kissing, rolling around, his fingers inside you again. And then, without warning, he grabbed your hips and flipped you over.

“Sit.” he ordered, pulling you up.

“What?!”

“On my face.”

You froze, horrified, shaking your head. “Baby, no, I—I can’t—”

“You can.” he growled, pulling you higher until your thighs were bracketing his head. “You will.”

You were trembling, heart racing, but his hands gripped your ass tight and refused to let go. And then his tongue was on you again, hot and messy, and you couldn’t think anymore. Your thighs clenched around his head, hips rocking without your permission. He groaned, nails digging into your skin, guiding you to grind against his mouth.

It was overwhelming. Too much. Too good.

“Baby—oh god—Baby—”

He just kept going. Groaning like he loved it, like he’d suffocate under you and die happy. His tongue flicked, his mouth sucked, his fingers dug into your ass until you couldn’t stop yourself.

Baby ate it up. Literally.

You rode his face. Clumsy at first, shy and hesitant, then desperate as the pleasure built and built until you were crying out, shaking, cumming harder than you ever had before. When you finally collapsed off him, panting, he lay there with his mouth red and wet, grinning like the devil himself.

Baby was an addict. And now, he wasn’t addicted to nicotine or alcohol anymore. He was addicted to you. And once the dam broke, he didn’t bother hiding it anymore. The next day after that, you were lying on your stomach in his bed, half-asleep while he smoked beside you. He’d been watching you, the curve of your thighs in your shorts, the way your shirt rode up to show a sliver of skin. He’d been quiet, lazy, pretending he wasn’t thinking about anything filthy.

Then his hand cracked down on your ass, sharp enough to make you yelp.

“Baby!” you gasped, snapping upright, face burning.

He didn’t even blink. Took another drag from his cigarette, smirk curling as he blew smoke to the ceiling. “What? Don’t act like you didn’t like it.”

After that, it became a thing. Sometimes soft, sometimes harsh, sometimes just the heavy palm of his hand kneading you while you squirmed and buried your face in his hoodie. He’d mutter things too, half under his breath: “This ass is mine.” or “Could bounce you on this all night.” Filthy, shameless. Always watching your blush with hungry eyes.

Then there were the hickeys.

You had no idea how obvious they looked, not until Jinu cornered Baby in the hallway one morning.

“What the hell did I say about being careful?”

Baby just grinned, rolling a lollipop between his teeth like the brat he was, leaning against the wall with his hoodie half-zipped. “What? She likes it.”

And you did. So much. Baby’s mouth on your throat, his teeth scraping, his tongue soothing over the sting, you melted every time. He’d pin you down, his smoker’s laugh muffled against your skin as you whined, tugging at his hair, trying to push him off while secretly arching for more.

You didn’t even realize until later, in the mirror, how dark and messy the marks looked. You’d gasped, covered your neck with your hands, horrified. “Baby!”

“Relax.” he’d snickered, flicking his lighter, “You look hot.”

He thought everything was hot. You could sneeze and he’d call it sexy.

The bathroom thing was worse.

Jinu had been scolding the others in the living room, while you slipped away to use the bathroom upstairs. Baby followed. The second you shut the door, he pushed in behind you, locking it with a grin.

“Baby—”

“Shhh.” He had you against the sink before you could finish, his mouth on yours, rough hands sliding up under your shirt. It was messy, frantic, almost desperate. His teeth nipped your bottom lip, his fingers dug into your thighs, and you knew, knew, that if you didn’t stop him, he’d have you bent over the counter in thirty seconds.

You managed to shove at his chest, panting, shaking your head. “They’ll hear—”

“Let ‘em.” His laugh was muffled against your neck as he sucked another mark there, grinding his hips against your ass. “What’s Jinu gonna do, kill me?”

You should’ve pushed harder. Should’ve stormed out. Instead, you stayed pinned between him and the counter, trembling, lips swollen from his kisses, heart hammering.

When he finally let you go, you almost collapsed. He left first, walking down the hall like nothing happened, cigarette already back between his lips.

And when you came out minutes later, Jinu gave you a look, not angry, not surprised, just resigned. Like he knew exactly what had happened and couldn’t stop it.

Through all of this, you stayed sweet. Loving. Still shy, still innocent, still curling into Baby’s side at night. You still giggled when he kissed you, still blushed when his hand wandered under your shirt.

But curiosity started gnawing at you.

You didn’t say it out loud, not at first. You just… thought about it. Late at night, lying on his chest, wondering what he looked like under those low-slung sweatpants. Wondering what it would feel like to touch him the way he touched you.

He caught the way your eyes lingered when he stretched, when his waistband dipped too low, when he adjusted himself. He caught the way your thighs pressed together, the way your breath hitched when his hand slid too close.

“You lookin’?” he asked lazily one night, blowing smoke toward the ceiling, one arm behind his head while you lay curled against him.

Your face flamed. “No.”

He chuckled, flicking ash into a tray, then caught your chin with his free hand, forcing your eyes up. “Yeah, you are.”

You squirmed, hiding your face in his chest. But you didn’t deny it again.

And that was the beginning. You started asking questions. Tentative, shy, whispered into the dark when you thought he might not answer.

“Does it… hurt? When you…”

“No.” he muttered, pressing a kiss to your hair. “Feels fuckin’ amazing.”

“Is it… big?”

He laughed, smug. “Wanna see?”

You smacked his chest, whining, but you didn’t stop wondering.

And then one night, you asked the real question. “What’s it like when you… you know. Cum?”

His entire body tensed under you. Then he groaned, covering his eyes with his arm like he couldn’t believe you’d just asked that. “Fuck me.”

“Baby.” you whispered, pouting against his hoodie. “I’m serious.”

You wanted to know. You wanted to learn. And Baby, reckless, impatient Baby, wanted nothing more than to teach you.

He got bolder, slapping your ass, dragging you into bathrooms, sucking marks into your throat until you couldn’t cover them all. And you got curious, sneaking looks, whispering questions, blushing but not pulling away when his hand guided yours lower.

Now. You’d been quiet all night. Curled against him, cheek to his hoodie, scrolling your phone, not saying much while Baby smoked and watched some half-interesting movie. He didn’t press. He liked the silence. Liked the weight of you against him, warm and breathing soft.

But then you shifted. Sat up a little, legs folded under you, hair spilling around your face as you looked at him.

He raised a brow, flicking ash into the tray beside the bed. “What?”

Your voice was small, shy. “Can I… see it?”

For the first time in a long while, Baby choked on smoke. Coughing, glaring at you through watery eyes, like the fuck did you just say?

You blinked, wide-eyed, biting your lip. You looked like you might back out, might laugh it off and hide under the blanket, but you didn’t. You held his stare.

He sighed, stabbing the cigarette out, dragging a hand down his face, leaning back against the headboard like maybe if he didn’t move, this wouldn’t be happening. But his heart was pounding. His cock was already half-hard just from the look in your eyes.

“You wanna see?” His voice was flat, sarcastic, dripping with the usual bratty bite.

You flushed but didn’t look away. “I just… wanna know. I’ve never—”

He cut you off with a sharp exhale, shoving his hands into his hoodie pocket like he needed to physically restrain himself. “Jesus.”

For a moment, he thought he’d say no. Thought he’d roll over, bury himself in the blankets, tell you to forget it. But then you shifted closer, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie, and he caught the shine in your eyes. Wide. Curious. Lit up with that stubborn innocence that made him feel like the worst fucking monster alive. And he knew he was done.

“…Fine.” The word came out like a growl. He pushed himself lower on the bed, spreading his legs a little, giving you space. “But you’re not gonna fuckin’ cry about it later.”

You shook your head quickly. “I won’t.”

“Yeah, we’ll see.”

With a sharp motion, he tugged his sweatpants and boxers down just enough. Just enough to free himself, heavy against his stomach.

Your breath caught.

And Baby didn’t miss it. He never missed it. Your eyes went round, lips parting as you stared, completely transfixed, cheeks heating with a mix of awe and intimidation.

He smirked, even though his pulse was hammering. “What? Never seen a dick before?”

You shook your head, still staring. “…Not in real life.”

He laughed. Harsh, low. “Lucky you.”

You reached out slowly, hesitating inches away. “Can I…?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions.”

So you touched him. Fingers brushing the base, feather-light. He hissed through his teeth, gripping the sheets, every muscle in his body tightening as you trailed your hand up, wrapping around him awkwardly. But you were learning, watching his face, the twitch of his jaw, the way his breath stuttered when you moved your hand higher.

“It’s… warm.” you whispered, half to yourself.

Baby cracked an eye open, giving you the laziest glare he could manage. “No shit.”

You giggled nervously, and the sound went straight to his cock. He groaned, dropping his head back against the headboard, letting you explore.

Your touch was clumsy, too soft, too hesitant. But it didn’t matter. Every brush of your fingers had him grinding his teeth, fighting not to buck into your hand, not to scare you off with how badly he wanted it.

And then, soft and hesitant: “So… what is it like when you… when you cum?”

Baby’s whole body jerked. He covered his eyes with one arm, groaning like he was in pain. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

“I’m just—”

“Curious. Yeah, I know.” He dropped his arm, glaring at you with eyes blown. He stared at you for a long moment, chest rising and falling heavy. “Fine. You really wanna know?”

You nodded.

“Then you’re gonna help me.”

Your stomach flipped. “Help you?”

He guided your hand, curling your fingers tighter around him, showing you how to move. Slow at first, steady, the glide of skin slick with precum. He groaned, low and filthy, head dropping back, veins in his neck straining as he let you learn.

“Spit.” he muttered, eyes half-lidded.

You blinked. “What?”

“On your hand. Makes it better.”

Blushing furiously, you did it, shyly, awkwardly, and the groan that ripped out of him nearly made you flinch. Then you tried again. Slowly, shyly, wrapping your fingers around him. He was heavy in your palm, thicker than you’d expected, pulsing faintly with his heartbeat. You gave an experimental squeeze, and his breath hitched. That tiny sound made your stomach flip. Made you want to hear more.

You stroked him clumsily, unsure, your movements uneven. He groaned under his breath, head tipping back, and you bit your lip.

“Like this?” you asked softly.

His eyes snapped open, sharp and glowing yellow. “Tighter. And don’t—” His hand shot down, wrapping around yours, guiding you. “Not like you’re churnin’ butter, Christ. Do it smooth. Like this.”

He showed you, dragging your hand up and down in a steady rhythm, thumb brushing over the sensitive head. His breath hitched again, his hips jerking slightly.

Your eyes widened. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.” His voice was strained, mocking even through the groan that slipped out. “Finally usin’ that brain.”

You ignored the jab. You were too focused, too fascinated. The way his muscles tensed, the way his abdomen clenched, the way his jaw locked as you stroked him the way he’d shown you.

“Baby?” you whispered, curious, hopeful. “Does it… feel good?”

He huffed, breathless, his head dropping forward. “No, I’m just makin’ noises for fun. Keep goin’.”

You bit your lip, giggling softly despite the heat flooding your cheeks. Your hand moved smoother now, gaining confidence, and he groaned, low and guttural, eyes squeezing shut.

And when he got close, when his breath came fast and sharp, he sighed. “Gonna cum.” he warned, voice harsh. “Don’t freak out.”

Your breath caught. “Can I see? Can I?”

For once, he didn’t have a smartass reply. He just nodded, lips pressed tight, his hand covering yours again to guide you faster.

The sounds filled the room, your breath, his groans, the wet slide of skin. You watched his face, the way it twisted, the way his eyes fluttered shut. You watched his stomach clench, his thighs tense, the way his hips twitched helplessly into your hand, and then he was groaning, spilling over your hand, cum hot and sticky, shuddering against the headboard as you stared in shock.

Silence hung heavy after. Your cheeks were burning, your hand still slick with him, your brain spinning.

“…That’s it?” you asked softly.

He laughed. Ragged, half-delirious, dragging a hand through his hair, the other putting himself back in his pants. “That’s fuckin’ it.”

And then you shyly wiped your hand on his hoodie, wiped it again just to be sure, then looked up at him. Really looked.

Baby raised a brow. “What?”

You fidgeted, sitting cross-legged between his thighs. “I wanna know more.”

His eyes flicked to yours, narrow. “More what?”

“More about… that.” You bit your lip, cheeks pink but eyes shining. “I wanna do it again. I’m serious.”

He smirked, leaning back, exhaling. “Yeah, I can see that.”

You hesitated, then said it, shy, quiet, but clear: “Can I try with my mouth?”

He stared at you, really stared, like maybe he’d misheard. Then he groaned, dragging his hands down his face, muttering something under his breath in a language you didn’t recognize. When he looked at you again, his smirk was still there but it looked more like a snarl, like he was fighting with himself. “You’re a pain in the ass.” he said flatly.

You smiled, small but stubborn. “Please?”

He sighed.

“I’ll listen.” you promised.

“Yeah, you better.” he tugged his sweats down again with one sharp motion, exposing himself to you. Still half-hard, still heavy, still a little slick from the last time.

“So.” he said, voice flat. “Don’t use teeth. Not even a little. You’ll know if you do.”

You nodded quickly. “Okay.”

“Don’t go choking yourself. Start slow.”

“Okay.”

He smirked, leaning back against the headboard, watching you with hooded eyes. “Alright, genius. Show me what you think you know.”

Your hands trembled a little as you wrapped them around him again, guiding him upright. He was warm, heavy, the skin soft but the rest of him hard under it. You leaned closer, lips parting, glancing up at him for permission.

He jerked his chin once. Go ahead.

So you did. Just the tip at first, a shy kiss against the head, then another. You tasted salt and skin and something you couldn’t place. You flicked your tongue out, tentative, circling him the way you’d seen in porn you’d never admitted to watching.

Baby hissed through his teeth, a low sound. “Not bad.” he muttered.

Your cheeks burned but you kept going, taking him a little deeper, lips sliding down an inch, then back up. Slow. Careful.

“That’s it.” he said, voice rough. “Slow. Don’t fuckin’ rush.”

You obeyed, moving a little further each time, finding a rhythm. He watched you, eyes dark and heavy-lidded, one hand fisted in the sheets, the other twitching like he wanted to touch your hair but wouldn’t.

You glanced up once, eyes meeting his, and he swore under his breath. “Fuck.”

Your heart skipped. You were doing it. You were actually doing it.

He guided you with words, not touch, voice low and ragged: “Keep your tongue flat—yeah, like that. Use your hand too. Twist a little. Don’t gag yourself.”

You followed every instruction, eager, clumsy but determined. His breath started to come faster, his hips shifting in tiny restrained movements like he wanted to thrust but was forcing himself not to.

“Good.” he muttered before he could stop himself. Then scowled at his own mouth. Let his hand slide into your hair, not pushing, just holding, thumb brushing your cheek. His hips moved a little, slow and shallow, matching your pace.

You hollowed your cheeks, twisted your wrist the way he’d shown you, feeling him throb against your tongue. He hissed, fingers tightening in your hair.

“I’m close.” he warned, voice low and urgent. “Pull back if you don’t—”

You didn’t pull back.

He swore, low and harsh, hips jerking once as he came, spilling hot and thick on your tongue. You gagged a little but stayed with it, swallowing most of it before pulling off, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, wide-eyed. Baby collapsed back against the headboard, one arm over his face, chest heaving.

You sat back on your heels, cheeks flushed, eyes shining. “Was that… okay?”

He peeked at you from under his arm, smirk twitching at his lips. “You’re askin’ me?”

You giggled, a soft, shy sound. “I wanted to do it right.”

“You did.” He reached for his cigarette, lit it with shaking hands, took a drag. “Too right.”

Then, almost as an afterthought, he hooked his fingers under your chin, tilting your face up. Not a kiss, not a thank you. Just a look. Big eyes, unreadable, but his thumb brushed the corner of your mouth where a drop of him still clung. He flicked the thumb away, took another drag, exhaled slow, and pulled you against him, listening to you giggle sweetly when he tugged his pants back up.

Yeah. That was a milestone.

The next one started like every other evening, you and Baby on his messy bed, half a movie playing on the laptop at the foot, ashtray balanced on the nightstand, the smell of smoke clinging to the sheets. He had his hoodie on, hood up, sitting slouched against the headboard, one long leg bent, one stretched out. You were laughing. He’d said something rude, and you couldn’t stop giggling. You tried to push his shoulder, but he caught your wrist and rolled, dragging you with him until the two of you were sideways on the mattress.

Your laughter broke into squeals as he pressed his cold hands against your waist, fingers sneaking under your shirt. “Baby!” you gasped, twisting, but you were laughing too hard to actually push him away.

“Shut up.” he muttered, grinning into your neck. He didn’t let go, and suddenly you were rolling again, limbs tangled, his lanky frame pinning you down.

You froze under him. Not scared. Just… breathless. His hoodie had fallen back enough for you to see his face, hair messy, cigarette taste still on his lips. Then he leaned down and kissed you. Tongue sliding past your lips, teeth knocking a little, messy and hot. You gasped, then melted, hands fisting in his hoodie.

It spiraled from there. Clothes shifting, his knee pressing between your thighs, your hips moving without you meaning to. He was already half-hard, already grinding into you through layers of clothes, already tugging at your shirt.

You pulled back, breathless, cheeks flushed. “Wait—”

He stilled, looking down at you with dark, annoyed eyes.

“I just—” you bit your lip, nervous, then said it. “I want to… I want to do it. With you.”

Silence. Then, Baby blinked once. “Yeah?”

You nodded, heart hammering. “Yeah.”

“’Bout time.” He was immediately down. Always was with you.

The first thing he did was dig into the drawer by his bed. You thought he was looking for a lighter, but he came back with a crumpled box of condoms, tore one open with his teeth. He might be a piece of shit but he’s not stupid. Then he leaned down and kissed you again, shutting you up, cigarette taste and all.

It was clumsy at first. You shifted, unsure what to do with your hands, giggling nervously as he shoved his hoodie off and pulled your shirt up. When he got your bra undone, his whole expression changed, eyes locking on your chest.

“Fuck.” he muttered, more to himself than you. His hands cupped your tits immediately, thumbs brushing your nipples.

“Baby!” you gasped, half laughing, half embarrassed.

He ignored you, bending down to suck one into his mouth, tongue flicking, teeth nipping just enough to make you squeal. His hand groped the other, rough, greedy, like he couldn’t decide which one he liked better. Yeah. Big fan.

The rest blurred into rolling and grabbing and kissing and you giggling at him rolling the condom on until you ended up on top of him, straddling his hips. He smirked up at you, hands behind his head.

“Well?” he drawled. “You just gonna sit there, or—”

“Shut up!” you snapped, flustered, but he laughed. You pouted but leaned forward, guided by his hands on your hips. His cock pressed against you, hot even through your panties. You gasped, grinding down instinctively, and his smirk faltered into a groan.

“Fuck, don’t—” he hissed, gripping your hips tighter. “Do that again.”

You did. And again. Until he was cursing under his breath, rutting up against you. Then, with his help, you pushed your underwear aside, lined him up, and sank down. The stretch was shocking. You gasped, clutching at his shoulders, the fullness making your eyes water. He swore, gripping your hips so tight it almost hurt.

“Shit—” his head dropped back, eyes squeezed shut. “You’re—fuck, you’re tight.”

You whimpered, squirming, trying to adjust.

“Relax.” he muttered, though his voice shook.

It took a minute, but then your body eased, and you shifted experimentally. The sensation made your whole body jolt, strange and new and so good. You rode him slow at first, awkward, giggling when you lost balance, clutching his shirt. He groaned with every movement, hands sliding up to knead your tits, then back down to your ass, squeezing, guiding your rhythm.

It wasn’t smooth, it wasn’t porn-like. It was clumsy and messy and filled with laughter between moans. You leaned down to kiss him, hair falling in your face, and he kissed back hard, tongue tangling with yours, teeth biting your lip. It was sweet, actually.

When you started finding a rhythm, bouncing a little faster, his cock hitting deeper, you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. You whimpered, grinding down, lost in the overwhelming pleasure. He held your hips, thrusting up to meet you now, each snap of his hips making you cry out louder.

It built fast. Too fast. Your body trembled, the strange heat coiling low in your stomach.

“Baby, I—”

“Yeah.” he groaned, knowing what you mean, and soon enough, you moaned, collapsing against his chest as your orgasm ripped through you, clenching tight around him. He swore, thrusting harder, chasing his own release until he groaned and came, spilling into the condom.

You both lay there, panting, tangled together in sweat and smoke. After a moment, you giggled weakly. That was all communication needed.

And that was your first time. Clumsy. Laughing. A little reckless. But real.

After that first time, something in Baby snapped. He’d always been restless, chain-smoking through arguments, downing half a bottle just because someone told him not to, pacing like when the world didn’t move fast enough. But now he was restless with you. It wasn’t enough to have you once. It wasn’t enough to kiss you on the couch, to grope your tits when you curled against him at night, to sneak a hand down your sweatpants until you whined into his chest. No, now he needed more. Always more. And Baby never cared about being patient. Baby wanted. Baby took. Baby started shit every time you were alone.

It wasn’t that he only wanted your body. It wasn’t that simple, not for him. He wanted you. All of you. He just didn’t know how to ask for the softer parts without it turning physical first. Touch was his language. Sex was his anchor.

You didn’t get it at first. You thought he was just being himself, lazy, bratty, annoying. You didn’t understand why he always pulled you onto his lap when you were trying to read, why his hands crept under your shirt when you were talking about literally anything else, why he groaned and ground into you during movies you’d barely started. You didn’t understand until it was purely sexual. Until you were moaning into his mouth, thighs trembling, his fingers slick with how wet you’d gotten for him.

You’d be lying on the bed together, you curled into his chest like always. He’d light a cigarette, exhale smoke into the air, then stub it out half-finished because your hair brushed his neck, because you smelled so good, because he couldn’t sit still when you were pressed against him.

“Baby.” you’d whisper when his hand slid down your back, over your ass, pulling you closer.

“What.” he’d mutter, already kissing your jaw.

“Movie’s still on.” you’d giggle.

“Don’t care.”

Then his mouth was on your neck, rough and hungry, teeth leaving marks you’d have to hide the next day. His fingers cupped your ass, squeezing, dragging you against his thigh until you started moving without realizing.

It wasn’t just sex. He didn’t even know how to explain it, not out loud. But when you gasped and held onto him, when your eyes shone shy and confused, when you whispered his name, it was like the only thing tethering him to this rotten world.

Soon, it escalated. Quickies in bathrooms became a thing. It’d start stupid, Jinu in the kitchen lecturing everyone about keeping up appearances, Abby rolling his eyes, Mystery growling low in his throat, Romance pouring wine into his cereal.(tf is his problem) Baby would lean against the counter, arms crossed, hoodie half-zipped, looking like he wasn’t listening.

But then he’d glance at you. Just one look.

You’d be sipping tea, not even realizing how you looked with your lips on the mug, your shirt sliding off your shoulder, the faintest mark of his teeth visible on your collarbone.

His cock would twitch.

“C’mere.” he’d mutter, grabbing your wrist when no one was looking.

“Baby, what—”

He didn’t answer, just dragged you into the nearest bathroom, slammed the lock shut, and pushed you against the sink.

“Baby!” you’d hiss, half shocked, half giggling.

“Shut up.” he’d groan, already pulling your pants down, already kissing you rough. You never really fought him on it. You blushed, giggled, said his name in that breathy way that made him crazy, but you never said no. And within minutes, you were bent over the sink, his hand clamped over your mouth, his hips snapping against you fast and messy while you tried to keep quiet. Afterwards, he’d pull out, roll the condom off, toss it in the trash, and smirk at you like nothing happened.

“Fix your hair.” he’d mutter, lighting another cigarette. “They’re gonna know.”

“You fix your hair.” you’d shoot back, pouting at the mirror.

He’d grin around the filter. “I look hot.”

And then he’d walk out first, leaving you blushing and glaring, knowing damn well everyone already knew.

At night, it was slower. In the dark, when you curled against him with that sweet innocence he never deserved, he let himself go softer. Not in words, Baby never said shit. But in the way his hand rubbed your back under your shirt, tracing lazy circles until you sighed. In the way he kissed the top of your head before burying his nose in your hair. In the way he’d wake you up with kisses, rough and sloppy, because he couldn’t wait for the morning.

And then, always, he pushed further. Slapping your ass when you walked by. Pulling you onto his lap during movies even when everyone else was around, smirking when you squirmed. Leaving hickeys all down your thighs, because he liked knowing they were there even if no one else could see them.

You never scolded him. Never told him he was too much. You just giggled, pouted, whispered “Baby!” like it was a complaint, but you never pulled away. And that’s what drove him insane. That innocence. That sweetness. The way you never quite got how much he wanted you, how badly he needed you, until he was already rutting against you.

He’d never admit it, not to the others, not even to himself, but you were the only thing keeping him alive. Every cigarette, every bottle, every fight with Jinu, every play fight he got into with Abby, it was all noise, all distraction. But you? You were the only thing he loved. And maybe that’s why he couldn’t stop. Why every time you smiled at him, he had to kiss you. Why every time you giggled, he had to touch you. Why every time you sighed his name, he had to have you, right there, right then. Because Baby wasn’t good at feelings. He wasn’t good at love. But he was good at wanting. And he wanted you more than anything.

For weeks after your first time, it was always Baby leading. Baby pulling you into a dark corner, Baby dragging you onto his lap, Baby starting kisses that turned into something hotter, dirtier, quicker than you ever expected. You were innocent enough that you let him, you didn’t really know how else to be.

