You’re lying on the blanket that lines the floor of your room, if you could even call it that. It’s more like a prison. Four white, dirt stained walls surrounding you on all sides, set deep in a cold, dark basement.

You stare at the ceiling, absently running your fingers over the holes scattered through your clothing. You think about a world that could never belong to you, and the family that left you behind. Your family consists of your father, an Alpha who works day and night as a salesman at the local grocery store; your mother, a Delta who cleans homes; and your twin older brothers, also Alphas.

They’ve always struggled, but they valued reputation above everything; maintaining appearances in the community by any means necessary. Sending the twins to university was their proudest achievement, aside from them presenting as Alphas.

They wanted another son. Another strong Alpha to complete the image of a family that led rather than survived. You were never part of that picture, and they never forgave you for it.

You had once hoped to follow them; to present as an Alpha, or at least a Delta like your mother. Then maybe you could stand beside them instead of beneath them. Maybe you wouldn’t have to survive on scraps after meals were finished. Maybe you’d have clothes that weren’t just hand-me-downs one thread away from falling apart.

But life had other plans. The day you presented as an Omega should have been just another moment. Instead, it became the day your life broke. You’ve never seen such rage, not even from your father before that moment. A sour, suffocating fury filled the room, sharp enough to make the air feel wrong. He didn’t hit you, he threw things instead. Lamps shattered. Picture frames cracked against walls. You curled into the corner, sobbing, trying to make yourself as small as possible.

Your mother sat on the edge of the couch, staring blankly in your direction. You couldn’t tell if she was even breathing.

Your brothers laughed under their breath, snickering every time something flew past you—like your breaking point was entertainment.

Then, suddenly, everything stopped. Like you had stepped into the eye of a storm.

“Call them…” your father said quietly.

His voice was low. Final. Both fists pressed into the counter, his head hung forward.

Your mother blinked back to life. “Honey… let’s not be rash,” she said carefully. “Calling them? We can hide her. Find other uses for her—”

“No.” His voice cracked through the room like a strike. “I will not spend another cent on this abomination of a girl.”

Silence followed so sharply it felt physical.

“I will make back every penny I wasted raising you,” he continued, pointing at you without looking away. “Call them.”

You stared at him, wide-eyed. And in that moment, you understood whatever hope you had left was already slipping through your fingers. Like sand, gone before you could even try to hold it.

You gnawed at your barely there fingernails as your father reversed out of the driveway. Turning down the road that took you through the middle of town.

You sighed as you watched various people go about their everyday lives, locking away how vastly different their situation was compared to yours. Children held their mother’s hand as they skipped happily into a store. Businessmen in suits on phone calls, rushing to their next meeting.

The people slowly dwindled as you reached the other side of town, rows of farmland replacing stores, barns miles apart replacing compact luxury apartment buildings.

The sun began to set on the horizon as the paved road turned to gravel, the endless rows of crops transforming into a dense, suffocating forest. By the time your father turned down a dirt road, the sun had fully disappeared.

Thick trees lined either side, heightening the darkness. The only reprieve was the occasional flash of moonlight breaking through the branches above.

The first thing you saw was the gate. Iron bars rose high enough to disappear into the canopy. There was no sign, no name, no indication of welcome. Only a boundary between here and everything else.

Gravel crunched beneath the tires as your Father followed the long driveway, the sound swallowed quickly by the forest closing in on both sides. The trees didn’t thin; they pressed closer, branches weaving overhead until even daylight felt filtered out. There were no houses. No lights. No signs of life beyond the trees.

Just distance, Just silence. Then the estate appeared. Pale stone walls wrapped around the estate, it was impossibly large. Windows reflected the forest like dark mirrors. Nothing behind them was visible. Nothing about it felt open.

The car slowed before it reached the front steps. For a moment, it didn’t feel like you had arrived somewhere. It felt like you had been removed from everywhere.

“Get out,” your father said flatly. “They’re expecting you.”

You hesitated only long enough to hear the engine shift behind you. The car pulled away before your foot even fully met the gravel. You stood there watching the taillights disappear into the trees, then turned toward the estate.

The staircase was massive. Unforgiving. Leading up to ominous wooden double doors. You climbed anyway, what other choice did you really have?

A soft, hesitant knock was all you managed before stepping back. The door opened immediately, an Omega in uniform stood there.

“Y/N,” she said simply, bowing once. “Come in.”

You took a deep breath before nodding once as you wrapped your arms around yourself, following the Omega into the foyer.

That was how your existence within SM began.

You were left on the stairs of the estate with only the clothes on your back and the promise of payment already transferred into their account.

No goodbye. No hesitation. Not even a second look.

“At least I’m fed here…”

You sighed as you heard the footsteps of the Omega retreat up the stairs, the door closing behind them.

You rolled over, sliding the tray through the opening and eating the small portion of soup and bread. Sitting quietly against the wall. The only sounds being your chewing, and the birds chirping beyond the window high above your head.

SM was one of the largest underground packs, part of the Big 4; known for trafficking not only drugs and goods, but Omegas.

While you were fed within SM pack; That did not mean, by any stretch of the imagination, that they were better. They fed you to keep you strong enough to move, to run, to hide. They were like an octopus, with their tentacles reaching multiple levels and sections of the criminal underworld.

Their most lucrative venture, unfortunately for you, being the renting of Omegas. The head of the Omega Rentals division of the SM pack, Nikki, built the division from the ground up. He brought the idea to his father, who is head of all divisions under SM, when he became of age to begin working for the pack just as his older brothers, father, and grand father had done.

Omega rentals had been incredibly successful, and he took immense pride in the legacy he had built for himself. His Alpha relishing every time his father clapped him on the shoulders and said “I’m proud of you, son.” With a giant grin on his face.

Nikki flipped open the intake file without much interest. Most new acquisitions blended together after a while. Age. Secondary gender. Health assessment. Bond status. Compliance notes. His eyes paused for the first time that morning.

Young.

Unbonded.

Physically healthy.

No permanent injuries noted.

He could almost smell the money and see the line around the block. His eyes flicked to the housing spreadsheet. Every room had a purpose, every assignment a reason. After a brief calculation, he moved your file to the basement. The upper floors housed the general population, the maids, chefs, the division’s personal Omegas. While the basement was reserved for the Omegas that generated the greatest return. More space. More security. More control.

The basement felt damp and smelled moldy. Whenever your door opened, it revealed the same narrow hallway lined with ten identical doors, 5 on each side. Yours was the first door on the left, closest to the stairs.

You first noted the toilet in the corner with a small sink on top of it. No mirrors, so you had no idea the mess your hair or face had truly become. Looking up, you saw a small window high up on the wall, much higher than anything you could hope to reach. It was tiny enough to let in light and the sounds of birds, but never enough to tell the time.

Sleep only found you when exhaustion finally won. It felt as if your omega lie dormant, as you hadn’t felt her stir since the day you presented.

As you followed the markings on the ceiling near the window to the center of the room, you noticed two rings anchored into the concrete, quickly looking away. Shuddering. You thought it had only been a couple of days. Then again, you weren’t sure anymore.

The happy chirps of the birds had slowly faded, and you were settled on the cold ground wrapped in your blanket when a soft knock wrapped against your door.

You stood up as an Omega, judging by her scent, flipped on the lights from the switch in the hallway and stepped into your room. You hadn’t seen her in your brief time upstairs, so you were a little wary as to why she was now standing in your room.

She held a pile of folded laundry in her arms. A white shirt and white shorts, nothing more. She set them at your feet and pointed at them, turning to walk out and leaving the light on without uttering a single word.

“Uhhh…okay…” you thought before slipping off your old clothes, and placing the new ones on. You had no idea what was going on as you sat back down on the floor.

You were picking at the tears in the skin near your thumbs when your door slammed open, startling you as you clambered into the corner, curling into the fetal position.

A man walked into your room as if he had been there before, humming to himself, he kicked the door closed with his heel. You closed your eyes hoping he would go away as his scent surrounded you, so intense it was choking you like nothing you had ever encountered before.

You heard rustling to your left, you cracked open an eye to see the man looping a rope through the rings, looking at you with an eyebrow raised. He walked over, holding his hand out, causing you to curl further into yourself. He sighed before snatching your wrists in each hand, tightly securing the rope to each one.

“Now, my little pet…”

He strained as he pulled on the other side of the ropes hard, hoisting you up from the floor leaving you just close enough to the floor to stand on the very tips of your toes as you screamed. Your omega whimpering out in pain, the first sign of her in days.

“Stop…please! Let me down!” You wailed.

This caused the man to laugh. “This will be exciting. Your fear smells absolutely divine.”

You felt your dinner churn in your stomach, threatening to come up as tears streamed down your face.

“You don’t need to know my name, you will address me as ‘Sir’. Fight me and you will be severely punished.” He instructed as he pulled down your shorts and underwear in one go.

You tried your best to close your legs, attempting to keep any sense of dignity you had remaining but moving your legs caused you to lose your balance, threatening to dislocate your shoulders from the way you were hanging.

“Do I make myself clear?” He said as you felt a hard thwack on the back of your legs from the stick you hadn’t noticed he was carrying.

You sobbed as you nodded your head.

“Words, pet.”

Thwack

“Yes…yes sir…” you heaved.

He hit you with the stick for what felt like hours, giggling like a small child every time a tear fell from your cheeks onto the floor. Alternating between the back of your legs to the front, your butt, and your stomach.

He was tracing the lines left behind with his fingertips when suddenly his touch was completely gone. You thought it was finally over, but much like everything else in your life thus far, your hopes were never, ever reality.

You crashed to your knees as he released the ropes holding you in the air.

“On your back.”

He demanded and pointed towards the floor, unbuttoning his shirt and tossing it to the ground. You hesitated for a moment before following his direction.

“Please…don’t…” You begged and pleaded for him not to touch you further, he held no sympathy as he crawled towards you on the ground.

Shoving his pants down as he inched closer, pushing your legs apart with his knees.

“Shhh…just lay back and take it.” He punctuated the end of his sentence by thrusting himself to the hilt inside you.

You kicked and screamed, attempting to shove him off you by his shoulders. Digging your nails into his arms hard enough to draw blood.

“You dirty rotten bitch!” He roared as he smacked you across the face, wrapping his hands around your throat as he set an unrelenting pace.

You started to lose consciousness as he finally, after what felt like hours, finished inside you; choking and sputtering as he released his grip on your throat.

He pulled out and stood up, buckling his pants as he stared at you laid on the floor. You had lost all will to fight, but also too afraid to move.

He winced at the slight pain the marks you left on his arms caused as he pulled on his button down shirt. His eyes flashed red as anger overtook him once again, landing three kicks straight to your ribs. Spitting on you before taking his ropes, slamming the door, and leaving you in silence once again.

You were still in the same position on the floor, staring at the ceiling as quiet tears left your eyes pooling onto the floor when you once again heard a soft knock on the door. The same omega that left you fresh clothes stepped into the room and closed the door, but this time she had a look of sympathy coloring her features. “Let’s get you cleaned up…” she said gently as she wrapped her arms around your chest and helped you stand.

She lead you to what appeared to be a makeshift, sterile medical room at the end of the hallway with a shower on one side, and a bed with medical cabinets next to it on the other.

“Can you stand on your own?” She asked, turning on the water after you nodded and braced yourself against the wall.

You stood under the water, letting the warm stream mix with your tears. You washed your hair and body as fast as possible, impatient to erase the damage from the evening from your skin as much as you could. Your skin crawled as you watched the dirt and blood circle down the drain.

“I’m done…” You said in almost a whisper as you turned off the water, waiting for direction from the omega who had her back turned to you, pulling various medical supplies out of different cabinets next to the bed.

“Come over here and sit down.” She monotonely said as she handed you a towel that, frankly, looked like it had seen better days.

Rubbing down your hair, you slowly walked over and did as she asked. “Keep the towel off for now. I need to assess any injuries.” She said as she reached for your arm.

You flinched away from her, but relented when she didn’t make any more sudden movements. She stood there patiently with her hand outstretched, as if she had done this a thousand times.

“My name is Yena. I will be attending to you after every session.” She said after a pause. Rubbing medication along the tops of your thighs, covering them with bandages as she went.

”Are you trapped here too?” You asked, watching her carefully as she moved around your body.

“I do my job.” She said solemnly. “I do as I’m told and watch what I do and say, carefully. You’ll learn. Lay on your stomach, please.” You nodded and rolled over.

She continued to apply medication and bandages before moving to check your ribs.

“You might be sore for a couple days, but I don’t believe anything is broken.” She sighed. “Here, take this.”

She handed you a pill in a tiny plastic cup along with a cup of water. You took it from her and looked at it quizzically.

“What is this?” You asked as you took small sips of the water.

“Plan B. SM Pack requires that we prevent any unwanted liabilities. Once a month you will be given an implant to stop your heat.” She said plainly.

You openly gawked at her as she waved her hand, motioning you to take the medicine.

“It’s not like it matters anyways…I’ve never had a heat before. And my omega has basically abandoned me.” You scoffed, tilting your head back; swallowing the pill.

After she was satisfied, she opened the door prompting you to follow her back down the hallway.

She opened the door to your room for you, locking you in and saying nothing as you heard her retreating up the stairs. Once you were alone is when you allowed yourself to truly fall apart.

Falling onto your blanket on the floor, burying your face into the fabric. You don’t know for how long you screamed and cried, sleep eventually pulling you under as you held yourself and wished you could just disappear.

Days melted into weeks, and weeks into months, months into years. You had begun carving a line into the wall with a piece of cement you had found in a corner of your room to mark the passing of time. Once the birds stopped singing outside your window you assumed another day had gone by.

You had grown numb to the routine; someone would come in, usually Alphas—sometimes others, have their way with you, Yena tended to your wounds, helped you shower, medicine, implant when the time came, back to your room, repeat.

You had assumed today was going to be like every other when you heard the familiar soft knock on your door. Yena entered with your freshly laundered shirt and shorts, placing them on the floor when you made no movement to acknowledge her presence.

“Put this on as well…around your neck.” She said as she placed a collar on top of the pile. With newly peaked interest, more like dread, you ran your fingers along the collar. Stopping at a black box with prongs on the inside, a small lock imbedded in the material.

“Is this supposed to be touching my neck?” You asked, horrified, fingers running along the prongs.

Yena nodded, “The heads of the division have developed a new package they are offering to SM’s most valued clients. I will return in a moment to retrieve you.”

You stood, your legs unstable, as you stared at the collar. With a sigh you slowly got dressed, securing the collar around your neck as fear wracked every nerve ending from your head to your toes.

“Let’s go.” Yena said, prompting you and the other omegas standing uniformly outside their doors to follow her up the stairs.

You kept your head down, eyes focused on the back of Yena’s shoes as you walked, wanting to draw as little attention to yourself as possible.

You were lead out the large double doors of the estate, into what you presume to be the back yard. It was nearly pitch black out, the only light coming from the moon and the flashlights the boisterous circle of men laughing and talking amongst themselves were holding. In front of you the only thing you could see were trees, the dense forest surrounding the property.

Yena lined all of you up side by side before bowing to the men and moving to stand behind the tallest man of the group. He had jet black slicked back hair, wearing a suit that did not seem to match the occasion; He reeked of power and confidence, obviously an Alpha.

You sniffed the air, noticing the fresh, earthy scent of the trees before you and the grass beneath your feet. Something you hadn’t experienced since you had been sent here. Mixed with that you smelled excitement and arousal coming from the men in front of you, fear and confusion coming from the omegas beside you.

You looked at Yena questioningly as she stood behind the Alpha with her hands folded on her middle. She subtly shook her head as she made eye contact with you before drawing her eyes back to the ground.

“Are they all ready and accounted for?” The man asked, barely turning his head in Yena’s direction.

“Yes, Mr. Nikki.” She replied.

“And they all have their shock collars on? We cannot afford for this to go sideways, Yena.” He said sternly as he leaned closer to her so the men couldn’t listen in.

“Yes sir. They do.” She said, her eyes never leaving the ground.

“Outstanding.” He grinned as he turned his attention to the group of men. “Alright! Each of you gentlemen has been assigned an Omega. The shock collars around their necks are attuned to the controller you are holding, and guarantees to keep them within range. Try not to damage my inventory too much.” He said, an evil glint in his tone.

Slowly piecing together his words as you stared at him, the earth tilted beneath your feet.

“This isn’t real…” You thought as your breaths came quicker, your skin damp with sweat. “They’re hunting us…They’re actually…hunting us…”

You felt as if you were going to faint, your ears ringing and you were suddenly very, very thirsty. The sounds of the nearby group fizzled in your ears like static on a TV. Your body went deathly still, resembling that of your Mother the day you had presented.

Nearly jumping out of your skin as the blare of a horn Yena was holding high up in the air sounded. Your vision tunneled and before your brain could catch up to your body, you ran. The whoops and hollers of the group of men disappearing behind you.

You ran as fast and hard as your frail body would allow you to. You could barely see 5 feet in front of you, making your feeble attempt to hide that much harder.

You heard zaps and yelps all around you from the collars of the other omegas, steeling your resolve to get as far away as possible before they could find you.

“I just…I have to…I need to….escape….away….leave…escape…RUN.” Your thoughts were screaming as your feet moved below you, but to where? Where would you go? You didn’t know. All you knew was you had to get out.

You heard the snap of a twig behind you, before you could connect what that sound meant, your collar zapped. Shock coursing through your veins, temporarily freezing your limbs as if you had been dunked in ice water.

You to tripped over a large root in the ground as you tried to recover, slamming face first into the dirt, ripping your clothes and scraping the side of your face and shoulder. Your arms not yet connecting to your brain that you were falling to be able to catch yourself.

You screamed as you clutched your ankle as it throbbed. A dark figure appeared from behind a tree, locking you in place on the ground.

“Tsk..tsk…you weren’t supposed to make this so easy…” He was a shorter, burley Alpha dressed in jeans, brown boots, and a camo button down shirt.

You clambered backwards, ignoring the pain in your ankle, stopping only when your back reached the base of a tree.

“No! Please! Just…pretend you never found me…okay? You can do that…right?” You pleaded, grasping at straws to get the man to turn away and let you escape. Fear completely wracking your body as you trembled.

“Now where would be the fun in that?” He chuckled as he grasped your injured ankle, yanking you flat on your back on the ground. He straddled your waist as he pinned you to the ground.

“Now…what shall I do with you first? We have all night.” He grinned, attaching his lips to your neck.

At the feeling of his lips, you felt your brain snap from flight—to fight. Your eyes flashing red in fury. Your thoughts became clear, and you knew by any means you had to get this man off of you.

Sweeping your hands along the forest floor as you wriggled and kicked your legs under him, you felt a large rock just under your palm. You quickly and quietly wrapped your hand around it, moving your arm closer to your body.

With one hand wrapping around your throat, the other moving to your waistband attempting to pull down your shorts. “Stop moving…” He growled.

You took as deep of a breath as you could, given the circumstances, and used all of your strength to slam the rock into the side of his head.

“Fuck!” He roared as he fell off you, crashing on his side to the forest floor. You scrambled to your feet, launching yourself further into the forest. Your quickly swelling ankle screaming with each step you took. Adrenaline pushing you past the pain.

The Alpha stood up, clutching his bloodied temple as he searched his pockets for his controller. Finding it in pieces fragmented in his pocket, rendering it completely ineffective.

You heard footsteps quickly approaching behind you, not wanting to turn and break your concentration. The footsteps got closer, and closer until his arm shot out and wrapped around your neck. Pulling you flush to his body.

A blood curdling scream left your lips as he plunged a knife deep into your side.

“Think you can get away from me, huh?” He snickered as you fell to your knees. Tears filling your eyes. “Guess I broke the rule not to injure his inventory too badly…oh well.” He sighed as he kicked you to your side, stomping on your injured ankle over and over. Effectively breaking the bone.

You had never been in this much pain in your life, unable to scream or make noises any longer. All you could do is cry, begging him to stop…or kill you…you couldn’t quite piece together your thoughts as your body went numb with shock.

You laid on the forest floor for god knows how long. The man sitting off to your side, snoring softly. He had ripped your shirt, using part of it as a make shift bandage tied around his head. He was prolonging your suffering, waiting for you to die instead of taking you out himself. “Where’s the fun in that?” He growled into your ear for the second time that night, as you laid completely motionless on the ground.

Your thoughts ran relentlessly in circles as you tried to figure out what to do, but one thing was absolutely certain, you knew you had to survive. You had to get out of this. Slowly, carefully, agonizingly, you got to your knees. Dragging yourself closer to the man, taking a deep breath through your teeth, you ripped the knife from your side. The sound rousing the man, “What do you think you’re…” He said groggily.

He gurgled as you slit the knife across his throat, shock filling his eyes. There was little he could do as he quickly bled out, the sound of his breathing thinning until it simply stopped.

Silence settled in behind you. You didn’t wait to confirm anything.

Shaking, you tore off your shirt and were left in only your bra. With clumsy, trembling hands, you ripped the fabric at the seams and tied it tightly around your wound. It bit into your skin as you pulled it as tight as you could manage, but it was enough to slow the bleeding.

You scanned the forest floor, vision blurred from pain and adrenaline, until you found a fallen branch sturdy enough to hold your weight. It wasn’t much of a crutch, but it was something.

Every step came uneven, your injured ankle screaming in protest. You forced yourself forward through the forest long after your body stopped feeling like it belonged to you.

There was no clear sense of direction anymore, only movement. Tree after tree, shadow after shadow, the ground uneven beneath your feet as you leaned heavily on the branch keeping you upright. Every step sent sharp pain up your leg, but stopping never felt like an option.

The forest didn’t change in any noticeable way. That was what made it so unbearable.

It stretched on without landmarks, without markers, without anything to measure progress against. The light of the moon shifted slowly overhead, but even that felt unreliable, filtered through layers of leaves and branches that made the night blur together in fragments.

At some point, you stopped trying to think in distance. You only thought in steps. Then in breaths. Then in nothing at all, except the next movement forward.

Your pace grew slower without you fully noticing. The branch you were using dug into your palm, your shoulders tightening from strain you could no longer adjust to. Hunger, pain, and exhaustion layered together until they became indistinguishable from each other.

You didn’t know how long you walked like that. Long enough that your thoughts stopped forming sentences. Long enough that the forest stopped feeling like something you were moving through and started feeling like something you were simply trapped inside of.

Until, gradually, it began to thin. You didn’t recognize the shift at first, only realizing when the silence changed.

The forest still hummed behind you, but ahead of you, there was something different. A distant absence of trees. Step by step, the density broke. And then, without ceremony or warning, the forest ended.

One moment there were trees pressing in on every side, and the next there was space. Open, flat, and unfamiliar. The sudden absence of enclosure made your steps falter slightly, your body reacting before your mind could catch up.

A worn road cut through the edge of the trees, cracked pavement replacing soil and roots. Beyond it, the world spread out in a way you hadn’t seen in months, or maybe longer.

Buildings sat in the distance, low at first, then stacking upward as your eyes adjusted. Streets stretched between them in straight, deliberate lines. Everything felt too structured after the chaos of the forest, too intentional, too exposed.

The sounds were the first thing that truly hit you. No rustling leaves. No shifting branches. No distant animal calls. Instead, faint movement. Distant engines. A low hum of life that didn’t care whether you were paying attention to it or not. You hesitated at the edge of the trees.

For a moment, your body refused to step forward, as if the forest was the only thing still holding you upright. Crossing that line felt wrong in a way you couldn’t explain, like leaving one world without knowing what the rules of the next one were.

But staying wasn’t an option. So you stepped onto the pavement. The ground felt wrong under your feet. Too even. Too hard. Every step echoed faintly in a way that made you feel more visible than you wanted to be. You kept moving anyway.