But somewhere along the line, something in you shifted. Maybe it was the way his eyes always burned when he looked at you, dark and sharp and hungry even when he was acting like he didn’t care. Maybe it was the way he groaned when you kissed him back with just a little more pressure. Maybe it was how his cock twitched against your thigh when you giggled into his mouth. Whatever it was, you started… wanting. Not just for him to take, but for you to give.

The first time you initiated, it was small. Barely anything. You were lying in bed together, Baby half-asleep, cigarette smoldering in the ashtray by the window. You’d been tracing little patterns on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.

And then, quietly, shyly, you leaned up and kissed him. Not unusual, except… you didn’t stop. You kissed him again, and again, your little hands framing his face, your lips soft but insistent. You swung a leg over his hips, sitting on him, pressing yourself down against his half-hard cock through his sweats.

Baby opened his eyes at that.

“The fuck are you doin’?” he muttered, voice rough, sleep-heavy.

You blushed, biting your lip, but you didn’t move off. “Kissing you.” you whispered.

He smirked, wide awake now. “No shit.”

But he let you. Hell, he let you take the lead, let you grind down on him in shy, hesitant rolls of your hips until you were panting, your innocence clashing with how badly you wanted to please him. He groaned, dug his fingers into your thighs, bucked up once to make you squeak.

That was the moment he knew. That sweet little girlfriend of his wasn’t gonna stay passive forever. You were learning. You were testing him. You were initiating.

And after that, you never stopped.

It was clumsy at first. You’d kiss him too eagerly, teeth clashing, giggling nervously afterward. You’d tug on his hoodie, whispering “Baby…” You’d curl against him on the couch, one hand inching under his shirt but freezing as soon as you touched warm skin.

He never teased you for it. Not once. He was an asshole in almost every other aspect of life, bratty, selfish, moody, impossible. But when it came to you? He was patient in his own weird way. He didn’t mock you for being shy, didn’t shove you into things you weren’t ready for. He let you try, let you explore, let you learn. And fuck, the more you learned, the bolder you got.

Soon, you weren’t just letting him drag you off during movies, you were the one pulling his hand between your legs under the blanket.

Soon, you weren’t just letting him finger you in bathrooms, you were tugging him by the hoodie, whispering in his ear that you wanted him now, now, now.

Soon, you weren’t just sitting on his lap during lazy afternoons, you were grinding down shamelessly, kissing his throat, whispering “please” in that shaky voice that made his cock ache.

Baby was losing his mind. Because this wasn’t just you being corrupted. This wasn’t just you giving in to his brattish, selfish desires. This was you wanting him. You, his sweet, innocent, clueless little girlfriend, you wanted him.

And it wasn’t just physical. Your questions killed him. You’d look at him with those big eyes and whisper things that sounded like confessions, questions that were naive but so eager.

“Does it feel good when I touch you like this?”

“Is this what you like?”

“Can I try… that thing you did last time?”

Every time, he grunted an answer, guided your hands, let you explore. Every time, he told himself he wouldn’t lose it, wouldn’t cum too fast, wouldn’t scare you off. And every time, he almost failed. Because you were just so damn sweet about it. Giggling when you made mistakes, pouting when he adjusted your angle, smiling up at him.

Baby was supposed to be a fuck-up. A drunk. A brat. A demon with more blood on his hands than he could ever wash away. But with you on top of him, curious and shy, he felt like something else.

The two of you became very active.

Anytime you were alone, you initiated something. A kiss that turned sloppy. A cuddle that turned into grinding. A movie night that ended with you under him, legs spread, begging without even realizing how dirty you sounded. It didn’t matter if you understood what you were starting, Baby always finished it. Always.

And he didn’t care about how innocent you’d been before him. Didn’t feel guilty for taking it, didn’t wish he’d slowed down. If not for him, you would’ve stayed innocent.

And what a fucking waste that would’ve been.

You were still sweet. Still pure in your own way. But you were his now. You wanted him, touched him, begged for him. And Baby wasn’t ever letting that go.

MYSTERY

Mystery was… unlike anyone you’d ever been close to. He barely spoke, and when he did, it came out weird and half-words. Sometimes, in the low light of the kitchen or the hallway, he seemed less like a man and more like something ancient in a body, observing everything.

But with you, he softened. From the start, you were sweet with him, instinctively. You’d reach for his hand in public without thinking. You’d curl up against his chest on the couch, fingers finding the seams of his hoodie, rubbing circles into his ribs while you rested your head there. You kissed his cheek absentmindedly. You’d whisper things to him when you thought no one was listening.

And Mystery loved it. God, he loved it. Every time you climbed into his lap without asking, his body went rigid and then melted. When you traced the line of his jaw, when you nuzzled under his chin, when you sat with your legs tucked under you and leaned against him, he would go completely still, fists clenched in his hoodie pockets, like if he moved he might ruin the moment.

You didn’t see the hunger. You didn’t see how hard it was for him to breathe sometimes. You just knew he was quiet, and you liked the quiet. You didn’t know you were driving him crazy.

Mystery was a freak. A silent, disciplined, terrifyingly filthy freak. He could keep it hidden because he was Mystery, he’d been keeping things hidden for centuries. But the longer you were together, the harder it got. He wanted you in ways he couldn’t even explain. Not just sex, all of you. Every smell, every sound, every twitch of your fingers. He was obsessed with you like an animal.

And you were so sweet. So, so sweet. You had no idea. You thought it was just his way of showing affection when he bit at your shoulder while cuddling. Or when he nipped at your neck until you squeaked. Or when he ran his teeth along your collarbone, growling low in his chest.

“Mys, that tickles.” you’d giggle, swatting him lightly. He’d just hum, low, and pull you tighter into his lap, burying his face in your hair. You didn’t realize he was trying not to sink his teeth deeper. That every tiny nip was him fighting the urge to taste.

When you were on your period, it got worse. He tried not to be obvious, but his senses were sharp, too sharp. He’d scent the iron under your skin and his mouth would actually water. He’d hover near you in the kitchen, silent, fingers twitching, jaw tight. You thought he was just being protective. You didn’t know he was picturing things he shouldn’t.

When you curled up against him on the couch during cramps, he’d rub your back, slow circles, almost trembling. You’d thank him softly, press your face into his hoodie. “Mystery… you’re so warm.” He’d grunt in response, eyes hidden under his hair, lips pressed tight as he inhaled your scent and forced himself to stay still.

The truth was, he wanted you every second of every day. He thought about you constantly. But you were innocent, untouched, and he wouldn’t do anything unless you gave him anything that even slightly meant yes.

You’d climb into his lap and kiss him on the jaw, and he’d think about how easy it would be to slide his hands under your shirt. But he wouldn’t. He’d let you kiss him, let you rest your head on his chest, let you fall asleep there. At night, when you were asleep, he’d lay on his back next to you, staring at the ceiling, fists clenched, biting the inside of his cheek to stop himself from touching you. Sometimes he’d get up and leave the room entirely, go sit on the cold kitchen floor and breathe until the urge passed.

You loved him exactly like that. You didn’t mind that he didn’t talk. You didn’t mind that he growled at other people. You didn’t even mind his weird biting habits, you just thought it was cute, like a cat or a dog being playful.

You never noticed how his nails dug into the couch when you sat in his lap. You never noticed the way his breathing hitched when your scent changed. You just knew Mystery was warm and strong and safe. You loved curling up with him, kissing him softly, holding his hand. That was enough for you. You had no idea what it was doing to him.

Mystery needed you. He craved you. But he also worshipped you. He wouldn’t take until you asked. He’d press his nose into your neck and whine, low and guttural, the sound vibrating through you. You’d giggle, scratch behind his ear like he was some kind of animal, and he’d curl around you, trembling, swallowing his hunger. You’d sigh, settling into his arms, completely unaware of what you just did.

Mystery didn’t just love you. He needed you. You were the only thing in his long, bloody life that felt clean. And that’s why he wouldn’t touch you, not really. Not until you told him to. Even if his mouth watered. Even if his hands shook. Even if you smelled like the most intoxicating thing he’d ever known.

But Mystery was going insane. He was careful. Always careful. But it didn’t matter, being with you was pure torture, and the worst part was that you didn’t even know it. You thought he was shy, reserved, awkward. A man who showed affection through silence and small touches instead of words. And in a way, you were right. He did love holding you, letting you climb into his lap, letting you bury your face against his hoodie. He did love the little kisses you pressed against his cheek, the way your fingers tangled in his hair.

But you didn’t understand. You didn’t understand what it did to him every single time. You didn’t understand that his bites getting a little rough was him losing control. “Babe.” you’d giggle, pushing his head lightly. “You’re like a puppy.”

And he’d just grunt in response, hiding his face against your neck so you couldn’t see his eyes. Puppy. Right. A puppy didn’t want to bend you over the kitchen counter. A puppy didn’t spend half his nights jerking off in the bathroom because you were asleep in his bed and he couldn’t take it anymore.

He’d never tell you. Not when you were this innocent. Not when you’d never even kissed anyone before him.

He remembered the way your lips trembled the first time you pressed them to his, how shy you were when his tongue brushed against yours.

You’d pulled back, eyes wide, breathless, whispering, “That’s… that’s different.”

He remembered the way your hands shook when you first traced the muscles under his hoodie, the awe on your face.

And god, the way you cuddled. You loved curling into his lap like you were made for it, arms tight around his middle, sighing happily against his chest. You’d fall asleep like that, trusting him to hold you, trusting him with your whole body like you didn’t know he was dangerous. Like you didn’t know how many times he’d sat there, staring at the ceiling, hard and aching with you spread across his thighs, fighting every single instinct in him not to grind up into you.

He kept it hidden, because he knew if you ever realized the truth, you’d probably run. But at night, when you were asleep, he couldn’t help it. He’d sit on the bathroom floor, back against the tub, hand wrapped around himself, stroking desperately with his hoodie pulled over his face because it still smelled like you. He’d fuck his fist to the memory of you giggling, to the way your lips had tasted when you finally dared to kiss him back, to the sound of your sleepy voice murmuring his name as you curled into him.

He’d imagine what it would feel like to slide your little cotton panties down your thighs. To lick into you until you screamed. To pin you down and finally, finally lose control.

He’d come hard, muffling his groans in the sleeve of his hoodie, then sit there panting, disgusted with himself.

Because you were pure. And he was filthy. And you had no idea.

Sometimes you made it worse without even realizing it. Like when you’d climb onto his lap in your pajamas, legs straddling him, completely oblivious to what that position did to him. You’d lay your head on his shoulder and sigh happily, rubbing your cheek against his neck. He’d sit there frozen, hands clenched at his sides, his cock hard and throbbing under you, and you didn’t even notice.

Or when you’d laugh at something stupid Abby said and throw yourself into Mystery’s arms for comfort, burying your face against his chest. He’d hold you automatically, his jaw tight, his teeth clenched, because all he wanted to do was tilt your chin up and kiss you until you cried. You had no idea how close he was to snapping.

And then there were your questions.

“In a relationship,” you’d ask once, your voice soft and curious as you toyed with the strings of his hoodie. “do people… do more? Like… more than kissing?”

Mystery’s chest went tight. He didn’t answer right away, just stared at you from under his hair, his pulse hammering in his throat.

“Yes.” he said finally, voice low. “Sometimes.”

You’d hum, thoughtful, and rest your head against him again. But Mystery’s hands were shaking. Because if you asked for more, if you ever asked, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself.

Mystery was animalistic. He wasn’t just a man who loved you. He was a demon with centuries of bloodlust in his veins, a creature who thought about ripping into you the way others thought about kissing. You had no idea how much he needed you. How much he wanted you. How many times he’d come undone in silence, thinking about the sound of your voice. You thought Mystery was quiet because that was just who he was. You thought his bites and growls were just his way of being affectionate. You thought his tension was just him being shy.

You had no idea you were his obsession.

But. But once, you were curled up in his lap, your arms looped around his neck, your face tucked against his hoodie. It was late. Mystery had you all to himself, and that was the only time he ever really relaxed.

He’d been good for weeks. He’d bitten the inside of his cheek until it bled, he’d jerked off in silence with his teeth grit and his hand shaking, he’d forced himself to sit still when you threw yourself across him and sighed. He’d kept it together.

Until tonight.

You were sitting sideways on him, legs sprawled across the couch, body half in his lap, half leaning against his chest. One of his arms was slung lazily across your waist, the other propped against the back of the couch. He looked like he was calm as always, head tipped back against the cushions, hair hiding his eyes.

But he wasn’t calm. He was shaking inside.

Because you were warm and soft and pressed right against his cock. Because you kept shifting, unconsciously rubbing yourself against him as you got comfortable. Because every time you breathed, your chest pressed against his ribs and he could feel your heartbeat.

And without meaning to, without deciding to, Mystery moved his hips. Just a little. Just enough for the thick line of his cock to grind against your thigh. Just enough to send heat sparking up his spine.

He froze immediately, eyes hidden under his hair, jaw locked. Waiting for you to notice. Waiting for you to push him away.

But you didn’t. You just hummed softly and wiggled in his lap, shifting to get more comfortable. Your cheek brushed his throat. You rubbed your fingers along the strings of his hoodie like you always did when you were absentminded.

His hips rolled again. A low, guttural whine slipped out of his throat before he could stop it, muffled against your hair. His grip tightened around your waist, pulling you closer.

You lifted your head, blinking up at him with that sweet, curious expression that killed him every time. “Love?” you murmured, voice soft. “What’s wrong?”

He couldn’t answer. His chest was heaving. His cock was throbbing painfully in his pants, pressed flush against you now, and his body was moving on instinct, slow, helpless grinds against your hip, his breath catching each time.

You frowned, confused, but not scared. Never scared. You touched his cheek lightly, brushing hair from his face. “Are you… are you okay?”

He let out another whine. Louder this time. Almost a growl. His hips jerked.

And that’s when you felt it. Hard. Heavy. Thick against your thigh.

You froze for half a second, your innocent brain catching up, your lips parting as you realized what exactly was pressing against you. But instead of pulling back, instead of panicking, you tilted your head, studying him with wide eyes. “Oh.”

Mystery’s breath stuttered. He wanted to die. He wanted to drop to his knees and beg forgiveness. But then, you smiled. Soft, sweet, almost relieved.

“Ohhh.” you said again, like something just clicked for you. Your hand slid down his chest, tentative, resting on his stomach. “That’s… from me?”

His body shuddered. He nodded once, small, his hair still hiding most of his face.

You giggled. Giggled. A bright, innocent sound that went straight to his cock. “That’s… that’s so cute.”

Mystery made a sound he couldn’t hold back, a desperate little noise that was somewhere between a whine and a growl. His hands clutched at you now, dragging you closer, rocking up into you again.

And you didn’t stop him. You didn’t understand, not really, but you didn’t stop him. Instead you wrapped your arms tighter around his neck, pressing your chest to his, nuzzling against his jaw. “Does it… feel good?”

His whole body trembled. He buried his face in your shoulder, panting against your skin, and nodded.

You giggled again, softer this time, a little shy now. “Wow. I didn’t know… just this… would feel good for boys.”

Mystery let out a sound so raw it didn’t sound human, muffled into your shirt as his hips snapped against you harder this time. He was gone, utterly gone. You’d accepted it. You weren’t scared. You even thought it was cute. And that undid centuries of restraint in seconds.

He whined again, clinging to you, rutting against your thigh like an animal. His cock was hard and leaking in his sweats, grinding into the softness of you again and again.

And you… you liked it. You were a little lost, sure, a little clueless, but you liked it. You liked the way his body trembled, the way his voice broke when he whined, the way his breath hitched each time he pressed against you. You liked knowing you were the reason he felt like this. So you let him. You let him grind into you, let him cling and growl and whimper, let his cock rut against your thigh. You stroked his hair back gently, kissed his temple, cooed softly like you were comforting him.

“It’s okay, Mystery.” you whispered, kissing his jaw. “You can… you can do that.”

He let out a guttural groan, hips jerking, and for the first time with you, Mystery wasn’t careful. He wasn’t restrained. He let himself take what you were giving, rutting against you desperately, clutching you so tight it almost hurt, his breath hot and ragged against your neck. And you just held him. Sweet, innocent, still clueless about how far gone he was, but happy. Happy to make him feel good, even if you didn’t fully understand how or why. And that, more than anything, drove him insane.

He tilted his head to sink his teeth into your shoulder. The bite wasn’t hard, not deep enough to pierce skin, but enough to hold you there, enough to make his body jolt with need. His fangs grazed your skin, hot breath spilling against you as he groaned, a guttural “hhghhh—nghh—ahhh—” muffled into your shirt.

You gasped softly at the suddenness of it, not from pain but from surprise. Your hands froze against his hoodie, then slowly, hesitantly, you stroked his hair back again, soothing him even while your eyes widened. Because something was happening. Those faint, curling lines across his skin, markings you’d noticed before, always subtle, always dull, were starting to glow. Dim at first, then stronger. His whole body seemed alive, twitching with it, and you realized with a rush of awe that this wasn’t just physical. It was something deeper.

Something demonic.

And yet, he clung to you like an animal, growling against your shoulder, hips jerking harder now, rutting his cock against your thigh in helpless, desperate rolls. The glow spread with every thrust of his hips, every whine that tore from his throat.

“Ghhh—hhghhhh—ahhh—nghhhhh—” His voice cracked, each sound raw, unfiltered, driving you wild. Just noise, just proof of how far gone he was. The glowing patterns wound up his neck, across the side of his face, and you finally got a glimpse under his hair, just enough to see the faint burn of yellow beneath. His hidden eyes, glowing too.

And still, his cock ground into you, again and again, his breath stuttering, hips snapping forward. He let go of your shoulder only to latch onto your throat instead, biting, sucking, whining like he couldn’t get enough. Drool wet your skin where his teeth pressed, his mouth wide and messy. His cock rubbed harder and harder against your thigh through his sweats, leaking pre-cum so thick it dampened the fabric, and his noises grew louder, filthier.

And you just… took it in. Your first time really witnessing something like this. Your first time understanding what “sexual” meant not through words or explanations, but through his body, his sounds, the heat of his cock rutting desperately against you.

It was overwhelming, but not bad. Not scary. Just… a lot. But alright.

You stared at him, at the glowing lines, at the way his face twisted when he moaned. And you learned. You learned that boys make sounds, too. That his whole body shook from it. That his hips moved without him even choosing to, thrust after thrust, needy and wild. That his teeth on your neck weren’t meant to hurt you, they were just another way of clinging, of holding, of begging.

His body went rigid, every muscle tight. His hands clutched you so hard your back arched against him. His glowing patterns flared brighter, glowing across his skin. He came. You felt it. The twitching of his cock, the heat spilling out, soaking his clothes and smearing against your thigh. His body shook with it, his breath catching. Sweet boy.

Your first time seeing someone orgasm. Your first time feeling it, secondhand, the sticky wet spreading between you, the trembling of his body, the guttural noise ripping out of him that sounded almost like pain and almost like relief and almost like worship. You just held him, your fingers running gently through his damp hair, eyes wide as you took in every detail, the glowing marks, the heat of his body, the raw, feral noises still spilling from him in the aftermath.

For long, trembling seconds, he humped through the orgasm, rutting into you with weaker and weaker thrusts, until finally his body gave out. He collapsed against you, chest heaving, glowing patterns flickering dimmer as his strength drained.

Silence fell again. Except for his breath. Ragged. Harsh. Shuddering. And your heartbeat. Fast, but steady.

You smiled softly. Because for the first time, you understood. This was sex. This was arousal. This was what it meant for someone to want you so badly they broke. And it was Mystery. Your Mystery.

You ran your fingers through his damp hair slowly, carefully, stroking down the back of his neck. He trembled under your touch. His shoulders shivered, his chest shuddered, and his arms only tightened around you.

“Mystery.” you whispered, your voice small, almost too gentle for the wreck of a man holding you. “You should go change.”

Your thigh was sticky. His sweatpants were wet. It didn’t take much thought to understand why.

But instead of moving, instead of pulling back, he shook his head. A low, muffled growl rumbled against your throat where his face was buried. His nose pressed harder into the curve of your neck, lips brushing your skin, teeth still faintly grazing.

“Mystery…” You stroked his back this time, up and down, slow lines over the glow that still flickered faintly beneath his clothes. It was dimmer now, weaker, but you could still feel the heat pulsing there.

He whined.

And your heart cracked. You tilted your head, resting your cheek against his hair. “Alright.” you murmured, so soft. “Then stay.”

If he wanted to stay like this, if he wanted to bury himself in you, then fine. You could handle it. He had been patient with you for weeks, months even, never pushing you faster than you could take. So if this was what he needed now? He could have it.

And you couldn’t stop thinking about how beautiful it was. The way his patterns had glowed. The way his eyes had looked when you finally saw them. The way his voice had broken into all those sounds, so vulnerable, so uncontrolled. You’d never seen him like this. You didn’t know anyone could look like this.

You didn’t feel disgusted. You didn’t feel scared. You didn’t feel like this was wrong. You just felt… close. Closer to him than you had ever been before. Maybe you didn’t fully understand what you had just given him. Maybe you didn’t know the extent of how badly he’d wanted this, how many nights he’d had to bite his tongue and his pillow to keep from jerking off into the thought of you. But you could see how much this meant. You could feel it in the way his body trembled, hear it in the broken little noises he couldn’t hold back. So you let him stay.

Minutes passed like that. His breathing slowly evened out, though every so often another small whine escaped, muffled into your neck. His hands never loosened, though, they stayed locked around you, strong and unyielding.

Finally, when you thought maybe he’d drifted toward sleep, you whispered again. “Mystery… was that…?” You trailed off, shy suddenly. But you wanted to know. You swallowed. “That was… for me?”

A hum. A nod.

Your cheeks burned. Your hands stilled in his hair for a moment before moving again, gentler than before. “Thank you.” you whispered.

A little sound came from him, half-growl, half-moan, muffled so deep into your skin that it felt like he was speaking into your bones. His grip crushed you harder, his teeth sank against your shoulder again, not hard enough to hurt this time, but hard enough to tell you that your words had touched him.

“Mmmnnnhhh—” he whined, shuddering, like he was embarrassed, like he wanted to hide, like he couldn’t believe you’d said that.

You giggled softly, pressing your lips to the top of his head. “You’re silly.”

He snarled faintly at that, biting you a little harder, but he smiled into your skin. You just held him.

And that was the first time you realized how much this man wanted you. Not just to touch, not just to fuck, not just to use you as an outlet for all the animal tension he carried, though that was true, too. But he wanted you like this. Close. Quiet. Wrapped in his arms while he fell apart and you didn’t run.

You shifted slightly under his weight, trying to get more comfortable. He growled at the movement, clinging tighter, burying himself deeper against you.

“Alright.” you whispered again, smiling. “Alright. I’ll stay too.”

And you did. You stayed until his glowing marks finally dimmed back into nothing. You stayed until his breathing softened into steady, quiet exhales against your throat. You stayed until his body went slack, heavy and warm and clinging even in sleep. You stayed, and you realized you didn’t want to be anywhere else. And when he was asleep, you smiled faintly, whispering: “You’re really, really cute when you’re like this.”

Days later it was mid-afternoon. The apartment was unusually quiet, no Abby stomping around, no Romance singing to himself, no Jinu sighing over everyone, not even Baby being a brat in the corner. Just you. Just you in the kitchen, humming softly while you worked, your hands moving carefully as you sliced fruit, the faint scent of sugar and something floral drifting in the air, when Mystery walked in.

“Hey, Mys.” you murmured without turning, smiling faintly. “Hungry?”

You expected maybe a nod. Maybe one of his low, half-growl sounds. You did not expect the sudden heat of his chest pressing flush against your back. The sharp drag of his breath against your ear. The unmistakable hardness pushing insistently into the curve of your ass.

You froze for half a second, knife hovering over the cutting board. Then slowly, instinctively, you set it down.

His hands slid around your waist, holding you in place as he began to move against you. Grinding. Humping. Slow, his hips rolling with a need that was raw and animal.

You exhaled softly, tilted your head back a little, and lifted your hands to his hair. You pushed it back gently from his face, stroking the strands, guiding his head down to rest against your shoulder.

“It’s okay.” you whispered, so sweet, so naive. “I’ve got you.”

Your body reacted. Heat bloomed low in your stomach, foreign. Your thighs pressed together instinctively, the ache building faster than you could register. Your nipples tightened against the soft fabric of your shirt. Every drag of his hard cock against you, even through the layers of his sweatpants and your clothes, sent sparks shooting through nerves you didn’t know existed. You didn’t know this was arousal. But you liked it. God, you liked it.

Mystery’s breathing went ragged against your neck, every exhale hot and shuddering. He growled low in his throat, a desperate sound that vibrated into your skin. His teeth grazed along your shoulder, biting lightly, testing, tasting, like he wanted to devour you whole. His hips slammed into you with more urgency now, humping desperately, like he couldn’t get close enough. His cock strained against the fabric, leaking, throbbing, dragging over you in a rhythm that made your knees weaken.

You felt how wet you were getting, the slick heat pooling between your thighs, the ache begging for more friction. You didn’t understand it, not fully, but you didn’t stop it either. You didn’t shy away. You leaned into him, letting your ass push back against his cock, gasping softly at the pressure.