The city didn’t greet you, it simply existed around you, indifferent to your presence. As you moved deeper along the quiet streets, the early morning light caught on glass and metal, reflecting back fragments of yourself you didn’t recognize.

Too pale. Too dirty. Too broken to believe you were actually looking at yourself.

No one noticed you. Or if they did, they didn’t stop.

The streets were still empty enough that you could convince yourself you were invisible, just another shadow moving between buildings that hadn’t fully woken up yet. That illusion didn’t last long.

Your steps grew weaker with each block, your grip on the branch slipping as your body finally started to win against your will. The pain in your ankle sharpened with every step, your focus shrinking narrower and narrower. Eventually, even that started to break. You turned into the first alley you could find.

It was narrow, tucked between two buildings, shaded enough to feel hidden. You staggered toward a stack of old boxes and let your body fold in behind them, your back sliding down the wall until you hit the ground.

The noise of the city faded just slightly here. Not gone, just distant enough to feel unreal. Your head tipped forward. Your breathing slowed without permission.

And for a few seconds, you tried to hold on.

Then everything went black.

“What do you want to do today, boys?” Taehyung asked as he happily skipped slightly in front of the pair of men slowly trailing behind him.

“Hmm…I’m not sure. Maybe a movie? The arcade?” Jimin questioned.

“The museum? The…Oof.” Namjoon’s sentence is cut short as he knocks in to Taehyung, who stopped dead in his tracks.

His eyes glued to the sidewalk in front of him, as he took deep breaths through his nose. His Delta whining, begging him to investigate the alleyway.

“Do you see that?” He pointed at the ground. Deep burgundy footprints stretched across the sidewalk before disappearing into the alleyway, faded from dozens of shoes passing over them.

“Do you smell that? It’s blood.” Jimin said to Namjoon and Taehyung, eyes wide.

“Omega blood.” Namjoon finished as he bent over, inspecting the markings on the ground, inhaling deeply. “Someone is hurt” He said, grabbing Taehyung’s hand leading him further into the alleyway. Jimin grasped the back of Taehyung’s shirt; burying himself into his back, taking in his scent as deeply as he could as he trembled. Taehyung used his free hand to reach out for Jimin, attempting to calm the Omega.

They carefully followed the footsteps, stopping just in front of the boxes you were slumped behind. Jimin gasped when he saw you. Small, pale, covered in dirt and blood, unconscious.

“What do we do Joon? She’s hurt!” Jimin said, panic lacing his tone. The pained howling of his Omega ringing in his hears.

“Call Hobi to come pick us up. We need to get to the hospital. Now.” Namjoon said as he carefully moved the boxes before leaning down to get closer to you. He checked to make sure you were breathing before reaching out to grab your wrist. It lay limp in his grasp as he searched desperately to check your pulse. He slowly wrapped his arm behind your back and hooked his other arm under your knees, careful not to jostle you as he stood.

Taehyung wrapped an arm around the very distressed Jimin as he pulled him to the curb. Fishing his phone from his pocket with the other hand, pressing on Hoseok’s contact.

“When will he be here? She’s still breathing, but her pulse is very weak. Damnit, she’s freezing.” Namjoon said as he joined them on the curb.

“He’s just around the corner…he shouldn’t be long.” Taehyung said over Jimin’s head, who was now fully tucked into the Delta’s chest; Jimin peering over at you over Taehyung’s arm, looking for any hint of movement.

“Drive Hoseok!” Jimin yelled as he hopped in the front seat and slammed the door after making sure you, Namjoon and Taehyung were secured in the back seat.

“Okay, Okay!” The Beta said as he stomped on the gas, ignoring all traffic lights and speed limits as they headed through the city towards the hospital.

Running through the double doors of the emergency room with you in Namjoon’s arms, the nurses startled from their seats and stared at him wide eyed as Namjoon crashed into the front desk.

The nurse looked from you to Namjoon to the blood covering you, back to Namjoon. Already making assumptions about what possibly could have happened. For a split second, suspicion flashed across her face before training took over.

“She’s dying! We need help!” He said, urgency lacing his tone.

“R-Right! Right! Follow me sir!” The nurse said, snapping from her thoughts. Her shock disappeared instantly, replaced by practiced urgency.

She scanned her badge to enter the trauma center, Namjoon following hot on her heels. Jimin, Taehyung, and Hoseok staying behind in the waiting room to fill out what little paperwork they could; included in that, a page for their statements.

Namjoon laid you on the bed and stepped back as the nurses quickly got to work hooking you up to various IV drips and machines. Another nurse guiding a rigid and unreadable Namjoon to a chair in the corner of the room, handing him the same statement paperwork his pack mates received.

“Dr. Bang, you’re needed in trauma bay 5. Dr. Bang, you’re needed in trauma bay 5. Code red.” He heard one of the nurses speaking over an intercom.

Dr. Bang didn’t waste a second. By the time he’d entered and crossed the room, his gloves were already halfway on and his attention had narrowed entirely to the woman bleeding out before him, a nurse holding out a clipboard for him to read. He quickly scanned the page, his eyes moving over the diagram where a nurse had marked your visible injuries, along with your temperature, approximate age, secondary gender, and the rest of your initial assessment.

His eyes swept over you once; blood loss, pallor, the unnatural angle of your ankle, the makeshift bandage wrapped around your waist. The assessment took less than a minute.

“Blood pressure?” Dr. Bang asked as he checked your heart rate on the monitors.

“Seventy-eight over forty-eight; and dropping.” A nurse holding an IV line stated.

“We need to wheel her into surgery, now. She’s dropping too fast.” Dr. Bang directed and unlocked the wheels to your bed. “Let’s go wash up, I will meet you in there.” He nodded to his assistant surgeon.

The nurses immediately surrounded you, one pushing from the head of the bed while another squeezed the IV bag higher as they rushed into the brightly lit hallway.

The rhythmic beeping of the monitor echoed off the sterile walls, each alarm making Namjoon’s chest tighten as he watched them disappear around the corner.

Only after the operating room doors slammed shut did Namjoon breathe in a heavy, unsteady breath. His eyes dropped to the statement form resting forgotten in his lap, but the words blurred together. For the first time since finding you, there was nothing left for him to do but wait.

You drifted toward consciousness one painful breath at a time.

Everything hurt.

Your body felt heavy, as though every bone had been replaced with stone. A relentless beeping echoed somewhere nearby, each pulse drilling into your skull. Bright light burned through your closed eyelids, making you wince before you had even managed to open your eyes.

“Where…” Your brow furrowed.

This wasn’t your room. The air smelled wrong. Too clean, too sharp.

Your eyes fluttered open, immediately squinting against the harsh white lights overhead. Strange faces surrounded you, their voices overlapping into a blur of words you couldn’t make sense of. Metal trays clinked. Someone adjusted something beside you. Cold air brushed against your skin.

Confusion lasted only a heartbeat, then panic crashed over you. You shot upright with a strangled gasp, agony exploded through your side. A cry tore from your throat as the movement pulled at your wound, threatening to rip the fresh stitches.

“Easy!” Hands caught your shoulders before you could fall.

“No! don’t let her sit up!” Someone across the room shouted.

Your pulse thundered in your ears.

“No…” you whispered, your breathing turning ragged. “No…please…”

The room tilted. Every face around you blurred together until they all became the same person. The same voices, the same room, the same nightmare. You shoved blindly at the hands trying to steady you.

“Get off me!” Your voice cracked into a sob. “Please! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to! Please don’t!”

“We need sedation,” one of the nurses called, trying to keep hold of your arm without hurting you. “She’s having flashbacks, she doesn’t know where she is. She’s going to open her wounds!”

A syringe appeared somewhere in your peripheral vision. Your eyes widened.

“No!” You thrashed harder, every movement sending white hot pain through your side, but fear drowned out everything else. “Please! Don’t! I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” The room seemed to grow louder all at once.

Then another voice cut through the chaos. Calm and steady.

“Move.” It wasn’t loud, it didn’t need to be. The nurses instinctively stepped aside as Dr. Bang approached your bedside.

He looked down at you with an expression that was focused rather than cold, his eyes moving quickly over your injuries before settling on your face.

“You’re reopening the wound,” he said evenly. “I need you to stay still.”

You stared at him in terror. Every Alpha looked the same when they stood over you. Every promise sounded the same. Every reassurance ended the same way.

“No…” you whimpered, shaking your head. Unable to focus on anything real. “Please…”

You tried to curl away from him. Pain stopped you before you got far.

He reached forward, gently but firmly taking hold of your wrists to keep you from pulling at the bandages the nurses had only just secured.

“You’re safe,” he said. The words barely registered.

Safe.

You didn’t know what that meant, you hadn’t felt real safety at any point in your miserable existence. The syringe came closer.

Your breathing dissolved into frantic gasps as you began to hyperventilate. “No! Please! Don’t!” You began trying to pull your arms free once again.

Without thinking, the doctor leaned closer. His scent reached you before his words did. Rich cedar and fresh rain. Something warm that settled over the frantic pounding of your heart. An Alpha has never smelled anything but terrifying for as long as you could remember, confusing you further.

It wasn’t deliberate. His Alpha instinctively trying to calm your terrified Omega. The effect was immediate. The panic clawing through your chest loosened just enough for you to look at him. Really look at him.

For the briefest moment, his eyes met yours. Brilliant silver flashed through them and the world stopped.

A rush of familiar warmth crashed into him so suddenly it stole the breath from his lungs. His Alpha quickly coming to the surface, threatening to take over.

Home.

Pack.

Mine.

Protect.

Mine.

It chanted over and over. The certainty slammed into him with terrifying force.

“No…” He thought as his grip faltered for a fraction of a second. “Impossible…”

His pack was complete. He already had his soulmates. So why…?

“Doctor Bang?” The nurse’s voice snapped him back. The warmth vanished beneath years of training. His Alpha begrudgingly taking the backseat. His expression hardened into perfect professionalism.

“Administer the sedative.” He directed. The medication entered your IV.

Your body relaxed almost instantly, your frantic movements slowing as exhaustion finally overtook fear.

Your eyelids grew heavier.

The last thing you saw before darkness claimed you was the doctor still standing over you, his silver eyes long since returned to their natural color.

He didn’t move until you were fully unconscious, only then did he release a slow, controlled breath.

“What on earth…” he whispered. The words barely left his lips. For one impossible moment, he simply stared at you before turning and silently walking out of your recovery room.

Namjoon had made his way back to the waiting room as directed by a nurse. The paperwork remained untouched in his lap, save for the line where he’d managed to write his name before the pen stopped moving.

Across the waiting room, Jimin paced in restless circles. Every few seconds he glanced toward the operating room doors before looking away just as quickly, his Omega whining louder each time they remained closed.

Taehyung stayed close behind him, not saying much. Just close enough that Jimin could lean against him whenever the panic threatened to spill over.

Hoseok returned from the reception desk carrying four paper cups.

“I figured…” he started quietly before realizing none of them were likely to drink anything. “…Never mind.” He set them down anyway, as assumed, no one touched them.

Every set of footsteps made them look up. Every doctor that walked past made hope rise before disappearing again.

Eventually the waiting room doors opened. A detective stepped inside. He was wearing a dark suit, his badge clipped to his belt. Professional posture softened only slightly by the sight before him.

“Seungmin!” Jimin cried as he ran towards his old friend, Taehyung following quietly behind. Seungmin offered them a small smile.

“Which one of you found the victim?” He asked.

“We all did.” Namjoon said as he made his way over, offering his hand which Seungmin shook.

The detective gave a small nod.

His eyes drifted briefly toward the blood still drying on Namjoon’s sleeves before returning to his face.

“I know this isn’t the best time, but the hospital is required to notify us whenever someone arrives with injuries like these.” He said as he looked at them sympathetically.

Seungmin turned to the front desk, asking one of the nurses seated there if there was somewhere private for them to talk. She lead them to an unoccupied office, closing the door as she left to give them privacy.

Seungmin pulled a notepad from his jacket pocket. “I just need you to tell me what happened.” He said as he began jotting down every important detail the three men relayed to him.

“We were walking through downtown.” Jimin started.

“There were bloody footprints.” Taehyung said. “They led into an alley.”

“No identification?” Seungmin questioned.

Namjoon shook his head. “No.”

“Did she say anything?” The questioning continued.

“No. We found her unconscious, nearly dead.” Namjoon confirmed.

“Did anyone follow you?” Seungmin continued.

“Not that we’re aware of.” Taehyung said.

Seungmin scribbled another note. The detective closed the notebook with a quiet sigh. His expression softened.

“If she wakes up, we’ll take her statement then.” Seungmin said as he stood to open the door, letting the three head back to the waiting room.

“I should go check on Chan while I’m here...If any of you remember anything else, you have my phone number.” The four men nodded silently. He gave them a small wave before turning to look for his pack mate.

The recovery floor was quieter. Machines hummed softly behind closed doors. Nurses walked with practiced calm instead of urgency.

Seungmin spotted him almost immediately. Still in his surgical scrubs, hair flattened beneath a disposable cap he’d forgotten to remove; Standing motionless outside one particular room. His eyes never left the woman sleeping inside.

Seungmin slowed.

“…Chan?”

No response.

He walked closer. “…You okay?” He asked as he put his hand on his leader’s shoulder. Chan blinked once, almost like he’d forgotten anyone else existed.

“…Yeah.” He said softly, almost a whisper. Seungmin wasn’t convinced, he had known Chan for far too long. “Don’t lie to me.”

Chan finally looked away from the window to the floor. His shoulders sagged in a way Seungmin hadn’t seen in a very long time. Immediately concerning the Sigma.

“I’ve never seen you look like this after surgery.” Chan said nothing. “…Did she die?”

Chan’s head snapped toward him. “What?”

“The patient.” He said as he pointed at you through the glass.

“No…She’s stable.” Chan sighed.

“Then what’s wrong? Please talk to me.” Seungmin said as he grabbed Chan by the shoulders, turning him to look at him.

Chan looked back through the glass. The room beyond was quiet, you lay motionless beneath warm blankets. Bandages wrapped around your side and head, a cast covering one leg, machines breathing and beeping softly beside you.

For what felt like forever to Seungmin as he looked at the side of Chan’s face, he said nothing.

“…She reacted.” Chan said finally. His shoulders sagging in defeat.

Seungmin frowned, confused. “…Reacted?”

“I let out my scent...” He began to explain, never turning to look his pack mate in the eyes. “I used it to calm her before anesthesia. I don’t know what happened. My alpha was howling at me to help her. I didn’t mean to. That’s never happened before…but…” He paused. “Her scent answered, she smelled like home. Like you, like the others. Our pack scent.”

Seungmin stared blankly at him. Chan swallowed. “I saw it.” He said, barely above a whisper.

“Saw…what?” Seungmin asked, disbelief lacing his tone. Chan finally looked him in the eye. “Our soulmate flash.” Seungmin’s expression emptied. “…Chan…”

“I know, I know.” Chan said as he pulled the surgical cap off his head, carding his fingers through his hair.

“That’s impossible.” Seungmin said as he turned to look at you fully through the glass.

“I know.” Chan confirmed.

“Our pack is complete.” Seungmin said definitively.

“I know.” Chan agreed. “So explain to me why…” Chan’s voice cracked for the first time “…why she smelled like home.”

Silence settled between them. Neither one spoke, neither knew how to. Beyond the glass you slept peacefully. Completely unaware that before you’d even learned their names you had already turned two packs upside down.

⟶ A/N | Well…here is the first chapter!! Please let me know what you think or any feedback at all…I hope all of you like it and the chapters to come.

⟶ Taglist | @amberash05 @chasinghxran @hanniesbubuwife @ora-la-few @idiotmaterial @mdanon027 @galaxy4489 @kaleigh-2002 @imagine-all-the-imagines @linny-bloggs Let me know if you’d like to be added!

After hours of practicing reading under the gentle but strict guidance of Hoseok, what once felt like the highest gift someone could give had turned into a curse. As it was, being literate did not come easily and your head felt like it would cave under the weight of all your new found knowledge.

Still, Hoseok remained ever patient, never once losing his temper even when you got frustrated with your own inability to put together vowels and consonants and asked to give up. Throughout the entire week after your near-heat accident, he put aside at least an hour a day - sometimes more - to sit in the corner of the palace’s humongous library with you, watching as you stumbled and whined your way through your delayed education.

After a little over a week of lessons, you could proudly spell your own name and there were no words in your vocabulary that could express the dimension of the gratitude you felt for Hoseok at the moment you finished the last stroke of the last letter of your name on the parchment before you. Your eyes immediately filled with tears, because at last there it was - your first mark on the world made entirely by your own hands and volition.

“My lady” Hoseok called, voice betraying a small amount of panic at your tears. “Is there something wrong?”

You chuckled at his reaction, thinking of another alpha that not long before had also paled before your crying. Clearly, the only reactions you could pull out of your mates were confoundment and agitation.  

“Happy tears, Sir Hoseok” you clarified, smiling. “Happy tears.”

He smiled back, lips stretching beautifully into a grin. “Happy tears” he repeated.

Your reaction to your own signature seemed to spur him on, as he invested even more of his personal time into teaching you the joys of reading, going from small achievements such as the alphabet to reading entire lines all by yourself with minimal embarrassment. He pushed you forward, confident in your abilities, even as you whined and complained - an action that in itself proved how comfortable you felt around him, as you never had the privilege to complain about anything back at your own house. 

Today was one of those whining and reading days, as Hoseok felt you had evolved enough to try your hand at poetry, picking a small collection of sonnets and other simpler works from the shelves and handing it to you. And you had been doing just fine, up until they started taking a turn for the romantic, the subject changing from the beauty of trees and spring to declarations of love. That had you choking on the words, fighting to read it without blushing or crying - both equally bad in front of your mate-not-mate. 

“Keep going” he asked when you stopped and you felt bad enough about your joke about suicidal ideation to carry on. 

“And i-if my body was may - uh, sorry - made for something” you said, fixating heavily onto the page so as to resist the temptation to look at Hoseok’s face “let it be love.”

***

“And if it was made for someone” he heard you read in a whisper, leaning in to hear you better “let it be you.”

Hoseok almost flinched when you closed the book forcefully, so hypnotized by your voice as he was. If he listened to reason, he would’ve looked away, as it was the proper thing to do when a lady was so clearly flustered, but reason and properness seemed to escape him when you were around. It had promptly fled him earlier, when out of the uncountable options of books available, he chose a poetry one, knowing well enough the psychic damage hearing proclamations of love coming from your lips would cause him.

Something seemed to grow underneath his skin with every moment he spent watching over your progress. At first, he tried to pass it off as a momentary fancy, as one could expect from spending so much time alone with an omega, but the longer it went, the more he came to the conclusion that whatever was taking root in him ran much deeper than just surface-level biology. 

It was you. Soft-spoken and quiet little you, with the occasional glimpse or flash of a quick wit you allowed to escape your sky-high walls.

For now, he decided, he would let his feelings remain unnamed. 

“There is one more line” he pushed, hoping to hear it from you, resigning himself to the guilt of knowing it would fuel his late night fantasies of which you had been a recent protagonist of most. He lied to himself, thinking that maybe hearing the final lines of the poem from your voice would sound off an instinctual alarm in his head, pointing out something fundamentally wrong in it and then he would finally be able to lay his daydreams to rest.

Grimacing, you opened the book once more and continued the sentence. “Such is the world I hope I was born into” you read, slowly and unsure, frowning over pronunciations that didn’t sound quite right to you and Hoseok held the table to fight the urge to smooth out the wrinkle on your forehead. “I was made half by the moon and I am made whole by only you.”

You paused and he urged “Finish it.” 

“I am made whole by only you, my mate.”

Once more, you closed the book, this time truly done with it. Hoseok barely registered the soft thud of it, too focused on the absolute lack of any wrongness in hearing you say the words all alphas craved to hear - but only ever from the right person. 

Something was not right and he couldn’t figure out what it was. It was something in this half reaction of his body - he was warm but not burning, attracted but not craving and it was right while hurting from not being right enough.

“You knew this poem” you pointed out, waking him from his reveries.

“Ah, yes” he answered, reaching for the book, examining its leatherbound cover. “It’s my mom’s  favorite. She read it to me when I was younger.” 

“That sounds nice.”

“I didn’t like it too much when I was a boy” he laughed. “Thought it lacked dragons and epic battles. But I grew to be quite fond of it.” 

“Even without the dragons?” you teased. 

“Even so, if you can believe it.” 

You place your chin on your palms, tilting your head sideways in a way that sent your hair cascading down your shoulder. Hoseok wondered, shamefully not for the first time, if he pressed his nose to your tresses, would he be able to find anything other than the standard and alluring smell of omega. 

“Tell me about your mom, Sir Hoseok”, you asked. 

“She’s my favorite person,” he said simply, shrugging. “I urge you to not tell that to my father, though.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“She is exceedingly smart. I remember thinking she was the smartest person alive when I was a young boy. I still do. Humorous too. She writes weekly and her correspondence always leaves me smiling. I think she would like you, if you ever had the chance to meet”.

You seemed surprised by his affirmation and he couldn’t comprehend why. Who wouldn’t like you? 

Well, Jin wouldn’t. But he had his own issues. 

“Mom’s an omega too” he watched as your eyes widened in shock.

“Is she? Truly?”

“Yes. My father and her are mates,” he pointed at the book laying between them on the table. “I guess that explains why she loved that poem so much, doesn’t it?” 

You looked down at the book, clearly rethinking the meaning of what you had read. “I’ve never met another omega” you admitted.

“They are very rare. I only know one more, besides you and my mother.”

“I’ve never met a mated pair either.”

“Oh, it’s disgusting” Hoseok complained in a good-natured manner, rolling his eyes at the memory of many moments shared between his sickly in love parents he wished he did not have to witness. “They are constantly holding hands and declaring their undying love for each other.”

“Oh. Disgusting, yes.” 

There was something undeniably sad in your tone, but Hoseok wrote it off as longing. Certainly, as it was for alphas, omegas too dreamed about finding their mate.

“Have you found yours? Mate, I mean.”

You answered in too rushed a manner for him to find it all honest. “No.” 

His next question, although he tried to sound as nonchalant as possible, seemed eager even to his own ears. “Do you want to find them?” 

You didn’t answer quickly, fiddling with your sleeves in deep thought before replying. “I used to. Now…” you shrugged, still with a sorrowful countenance. “I gave up on the notion of it. I do not mean to sound sacrilegious, or to make it seem as if I am wiser than the Moon, but I have come to give more importance to other matters beyond providence or serendipity.”

“Such as?” 

“Different forms of connection” you provided carefully. “Feasibility, as well.”

That seemed to surprise Hoseok “Feasibility?”

“There are many ways with which this world can separate what the Moon goddesses brought together, Sir Hoseok. What if a pair of mates lived so far from each other, they never had a chance to meet? What if one had died before their encounter? What if they came from such different lives or status that they could never be considered a respectful match?” 

“Surely, some understanding could be spared if they were truly a mated pair!”

“That is a very romantic line of thinking, Sir. But in some circumstances, I would consider it naive.”

“Naive!” Hoseok cried, finding it difficult to cope with your pessimism, when he had only seen the wonders of a fated match. “Do you believe me to be naive for believing in the goddesses wisdom?”

“You misunderstand me” you refuted, calm and serious despite his indignation. “I don’t place any naivety in that argument, I simply think you fail to take into account the ways of the world and our responsibilities and prejudices in it. Do you believe, for example, that the king would be happy to be mated with a beggar?”  

“I may not speak for the king. But I would be happy to be mated with anyone and it would not matter their place in this world. And there is no situation they could be in that I would not try to save them from.”

Despite the certainty in his voice, you still did not seem to believe him and that aggravated him even more. “And do you believe you would succeed in all of them?” 

“Yes” he answered. “My mate’s place is beside me. Nothing will change that.” 

You lowered your eyes, but did not reply, seemingly done with the discussion. Hoseok, on the other hand, could not let it go, unsure of why it was so important to him that you trusted his promises.

“You don’t believe me?”

“I believe you believe that. But so did I, at one point.” 

“What changed, then?” 

You raised your eyes back towards him, once more with that expression he had thought to be longing, but now with too much anguish for him to confuse with it again. But before you could answer or he could further investigate what could have possibly caused such a change of heart, you were interrupted by the arrival of none other than His Majesty.

Honestly, it had only been by pure coincidence that they had not encountered Namjoon earlier in their studies, considering how much time he spent in the library on a weekly basis. 

Namjoon had just started walking to the shelves further in the back, a couple of heavy tomes under his arm, when he heard the voices of both his friend and the omega that plagued his resting hours.  He wondered if his unreasonable obsession had worsened and he was now imagining the sound of your voice, but surely enough, there you both were, sitting across from each other in a tense staring match.

“Am I interrupting something?” 

You stood, hurrying into a clumsy curtesy. “Your Majest- I mean, Namjoon, hello!”

Hoseok only nodded slightly to his friend, eyes still on you. Namjoon took notice of how neither of you denied his question.

“Sir Hoseok has kindly offered to teach me how to read”, you offered when both alphas said nothing. “We have been practicing for a while!”

“Have you now?”

“Yes! He has proven to be a very kind and patient teacher and I am very thankful for his lessons.”

Namjoon knew Hoseok not to be particularly kind nor patient when it came to teaching his guards. In fact, he was mostly known as a demanding and menacing terror by most recruits, but Namjoon decided not to ruin his reputation and kept quiet. After all, he too would be much gentler to a pretty omega than to sweaty, undisciplined guards.

“Patient, you say?”, he asked as Hoseok avoided his questioning eyes, feigning ignorance.

“Exceedingly so! As you know, I was not taught how to read when I was younger, but now I can even write my own name! Isn’t it wonderful?”

It was and Namjoon voiced his agreement.Just as he did, your stomach made a loud rumbling noise, sending you into a blushing fit. “Goddesses, I’m so sorry!” you apologized, covering your reddened face with your hands. “I guess this is a sign that I have taken too much of Sir Hoseok’s time. I shall take my dinner in my room and leave you be.”

“Have dinner with us” Namjoon offered, watching your face contort into poorly concealed horror and Hoseok’s into a confused expression.

“I couldn’t possibly, Your Majesty-”

“Please, I insist.”

Namjoon didn’t know why he insisted nor did he know why he invited you in the first place. Once more, something had taken over his senses and pushed him towards you despite all reason.

He could see Hoseok from his peripherals, most likely worrying over the same thing as him - Jin’s attendance of their nightly dinners. Jin, who would certainly not appreciate your presence and probably consider it a terrible disturbance and invasion. 

Well, Jin would just have to make peace with it. Namjoon had decided he deserved more of your time, as it seemed it had been monopolized by his guard - a fact he unreasonably resented and would further investigate later, as he had never felt any sort of jealousy towards his best friend. As it was, you had been with them for a couple of weeks and he barely knew anything beyond the misfortunes of your life. There was certainly much more to you and he was determined to learn, if only to extend his suffering and break his own heart in a more informed manner.

“I won’t take no for an answer.”

There was a slight tremor in your left eyelid that he chose to ignore when you answered with an uneasy smile. “I guess there’s no point in saying no then.”

Namjoon grinned. “Great.”

“Great” you repeated. The tremors persisted.

°•. ✿ .•°

✿ The next chapter called "Mateless" is already available on my ko-fi to Calcifer Crew, my membership tier, and will be posted here soon! Click here if you want early access to all my updates :)

"You’re just confused.”

His fingers pressed through your coat. “I’m not confused!”

“You are. You have a commitment—”

“A piece of paper! A deal I don’t care about made before I met you, before I knew about you!”

You straightened your back. “My designation shouldn’t—”

“Fuck your designation!”

Part 1 | WC: 3.7k - [here]

“They think omegas are extinct, but that doesn’t stop them from looking.”

Part 2 | WC: 2.7k - [here]

“Then please enlighten me, because I see no good reason for this.” You opened your hands to bring his attention to the fact that you were tied up.

Part 3 | WC: 8.9k - [here]

The whiff of your scent hit him so hard he had to close his eyes so no one would see them rolling back. Then he faced you, and your gaze did something to him. It was strong and encouraging, and he was set. Suddenly, he could focus. His mind was clear and everything just worked.

Part 4 | WC: 2.6k - [here]

He shook his head violently, and in a second, his strong hands were around your head, aiming to keep you still so that his lips could crash to yours. It was sudden and brave, and you said, “Don’t.”

Part 5 | WC: 4.6k - [here]

“I think he’s hiding her,” a baritone teased, a boxy grin following suit. “I’d hide her too.” The tallest shrugged, adjusting his shirt collar.

Part 6 | WC: 6.3k - [here]

Y/N woke the following morning just as dawn began to creep through the trees. Thin light slipped through the warped glass of the cottage window and spread slowly over the rafters, the walls, the basin, the crooked shelves, and the bundles of drying herbs. It reached the closed book on her desk last, touching its cover as though the book had spent the night keeping watch. Morning often pretended to be gentle. It arrived in soft colors, laid careful hands upon things, and carried birdsong with it, but Y/N had learned long ago that it could be cruel in the most ordinary ways. Daylight revealed everything candlelight had mercifully blurred: stains, disorder, exhaustion, and all the foolish promises one made when too tired to recognize generosity from self-destruction.

Her kitchen was a disaster, and Y/N, who had lived too long among precise names, saw no reason to search for a kinder word. Bottles, bundles of roots, scraps of parchment, lengths of twine, sealing wax, spoons, folded linen, cracked nutshells, measuring weights, and half-finished work had swallowed the long table almost entirely. Some of the vials had been corked and sealed in neat ranks, standing upright with such false innocence that they might have been mistaken for evidence of discipline. Others remained open, breathing sharp vapors into the room as though exchanging private grievances. A narrow bottle near the table’s edge still steamed indignantly, releasing a faint green curl that suggested it resented not only its creation but everyone responsible for it.

Uneven bunches of herbs hung from the beams. Some had been bound carefully with string, while others looked as though Y/N had seized them by the fistful and tied them up after beginning the evening with standards and ending it with threats. Ironwort had overtaken one stool. Silverleaf dust shimmered along the table’s edge like frost brought indoors, and parchment littered the floorboards in every direction: requests, ratios, warnings, calculations, reminders, and little notes to herself written in handwriting that had grown increasingly hostile as the night wore on.

Add wax before cooling, not after, you fool.

Y/N pushed herself upright and regretted it immediately. Pain seized her shoulders with such spiteful force that she froze halfway up, one hand braced against the mattress and her breath trapped between her teeth. The wounds along her back pulled as though the night had sewn hooks beneath her skin. Sleep had stiffened her neck, while too little rest and too much candlelight left her eyes burning. Even her thoughts seemed slow to wake, limping after her as if they, too, had spent the night grinding roots, muttering charms, and making poor decisions.

She rubbed both hands over her face and stared at the room. “Luna’s mercy.”

The kitchen did not improve beneath closer inspection. If anything, the growing clarity of morning made the scene more damning. A bundle of yarrow had fallen into the washbasin. Three clean spoons stood in a jar of ink, and a row of labels had been stuck to the table rather than to the bottles for which they were intended. On the scale near the hearth, one brass weight sat opposite a dried plum, though Y/N could not remember what possible use she had imagined the plum might have in measuring medicine.

Her attention returned to the sealed vials. There were many of them, and not nearly enough.

“What did I do to deserve Hoseok when he’s enthusiastic?”

His request returned in terrible detail, less like a memory than a punishment: healing salves, fever tonics, ceremonial paints, wound powders, sleep charms, battle charms, warding sachets, smoke-clearing herbs, burn poultices, lung steeps, bruise oils, winterbit balm, and enough additional supplies to drag two hundred wolves through a winter everyone already distrusted. Hoseok apparently believed witches multiplied their hours in cupboards.

For most witches, an order of that size would have required a month. Y/N, in a moment of exhaustion and foolish affection, had promised to finish it in four days. She stared blankly ahead for several seconds before muttering, “Idiot,” to the empty cottage. No one contradicted her, which was one of the place’s less comforting habits.

She lowered her feet to the cold floorboards and waited for the room to stop tilting. The chill bit through her stockings, while beside the bed the white candle had burned down to a soft pool of wax and the hearth had nearly gone out, leaving only a dull red eye beneath the ash. Y/N remained still until the walls steadied and the pain beneath her ribs settled into something less likely to knock her sideways, then forced herself to stand.

The first step was the worst, as it often was. Her body objected in several languages, some sharp and others dull, all of them persuasive. Y/N ignored it with the practiced resentment of someone who had been negotiating with pain since childhood and had learned that pain, like certain elders, mistook every reply for an invitation to continue. She tied her hair back with the nearest ribbon, which happened to be blue and already spotted with sealing wax. Several strands escaped at once and clung to her cheek, but she let them remain. Some battles were worth fighting before breakfast. Others could wait until the world had repented of being morning.

Once she began to work, her body continued to resist, but her hands did not. That was the trouble with hands trained too young: they remembered duty before the rest of the body had agreed to wake. Her fingers reached automatically for the mortar, the scale, the spoons, the wax pot, the labels, and the quills, moving with brisk and insulting competence, like servants obeying a mistress stricter than common sense. She measured, ground, poured, sealed, labeled, and began again.

Dried feverfew, mint, and a pinch of gray salt went into the mortar, where the pestle reduced them to powder with a steady scrape. Y/N tipped the mixture into a clay bowl, added a narrow stream of steeped willow bark, and stirred until the liquid clouded gold. Fever tonic, second steep. She wrote the label in graceful, controlled script and resented her own handwriting for its serenity. It looked as though the woman holding the quill had slept eight hours, eaten breakfast, and retained faith in the benevolence of creation.

She sealed the vial and moved on to yarrow salve, marking it for surface wounds only and warning that it must not be combined with moonroot. Sleep resin followed, one pinch rather than two, then bruise oil made with wintergreen, comfrey, and a shaving of deer antler burned black at the tip. After that came the warding sachets, each filled with salt, iron filings, dried rowan berries, and a thread knotted three times.

The smells thickened until the cottage seemed to contain a forest, a sickroom, and a storm cellar all at once. Mint rose bright and cold above everything else, sage gathered heavily beneath it, and ironwort released a metallic tang like rain striking old tools. Silverleaf waited beneath its covered dish, glittering with the quiet malice of a plant that knew it was indispensable.

Y/N saved it for last because silverleaf had a temper. Added too early, it sulked. Added too quickly, it clumped and smoked. Once, during Aldara’s time, it had stained the ceiling blue for an entire week. Aldara claimed the mark resembled a blessing, though Y/N suspected she had said so only because she could not reach high enough to scrub it away.

As the morning passed, time lost its edges. Light climbed the walls by slow degrees, driving the shadows farther beneath the shelves, and the cottage warmed grudgingly, like a house that had reluctantly decided to keep its witch alive for another day. Outside, birds began arguing with the confidence of creatures convinced that morning belonged entirely to them. A wren shouted from the hedge, something larger answered from the birch, and faint claws scratched across the roof, likely Shiloh returning or pretending not to return until she had decided whether Y/N deserved a report.

The cauldron hummed while Y/N chopped stems, bark, leaves, and pale roots. The work developed a rhythm that was almost hypnotic: the knife striking the board, the pestle scraping the mortar, liquid pouring into glass, corks pressed into place, wax dripping, and the quill moving steadily across parchment. The wax pot filled the room with the warm smell of honey. The blue ribbon slipped lower and lower in Y/N’s hair until it was doing almost nothing useful, but she had no patience left with which to fix it.

The ache behind her eyes sharpened into a proper throb, and her shoulders moved beyond complaint into open rebellion. When her fingers trembled as she reached for another vial, she stopped only long enough to breathe through it before continuing with the next seal, label, measure, and pour.

Then the knife slipped and caught the side of her fingertip, quick and bright.

“Ah, damn it.”

She dropped it. The blade clattered across the table and came to rest beside the cutting board with an air of wounded innocence, as though it had been badly used by everyone involved. A narrow line of red opened along Y/N’s skin, and she stared at it for a moment, too exhausted to feel properly angry.

Salt. Iron. Warmth.

She pressed the finger to her mouth and closed her eyes. It was only a small cut, nearly nothing compared with the blood she had given the night before, the wings that had torn through her back, or the old magic that had used her bones as a doorway. Small hurts, however, possessed a particular meanness. They arrived after the great pain had already been endured and announced, quite smugly, that there was always room for more.

Y/N left the knife where it had fallen. That, more than anything, told her she had reached the limit of what stubbornness could safely accomplish. Before she could persuade herself to finish one more vial, she turned away and crossed to the window, pressing her forehead against the cool glass until the chill seeped into her skin and dulled the pounding behind her eyes.

Outside, the world looked offensively untouched. Mist drifted among the trees in pale bands, and the sky had not yet become blue, only less black. Snow resting in the hollows carried the faintest blush of dawn, while the fence posts stood beneath their little caps of frost, patient, stupid, and whole. Birds called with the cheerful confidence of creatures who had never negotiated with gods, winter stockpiles, pack debts, or chains.

Y/N closed her eyes and admitted what her body had been telling her for some time: she needed to stop.

The work was nowhere near finished, which was precisely the problem. Unfinished work had a way of manufacturing urgency simply by remaining visible. It crowded the table, breathed vapors into the room, rustled parchment, and whispered that rest was only laziness in cleaner clothes. Yet the work had begun demanding more than Y/N could safely give, and magic obeyed an arithmetic no amount of mercy could alter.

A witch who ignored that arithmetic might wake hours later to discover she had brewed poison instead of medicine, or a sleeping draught where a heart tonic ought to have been. In Cordelia’s unfortunate case, exhaustion had produced cough syrup that turned every cough into a flock of sparrows for exactly ten minutes.

Y/N remembered Aldara telling the story with tears of laughter running down her cheeks. “Ten minutes,” she had said, wiping her face with her apron. “Poor Cordelia had three patients and a pantry full of birds by supper.”

Y/N had been small the first time she heard it, young enough to find the sparrows delightful rather than alarming. She had laughed until her stomach hurt, imagining some poor old man coughing once and sending a fluttering cloud of birds into the kitchen rafters. Only later, when she was old enough to understand what tired magic could do, had the story settled differently inside her. It had not been a tale about a foolish witch after all, but a warning. Exhausted magic did not always fail. Sometimes it succeeded creatively, which was far worse.

She pushed away from the window and caught sight of herself in the warped glass. Her reflection looked pale and hollow-eyed, with her hair falling loose from its wax-spotted blue ribbon and one fingertip bright with fresh blood where the cut had opened again. Behind that faint ghost of a face, the kitchen resembled a battlefield composed entirely of useful things: vials, jars, steam, torn scraps of parchment, herbs, wax, labels, twine, bowls with cloudy rims, and spoons balanced in places no spoon had any business being.

Y/N whistled.

The sound emerged thinly at first, catching against the dryness in her throat, but it carried through the cottage all the same. It slipped between the hanging herbs, brushed the rafters, skimmed the shelves, and passed through the upper window into the gray seam between night and morning. For several moments nothing answered, and then a soft shuffle sounded on the roof.

A pale face appeared upside down in the window.

Shiloh blinked at her.

Y/N looked back. “You took your time.”

The barn owl turned her head with magnificent slowness until it appeared upright, although the rest of her body had not moved. In a less familiar creature, the motion might have been horrifying. In Shiloh, it was merely rude.

“He was awake,” the owl said.

“Hoseok?”

“No. The house.”

Y/N stared at her.

Shiloh dropped soundlessly through the window and settled upon the back of the nearest chair. Her pale feathers lay sleek against her body, her black eyes bright within the white solemnity of her face. She gave the kitchen one sweeping inspection. Since her expression appeared severe even under pleasant circumstances, the sight of Y/N’s disorder lent her an almost clerical air.

“You made a mess.”

“I’m aware. Thank you, Shiloh.”

The owl clicked her beak. “You should sit down before you fall into something expensive.”

Y/N almost argued. Pride rose automatically inside her, like an old guard dog too exhausted to bark but still willing to bare its teeth. Before she could speak, however, the room tilted. The table leaned at an angle no table ought to manage, and the shelves appeared to draw several inches closer. Y/N caught the window frame and waited for the cottage to remember how to stand still.

Shiloh watched without blinking.

Y/N sighed and lowered herself into the nearest chair, which protested because a bundle of ironwort had already claimed half the seat. She pushed the herb aside and leaned back with more care than dignity. The relief came so quickly that it was almost embarrassing.

Shiloh flew to the table and picked her way delicately among the bottles, lifting each foot high as though the clutter had personally offended her. She peered into one of the open vials, recoiled, and fixed Y/N with a look of deep disapproval.

“That one’s rude.”

“It’s for clearing smoke.”

“It’s doing to terrible job at it,” Shiloh hopped closer to the sealed vials. “Message delivered.”

“To Hoseok?”

“To the brown-haired one.”

“That’s Hoseok.”

“He had your lantern,” Shiloh said, ruffling her feathers. “Not for long.”

“Yeah, I know.” Y/N sat upright too quickly, and pain tore across her back, white and hot enough to catch the breath in her throat. “A wolf brought it to me last night.”

Her throat tightened before she could prevent it, and the memory returned at once, sharp and warm as breath in frost: moonlit fur beneath her fingers, a heavy head resting in her lap, the slow, steady thud of a great heart against her palm.

“Does Hoseok know who it was?” she asked, though she already suspected the question was useless.

Shiloh gave her a look of profound avian impatience. “No. The wolf took the lantern and left before he could object.”

“Hoseok saw him?”

“He said”—Shiloh puffed herself up in a poor imitation of Hoseok’s easy manner—“‘Well, that saves me a trip.’”

Y/N closed her eyes. Something foolish and warm moved through her chest and immediately attempted to disguise itself as irritation. The disguise was not convincing, but she allowed it the courtesy of pretending.

“Did he say anything else?”

Shiloh tipped her head. “‘Tell Bridd her thief has better manners than most nobles.’”

Y/N covered her face with one hand. “Oh, marvelous.”

“And then he gave me sausage.”

She lowered her hand and looked at the owl. Shiloh returned the stare with the serene confidence of a creature whose conscience had never once interfered with breakfast.

For a while, neither of them spoke. The cottage settled around them while the cauldron hummed softly upon the hearth. Wax slid down the side of a sealed vial and hardened there like a frozen tear. Outside, the birds continued their foolish morning disputes as the mist among the trees thinned beneath the strengthening daylight. Y/N felt the chain around her ankle, cool and constant beneath every other sensation, along with the ache in her back and the small pulse of pain in her fingertip.

She had work to do, but she also had limits, however inconvenient they might be.

Reaching for the nearest scrap of parchment, Y/N wrote in large letters, Rest before silverleaf, then fixed the note to the table with a smear of wax where she could not possibly miss it.

Shiloh watched approvingly. “Sensible.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

Y/N leaned back and closed her eyes for a moment. The chair was hard, and the kitchen smelled of herbs, smoke, damp wool, hot wax, and unfinished work. Dawn spread pale and pitiless across the floorboards. Somewhere in the village, a new alpha was probably waking to congratulations, bruises, and the terrible realization that everyone would now expect him to behave like a man who knew what he was doing.

The thought brought the faintest curve to Y/N’s mouth. Then, because she was not entirely a fool, she remained seated.

“You’re off to Yoongi’s,” she said at last.

Nothing visible changed in Shiloh’s face, but the air around her became suspicious.

Y/N fastened a small satchel to the owl’s leg. “Hellebore, copper leaves, and powdered moonroot. Tell him I’m not trading pearls. I’m nearly out.”

Shiloh blinked once, radiating disapproval.

“Yes, I know. He always grumbles.”

The slow blink she received in answer nearly made her laugh. Y/N tied the final knot while Shiloh endured the indignity with royal patience. Before taking flight, however, the owl brushed one wing lightly against her cheek.

The gesture was so gentle that Y/N softened at once. “Yes,” she murmured. “Thank you.”

Shiloh lifted into the morning haze and vanished between the trees, leaving the cottage quiet again. Not completely quiet, because it never was. The cauldron murmured, dried herbs clicked softly in the draft, and somewhere beneath the shelf a trapped bubble escaped from last night’s tincture with a small plup. Still, the room could hear itself think again, and that was no small thing.

Y/N turned back toward the work. Hoseok’s order had conquered nearly every available surface, though she had managed to wrest some order from the chaos. Sealed jars stood in careful rows. Steeping basins breathed green and gold vapors into the room, and bundles of sorted herbs lay tied and labeled beside cramped inventory pages filled with practical notes, irritated remarks, and writing so small that even Y/N was not certain she wished to know what it said.

Namjoon’s list rested folded near the scale. His requests were practical, as she would have expected: burn salve, joint rub, restorative powder for old injuries that turned vicious in the cold. Sensible remedies from a man who understood that survival was rarely about glory. More often, it was maintenance, the quiet labor of preventing what was already damaged from breaking further. There was something almost comforting in the plainness of his list. It knew winter would hurt and intended to answer without ceremony.

Jimin’s list was different.

His parchment waited at the edge of the desk, where Y/N had already set it aside three times and picked it up four. He wanted a potion that would allow shifting without pain, portable suppressants for heat, and, strangest of all, a camouflaging elixir capable of blurring not only the body but the reflection of the soul.

That request troubled her.

Pain relief, discretion, and mobility she understood. A wolf’s body was not always a gentle place to live, regardless of what the songs claimed. Shifting could leave old wounds howling, while heat brought its own private misery. Blurring the soul, however, belonged to a different kind of concealment. It suggested fear, desperation, or preparation for something one did not wish even unseen things to notice. Whoever had written the request understood enough of Y/N’s craft to lead her directly to its boundary and stop, leaving her to decide whether crossing it would be wisdom or folly.

That was why Aldara’s grimoire now rested upon the desk.

Y/N had not opened it since Aldara died. Dust lined the clasp, and the old leather still carried the faint scents of lavender oil, smoke, parchment, and the dry patience of old magic. Her hand hovered over the cover longer than necessary. It was foolish, perhaps, to dread a book, but some books were more than pages and binding. Some were voices that had learned to remain silent until touched.

At last, Y/N opened the grimoire. The pages released a low sigh, and Aldara’s handwriting stared back at her, sharp, slanted, and unforgiving, the margins crowded with corrections, warnings, and insults aimed at anyone foolish enough to improvise. Y/N turned the pages until she found the recipe, and it was every bit as unpleasant as she remembered.

It called for swamp toads, dried and powdered only after the moon had fully left their skin; crushed moonstone sifted through silk; dawn’s breath caught in dew before sunrise; copper leaves bruised rather than cut; and a single shaving of mirror-root no wider than a child’s fingernail. The balance had to be exact. A lesser hand would produce sludge, a hurried one fumes, and an arrogant one, according to Aldara, might briefly rearrange its owner’s face.