Within minutes, his hips jerked hard, one final desperate hump into your ass, and then you felt the wet heat spreading against you, soaking through the fabric of his pants and into yours. He growled, deep and raw, muffling the sound into your neck as his whole body shuddered.

Your lips parted in shock, but you didn’t move away. You held him tighter, hands soothing through his hair and over his back as he trembled against you, panting, his cock twitching in the aftermath. You liked the way it felt. Even if you didn’t know the word for it yet. Even if you didn’t realize you were aroused too, your panties damp, your thighs trembling, your breath shaky with need. You just held him. Because that was what you knew how to do. Because you loved him.

The kitchen still smelled faintly of sugar and fruit, but that scent was nothing compared to what Mystery could smell now. You. It hit him, thick and sweet and wet. Your arousal, sharp in the air, bleeding through your skin, flooding his senses. You could try to hide your shyness all you wanted, pretend you didn’t understand, but he could smell the truth.

And the truth was you were turned on.

So turned on it made his cock twitch again, still messy and aching inside his pants.

He froze for one sharp second, panting against your neck. He growled low in his chest, conflicted, trembling with restraint. He should’ve stopped. He should’ve pulled away. He should’ve kept pretending you were his angel, pure and untouchable. But then he caught another whiff of your wet heat, slick and needy between your thighs, and his control shattered.

A guttural snarl ripped from his throat, and before you could react, he spun you around, hands gripping your waist so hard you gasped.

“Mystery—?” You didn’t finish. Because his mouth crashed into yours. Not a peck. Not the soft little kisses you’d given him before. A real kiss. His fangs grazed your lower lip, sharp and dangerous, but instead of pulling away, you whimpered into his mouth. His tongue slid against yours, rough and demanding, and your head spun from the shock of it. You’d never been kissed like this before. And now here he was, tongue forcing its way past your lips, claiming you, drowning you.

You clutched at his shirt instinctively, breath stolen right out of your lungs. He growled again, a possessive sound vibrating deep in his chest, and tilted his head to deepen the kiss. His mouth moved against yours with a brutal need, sloppy and wet and overwhelming.

You moaned faintly into him, tiny, helpless, and he lost it. One of his thighs shoved between yours, pressing up against your clothed core. He ground into you at the same time, his cock straining and leaking, and your hips rocked instinctively forward. The pressure against your clit made you gasp into his mouth, your whole body jolting at the new sensation.

Mystery groaned in return, the sound ragged, hungry. His tongue curled deeper into your mouth, lapping at you like he wanted to drink you down. His fangs scraped dangerously against your teeth, but you barely registered it, too consumed by the dizzying heat building in your stomach, the ache between your thighs where his leg pressed. He whined, desperate, grinding harder. His hands slid lower, gripping your ass, hauling you up against his thigh until your pussy rubbed perfectly over the muscle.

“Ohh—” The sound slipped from you before you could stop it, high and breathy, a noise of pleasure you hadn’t even realized you were capable of making.

Mystery froze for a second. His whole body shuddered. His glowing patterns flickered back to life, dim at first, then brighter, pulsing with every beat of his heart.

You’d made that sound.

You.

He growled against your lips, violent in its need, then kissed you harder, teeth clashing, tongue thrusting into your mouth. His leg flexed beneath you, thigh rubbing in perfect friction against your wetness. You clung to him helplessly, hands tangled in his hair, lips parted to let him in. You didn’t know what you were doing, you had no practice, no technique, but it didn’t matter. He kissed you like a man starved, and you let him devour you.

Your hips began to move on their own. Rocking, grinding softly against his thigh, chasing that strange pleasure sparking with every rub of your clit. You gasped again, breaking the kiss, your head tilting back against the cabinet behind you. His mouth attacked your neck instead, fangs scraping, tongue dragging hot across your skin. He bit, sucked, growled into you.

His thigh jerked higher between your legs, and you couldn’t stop the moan that tore out of you. Mystery groaned back, loud, primal, grinding against your hip in rhythm with your rocking. His cock was painfully hard again, twitching, leaking through his pants, smearing against your body as he moved.

You clutched his shoulders, nails digging in. “Mystery… it—feels—” Your voice broke, shame coloring your cheeks, but the words spilled anyway. “Feels… good—”

He snarled into your skin, the sound more beast than man, and bit down hard enough to make you yelp. Not enough to break skin, but enough to mark. His hands squeezed your ass tighter, dragging you harder against his thigh. Every motion drove the friction against your clit higher, tighter, and your body trembled under the wave of new sensations.

Your panties were soaked now, clinging damply between your thighs, and he could smell it. The scent drove him mad.

You clung to him, gasping, moaning, your hips rocking desperately on his thigh without even realizing it. The ache inside you grew unbearable, the tension winding tighter and tighter.

“Mystery—” you whimpered, your voice breaking on his name.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, finally letting his hair fall from his face. His eyes, god, his eyes, burned yellow, glowing with the same light as his patterns. Wild, feral, desperate. He kissed you again before you could breathe. Tongue shoving deep, lips crushing yours, thigh flexing perfectly between your legs.

And you came. The orgasm ripped through you so suddenly you choked on his kiss, moaning into his mouth as your body spasmed. Your thighs squeezed around his leg, hips grinding desperately, clit throbbing as waves of pleasure tore through you and you whined and cried.

Mystery roared against your lips, the sound muffled but raw, triumphant. His cock jerked against your hip, spilling cum, soaking through his pants as he came with you.

The two of you clung together, shaking, kissing messily through the aftershocks. His tongue lapped at your lips, your teeth, your tongue, like he couldn’t get enough. His arms crushed you against him, his thigh still pressed hard between yours as you trembled and moaned softly into his mouth.

When it finally eased, you pulled back, panting, eyes wide. “I… I think…” Your voice was dazed, small. “I think I just…?”

Mystery hummed, forehead pressing against yours. His glowing eyes softened just slightly, but his breath was still wild, his chest heaving.

You realized you were smiling. Shy, trembling, but smiling. “That was… new.”

He groaned, kissing you again, swallowing your words like he couldn’t stand to hear anything but your sounds. And you let him. Because it felt good. Because you were finally starting to understand. Because you loved him, even if you didn’t yet realize what kind of monster you’d given your heart to.

He growled low, hungry, teeth scraping, and his hands moved upward, almost frantic, clawing gently at your shirt, tugging it higher, his intent clear. He wanted more.

He wanted your chest.

You froze for a second, mind blank, body still throbbing from the orgasm he’d just forced out of you. Your nerves felt fried, every touch sparking fire through your veins, every brush of his lips almost too much.

So when his hand began tugging at the hem of your shirt, you caught his wrist. Not harsh. Not panicked. Just… stopping him.

“Mystery—” Your voice was soft, ragged, still shaky. “I… I can’t. Not yet.”

For one terrible moment you thought he wouldn’t listen. His glowing patterns pulsed, his eyes yellow and wild, his breathing harsh. His cock was still straining, wet from release, and he looked like he could eat you alive. But then, slowly, his movements stilled. His body shuddered once, like it took all his strength, and he leaned into you instead, pressing his face into your neck, hiding there. A low, guttural whine escaped him.

He wanted. He ached. He needed.

But he understood.

Your hand loosened on his wrist, and you stroked his hair instead, combing through the strands that usually hid his eyes. He melted into the touch, biting gently at your shoulder, but not pushing further. His breath was hot against your skin, his chest heaving as he struggled to rein himself in.

“Thank you.” you whispered, not sure if he even processed words when he was like this. But maybe he didn’t need to understand the words, just the tone. Because slowly, he settled. His arms wound tighter around you, not to take, but to hold. His growls softened into low hums, almost like a purr, as he pressed kisses against your skin, not wild anymore, just affectionate.

He wasn’t just Mystery the demon. He wasn’t just fangs and hunger and growls. He was your boyfriend. And he wanted you, body and soul, but he’d always stop when you asked. Always.

Things changed after that. Not in a way that scared you. Not in a way that felt overwhelming. But the intimacy grew. He stopped being as careful when he touched you. Before, his hands had been hesitant, testing, brushing, skimming over your arms or waist like he wasn’t sure you’d let him. Now, his hands stayed. Gripped. Claimed. When you sat on the couch together, he’d pull you into his lap, his fingers digging into your thighs while his mouth nipped at your neck. When you lay down together, he’d sprawl over you completely, heavy and warm, his cock already hard against your hip before you even realized.

You began to notice things. How he’d nip at your lower lip when you gave him a kiss, like he wanted more. How his hands always inched higher under your shirt, stopping just short of your chest as if waiting for you to allow him. How his hips moved unconsciously against you when you cuddled, humping softly, he couldn’t help it.

And you noticed yourself too. How you weren’t as scared anymore. The memory of that orgasm in the kitchen haunted you, in a good way. Your body ached for it again, even if your mind wasn’t always sure. When he kissed you, your lips opened quicker, your tongue less shy. When his thigh slipped between yours, you didn’t freeze, you rocked against it, soft and needy, your hands clutching him closer.

It was slow. So slow. But that’s how you wanted it. And Mystery let you set the pace, even if it killed him.

One night, curled up together on his bed, you’d been tracing the glowing lines of his demon markings with your fingertips. They pulsed under your touch, glowing brighter wherever you lingered, and you swore you could feel his pulse racing beneath your hand.

His breath grew ragged. His eyes, hidden under his hair, glowed faintly.

“Mys?” you whispered.

He growled low, like a warning, but not at you. At himself.

Your hand drifted lower, down his chest, over his abs, to the waistband of his sweats. You hesitated. Your heart hammered. But you didn’t stop. You tugged the fabric down an inch. Just an inch. Enough for him to know what you were asking.

His whole body tensed. His cock twitched under the fabric, straining, desperate. He groaned low in his throat.

You smiled softly, shyly. “It’s okay.”

And that was the first time you let him touch your chest. His hands shook as he slid your shirt up, careful, but his mouth was anything but gentle when it closed around your nipple. He growled, he sucked, he bit, all while his other hand cupped and squeezed, kneading. You gasped and whimpered under him, back arching, thighs rubbing together helplessly as the new sensations overwhelmed you.

When his glowing eyes flicked up to see your face, flushed, lips parted, moaning softly, it nearly made him cry. He thrust against the bed, humping the mattress like an animal, just from seeing you. And you let him. Because you trusted him. Because you wanted him.

The weeks that followed blurred together in a haze of exploration. You learned how much you liked when he kissed you sloppy and desperate, his tongue everywhere, his fangs grazing but never piercing. You learned how good it felt when he humped against you, his cock hot and hard, his growls vibrating against your chest. You learned that your own body wanted more than you thought, wanted to be touched, bitten, kissed raw until your lips were swollen.

You had no idea of the restraint it took him to stay calm. No idea how many nights he came messy and alone in the bathroom because he couldn’t take it further with you yet. No idea how badly he wanted to shove himself inside you and claim you. But he waited.

It was strange how something so shocking at first became so… everyday. Mystery’s face between your tits. At the beginning, when it first happened, you’d thought your heart was going to leap out of your chest. You hadn’t even realized it was sexual until he groaned into you, until he nosed at your skin.

But now? It was part of life. Like brushing your teeth. Like making tea. Like watching TV with him draped all over you, his mouth pressed lazily against the dip of your cleavage while his hands idly stroked your waist.

Mystery had found his favorite place in the world, and it just happened to be buried between your tits.

The first time you realized how casual it had become was one morning on the couch. You were curled up under a blanket with him sprawled over you, his arms banded tight around your middle, his weight crushing but somehow comforting. His hair fell into your face as he pushed himself lower, adjusting. And then, without warning, he shoved his face directly into your chest.

“Mystery!” you squeaked, tugging at his hair, embarrassed even though no one else was around.

He groaned in response. A deep, guttural sound that vibrated against your skin. His lips pressed into the valley between your breasts, and then he stayed there.

Completely unmoving.

You sighed, brushing your fingers through his hair. Letting him. He hummed against you, content. And that was the end of the argument.

After that, it became routine. Lying down? Face between your tits. Sitting up? He’d tug at your shirt until you let him burrow there. Standing in the kitchen cooking? He’d walk up behind you, wrap his arms around your waist, and shove his head into your chest while you tried to stir something on the stove. The sheer neediness of it made you laugh sometimes. It was almost like he couldn’t breathe unless he was pressed against you.

You’d begun to notice, too, how much calmer he was afterward. He’d get restless sometimes, pacing or growling at nothing, his demon markings glowing faintly. But if you sat down and let him nuzzle his way into your cleavage, he went quiet. Relaxed. Almost human. It was… cute. Really cute.

Of course, the problem was that Mystery didn’t always care about timing. Like the afternoon you were sitting in the living room with Jinu and Abby. You’d been perched on the couch between them, a rare moment where the two were mostly civil, talking about some chore or other. Mystery had been leaning on the armrest beside you, quiet as ever, head down like he wasn’t paying attention. And then out of nowhere he lunged forward.

“Mystery!” you yelped, nearly dropping your drink as his face buried itself squarely between your tits. He didn’t even hesitate, just pressed himself there, humming deep in his chest.

Jinu blinked once. Then twice. Then sighed heavily, running a hand over his face.

Abby, on the other hand, grinned so wide it looked painful. “Bro. BRO. That’s—goddamn, that’s game right there. Look at him, Y/N! Man knows what he wants!”

You shoved Mystery’s head away, cheeks burning. He resisted, groaning, clinging to you. Finally, you managed to push him back far enough to glare at him. “That is NOT appropriate when other people are here!” you whisper-shouted.

Mystery froze. Then, slowly, he went back to his original position, folding his arms. He even kicked his leg once, a soft thump against the couch, before turning his face away with the most obvious fake pout you’d ever seen.

Abby clapped his hands together, delighted. “Dude’s just showing love, babe. Don’t blue-ball the poor guy.”

You shot him a glare sharp enough to cut stone. “You stay out of this.”

“Hey, hey, I’m just saying.” Abby said, holding his hands up in mock innocence. “If my boy here wants a little snuggle time with your—uh—assets, who am I to stop true love?”

Jinu groaned loudly from the other side of you. “Abby, shut the fuck up.”

But Abby only leaned closer to you, lowering his voice. “Seriously, though, babe. You ever see a sadder face than that? You’re killing him. C’mon. Let him back in.”

Jinu muttered something under his breath about “absolute idiots” and got up to leave.

Mystery peeked at you from behind his curtain of hair, lips pulled in the most pitiful frown you’d ever seen. Then, when you didn’t immediately cave, he exaggerated it, pouting even harder, his glowing eyes dimming like he wanted to sell the performance.

You covered your face with your hands. Abby’s laughter boomed through the room, Mystery kicked the couch again in fake protest, and some insult from Jinu carried from the hall.

But the truth was, you did let him back in. Later, when it was just the two of you, curled up in his bed. Mystery nudged your shirt higher, tugged insistently, and you sighed, exasperated but smiling. “Fine. You win.”

The way his entire body relaxed as he buried his face between your tits again made your heart ache a little. He hummed, low and deep, and his arms pulled you tight like he’d die if you ever pulled away. You stroked his hair, soft, affectionate.

It wasn’t just something dirty. Not really. Sure, he got turned on, his cock hard against your thigh more often than not when he did it. But it was more than that. It was safety. Comfort. And in a way, it was for you too. The more you let him, the less shy you felt. The more normal it became. His mouth on your chest, his hands holding you there, it wasn’t scary anymore. It was warm. Loving. Even if Abby never let you live it down.

Another week into this, let’s say exploration, you were lying on Mystery’s bed, his weight half on top of you, his mouth still damp from kissing every inch of your chest. His shirt was already off, he rarely kept it on anyway, and your top was pushed down just enough to leave your breasts bare. You’d gotten used to this by now, his mouth sucking at you, his nose buried in your cleavage, his glowing markings flaring against your skin. You’d even gotten used to how hard he always got when he did it. You felt him grind into your thigh every time, his cock straining against his pants.

But this time was different. Because when he pulled back with a guttural little groan, eyes shining like a beast’s, his hands fumbled with his waistband. And before you could ask what he was doing, he freed himself.

You froze. It was the first cock you’d ever seen in your life. Thick, heavy, flushed dark at the tip, veins visible even in the low light. And god, he was so hard it twitched the second the air hit it.

“Mystery…” you whispered, wide-eyed.

He didn’t answer, of course. Just growled low in his throat, his mouth wet, his breath ragged. He pressed himself closer, and suddenly his length slid between the soft swell of your tits.

Your breath caught.

His cock was right there, nestled between your breasts, hot and throbbing. His hips rolled forward, dragging the thick head against your chest, up toward your throat.

You blinked down at it, curious despite yourself. You tilted your head a little, watching how it fit there, how it pulsed when Mystery thrusted his hips forward.

“Oh…” you murmured softly. Not disgusted. Not horrified. Just… fascinated.

Mystery’s head dropped back, hair falling from his face, his lips parting. He made a sound. You’d never heard anything like it.

You reached up automatically, your hands pressing your breasts together around him without really thinking. His cock sank deeper into the valley of your cleavage, the slick head smearing precum up against your collarbone.

Mystery shuddered. His hands clenched into the sheets beside your head. He thrust again, harder this time, and the sight of it, his length sliding between your tits, the raw want on his face, made your heart pound.

You looked down again, studying the way his cock moved. You even tilted your head a little closer, inspecting, your lips parting. Your curiosity was ridiculous. So sweet. You reached one hand up, hesitantly, brushing your fingertips along the side of him as he thrust through your tits. He bucked immediately, the vein along his shaft pulsing under your touch.

“Oh.” you said, soft. “You like that?”

Mystery whined, hips stuttering as if he was begging for more. His glowing markings pulsed, his chest heaving.

You smiled faintly, sweet, innocent, curious, before doing it again. Stroking lightly as he moved. Then pressing your tits tighter around him, letting him fuck through the heat of your skin.

His sounds got louder. Moans spilling from him, sharp breaths catching in his throat, little broken growls as he lost control.

You’d never kissed a boy before Mystery. Never even held hands properly. And now here you were, breasts wrapped around his cock, watching him fall apart. And the strangest thing? You weren’t scared. You weren’t shy. You were curious.

You pressed your tits tighter, moved them a little, helping him slide faster through the soft squeeze of your skin. He threw his head forward, so out of this world. It was intoxicating, seeing him like this. The strongest, most feral boy you knew, reduced to raw need in your hands. And it was new for you too. You felt the heat pooling low in your stomach, arousal curling through you. Watching him, hearing him, it made something ache inside you. Something new.

With a guttural moan, he thrust hard, once, twice, and then he was spilling over your chest. Hot, wet, thick ropes of cum painting your skin, smearing over your breasts, your throat, your lips. He groaned loud and long, his hips jerking as he emptied himself all over you. His cock pulsed between your tits, twitching with each spurt. His teeth sank into his own lips as he rode it out, his cock jerking between your tits, his hands trembling.

So this was sex. Not what you expected. Not romantic. Not sweet. But raw. Intimate. Real. And Mystery looked so beautiful, panting against you, glowing faintly in the dark.

You watched him climb down again, and you smiled, letting your tits go to wipe his cum off. “I didn’t think my boobs could do that.”

He whined softly, nuzzling into you.

Your body had changed. Not in the obvious ways, but in how you felt about it. Before, you were hesitant, shy about undressing even in front of Mystery. You didn’t like being looked at too long, didn’t like the idea of someone else touching you in ways you hadn’t even touched yourself. But the more time you spent with him, the more he pressed his mouth to your skin, buried his face in your chest, held you like you were his whole world, the more you softened.

So slowly, day by day, you began to feel… proud. When his hands ran over your hips, you didn’t shy away. You leaned into them. When his eyes darted over your thighs, you didn’t cover up. You spread them just a little wider. When he licked into your chest, biting at your breasts like he couldn’t get enough, you laughed, stroking his hair, no longer embarrassed.

And maybe you didn’t realize it, but you were getting ready. Ready for him to want more. Ready to let him.

It was a lazy afternoon when it happened. You were sprawled on your stomach across your bed, scrolling your phone absently, thumbs moving in little motions as you texted back and forth with someone. You heard him before you saw him, his quiet steps, the door creaking softly as he entered.

“Hey, baby.” you said sweetly, not looking up from your phone. “How was your day?”

Mystery grunted. “Fine.” Typical Mystery answer. You smiled faintly to yourself, used to his minimal words.

And then, out of nowhere, the bed dipped hard as he crawled up behind you. You turned your head, expecting him to nuzzle into your shoulder, maybe press his face into your hair.

Instead, he buried his face in your ass.

“Wha—baby!” you squeaked, jerking in surprise.

But he didn’t move. No, he pushed closer. His hands gripped your hips tightly, his growl vibrating through the fabric of your pants as he shoved his face harder into the curve of your ass. His fingers tugged hard at the waistband of your pants, impatient, his breath hot through the cotton.

“Oh my god.” you whispered, realization dawning. “You want—”

He yanked again. Whined.

It clicked. Clear as day.

He wanted to go down on you.

Your face heated instantly, embarrassment flooding you, but underneath it, something else. Anticipation. Because honestly? You’d expected this sooner or later. Mystery’s mouth had already made its way over every other part of your body. Your chest. Your neck. Your thighs. He was insatiable, obsessed with tasting you, marking you, biting until you whimpered. So yeah. Of course this was coming. You’d even prepared for it, in your own innocent way. Exfoliating, shaving carefully, wondering if he’d notice. Wondering if he’d care. And now here he was.

He pulled at your pants again, this time shoving them down enough to bare the curve of your ass.

You sucked in a breath. And then his mouth was on your ass, hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses against your bare skin. His teeth scraped lightly over the swell of your ass, his nose nudging you deeper, closer.

You dropped your phone completely, hands gripping the sheets. “Oh my god—Mystery…”

His growls deepened. He mouthed at your ass greedily, biting, sucking, nipping marks into the soft flesh. Every sound he made was feral, needy, like he couldn’t hold back anymore.

And then, you felt the careful tug of fabric lower. The way he spread you just enough. The brush of his breath over your pussy.

“M-Mystery…”

He whined again, louder this time, a pleading sound as his tongue darted out. Just a tease at first. Just a taste.

And then he dived in. His tongue pushed against you, licking through your folds like he was starving, growling into your pussy like it was the best meal of his life.

Your back arched automatically, a shocked moan spilling from you. You’d never, never in your life, felt something like this. It was too much, too sudden, too good.

You whimpered, hands clawing at the sheets. “Mystery—”

But he wasn’t stopping. His tongue fucked into you, his chin grinding against your clit, his moans vibrating through your core. Every movement was sloppy, desperate, wet. He licked you like he wanted to drink you, groaning every time you gasped, whining when you tried to squirm away.

Your thighs trembled. Your breath came in frantic little pants. “It’s—it’s too much—”

Mystery growled, pinning your hips down harder, refusing to let you go. And god, you didn’t really want him to. This was new. This was raw. This was sex. And it was so fucking good.

You whimpered again, face pressed into the pillow. “Mystery, I—I can’t—”

But your body betrayed you. Your hips bucked into his mouth, grinding against his tongue, chasing the pleasure even as your mind struggled to process it. He moaned into you, the sound sending vibrations straight through your clit. His tongue pushed deeper, his fangs scraping your flesh, his whole body trembling with the effort of holding himself back.

And when he sucked on your clit, you came, ripping a strangled cry from your throat as you clenched around his tongue. Your whole body shook, thighs squeezing tight around his head, toes curling into the sheets.

Mystery growled low and satisfied, drinking down every drop, his tongue still lapping at you even as you whimpered from the overstimulation.

You collapsed forward, face buried in your arms, panting hard. “Mystery.” you whispered, dazed. “Oh my god…”

He finally pulled back, his face slick, his hair matted to his cheeks. His markings glowed bright, his lips swollen, his chest heaving. And then he did it again, buried his face in your ass with a soft whine, nuzzling. Oh, fuck.

The thing about you and Mystery was that you were always close. Physically close. Inseparable. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d been in bed without him crawling in behind you, his chest pressed to your back, his arms wrapped tight around your waist like he’d die if he let go.

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d sat on the couch without him draped over you, head in your lap, hair spilling everywhere while you stroked it absentmindedly. Even when you cooked, he was there, pressed against your back, his face buried in your neck, his growl rumbling low every time you tried to move away. Even when you were brushing your teeth, he’d crowd into the bathroom, leaning against you, brushing his fangs against your shoulder, unwilling to keep his distance. It was animal, the way he clung to you. But you didn’t mind. You never did. You loved it.

And when things got more intimate, when his mouth was between your legs, when his hands were tugging at your clothes, when his hips were grinding against you, it was the same. No distance. No space. Always tangled, messy, close.

So it made sense that your first time happened like that too. It was late. The house was quiet, the other boys somewhere else, and you were in your bed with Mystery. You’d fallen asleep on his chest, his arms locked around you, your legs tangled. You woke up like that, too, except his mouth was on your neck, sucking hard, his hips grinding against your thighs.

“Babe.” you whispered, groggy. “What are you…?”

He growled, low and desperate. And then you felt it. Hard. Pressed against you. Your body went warm instantly, a rush of heat shooting through you. You swallowed hard, unsure. Nervous. But not scared. Never scared of him.

He nipped your neck, tugging at your shirt, whining softly as if begging.

You blushed hard, your fingers clumsy as you touched his hair. “You… want to?”

He froze. For a second, he stilled completely, his glowing markings dimming slightly, like he couldn’t believe you’d said it. And then he nodded, fast. Almost frantic.