Y/N rubbed the space between her brows. Some ingredients could not be coaxed from even the best-stocked cottage. Marceline’s son, Armand, might answer if a message reached him, provided he was sober, had not lost his boots to the swamp, and did not mistake urgency for an invitation to disappear for three days. Armand regarded reliability as a vulgar trait, which was why Y/N trusted Delinah more. The gentle doe occasionally wandered into the clearing with dew-soaked herbs caught in her antlers and accepted fruit or salt in trade. Forest creatures were dependable in ways witches rarely managed. They forgot only when frightened and almost never lied.

By the time the fog lifted beyond the windows, the cauldron was murmuring steadily and magic had thickened the cottage air until it shimmered whenever Y/N crossed the room. She worked without elegance, because real work stained cuffs, cramped fingers, burned eyes, and made a woman’s back ache until she began speaking to the cauldron simply to reassure herself that she still possessed a human soul.

“Steady the silverleaf,” she murmured while stirring one mixture. “Cool the oil. Bind wax to skin. Keep the moonroot clear.”

Her voice grew rough from the constant half-whispering, while steam, smoke, poor light, and Aldara’s cramped notes left her eyes burning. The cut on her finger stung whenever she touched salt or resin, one of those small injuries not serious enough to stop a person but persistent enough to accuse her with every movement. Her back ached as well. Beneath her shirt, where the wounds left by the wings were still closing, pain pulsed low and steady—not urgent or dramatic, but impossible to ignore whenever she allowed herself to notice.

So she refused to notice.

She kept working because Hoseok’s request occupied every corner of the cottage like an affectionate hound that had mistaken the place for its own. She worked because Namjoon would never complain if his supplies arrived late, which somehow made her even more determined not to disappoint him, and because Jimin’s list remained in her thoughts like a splinter she could not reach. Four days had been a foolish promise, but now that she had made it, breaking it felt worse.

Shiloh called from outside, and relief moved through Y/N so quickly it nearly weakened her. She wiped her hands on her apron and hurried to the window, narrowly avoiding the corner of the table. The owl landed heavily on the sill, her feathers puffed with mild irritation.

That usually meant Yoongi, weather, or waiting. The sky was clear, so Y/N blamed Yoongi.

A small sack hung from Shiloh’s talons beside a folded letter stained with smoke, salt, and road dust.

“From Yoongi?” Y/N asked.

Shiloh dipped her head with the air of someone answering a question that should never have needed asking. “Who else?”

“There’s no need to be rude.”

“You’re unbearable in the mornings.”

“I learned from you.”

Y/N untied the letter and opened it. Yoongi’s handwriting moved across the page in elegant slants, always surprising from a man who lived among crates, marsh roads, salt sacks, and questionable suppliers. He wrote like a court musician and cursed like a dockworker.

Y/N,

Several items were unavailable. The sea witch coven purchased most of the hellebore and moonroot for their summer rites. You’ll have to barter with them yourself. Tell them I sent you. They owe me a favor or two.

Yoongi

Y/N let her head fall back and groaned at the ceiling. “Of course they did. When do they not?”

She could picture the entire thing: sea witches purchasing every usable scrap of moonroot for some tide ritual or midsummer blessing disguised as civic necessity. They had a gift for making selfishness sound communal. They would smile, speak solemnly of currents and collective need, and leave everyone else without the very ingredient required to keep werewolves from tearing their shoulders apart during a difficult shift.

Shiloh blinked at her.

“Yes, yes. Complaining is not procurement.”

The owl remained motionless.

“All right, Shiloh. Let’s make you useful again.”

Suspicion entered the set of her feathers at once. “What now?”

“You’re going to Jin’s.”

Y/N reached for a clean scrap of parchment and began writing.

“Seokjin?” Shiloh clacked her beak.

“Yes. Do you know another Jin?”

The owl puffed herself to nearly twice her usual size. “I don’t like his dog.”

“He’s a puppy.”

“He attacks me every time I go there.”

Y/N tied the note to Shiloh’s leg while the owl sulked with impressive dedication. “I need those herbs,” she said, tightening the final knot. “Jimin’s order is not going to finish itself.”

Shiloh released a long, theatrical groan.

“Go now, and I’ll give you the night off. The marsh will be yours.”

That gave her pause. The marsh meant frogs, privacy, no messages, and gossip. Morla, the hundred-year-old tortoise who lived in Marais’s wetlands, held nightly gatherings where the woodland creatures discussed every scrap of Caledon’s business. Shiloh claimed she attended only for the frogs, though Y/N had never believed her.

At last, the owl gave one short chirp.

“There’s my girl.”

Shiloh spread her wings and slipped into the brightening morning with the wounded dignity of a messenger far too important for errands and far too fond of gossip to refuse them. Y/N watched until the pale shape vanished between the trees, leaving behind only a brief tremor of leaves and the faintest suggestion of wings swallowed by haze. Then the forest closed around the disturbance and stood as though nothing had passed through it at all.

Y/N remained at the window with one hand resting on the sill. Outside, the day had fully settled over the clearing. Sunlight fell in long, slanting bands, gilding the frost where it still clung stubbornly to the shaded grass, while water dripped from the cottage roof in slow, patient notes. Beneath the eaves, one bird made a rude remark to another, and the second answered as though the dispute were of national importance.

Inside, the cottage waited in its own restless way, breathing through small creaks and sighs, the soft brushing of hanging herbs, the muted simmer of the cauldron, and the occasional click of cooling glass. The room looked less like a kitchen than a battlefield where no one had died but everything had been badly inconvenienced. Bottles stood in untidy clusters. Parchments curled at the edges. Labels clung to Y/N’s sleeve, the table, and one unfortunate spoon. The smell of work had thickened until it seemed almost visible: resin, ironwort, mint, hot wax, damp bark, bruised leaves, old smoke, and the deep green scent of roots that had objected to being pulled from the earth.

Y/N drew back from the window and whispered a tidying charm. It was a small spell, one of the first Aldara had taught her, and it carried the comforting simplicity of an old kitchen song. Not every act of magic required blood, sorrow, or stars. Some needed only a firm word spoken over a mess.

A quiet shiver passed through the cottage, not cold but alert, as though the furniture had been dozing and suddenly remembered its manners. Finished vials rose from the clutter and hovered above the table like a little glass constellation, catching the morning light in shades of green, gold, brown, and cloudy white. Their labels turned outward while corks tightened with tiny, self-important squeaks. The bottles arranged themselves neatly inside woven carrying bags, which drew their own strings shut and tied them into orderly bows. Scraps of parchment rustled together into tidy stacks. Spoons slid toward the basin with the guilty haste of children caught where they did not belong, and a roll of twine that had made a brave attempt to escape beneath the table hopped back into its basket and settled there as though rebellion had never entered its mind.

Those small islands of order steadied her. Y/N stood in the middle of the kitchen and released a breath she had not realized she was holding. Tidiness could not erase the pain in her back, loosen the chain around her ankle, finish Hoseok’s outrageous list, or answer the question sitting like a dark bead at the center of Jimin’s request. It did, however, give her eyes somewhere calm to rest, and sometimes that was all a tired soul needed before it could continue.

She returned to the cauldron. The iron pot sat above the hearth, black-bellied and solemn, its surface hidden beneath a skin of pearly vapor. Y/N touched the hook above it and whispered the waking word. Blue fire flared beneath the pot, shedding its orange and yellow at once as the flames thinned, sharpened, and became something colder and cleaner than ordinary fire. Their light climbed the soot-dark curve of the cauldron, flashed against the bottles, and turned the hanging herbs strange and underwater.

The camouflage potion had reached its dangerous stage.

Y/N felt it before she saw it, the way one sensed a storm building behind a hill. The ingredients had ceased to be separate but had not yet agreed upon what they would become, leaving the brew suspended in the most treacherous part of any complicated working. Earlier, a witch could correct a mistake. Later, she could test the result. Here, in the narrow passage between, nothing could be hurried and everything could still be ruined.

Steam curled from the pot, changing color as it rose. Green bled into gold, gold dissolved into blue, and blue thinned almost to transparency before darkening once more. The shades did not mingle like dyes but folded through one another like moods, and the scent shifted with them: sweet, sharp, mossy, metallic, like rain upon stone, leaf mold beneath old trees, fresh-stripped bark, and something faintly reminiscent of lightning. Beneath it all lay another scent Y/N could not properly name, something that smelled almost like hiding.

Outside, sunlight filled the clearing with broad honesty, but inside the cottage the blue flames and shifting steam made the room feel submerged. Y/N might have been standing at the bottom of a winter pond, watching the world tremble and bend above her.

She took up the long spoon and stirred once. The potion resisted, though not with the simple heaviness of a thick mixture. It pulled subtly against the spoon, yielded too quickly, and then gathered itself along the edges of the pot.

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “None of that.”

The cauldron answered with a small, offended bubble.

The potion was narrowing toward its most fragile state. One careless motion could turn it to sludge, one incorrect ingredient to smoke, and one hurried word to something worse. Worse was a large country in magic, and Y/N had traveled enough of its roads to know she had no desire to return.

Hoofbeats sounded outside.

She lifted her head. “Finally.”

After wiping her hands on her apron, Y/N crossed to the door. Warm afternoon light spilled over the threshold when she opened it, and Delinah emerged from between the trees.

The doe entered the clearing with the wary grace of a creature that had never forgotten fear but had decided, for the moment, not to obey it. Sunlight turned the tawny fur along her back to gold, while fine white speckles dusted her sides like scraps of late snow that had refused to melt. Her eyes were dark, gentle, and far wiser than those of most people who claimed wisdom aloud. Between her teeth, carried with grave importance, was a small glass jar.

Inside it, three plump swamp toads regarded the world with deep displeasure.

Y/N softened immediately. “Ah, my little savior. Come in.”

Delinah crossed the threshold, her hooves tapping lightly against the floorboards, and lowered the jar onto the table with great care. Relief loosened something in Y/N’s chest. The doe had brought more than ingredients. She had brought company, and Y/N was struck once again by how much that mattered. Loneliness could remain in a room for so long that one began to mistake it for furniture; then another living creature entered, and the room remembered what it was meant to be.

“Stir that for me, please,” Y/N said, nodding toward the cauldron.

Delinah gave one calm nod, took the long spoon between her teeth, and began stirring in slow, careful circles. The scents of moss, grass, and sun-warmed bark rose from her coat and softened the harsher smells of the cottage. Y/N pulled on her worn gloves and turned toward the jar.

The toads stared back at her. One blinked with extraordinary slowness.

“I know,” Y/N murmured. “I’ve tried everything else. Snails, mushrooms, lotus, those dreadful silver worms from Yoongi’s marsh box. Nothing works quite like you do. I’m sorry.”

The toads offered no protest, though Y/N could not tell whether their silence came from resignation, stupidity, or some obscure amphibian wisdom. Certain creatures seemed empty when quiet, while others seemed profound. Toads were difficult to judge. They possessed the faces of philosophers and the habits of damp stones.

Y/N laid two fingers against the glass and began the sleeping spell. It was a soft, circular charm, meant to carry rather than seize. She had never liked spells that grabbed. Force was sometimes necessary, but necessity had a dangerous habit of becoming preference when people were not careful. This spell moved gently, round and round, like a mother’s hand soothing a child’s back. The glass clouded faintly beneath her fingertips, and one by one the toads relaxed. Their throats slowed, their blinks lengthened, and their stout bodies settled into sleep.

Delinah continued stirring with the steady patience of some small brown spirit of the forest while Y/N lifted the toads from the jar. They were cool, damp, and disturbingly trusting in sleep. She lowered each one carefully into the cauldron.

The potion hissed as pale green steam twisted from the cauldron, thin at first before thickening into ribbons. Magic pressed outward from the pot with enough force to lift the fine hairs along Y/N’s arms and make the cut on her finger pulse. Bottles trembled upon their shelves, the blue fire narrowed into bright spears beneath the iron belly, and even Delinah slowed, her dark eyes widening around the spoon held between her teeth.

“Here,” Y/N said, reaching for it. “I’ve got it.”

Delinah released the spoon at once and stepped back. The chant came easily after that, as though it had been waiting behind Y/N’s teeth all morning. Aldara’s words slipped from her tongue, old and metallic, sounding less like poetry than instructions passed down by people who had survived, which was often better than poetry and almost always more useful.

The potion answered. Steam drew tight above the surface, and the bubbling changed pitch, dropping low before rising into a thin silver hum. Green deepened, brightened, and gradually cleared as Y/N leaned closer, stirring in smaller circles. Her shoulder protested, her back burned, and her wrist trembled beneath the strain, but she ignored all of it.

“Come on,” she whispered. “Just a little more.”

The green thinned toward gold, and the gold toward clear. Light bent across the surface at impossible angles until the potion reflected the rafters, the hanging herbs, Y/N’s pale face, Delinah’s dark eyes, and the blue fire beneath the cauldron all at once, though none of the images rested where they should have. Y/N’s hand stopped. For one perfect second, the entire room held still.

She let out a breath. “It worked.”

Delinah startled at the words before steadying herself, but Y/N had already turned and thrown both arms around her neck, heedless of dignity and the pain tearing across her back.

“It worked, Dee. It finally worked.”

Laughter spilled out of her, bright, sudden, and half disbelieving, startling one of the spoons into rattling against the basin. Y/N pressed her face into Delinah’s warm coat and breathed in grass, bark, living forest, and the clean animal scent of sunlit hide. The doe endured the embrace with patient dignity, as though witches regularly flung themselves upon her after successful potions and it was simply another duty of woodland citizenship.

“Good job, Y/N,” Delinah said in her calm, low voice.

The plainness of the words nearly undid her. Y/N had heard praise in grander voices. Packs had chanted her title against stone, and people had called her blessed, necessary, moon-touched, and a dozen other things large enough to fill a hall. Yet good job, spoken by a gentle doe in the middle of a ruined kitchen, reached somewhere much softer.

“Thank you,” Y/N said as she drew back. “Truly. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

She meant it.

Still smiling, Y/N crossed to the woven sack beside the cupboard. Crisp cabbages, two turnips, and parsley roots wrapped in cloth filled it with the honest smells of cellar earth and green cold. They had been grown without spellwork, which made them nearly miraculous in their own right.

“Your payment.”

Delinah peered into the sack, and her tail flicked with approval. “I’ll hold you to the apples next time.”

“You will,” Y/N promised.

She scratched behind one velvet ear, and Delinah leaned into the touch just enough to admit she enjoyed it without surrendering her dignity.

“Safe travels, beautiful.”

The doe took the sack handle carefully between her teeth and stepped back into the trees. For a moment, she remained plainly visible, tawny and sunlit, her ears turned toward some distant sound too faint for Y/N to hear. Afternoon gold lay softly across her back, and the white speckles along her sides resembled late snow that had forgotten to melt. Then she passed between two dark trunks, and the forest took her without ceremony, as forests often did. They were very good at keeping what belonged to them.

Y/N remained in the doorway for a moment, smiling like a fool. One impossible thing had become possible.

Behind her, the cauldron waited among the finished vials, tied bags, folded lists, herbs, smoke, aching labor, and the mountain of work still ahead. For the first time that day, however, the room did not feel as though it intended to swallow her whole. It looked like something she might survive, perhaps even something she might finish.

She returned to the workshop. Parchments covered every flat surface, open jars lined the shelves, and mint and wormwood brushed her hair whenever she moved too quickly. Spoons, pestles, scales, uncorked bottles, ribbons, wax scraps, tags, herbs, powdered roots, stained cloth, and folded linen occupied the cottage with the grim determination of settlers claiming new land. Everything appeared necessary and abandoned at once.

It should have been unbearable, but with the finished potion resting clear inside the cauldron, the clutter had gained shape. It was no longer chaos. It was aftermath, and aftermath meant survival.

Y/N peeled off her gloves. Her joints protested, and the cut on her finger tugged where the leather had stuck. When she flexed her hand, a thin bead of blood appeared again. Silver-blue dust clung to her skin, gathering along her knuckles and the lines of her palms, making her hands look older than they were, or perhaps only more honest.

“Finally,” she whispered. “Something goes right.”

The potion did nothing in response, which was miracle enough. It had settled into perfect clarity without clouding, sediment, or oily residue gathering at the edges. The surface lay smooth as glass and faintly illuminated from within. It seemed impossible that anything brewed from swamp toads, moonstone, dew, and several muttered threats could appear so pure, though Y/N knew better than most that many pure-looking things had unsettling ingredients.

It was a small miracle, but in a world that usually demanded twice the effort for half the reward, small miracles were enough to make a woman smile at a pot.

Exhaustion still lived in Y/N’s spine, behind her eyes, in the tremor of her wrists, and across the wounds healing beneath her shirt, but it had been joined by something brighter. Excitement wound through the weariness like a strand of gold wire, thin and stubborn. It did not make her less tired, exactly, but it made the tiredness feel less lonely.

She reached for the ladle and began filling the narrow bottles. The potion flowed clear and smooth, substantial enough to matter yet so light it seemed almost unreal. Some bottles appeared to hold moonlight, while others looked empty until Y/N turned them and pale brilliance moved beneath the glass like a fish slipping under ice. She arranged them in even rows across the table, because order soothed her whether she admitted it or not, then fitted the corks and warmed a spoonful of resin above the blue fire until it loosened and shone. One by one, she sealed the bottles with glossy amber rings scented faintly of pine and lavender.

Care mattered. Success was skittish and could still be frightened away by pride, haste, or that fatal little voice whispering there, good enough before the work was truly finished.

Y/N glanced toward the rafters, half expecting a delayed hiss, a crack, or some malicious little pop from the fire. “No explosions this time.”

The cottage seemed to hold its breath. The cauldron remained quiet, and only one bottle made a tiny, innocent click as its glass cooled.

Y/N pointed at it. “Don’t start.”

Nothing did.

She allowed herself a small smile and sealed the final bottle before drawing a fresh label toward her. This one she wrote more carefully than usual, shaping each word as though neatness might help contain the thing itself.

Camouflaging elixir. Soul-veiling property. Use sparingly. Do not combine with heat suppressants. Do not use beneath the full moon unless supervised.

The remaining labels were less accusatory. Shift-ease draught. Joint and bone. Three drops before change. Pain reduction, not prevention. Another read, Heat suppressant, portable. One vial only. Wait six hours before a second dose. Y/N wrote until her fingers cramped and the ink dried in shining black loops, transforming the neat row of bottles from something dangerous and uncertain into something that looked almost like medicine.

When she finished, she leaned both hands against the table and lowered her head. For a moment, she allowed herself to feel the victory, though only quietly, in the private place where she kept the few things no one had yet asked her to surrender. The potion had worked. Aldara’s grimoire had opened without breaking her. Delinah had come, Shiloh had flown, and the cottage remained unexploded. A day that had begun in pain and ruin had yielded one clear, bright thing.

The chain around her ankle shifted in answer, no more than a cool reminder.

Y/N opened her eyes. “Yes,” she murmured. “I know.”

There was still more to do. There was always more. Hoseok’s list sprawled across the table like a cheerful insult, while Namjoon’s practical requests waited with patient reproach. Jimin’s bottles stood sealed and gleaming, asking questions she was not yet willing to answer. Yoongi’s letter lay beside the scale, carrying the faint scents of smoke and salt. Shiloh should have been on her way to Seokjin and his supposedly vicious puppy, while the sea witches had purchased half the moonroot in Caledon under the noble excuse of summer rites. Y/N’s back still hurt, her finger bled whenever she bent it, and she had slept too little, eaten almost nothing, and spent far too much of the morning speaking to a pot.

Still, something had gone right.

She straightened carefully and packed the finished elixirs into a padded case lined with wool and soft leather. A blue cord tied itself beneath her fingers with obedient grace. Y/N set the case apart from the others, not because it was more important, but because some things required distance until one understood whether they were medicine, mistake, or warning.

Outside, the sun moved westward another finger’s breadth. Inside, the cottage glimmered with glass, wax, and the lingering blue of magical fire. Y/N drew a slow breath, reached for the next list, and began again.

Her body settled into a second rhythm after that, looser than before and almost calm. The low fire crackled beneath the cauldron, the forest breathed through the windows, and glass chimed softly beneath her hands until the cottage seemed to breathe with her.

She had believed it did even as a child. Perhaps not literally, though one should never be too certain about magical houses. The cottage shifted with her moods, settling when she settled and tensing when she did. It listened when she was alone, and sometimes, when she was very tired, it appeared to answer by creaking in precisely the right place or dropping precisely the wrong spoon.

The table carried the quiet evidence of Y/N’s habits: jars, rain-cleaned bones, fragments of quartz, broken buttons, river-smoothed bottle caps, sea glass from Yoongi, a brass key that opened nothing she knew of, and a blue bead discovered years ago in the herb garden. Useless, beautiful remnants.

Aldara had once laughed when she saw them.

“A crow’s heart,” she said, holding a piece of green glass between her finger and thumb. “Always gathering whatever the world leaves behind.”

Y/N had been proud of that then. She imagined herself clever and bright-eyed, carrying small treasures back to a hidden nest. Since Aldara’s laughter left the cottage, however, collecting had become something else. It filled the silence. It proved that little things could still be kept, even when larger ones were taken.

Y/N cut a length of silver twine with the bone-handled knife and tied it around a finished box, leaving the ends curled into delicate spirals. “Beautiful,” she murmured, and at the word the boxes rose in a slow drift above the table.

Golden light flickered around their edges as the ribbons tightened themselves into bows. Y/N’s sigil appeared in black ink across each lid: a small bird caught in mid-flight, drawn in only a handful of lines and belonging to no species anyone could name. It was not quite a raven or an owl, only a little creature in the act of leaving.

The details came last. Y/N painted Aquila along the edges of every lid in thin silver strokes, and the constellation brightened faintly as the ink settled, star by star, until each parcel seemed to carry a narrow piece of night sky. The decoration was unnecessary, perhaps, but she had never been able to send her work into the world complete in chemistry and unfinished in spirit. Practical things still deserved beauty. Perhaps they deserved it most of all, because they were what people reached for when they were frightened.

Afternoon bent gradually toward evening as Y/N continued. Lamplight softened across wood, glass, sealing wax, and the loose strands of hair falling around her face. Each parcel felt like a small offering, practical but still sacred in its own quiet way: labor wrapped, sealed, and sent toward hands, paws, dens, wounds, fevers, births, and battles she would probably never see.

She tucked folded cards into the boxes, each one carefully inscribed.

For healing and renewal. Brewed beneath the blessing of Luna Sol.

Thin guidance slips followed, each carrying a minor charm that would awaken beneath a touch and lead the bearer to Y/N’s doorstep, provided they sought her properly. Those who stood beyond the reach of her pathwork would be guided instead to Yoongi’s cottage deep in the woods. She pictured him at once, humming over some endless pot with his sleeves rolled high, elbow-deep in kelp or marsh reeds, looking as though he were thinking of three things at once and disappointed by two of them.

The image eased something in her chest. She was not entirely alone in the work, and that mattered more than she liked to admit.

If Y/N could not travel far, then what she made could. Her hands could go where her feet were forbidden. Her salves could cross thresholds that would never open for her, and her charms could rest in pockets, saddlebags, nurseries, sickrooms, hunting cloaks, or the narrow space between someone’s fear and their next breath. She could not belong to the pack, but her work could still be needed by it.

It was not the same, but it was something.

Only one stack remained: Jimin’s.

It sat apart at the far edge of the table, as though the room itself understood not to crowd it. The boxes were wrapped in plain brown paper, without ribbons, bird sigils, or anything else bright and warm. Only Aquila marked the tops in silver. Y/N brushed her thumb across the cool ink and felt a warmth remain behind that she did not want to examine too closely.

She could not bring herself to decorate them further. Anything more would have felt too intimate, too soft, too near to something she had no intention of naming. Plain was sensible, professional, and respectful. Plain kept hands on their proper sides of a threshold.

Her thoughts betrayed her immediately, offering Jimin’s dark, steady eyes, the careful weight of his voice, and the quiet restraint that always made it seem as though he carried far more than he chose to say. His request mattered more than she wanted it to. Not because it was difficult—many people asked difficult things of her—or because he understood more of her craft than most. It was something else, some strange chemistry of attention and distance that her mind had no business revisiting over a stack of parcels.

“Plain is best,” she murmured. “Simple. Professional.”

A small chirp sounded above her, precisely amused.

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “Oh, hush.”

Shiloh sat in the rafters, pale, tidy, and unbearably smug.

“You would tease Aldara herself if she were here.”

The owl ruffled her feathers and turned away, announcing victory without saying a word. Y/N smiled despite herself. The cottage always felt warmer with Shiloh inside it—not louder, because Shiloh was not made for noise unless she wished to be troublesome, but inhabited. She filled a little of the quiet where Aldara’s laughter had once lived. Even sarcasm was company when it chose to remain.

“Did you go to Jin’s?” Y/N asked while straightening a stack of boxes she had already straightened twice.

Shiloh snapped her head around. “No. I refuse.”

Y/N lifted her brows. “Where did you go?”

The owl turned toward the open window and presented one immaculate shoulder. Silence stretched between them until even the hanging herbs seemed to be waiting for an answer.

“I ate a mouse and came back,” Shiloh said at last. “It was large. I needed to rest.”

Y/N stared at her while the cottage seemed to still around them, then slowly folded her arms. “Shiloh.”

The owl did not move.

“You mean to tell me that while I was brewing enough medicine to drag Lykos through winter, sealing bottles until my hands cramped, and trusting you with an urgent errand, you were eating a mouse?”

Shiloh turned her head just enough to regard Y/N with one black eye. “Seokjin has a dog.”

Y/N pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose. “You’re a messenger owl.”

“I’m an independent professional.” Shiloh puffed herself up until she looked nearly twice her natural size. “I’ve already endured Hoseok and Yoongi. I do not wish to fight Seokjin and that insolent dog.”

“Would you prefer to sleep outside?”

Her feathers flattened immediately.

Y/N raised her brows, and after a long, offended pause, Shiloh huffed, beat her wings hard enough to send the herbs swaying overhead, and launched through the window in a pale rush.

“Coward,” Y/N called after her.

A faint screech answered from the trees. She remained where she was with her arms folded, listening as Shiloh’s indignation traveled through the evening wood, striking one birch, slipping between two pines, and dissolving somewhere beyond the brambles. By the time the last echo faded, the clearing had gone quiet again, as though no owl had ever been insulted there.

It was not an empty quiet. The cottage never held that sort of silence. Some small life always moved through it: cooling glass clicking softly on the shelves, herbs breathing against one another in the rafters, enchanted fire whispering blue beneath the cauldron, and old floorboards sighing as they settled after another day of surviving weather and witches. Lamplight spread warmly through the workshop, softening the shelves and turning the bottles on the table into little captured moons. Finished boxes stood in careful rows with straight labels and neatly tied ribbons, while Jimin’s parcel remained apart at the far end, its plain brown paper unadorned except for Aquila gleaming in silver across the top.

Y/N looked at the parcel, then at the open window through which Shiloh had vanished, and finally at the unfinished lists beside the scale. “Well,” she said to the cottage, “it seems we are all professionals here.”

The cauldron answered with one small bubble.

Y/N exhaled and braced both hands against the table, letting the familiar grain press into her palms. The table had belonged to Lunelle first, or so the stories claimed, though old furniture collected histories the way shelves collected dust, and not all of them deserved belief. Brigid had left knife marks along one edge, Phoebe several black pools of ink, and Aldara a burn shaped like a crescent moon. Near one corner, a row of tiny dents remained from Y/N’s childhood, when she had struck acorns with a spoon because she believed wishes might be hiding inside them.

Outside, leaves whispered above the clearing. Frogs called from the wet ground near the ditch, and a cool wind carried the scents of moss, bark, and rain waiting somewhere beyond the trees. Y/N’s attention drifted back to Jimin’s parcels. Aquila caught the lamplight and glimmered almost as though it were winking at her.

“Plain is best,” she said again, though even to her own ears the words lacked conviction.

She left the boxes untouched.

Beyond the windows, afternoon surrendered slowly to evening. A bank of clouds moved across the sinking sun, draining the clearing from gold to green-gray as shadows gathered beneath roots, steps, and the low stone wall beside the herb beds. The air changed with the coming rain, taking on its metallic sweetness. Fatigue rolled through Y/N in slow waves, settling behind her burning eyes and in the ache of her hands, but beneath it all, the fragile order she had built remained.

Order steadied her when everything else felt borrowed.

Y/N had always been meticulous, as Bridds were supposedly meant to be. At least, that was what the oldest records claimed. Aldara had called her messy, and Caelia, had she ever stepped inside this workshop, would likely have demanded a cleansing rite for the shelves alone. Y/N could picture the ancient Bridd perfectly: severe and luminous in some celestial archive, gazing down upon the collection of corks, bones, jars, cracked shells, unlabeled scraps, and spoons glued to things by wax with holy disapproval.

The thought made her smirk. She was the Bridd now. If the others cared so deeply about the state of the cottage, they were welcome to rise from whatever celestial bookkeeping occupied them and clean it themselves.

The bell above the door chimed.

Y/N froze, and the ribbon in her hand slipped onto the table. The clear little note traveled through the workshop, and for one foolish instant it seemed as though every bottle, box, spoon, and scrap of parchment had turned toward it. Her breath caught. The chain around her ankle remained cool and motionless, yet she felt its weight as keenly as if it had tightened.

Footsteps crossed the entry floor.

She did not need to look. Hoseok Jung had a way of entering a room before he had fully stepped into it. Warmth seemed to arrive with him, easy and steady, changing the air without asking permission. Some people brought noise, rank, perfume, dust, hunger, tension, or trouble wherever they went. Hoseok carried the golden ease of a man who had been welcomed into many rooms and forgiven in most of them.

Y/N’s heart struck once, hard, against her ribs.

She hated that.

Brushing dust from her apron, she turned toward the table before he could see her face. “Good afternoon, Hoseok,” she called, pleased when her voice emerged steady.

The satisfaction lasted no more than half a second. Several half-sealed bottles trembled as Y/N’s nerves spilled into the room, making the glass shimmer, the corks wobble in their necks, and one label begin peeling itself away as though personally offended by the interruption. Without turning, she lifted a hand, and the corks slid neatly into place with a series of soft pops.

“You’re early,” she said. “The orders aren’t finished. Mr. Park’s requests are... particular.”

The final word was restrained enough to remain polite. Around her, parchment rustled in the draft while magic continued humming over the table, tying ribbons, closing boxes, and straightening labels. A spool of twine attempted to roll toward the edge and thought better of it when Y/N glanced its way.

“Once my familiar returns with the herbs,” she added, “everything will be ready.”

Hoseok entered the workshop wearing his usual easy smile, completely untroubled by the enchanted disorder. Sage, cold air, and sun-warmed leather followed him inside. He surveyed the floating boxes, blue fire, steaming bottles, and self-tying ribbons as though they were merely an eccentric variation on ordinary housekeeping.

Then a voice came from behind him.

“I apologize for the strain I’ve caused you.”

It was strange how thoroughly a voice could alter a place. The words themselves were simple, courteous even, but the voice was low and controlled, carrying a weight Y/N felt before she understood it. The ribbons went slack, the boxes settled to the table with soft thuds, and even the blue fire beneath the cauldron dimmed, drawing close to the iron as though listening.

Her breath caught. She turned too quickly, and pain pulled sharply across her healing back, bright enough to prick tears behind her eyes, but she bowed at once.

“My deepest apologies, sir. I didn’t realize—”

Hoseok laughed. “Don’t look so frightened, Bridd. He won’t bite.”

Y/N remained bent a moment longer than necessary, not because she believed Jimin demanded it, but because she needed the extra seconds to force herself steady. When she finally raised her head, Jimin Park stood beside Hoseok.

His silver hair had been tied back neatly, without a single loose strand. He wore simple dark clothing without embroidery or ornament, which should have made him less noticeable and somehow made him more so. Some men required jewels, rings, polished boots, and elaborate coats to announce their importance. Jimin seemed more visible for the absence of all such things, like a blade wrapped in plain cloth. The lack of decoration did not conceal what he was. It warned people to look more closely.

“Mr. Park,” Y/N said.

He inclined his head, only slightly, though nothing about the gesture felt careless. His eyes met hers for the briefest moment before moving past her to take in the workshop: the cauldron, the bottles and herbs, the open books, the tied parcels, and the evidence of labor spread over every available surface.

“You’ve been busy,” Hoseok said, brushing dust from a shelf with a hand that held no sincere interest in cleaning. “The gods would forgive a delay.”

“Perhaps,” Y/N replied as she straightened, “but I’d rather not test their patience.”

One corner of Hoseok’s mouth lifted. Jimin said nothing, though his silence did not feel awkward or empty. It remained between them, deliberate and contained. Some silences resembled abandoned rooms. Jimin’s were locked doors, and Y/N had no business wondering what waited behind them.

Hoseok leaned one hip against the counter. “How long until your owl returns?”

“I’m not sure.” Y/N tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “She’s gone to a friend’s cottage. It could be an hour, perhaps two if she decides to be difficult.”

“Aren’t your kind meant to be infallible?”

A tired laugh escaped her. “That was my mentor. Compared with her, I’m deeply dysfunctional.”

Hoseok laughed softly, warming the room with the sound, but Jimin remained still. His attention shifted toward Y/N, sharp and thoughtful, and she felt it low in her stomach before she could stop herself.

All Bridds were chosen. That was what the old women said, what the rites proclaimed, and what the wolves believed. Bridd magic was not learned in the ordinary sense, though heaven knew there was enough study afterward. It was placed inside the body before the body could object. The gods did not ask whether a girl wished to become a vessel. They gave, and everyone else called the giving an honor.

Aldara’s gift had been clean and refined, all silver and shadow. She spoke with owls, the moon’s oldest messengers, and through them caught glimpses of what had not yet happened. Never whole futures—the gods were not so generous—but threads and tendrils, the earliest signs of weather forming inside human lives. She could sense a quarrel before it found words, a sickness before fever took hold, or a death before it had the courtesy to knock. The wolves recognized that power in her. They lowered their heads when she entered, sometimes without realizing they had done so.

Y/N had never possessed that kind of magic. Hers was rougher, rooted in dirt, rain rot, fox dens, beetle shells, rabbit heartbeats, bark split by frost, and moss growing over stones no one remembered placing. She could speak to nearly anything alive: beetles beneath rocks, birds hidden in the canopy, rabbits frozen at dusk, or stags crowned with antlers tangled in burrs and leaves. Life answered her readily, as though the world had mistaken her for kin, and Y/N had never decided whether she should be grateful for that mistake or frightened by it.

There was another gift as well, the one she would have refused had refusal ever been offered among her choices.

Y/N spoke to the dead.

Aldara had called it a gift reserved for the worthy, but Y/N had never believed her. Worthy was one of those words adults used when they wanted suffering to sound like selection.

The first time it happened, Y/N was seven. What she remembered most clearly was the cold, though it had not been the cold of winter or weather, not the honest bite of frost against fingers or the clean ache of snow on bare ankles. This cold had been intelligent. It knew where to enter a child and what to touch once it was inside. Something slipped into her; there was no kinder way to describe it. A door opened where no door should have existed, and something passed through.

After that, the memory ended.

They found her hours later, barefoot in the forest with mud to her knees and leaves tangled through her hair, speaking in a voice that did not belong to her. Y/N never remembered the words, though the others did. No one ever repeated them.

When she woke, too many faces surrounded her, all of them silent and afraid. Aldara was crying without sound, tears running in steady lines down her cheeks, and that frightened Y/N more than the headache, the mud drying on her legs, or the blood beneath one fingernail. Aldara had always seemed too solid to cry. She scolded storms, insulted gods, and had once chased a priest from the herb garden with a broom. Seeing tears on her face made the world tilt in a way Y/N had never entirely trusted again.

Sleep frightened her after that because dreams had doors, and not all of them closed simply because morning came.

Even now, spirits found her. They whispered through roots when the earth was disturbed in the wrong place, waited in the stillness before storms, and brushed against her awareness whenever the world became too quiet. Y/N had learned to ignore them in the same way one ignored chronic pain or bad weather—not because neglect made them disappear, but because answering every ache in the world would leave no time for living.

Still, when Jimin looked at her, something gathered in Y/N’s chest that she refused to name. She did not allow herself to dwell on him. That was the rule, though she broke it often enough in private.

Wanting someone like Jimin Park was foolish, embarrassing even. People spoke of him in lowered voices and with clean respect: a warrior, a man shaped for danger who never needed to announce it, someone meant to be admired from a distance because standing too close made others painfully aware of themselves. Y/N had watched women fall silent when he entered a room, men straighten without realizing it, and children stare with the helpless wonder they reserved for figures out of old stories.

However sternly she scolded herself, her thoughts always wandered back to him.

Perhaps it had begun twelve years earlier, though at the time Y/N had not known enough to recognize a beginning. She first met Jimin during Yule, on the twenty-first rather than the twenty-eighth, at Aldara’s annual bonfire. That had been before the chain, before the scars, and before duty laid its hand upon her head and pressed down.

Snow had fallen softly that year. It began while the cottage slept, without thunder or fuss, laying itself over the world as though some kind hand wished to hide every sharp edge before morning. By dawn, the path outside Aldara’s home had vanished beneath a white hush. The ruts were gone, the stones wore little caps, and the old wall near the herb beds carried a neat crown of snow. Every bare branch in the orchard seemed to have been drawn again in silver.

Inside, the cottage smelled of smoke, cedar, citrus peel, old wool, and the first promise of baking. Frost feathered the windows, while the hearth roared as though winter had challenged it personally and it meant to win.

“Almost there,” Yoona called, giggling as Y/N tried to force the stubborn trunk through the doorway.

From her chair, Aldara barked instructions like a general directing a siege. “Mind the table, girl. If you break that lamp, you’ll be trimming branches for the next fifty winters.”

Y/N remembered the morning clearly. Some memories faded because they were no longer needed, while others remained bright and cold, preserved by the heart because it could not bear to release them. That Yule had remained.

The tree, naturally, was too large. Everything important in Aldara’s cottage had always been slightly too large for the room meant to contain it: grief, laughter, arguments, winter stews, recipes, expectations, and the old woman’s absolute conviction that anything would fit if everyone stopped complaining and pushed harder.

Y/N had dragged the evergreen halfway across the yard alone before admitting she might require help. Her boots slipped in the snow, needles scratched her wrists, and the tree carved a deep green trail behind it. Clumps of snow tumbled from the branches and slid down the back of her collar. When the cottage door flew open, warmth spilled outside in a golden rush, carrying orange peel, cloves, cedar smoke, and the smell of something sweet baking much too near the stove. Aldara’s voice followed, sharp enough to cut through the cold.

Seokjin emerged from the other side of the trunk with both hands gripping a low branch and the expression of someone personally insulted by physical labor.

“This,” he muttered as he lifted, “is deeply unnecessary.”

“Every year you say that,” Y/N replied.

“And every year I become more correct.”

The door opened wider, and Yoona leaned out, already laughing before she had seen the full extent of the disaster. “Twitch, if you get stuck in the doorway again, I’m not helping you explain it to Aldara.”

“You say that now,” Y/N said.

Yoona Min looked so much like Yoongi that even then it sometimes made Y/N pause. Time had gathered gently around her mouth and beneath her eyes, but it had only made her face kinder. She possessed the sort of beauty less concerned with being admired than with making a room feel forgiven. There were women who made mirrors useful. Yoona made them unnecessary.

The trunk scraped against the frame, its branches catching on the latch until one side jammed. Jin muttered something that was almost certainly profanity and would have earned him a cuff from Hoji had she been standing nearer.

“Lift,” Y/N ordered.

“I am.”

“You’re doing it wrong.”

“Are we discussing technique now?”

Aldara appeared from the inner room wrapped in three wool shawls and wearing an expression of deep personal irritation. “No. Twist it.”

Yoona had to brace one hand against the wall because she was laughing too hard. “Lift the bottom and turn the top. Jin, stop glaring at it.”

The trunk lurched. Jin swore, Yoona shoved with both hands, and Y/N pulled until her boots slipped beneath her. She recovered just in time, and at last the whole prickly thing staggered through the doorway like an unwelcome guest invited by mistake and too rude to leave.

Y/N stepped back to inspect it. Jin stood beside her with his hands planted on his hips.

“It’s crooked.”

Aldara narrowed her eyes and considered the tree with all the gravity of a judge weighing a confession. Then she gave one sharp, final nod.

“Perfect.”

That settled the matter.

The boxes came down from the upper cupboard smelling of cedar, cloves, and dust. Faded ribbons held them shut, and Aldara’s hard, precise handwriting marked every lid. They had slept in darkness throughout the year and emerged like old friends waking from a long rest. Ornaments spilled into waiting hands: glass birds, straw stars, dried slices of orange, carved wooden moons, sprigs of holly bound with twine, and silver bells no larger than thumbnails. One box contained beeswax candles rolled in crushed rosemary, while another held pinecones, ribbons, and charms Y/N had made in earlier years, each one embarrassing and beloved in equal measure.

Yule had always belonged to Aldara, not because she owned it but because she understood it. In her cottage, the celebration was never merely decoration, a feast, or an excuse to fill the rooms with candles. Pine branches over the windows invited endurance. Cinnamon in the wassail argued for sweetness because winter demanded too much. Holly above the lintel warned away ill fortune, and orange peel beside the hearth promised that brightness had not died, even in the longest dark. Every object carried a reason, every reason a story, and every story, if told properly, could keep a cold night from seeming endless.

Orange and pine filled the cottage first, followed by cinnamon and rosemary. Aldara brewed the wassail in the iron pot with the solemnity of a priestess and the suspicion of a woman who knew everyone around her possessed poor judgment. Yoona hummed as she wove cedar into bundles at the table, pausing every so often to straighten an ornament, rescue one from the dog’s basket, or tuck a loose curl behind Y/N’s ear without appearing to notice she had done it.

Sounds arrived from outside in pieces: an axe striking wood, Yoongi cursing when a log rolled somewhere it had no business going, and Taemin laughing afterward, low and broad as a door swinging open.

At the stove, Hoji stood with her sleeves shoved above her elbows and a streak of flour across one cheek, wielding a wooden spoon as though she were a single inconvenience away from declaring war on pastry itself.

“Who moved the cloves?”

“Nobody,” Aldara said from her chair.

“They’re not where I left them.”

Without looking up from the cedar in her hands, Yoona said, “Blue jar beside the dried figs.”

Hoji checked. A brief silence followed.

“Found them.”

Aldara gave a satisfied little hmph, while Hoji muttered something about tyrants, kitchens, and the impossibility of working under hostile conditions before returning to her spoon.

Yoona glanced toward Y/N. “Twitch, did you make something new this year?”

Y/N’s head came up at once. “Of course.”

For all its old sacredness, Yule had also become Y/N’s yearly chance to make something strange, careful, and entirely her own. It did not need to be useful. Usefulness ruled the ordinary days with a tyrant’s hand, but Yule permitted things that existed simply because they were lovely or funny, or because someone had spent time shaping them with love and expected no practical return.

This year, Y/N had made a hedgehog from a pinecone.

Yoona gasped and reached for it with both hands. “It’s adorable. Look at his little face.”

“He’s meant to be serious,” Y/N said, though she was already smiling.

Hoji leaned around the corner to inspect it. “Isn’t she something? She’s always been the best at Yule.”

Aldara grunted, which from her amounted to extravagant praise. “If she doesn’t set the cottage on fire this time, I may even let her keep it.”

Y/N grinned, unbothered, while the warmth in the room gathered around her like a blanket. Taemin and Yoongi came in at last, carrying cold air, woodsmoke, and snow on their coats. Taemin stamped his boots and shook the flakes from his hair with the dignity of a large dog personally wronged by the weather. Yoongi followed with two more logs in his arms and the expression of a man who had argued with the sky and lost.

“You took your time,” Aldara said.

Yoongi lowered the logs with exaggerated care. “We considered moving south and never returning.”

“You’d be back by supper.”

“I resent that.”

“You resemble it.”

Taemin laughed as he passed behind Hoji and bent to kiss the crown of her head. She responded by pressing cups into everyone’s hands with brisk affection. After enduring three pointed glances from Yoona, Jin finally surrendered and allowed her to reposition two of the bells he had hung. Aldara declared the wassail ready, then accused everyone in advance of failing to appreciate it properly. Yoongi remarked that he could smell too much clove, and Aldara informed him that he could either drink in silence or freeze outside.

Taemin laughed again and drank.

“Finish up, Duckling,” Aldara said after a while as she straightened the smudge sticks. “Cori will be here soon.”

Cordelia was the head of Wendy’s coven, though saying only that was rather like calling fire a kind of light. Some people carried solemnity into a room. Cordelia carried permission. Y/N had loved her in the helpless way children sometimes loved grown women who seemed freer than the rest of the world. Cordelia laughed too loudly, drank too honestly, blessed things with one hand and insulted them with the other, and entered every room as though apologizing to it would be an affront. Half the valley had been bewitched by her, while the other half claimed to be offended. More often than not, they were the same people.

Her hair was part of the problem—or perhaps part of the miracle. It was red like rowan berries beneath frost, fox fur in autumn sunlight, or a hearth at the moment a log collapsed and revealed the embers beneath. Shiloh hated it, or rather, she hated wanting it.

Once, while snow tapped softly against the window and Y/N mended a ribbon by candlelight, Shiloh had said, “If I were ever cursed into human form, I would demand hair like Cori’s.”

Y/N looked up so quickly she nearly tangled the thread. “Demand?”

“Yes.”

“From whom?”

“Whoever was responsible for the curse. Do keep up.”

Y/N had laughed, already certain there was more.

“Not that I want anything else about her,” Shiloh added immediately. “She’s loud, she drinks too much, her magic is undisciplined, and she laughs in public.”

“Truly unforgivable.”

“But the hair?” Shiloh had returned to her meal and, after a thoughtful silence, admitted with complete sincerity, “The hair is excellent.”

Remembering it now, with firelight warming the beams and the smell of drying sap in the air, Y/N smiled.

“Marceline might come this year,” Yoona said as she tied ribbon around a cedar bundle.

“She had a baby,” Hoji called from the stove.

“She found a baby,” Aldara corrected.

Yoona paused and looked up. “Is there a difference?”

Aldara laughed. “Only if you ask the birth mother.”

Beyond the windows, the snowfall deepened, not in the dramatic sheets that sent people rushing to the glass to declare they would be buried alive, but steadily and with purpose, as though winter possessed all the time in the world and understood that patience won more battles than fury. The path vanished first, then half the fence, while the low stone wall beside the herb beds gathered a thick white cap and the orchard branches turned silver and strange against the darkening sky.

Inside, the feast waited in pieces. Pickled onions shone in their dish like little moons, preserved plums sat dark and glossy beneath syrup, and a roasted bird rested under a tent of cloth, filling the room with the savory warmth of crisp skin and herbs. There was glazed ham, winter vegetables slick with butter and salt, baskets of rolls wrapped in linen, and Yoongi’s pear tart, which he had sworn would be better than the previous year’s and would therefore almost certainly collapse in the middle out of spite.

Soon Winona would arrive with the women of her coven. Everyone still called her Wendy, a name left over from childhood even though she had grown into Winona in nearly every other way. Wendy lingered in her laughter, in the way people softened when they said her name, and in the bright carelessness with which she entered a room and somehow made everyone feel both amused and forgiven. She belonged to that rare sort of woman who could wear power lightly without ever losing it.