You took a shaky breath. You were so inexperienced. So innocent. You didn’t know what to do. But you knew you loved him. And if this was what he wanted, if this was what you could give him…

“Okay.” you whispered.

His growl deepened, his hands moving instantly to tug your clothes off. Not rough, but not patient either, messy, needy, desperate. You giggled nervously, trying to help, your own fingers fumbling as you stripped down with him.

The nerves melted when he kissed you. When his tongue slid into your mouth, slow and wet, his fangs grazing your lips, his growl vibrating against your chest. When his hand cupped your breast, squeezing gently, his thumb brushing your nipple until you gasped. You melted against him.

It wasn’t like porn. It wasn’t like the dirty jokes you’d overheard. It was messy. Tangled. Real. Your legs were wrapped around his waist, your back pressed into the sheets, his hair falling around you as he pressed himself against your entrance. He was heavy on top of you, hot and trembling, his glowing markings bright against the dark.

He looked up at you with a questioning sound, and you nodded quickly, your hands on his shoulders. “Yeah. I’m ready.”

He pushed in slowly.

Your gasp was instant, sharp. The stretch burned, foreign and overwhelming, your nails digging into his skin as you tried to adjust. He froze immediately. Growled low, holding completely still. His hair hid his eyes, but you knew he was staring at you, waiting.

You panted softly, trying to breathe, forcing your body to relax. You stroked his back, whispered sweetly, “It’s okay. Just… slow.”

And he listened. He always listened to you. He moved carefully, inch by inch, growling low in his throat as he pressed deeper. You whimpered, clinging to him, overwhelmed by the fullness, the heat. But there was no fear. Only nerves. Only newness. And then, he bottomed out.

You gasped again, burying your face in his neck. “Oh my god.”

He shuddered, his growl vibrating against your skin, his whole body trembling as if it was taking everything in him not to move.

You kissed his shoulder softly. “It’s okay. You can.”

And then he did. Slow at first. Rocking into you, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in, his tongue dragging against your throat, his breath hot and ragged.

You moaned quietly, the pain melting into heat, into pleasure. The stretch began to feel good. So good.

And his sounds, god, his sounds. Every moan. Every grunt. Every whine. They spilled out of him uncontrollably, his growls mixing with the wet sound of your bodies meeting, his voice raw and desperate.

You held him tighter, kissing him sloppily, letting him guide you through it. You didn’t know what to do, you were too inexperienced, but you trusted him. You let him lead. And he did. Patiently. Carefully. Passionately.

It was messy. The sheets were twisted, your bodies slick with sweat, your moans muffled by each other’s mouths. He fucked into you like he couldn’t help himself, but always slowed when you whimpered too much, always kissed you sweetly when you clung tighter. And when you came, you cried out, gasping, clinging to him desperately as your body convulsed around his cock. Your mind blanked out, your vision went white, the sensation flooding you completely.

Mystery growled so loud it shook your chest. His hips stuttered, his teeth sank into your shoulder, and then he pulled out, jerking himself two or three times before shooting cum all over your stomach.

You stayed wrapped together like that, tangled and sweaty, panting into each other’s mouths. And when it was over, when the aftershocks faded, when he collapsed against you, you kissed him.

Your first time. Messy, intimate, inseparable. Just like the two of you always were.

He’d always been clingy. Always on you, always grinding, always whining. But after that night? After you let him inside you for the first time, trusted him, gave him the part of you that no one else had ever touched? He was insatiable. He wanted you more. All the time. Every day, every hour, any moment he could get his hands on you.

It wasn’t just about sex. It was about intimacy. About that feral closeness that defined the two of you. Except now, instead of just pressing his face into your neck or whining for cuddles, he pressed his cock between your thighs and begged with his body. Instead of growling into your hair while you cooked, he bent you over the counter and made you whimper into the cutting board.

At first, it was just the same position, cuddled together, tangled, him on top, your legs around his waist, because it was familiar, safe, the easiest way to feel close. He was patient, careful, guiding you every time, his growls low and sweet while you clung to him. But you learned quickly. And so did he.

But then once you’d been kissing on your bed, messy and sloppy, his tongue all over you, his hands under your shirt. He tugged you down until you were lying on your stomach, his body blanketing yours, his cock stroking against your ass.

You laughed nervously, turning your head to look at him. “Mystery…?”

He growled low in your ear, teeth grazing your skin. And then, after pulling your panties down, he pushed your hips up and slid into you from behind.

You gasped, burying your face in the pillow. “Oh my god.”

The angle was so different, deeper, filling you in a way you hadn’t felt before. His growls were louder, rougher, his hips snapping harder than usual as his claws dug into your waist. You moaned, shocked at how good it felt, how raw it was.

After that, he wanted you like that constantly. On your hands and knees, face pressed into the mattress, his hair falling over your back as he pounded into you. He’d whine against your spine, his tongue dragging over your skin, his fangs nipping hard every time you clenched around him.

You started to like it. You started to crave the way he stretched you, the way his growls shook your bones, the way his glowing markings lit up your room while he fucked you like he’d never stop.

But that wasn’t the only thing that changed. He started experimenting. Once, while you were riding him, your first time on top, nervous and shaky but determined, he grabbed your hips and bounced you harder, whining so loudly you thought he’d lose his voice. His head was tilted back, hair falling away from his face just enough for you to see his glowing eyes roll back.

It drove you crazy.

You leaned forward, pressed your lips to his throat, and suddenly he flipped you over, fucking up into you so hard the headboard cracked against the wall. You’d never heard yourself moan like that before.

Another time, he sat you on the counter while you were trying to cook. You’d been slicing something, humming softly, and he just appeared, pressed his face into your neck, growled low, and pulled your shorts down. He pushed into you in one thrust, making the knife clatter onto the counter.

But it wasn’t just positions. It wasn’t just where or how. It was him. The more you gave him, the less he held back. He bit more. Harder. His glowing markings glowed brighter when he was inside you, pulsing with every thrust. Sometimes he whined like he was in pain, desperate, his claws ripping into the sheets as he tried not to hurt you.

And sometimes, sometimes he couldn’t hold back at all. Like the night he tied your wrists with his belt, growling low as he kept you pinned while he fucked you mercilessly. You’d never been so overstimulated, so lost in pleasure, your cries muffled against the pillow while his growls echoed in your ears.

Or the time he wouldn’t let you leave bed all day. He woke you up with his mouth between your thighs, growling low every time you moaned, and didn’t stop touching you until the sun was setting. He wanted you over and over, his stamina ridiculous, his hunger endless.

At first, you were shy. Nervous. Unsure. But he guided you, showed you what felt good, praised you in his own way with growls and whines every time you did something right. You learned how to move your hips. How to squeeze around him just right. How to tug his hair, scratch his back, bite his shoulder until he lost his mind. You learned how to take him deeper, how to ride him slower, how to whisper his name in a way that made him shudder.

And you started to love it.

The way he looked at you when you were on top, his eyes glowing, his mouth open, his chest heaving. The way he sounded when you clenched around him, the raw, guttural moans that shook his body. The way he held you afterward, wrapping you up so tight you could barely breathe, kissing your neck like you were the only thing keeping him alive.

It wasn’t just sex. It was more. Every new position, every experiment, every messy, desperate night, it all came back to the same thing.

Closeness.

Then, your period came, and you were a little shy, even guilty, curling up in bed and keeping distance because surely Mystery wouldn’t want you like that. But you forgot. He wasn’t human.

The first night, when you were curled up with cramps, his nose twitched. He growled low in his chest and pressed closer, inhaling against your stomach like he was starving.

“Mystery…” you whispered, cheeks heating up. “Don’t. It’s gross.”

But he didn’t care. He whined, desperate, pushing your thighs apart like you’d locked away something he needed. His glowing marks flickered hot against his skin, and before you could really stop him, his mouth was on you.

At first you tried to shove him off, embarrassed, mortified. But then his tongue moved. The heat of him, the desperation, the way he groaned into you like he’d been waiting centuries for this taste, you melted.

He pulled back once, his mouth and chin red, his fangs gleaming in the dim light. His hair fell over his eyes, his chest rising and falling hard, and he smirked, feral, unashamed. Then his head dropped again, burying himself between your thighs like a beast feasting.

After that, period sex wasn’t just “allowed.” It was expected. He craved it. Every time, he whined louder, bit harder, fucked you with his fingers while he swallowed every drop like it was sacred.

And you learned to stop hiding. You let him, because his hunger didn’t disgust you anymore. It made you feel wanted. Needed.

But it didn’t stop with blood. The more comfortable you got, the wilder he became. He marked you constantly. His fangs left bruises down your neck, your breasts, your thighs. You’d wear a sweater to cover them and he’d growl at the fabric, rip it away just so he could sink his teeth again. He wanted the world to see you belonged to him, even if no one else could.

Sometimes he’d lick the blood from the small cuts his claws left by accident, moaning. And sometimes, sometimes he’d push it further. There was a night where he dragged you to the shower, shoved you under the water, and bit into your shoulder until it bled just so he could lap it up while the water ran pink around you. You cried out, not from pain but from the sheer intensity of it, your nails scratching down his back while he groaned against your skin.

It scared you at first. How far he’d go. How hungry he was. But he never hurt you beyond what you allowed. He pushed, yes, he was wild, feral, insatiable, but he watched you, always. If your breath hitched wrong, if you said “stop” he stopped. If you trembled too hard, he pulled back and kissed you soft, whining low, as if apologizing.

And the things he wanted… god, they were insane. He loved overstimulating you, holding you down, rutting into you until you sobbed from too many orgasms, your body shaking under his. He’d lick up your tears, growling in satisfaction, whispering your name over and over in that hoarse, broken voice.

He loved stuffing his face into your ass, moaning as if the weight of you smothering him was a gift. Sometimes he’d hump the bed while he buried his tongue inside you, whining desperately because eating you out was enough to get him off.

And he loved watching you come apart. He loved when your innocent sweetness cracked under the weight of his hunger, when you gasped out curse words you never used before, when you grabbed his hair and begged.

It made him worse.

He’d laugh, dark and low, and give you more.

But the most sickening thing, the thing that would’ve terrified you if it weren’t him, was how much he worshipped your mess. Your sweat, your blood, your tears, your spit, when you squirted, he craved it all. He licked sweat from your skin, kissed your tear-streaked cheeks, made you spit in his mouth and swallowed with a guttural moan.

You’d never imagined anything like it. Never imagined someone could love even the ugliest parts of you, the raw, unfiltered, disgusting parts. But Mystery did. Mystery lived for it.

And through it all, you stayed sweet. You didn’t turn into some cruel partner to match his feral hunger. You didn’t play games or manipulate. You were still you, soft, gentle, affectionate. You kissed his forehead after he ruined your thighs. You held him after he left you shaking, petting his hair until he whined softly and went still. You smiled at him. You called him “baby.” You told him you loved him. And it destroyed him, because he was a monster and you were an angel, and somehow you wanted him anyway.

And he might’ve been the dirtiest dog alive, a feral beast who worshipped every fluid your body produced, but he was also the boy who curled around you every night, who whined softly when you left the bed, who pressed his face into your chest and sighed like he could finally breathe.

You were still innocent, still sweet. But you weren’t blind anymore. You knew what he wanted. You knew how sick he was. And you let him have it, because you loved him.

You look at Mystery.

He looks at you.

Silence.

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

“Do it.”

“Do it.”

“DO IT.”

Mystery moves. Sharp, fast, inhuman.

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

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

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

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

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

Your grin spreads wide, wild. Fuck yes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t pounce. Not yet. He waits.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For a second, neither of you move.

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

He tilts his head. Just a fraction.

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

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

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

This is trust.

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

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

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

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

You trust that he won’t lose control.

He trusts that you’ll keep running.

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

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

Not a kiss, not yet.

The room goes silent.

Your breaths are tangled, shared.

The next second is a drop.

Your faces tilt the tiniest fraction.

And then, you’re kissing him.

You and Mystery are kissing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wish you couldn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

God.

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

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

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

But he’s happy. He’s so happy.

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

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

And now the silence isn’t enough anymore.

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

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

So he says nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He loves you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t answer.

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

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

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

He freezes.

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not much. It’s all he’s got.

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

The words feel ridiculous, but he means them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Romance nods, calm. “Mhm.”

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

The room stops for half a heartbeat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I said it’s small.”

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

You can’t believe this is happening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Romance licks his lips. “Maybe I do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Baby snorts. “Don’t touch me.”

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

“That’s ‘cause you’re weak.”

“Am I?” Romance leans in.

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

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

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

“Just you, baby boy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Baby raises one eyebrow. “Let ‘em.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shake your head. “No thanks.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You press your eyes shut.

God, what have you done?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Minutes stretch. You don’t know how many. The room grows warmer, hazy with smoke. Your heartbeat, slowly, painfully, begins to match the steady rhythm of Romance’s breathing. You let your head fall against his shoulder, too tired to fight it. Baby’s knee nudges lightly against your leg, almost accidental. He doesn’t pull away. Your eyelids grow heavy. Romance keeps stroking your hair. Baby stays close, silent as ever. No one says a fucking word. They don’t want to wake you. They’re happy that you’re asleep.

Romance watches you. He always does. Eyes half-lidded, still shirtless, he studies the slow rise and fall of your breathing. It calms him.

Four months. That’s all it took to soften his little heart up. Three hundred years of running scams, breaking hearts, and killing when it suited him. He’s done things that would make you faint. He’s good at it, too. Was good at it. And then you showed up. It’s fucking ridiculous.

Across the bed, Baby leans against the headboard, arms folded, pretending to be asleep. He isn’t. His eyes keep opening and finding you, catching every twitch of your dream-heavy breathing.

He’s a horrible fucking man. And here you are, fragile as fuck, sleeping inches away, and he feels… protective. Addicted, maybe. It pisses him off, how much he gives a fuck.

Mystery walks the streets like a caged animal. He can still taste the kiss you shared earlier, and it’s driving him insane. Abby sits on the couch, watching something he always sees you watch. It’s not that interesting to him, but sure. If you’re into it, then he’ll watch. Jinu is in his room, in that fuckass robe and on that fuckass laptop.

They’re all monsters. No sense pretending otherwise. Hurt people hurt people. I’ll repeat it a hundred more times if that’s what it takes. They’ve stolen, lied, destroyed, killed. They’ve been weapons and victims, devils and martyrs. And for three or four hundred years, that was the only way to survive.

Then you. So breakable it terrifies them. A human who could die from something as simple as a bad fall, yet somehow you’ve become the best part of their days. Why they want to go home as soon as possible every time. It infuriates them. It redeems them. It’s everything they were certain they could never have.

Romance runs a thumb lightly over the back of your hand, careful not to wake you. He remembers every battle, every scream, every body he left behind. He should feel nothing. He’s spent centuries perfecting that skill. But now, watching you breathe, knowing he hurt you too, knowing you’re nice to him now, knowing you exist, he feels too much.

Baby finally exhales, a soft curse under his breath. He hates that he cares, hates that the thought of anyone hurting you makes something dark and ancient stir in his chest. Because they are dark. They’re not heroes. They’re the kind of creatures that stories warn children about. If you knew the whole truth, every bloody page of it, you’d run. You should run. But you don’t. You sleep between them, unguarded, trusting them with a kind of innocence they don’t deserve. That trust is a blade and a blessing. It cuts through centuries of rot. It makes them want to be better. It makes them terrified of failing you. Knowing they already hurt you enough, not even completely understanding how could they earn your trust like this after that. They don’t deserve you. Not a damn bit.

At some point even demons give in to exhaustion. Romance drifts off first, head tipped toward you, breath warm against your shoulder. Baby follows much later, still half-propped on the headboard.

You try to stay asleep. Your body has other plans. A nightmare catches you by the throat, shards of the kiss, Mystery’s eyes in the dark, the taste of wanting what you shouldn’t. You wake up, heart hammering like when you were chased, the weight in your stomach heavy, and before you can second-guess yourself you’re slipping out from between them, feet hitting the cold floor. The bathroom light is harsh when you flick it on. You barely make it to the toilet before you’re throwing up. It’s pure stress, your body’s ugly rebellion against everything you’ve been holding in. The kiss, the want, the guilt, the confusion, it’s all too much, too heavy to stay inside.

You lean against the cool porcelain, eyes squeezed shut. Your throat burns.

Behind you, soft footsteps.

“Hey… hey, angel.”

Romance kneels beside you. He simply gathers your hair back with gentle fingers. His other hand rubs slow circles between your shoulder blades.

“It’s okay, sweetheart.” he murmurs, close enough for you to feel the vibration of his voice. “Let it out. Just breathe. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

You gag again, the sour taste making you gag even more. Tears sting your eyes. You don’t bother answering, there’s nothing to say.

Baby lingers in the doorway, arms folded, worried. He knows you’re fine physically, it’s not that. It’s just… been a while since he cared for anyone’s mental health who’s not him.

Romance keeps up the quiet murmur. “Easy, love. Just a shitty night, that’s all. Happens to the best of us. Breathe. You’re okay.”

When the worst of it passes, you slump against the wall, shaking. Romance grabs a towel from the rack, dampens a corner, and presses it gently to your forehead, his other hand grabbing toilet paper to wipe at your mouth with.

You miss him.

Mystery.

Even now, even after this, you miss him. You hate that you do.

Romance seems to read something in your face but doesn’t press. He just keeps stroking your back, voice low. “It’s alright. Bodies do weird shit when the mind’s overloaded. You’ll be okay, promise.”

Baby finally speaks, a single rough word: “Water?”

You nod weakly, and he’s gone, quiet.

Romance tilts your chin up, searching your eyes. “Breathe with me.” he says, slow and sure. “In. Out. Just like that. You’re not alone, okay? Not for a second.”

You breathe. You try, anyway. You feel disgusting, and you can only sob, but no tears come with it.

Baby returns with a glass of water and sets it within reach. He doesn’t hand it to you, just places it there and meets your gaze with a look that says drink when you can.

You reach for it, Romance steadying your hands when he sees them tremble while holding the glass.

And then you start crying again.

Romance lowers himself beside you. Bare skin against the cold wall, still shirtless, not giving a single fuck. He pulls you against his chest. His arm slides around your shoulders, solid and warm. He doesn’t flinch when your damp face presses against his collarbone, doesn’t shift when your sobs shake both of you. If he notices the sour traces of vomit on your breath, he gives no sign. Nothing’s disgusting to him anymore. Genuinely. He’s been through almost everything and that almost everything included lot of fluids in it. A little human misery doesn’t even register.

Baby lingers at the doorway, skinny arms crossed. Romance says nothing. He just holds you tighter when another sob comes up, his hand rubbing small circles on your skin. They don’t ask what’s wrong. They want to. God, they hate not knowing. Romance especially. Baby’s jaw tightens, he’s never been good with helplessness. Both of them are used to action, to fixing problems with muscle and violence. Watching you cry this hopelessly all of a sudden and not being able to do a damn thing about it is torture.

The minutes blur. Your breathing hiccups and catches. Sometimes you sip from the water glass. Both of them stay.

You push yourself upright, legs unsteady. Romance follows immediately, ready if you sway. Baby steps back to give you space, his eyes tracking every movement. The bathroom mirror shows a face you barely recognize, eyes swollen, cheeks blotchy, skin pale and damp. You turn on the tap and reach for your toothbrush.

Romance leans a hip against the counter, still close enough to catch you if you falter. “Want me to grab you a clean towel?” he asks, voice low, casual.

You shake your head and brush your little teeth.

Romance stays beside you, rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades as you brush. After a while he tilts his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You planning to sandpaper your enamel off? That’s, what—five solid minutes now?”

You spit and keep brushing. Your voice is muffled when you finally answer. “Can’t you smell everything? Like…extra good?”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Sure. Why?”

You rinse the brush, eyes fixed on the sink. “I don’t want you to feel…disgusted.”

For a beat he’s quiet. Then he lets out a soft huff of laughter, surprised. “Sweetheart, nobody cares.” He slides his palm up to the back of your neck, thumb tracing lazy circles. “Trust me. We’ve all smelled worse. Way worse. Don’t worry.”

You finally meet his eyes in the mirror. There’s no judgment there, just a strange gentleness that disarms you more than any of his flirtations ever could.

From the doorway, Baby grunts agreement. “He’s right. Don’t matter.”

Romance nods toward the sink, still rubbing your back. You spit one last time and set the toothbrush down, the minty taste all over your mouth. You turn away from the sink, and Romance stays close, shoulder brushing yours as if you might topple any second.

“Stay.” you tell them, waving a weak hand. “Or, I mean. Um. You don’t have to— it smells like puke in here, you guys can just— go back to bed or whatever. I’ll—”

Romance cuts you off with a gentle, almost amused murmur. “We get it, love.”

The words stop you mid-ramble. We’re here, it’s fine.

You slip past Baby’s skinny shape back to your room and into the hall. The apartment is dim now. Your bare feet make soft sounds against the wood as you move toward the kitchen, mind churning.

Mystery. The thought comes of him. You try to shove it away, but it lingers. You’re supposed to hate him for that kiss. But the image won’t leave, and part of you doesn’t want it to.

Then, halfway down the hall, you pause.

Jinu’s door.

Something pulls you toward it before you can talk yourself out of the impulse. You lift your hand and knock, soft. You ease the door open. The room is nearly black, the faint spill of hallway light catching on the edge of a neatly folded blanket. You blink, eyes adjusting.

A shape moves, and then Jinu raises his head from the pillow. The faint glow catches the outline of his face, half-hidden but unmistakable. Even half-asleep he’s beautiful.

“Jinu I threw up.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then a short, breathy laugh, barely more than a huff of air. Not mocking, just… warm.

“Come here.” he says, voice rough with sleep but gentle all the same.

You close the door and cross the room to sink onto the edge of the mattress, the sheets cool under your palms. Jinu shifts to sit up, the movement unhurried, eyes finding yours in the dark.

“You okay?” he asks softly. “What happened?”

You breathe in, and try to find words, then draw your knees up, fingers knotting together. “I’m just… stressed.” you finally manage.

His head tilts slightly. “Stressed about what?”

“Doesn’t matter.” you say too quickly. You can’t tell him about the kiss, about Mystery, about the way your brain keeps replaying it. You can barely admit it to yourself.

Jinu doesn’t push. He simply leans back against the headboard. “Alright.” he says after a beat, soft. “Doesn’t matter.”

You shift, and the faint scent of smoke and sweat drifts up from your clothes. Romance’s cologne. Baby’s cigarette. Their presence clings to you. Jinu’s nostrils flare almost imperceptibly. Of course he notices. He could probably track every molecule.

Something in this cuts deeper, has more history. It’s the same reason you’d called for him that night when you’d sliced your arm open at the front door. Different night, different pain, but the instinct is identical: you want Jinu.

You hated yourself a little for that back then, and you hate yourself for it now. These men, these demons, are not harmless. They have hurt people, frightened people. They have frightened you, hurt you and laughed about it. And yet here you are again, sitting on his bed in the middle of the night because some part of you believes he’s the one who will keep you safe. It’s sweet. And it’s fucked up.

You stare at the darkness beyond his shoulder, trying to make sense of it. “You ever feel… like your brain’s too full? Like it’s just… noise, all the time?”

“Every day.” he answers without hesitation. “Four hundred years of it.”

It’s actually a huge deal that he tells you that. This takes a lot of Jinu’s trust. And you have it. The weight of that settles between you. Four centuries. You can barely imagine it.

“I don’t know how you stand it.” you whisper.

“I don’t.” he says. “I just keep moving.”

You draw a shaky breath. The mint on your tongue is fading. “I feel sick.” you admit. “Not from the throwing up. Just… everything.”

Jinu’s gaze softens. He just nods, the small motion somehow more comforting than a thousand empty reassurances.

“I hate that I keep ending up here.” you blurt before you can stop yourself. “With you.”

His head tilts again, a subtle question.

“I mean… when it’s bad.” you clarify. “I don’t even think. I just… find you. Or you find me. Like—like my body decides before my brain does.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, half a smile, half a wince. “Instinct.” he says quietly.

“Yeah.” you breathe.

It’s too dark to read his expression fully, but something in the silence that follows feels heavy.

You think about the night with the knife, the way he’d appeared in seconds, unflinching at the blood streaking your arm. The same steadiness now, even with the bitter smell of vomit still clinging to you. He never seems to mind. Maybe he can’t. Maybe it’s just his love for you being strong enough to ignore things like this. Maybe after centuries of violence, nothing a human does could ever seem dirty or small.

Sweet, and cruel all at once. Because they, all of them, have left scars you can’t name. Their lives have been nothing but survival and hurt, and you keep walking straight back into that hurt.

You wrap your arms around your knees and rest your chin there, staring at the shadowed floor. “Thanks for not… asking too much.” you murmur.

“You’ll tell me what matters when it matters.” he hums.

Meanwhile, Abby pushes your door open with his shoulder, the faint squeak of the hinge announcing him before the smell of whatever protein sludge he’s drinking does. He’s shirtless except for a loose tank, gym shorts hanging low, a glass in hand. A bright pink straw sticks out from it. He takes another unapologetic pull from the straw and makes a satisfied tchk with his tongue, eyes scanning the room. His gaze lands on Romance and Baby, both on the bed. Romance is stretched out, one long leg bent, the other dangling off the side of the mattress. He’s still shirtless, hair a soft mess, cigarette smoke curling faintly in the air from Baby’s direction. Baby sits cross-legged at the far corner, silent as a shadow. His eyes flick toward Abby but don’t bother with a greeting.