“Dad says the humans believe in something called Santa Claus,” Jin whispered, leaning toward Y/N with the solemn delight of someone sharing a scandal. “A fat man in a red suit who leaves presents.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “You’re lying.”

“I am not.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“He eats cookies and milk,” Jin continued, clearly pleased with himself. “And he has elves for slaves. Isn’t that something?”

Y/N went still, the ornament in her hand only half covered in gold paint. Years later, she would remember the exact weight of the brush between her fingers and the mingled smells of pine sap, orange peel, hot sugar, and snow melting near the hearth. She would remember Aldara muttering over the wassail, Yoongi complaining from his corner, Hoji snapping at someone to move a bowl before it became part of the pastry, Yoona laughing, and Jin attempting to hang a bell in a place where it was certain to fall.

Then Yoona touched Y/N’s shoulder. “Twitch, are you painting your sleeve on purpose?”

Y/N looked down to find gold paint spreading across her cuff in a shining blot.

Yoongi leaned over from the hearth. “Bold choice.”

“Shut up.”

“Festive.”

“I said shut up.”

Heat rushed from Y/N’s throat to her ears. She turned back to the ornament with such fierce concentration that she nearly painted the pinecone hedgehog’s face upside down.

“Auntie?”

Aldara lifted her head at once. For all her sharpness, Y/N had never spoken quietly without Aldara hearing. “Yes, my love?”

Y/N hesitated. “What’s a Santa Claus?”

The room did not stop entirely. Hoji continued stirring, the fire kept cracking, and Yoongi still muttered at the wooden fox in his hands. Even so, the air shifted, because children’s questions had a way of walking straight into adult matters while wearing innocent shoes.

Aldara snorted hard enough to nearly drop the rosemary. “A kinder and considerably less real version of Krampus. Why?”

“Jin heard humans in the Brindleford market talking about him.” Y/N frowned at her half-painted ornament. “I don’t understand. Do they not believe in the gods?”

“They do,” Aldara said, smiling now. “Some of them.”

“Then why don’t they celebrate them the way we do?”

Taemin answered from across the room, his voice easy and warm. “Some do, Ducky, and some don’t. Everyone has their own way.”

From the kitchen, Jin shouted in scandal, “Celebrate nothing? How?”

Taemin chuckled. “They simply do.”

Yoongi sat at the side table working on a wooden fox whose tail had declared independence several times already. “Stupid tradition.”

“Yoongi Min,” Yoona snapped, swatting him with a length of ribbon. “You will make up for that attitude tonight.”

“Yes, Mom.” He leaned out of reach with a grin.

“Honestly,” Yoona said, though warmth filled her eyes. “Why can’t you be more like Ducky? She loves Yule.”

“I don’t want to be like Y/N.” Yoongi rolled his eyes. “I prefer Mabon.”

Color returned to Y/N’s cheeks. She bent over her star and let a whisper of magic carry it toward the top of the tree. Of all the ridiculous nicknames she had collected over the years, Yoongi alone had always called her by her name. Every time he said it, something inside her tightened and softened at once.

It was not love, at least not anything she knew how to name. It felt more like the instant before kindling caught, the breath before laughter, or the slight opening of a bird’s wings as it tested the air. She had never told Aldara and had barely admitted it to herself. Yoongi was her friend, perhaps her closest aside from Jin. He knew her habits and tempers, as well as the small rituals of making and mending that helped her hold herself together.

That should have been enough.

Wendy liked Yoongi. Of course, Wendy liked everyone, but she laughed longest at his stories, and Wendy was beautiful. Y/N knew that as simply as she knew the moon was bright. Wendy possessed the kind of beauty that never needed permission to be noticed.

Y/N was not Wendy. Her skin held olive beneath the winter light, and her dark hair refused to behave for longer than an hour. It was straight and still somehow always frizzy, never lying where she brushed it, forcing her to braid it again and again simply to keep it from becoming a nuisance. She had never thought of herself as pretty, not beside girls who seemed to belong so easily to being seen.

Why would Yoongi ever—

She stopped herself before the thought could finish.

Around Y/N, the cottage went on living. Jin returned from the kitchen carrying a tray of bells as though they were sacred relics, Taemin reached up to steady the drifting star near the top of the tree, and Hoji tasted the pie filling, swore beneath her breath, added more salt, then denied having sworn when Yoona laughed. Aldara, meanwhile, had begun telling the story of the year Cordelia arrived drunk on pear liquor and blessed the wrong house.

Yoongi still held the wooden fox. “Y/N,” he called, presenting it to her with complete seriousness. “The tail keeps falling off.”

“That’s because you used too much glue.”

She took the ornament from him, adjusted the tail, and pressed her thumb against the join while whispering a small, firm word. The fox gave a faint click as the wood settled into place.

“There.”

Yoongi turned it over and tested the tail. “See? This is why I keep you around.”

Y/N hoped no one could hear the sudden pounding of her heart. “For ornaments?”

“For being nice.” His smile softened. “Thank you.”

His hand slipped into hers, and neither of them looked at the other. Pine filled the room with its sharp, clean scent while firelight moved warmly across the walls. Yoongi’s hand remained in hers, steady and warm, and Y/N thought that moments like this were why Yule had always been her favorite.

“Did you make anything this year?” she asked quietly.

They were only twelve, but Yoongi had never felt entirely like the others. His dark brown eyes stayed with people, watchful and searching, as though he had already learned that the world hid things and meant to find them before they found him. A small spark lit in them now.

“Yeah,” he said. “You?”

“I always do.” Her grin returned. “What did you make?”

“Three preserves.” Pride slipped into his voice despite his effort to hide it. “Apple, orange, and cranberry.”

“Three?” Y/N turned fully toward him. “Look at you.”

“Gran says I should experiment more.”

“She’s right. You should.” Then she added, “I made anklets for the coven.”

“Wendy’s family is strange.”

Y/N snorted. “So are we.”

The rich smell of roasted chicken drifted from the kitchen, and Yoongi’s attention snapped toward the oven with the speed of a wolf catching scent. Yoona pulled the steaming bird free in one practiced motion, and his eyes brightened at once. Aldara, as usual, would keep to wassail and sweets. She had insisted for years that meat made her sluggish and that a sluggish witch was a dead witch. According to her, Caelia had disagreed loudly and often, but Caelia was not there to continue the argument.

Y/N loved the feast: juicy turkey, soft buttery rolls, and vegetables roasted until their edges turned sweet and brown. Across the room, Jin caught her glance and lifted one brow, sharing her anticipation. Feast night carried a reverence of its own.

Outside, Shiloh chattered among the branches. She never seemed torn between things, never pulled in one direction by longing and another by duty, and Y/N had always envied that certainty. When Shiloh finally earned the reincarnation she so often spoke of, Y/N hoped it would be a bright and spacious life. More than anything, she hoped the owl would receive the red hair she admired so fiercely in Cordelia.

Night deepened against the windows, and the bonfire outside was lit, its orange glow flickering across the panes. Within the cottage, Aldara’s laughter rang bright and impossible to ignore. Y/N stood in the middle of the warmth and allowed it to fill her while the tree shimmered in the corner, its lights resembling a little constellation caught indoors.

Yoongi’s hand still rested in hers.

It felt like belonging.

“I see Cori and the others,” Taemin called from the window.

The cottage burst into movement. Jin and Taemin cleared space in the kitchen while Aldara abandoned her chair and began stacking presents with surprising efficiency. Hoji and Yoona wrestled the Yule log into place, nearly dropping it twice and blaming one another both times. Yoongi slipped away long enough to arrange the plates with fierce concentration, as though precision alone might keep the gathering’s chaos from spilling over.

Marceline had not come that year, and relief moved through Y/N before she could stop it. Marceline’s son was a storm given human form, all sticky hands, endless questions, and a talent for vanishing at precisely the worst moment. Delivering his gifts another day would be far easier than spending the evening chasing him through the cottage.

When the door opened, Wendy’s coven swept inside with the snow. Food appeared everywhere at once: pies glittering with sugar, roasted vegetables heavy with herbs, breads wrapped in cloth, jars of preserves, and several bottles that made Aldara narrow her eyes on sight.

“Now that,” she said, “is how you arrive.”

Their Yule log followed, though it could scarcely be called a log. It was an elaborate layered cake crowned with flickering candles.

Aldara stared at it. “That is a fire hazard.”

“It’s festive,” someone replied.

“Try it first, Aldara,” another woman called.

She did, and her suspicion yielded slowly to reluctant approval. “Fine. But if the cottage burns down, I’m blaming all of you.”

Heji entered behind the others with snow dusting her cloak and laughter still clinging to her. At first glance, she and Hoji appeared identical, but only to someone who was not paying attention. Hoji wore her lighter-blonde hair long and intricately braided, and her smile carried warmth without an edge. Heji kept her slightly darker hair shorter, and there was mischief in the way she sharpened everything with her attention. Her eyes seemed perpetually to dare the world to become more interesting.

“Miss me?” she asked, brushing snow from her sleeves.

“Not even a little,” Hoji replied, then pulled her sister into a quick, tight embrace, one hand cupping the back of Heji’s head with the instinctive tenderness of family.

Heji laughed against her shoulder. “Liar.”

“Absolutely.” Hoji let her go, though her hand lingered for a moment on Heji’s arm.

“What time’s the bonfire?” Wendy asked, already bright with anticipation.

“After dinner and gifts,” Y/N said, her gaze drifting across the crowded room in search of Aldara without conscious thought. Aldara was always the center of things, even when she sat perfectly still.

Wendy’s face lit at once. “Oh! I got you and Yoongi something.”

“And Jin?” Y/N asked, deliberately flat.

Wendy twisted her face into theatrical annoyance. “Mom made me make him a necklace.”

Across the room, Jin went very still. “Handmade?” he called, struggling not to sound interested.

“Yes,” Wendy replied without looking at him. “I barely tried, though.”

Taemin laughed into his cup. Heji’s mouth twitched, and Hoji shook her head with the weary fondness of someone who had watched this same exchange a hundred times and expected to witness it a hundred more.

Wendy turned back to Y/N and lowered her voice. “Do you think Yoongi will like it?”

“What is it?”

“A pot,” Wendy said, then winced at the sound of her own answer. “For cooking.”

Y/N studied her for a moment before smiling. “He’ll use it.”

He would. Whether Yoongi understood what Wendy meant by giving it to him was another matter entirely.

Wendy exhaled with visible relief. “Good. I was worried it was too practical.”

“Yoongi likes practical.”

“That’s because he’s boring,” Heji said as she drifted closer.

“He’s not boring,” Wendy replied at once.

Across the room, Jin kept his attention fixed on whatever he was pretending to inspect. “He makes preserves for fun.”

“It’s a useful skill.”

“He’s a wuss,” Jin corrected. “He acts like a girl.”

Wendy rounded on him. “You’re such a jerk. Yoongi’s more of a man than you are.”

The room seemed to notice. Heji lifted one brow, Jin froze, and Wendy pushed her hair back with more force than necessary before turning away and muttering that everyone was mean. Y/N rolled her eyes to herself. Some things never changed; they merely found new ways to embarrass everyone involved.

Outside, evening deepened, and the glow from the bonfire flickered against the windows. Inside, the cottage grew warmer and louder, restless with anticipation, until Aldara clapped her hands sharply.

“Enough. Living room, all of you.”

Yule had a way of making room where none should have existed. Somehow everyone fit among the chairs, cushions, baskets, parcels, firewood, discarded ribbons, and cups of wassail balanced in places no cup should have trusted. Y/N grinned the moment she opened Yoongi’s apple butter. Warm cinnamon and cooked fruit rose from the jar, and the twine around the lid had been tied so neatly that she knew he had redone it at least twice.

Jin gave her a thick sweater, slightly uneven but clearly made with care. He admired it for half a second before suggesting that they trade.

“You’re not getting it back,” Y/N told him.

“You haven’t heard my offer.”

“I don’t need to.”

In return, she gave Yoongi the necklace she had made, healing stones carefully strung together, each one chosen with him in mind.

“For when you forget to take care of yourself.”

“I never forget.”

Y/N looked at him.

He reconsidered. “Not often.”

Jin’s gift came next: pressed white flowers preserved in resin, their petals catching the firelight like frost. He examined it with grave concentration before pronouncing it “extremely nice,” which, for Jin, was almost an emotional confession.

Wendy adored her anklet immediately and insisted that everyone look at it properly rather than merely glance in its direction. Yoongi accepted the cooking pot with polite seriousness, turning it over in his hands and testing its weight.

“This is good,” he said. “I’ll use it.”

Wendy’s smile appeared at once, bright with relief, and Y/N lowered her gaze before the ache in her chest could become anything less private.

Then Wendy approached with Y/N’s gift. The room remained loud and full of movement, but a small pocket of quiet settled between them as she held out the parcel with both hands.

“For you.”

The paper was warm from Wendy’s palms, and the ribbon had been tied too tightly, its knot uneven. Y/N loosened it carefully rather than tearing it away. Inside, she found a painting of a magindara, her scales rendered in many shades rather than one: deep-water blue, green-blue, moon-blue, and storm-blue. The lines were imperfect, but the creature seemed alive.

Y/N’s breath caught. “Oh.”

She looked up, and whatever Wendy saw in her face softened the girl’s usual brightness into something almost shy.

“It’s my way of saying thank you,” Wendy said. “For teaching me how to paint.”

“It’s so pretty.” Y/N’s eyes filled before she could stop them.

“Art is subjective,” Heji murmured.

Wendy shot her a look, but Y/N barely noticed. She was still staring at the careful strokes, the work in them, and the sweetness of being seen by someone who had taken the time to make something with her own hands.

“Wendy, I love it.”

Some hidden tension left Wendy’s shoulders. “It’s not as good as what you would’ve done—”

“Don’t say that.” Y/N’s voice remained gentle, but it was firm enough to stop her. “It’s perfect. I’m going to hang it in the cellar near my desk, where I can see it every day.”

Surprise flickered across Wendy’s face before warming into a smile.

“Thank you,” Y/N said again.

Soon after, the bonfire drew them outside. They stepped into the cold with their breath pluming silver around them while the fire beyond the trees roared orange and gold, sending sparks into the dark sky like prayers searching for somewhere to land. Chairs scraped across the ground, voices rose, and someone laughed too loudly as Taemin called from the doorway, “Outside, before it burns down without us.”

Aldara slipped away without announcement. One moment she stood among them; the next, white feathers unfolded in a quiet rush, and a small owl settled on Hoji’s shoulder as though that had always been the arrangement.

“Comfortable?” Hoji asked.

A soft chirrup answered.

“Good.”

The fire burned fiercely enough to hold the cold at bay. Jin stood beside his mother, though his attention kept wandering toward Wendy, who hovered near him with great determination not to appear as though she were hovering at all. When he accused her of standing too close, she pointed out that she was not touching him. When he said she was clearly thinking about it, Wendy informed him that thoughts were not illegal.

Heji snorted, while Hoji hid a smile behind her cup.

Something tapped Y/N’s knee. Yoongi had found his way back to her without announcing himself, as he often did.

“You going to be all right?” he asked.

Y/N tried to nod, but the gesture convinced neither of them. Yoongi knew. Of course he did. The gift she had never wanted had left doors open inside her that could never be fully closed, and tonight, beneath the full moon, those doors felt wider than usual. The veil had thinned. The dead hovered near, watching with the patience of things that no longer understood time properly.

Her breath caught, and Yoongi’s hand closed around hers, warm, solid, and real. The world steadied beneath the pressure of his fingers.

“If it gets worse, tell me,” he murmured. “Don’t push through it.”

“I won’t.”

He did not release her.

Taemin stepped toward the fire without hurry and simply stood there until the crackle of the flames and the hush of winter quieted those gathered around him.

“On this night,” he began, “when darkness stretches longest and the year begins to loosen its hold, we gather. Not by chance or habit, but by promise.”

A faint wind stirred through the clearing.

“We remember those who came before us—the ones who lit their fires against this same dark, who stood where we stand, prayed into the cold, and trusted that something would hear. We do not stand alone. They remain in the roots beneath our feet, in the breath of the forest, and in the quiet places between heartbeats.”

Aldara shifted lightly upon Hoji’s shoulder, and Hoji tilted her head to make room for her without thinking.

“We honor them not only through silence, but by living,” Taemin continued. “Through laughter, stubbornness, and the refusal to let the light go out. Yule is not the absence of darkness. It is our defiance of it.”

The words reached somewhere tender behind Y/N’s ribs.

“We stand upon the longest night and say that this is not the end. We light our fires so the sun remembers its way home. We share what we have so none of us faces the cold alone, and we carry forward what was given to us so those who come after do not walk unprepared.”

Taemin lowered his hand. “To those who came before.”

A cheer rose around the bonfire, and Y/N’s voice joined it before thought could interfere. When the sound faded, however, her attention returned to the flames. They were moving strangely—not wildly or at random, but with purpose, leaning and twisting as though something within them were trying to call her closer.

Her hand began to tremble, and Yoongi noticed at once. “Y/N.”

The voice reached her from somewhere beyond hearing. Cold pressed into her and stole her breath, slipping beneath her skin with dreadful familiarity.

Not tonight, she thought. Can this wait?

When Y/N opened her eyes, the flames were merely flames again, which was close enough.

Beside her, Yoongi exhaled shakily. “Everything all right?”

“For now.”

Cordelia laughed and stepped forward, bright and irreverent enough to rescue them all from the weight of what had nearly happened. “Gods above, Taemin, if you become any more solemn, the ancestors are going to start correcting your phrasing.”

A few people laughed with visible relief. Even Taemin huffed and shook his head.

Cordelia clapped her hands. “You’ve had your moment. Now it’s mine. Enough standing around as though we’re waiting for permission from the stars. It’s Yule, not a funeral.”

“Some of us appreciate the quiet,” Jin muttered.

“And some of you have the personality of a wet paper bag.” Cordelia held out both hands. “Come on. You know the tradition.”

Heji stepped forward first, already laughing. Taemin followed, then Hoji, and Yoongi joined after only a brief hesitation. His fingers slipped reluctantly from Y/N’s.

“Don’t go far,” he said.

“I won’t.”

Wendy darted in after him, nearly colliding with Heji and grabbing Yoongi’s sleeve to steady herself. Jin joined last with a sigh of profound personal suffering, placing himself beside Wendy while leaving enough space between them for dignity, resentment, and several feelings neither of them intended to discuss.

The circle formed around the fire, imperfect and uneven but complete.

Cordelia grinned and began with a step, a turn, and a shift to the left. The others followed as her voice rose somewhere between song and speech.

“Hark,” she called, “hear the children sing.”

Heji joined her, then Hoji, while Yoona’s softer voice steadied the rest. The song swelled around the fire. Y/N remained at the edge until Yoongi glanced back as the circle carried him past, loosening his grip on the person beside him just enough to reach for her.

“Come on,” he said, already breathless. “You’re not getting out of this.”

His fingers closed around hers and pulled her into the circle.

The dance took her at once. Yoongi caught her hand and spun her gently, sending her cranberry skirt flaring around her ankles as it caught the firelight. She stumbled into Jin, who barked out a laugh and lifted her clean off the ground before turning with a dramatic flourish.

“He is here this Yuletide time!” Jin declared, theatrical and entirely without shame. “A-dancing in the home-fire flames!”

“Put me down,” Y/N said through her laughter, though she made almost no effort to escape.

He spun her once more before setting her carefully on her feet.

“Idiot,” she said, still smiling.

Above them, Aldara circled through the darkness, and when Y/N looked up, everything softened at once: the fire, the laughter, the mingled voices, even the old ache beneath her ribs. Aldara moved against the night sky, bright and free, while the formal dance loosened below her. Hands slipped apart, steps broke into smaller movements, and the circle dissolved into scattered warmth as a fiddle struck up and someone laughed.

Cordelia pulled Heji into a quicker reel, while Hoji pretended not to enjoy herself even as one tapping foot betrayed her. Yoongi had already been claimed by Wendy, who tugged at his sleeve until he surrendered with a small, resigned smile.

“If I trip, it’s your fault,” he told her.

Wendy beamed. “Thank you, Yoongi.”

He steadied her automatically, one hand finding her elbow before the rhythm drew them both in. Across the clearing, Jin watched with such open displeasure that he did not even bother pretending otherwise.

Y/N stopped beside him. “You’re going to glare a hole through Yoongi’s head.”

“I just don’t get it,” Jin muttered, pouting. “He’s short, and he’s not even as good-looking.”

Rather than argue, Y/N decided to be kind and held out her hand. “Dance with me.”

“I don’t need pity.”

“I don’t pity you. I’m trying to keep you from starting another fight.” She wiggled her fingers at him. “Come on.”

Jin looked at her hand before releasing a long sigh. “Fine. But if you step on my foot—”

“You’re the worst dancer here. Move.”

The music caught them. Y/N stepped into the rhythm without thought, but Jin followed stiffly at first, too careful, too annoyed, and far too aware of Wendy’s laughter nearby. Gradually, however, the song wore him down. His grip loosened, his steps settled, and when he glanced once more toward Yoongi and Wendy, bright and easy together in the firelight, something in him seemed to surrender. He looked back at Y/N and gave his attention to the dance.

She noticed, but was kind enough not to mention it.

“Aye, Ducky!”

Y/N turned, already laughing before she found Cordelia in the firelight. The witch stood with one hand planted on her hip and the other raising an empty mug like a command. As a child, Y/N had stolen stones from Cordelia’s garden, and Cordelia, who seemed to catch everything, had caught her immediately. The nickname had remained ever since.

“Yes, Cori?”

“More wassail.”

Hoji offered to help, but Aldara’s recipe was sacred, and Y/N alone had been trusted to reproduce it exactly. Even Yoongi, kitchen witch extraordinaire, knew better than to interfere. Y/N slipped into the cottage, and the world changed the moment the door closed behind her.

Outside, there had been music, fire, breath, snow, laughter, and bodies moving in circles against the dark. Boots struck frozen earth while skirts flashed like berries and flame, and voices rose and fell through the old Yule songs as sparks climbed into the night, each bright ember seeming determined to reach the stars before morning.

Inside, the cottage held warmth in its bones. Candlelight gathered over the table in golden pools, and the crooked tree glowed quietly in its corner, its ornaments turning slightly whenever the door opened and cold air slipped inside. On the hearth, Aldara’s cider simmered dark and fragrant, its surface trembling beneath the spices. The room still carried the feast’s comforting smells—pine, butter, sugar, clove, roasted meat, orange peel, and hot pastry—but beneath them lingered the deeper scent of old magic. It lived in the beams, clung to the hearthstones, and had soaked into the table through years of blood, ink, herbs, tears, kneading, mending, and hands.

Y/N took down the knife and began peeling apples in long curls, letting the red skins fall in ribbons over her fingers and onto the cutting board. Beneath them, the fruit was pale and firm, smelling sharp and clean like a winter cellar. She sliced oranges next, and their fragrance burst into the room like bottled sunlight, almost painful after the cold outside. Cinnamon, clove, star anise, rosemary, and the little pinch of black salt Aldara always insisted upon followed, though no one else claimed to taste the difference.

A curl of apple peel still hung from the knife when the cold crept in.

Y/N froze with the blade suspended above the board and her breath caught in her throat. This was not the honest cold that slipped beneath doors, numbed fingers, or turned breath white. It did not smell of snow and belonged to no winter she knew.

It came from behind her.

No. Not behind.

Beneath. Between.