Romance tilts his head. “Evening workout?” That’s a joke. It’s the middle of the fucking night, not just a simple evening.

“Always.” Abby answers, and he leans his broad shoulder against the doorframe, muscles standing out in the dim light, and nods toward the bed, taking another noisy sip. “What happened here?”

Romance tilts his pretty head back. “Y/N wasn’t feeling well. She puked. Baby and I handled it.”

Abby raises one brow. “That it?”

“That’s it.” Romance says.

“Hm.” Abby straightens just enough to tap the glass against the doorframe, entertaining himself. “Where’s she now?”

Baby finally speaks, voice rough from smoke and quiet. “Jinu’s.”

Abby doesn’t comment, just takes another slow sip of whatever protein nightmare he’s enjoying somehow. He’s too petty to say anything about it. Fuck Jinu. (He loves Jinu. He’s just mad at him now because they heard when he fed you that bullshit after they chased you.)

For a moment the three of them just breathe the same heavy air. Abby shifts his weight, still leaning on the doorframe, and lets his gaze sweep the room again. He can smell everything. From the toothpaste in your bathroom to Romance’s hair. Finally he straightens, finishing the last of the drink with a loud slurp through the straw. “Alright.” he says. “Wake me if anything’s up.”

Baby gives a curt nod and Romance hums. Abby lingers a moment longer, eyes narrowing as if he might read more. But whatever he sees, he keeps to himself. He pushes off the doorframe. The door eases shut with a soft click, leaving the room in darkness again. The smoke hangs heavy, lit only by the faint red glow at the tip of Baby’s cigarette.

Back in Jinu’s room, you sit with your knees pulled up, staring at the pattern of moonlight on the floor, and finally let out a thin breath. “I should… probably go back. Romance and Baby are waiting.”

Jinu doesn’t move right away. He studies you. A muscle in his jaw shifts. If he’s disappointed, he hides it well, but there’s a gleam in his eyes that’s impossible to miss. Admiration. Admiring you for going back to them because they’re waiting for you.

Finally, he nods once. “Go.” he says, voice pretty. “They’ll want you back.”

You’re already shifting to stand and brush your palms on your thighs, then glance at him. “I’m sorry for waking you.”

Jinu tilts his head, a soft half-smile ghosting across his face. “Don’t be.”

At the doorway you pause and look back. Jinu hasn’t shifted, but his gaze is still fixed on you. You manage a small, nervous smile. “Goodnight, Jinu. Try to get some rest.”

“Goodnight.” he answers, soft.

You ease the door closed behind you, careful with the handle so it doesn’t click too loudly. The apartment is a labyrinth of soft darkness and faint city glow mixed with the warm lights on the walls. Your bare feet make no sound on the wood, but your heartbeat feels loud enough to wake everyone. You start toward the kitchen again, but your mind is elsewhere.

Because somewhere in this apartment, maybe only a few steps away, Mystery is awake. Or asleep. Or waiting. And the thought of seeing him again sends a cold spike down your spine. You don’t know when fear replaced the rush you felt earlier. Maybe it happened the moment his lips touched yours. Maybe it started before, when you asked him to chase you and trusted that he wouldn’t hurt you.

You wanted it, and that truth is the worst part. You wanted it.

The guilt presses harder with every step you take down the hall.

Romance and Baby are waiting for you in your room, warmth, smoke, the safety of them, and yet your thoughts keep dragging back to the shadowed figure who caught you in the dark. The one you can’t face.

Because what if Mystery is standing in the kitchen? What if you turn a corner and find those yellow eyes watching you?

You’re not ready for that. Not ready to see what he might read on your face, or what you might still feel in the tremor of your own heartbeat. Not ready for the truth that you liked the kiss and hate yourself for it. You tell yourself it’s just a hallway. Just a kitchen beyond it. But every shadow feels like it could hold Mystery, waiting. And the thought of meeting him again, that feral, beautiful boy, makes your stomach tighten all over.

Abby is in the kitchen. Big, broad-shouldered Abby, beautiful in the even more beautiful lighting in the kitchen. He’s rinsing an empty glass. He glances over his shoulder the moment you step in, eyebrows lifting. “Hey.” he says. “Heard you threw up. You okay?”

You hover in the archway, arms crossed. “Yeah. I mean—yeah. Just… stressed.”

Abby shuts off the water, flicks a few drops from his hands, and turns fully toward you. “Stress’ll do it.” he says. “Want some water?”

You shake your head, hesitating. “Where’s Mystery?”

Abby shrugs, muscles shifting. “No idea. He’s not home.”

Not home.

The knot of worry that’s been riding your ribs tightens. You don’t even know why the thought hits so hard, guilt, maybe, or the leftover electricity of that kiss. Whatever it is, it leaves you hollow.

Bread, you think. Just a slice of bread. Something simple. Eating will do something about it.

But instead of moving to the breadbox, you step forward and wrap your arms around him.

Abby stills.

It’s a sudden, instinctive hug, your face against the warm solidity of his chest, the smell of detergent and faint sweat around you in an instant. He hadn’t expected this. You can feel it in the way his big frame goes rigid for half a breath. But he doesn’t pull back. Abby exhales slowly, something like a laugh buried in his chest. He slides his arms around you, careful despite the sheer size of his hands, and then, without a word, lifts.

Your feet leave the floor. He settles you sideways against him, your head tucked under his chin, one arm braced beneath you and the other locked across your back.

“Light as a feather.” he mutters, bouncing you once, just enough to make your stomach dip. “You ate today?”

“I… was gonna.” you mumble, voice muffled against his shoulder.

Abby starts a slow sway. “Want me to take you back to the others?”

You shake your head hard, a small, stubborn motion. “No. Food first.” The words come out in a shaky whisper, followed by a hiccup of a sob.

He feels the tremor against him, but he doesn’t tense. “Okay.” he says quickly, no questions. “Alright, baby.”

Still holding you, he walks toward the cabinets. With one arm supporting your weight, he reaches with the other, absurdly effortless, opening doors, scanning shelves. He points with a thick finger at a row of items. “Crackers? No? Cereal? No. Bread?”

At the word you nod, small.

“Bread it is.” he says, then grabs a half-loaf with his free hand and tucks it under his arm like a football, then adjusts his grip on you.

“Got it.” he says, glancing down at you and your little tears. “Back we go.”

He carries you out of the kitchen, the bread secured under one arm and you balanced against his chest. Your cheek rests against the steady rise and fall of his breathing. You can feel the quiet thunder of his heart, fast enough to betray him even as his voice stays calm. He’s so happy that you did this.

It’s ridiculous though. These men, demons, you remind yourself, because that word is the truest one, are the same ones who have cut you open in ways no knife ever could. Let’s not even talk about it when they did it with actual knives. You can still catalog every scar if you try. The nights they tore through your mind with their violence. The way they dragged you around. When they shoved your head into iced water.

They’ve frightened you. Lied to you. Left marks on your body and memories you can’t scrub away. Sometimes with claws. Sometimes with words sharper than claws. You told yourself you would never need them. And now you do. You always do. Pressed to Abby’s chest like this.

It’s the comfort of captors who have also been your only allies. The comfort of the only voices left after everyone else disappeared, after they isolated you so completely that you can’t even name another person you’d call in the middle of the night. I don’t mean the possibility, of course, you can’t call anyone. I mean who you WOULD call. You wouldn’t call the HUNTR/X girls anymore. Not your dad, not your mom. You’d call the Saja boys.

You replay every ugly moment.

Mystery’s claws raking into your skin.

Romance’s games that went too far.

Baby’s cigarettes put out on you.

Abby’s temper.

Even Jinu’s cold manipulations.

Your mind whispers, they hurt you.

Your heart answers, they stayed.

No one else stayed. No one came for you. (How could they, Y/N? Open your eyes.) So now when you panic in the night, you don’t cry for Rumi or Mira or Zoey. You reach for them. The monsters.

Abby’s chest rises and falls under your cheek. You crave it. You crave the very people who taught you what real fear tastes like.

They ruined you.

But they’re all you have.

They made you dependent.

But maybe they never meant to.

Maybe you let them.

Maybe you wanted to.

The logic twists in on itself until you can’t tell which wounds were inflicted and which ones you invited just to feel anything at all. Maybe you clung to them because it was easier than being alone with the silence. Maybe you actually fell in love.

The worst part is how familiar this feels. The way Abby’s heartbeat under your ear reminds you of nights when terror finally ended and exhaustion took its place. When once, back when they were still hurting you, Romance poked your back with something sharp, you don’t even remember what, and you jumped into Baby’s arms. And he held you. The comfort of that, even as the day before that he laughed while pouring iced water in your face.

They are dangerous.

And they are home.

Other people wouldn’t see the months of nightmares. They wouldn’t hear the screams you never voiced. They wouldn’t understand this closeness. You hate it. You hate yourself for needing it, but you also know the truth. There is no one else. You could push Abby away, escape, vanish into the human world. But where would you go? Who would answer at three a.m. when the memories come back sharp enough to choke you? Who would believe the things you’ve seen, the scars you carry, the demons that aren’t metaphor but flesh? (HUNTR/X, Y/N. Please wake up and realize that. They still want you. It’s okay.)

You rest your head against Abby’s shoulder and close your eyes. Part of you wants to fight. Part of you wants to melt into the steadiness and pretend the past never happened. The contradiction is exhausting. The need is humiliating. But for now, you stay where you are. Because no matter how wrong it is, no matter how much you hate yourself for it, these monsters are the only ones left who will carry you through the dark.

Abby’s shoulder nudges your door open with a quiet click. The faint scent of smoke still hangs in the air. Inside, the room is just as you left it, a thin wash of city light spilling through the curtains, the rumpled bed. Romance sits propped against the headboard, bare chest pale in the dark and the light of that little lamp, eyes half-lidded but instantly alert when he sees the two of you. Baby lounges near the window, not smoking anymore.

Abby shifts his grip, giving you a gentle bounce that makes you a little tired. “Look who I found.”

Romance smiles. “Well, there’s our runaway.” he murmurs, voice calming. “Thought you’d vanished.”

Abby steps forward and lowers you to the mattress with surprising care for someone built like a tank. His big hands linger for a heartbeat, steadying you, before he draws back to put your little bread in your little lap.

You kissed Mystery.

Not just any of them. Mystery.

The one who once had you cornered with claws bared. The most… feral one. You can still feel the memory, those nights of fear so bad you couldn’t sleep, the way his growl used to make your bones rattle. And now the same mouth that snarled against your skin has pressed against yours. You wanted it. That’s the part that makes your stomach pitch even now, long after the nausea of earlier.

The room tilts with the weight of it. Abby’s presence. Romance’s smile. Baby’s eyes. All of them, these demons who have hurt you, haunted you, and yet somehow are the only ones left to hold you.

They’d do anything for you. You know it as surely as you know your own heartbeat. You could ask for anything. Diamonds. Purses from Paris, silk from places you can’t even pronounce. They’d rip open the world to get it for you, no hesitation, no question.

But you never ask. You can’t. Because love, whatever this doomed thing is between you and them, has never been about gifts. And because some quiet corner of you knows that if you started asking, if you let them give you everything, you’d never find the part of yourself again that you lost to them. You’d disappear into their devotion, and that thought is as terrifying as being without them.

You don’t need diamonds.

You need the steady thrum of Abby’s heartbeat when he carried you down the hall. The slow curl of smoke from Baby’s cigarette. The way Romance can soften a room with a single, beautiful smile.

Love isn’t supposed to look like this. You know that. It’s not supposed to be stitched together with past trauma and present comfort, with the memory of claws and the reality of warm hands. It’s not supposed to make you feel both safe and ruined. But when Romance leans forward, eyes glinting, when Baby watches you, when Abby stands guard in the doorway, you feel the pull all over again. The impossible, infuriating pull of the only people left who have seen every fucked up piece of you and stayed.

You hate it.

You need it.

You love them.

And no amount of diamonds could ever match the awful, beautiful gravity of that truth.

The mattress dips as Romance shifts closer, his warmth sliding in behind you until his knees bracket your hips. His palms find your shoulders, thumbs pressing slow circles into the knots that have turned your muscles to stone. Every motion is patient, steady. Not a seduction. You exhale before you mean to.

Abby drops into the chair near the wall, deep down knowing that Jinu jerked it in this very chair a few times. He stretches long legs out, crosses his arms, and starts talking to Romance about something, maybe the bread, maybe Baby’s chain-smoking habit. Same man who made your life a nightmare once, now calming you with his voice. Baby remains at the window.

Every pull is mutual. Romantic, sexual, sincere, wrong. It’s all tangled together, a current running from you to them and back again. You’ve fought it for months. You’ve told yourself the line matters, that what they did to you before puts a canyon between their hearts and yours. You’ve built barricades from logic, from memory, from fear.

And then you kissed Mystery.

One slip, one heartbeat of pure gravity, and the barricade cracked. The kiss wasn’t just a kiss, it was the form of your own resistance giving way, the taste of a truth you’d been starving and terrified to admit. Now you sit here, and the pull is louder than your guilt. Louder than the past.

They sense it. Of course they do. Romance’s thumbs keep their patient rhythm, but you can feel what he wants. Talk to us. Abby’s chatter falters now and then. He wants to ask. He doesn’t. Baby barely moves, but his eyes never leave you. He doesn’t want you to shut them out.

They can feel how stressed you are. They can taste it in the air, every demon sense tuned to the tang of your anxiety. But they know. They know they can’t force you. If you don’t choose to tell them, they have no door in. And that knowledge tortures them. These three aren’t built to be left out. They’ve been the ones who break doors, who demand answers, who refuse to be ignored. Who torture an innocent little assistant for a little help with their plan.

But with you? With you they stay still now.

This is the type of stress you can’t deal with. You don’t know how to get it out, how to drain it. You can’t outrun it, can’t outthink it. You’re sick of your own heartbeat. Sick of thinking about Mystery’s eyes, Mystery’s mouth, Mystery’s claws. Sick of how everything feels like a trap you walked into willingly.

Why can’t this just end already?

Why can’t you just die already?

It’s not a dramatic thought. It’s just a flat, exhausted one, like staring at a wall for too long. You’re not even sure you mean it. You just want the noise in your head to stop, the clench in your gut to ease, the guilt to dissolve. You want to stop feeling like this. You want to stop feeling.

And then you feel Romance move. Without a pause in his conversation with Abby, his arms snake around you from behind, pulling you back against his chest. His chin hooks lightly over your shoulder. He rocks you a little, slow. His voice keeps flowing, soft and easy, still talking to Abby about something while his hands rub tiny circles against your arms.

The contrast is enough to make your throat tighten. The same mouth that can purr filth, the same hands that have done terrible things to you, are holding you like you’re glass. It’s so surreal it makes you want to cry and laugh at once.

Abby just keeps talking. Baby’s still by the window, eyes flicking between the three of you, silent as always. And as Romance rocks you, you remember. You remember the way they look at you when you’re sick. The way even Abby, who can bench-press you like a feather, treats you like you’re something small and delicate. The way Baby, for all his brattish silence, shows up without fail. The way Romance, so shameless, so egotistical, so sexual, becomes this soft thing when you’re hurting, as if your pain scrubs him clean for a moment.

They’re miserable when you’re not okay. You’ve seen it. The nights they don’t sleep, pacing. The gifts they pile on you. The ridiculous lengths they go to just to make you smile. The way Mystery’s growl turns into a whimper when you’re angry at him.

You’re not stupid. You’ve always known this wasn’t just a game for them. You’ve always known that what they feel for you is real, even if it’s fucked up and wrong and rooted in a past that should have made you hate them forever.

And sitting there now, with Romance’s arms around you, Abby’s voice filling the room, Baby’s quiet eyes tracking your every flinch, you feel it all at once. The wrongness. The rightness. The pull.

The thought of dying shrivels up like paper under flame. It’s ridiculous. Silly. Terrifying. Because even in your worst moment, even when you think you’ve reached the absolute worst, the idea of leaving them just makes you sadder. You can’t. You don’t want to. You want to stay. You want to see what they’re like in the daylight, in another month, another year. You want to see if any of you can claw your way out of this mess and build something.

You press your forehead against Romance’s arm and breathe. His skin smells like sweat and smoke and something faint you can never place, but it’s nice. Abby glances over at you, just a flick of his eyes, and he smiles while still talking with Romance. Baby looks away, but his fingers are twitching.

You eat your little bread. Romance rocks you once more, slow, and murmurs something under his breath to Abby that you don’t catch. Abby answers with a low grunt, and Baby sighs.

You swallow the last bite of bread, lean back against Romance’s chest, and close your eyes. Their voices blur again.

Romance rocks you back and forth. His chest rises against your spine, his breath is warm on the side of your neck. Every few minutes his lips graze a different spot on your hair, your crown, your temple, the curve where your ear meets your cheek, barely-there kisses, light. He never breaks the low conversation with Abby. Abby’s voice rumbles from the chair near the wall, and you can’t even follow the topic, something about training, something about a half-broken door hinge, but the sound is calming.

Romance’s fingers slide through your hair, slow and sure. Each stroke unravels a little more of the day’s tension. He smells faintly of smoke and that spice you still can’t name. How can someone who’s done such brutal, unthinkable things hold you like this? How can someone so steeped in darkness be this gentle? But right now his heartbeat is so good for you. His thumb draws lazy circles at the base of your skull. Every tiny kiss makes your heart flutter.

You could go for a kiss with him now.

Your stomach flips at the thought, not with fear this time but with something far more dangerous. God, Y/N, did we not learn? You already crossed a line with Mystery. You already know how badly this can go.

But then another thought, softer and heavier, settles over the first: This feels right. Because he’s here. Because they all are. Abby. Baby. Even Jinu, somewhere down the hall. They haven’t left, not through the sickness, not through the silence.

Romance presses another light kiss to the crown of your head, and you feel your resistance melt away. Maybe it isn’t about right or wrong anymore. Maybe it’s about the fact that they are here when no one else is, that their care, fucked up, imperfect, terrifying, is real.

Your eyelids grow heavy again. The voices blur. The rocking slows but never stops, because Romance pays so much attention to you. You breathe in the scent of smoke and warm skin. You let the thought of kissing him fade, neither accepted nor denied.

Romance keeps humming long after you fall asleep. Abby stays in the chair by the wall. His arms are folded, eyes fixed on a point somewhere past the window. Every so often he exhales, the sound rough, almost a growl, but he doesn’t move. Baby leans in the shadows near the curtains, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He watches you.

Romance lets his chin rest against the top of your head, still humming, but his thoughts are miles away. He remembers the deal. The night he said yes to Gwi-Ma, thinking only of the rush, the promise of eternal youth, beauty, the unholy charisma that would bend crowds. He wanted more than the world would ever give willingly. And when the demon asked for a price, he didn’t hesitate. He chose it. He chose every drop of blood that followed. Every lie. Every scream.

And now here he is, cradling a fragile human against his chest as if he could protect you from the very darkness he carries in his own marrow. The irony is a knife he doesn’t dare touch.

He loves you.

He knows it’s selfish. He knows love from a creature like him is a curse. Still, the feeling lives in him like his heartbeat.

Abby watches you sleep, the faint rise and fall of your chest catching in the city’s and the room’s dim glow. His jaw tightens.

He remembers every fist he threw before the deal, every fight picked for pride, every time he let rage be a weapon because it made him feel alive. When Gwi-Ma whispered promises, he grabbed them with both hands.

Now the power is his. And it’s nothing like what he imagined.

He’s broken bones and spirits, taken what wasn’t his, watched people crumble. None of it can be undone. No amount of quiet nights, no gentle guarding of you as you sleep, can erase it. But he can’t stop the ache that flares whenever you wince or shiver. He hates that he wants to be better for you, because better isn’t in his blood. He chose this path. He chose willingly.

Baby stands silent, a dark silhouette against the glass. He’d grown up spoiled, and he wanted more. He always wanted more. Gwi-Ma offered him that, and he took it with a smile.

It took him to see entire lives tilt toward ruin because of a single word from him, a single look. He never felt bad. Not until you. He feels your pain like smoke in his lungs. The craving to keep you safe claws at him, but he doesn’t trust his own hands.

They are not victims. They are not misunderstood boys who stumbled into darkness. They chose it. They made the deals. They wanted the power, the beauty, the endless nights. They wanted the world to kneel and they were willing to pay in blood. And yet, somewhere in the wreckage of their choices, you appeared. You, soft, stubborn, fragile, maddeningly human. You didn’t save them. That’s a story for cowards. But you reminded them, in ways they can’t articulate, of what they burned to get here.

Watching you sleep, each of them feels the old hunger stir. The desire to keep, to claim, to love. And each of them feels the weight of what they’ve done press heavier for it. Because love doesn’t erase the past. Love doesn’t wash the blood from their hands. They know this. They know they are grown men who committed every act by choice. They know that loving you doesn’t make them good. Still, they stay. Romance hums until the first hint of dawn. Abby keeps his silent guard. Baby watches the horizon where night begins to break. They are demons who chose damnation. And tonight, for a few fragile hours, they choose to stay beside you anyway.

You’ve been with the boys so long that it’s like the rest of the world has started to fade out, as though it never existed. The HUNTR/X girls feel like names you made up, daydream companions in some other lifetime. You wonder if they think about you at all, if they even remember. Some nights you convince yourself they forgot. And other nights, it guts you, because how could they?

Rumi, for an example.

A memory comes back to you as clear as if it were yesterday.

Steam curled lazily in the bathroom, clinging to the mirrors, turning the bright light into something soft. You sat in the bathtub, skin flushed from the heat, knees pulled up to your chest. The water lapped against your shoulders, quiet except for the occasional drip from the faucet.

And behind you, perched comfortably on the little stool with her sleeves rolled up, was Rumi. She had that look of focus she always got when she was doing something with her hands, her fingers working shampoo into your hair in slow circles. It wasn’t taboo between you anymore. You’d bathed together too many times to think twice about it. It wasn’t about bodies, it was about comfort, intimacy, the kind that only comes from knowing each other too well to care.

“You ever notice how Zoey always eats the last Snickers—which she knows I love—and then pretends she didn’t?” you said, voice half muffled by steam.

Rumi chuckled, her fingers digging lightly into your scalp. “Every single time. And when you call her on it, she’s like, ‘Oh my god, I didn’t know it was the last one.’ Like, yes you did. You counted them.”

You snorted, tilting your head back a little, letting her rinse the suds with a plastic cup of warm water. “Exactly! And Mira covers for her. Every time.”

Rumi hummed, pushing your wet hair back from your forehead. You tipped your head back more, looking up at her. The world went upside down, her face framed by the foggy bathroom light, her smile bent at an angle, her eyes soft but shining with mischief. She was so pretty like that, upside down. She always was.

“You’re too pretty.” you said softly, sincere.

“So are you. Too pretty to be this mad about food.” she said softly, smiling, her fingers combing through your hair as if she could untangle your thoughts as easily as the strands.

It was nothing special, nothing big. Just two girls in a fogged-up bathroom, one washing the other’s hair, talking about dumb annoyances and stolen food. But it was everything. That kind of ease, of being held without even needing to be held, that was rare. You felt it then, and you feel it now, like an ache behind your ribs. God, that was nice.

But you don’t even miss them the way you should. Not Mira, not Zoey. Even Rumi, who once ran her fingers through your hair, those fingers still missing that feeling.

How could you not miss someone who loved you that simply? How could you forget the warmth of hands in your hair, the laughter bouncing off tile, the way she made something as ordinary as washing up feel like that?

But the truth is brutal. You’ve been here so long, with the boys, wrapped in their yearning, that the girls feel like ghosts now. And you’re not sure if you’re the one who let them go, or if they let go of you first. (They never let go of you, Y/N.)

Either way, that memory of Rumi, steam, shampoo, her pretty face upside down, doesn’t mean that much anymore. Or when Zoey took you out to dinner. It was a fancy place, really. The food was brutally expensive, tiny plates that tasted like entire worlds. But it wasn’t the food that burned into you. It was her. The way she rested her chin on her hand while you talked, eyes locked on yours like the whole room had faded to a blur. Zoey always looked at people with shining eyes, but with you it was… different.

At some point, she reached across the table, brushed her fingertips against the back of your hand, barely a touch, but enough to make your breath catch.

You laughed a lot that night. Every time you met her eyes you felt that same quiet pull, like she was trying to tell you something without words.

When the check came, you reached for it automatically. She slid it away with a single look that said don’t even think about it.

Outside, the city lights scattered across the pavement. Zoey tilted her head, studying you the way she had all night.

“What?” you asked, self-conscious.

“Nothing.” she said, though the corner of her mouth curved. “Just… you’re even prettier when you’re not trying so hard.”

You rolled your eyes, but you felt the compliment settle somewhere deep.

When you two arrived to your place, she told you to text her when you get inside, because she has to go do something with the girls. You did. And she replied with a single heart emoji.

It wasn’t about the restaurant or the wine. It was the way she saw you. The way her gaze carried both mischief and care. And god, those eyes. The way she looked at you across the flickering candlelight, steady, unafraid, like you were something worth studying, worth knowing completely.

Or Mira, god, how could Mira let you go?

Back then, one night you sat on Mira’s huge bed. You’d both been trading stories for hours, awkward exes, disastrous dates, the ridiculous things people did for love. Mira lay back against the headboard, hair spilling across the pillow.

“So,” she said, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “what about girls? You ever… you know?”

Her tone was casual, but her eyes stayed locked on yours.

You shook your head, half–smiling, half–nervous. “Not really. I mean… no. I only had boyfriends before. I’ve never even kissed a girl.”

Mira raised her brows, a playful spark lighting her face. “Seriously? Not even a drunk party dare?”

“No.” You tucked your knees to your chest. “Guess I’m boring.”

“Boring?” she snorted. “You’re the least boring person I know.”

You laughed, a little embarrassed, and she leaned closer until the warmth of her shoulder brushed yours. “Want to fix that?” she asked. Just Mira being Mira, bold, direct.

Your heart thudded. You weren’t sure if you were supposed to answer, but you didn’t move away.

“Only if you’re okay with it.” she added quickly, softer now, how she is deep down showing. “No weirdness. Just… a kiss. So you can say you’ve done it.”

Something in her voice, gentle, reassuring, made the air feel different. You gave a small nod.

Mira smiled, almost shy for once, and reached up to tuck a stray hair behind your ear. Then she leaned in and pressed her lips to yours. Your eyes fluttered shut, surprised at how natural it felt, how simple.

When she pulled back, she was smiling. “There. First girl kiss. Zero disasters.”

You blinked, caught between a laugh and something deeper you couldn’t name. “That’s it?”

“What?” she teased, bumping your shoulder. “It’s just a kiss, babe. Relax.”

You both laughed, and then you were talking again about everything and nothing, music, travel, the stupid things people say when they’re nervous. The kiss didn’t turn the night into something else. It was just Mira’s way of saying she trusted you, of letting you know she cared in the most Mira way possible, direct, fearless.

Later, as you lay side by side staring at the ceiling, you realized how much that moment said about her, about all of them. Rumi with her gentle touch, Zoey with her gaze, and Mira with her blunt affection. Each of them had loved you in their own way, and you had loved them back, even if it wasn’t the same kind of love.

Sometimes, thinking back to it, you can still feel the warmth of that single kiss. You used to think of them constantly. Back when you were still half yourself, before the Saja boys became the center of gravity. It’s been so long you can’t even remember the last time you asked about the girls.

Do they even remember you?

How could they forget? How could Rumi, with her careful eyes and the secret she always kept folded close, the one she almost trusted you with? There were nights you sat on the edge of her bed while she braided your hair and talked to you, always so close to letting you know she’s a demon, but she never ended up telling you. “Maybe you’re the only one who’d get it.” She said sometimes, and even though you didn’t know what she was talking about, you believed her. You wanted to be the one who understood. Zoey could never resist dragging you out. Coffee runs that turned into three-hour walks, concerts you didn’t even have tickets for until she worked her magic at the door. She loved the chase of spontaneity, but she always looked back to make sure you were following. Always. And Mira. Mira and her kiss.

They were wrapped around your finger, though you never meant for that to happen. You were oblivious, caught up in your own things. You didn’t know they might have been looking at you with something more than friendship. You didn’t let yourself wonder what it meant that you liked the way Mira’s lips tasted, that your heart jumped when Zoey tugged you through a crowd, that Rumi’s words made you want to be with her forever. You missed the signs. Rumi lingering a little too long when she dried your hair with a towel, Zoey’s constant excuses to keep you out past dawn, Mira’s quiet way of watching you when she thought you wouldn’t notice. You chalked it all up to friendship, to the way girls can be soft with each other without it meaning more.

And even now, lying here with Romance’s slow hum thrumming against your back and the faint scent of Baby’s smoke lingering in the air, you still don’t fully see it. You don’t realize that you might have felt something deeper for them too. Maybe you were too young, maybe too scared, maybe too wrapped in your own confusion to name it. Whatever it was, it’s gone quiet. You just felt it. You don’t feel it anymore, it faded. You’ve been with the Saja boys so long that the girls feel like a different lifetime. You tell yourself the feelings, if they were feelings, died naturally, like a candle burning down. But part of you knows it isn’t that simple. Part of you wonders if the pull of these demons smothered the flame before you could even understand it. Because now it’s the boys. Always the boys. Romance’s arms heavy and warm around you. Abby’s arms always there to hold you. Baby’s silence that somehow says everything. Even Mystery, whose memory still twists in your gut like a knife. Jinu, quiet and constant, the one you run to without thinking.

They are dangerous, cruel, scarred. Men who chose their darkness. And yet they’ve become the center of your world, the ones you can’t imagine leaving.

Maybe the girls forgot you. Maybe they didn’t. But the truth is worse, you’ve forgotten how to reach back.

Romance’s arms tighten once, a slow squeeze that feels like a wordless goodbye, and then he’s easing you down into the center of the mattress. The blankets, soft from too many washings, slide up around your shoulders as he tucks you in. His palm lingers at the side of your face, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw. A kiss lands on your forehead, barely a press of lips.

Abby stands up, opening the door. He gives a small nod when Romance straightens. The two of them share a glance that’s quick but heavy. Then Abby tilts his head toward the door. They leave. But Baby stays. He’s a thin shadow in the room, watching you sleep, hands shoved into his pockets. He doesn’t move, doesn’t even pretend he’s about to. Just leans a shoulder against the wall and watches you with those big eyes. The brat. The skinny asshole. The one who hides every soft thing under layers of silence and sideways glares. And yet he stays, watching out for you. Finally he exhales, one long sigh, and pushes off the wall. A small shake of his head, almost a laugh, and he turns. The door closes with a soft click. You’re alone. Sleeping. Outside the first pale threads of dawn creep through the blinds. The night that felt endless is giving way to a grey morning, and you lie there, put to sleep by the boys who you hated so much months ago.

They know Mystery still hasn’t come home. None of them knows where he is. None of them knows why. And they have no. idea.

What they also have no idea about though, is how homoerotic this is. What is? Abby and Romance in the shower together. Like, about half an hour later after putting you to bed. Romance runs a palm over the streak of soap on his chest. “I’m telling you,” he says over the rush of water. “something’s off with Y/N tonight. You felt it too, right? Not just me? She’s not sick.”

Abby stands beneath the showerhead too. He tips his head back into the spray, hair plastered flat. A low hum is all the answer he gives at first.

Romance keeps going, rubbing his body as he talks. “I mean, yeah, she’s had rough nights before, but this was… different. She—fuck, I don’t know.” He scrubs at his shoulder, soap lather running down the drain in cloudy swirls. “I hate not knowing.”

Abby finally tilts his chin down, blinking water from his lashes. “Yeah.” he says simply. He reaches for the shampoo and works it through his hair.

Romance shakes his head, flicking droplets everywhere. “That’s it? ‘Yeah’? Come on, man. You’re usually the one who notices everything. What do you think?”

Abby gives a slight shrug, fingers still massaging his scalp. “I think,” he says after a beat. “she’ll tell us when she wants to. Pushing won’t help.”

Romance leans back into the spray, closing his eyes. He knows Abby said some wise shit, just doesn’t want to admit it. Neither of them says more for a long time. The water keeps falling, way too hot, a thin shield between them and the worry waiting on the other side of the door.

“I still don’t get it.” Romance blurts after a while, shaking his head as water drips down the slope of his nose. “In the bathhouse, when Mystery was naked, right? And you were all over him, l… I don’t get it, man. What was so surprising? That little fucker’s fine, I guess, but…” He gestures to Abby’s dick with a soap-covered hand. “I mean, yours? Dude, it’s way bigger than his. Way bigger. What the fuck?”

Abby rolls his eyes, flicking water at Romance’s shoulder with a lazy flick of his wrist. “I did things to it, alright? Calm the fuck down.” His tone is flat, defensive, but there’s a glint of something in his eyes. He enjoys talking about himself.

Romance blinks. “You… what? You… you did surgery? You… what the fuck?”

Abby laughs, sharp and short, water spraying as he shifts. “No surgery, man! Not that. Gwi-Ma. Deal with Gwi-Ma. You really think I’d go under a knife? Gwi-Ma, man. Just… Gwi-Ma.”

Romance’s jaw drops, and he raises a hand. “Wait. Are you saying… that’s why you made a deal with Gwi-Ma?”

Abby tilts his head back again, letting the water pour down his neck. “No, man. No. It just… came with it. Deal was for something else entirely.”

Romance looks at him for a while. “Then what did you make a deal with him for?”

Abby mutters something, almost too low to catch. “Doesn’t matter, man.”

Romance blinks. Rewinds in his mind. For a moment, he’s sure he misheard. Then he realizes. That’s it. The conversation stops. He squints, trying to solve it, but the longer Abby stares at him, the more he can see that Gwi-Ma is a sensitive topic. There’s a boundary there that even centuries of knowing each other can’t breach. Abby’s set the boundary, and Romance isn’t going to push it. He knows enough about the man to respect that line, even if he doesn’t entirely understand it.

“Okay.” Romance says finally, raising his hands in surrender. “Fine. Fine. Not my business. We leave it. Didn’t mean—”

Abby shakes his head. “Relax, man. I’m not offended. Just… don’t. You’d get it eventually.”

Romance nods, giving in with a small wave of his hand. The hum of the shower fills the pause, and for a moment, neither says anything. Romance starts to let his attention wander, soap sliding down his shoulder, water dripping along his arms, already thinking about something else. The water runs down Abby’s chest, down his abs, over the lean lines of his ribs. He’s calm, completely untouchable in his own way. Romance can’t even imagine him being flustered in any situation that doesn’t involve you, or maybe Jinu.

Romance tilts back toward Abby, grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “But… can I… touch it?”

Abby freezes mid-rub, water dripping off his elbow. “…What now?”

Romance shrugs, that perfect blend of innocence and charm that makes it impossible to say no. “Come on. I’m curious. What do you mean it’s fake? I have to check it out.”

Abby narrows his eyes but he lets out a snort. “It’s not ‘fake.’ Dude—“ he cuts himself off, shaking his head. “fine. Get it over with.”

Romance reaches for Abby’s dick without hesitation, Abby shoves him lightly, Romance dodges, slipping slightly on the wet tiles, and Abby mutters some combination of curse words and laughter. “Goddammit, man! Careful!”

Romance laughs. “Relax, relax! I’m gentle! I’m careful!”

“You better be.” Abby grumbles, shaking his head.

Romance reaches out again, and this time Abby actually lets him touch it. First, with his manicured fingers. Then Romance actually grabs it, feeling it up, trying to pinpoint the difference from one that’s not… fake, if that’s the right word, not like Romance knows what actually happened to Abby’s dick. But nothing out of the ordinary. If Abby hadn’t told him that he did something to it, Romance couldn’t tell.

Romance actually has a face of pure focus, if anyone walked in right now, they’d fucking die from laughter. “Feels normal to me, man. What did—“

“Are you done yet?” Abby mutters.

Romance looks up, wide-eyed, dripping with faux innocence. “What? Nice balls, man—”

“I asked—are you FUCKING done?!” Abby yells, voice echoing off the tiled walls.

Romance actually flinches and raises his hands, laughing so hard he nearly slips. “Fine, fine! Done! Jeez, man, so sensitive.”

Abby shakes his head, smirking despite himself. “You’re unbelievable. You’re—ugh, you’re the worst, man.”

Romance chuckles, now only hot water sliding over his hands and arms, and suddenly the room feels like it’s shrinking. “You know, for someone who’s so all mysterious and cool, you get hard fast, huh?”

Abby’s kicks Romance’s shin, water splashing as he doubles over in pain. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood.” he mumbles.

After Romance recovered from the kick, the conversation drifts. Romance shifts from flustered curiosity about Abby’s body to the everyday things of the apartment, a shelf still broken even after Jinu told Abby a hundred times to fix it, the fact that Baby hasn’t cleaned the ashtray in two days, the way Mystery still hasn’t shown up, and Jinu’s infamous robe. Abby listens, nodding along, occasionally adding a word or two, minimal but enough to signal he’s paying attention. Romance doesn’t press the previous topic again, he’s learned his lesson. Gwi-Ma is a sensitive subject for Abby. He’s not about to cross that line, not even out of curiosity.

Romance leans against the opposite wall, hair plastered to his forehead, arms crossed. The relaxed pose is a lie, his jaw works. “Jinu.” he says finally. “Man, I swear. He’s playing his own game.”

Abby lowers his head, water running in thick streams down his chest. “You think he’s trying to keep her to himself.”

“I know he is.” Romance’s voice drops to a growl of frustration. “Every time she’s off balance, guess who shows up. Mister perfect-listener. Mister nothing-to-worry-about. And Y/N goes to him. Always.”

Abby wipes a hand across his face, flicking droplets to the floor. He doesn’t answer right away. He’s big enough to take his time. “She went to him tonight, right?”

Romance gives a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah, I told you. He doesn’t even have to try. Just sits there in the dark and somehow she’s knocking on his door.”

Abby grunts, a deep sound that could mean agreement or annoyance. “Jinu’s quiet. People like quiet.”

“Quiet isn’t the problem.” Romance snaps. “It’s the way he uses it. Like… like a hook. Lets everyone else talk, then pulls when it counts. Pretends he’s calm, but he’s always pulling strings. You felt it tonight, right? The way she went straight to him after throwing up? That’s not accident. He’s been planting that for months.”

Abby lets out a short breath that’s almost a laugh. “You think you’re better?”

Romance’s shoulders tense. “I know what I am. Jinu hides.” He pauses, then adds, softer, “Still… I can’t hate him the way I should.”

Abby snorts. “Because you’ve got a thing for him.”

“Like you don’t.” Romance shoots him a sideways look, water dripping from his lashes.

Abby shakes his head. “Not the point.”

“Sure it is.” Romance straightens, rubbing the water from his eyes

Abby studies him, eyes half-hidden under dripping hair. He doesn’t say it aloud, but he understands too well. He reaches for the temperature knob, turning the water a notch hotter. “Truth? I get it.”

Romance raises a brow. “You?”

A shrug.

The shower fills with another stretch of quiet, only the heavy patter of water and the faint scent of soap between them. They’ve both seen centuries of blood and betrayal, but this moment feels strangely normal, two men talking in the steam.

Abby glances down at Romance’s hardening cock, smirks. “Uh… you planning to do something about that?” He gestures, snorting.

Romance grunts, rolling his eyes. “It’s the heat. And Jinu. Shut up.”

Abby chuckles, shaking his head. “Sure. Blame Jinu.”

Romance flicks water at him. “I said shut up.”

They go back to washing in silence. For all the ridiculous games they play around you, they can still stand here, two ancient demons who’ve done unforgivable things, speaking like this. Eventually Abby steps out, water still dripping from his shoulders. He grabs a towel, rubbing it through his hair, grinning when Romance mutters something about “finally.”

“You’re welcome.” Abby answers, his back to Romance. He runs the towel across his chest. “Your turn to actually use the hot water instead of just staring into space.”

Romance leans an elbow against the wall of tile, giving him a once-over. “Why rush? View’s good from here.”

Abby laughs, a deep sound that echoes in the humid air. “Oh yeah? My sparkling personality or my world-class calves?”

“Neither.” Romance says. “Definitely the ass.”

Abby pretends to think it over while he towels his arms. “Fine. I’ll give you that. It is a fine ass.” He shoots a wink over his shoulder, just enough to make the steam feel a degree hotter. “Years of squats.”

Romance chuckles, running a hand through his wet hair. “Tragic waste, all that effort, if no one’s appreciating it.”

“Oh, plenty of appreciation.” Abby fires back. “I just don’t usually get reviews mid-shower.”

“Consider it professional feedback,” Romance says smoothly. “Five stars.”

Abby shakes his head, smiling as he wraps the towel around his waist. Romance watches him reach for the door. Something in his chest tightens.

“C’mon,” he says, softer than a whisper. “stay.”

Abby stops. Just stops, hand on the handle. The hallway’s cooler air brushes his back, but he doesn’t move. For a long second he stares at the fogged glass of the mirror, at the faint outline of their shapes in the mist.

He doesn’t turn around, but his voice is low when he finally answers. “Don’t tempt me.”

Romance’s heartbeat thuds loud in his ears. He wants to reach out, to bridge the space between them, to admit that maybe this strange affection has been simmering for a lot of time now. But he only says, with a crooked smile the other man can’t see, “Who said anything about temptation?”

Abby exhales, a short, rough sound. There’s a beat, just long enough to notice the way Abby’s smile lingers, the way Romance’s eyes stay a fraction too long on the water sliding down Abby’s back.

Abby moves toward the door, glancing back just long enough to catch Romance watching him. “Don’t stay in too long.” He says, a little lighter than before. “Wouldn’t want you pruning.”

Romance arches a brow. “Worried about me now?”

“Always.” Abby tosses over his shoulder, then the door swings open, and Abby is gone, closing it behind himself.

Romance stays where he is, the sound of the shower suddenly loud in the empty room. He runs a hand through his hair and exhales, a low sound that’s half laugh, half something else entirely.

They want each other. Of course they do. Everyone in that fuckass apartment wants something they’re not ready to name. But wanting is easier than admitting. So Romance turns back into the spray, lets the water beat down on his skin, and says nothing at all, a wry grin tugging at his mouth despite the hollow ache settling in his chest.

Cowards, both of them. Centuries of violence and they can’t even face a single truth.

Abby steps out into the hall, the towel knotted low at his hips. Droplets slide across the ridges of muscle on his chest and arms, catching the dim glow from the hallway lights. A slow roll of his shoulders, a glance at the hallway mirror. He likes what he sees, and he’s never been shy about it. He figures there’s no point trying to sleep, sunrise is brushing the sky already, so he walks toward the living room, running a hand through damp hair.

Derpy is there, the enormous tiger sprawled across half the carpet, breathing in heavy, satisfied purrs. The animal’s tail gives a lazy flick when Abby enters.

“Hey, big guy.” Abby murmurs, voice dropping into the kind of low rumble animals seem to like. He crouches beside the massive belly, and starts scratching gently along Derpy’s huge body. The tiger stretches, paws flexing, and rolls a little to give him better access. “Look at you.”

Derpy stretches in reply, a lazy roll that shows teeth like polished knives, then flops back. Abby chuckles, cooing nonsense under his breath.

The front door clicks.

Abby straightens a little, hand still resting on Derpy’s side. The tiger’s ears twitch but he doesn’t startle. Whoever’s coming in isn’t a stranger.

It’s Mystery. Clothes dark, hair disheveled. There’s a tension in the set of his shoulders that doesn’t belong to something so beautiful. He shuts the door behind him without a word.

Abby stays crouched for a beat, taking him in. There’s no blood, no obvious fight, just that tight coil around Mystery’s presence, like he’s brought the night back with him. Finally Abby rises, the towel shifting slightly but staying put. He plants one broad hand on the back of the couch, casual as ever. “Morning.” he says, voice calm, almost lazy. “What’s up?”

Mystery stays quiet for a bit, then gives a short shake of his head.

Abby studies him for another moment. He could press, could ask where Mystery has been, what kept him out. But he reads the set of that jaw, the silence that isn’t just silence but a warning. “All right.” he says after a beat, tone easy. “You don’t want to talk, you don’t talk.” He shrugs one massive shoulder, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Grab a shower if you want. Water’s still hot.”

Mystery gives the faintest nod. Abby pats Derpy’s belly once more, and goes toward the kitchen. The tiger settles again, a deep rumble of contentment filling the space. Mystery moves past. Abby watches him disappear into the shadowed corridor. He exhales through his nose, a small frown tugging at the corner of his mouth, but he lets it go. If Mystery wants to keep his secret, Abby isn’t going to wrestle it from him.

Derpy yawns wide, unconcerned, and flops to one side.

Inside in his room, Mystery sits on his bed now, head tipped back against the wall. The room is dark except for the lights coming from the city. The walk should have bled the energy out of him. He’d stalked the city for hours. But every step only sharpened the memory, the press of your mouth on his, the stunned silence after. It’s burned into him.

He doesn’t regret it. Not a shred of it. Regret requires doubt, and he feels none. What he feels is hunger. Feral, obsessive, a thing with claws. You. Your lips. Your heartbeat. The small tremor in your hands when you pulled back. The look in your eyes that said this is wrong even as you stayed close enough to breathe the same air. He replays it again and again, the way some people worry a wound until it bleeds.

His chest tightens, but not with guilt. He smiles, sharp and unkind.

“She’ll understand.” Gwi-Ma’s voice whispers, slick as oil. “She kissed you. You felt it. She wants it again. She’s yours.”

He closes his eyes and lets the whisper get hold of him. It tells him you’re thinking of him right now, that the stress in your chest is proof. That the nausea, the trembling, the tears, those are signs of wanting, not fear.

It’s a lie. He knows it’s a lie. But he wants to believe.

“Take her back. Next time, don’t let her pull away.”

It’s obsession. A feral pull. Something that sunk its claws into him the first time you met and has only grown. He thinks of you asleep down the hall, and the thought burns. Your lips, your voice, the way you looked at him before the kiss, he wants it all again. Wants it harder, wants it to rewrite the night.

“She likes you back”

Mystery knows it’s manipulation, he knows, but he doesn’t care. The hunger feels good. Images flare behind his eyes, you laughing, you running, you pinned against the wall as the world went quiet. He wants more. He wants you to choose him, to stay, to stop looking at the others like they matter. He wants you caught in the same feeling he’s been in since the start.

He doesn’t plan to stop. Not until you say his name the way he imagines it.

The rational part of him—what’s left of it—knows how wrong this is. Knows you’re human, fragile, and that the kiss has already rattled you. He heard the panic in your breath. He saw it in your eyes.

But the rest of him, the bigger part, refuses to care.

You’ll calm down.

You’ll forgive.

You’ll come back.

That’s what he tells himself as dawn seeps through the curtains. That’s what Gwi-Ma keeps whispering, sweet and venomous.

He’s never been happier.

And that should terrify you.

“She wants what you are.“

Mystery knows the difference between want and right. He simply doesn’t care. One day you’ll understand, that’s what he tells himself. One day you’ll wake and the fear will have burned away, and you’ll see the inevitability of it, the kiss was a beginning, not a mistake. You’ll remember the way your breath caught, the way you didn’t step back.

Mystery’s heart pounds hard enough to ache. He doesn’t plan the next move. He only knows he’ll keep circling, keep watching, keep waiting for the moment you stop running. Because in his mind, there is no line to cross. There is only the pull. And the pull is everything.

Somewhere down the hall a door opens, someone coughs, life goes on. Mystery stays in the dark, pulse steady, breath slow, the taste of your kiss a permanent scar on his tongue.

And he will not stop.

You don’t understand what you did last night. He does.

“She’s alone now. Go to her. Claim what’s yours.”

Mystery’s fingers tighten against his thighs. Not yet. The others will be ready to go soon. They’ll expect him to suit up, to follow them back into whatever new job waits outside these walls. He’ll go. He always goes. The human routines keep suspicion low, keep the city from noticing the monsters in its veins.

“You’ll be back.” Gwi-Ma croons. “You’ll feed her the words she’s starving for. She’ll beg for you before the next moon.”

He pictures the future as if it’s already carved in stone, your head on his chest, your breath warm against his throat, the fight finally gone from your eyes. Girlfriend. Partner. Whatever name the humans give to someone claimed.

A brutal kind of calm spreads through him.

The others might suspect. They might even try to stop it. Let them. They’ve all tasted obsession in their own ways, they know it can’t be denied forever. For now he waits, motionless. The morning grows brighter, washing the room in pale blue. He hears every shift of weight, every breath of air through the place.

Somewhere down the hall a door moves. Soft hinge. Careful footstep.

Jinu.

Mystery’s hearing sharpens. He hears Jinu go to the kitchen. The faint clink of porcelain, tea. Of course. Mystery can almost map the path, across the hall, gentle knock, pause, the creak of your door.

A muffled rustle follows, the sound of sheets shifting. You’re waking. Mystery closes his eyes and lets the image build, you stretching, confused by morning light, the scent of tea finding you before words do.

Jinu speaks low. “Hey. Look what I got you.”

Mystery hears the pause after Jinu speaks, hears the careful patience of someone who has learned to wait centuries for anything at all. Jinu isn’t a man who rushes. He never has been. And now, after four hundred years of silence, he has you.

You sit up slowly, still tired. Obviously, god, you just fucking woke up. Jinu sets it on the bedside table and sits at the edge of the mattress, leaving space, always leaving space.

“Didn’t mean to wake you.” he murmurs.

“It’s okay.” you whisper back, voice rough. You don’t mention the nightmares, the knot of dread still in your stomach, the taste of last night’s panic. You don’t tell him the real reason for the nausea, the kiss that lives behind your eyes. You just wrap your hands around the warm mug and let it burn your palms. You mumble a thank you.

Jinu watches you with that quiet that isn’t empty. His eyes hold centuries. And yet the way he looks at you is unguarded, almost human. Maybe more than human.

“You look tired.” he says after a while. “Long night?”

Yes.

I kissed Mystery.

I can’t stop thinking about it.

I’m terrified.

“Just… still stressed.”

Jinu tilts his head, studying you. He doesn’t push. That’s what makes it worse. His silence is gentle, and somehow it invites more than any question could. “Stress has a way of convincing you it’s bigger than it is.” A faint smile. “It’s a liar.”

You breathe in the scent of the tea, calming, and wonder if he’s right. But the lie you carry isn’t stress. It’s a memory of claws and a kiss, of wanting something you shouldn’t.

From his room, Mystery hears everything, the soft murmur of Jinu’s voice, your quiet replies. Each word slides under his skin. He presses the heel of his palm to his eye until stars spark in the dark. He won’t move. Not yet. But he listens.