The familiar cottage seemed to stretch around her as its corners lengthened into shadow. The hearth fire lowered without dying, and the lights upon the tree blurred into small, distant stars. Silence opened where the room had been, and Y/N felt it in that old place inside herself, the place no child should ever have possessed and no woman had managed to close.

The presence seeped around her like a shifting shadow and brushed her consciousness with a cold, searching touch. It did not knock. It never knocked. It pressed from every direction, not with hands but with memory, grief, and want. Y/N braced herself against the table and closed her eyes.

“I’m sorry...”

The voice did not move through the room. It slipped directly into her, thin, distant, and frozen.

The world lurched. Color bled from the edges of Y/N’s vision, while wood and stone bent around her as though the cottage had softened and begun folding inward. The knife slipped from her fingers, though she did not hear it strike the floor. Beyond the walls, the fiddle continued playing and someone laughed, but the sound stretched, thinned, and vanished.

A shriek tore through her mind.

Pain exploded behind her eyes, and Y/N clutched her head, pressing her fingers hard against her temples as though she might hold herself together by force alone.

“No,” she gasped.

The floor shifted beneath her. She staggered, struck the table with her shoulder, and fell. Stone bit sharply into her side, but the pain inside her skull was worse. It opened wider and wider, a white door swinging inward upon darkness.

The kitchen came apart around her. Shapes moved beyond her sight, blurred and wrong like figures seen through fogged glass, while the air thickened with the smells of burned wood and blood. Her body felt too heavy and too slow, as though she had been dropped into something that did not fit and commanded to breathe inside it.

“I—”

The word broke apart before it left her. A cry came instead, and then the world slipped away.

When Y/N opened her eyes again, she could barely keep them open. Voices moved above her, close enough to touch and yet too distant to understand, while fire snapped somewhere nearby and wood shifted inward with a low crackle. The air smelled of damp leaves, smoke, blood, and churned earth. Something brushed her sleeve, followed by the uncertain pressure of small hands, one touching her shoulder and another her hair.

“What is it?” someone whispered.

“A girl,” another voice answered. “Obviously.”

“She needs help.”

“If we tell Mama, she’ll tell Archon Ahn. You know how he is about outsiders.”

“She’s not an outsider,” the girl said, offended with the fearless certainty of a child who had not yet learned which rules were meant to frighten her. “She’s hurt.”

Y/N whimpered, and the girl gasped softly.

“We can get Joon.”

The boy hesitated.

“Then get your brother,” the girl snapped, panic sharpening her voice. “Go.”

Footsteps tore away through the darkness. “Jimin!” the boy shouted. “Jimin!”

His voice carried into the trees, high and frightened, and when it faded, the silence that followed felt heavy enough to press the breath from Y/N’s chest. Then something small and warm touched her hand. A child’s fingers curled around her little finger, trembling but determined.

“Don’t worry, miss,” the girl whispered. “We’re getting help.”

Y/N wanted to answer. She wanted to tell her that she was not miss, that she was Y/N, that Auntie would be furious, and that this was not where she had been standing only moments ago. There had been apples, oranges, and a crooked Yule tree glowing beside the hearth. None of this belonged to her. But her tongue would not obey.

Her eyes slipped shut again, and through the fog of pain she heard the girl rise and run after the boy.

Y/N thought of Auntie in her ridiculous orange turtleneck, ordering everyone about the Yule ornaments while pretending she did not enjoy being fussed over. She remembered the matching embroidered tops they had made together, pine-green cloth stitched with white thread that curled like branches across a winter sky. Y/N had loved hers and had been proud of every stitch, even the crooked ones.

Now that same shirt was soaked with mud, leaves clinging to it like cruel decorations.

She began to sob harder, not because of the cold, the pain, or even the fear, but because she imagined Aldara seeing her covered in things she could not fix. Somehow, that was worse than everything else.

“I don’t...” Y/N tried, but the words collapsed before they could become anything.

She had no idea how long she lay there crying before warmth touched her hand and jolted her back to herself. When she opened her eyes, a large silver wolf stood over her.

It did not bare its teeth or growl. It simply lowered its head and pressed its warm nose against her shaking hand, and the heat of that touch reached her at once.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

The wolf shifted closer and placed its body between Y/N and the cold. It was enormous, larger than any wolf she had ever seen at such close range. Its shoulders rose like pale hills in the moonlight, and silver shone along the edges of its thick fur. It should have frightened her. Aldara had told her enough about wolves to make caution feel like common sense. They were neighbors, not allies, creatures to respect rather than trust, a people with rules, teeth, and memories longer than mercy.

Yet this one offered her warmth without asking for anything in return.

“My name is...” Y/N swallowed, tasting blood and soil. “I’m the Bridd.”

The wolf tilted its head. Something like recognition passed through the moment, fragile and incomplete, like the first line of a song remembered but not yet sung.

“I can speak to animals,” she continued quietly. “All of them. But you...”

She studied its face. The wolf watched her with eyes too intelligent for any ordinary creature and too still for any child.

“You can’t talk back, can you?”

It blinked slowly, almost apologetically.

Y/N’s chest tightened. “Can you turn into a person?”

The wolf shook its head.

“Please?” Her voice thinned into something small and miserable. “I want to go home.”

Nothing answered her but darkness, cold, and the wolf’s breath steaming faintly in the air.

“Fine,” she snapped, more harshly than she intended. “I’ll go on my own.”

She pushed herself upright despite the weakness in her limbs. The world tilted, and Y/N dug her fingers into the earth until it steadied. The wolf rose with her. It did not block her path, herd her, or urge her forward. It merely walked beside her when she took her first unsteady steps.

“Stop following me,” she muttered.

It did not.

Y/N had managed no more than three steps when the wolf froze. Its ears pricked, and its entire body went taut as its attention fixed on something deeper among the trees. The change was so sudden that Y/N stopped as well, fear rising cold and fast in her throat.

“Wolf?” she whispered. “What is it?”

At first, she thought the pale shape ahead was only a trick of moonlight. Then it sharpened into a perfect ring of white mushrooms waiting between the trees, too even to be natural and faintly luminous in the dark. Their caps were pale as bone and wet as moonlight, and nothing grew within the circle. No leaf, fern, or blade of grass dared cross its border.

A Saelin circle.

Y/N’s stomach dropped. “We shouldn’t be here. If we cross it, or anger them, or—”

“Yeah, I know.”

She spun so quickly that her vision blurred. A boy stood at the tree line, perhaps her age or a little older, though there was something older than years in the way he held himself. He was not grown, not yet, but already trained into stillness. His hair was an impossible shade of silver and caught the moonlight as though it belonged to it. Feral shadows moved faintly through his eyes, which glowed in the dark, and his cloak hung heavy with melted snow. His face was pale and composed in a way that made him seem both very young and very far away.

Recognition tugged uselessly at Y/N’s memory. She thought of names Auntie had muttered, wolf hierarchies she had ignored, and old family lines she had never cared enough to remember. Park, perhaps. Yang. Jung. The names slid through her frightened mind without finding purchase.

None of them mattered. What mattered was that the boy was real and standing there in the dark instead of vanishing like everything else.

Relief surged through her like a breaking wave. “Wolf!” she cried, stumbling toward him.

He stiffened. “That’s not my name.”

Y/N sniffed and fought to steady herself. “Then what is it?”

“Jimin.”

The name meant nothing to her yet. Only the boy did.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked.

The question opened the memory again: red eyes, cold, blood, the voice inside her head. Y/N’s breath hitched.

“No, no, no...”

Jimin stepped toward her at once. “Hey. Don’t. Please don’t cry again.”

But she already was. “I want to go home. I want Auntie. I want my house.”

He did not interrupt or tell her to stop. He did not look embarrassed by her tears, as boys often did when girls cried in front of them. He simply waited, still and watchful, until the worst of it had passed.

Then he asked more quietly, “Can’t you fly home? You’re the Bridd, right?”

“I... no.”

His brows drew together. “But you said you were.”

“I am.” Y/N wiped her face with the heel of her hand and smeared mud across one cheek. “It’s complicated.”

A thin, breathless laugh escaped her. Everything about the night was complicated: her magic, the voices, the wolf that was not a wolf, the boy who was more than a boy, and the forest that had twisted itself into something strange around her.

“Let’s say I’m next in line,” she said at last. “I’m Y/N.”

Jimin nodded, not as though he fully understood, but as though he accepted that she had given him all she could.

Something inside her steadied. She was not helpless, not entirely. This was her forest. She had grown up beneath these branches and learned their tempers the way other children learned bedtime stories. She knew which paths lied after rain, which clearings belonged to foxes, which stones turned treacherous beneath frost, where the marsh began to breathe, and where old roots rose from the ground like steps for careful feet. If she could find her bearings, she could get home.

But the forest was wrong tonight. It was too still and too quiet. Even the insects, those small pulses that formed the woods’ hidden heartbeat, had gone silent, as though the whole forest had swallowed its voice. Y/N tested the air and found no trace of swamp water or the distant ocean’s salty breath, only pine, bark, and a stillness that lifted the hairs along her arms.

She guessed west. More honestly, she hoped west, then drew a careful breath and chose it.

“We’re west, if you were wondering,” Jimin said.

Y/N blinked at him. “How can you tell?”

He shrugged and glanced around. “The wind’s dry, and the moss is thicker on the north side of the trees. My father made me memorize it. I suppose it stuck.”

She followed his gaze and tried to see what he saw. The trees did lean differently here, and the moss clung more heavily to one side. The air was drier and sharper. East would be worse, while north might still be manageable. Y/N traced the paths in her mind, half through memory and half through instinct, searching for something certain.

“We could keep going west and cut around,” Jimin suggested.

She snorted. “Sure, if you want five pixies riding you like a pony by sunrise.”

He blinked.

“Never mind.”

A strange warmth stirred in her chest.

Keep him safe.

The thought startled her enough that she looked away. The woods seemed to be testing her, pressing inward and searching for weakness. Her magic answered with a small curl of flame that ran over her fingers, no larger than candlelight, blue at the center and gold along the edges.

Jimin slowed. “Whoa.”

Y/N looked down. “Oh.”

Her magic had never possessed Aldara’s refinement. Aldara’s moved like moonlight over a blade—clean, controlled, and terrifyingly precise. Y/N’s wandered, questioned, and became distracted by mushrooms, wet bark, bird bones, candle stubs, lost teeth, fox dens, and stubborn plants. It was as likely to coax a dead twig into bloom as it was to turn a spoon green because someone had insulted nettles within its hearing.

Tonight, however, it behaved.

With every step, the forest seemed to breathe again, though only faintly. A beetle shifted beneath loose bark, a bird rustled in its sleep, and somewhere far off a hare broke cover and fled. Y/N wondered whether the animals were keeping their distance because of Jimin, and the thought made her smile despite herself.

“Jimin,” she said as she stepped over a fallen log, “do you ever get lonely out here?”

“No.” He glanced toward the trees. “It never feels empty, even without animals.”

“I only ask because it must be sad, having the forest run away from you.”

“I never thought of it that way.”

Y/Nches scraped against his cloak as they walked, but he did not flinch. He moved through the woods as though he belonged there, even while the woods themselves seemed to draw away from him, and that made Y/N sad in a way she did not yet understand.

“Y/N.”

She turned, brushing a leaf from her hair. “Hm?”

He hesitated. Moonlight caught the faint color rising in his cheeks. “What kind of bird are you?”

The question startled a laugh out of her. “I don’t know. Maybe a swallow or a sparrow, something small and quick. My familiar seems to think so, but Auntie says I’ll be a raven.”

His smile came slowly, crooked at one corner. “Then we have something in common.”

The words were simple, but they stayed with her.

“We don’t shift until the Bridd before us passes on,” Y/N explained more quietly.

“Wolves always shift,” Jimin said, nudging the dirt with the toe of his boot, “but the kind of wolf we are doesn’t show until the ceremony.”

For the first time since he had appeared, he looked properly young.

“I’ll probably be a beta,” he continued. “My family has never had an alpha or a male omega. I don’t think that will change with me.”

Y/N slowed and studied him more carefully. He moved quietly and cautiously, but not like someone empty. He seemed like someone waiting, which was different. There was strength in him, only it had not yet been named. Perhaps he believed himself ordinary because no one had taught him how much silence could hold.

She forced her voice into something lighter. “Looks like we’re close.”

The air had begun to change. The trees leaned in familiar ways, the ground dipped gently beneath their feet, and smoke threaded through the pines. Relief opened in Y/N’s chest.

“We’re near Jin’s house.”

Jimin moved a little closer, though tension settled into him as they walked. He might not have noticed it, but she did.

“It’s all right,” Y/N said. “We’re there.”

He swallowed. “Y/N, I don’t think I can go any farther.”

“Why not?” she asked, though she already knew.

“Archon Ahn says wolves should never cross deeper into witch territory. He says it’s dangerous for both sides, and we’re not supposed to go near the Bridd’s home unless we’re invited.”

Y/N stared at him. “That’s stupid.”

He blinked.

“Archon Ahn doesn’t rule these woods.” She planted both hands on her hips. “And I’m the Bridd, or nearly. That means this counts as an invitation. Aldara will cover for you.”

Something shifted across his face, as though no one had ever spoken for him so plainly before. His smile was small, but real.

“All right,” he said. “Lead the way.”

That was all it took. Y/N knew Auntie would lecture her later about treaties, ancient boundaries, old hostilities, and why wolves and witches were meant to remain in their own corners of the world unless they wished to drag everyone else into trouble. Tonight, however, she could not make herself care. Not after a boy with moonlit hair had walked beside her through the dark as though she mattered.

She wanted him to see the fire and hear the songs. She wanted him, just once, to dance with her. Perhaps then she would understand why Wendy was always begging Yoongi for dances. Perhaps, if Jimin enjoyed himself, he would return and they could become friends.

Even as the hope formed, Y/N knew how childish it was. Wolves did not visit the cottage for pleasure. They came with business, messages, treaties, and deliveries. Mr. Jung, old and steady with streaks of silver running through his brown hair, usually knocked on their door. Sometimes an older woman came in his place, though Y/N had never learned her name.

There would be no reason for Jimin Park to return to her meadow. Tonight might be the last time she saw him for years, perhaps forever. Depending on his age, which she had not yet found the courage to ask, Aldara might preside over his ascension into adulthood. Y/N would not be the one to greet him then. Whoever inherited Mr. Jung’s position would. Auntie had once told her the boy’s name, something beginning with an H, but Y/N had forgotten the rest.

Laughter reached them before the clearing did, followed by firelight flickering between the trees, gold catching upon bark and snow. Warmth spilled through the woods, and the air changed from the unnatural silence of the forest to home: smoke, wassail, roasting meat, wet wool drying beside the fire, pine resin, and too many people talking at once.

Aldara’s cottage glowed at the center of it all, its windows bright against the dark. The bonfire burned nearby, flames rising high while witches moved around it in bright skirts and dark cloaks. Laughter tangled with music, and sparks lifted into the sky.

Relief struck Y/N all at once. No one seemed to have noticed she was gone. Not Yoongi, Jin, or Wendy. The music had continued, and the world had gone on without her.

Only Aldara knew.

As though the thought had called her, Aldara’s voice cut through the clearing. “Y/N!”

A flash of white broke from the trees. Y/N ran toward her without thinking, and a moment later Aldara’s feathers were against her cheek, soft and real, her wings folding briefly around Y/N’s shoulders. In that form, Aldara was small, but there was nothing small in the way she held her. Relief trembled through her, though she tried to hide it beneath sharpness.

“You’re safe,” Aldara murmured, reprimand resting lightly over the relief in her voice. “I was worried, Duckling.”

“I’m all right,” Y/N whispered. “I’m home.”

The words nearly broke her.

Aldara’s gaze moved past her toward Jimin, who remained at the clearing’s edge, suspended between shadow and firelight. He had not come any closer. Snow clung to his dark cloak, while the flames touched his silver hair and left the rest of him uncertain, as though the forest had not yet decided whether to surrender him.

“Tell him I’m grateful,” Aldara said. “Thank him for protecting you.”

Y/N turned back, her throat tightening. “She says thank you. Truly.”

Jimin bowed, and Aldara inclined her head in return.

Something passed between them then, not words but something older and quieter. An acknowledgment, perhaps, or a promise. Maybe it was only the strange recognition that sometimes grew between people standing on opposite sides of rules who understood, for one brief moment, that those rules were thinner than fear had made them seem.

When Jimin straightened, a faint flush colored his cheeks, as though Aldara’s returned bow had meant more than he expected.

Y/N wanted him to stay.

The wish rose so swiftly and plainly that it startled her. She wanted him to step into the firelight and accept a mug of wassail, to wrinkle his nose at the spices the way Yoongi always did and drink it anyway because Aldara was watching. She wanted him to hear Cordelia insult the ancestors and see Jin pretending not to care where Wendy stood. She wanted Yoongi to offer him food with the solemn awkwardness he used whenever he liked someone but had not yet decided to trust them. Most of all, she wanted Jimin to see the crooked tree glittering through the window, the pinecone ornaments, the candles, the foolishness, and the warmth. She wanted him to understand what the night meant.

But the forest had rules, and so did wolves.

Jimin looked toward the bonfire only once, and only for a moment, but Y/N saw the hunger in that glance. It was not hunger for food or even exactly for warmth. It was the longing to belong inside a circle without first having to earn the right to stand there. He looked at the fire the way a thirsty person might look at a cup offered to someone else.

Then he looked back at her. “I should go.”

The words were so quiet that no one else could have heard them over the music and the crackle of the flames.

Y/N nodded, though she did not want to. “You know the way?”

“Yes.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Y/N, being twelve and therefore possessed of a heart both wiser and more foolish than it would ever be again, reached into the pocket of her embroidered shirt and found the pinecone hedgehog. One side of its little face was still unpainted, and gold had smudged across its back where her fingers had slipped. It was a ridiculous thing, a Yule thing, something unmistakably hers.

She held it out.

Jimin looked from the ornament to her. “What is it?”

“A hedgehog.”

“It looks angry.”

“He’s meant to be serious.”

Jimin’s mouth shifted, not quite into a smile but close enough to make Y/N’s heart lift. Before she could lose her nerve, she pressed the little hedgehog into his hand.

“For getting me home.”

His fingers closed around it carefully. “I didn’t do much.”

“You did enough.” Y/N drew a breath and glanced toward the dark trees behind him. “This may feel strange, but it will get you home quickly.”

His eyes widened. “You’re using magic again?”

“Only a little. Stand still.”

He obeyed immediately, which pleased her more than she understood. Too many people heard a young girl speak and treated her words as suggestions. Jimin listened as though she had given him something solid enough to stand upon.

The forest listened too. The wind paused, and the falling snow seemed to hang motionless for a single suspended breath. Light folded inward before them, shaping itself into a doorway soft and bright as sunrise seen through closed eyes. Pale gold and silver shimmered along its edges, and beyond it Y/N glimpsed another path, another stand of trees, and another patch of ground washed in moonlight.

Jimin exhaled. “That’s incredible.”

“Go on.”

He hesitated as though there were something else he wanted to say, if only he could find the words.

“Happy Yuletide,” he said at last.

“Happy Yuletide.”

Jimin stepped through, and the light closed behind him. For a moment, the place where he had stood seemed brighter than the rest of the woods, but then snow drifted through it, and there was only forest again.

“He’s a nice boy,” Aldara said from behind her. “He looks so much like his mother.”

Y/N remained still, watching the empty space. She had never met Jimin’s mother, though Aldara rarely said such things without reason. Y/N tried to imagine someone like him with longer hair, carrying that same quiet steadiness and the same grave way of looking at the world as though it had once done something unforgivable and might do so again, but the image refused to settle.

“Are you certain you’re all right?” Aldara asked as she glided down from her branch. “You seem a little down, little bird.”

“I’m fine,” Y/N said too quickly. “Only cold.”

Aldara watched her for another moment. In her owl form, her eyes were darker and brighter than they had any right to be, and Y/N had the uncomfortable sense that nothing about her was hidden. At last, however, Aldara allowed the matter to rest.

“Go play with your friends.” She nudged Y/N’s shoulder with one wing. “Don’t let this spoil your favorite night.”

Y/N nodded, though the words did not quite settle inside her. She wished Jimin could have stayed. More sharply and uselessly, she wished she could be like Aldara—steady, certain, and untouched by wanting things she could not keep. Perhaps then her feelings for Yoongi would not seem so tangled, and the disappointment in her chest would not sit so heavily beside the knowledge that she might never see Jimin again.

Near the fire, Taemin and Yoona were singing at the tops of their voices without a scrap of talent between them.

“You’re flat!” Yoona declared in the middle of a verse, laughing so hard the tune broke apart in her mouth.

“I’m enthusiastic,” Taemin replied.

He missed the next line entirely and sang the wrong words with such confidence that half the clearing erupted into laughter. Heji doubled over, one hand pressed to her stomach and the other braced against Hoji’s shoulder.

“Please stop,” she gasped. “Or don’t. Actually, keep going. This is incredible.”

Aldara settled among them again in owl form, which proved to be a mistake almost immediately. She perched upon the back of a chair with the stern dignity of a queen enduring exile while unseen magic began balancing pinecones upon her head.

“Don’t you dare,” she warned as another drifted toward her.

“I’m not doing anything,” Yoongi said with such innocence that he condemned himself at once.

Heji lost what little composure she had left.

Y/N stood at the edge of the gathering, caught by the strange sensation of stepping back into a world that had continued without her. The fire had not gone out. The singing had not stopped. No one had fallen silent because she vanished. Snow still glowed blue-white beyond the flames, and laughter still rose among the trees as though fear had never crossed the night at all. For one breath, Y/N felt like someone returning from a dream no one else had shared.

Then she stepped forward into the warmth, the noise, and the bright foolishness of it.

Jin sprinted across the clearing without grace, laughing as he nearly tripped over his own feet. Wendy tore after him barefoot through the snow, her hair wild, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes blazing with outrage.

“Jin! Give those back!”

He spun and held her sandals high above his head. “Finders keepers, Winnie!”

“I’ll show you finders keepers!”

Their threats dissolved into laughter before either could carry them out, and Y/N doubled over before she could stop herself. Her own laughter burst out suddenly and almost hurt, as though something frozen inside her chest had cracked and begun to thaw. The last of the cold finally drained from her bones.

A softer voice came from beside her. “You okay?”

She turned to find Yoongi standing there with his hair mussed, his scarf crooked, and his eyes steady upon her. He wore the expression he always did when trying not to look concerned and failing in a way only Y/N seemed able to recognize.

“I’m fine,” she said. Because he would know if she made the lie too neat, she added, “Confused. Did anyone notice I was gone?”

Yoongi’s gaze flicked toward Aldara, who now had another pinecone balanced upon her head and looked as though she were quietly planning murder. “Aldara said you were visiting the animals. I didn’t believe her.”

Y/N snorted. “Definitely wasn’t Patto.”

The truth hovered on her tongue—the forest, the wolf, Jimin—but something held the words back. They felt too delicate for so much noise, too private for firelight and laughing mouths. Some things, spoken too soon, became smaller than they had been. Yoongi seemed to understand that. His mouth curved faintly, and rather than press her, he asked, “So, whose team are you on?”

“Wendy’s,” Y/N said at once. “She needs backup.”

He laughed. “Of course she does.”

She shoved him lightly and ran toward the chaos, but Yoongi lunged after her and caught her before she made it far, pulling her off balance until they both tumbled into the snow.

“Traitor!” Y/N shrieked, laughing as the cold soaked through her clothes.

Yoongi only laughed harder. His hair fell into her mouth, and she sputtered while pushing at his shoulders and scrambling upright.