You sip the tea and feel it settle, warm against the cold knot in your stomach. You think of the girls you left behind, of a world that once felt real. You wonder if they’d recognize you now, if they’d understand why you’re here, drinking tea with a demon who’s learning how to love. And you wonder how long this fragile moment can last before the truth, the kiss, the obsession, the danger, tears through it.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you ask, voice hoarse.

He shakes his head once, looking down at his hands. “Didn’t want to.” There’s a long pause. Then, softer: “Wanted to check on you.”

You look at him over the rim of your cup, and he’s already looking at you. His eyes flicker away when you meet them.

He’s been like this for months. Always near but never too close. Always the one who doesn’t reach for you first, even though you can feel how badly he wants to.

In four hundred years, Jinu hasn’t let himself care about anyone. He didn’t even let himself care about the other boys while training them, not in the way they cared about each other. But then you came along. You broke something open in Jinu he didn’t know was still there. A part of him that wanted to take care of someone. To be good for someone, even if he’d long since stopped being good himself.

And it heals him, in a way he doesn’t have words for. Watching you sip the tea he made, listening to your breathing slow, seeing you still here after everything, they’re tiny stitches pulling together wounds centuries old.

He clears his throat. “How are you feeling?”

You hesitate, staring down into the mug. You could tell him the truth, that you’re a knot of guilt and confusion, that you can still feel Mystery’s mouth against yours, that you’re scared and you don’t even know of what. But instead you say, “I’m okay.”

He looks at you for a long time. You can feel his eyes on you even when you don’t look up. He knows you’re lying. He can smell the tension rolling off you. He can smell Romance and Baby and Abby on your skin, the faint tang of cigarette ash.

It’s so complex, this thing between you and the boys. You hate what they’ve done, the parts of yourself you’ve lost to them. And yet here you are, still reaching for them when you’re hurting. Still letting them hold you, still drinking the tea they make, still craving the warmth of them even when you know better.

You don’t see the way he exhales slowly, like he’s trying to breathe you in. You don’t see the way his thumb brushes the seam of his pants, itching to reach for you. You don’t see the way his eyes soften when you blow across the surface of the tea before sipping, like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever watched.

Jinu knows what he is. He knows he’s done unforgivable things. He knows he made his own choices with Gwi-Ma, that he killed and betrayed. He doesn’t get to have first loves. He doesn’t get to have soft mornings with tea. Now for a few stolen minutes, he has both.

You shift, sliding your body closer until your shoulder presses against Jinu’s arm. It’s small, subtle, like maybe you didn’t even mean it. But you did. You lean on him, tired and heavy, and let your cheek brush the fabric of his shirt. And Jinu… Jinu stops breathing. It’s nothing, really. Just contact. Just you easing against him. But to him, it’s everything. He closes his eyes for a second. This is all he’s ever wanted, to be someone you lean on, someone you trust enough to sink into without thinking. The stress in your body quiets against him, and Jinu swears he feels the earth tilt back into place.

He wants to freeze the moment forever. Of course, that’s when Romance’s voice cuts through the door.

“There she is!”

The door swings open before Jinu can react, and in comes Romance, grinning, eyes glued to you as if Jinu isn’t even sitting there. “My love, my darling, baby girl, you’re awake.”

Jinu stiffens, arm tightening slightly around you as if he can physically ward off the other boy’s energy. “She’s fine.” he says flatly.

Romance ignores him. Of course he does. He crosses the room and drops to a dramatic crouch in front of the bed, reaching for your hand. “I was so worried. Do you know how much stress it causes me when you don’t feel well? I age a hundred years every time you so much as frown—”

And before Jinu can tell him to get lost, the doorway fills with Abby’s broad frame. He’s nursing some protein shake the color of wet cement, sipping through a straw. Baby trails after him, cigarette dangling from his lips.

“Morning, babe.” Abby drawls at you, leaning against the doorframe. “Look at you, sitting up like a champ.” He raises the shake in salute, takes another long, slurping sip.

Jinu exhales through his nose, long-suffering.

Baby’s eyes flick over you, quick, before he flops into your desk chair, already pulling out a lighter.

And just like that, Jinu’s sanctuary is destroyed. He holds you closer, an arm protectively curled around your shoulders, and says through gritted teeth, “Only if you’d clean up after yourself with this energy. Or pick up your clothes? Or maybe—just once—help me out?”

Romance, still crouched in front of you, looks up with wide, innocent eyes. “Aren’t you just a ray of sunshine in the morning?”

“Yeah, man, nobody wants to hear this.” Abby chimes in, dead calm, taking another obnoxiously loud sip of his shake.

Baby exhales smoke and adds, “Who do you think you are, my fucking mom? Go away, man.”

Your lips twitch, trying not to laugh.

Jinu scowls at all three of them, his hand absently rubbing your arm. “I think I’m the only one who gives a fuck about this apartment and our career.”

“Glad you woke up too, man.” Abby says blandly, not even looking at him, and then he makes a face at his protein drink as if Jinu isn’t even in the room.

Romance tilts his head. “You know, Jinu, complaining looks good on you. Really brings out that whole grumpy-single-dad energy you’ve got going on.” He glances at you. “Don’t you think? He’s glowing.”

Baby smirks faintly. “Glowing with something, yeah.”

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. The way they gang up on Jinu is merciless, but funny. Fucking hilarious. It’s also hilarious how Jinu drags a hand down his face, muttering something under his breath. But he doesn’t shove them out, doesn’t get up. He just holds you tighter, as if he can make up for their chaos by keeping you firmly against him.

You shift, a small laugh slipping out despite yourself, and the sound makes Jinu’s chest loosen even while his jaw clenches tighter. Because this is exactly the problem. This ridiculous mess of demons, this pile of trauma and obsession, they’re the ones who make you laugh. And for better or worse, he can’t bring himself to take that from you.

So Jinu sits there, stiff, listening to Abby slurp, Romance flirt shamelessly, Baby smoke, and he grumbles, “One of these days, I swear—”

“—you’ll what? Lecture us again?” Abby cuts in.

“—nag us to death?” Baby adds, flicking ash into a coffee mug.

Romance clasps his hands together dramatically. “—or, god forbid, love us?”

The three of them look at Jinu with perfectly straight faces, waiting. It’s fucking hilarious. I’m holding my head as I’m writing this. I’m so fucking done with them too.

Jinu glares. You press your lips into your tea to hide the laugh bubbling up.

Abby slams down the last of his whatever shake with an obnoxious slurp and smacks his lips. “Alright.” he says, stretching his huge arms out. “This is depressing as shit. Someone’s gotta cheer Y/N up.”

“Leave it to me.” Romance purrs immediately. “I could solve all her problems with one good fuck.”

Jinu groans. “Don’t.”

Abby barks out a laugh, choking a little on his shake. “Yeah, yeah, try that line again, bro. See if she doesn’t throw the tea in your face.”

Romance fans it away dramatically. “Don’t be jealous. There’s enough of me to go around.”

You stifle a laugh into your cup, but it escapes anyway, a small sound that makes all three of them snap their heads toward you instantly.

Abby wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Rom, tell her about the time you got your ass handed to you at that afterparty. With the champagne bottle.”

Romance’s smile falters for exactly one second before snapping back into place. “Ah, but see, context matters. It was part of the seduction.”

“Yeah?” Baby cuts in flatly. “Getting tackled into a fountain by security was part of the seduction?”

Abby snorts. “Rom thinks getting his ass kicked is foreplay.”

Romance lifts his chin dramatically. “If suffering makes me hotter, then yes, it worked. I am irresistible.” He blows a kiss at Abby.

“Oh, we’re doing this?” Abby leans forward, pointing at Romance. “Alright then. Remember that time Baby found your little stash of—”

“Do not.” Romance cuts in, holding a hand up like a stop sign.

Baby’s grin twitches, smoke curling from his lips. “Oh, I remember.”

Romance groans.

Baby flicks ash into the mug on your desk and adds, “At least you didn’t almost cry when your favorite brand stopped making those protein bars. That was tragic.”

Abby turns red. “It was one fucking time—”

Romance collapses onto your floor. “You should’ve seen it. Big scary Abby sulking in the corner because he couldn’t get his little snacky snack.”

Even Jinu’s mouth twitches like he’s trying not to laugh, though he covers it with a cough.

Abby points at Baby. “Don’t even start with me, man. Mister ‘I don’t care about anything’ feeding the birds on the balcony.”

Baby sits back, smoke curling around him. “You almost fell from there once, asshole.”

Abby leans back against your wall, smirking, about to say something else, Romance moves faster, wanting to shut Abby up already. So Romance, full hand, shameless, grabs Abby’s dick through his pants(to shut him up, though saying shut up could’ve been enough too) and Abby doesn’t even flinch. Just raises a brow.

“What the fuck.” Baby mutters, flicking ash.

“I’m not even mad.” Abby says. “Feels nice.”

You’re still smiling when they finally start to move toward the door, the three of them spilling over each other. At the doorway, Romance turns back, pointing at the pile of bags at the end of your bed. “Don’t forget to check those, love.”

“Yeah.” Baby adds, deadpan. “We let Abby pick shit out, so, you know. Lower your expectations.”

“Fuck off.” Abby snorts, shoving him out the door.

And just like that, they’re gone, their laughter and bickering fading down the hall. You look at the bags. Your chest is still heavy with all the things you can’t say, the kiss you can’t forget. (You don’t want to see him. You do want to see him.) But your lips are curved, and the tea is still warm in your hands. They didn’t fix anything. They couldn’t. But they made you laugh. And that’s something.

You sip your tea and watch Jinu’s expression. He’s got that vein at his temple throbbing, the one the others seem to take as a personal challenge. Ragebaited again.

You can’t forget Mystery. No matter how loud the others are, how stupid they get, there’s that knot inside you. Did he come home? Is he down the hall? Sleeping? Awake? Thinking about that kiss? You almost wish you could hear his claws scratching the walls, just so you’d know where he is. But at the same time, you don’t want to see him. Not yet. Not like this.

“Y/N.” Jinu says finally, voice low. “You know you can tell me anything, right?”

The way he says it is soft, coaxing, dripping with that fake patience he wears so well. It sounds like an offer, like kindness, but god, you don’t know that it’s a net. A hook. A lie. Of course you don’t. You’re tired. You’re hurting. You want someone to lean on.

Jinu tilts his head, studies you with those eyes, and adds, “I’d never judge you. Not for anything. You tell me what’s in your head, what’s in your chest, I’ll hold it for you. Always.”

What a fucking liar. He would weaponize every scrap of vulnerability if it meant pulling you closer, chaining you to him. He wouldn’t “hold it.” He’d keep it, twist it, feed on it like sugar. But you don’t realize. You only hear that smooth tone, the way he speaks to you like you’re precious. Special. You shift closer without thinking, leaning your head just slightly against his shoulder. It helps. His presence helps. And that’s all he wants, for you to believe that you need him.

“You’re too quiet.” Jinu murmurs, his breath stirring your hair. “That means you’re keeping something in. And you don’t have to, not with me.”

He wants to bite the words into you, to scar them into your skin so you never forget. You don’t have to, not with me. A lie. A hook.

He imagines, for one dizzy second, dragging you into his chest and never letting go. Imagines snapping at the others to stay the fuck out, locking every door, drowning you in his attention until you finally understand, you belong to him. Only him.

But he keeps his voice calm. He keeps his hand still. He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t push too far. Not yet. He’s not stupid. He knows how fragile humans are. He knows you’ll break if he comes on too hard, and god, that’s the last thing he wants. So he feeds you careful lies instead. “I don’t care if it’s ugly.” he says. “I don’t care if you think it’ll make me hate you. You could spit poison in my face and I’d still—” He cuts himself off, swallowing the word love, but it’s right there, hanging in the air between you like smoke. “—still stay.”

Oh, Jinu. You dramatic, manipulative asshole.

He’s not staying because he’s noble. He’s not staying because he wants to heal you. He’s staying because he can’t fucking leave. Because he’s hooked on you, because you crawled into the cracks of his rotten heart and made yourself at home, and now he’s choking on the need for you. If you vanished, he’d go mad. If you left, he’d burn the earth down looking for you.

But you don’t see it. You can’t. You only see the curve of his jaw, the way his eyes soften when he looks at you. You only hear the warmth in his tone. And you sigh again. Lean a little more of your weight into him.

Inside, Jinu is screaming. His heart claws at his ribs, demanding more, more of you, more closeness, more confessions, more skin, more everything. He wants to crush you against him, bruise your lips with his, drag every sound out of you until you’re hollow. He wants you to know what you’ve done to him. But he doesn’t. Not tonight. Tonight, he just tilts his head slightly, rests it against yours for the briefest second, and whispers, “It’s okay. Whatever it is. I’ve got you.”

The truth is, he’ll never “have” you. Not really. He’ll tear you apart in his need. He’ll drag you down with him. He doesn’t even care. He just wants you. All he ever wanted was you.

The sick thing is, he almost believes his own lie. He’s so far gone he almost convinces himself that he’s good for you, that his obsession is love, that his possessiveness is care. That maybe if you let him close enough, he could save himself through you. And oh, if only you knew how deep that goes. But you don’t. You just breathe beside him, fragile and warm, and he soaks it in.

“I mean it.” he says. “Anything. Every ugly, messy thing in your head. I won’t judge you. I won’t hate you. I won’t leave.”

When he finally stands, it’s like tearing himself away from a drug. His body resists it. His chest aches. He stares down at you for a long, silent moment, memorizing every detail of your tired face.

“Get some rest.” he says quietly, forcing a little curve of a smile onto his lips. “I’ll be nearby if you need me.”

Another trick. Another thread to tie around your ankle. If you need me. Of course you’ll need him. He’ll make sure of it. And then he leaves, pulling the door shut behind him, his footsteps retreating down the hall. You’re alone again. Alone with your tea, your tangled feelings, the heap of bags, the silence. But Jinu’s words linger, sticky as blood. You can tell me anything. You don’t have to, not with me. I’ll hold it for you. Always. Lies, every one of them. But you don’t know that yet. Not yet.

The sun had shifted high by the time you finally looked at the bags. They’d been sitting there all morning, with the weight of whatever the boys thought you needed, or wanted. Or maybe what they wanted for you. You lasted longer than you thought you would, sipping cold tea and staring at the paper handles, thinking maybe if you ignored them, the bags would vanish. But no. They sat. They waited. And eventually, your curiosity cracked you open.

You slid off the bed, the floor cool against your feet, and pulled the first bag closer. It was… full. Overflowing. Clothes. All kinds. Shirts in colors you usually picked for yourself. Sweaters softer than anything you’d ever tried on. The second bag, that one was practical. Sort of. Toothpaste, but a luxury brand. Lotions, body scrubs, perfumes. And tucked at the bottom, a pack of hairbands. The thing you actually needed. The third bag was lingerie. Oh, for fuck’s sake. Lace, silk, satin, all in cuts and colors that screamed not for you but for them. But goddamn it, one or two pieces were pretty, and you hated yourself for thinking so. Bras that fit your size, panties delicate enough to tear in one tug, slips that would never stay on long if they had their way. You shoved the lace back into the bag too quickly, your face hot. And then, the fourth bag. You pulled out candles first. Dozens. Some small jars with woodsy scents, some tall ones dyed black, one shaped like a skull that made you roll your eyes but also smile despite yourself. Matches too, a fancy box. Incense. They thought of everything. Then, buried beneath the wax and jars, came the things that made you freeze.

A vibrator. Expensive. Still boxed. Lubes, too, tucked beside them. A feather tickler that made you groan aloud. You dropped the box back into the bag like it burned.

Alright. Okay. Fuck. Anyways. Another bag yielded jewelry, rings, bracelets, a necklace. You didn’t even want to guess how much they stole or spent for it. Another bag, food. Exotic sweets. Chocolate boxes lined with velvet. Teas and coffees, rare-looking labels. Even dried fruit. They didn’t half-ass it. And then, a little box of watercolor paints, brushes tied together with ribbon. Art supplies? For you? It was too much. All of it. Way, way too much.

They knew you better than they should. Better than anyone should. This was love, in their way. This was obsession, spilling over. They wanted to drown you in things until you couldn’t breathe, until you had no room in your life that wasn’t filled with them. And maybe, maybe, part of you wanted to drown too. Because the perfume smelled good. Because the sweater was soft. Because the watercolor called to your fingers. And because, even though you shoved the vibrator back into the bag, you couldn’t erase the thought that they thought of you in that way. That they wanted you to touch yourself and think of them. That they wanted to live in your skin even when they weren’t in the room.

The boys were out there, somewhere, thinking they’d done the right thing, thinking you’d be happy when you opened the bags. And maybe, in some way, they were right. Because you did feel something, warmth, even in your fury. Because the truth was, nobody else in the world was giving you sweaters and vibrators and hairbands in the same fucking breath. Nobody else was insane enough to drown you in this. Only them. Always them. And you hated it. And you loved it.

They love you. They do. Brutally, ferociously, with no filter and no restraint. They love you enough to remember the color of the clothes you usually wear around the house. Enough to burn their money on things you never asked for. Enough to embarrass you with toys you can’t even look at without your stomach tightening.

But they’re demons. They’re monsters. They hurt you. Over and over again, they tore you apart, shredded you down to pieces until you barely recognized yourself. And now? Now they want to wrap you in sweaters and lavender candles like they can pretend none of it happened. It’s sick. It’s fucked up. And you let yourself sink into it. Because who else do you have? Who else has stuck around? The girls are gone. Rumi, Mira, Zoey, they’re memories now, ghosts of something you could have had, should have had. But the boys are here. Always here. Filling your room with gifts, filling your chest with contradictions.

Eventually, the clothes went into your dresser, folded too neatly because the act of smoothing fabric gave you something to do with your shaking hands. Sweaters stacked on sweaters. The lotions and perfumes, you tried to shove those into the little shelf in your bathroom, though they didn’t fit, bottles crowding each other. You left the most glittering ones on the counter. The jewelry you didn’t touch for a long while. But eventually, you placed the necklace back into its box and slid it into the bottom drawer of your desk. You didn’t want it out, didn’t want to look at it every day. The rings, though, you tried one on. Just for a second. It fit too perfectly. You ripped it off and shoved it back in the drawer. The food was easier. Chocolate in your desk. Tea and coffee tucked into the kitchen cabinet. The art supplies, those sat on your nightstand, next to Romance’s nudes. Too personal to hide. Too personal to throw away.

And then. The bag you kept pushing aside. The vibrator. The lube. The feather tickler. You stared at them, throat dry, face hot. They didn’t belong in your room, not with your sweaters and hairbands and whatnot. They belonged to whoever thought this was a good idea. And you didn’t even have to guess who. Romance. Of course. Who else would handpick sex toys for you? You pressed your lips together, grabbed the bag, and stood before you could think twice.

Romance’s door creaked open too easily. The room smelled faintly of cologne and candle wax, that too-sweet mix he carried. At first glance, it was clean enough, bed made, clothes tossed across a chair.

But then you looked around more. And oh. My. Fucking. God. You’d seen it before, yes. You knew what was there. But knowing didn’t soften the impact of seeing it again. You won’t even look at the whips. And sitting innocently on the nightstand, a bowl of condoms like candy mints.

Your stomach twisted, not entirely with disgust. There was something magnetic about it, like staring at a car crash you couldn’t look away from.

Attractive. That was the problem. Because it was attractive. And that realization made you want to scream.

You walked fast, threw the bag onto his bed with more force than necessary. The vibrator and lube and whatever-the-fuck landed against his silk sheets, a match made in hell. And then you turned, almost ran, because if you stayed another second in that room, you’d start looking closer. You’d start wondering about the cuffs, about the ropes, about how often he used them. About who he used them on. About whether he thought of you when he set them up, when he laid in that bed with his ridiculous ego. You didn’t want to wonder. But oh, you were really wondering.

Your breath caught as you shut his door behind you. The hallway felt colder. Your room was safer, even with its mountain of gifts. At least your room didn’t look like a sex dungeon disguised as an idol’s apartment.

When you went back to your room, you stopped at your nightstand. Your hand hovered above it like you’d been burned before. And maybe you had, burned by curiosity, by what you let yourself keep there, hidden but never gone. The stack of photos sat where you left them. And beside them, folded, the letter.

You sighed. Deep, heavy. Then you picked them up. One by one, you looked. The first photo, Romance sprawled naked on his sheets, cuffed hands above his head. A pretty smile. The second, him kneeling. Rope biting into his thighs, his arms tied behind him. His head tipped to the side, hair falling into his face, mouth parted. The third, too much. Way too much. He was fully naked, tied to a chair with dark leather straps, thighs spread. A vibrator, yes, a vibrator, half inside him. The camera caught the arch of his back, the strain in his jaw, the glint of sweat. He wasn’t even looking at the lens. The fourth, chains. Heavy iron, looped across his chest, cinched to the bed frame. His cock hard, proud, shameless. His tongue between his teeth. He wasn’t embarrassed. He wasn’t vulnerable. He was showing off. Every bit of him said, look how far I’ll go for you, angel. Look how far I’ll let you see. The fifth photo, ropes. His arms behind his back, his torso bare, the lighting moody enough to make it look actually good if you didn’t look too closely at the bulge in his pants. He had his head tilted back, mouth parted, eyes closed.

You weren’t a prude. But this, this was so far past what you expected from a guy who spent his public life dancing and smirking at cameras. It was obscene, and weirdly vulnerable.

You flipped to the next one. Romance blindfolded, wrists shackled to a bedframe. Naked again, but one leg laid over his crotch. Red marks across his chest like someone had scratched him. His lips parted around a moan you couldn’t hear. The angle was intimate, invasive. And the seventh you nearly dropped. A knife to his throat. But the way he tilted his chin, eyes locked with the camera, daring you to imagine holding that knife yourself… it did something ugly inside you.

You swallowed hard.

What the fuck, man.

You hadn’t expected, no, scratch that, you had expected this level of insanity from Romance. But still. Seeing it laid out, undeniable, was different. Your pulse jumped against your throat like you’d been caught doing something wrong.

Another, sprawled on his stomach, hands cuffed behind his back, a knife resting gently on his spine. The next softer. Him clothed again, just his head on a pillow, smiling without the smirk. A hint of sincerity that somehow was cuter than the filth. The tenth, his hand wrapped around himself, mid-stroke, messy, shameless.

And then, the letter.

You set the pictures aside carefully, and unfolded the paper. His handwriting was ridiculous. Loopy, sprawling, dramatic as his stage persona.

And the words—

Oh.

“To the one that keeps me up at night. I don’t care if you laugh at these. I don’t care if you shove them in a drawer. I don’t care if you never look at them again. I just wanted you to know I’m yours. Every inch. Every part. Every scar and sin. I don’t belong to anyone else, never did, never will. I’m the fool in love with you, and I’ll play the fool until the end of the world if that’s what it takes.”

You blinked hard, throat tight.

“When you look at me, even if it’s just once, even if it’s to roll your eyes or tell me I’m an idiot, I feel alive. Do you get that? After everything I’ve done, after everything I am, you make me feel human. You make me want to be human.”

The loops tangled, words running faster, darker.

“You don’t have to love me back. You don’t have to touch me. You don’t have to say a word. Just let me love you. Let me burn for you. Let me be yours in the only way I know how. And if one day you want me, if one day you even think about me, remember these pictures and know I was already waiting.”

Oh, god.

“One day, you’ll understand that no rope, no chain, no bed, no camera means anything compared to the way you already hold me. Yours, always—Romance.”

You sat there, silent, letter trembling in your hands.

Romance, evil, shameless Romance, loved you. Not just with his body, not just with his ego. With every fucked up piece of himself. And he hid it inside pictures of himself tied up, grinning, obscene. Because that’s who he was. Because that’s the only language he knew.

God, you didn’t expect this. You didn’t expect to see a man with a vibrator in his ass while being kidnapped and find a love confession in the same damn minute.

Love, in their hands, was just another weapon.

You sat there, tears in your eyes, photos stacked at your side, letter open in your lap, and wondered how the hell you were supposed to breathe in a world where men like this loved you. Evil. Shameless. Ridiculous. And still, so brutally sincere it broke you.

You wiped at your eyes, folded the letter, and collapsed onto your back, staring at the ceiling. To the one that keeps me up at night. You laughed once, bitter and small. And then you whispered into the silence: “Fuck you, Romance.”

But your hand tightened around the paper. And you didn’t let go.

Hours later, the front door shuts behind the boys. The five scatter. They do not look for you. They know where you are. They leave you in the dark end of the apartment, tucked away. They’re tired, they know you’re tired, it’s a day like that. That’s it. Baby disappears first, always. His lighter clicks, the scent of smoke trailing him like perfume as he slips into whatever corner he calls his own. Abby follows, broad shoulders brushing the wall as he heads toward the kitchen. Jinu vanishes. He does not need to see you to feel you in his chest. He does not go to you. Not yet. He waits. He always waits. Mystery stays in the hall for too long, unmoving. His eyes drag down the corridor, to the door at the end. Your door. His pulse beats in his ears. He forces himself away, into his own darkness, jaw tight, Gwi-Ma’s shadow whispering at the edges of his thoughts. He will not disturb you now. He has patience. He has obsession. He has time. He knows you’ll come to him, no matter how fast his heart beats whenever he thinks of the kiss. Romance shuts his door.

Someone has been here.

You have been here.

The bag is there. On his bed. It sits half-spilled, fabric crinkled. Oh, okay, all right. He steps closer. His hand skims the edge of the bag, fingertips brushing the fabric. The items inside shift. His mind flickers through them quickly, cataloguing, certain of what belongs, what doesn’t. Everything belongs, though few things are missing, but none of them dirty. You left everything sexual there.

It’s okay. This is what he wanted. Not silence. Not ignorance. He wanted you to see him. To know him. To see the vibrator, to feel something. The knowledge fuels him. His chest rises, falls, too quickly. His body feels alive, pulsing, restless. The rope in one corner of his bed seems to pull him in. The polished cuffs on the wall gleam as though mocking him.

If you won’t use the gifts, then he will.

His hand plunges into the bag, taking the things out. His breathing grows shallow, sharp, as though every item fuels him more.

He thinks of you again. The way your hands look, or how could they have looked when you held the bag. The small shake of your shoulders. Maybe you laughed. Maybe you cried. Maybe both. He doesn’t care which. He only cares that you held it close. That you didn’t throw it away.

His fingers tighten around the vibrator as he takes it out.

It doesn’t matter what you think of him. Doesn’t matter if you recoil, if you curse his name. You saw him. You let him inside your head. And now, he’ll stay there. If you won’t come to him yet, he’ll come to you eventually. And if you resist, he’ll only tighten his hold. He always wins. Always.

Romance lies back in the middle of his bed. His cock’s been aching since he saw the bag on his bed, heavy against his thigh, and it’s all your fault.

He starts unbuttoning his shirt. His fingers are shaky, too eager. The soft fabric slides down his shoulders, revealing skin that’s flushed already, nipples stiff in the cool air. He tosses the shirt aside, then starts undoing his pants. He pushes the fabric down, then his boxers, his cock slapping free, thick and flushed, already leaking.

He looks down at himself, grins at the sight. “All for you, baby.” he murmurs, thinking of you. He strokes once, a long drag of his palm up the length, and groans deep. He could finish like this, raw and needy, but he wants more tonight. He wants to ruin himself for you.

The vibrator. He holds it in his palm, heavy, promising. Just the thought of using it, of imagining your sweet little hands holding it instead, your lips parted as you watched him, makes his cock twitch.

He positions himself on the bed, spreads his legs wide. He looks like he’s posing for someone, like he expects you to walk in and see him like this, hair messy, chest gleaming with sweat, cock hard and proud against his stomach.

“Hope you’re watching.” he breathes, then presses the vibrator against the base of his shaft.

The first buzz makes him jolt, hips bucking. “Ohh, fuck—” The vibration hums against him, deep, and he groans, head tipping back. His thighs tense, muscles flexing, his abs tightening as he drags the toy up the length of his cock. Precum spills from his tip, wetting his stomach.

He closes his eyes, picturing you. Picturing you curled on the bed beside him, watching with wide, beautiful eyes as he plays with himself. You wouldn’t know what to say. You’d be shocked, probably flustered, but you wouldn’t look away. You’d bite your lip and watch, cheeks pink, thighs pressing together.

The thought makes him whimper.

He pushes the vibrator against his tip, right where it aches most, and his whole body jerks. “Ohhh, shit, that’s— fuck—” His toes curl, his thighs squeeze together, his cock twitching violently under the buzzing pressure. He holds it there, gasping, drool threatening to slip from his lips.

It’s obscene, how loud he is. His moans fill the room, shameless, pornographic. He doesn’t care. He wants the walls to know. He wants the whole house to know. He wants you to know.

He slides the toy down, circles his balls, presses it to his perineum, and cries out. “Fuck, baby, ohhh— yeah, just like that. Just—” He breaks off into a helpless groan, hips rutting up into the air. His cock smears precum across his stomach with every twitch, every spasm.

He grabs himself with his other hand, stroking while the vibrator buzzes against his base. The combination makes him see stars. He arches off the bed, hair sticking to his damp forehead, his mouth open, spilling every filthy sound his body rips out of him.

“Ohhh— god— baby, baby, baby—”

He imagines your sweet little voice asking what he’s doing, if it feels good, if you can try. He imagines your soft fingers replacing his, your mouth opening for him, your thighs pressed together while you watch.

“Fuuuck… ahhh, god, baby—” He presses the vibrator hard to the base of his cock, fists himself desperately, and the orgasm tears out of him with a hoarse scream. His back arches off the mattress, every muscle straining, cock pumping thick ropes of cum across his chest and stomach. It shoots high, messy, dripping down his abs, smeared by his fist as he strokes through it. The vibrator hums mercilessly, dragging his orgasm out until he’s shaking, until he’s sobbing soft little moans into the air.

“Baby— ohhh, baby— god, that’s— mmmnhh—”

Finally, finally, he rips the toy away, his body collapsing limp into the sheets. His cock twitches, oversensitive, dripping the last of him onto his stomach. His chest heaves, sweat slick across his skin, his thighs still trembling.

He reaches lazily for the tissues, half-heartedly wiping himself down, smiling. The vibrator lies discarded beside him, still buzzing faintly until he flicks it off. He curls onto his side, sticky, messy, blissed-out, and murmurs, “One day, baby. One day you’ll see. And I’ll make it so, so good for you.”

You’re in your room, lying flat on your back, staring at the ceiling, and the nausea still hasn’t gone. The taste of the bathroom floor, the stress, the kiss, Mystery’s eyes, all of it’s still swarming in your gut like you swallowed bees. It’s horrible. Fucking horrible. The boys are back. You heard them come in hours ago. You’ve stayed put, quiet, hoping if you made yourself small enough you wouldn’t have to see anyone, especially Mystery. You can’t. Not tonight.

You press a hand to your stomach. It’s still churning. God, you feel like shit. Your mind flashes to when you were younger and your dad’s old friend used to hand you a bottle of beer when you’d get motion sick. Not to drink-drink it, just a few sips. The smell. Whatevs. It used to help. Maybe placebo. Who cares. You know exactly one person in this place who might have something like for you.

You swing your legs off the bed, bare feet. Every step toward his room feels heavier, like your stomach might spill itself again. You keep praying under your breath, please don’t let Mystery be in the hall, please please.

The hallway is quiet. Dark. No sign of him. You pad up to Baby’s door and knock softly, knuckles just brushing wood.

A moment. Then the door swings open. Baby stands there shirtless, ribs and collarbones sharp under his skin, shaving cream still smeared across half his jaw. His eyes flicker down at you, and he leans his shoulder against the doorframe. “Yeah?” he says. One word. Dry. Bratty. Inside, though, his heart goes off like fireworks. He’s so fucking happy you’re here, at his door, of all people. But god forbid he show that.

You bite your lip and mutter, “When I was younger, beer used to help me with nausea. Like, not drinking-drinking, just… it helped. Do you have anything like that?”

He stares for a beat. “Sure. Come in.” He swings the door open wider. The room smells faintly of smoke and some kind of cologne. His bed’s a mess, clothes in piles, a half-played video game still paused on the screen. You step inside and he closes the door behind you with a soft click. He wipes a hand across his face, smearing the shaving cream worse, but he doesn’t care. “Sit.” he says, gesturing at the edge of his bed. He’s already crossing to his closet, silent.

You sit down gingerly. The mattress dips under your weight. You’re still nauseous, still jittery, horrible, honestly. So stressed.

He starts rummaging. His shoulders are narrow but tense, tendons shifting under skin as he digs. “You’re lucky I keep this crap around.“ He pulls out a bottle. “This is some shit Abby bought and hated. Been in here forever. Don’t fucking tell him it’s still in here.”

You take it from him, your hands brushing his. Cold glass. For a second the nausea spikes again but then settles, like just holding it is enough. “Thanks.” you whisper.

Baby shrugs, grabbing a towel from the floor and wiping the shaving cream from his face. “Yeah, whatever. Don’t puke on my bed.” But inside, he’s screaming. You’re here. In his room. Asking him for help. He sits down next to you, a little too close but still pretending it’s casual. He crosses his arms, eyes fixed on the floor. “So, uh. Still sick?”

“Yeah.” Your voice cracks.

He nods once. For a minute you both sit there in silence. The bottle sweats against your palms. He smells like smoke and minty shaving cream, and his skinny shoulder brushes yours. And he’s still happy. God, he’s so fucking happy. But instead of showing that, he just sits with you, letting the silence stretch, his knee bouncing once, twice. His whole body feels alive. He feels alive. He wants to reach out, wants to hold you, but he knows if he does it wrong you’ll slip away. Instead, he mutters, “You, uh… you wanna open that? Or you just gonna hold it?”

You let out a soft laugh despite yourself. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” he says, too quickly. Then clears his throat. “Just drink.”

You manage to open it and the hiss of carbonation fills the small room. You take a small sip. It’s not the same as when you were a kid, but it’s something. Baby watches you from the corner of his eye, trying to look uninterested. His fingers drum against his thigh. Every nerve in his body is aware of you sitting there on his bed, sipping from the bottle he gave you, trusting him with something small and weird and vulnerable.

He wants to tell you he’d get you anything, beer, diamonds, blood, the fucking moon. He wants to tell you he’d carry you out of this apartment, out of the city, out of everything, if it meant you’d feel safe. But he doesn’t. He just sits there, a skinny brat with a mouth full of unsaid words, pretending he’s not the happiest he’s been all century. And you sip your little beer, stomach still twisting, but some small part of you feels warmer than before. It’s wrong. All of it is wrong. But tonight you’re here, and he’s here, and that’s alright for now.

The bottle is almost empty now. There’s still a patch of shaving cream on his jaw he missed, and it makes him look both ridiculous and weirdly endearing. You want to laugh but don’t. You’re trying to keep the peace in your stomach, and laughter feels risky. So you sip again. The taste sticks to your tongue. It’s not good. You can already feel that soft little looseness. “It’s helping.” you say.

He shrugs.

The nausea’s fading. In its place comes that giddy tilt of calm that’s rare for you. The world still hurts, but it’s a quieter kind of hurt right now.

You lean back on your hands. “So, what about you? Why’re you up so late?”

He hums. “Shaving, apparently.”

You glance at the half-clean patch on his face and smirk. “Yeah, you missed a spot.”

He gives a low grunt, grabs the towel from his nightstand, and wipes at his jaw again without looking. “Better?”

“Still there.”

“Fuck.”

You giggle, actually giggle, and it surprises you more than him. You clap a hand over your mouth, cheeks going warm. “Sorry, I’m—”

He cuts you off with a lazy wave of his hand. “You’re fine. Laugh or whatever. You look better like that.”

You laugh again, and he can’t help it, his lips twitch, almost a smile, before he looks away. His heart is running faster than it should.

He taps the empty bottle in your hand. “Another?”

You hesitate, then nod. “Sure.”

He stands, moving like a cat, you just noticed that. He pulls out another bottle and pops the cap off with the side of his lighter. He hands it to you, then sits back down.

“Thanks.” you say quietly.

He nods once, still not looking at you. “Yeah.”

After a while, you feel yourself swaying a little, and he notices. You’re smiling, soft, lazy, sleepy. “You’re actually nice when you’re not acting like a dick, you know that?”

He looks up, meets your eyes finally. “Yeah, don’t tell anyone.” he says quietly.

You nod, eyes heavy, the edges of the room blurring just a little. The beer bottle rests against your knee, half-empty. He leans back, arms crossed. Watching you. Dying a little inside, because you’re here and laughing and looking at him.

You’re not sure why the nausea’s gone now. Maybe it’s the beer. Maybe it’s the boy. Maybe it’s both. Whatever it is, for the first time in days, you feel okay.

“Alright.” you murmur, standing up. “I should… go back.”

He doesn’t answer, but his eyes flick up at you from under his lashes. He sits the same way he always does, slouched, arms folded, pretending he doesn’t care, but the second you start to move, his whole body goes tense. His heart is trying so hard to stay cool while everything inside him’s screaming, don’t go.

You stand up a little too fast. The floor tilts, and you press a palm to the wall to steady yourself. “Whoa.” you mumble, laughing softly. “Okay, alright.”

Baby glances up, expression the same as always, but there’s a flicker, somewhere in those half-lidded eyes, of worry. Not that he’ll admit it. “You gonna hurl again?” he asks.

You shake your head, giggling at the word. “No. Just dizzy. I’m fine.”

You start toward the door but don’t open it. The air feels light, and you can’t bring yourself to leave yet. You take a few small steps, brushing your fingers along the edge of his dresser, tapping at the random junk scattered there. You laugh again, louder this time. The sound fills the room. You stumble to the other side, nearly trip over a shoe on the floor, and grab the back of his chair for balance. “Oh my god, you’re a disaster, Baby.”

He raises an eyebrow, watching you move. “And you’re tipsy.”

“Just a little.” You pinch your fingers together to demonstrate, wobbling as you do.

He rolls his eyes but there’s that twitch again, the not-quite smile that he keeps trying to kill before it shows. You don’t notice how his gaze follows every movement. He can’t stop it. He watches how you wander toward the window, push the curtain back, and look out at the city. The light from the buildings paints your face, and Baby’s breath catches. He can feel the pulse in his throat. You’re just standing there, a little unsteady, cheeks flushed, and it’s like the world’s trying to show him something he’ll never deserve.

You turn back to him. “It’s pretty out there.”

“Sure.” He keeps his voice low, lazy, like it’s nothing.

“You ever go out at night?”

He raises his chin faintly. “You mean for fun?”

You nod.

“Not really my thing.”

You smile. “Yeah, I guess fun isn’t your thing.” You cross your arms, leaning against the wall. You start rambling about nothing in particular. He listens, throwing in the occasional grunt or nod, the same rhythm as always. He doesn’t need to talk. You fill the space just fine. After a while, you wander closer to the bed again. “You’re not gonna shave the rest?”

He glances toward the mirror. “Maybe tomorrow.”

“Hm.”

“Hm.”

You laugh again, the sound spilling out soft and small. You’re standing beside the bed now, looking down at him. He tilts his head up, eyes catching the low light, and you see something there that makes you stop. You can’t quite name it, but it’s enough to make your stomach dip. You tear your gaze away first, rubbing your arms. “I should, um… go to bed.”

He shifts slowly, voice flat. “Sure.”

You pause with your hand on the door, glancing back at him. “Thanks for the beer, seriously.”

He shrugs, trying to look unaffected. “Don’t mention it.”

“I will.” you tease.

“Then I take it back.”

You grin, soft and tired. “Good night, Baby.”

He nods once. “Night.”

You start to pull the door open, but your hand lingers on it. For some reason, you look back one more time. He’s still sitting there on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor. The lamplight cuts across his shoulders, outlining every bone, and for a second you see what no one else does, the loneliness underneath the sarcasm. The way he’s so young and so old at the same time. You almost say something. Almost. But then you don’t. You just smile faintly, and he finally looks up. Those eyes. God, if anyone else saw the way he looks at you right now, they’d know. They’d know he’s gone, lost, done for. There’s no joke left in it, no mask. Just this quiet, raw thing that he’ll never say out loud.

You step into the hallway, the air cooler out here. You close the door behind you, the latch clicking softly. Inside, Baby exhales a breath he didn’t know he was holding. The room feels emptier now. He drags a hand down his face, wiping away what’s left of the shaving cream.

You’re still smiling when you close Baby’s door behind you, the faint buzz of the beer and the giddy, stupid warmth lingering in your chest. It’s late, so late the air of the hallway feels different, softer. Your bare feet make no sound against the cold floor as you drift toward your room, your fingers grazing the wall for balance.

The light under your door glows faintly, and you’re already reaching for it when a shadow moves at the edge of your vision. Romance. He’s leaning against the opposite wall, arms folded, his head tilted just a little like he’s been waiting. He’s not smirking this time, not teasing. His expression is open, worried even, he doesn’t bother hiding it.

“There you are, love.” he murmurs. “I was just about to come looking for you.”

You blink, your heart tripping. “For me?”

“For you.” His gaze slides over your face, down to your hands, then back up, scanning, reading you. “You weren’t in your room.”

You nod slowly. “I was with Baby.” you gesture toward your door. “Come in?”

He studies you for a second, your flushed cheeks, your slightly unsteady steps, and something in his face softens. He nods. “Of course.”

You open the door and slip inside, Romance following close behind. You sink down onto the edge of your bed. He stays standing for a moment, watching you, then lowers himself beside you carefully.

Romance can feel that you’re drunk. He rests his hands on his knees, leaning forward slightly. “You alright?”

You blink at him. “Yeah.” you say automatically, then frown. “I mean… I don’t know. Maybe.”

He gives a small hum in response. He came here with a dozen jokes loaded on his tongue, wanting to ask about the bag you left on his bed. But the moment he saw you like this, he let them go.

You glance at him. “What about you? What’s up?”

“Me?” he echoes, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What’s up with me…” He trails off, glancing at his hands. “Nothing special, really.“ Then, because he can’t help himself, he reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers are warm against your skin. “You look flushed.”

“Maybe. A little.”

“You’ve had something to drink.”

You nod. “Baby gave me beer.”

“I can smell it.” he says gently.

“Sorry.” you murmur.

He shakes his head.

You nod, biting your lip to hide a grin. “It’s not what it sounds like.”

Romance makes a low noise in his throat but doesn’t press. “I’m not judging, darling. Just making conversation.”

You shake your head, still smiling. You can breathe. You do feel better. So much better.

Romance watches you for a long moment, his expression softening again. “You’re beautiful like this.” he murmurs.

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks warm. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

You want to argue, to make some sarcastic comment, but the words die on your tongue. Because he’s looking at you like that again, like you’re the only person in the room, the only thing worth seeing. And for all his sins, for all the things he’s done to you, there’s a sincerity in his eyes that’s hard to fight.

He shifts closer, just enough to press his shoulder fully against yours. “Eat anything?” he asks after a while.

“Bread.” you murmur.

He chuckles softly.

Silence. You’re a little drunk. He can feel it. You can feel it. But it’s nice.

“So,” he says lightly. “what’s on that pretty mind tonight, babe?”

…

You pick at the edge of your sleeve. “Can you… keep a secret?”

He tips his head, one eyebrow quirking. “Anything for you, Y/N. You know that.” And he means it. He always means it.

You breathe out. “Promise?”

He nods once. “Promise.”

It should be comforting, but it isn’t. You shift on the bed, knees drawn up. You look down at your hands. “You remember earlier? Before you all went out? I think to get me gifts?” Romance hums. He’s patient, which is new for him. He doesn’t interrupt. “I was with Mystery.” you continue. “We were just… playing. It sounds stupid now.”

He raises an eyebrow, but keeps quiet. Inside, though, his pulse spikes. Mystery. Always Mystery.

“I asked him to chase me.” you say. “After last time, I wanted to see what he was capable of. Like a game. It was stupid. I just wanted to see that part of him, the… feral one. Because I trust him, I guess. Or I thought I did.”

Romance’s jaw tightens. His face doesn’t change much, but his knuckles flex against his knee. He’s scared. The only possibility he can think of that could fuck you up this bad and could’ve happened in this context, is sexual assault. God, no. Please no. He forces his voice to stay light. “And?”

You stare at the wall. “He caught me.” That’s all you say at first. It’s like you expect the sentence to explain itself. Romance waits. The silence stretches. “It’s so stupid. I don’t even know what happened next. One second I’m laughing, the next—” You stop.

Romance leans forward slightly, not touching you. “The next?”

Your throat feels dry. It’s brutally hard to spit the words out. “We kissed.”

For a long time, Romance says nothing. The air feels tight around you. His gaze doesn’t leave you. His expression doesn’t change. But inside him, it’s a mess. Jealousy. Rage. The sick, bright spark of pain that comes when someone takes what he wanted, what he thought was his. But it’s not even about the kiss, not really. It’s about what it means. Mystery crossed a line, and you let him.

He forces a smile, gentle, practiced. “So,” he says quietly. “that’s what’s been eating you up.”

You nod, eyes wet. “It’s wrong. I know it’s wrong. He—he’s hurt me before. You all have. But I—” Your voice cracks. “I wanted it. That’s the worst part. I wanted it.”

That’s it. That’s the part Romance can’t bear to hear. He looks down, running his tongue over his teeth, and when he speaks again, his tone is so soft it sounds almost kind. “You don’t need to explain, love. You’re human. You get… confused. You mix things up. Fear, comfort, all that.”

You shake your head. “No, I’m not confused. I knew what I was doing. I just—” You clutch your knees tighter. “I don’t know.”

Romance exhales slowly, the sound low and bitter. He wants to laugh. He wants to scream. He wants to kill Mystery. But he does none of those things. He reaches out and rests a hand on your shoulder. So sweet. “You don’t owe anyone an explanation for how you feel.” he murmurs. “Not even him.”

You look up at him, eyes glossy, desperate. “Then why do I feel like I ruined everything?”

Because you did, he thinks. Because now it’s real, and now every time he looks at you he’ll see Mystery’s mouth on yours. But he doesn’t say that. Instead, he smiles faintly, thumb brushing the fabric on you. “You didn’t ruin anything. You just—” he hesitates, then finishes quietly, “—you just made a change.”

You laugh weakly. “That’s not comforting.”

He huffs a laugh of his own. “Didn’t mean it to be.”

Silence again. He wants to keep you talking, just to hear your voice, to make sure you’re still here, but he can feel you fading. You rest your forehead against your knees, murmuring, “I hate that it happened.”

Romance looks at you for a long moment. His expression softens, the anger shifting into something deeper, sadder. He feels horrible. He just pats your back once, gently. “Get some sleep, love.” he says, voice quiet. “You’ll feel clearer in the morning.”

You nod without looking up. “Will I?”

He doesn’t answer. Because he knows you won’t. Because none of them ever do.

You don’t realize you’re crying until he reaches out and wipes a tear from your cheek. His thumb lingers, feather-light, and he smiles again, small, crooked, the mask slipping back on just enough. “Hey. Look at me. You don’t have to tell anyone else. Not Abby, not Baby. Not even him. This stays right here.”

You nod. You believe him.

He wants to fix you, to fix himself through you, but he knows better. He knows he’s poison, knows he’ll rot whatever he touches. So instead, he just sits there, brushing your hair back, humming some quiet tune he doesn’t remember learning. For the first time in three hundred years, he wishes he could be good. He wishes he could be worthy of you. And he knows he never will be.

You pull back slightly, wiping at your face with the heel of your hand. “I’m sorry. I’m just… tired.”

He nods. “Then be tired. You don’t have to apologize for that.”

You laugh weakly. “You sound like Jinu.”

He smiles. “Don’t insult me.”

That pulls another tiny laugh out of you, and the sound is enough to loosen the tightness in his chest. He studies your face for a second too long, the glassy eyes, the flushed cheeks from the beer and the crying, the fragile calm settling there. God, this is a horrible feeling. Both for him, and you. You hear yourself sniffle. “I just— I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Romance shakes his head. “There’s nothing wrong with you, baby.” His thumb wipes away the tears that keep breaking loose. “You’ve been living in hell for months. You’re tired. You’re scared. Sometimes the lines get blurred.” He sighs, looking down, voice turning heavier. “We blurred them for you.” You glance up. His eyes don’t waver. He keeps his hand steady on your back as he continues, “You didn’t deserve any of it. The things we’ve done to you, the way we’ve made you question yourself, that’s on us. Not you.”

Your stomach twists, the nausea shifting into something like grief. “Then why do I miss it sometimes?” you whisper. “Why do I—” You break off, voice shaking. “Why do I miss the way it felt when he caught me?” That makes you cry harder. When you can finally talk again, your voice sounds raw. “I don’t feel that bad about it. The kiss, I mean.”

His hand keeps moving on your back. “I know.”

You can tell he’s remembering things too, the fights, the screams, all the moments the boys went too far, the fear they put in you. He’s not pretending it didn’t happen. Not tonight.

He finally says it. “We were cruel. You know that, right?”

Your throat tightens. You nod.

“And not just cruel because we had to be.” he continues, looking past you now, at some invisible point on the wall. “We were cruel because we could be.”

You stay silent.

“That doesn’t go away easy.” he says. “Nobody expects you to forget about that. We knew what we were doing, Y/N. But that’s not on you.” he adds. “Don’t carry our shit.”

You shake your head weakly. “But you’re here now. And you’re different now.”

Romance lets out a breath. “Different’s a big word.”

You look away. “You’re still better to me.”

“We try to be. Doesn’t erase what came before, but we try.” His hand moves slowly to your back. He rubs gentle circles. He wipes a tear from your cheek with his thumb. God, what a man.

You almost laugh through your tears. “You’re too good at this.”

“I’ve had a long time to practice.” he says, with the faintest tilt of a smile.

You look at him. You’re shaken up, but don’t know by what. Maybe the kiss. Maybe the fact that Romance actually acknowledged what happened before this. “Do you regret it? What you’ve done?”

He look at you. “Every day.”

You believe him. You can feel the warmth of him beside you, the weight of his gaze. It’s disorienting. For a moment, it feels like he’s deciding whether to say something else. Then, he doesn’t.

Then, quietly, he leans in.

Romance kisses you.

AN: I just want to explain why reader confessed the secret of the kiss. So, it’s a trauma response. After everything she’s been through, her sense of safety and trust is fractured. Keeping a secret feels unbearable because secrecy was part of her captivity. By telling someone, she’s subconsciously seeking validation, wanting the boys to comfort her. Just wanting comfort, her poor little heart needs it so much. Plus it’s so heavy on her heart that it’s hard to keep it in. Plus she trusts Romance.