“Winona!” Y/N called, breathless and grinning. “I’m on your team! Yoongi betrayed us!”

Wendy lit up immediately. “That scurvy dog!”

Yoongi brushed snow from his coat with great dignity. “I did no such thing.”

“You absolutely did,” Y/N told him.

Wendy had already resumed her pursuit of Jin, who moved through the firelight with infuriating ease, laughing as though being hunted by a barefoot girl filled with righteous fury was precisely how he had hoped to spend the evening.

“Enough pirate talk, Ningyo!” he called.

“You can’t even spell that!” Wendy shouted back.

Y/N laughed until her sides hurt. Snow clung to her hair and lashes, melting against her cheeks. Her heart still fluttered from what had happened in the woods, but the voices around her softened the fear, wrapping it in something warm enough to bear.

Guide him home, Luna, she thought. Keep him safe.

“Happy Solstice, Jimin,” she murmured, and his name vanished into the night.

“Y/N!” Wendy shouted. “Get him!”

Y/N’s eyes flew open. She grinned and ran. Jin noticed her too late, and while he shouted about betrayal, Wendy swept in and snatched the sandals from his hand, smacking his arm with them for good measure.

“I was borrowing them!” he protested.

“You were stealing.”

Yoongi dropped into the snow beside Y/N, and without thinking she leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder. His warmth settled around her. New Year’s Day was eleven days away, and the thought drifted through her lazily, without any sharpness. Nights like this always felt safe, as though winter loosened its grip wherever firelight and laughter met. The silent forest, the red eyes, and the voice inside her head had already begun to fade, not because they mattered less, but because joy, when it was strong enough, could make even terror wait outside for a while.

In that moment, Y/N believed everything would be all right.

She did not yet know that she would return to this night again and again, carrying it like a candle cupped carefully between both hands because it could never be remade. She did not know it would be the last time she felt so light.

The memory faded by degrees, taking the old Yule fire with it, along with the bright sting of snow beneath a winter moon, the laughter that had once seemed impossible to lose, and the peculiar ache of having been young in a season that made the whole world look enchanted. One moment it remained warm and vivid, sharp as a song remembered too well; the next it dissolved into the present, leaving only the cottage with its lamplight, sealed jars, frost-fringed windows, and the low, steady hum of the cauldron over the fire.

Dried herbs hung from the rafters in brittle bunches, their summer greenness reduced to scent and memory. Rosemary, sage, sunflower stalks, sweetgrass, and winter mint swayed whenever the wind found a crack in the walls and breathed through it. Beyond the windows, late December pressed close to the glass. Old snow cast the clearing in blue, while bare branches clicked softly in the wind as though the forest were counting down the final days of the year one twig at a time.

Hoseok’s voice cut brightly through the room. “You should come, Bridd. Sol’s birthday celebration will be the talk of the pack, and it’s her choosing day besides. Half the dens are pretending not to gossip, which means everyone is gossiping twice as much.”

Wax pooled beneath Y/N’s hands as she sealed another jar. It glowed briefly beneath her fingers, warmed by the small spell she pressed into it, before cooling into a smooth red stamp.

“You wolves and your ceremonies,” she said. “The Goddess makes the choices, not your speculation.”

Hoseok wagged one finger at her, his grin full of warmth and mischief. “Speculation is half the fun. Don’t ruin my Yule week.”

“It’s December twenty-eighth. Surely you’ve had enough fun by now.”

“Never,” he replied with complete sincerity.

Y/N laughed, though her thoughts had already wandered somewhere quieter, toward the idea of fate-bound love and souls drawn together by something divine and unbreakable. It was a love chosen not by longing, chance, loneliness, or poor judgment, but by the Goddess herself. Y/N could brew potions for yearning and craft charms that warmed the blood, softened the heart, sharpened a memory, or made affection feel real for a little while. True love, however—the sort that arrived with a divine hand at its back—felt as distant and untouchable as the moon.

Her gaze found Jimin before she could stop it. He stood beside the shelves with his hands folded behind his back, as though he feared disturbing anything by touch. Frost still clung in silver flecks to the hem of his dark cloak, and the lamplight caught the edges of his pale hair until it shone almost white-gold. His eyes moved over the dried herbs, labeled jars, bone-handled tools, knives above the hearth, and bundles of winter stock with the quiet, contained attention he gave everything.

Jimin never looked at anything idly. He seemed to be mapping the room, taking in every detail, perhaps mapping her along with it.

Y/N wondered whether he had ever truly stood in the cottage like this before—not for ritual or duty, not as another wolf waiting for the Bridd to give him something, but simply present as himself, breathing the same winter-thick air.

A memory rose before she could guard against it. It had been years ago, at the first ceremony after Namjoon’s ascension. Y/N had been thirteen, still learning how to hold divine magic without breaking beneath its weight, and when the ritual ended, her strength had abandoned her all at once.

She remembered falling, followed by warmth. Arms caught her before she struck the floor, carrying the scents of cedar and smoke. Steady hands held her while a low voice told her to breathe, and fingers brushed her cheek with an almost fearful gentleness, as though she were something both precious and easily broken.

Jimin’s hair had already been white then, like his father’s before him. People whispered about it—omen, blessing, curse—but in that moment he had been none of those things. He had only been a boy with steady hands, holding Y/N as though her fall mattered.

The memory tightened her throat. She turned away before her face could betray her and busied herself with a parcel that had already been tied, sealed, straightened, and fussed over three times. Its ribbon lay perfectly, the wax cooled into a clean red stamp, and there was nothing wrong with it except that it gave her hands somewhere to go.

“I’m looking forward to the Luna’s blessing ceremony,” she said, forcing a lightness into her voice that felt as thin as blown glass. “It will be nice to do something different after Yule week. Something that doesn’t involve wassail, smoke, or people pretending they don’t want gifts.”

“I’m sure it will be an experience,” Hoseok said.

He had wandered toward the shelves with the cheerful danger of a man inclined to touch things he did not understand. His fingers hovered near a bundle of dried marigold tied with red thread, withdrew, and then drifted toward it again, as though he were negotiating with temptation and losing by degrees.

“How different is it from ours?” he asked.

The question came closer than he knew. Y/N’s gaze moved over the cottage before she could stop it, seeing not merely the room as it stood now, but the way it had been beneath Aldara’s care. In those days, the hearth had seemed to occupy the center of a warmer world, filled with laughter, argument, food, and people who entered stamping snow from their boots and left with jars tucked into their pockets. Now charms and bundled ingredients crowded the hearth. Books had been pushed aside to make room for blades, while feathers, crystals, parchment, ink, pouches, bones, bowls, dried roots, folded cloth, and sealed bottles claimed every available surface. Y/N’s magic had crept into everything, thick as ivy even in the dead of winter.

Jimin spoke before she was forced to answer. “I’m sure Bridd doesn’t want to explain that.”

Her hands stilled. He had stepped in so quietly and carefully, shielding her from something she had not realized was visible on her face. For one uncertain moment, Y/N could not decide whether to feel grateful or embarrassed that he had seen her so clearly.

“It’s all right,” she said, though her voice came softer than intended. “It’s very different, but I’ll learn quickly. I still have a few months.”

Hoseok, seemingly untouched by the small shift in the room, returned the marigold to its place with exaggerated care. “I wonder who the new Archon will be. I doubt Ronin is thrilled about stepping down.”

“Who knows,” Jimin replied.

His voice had gone flat enough to draw Y/N’s attention, but before she could ask what troubled him, the window burst inward.

Glass scattered across the floor in a glittering spray, flashing like ice in the lamplight. A blur of feathers, snow, mud, and fury tore through the opening and struck the worktable with both wings spread wide. Rosemary flew, sage overturned, and scraps of parchment lifted like startled birds. A spool of twine rolled wildly toward Hoseok, who stepped aside just before it could tangle around his boots.

Shiloh stood amid the wreckage, puffed to twice her proper size, her white face blazing with outrage and her tail feathers in a state of visible insult. She released a shriek sharp enough to make the jars tremble on their shelves. Y/N froze, Hoseok pressed one hand over his mouth, and Jimin blinked once, very slowly, as though deciding whether the scene before him belonged to reality.

“Oh dear,” Y/N said.

“What,” Hoseok managed, already losing the battle against laughter, “happened to—”

Shiloh screeched again, and Y/N hurried toward her. “Shiloh, my stars, what happened?”

“That dog,” the owl cried. “That awful, slobbering, worm-brained dog. I have suffered indignity beyond measure.”

Hoseok turned toward the shelves, his shoulders shaking, while Jimin lowered his gaze a little too late to hide the faint curve at the corner of his mouth.

“Mannix?” Y/N asked.

“That creature has no respect for messengers, familiars, sacred duties, or personal space.”

“Mannix is still a puppy.”

“He’s a large puppy,” Shiloh snapped, hopping once and leaving muddy prints across the table. “Large enough to mistake my tail for a toy.”

“Oh, Shiloh.” Y/N sighed, though laughter slipped into her voice despite her efforts. “I’m sorry.”

“And then,” Shiloh continued with the grave horror of someone recounting a battlefield, “I had to ask the bees for help.”

Y/N blinked. “Bees? In December?”

“Jin’s bees,” Shiloh said sharply. “The ones he keeps in that stupid box.”

Hoseok gave up entirely. He braced one hand against the shelves and laughed without sound while Shiloh collapsed across the table with one wing thrown dramatically over her head.

“I am the Bridd’s familiar,” she declared. “I should not be bargaining with insects because some ridiculous dog lacks discipline.”

Y/N laughed outright then. Shiloh made an offended noise, though she permitted herself to be lifted, which proved more than anything that she was not as gravely wounded as she pretended.

“I promise you won’t have to go back there today,” Y/N said.

“One would certainly hope.”

Y/N carried her down the hall to the nesting nook beside the window, where soft wool, twigs, shed feathers, and the old stuffed mouse waited. She brushed snowmelt and grit from Shiloh’s feathers with careful fingers before settling her into the hollow.

“There. Rest.”

“You would be furious too if a dog slobbered on your tail,” Shiloh muttered, already closing her eyes.

“I have no doubt.”

Still smiling, Y/N returned to the kitchen. Cold air streamed through the shattered window, sharp enough to bend the candle flames sideways. With a flick of her fingers, the broken glass lifted from the floor in glittering fragments. The pieces chimed softly as they rose and arranged themselves in the air.

“Delinah?” Y/N called toward the moonlit garden.

The young doe lifted her head from the sheltered winter bed beneath the lean-to, a cabbage leaf still hanging from her mouth and frost dusting the tips of her ears. “Yes?”

“When you’re finished, could you ask Pearl Crowther whether she has a vole to spare? Shiloh has had an incident.”

Delinah giggled. “Of course.”

“Thank you.”

Y/N smoothed one hand through the air, and blue light stitched itself over the broken seam in the window. The temporary charm was not elegant, but it would hold until morning. Behind her, Hoseok had resumed wandering, which was usually how trouble began. Jimin remained where she had left him, still and watchful, his attention lingering long enough to make her suddenly conscious of every movement she made.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “My familiar can be dramatic.”

Hoseok laughed. “She seems spirited. Is she always like that?”

“Spunky,” Y/N said, warmth entering her voice before she could stop it.

Jimin did not speak, but when she glanced toward him, his eyes were already on her. Y/N looked away quickly and reached for the bundle Jin had sent, grateful for anything that gave her hands a purpose.

The knots loosened beneath her fingers, releasing the stored brightness of dried sunflower, winter mint, and sea salt. Inside was everything she had requested and, because Jin was Jin, several things she had not: sunflower stalks preserved from summer, pale seeds tucked into a cloth pouch, baby’s breath bound with gold twine, a small comb of honey wrapped in waxed linen, vervain, and a folded letter dusted with his ridiculous shimmer.

Y/N opened it. Jin’s handwriting looked exactly like him—elegant, excessive, and somehow pleased with itself.

Y/N,

How splendid of you to drop by. I know Shiloh came in your absence, but I’ll expect you tonight if the snow does not trap you inside your own doorway. I’ll brew your favorite tea.

Here are the ingredients you requested. I added a few extras as thanks for the gardening tools. I know you go through plenty of mint and sage, so expect more when the thaw comes. I have also started lavender indoors, gods help me, to balance the sea coven’s demands for Yoongi once spring has the decency to return.

As for the tea, this is the recipe you like, correct?

Two to three cups of crushed honeysuckle flowers. Two cups of water. No honey, because you are determined to live without joy.

Am I missing anything?

Blessed Yule,

Jin

P.S. Tell Shiloh I’m sorry about Mannix. He only loves her.

A laugh escaped Y/N, half sigh and half fond disbelief. She pulled a fresh sheet of parchment toward her and began to write.

Jin,

Thank you for the supplies. The mint is lovely, and I’m glad to hear about the lavender. Full sun and well-drained soil once the thaw comes. Yoongi would be better suited to giving advice, but I appreciate your doomed confidence in me.

The tools were a gift because you are a wonderful person and friend. Please pass my thanks to Mannix, though Shiloh returned in one of her fits again. Haven’t I told you to stop encouraging him?

Tea sounds lovely. You remembered correctly: crushed honeysuckle and no honey.

May the gods bring you joy, and Blessed Yule,

Y/N

She sealed the letter with red wax. “Auferetur.”

The seal shimmered as flame curled along the edges of the parchment and consumed it without heat. For a moment, the words glowed like narrow red veins beneath the ash; then the page vanished before a single flake could settle upon the table.

Hoseok whistled. “Sometimes I forget you aren’t human.”

Y/N pulled on her gloves. “Technically, I’m a spirit, but I understand what you mean.”

The cauldron hummed nearby, its contents glowing faintly gold, patient and ready. Y/N dropped in the vervain, and it bloomed at once, releasing a sharp green fragrance like a summer field remembered through snow.

“Is everything in your world a spirit?” Hoseok asked.

“Hoseok,” Jimin warned.

Y/N turned just enough to let the steam conceal her expression. “Just about.”

With a flick of her wrist, the bottles rose from the table. One by one they tilted against the rim of the cauldron and caught the golden liquid as it poured. Each filled to precisely the right height before a cork pressed itself neatly into place. Hoseok watched with open curiosity rather than disbelief, which Y/N found she liked more than she expected.

“Isn’t that difficult?” he asked. “Doing all of it at once?”

She smiled. “Hoseok, I’m the Bridd. Do you truly think so little of me?”

“Of course not. I’ve simply never seen another witch do it.”

“Do you spend time with many witches?”

“Only that grumpy one near the pixie coves,” he said, sounding personally offended.

“Yoongi? The one in the purple cottage northwest?”

“That’s what you call him?” Hoseok leaned back against the counter. “He refused to give me his name during my first three visits. I had to learn it from someone else.”

“That sounds like him.” Y/N could not keep the amusement from her voice. “How did you get close enough for Yoongi to let you inside? He isn’t exactly welcoming.”

Hoseok’s grin came more slowly this time, softened by memory rather than performance. “It wasn’t as charming as I prefer my stories to be.”

“I’m sure you survived.”

“Barely.” The joke was quiet. He glanced toward Jimin, whose attention had shifted to him with mild interest, before continuing. “It was late autumn, just before the first proper snow. One of the trade paths near the pixie coves had washed out, and I went to inspect it before sending anyone else through. There was an old snare buried beneath the leaves. It wasn’t one of ours.”

Y/N’s expression sharpened. “A hunting snare?”

“Unfortunately.” Some of the humor left his face. “I managed to cut most of it away, but there was a second loop I didn’t see until it caught me. It tore my foot badly enough that I couldn’t put any weight on it.”

Jimin remained still, though something in his eyes grew sharper.

“I could have shifted,” Hoseok continued, “but iron in a wound makes that unpleasant, and I was still close to witch territory. I didn’t want to bleed across the border and start trouble with someone from Marais. They aren’t as fond of us as the covens in Caledon.”

“That would be very like you,” Y/N said.

“So there I was, sitting on a rock in the cold like a fool and trying to decide whether pride was worth limping three miles, when Yoongi came down the path with a basket over his arm and murder in his eyes.”

Y/N could picture it so clearly that her smile deepened.

“He looked at the snare first,” Hoseok said. “Then he looked at my foot and told me, ‘If you bleed on my path, I’m making you clean it.’”

“That’s Yoongi,” Y/N said softly.

“I told him I would gladly clean it if I still had a foot by then. He stared at me for a very long time, as though deciding whether I was worth the trouble.”

“He does that.”

“He cut the remaining wire away with a kitchen knife,” Hoseok continued. “Very carefully, for someone pretending not to care. Then he told me I had two choices: limp home and risk a fever, or sit down, stop talking, and let him work.”

“And you stopped talking?”

Hoseok’s grin returned. “Eventually.”

Jimin made a quiet sound that might have been amusement.

“He cleaned the wound with something that burned like hell, dragged me back to his cottage, complained that wolves had no respect for boundaries, wrapped my foot as though he had done it a hundred times, and fed me broth so bitter I thought he was punishing me.”

“Healing broth,” Y/N said. “Yoongi wouldn’t waste poison on you.”

“I know that now. Our friendship was still young.”

Y/N laughed, and Hoseok’s expression warmed at the sound.

“The pain had eased before I finished the bowl,” he said. “By morning, the wound had closed enough for me to walk home. He handed me another jar and said, ‘If you reopen it, don’t come crying to me.’”

“And yet you went back.”

“I brought him salt two days later. He accepted it, told me I was blocking his doorway, and gave me bread wrapped in cloth before sending me away.”

“That means he likes you,” Y/N said.

“That sounds familiar,” Jimin murmured.

The words landed softly. Y/N looked at him, and though his expression revealed almost nothing, something passed between them all the same—warm, fragile, and nearly formed. She looked away first.

Hoseok either noticed nothing or was kind enough to pretend. “I stop by once or twice a week now. Yoongi behaves as though I’ve disturbed the peace of his entire bloodline, but he always has something simmering on the stove, and there is always enough for two.”

“He has a quiet sort of kindness,” Y/N said.

“I know,” Hoseok replied. “That’s why I keep going.”

Outside, the light softened toward evening. Snow gathered along the lower edges of the windows, and the cottage seemed to draw itself more tightly around the hearth. Y/N filled the final mold and watched the surface settle, her hands moving by instinct while her thoughts wandered through old memories, unspoken worries, and things she knew better than to want. For that brief stretch of time, the day felt kind.

She dropped the preservation stones into the jars one by one. Each sank slowly, pulsed once, and disappeared beneath the golden mixture. Within a few hours, the potion would thicken into a soft gel, sweet as strawberries remembered from summer. In a week, once the stones dissolved completely, its full strength would awaken.

“Are they ready to use?” Jimin asked.

His voice startled her badly enough that one of the bottles tipped. Y/N caught it before it could fall and steadied it against the table. “Not yet. They need a week. If you open them too early, they’ll spoil.”

Jimin inclined his head.

“Is everything else ready?” Hoseok asked.

“Yes.”

His attention drifted toward the knives hanging above the hearth. “How do you make those?”

Y/N followed his gaze and smiled. “Bones, sandpaper, a decent blade, and time.”

Her eyes settled upon the smallest knife, the first she had ever made. It had been carved after Davian died. He was an old buck, gentle and soft-eyed, a creature she had loved as a child without ever needing to name the feeling. Some loves were too simple to survive explanation. They existed before words, and perhaps that was what made them pure.

Davian had visited the clearing through winter and spring, nosing at Y/N’s pockets for apple peel and standing patiently while she untangled burrs from the fur beneath his jaw. When he stopped coming, she cried for days. At last, Aldara took her into the woods to search for him.

They found Davian in a meadow silvered by winter moonlight, folded into the grass as though sleep had overtaken him there.

Aldara rested one hand upon Y/N’s shoulder. “Keep a part of him, and he’ll keep a part of you.”

Together, they carved the knife from his scapula and sanded it until the bone gleamed like ivory. After that, bonecraft became less a practice than a ritual. The cellar walls filled slowly over the years, every blade a memory given an edge. One day, Y/N hoped to pass them on. She simply had not yet met anyone who loved the forest quite as she did.

“They’re beautiful,” Jimin said.

The softness in his voice caught her off guard. He did not offer words lightly. “Thank you,” she murmured.

Around them, the cottage resumed its quiet enchanted movement. Tools drifted into place, feathers and quills lifted like obedient birds, and folded paper arranged itself into neat stacks while boxes formed in rows along the table. Glass tapped softly against wood. Y/N wrote the instruction cards by hand, keeping every line careful and clear. The suppressants were meant for the Caledon pack, and the dosage had to be exact, particularly for Jimin, whose wolf burned through most remedies too quickly to allow for guesswork.

When the last card slid into place, Y/N set the quill aside. “You can take them now.”

Jimin approached the table with his usual quiet care. Most alphas carried strong scents. Hoseok smelled faintly of burnt citrus beneath the cold, while Namjoon carried the warmth of ginger and whiskey. Jimin smelled of cedar, frost, and smoke—not fire itself, but the clean trace left after a bonfire had gone out.

He reached for a bottle just as Y/N drew her hand away, and their fingers brushed.

It was barely a touch, almost nothing, but it stole her breath all the same.

Y/N looked up and found his eyes already on hers. For one heartbeat, the cottage seemed to close around them: the crackling hearth, the herbs hanging overhead, the winter cold beyond the glass, Hoseok’s voice fading into the distance, and lamplight trembling across Jimin’s silver hair.

Then he spoke.

“Thank you, Bridd.”

“You’re welcome, Jimin.”

Something close to a smile touched his mouth before disappearing, and he tucked the bottle carefully into his pack.

“Well,” Hoseok said, clapping his hands and breaking the quiet with cheerful mercy, “that’s settled. We should get these back before Ahn discovers something new to complain about.”

Y/N laughed and stepped aside while they gathered the boxes. She followed them to the door and opened it upon the winter forest, where snowlight lay blue across the steps and the cold reached inside at once, bright and clean.

Hoseok paused on the threshold to pull his cloak more tightly around himself. “Don’t be a stranger, Bridd. We like having you around.”

Jimin lingered a moment longer, snowlight caught in his pale hair. “Visit us sometime. The pack would be honored.”

Something softened in Y/N’s chest. “I’ll consider it,” she said, realizing as she spoke that she meant it. “Safe travels. Blessed Yule.”

Hoseok’s smile warmed. “Blessed Yule.”

Jimin inclined his head. “Blessed Yule, Bridd.”

They descended the steps together, Hoseok bright and easy, Jimin quiet beside him. Before long, the forest took them. Their footprints marked the old snow until shadow blurred the trail, and Y/N remained in the doorway listening until their footsteps faded completely. Only after the trees had swallowed them did she release the breath she had been holding.

A small smile came before she could stop it.

Shiloh swept through the open window and landed with a soft flutter. “They’re quite something, aren’t they?”

Y/N kept her gaze fixed upon the trees. “Yes. They are.”

It made Jungkook think about you.. which frankly he had been avoiding. He had said yes to the pack but at the same time he was nervous about how things would actually go. He knew the pack would be disappointed if you said no and he didn't think he could handle that in addition to loosing you. Nobody knew the fact that he had watched you from the first day you entered. Your bright smiles were infectious. You were a reserved person and he was shy and to be honest it wasn't the best combination.

Many a times when you sat in Yoongi's studio doing your work Jungkook stood and watched from the slight opening of the door. He had come out to eat icecream and he picked up the tub decided to go visit yoongi and there you were. Its like you belonged with the pack already. He only moved when you started packing your books to leave. Rushing to hide in his room. Heart pounding. It must have been from the running because surely it couldn't be you. His icecream melted but he felt like he had bigger concerns. But he wasn't sad for long because Jin had made him a milkshake out of the melted icecream

Another thing to note was that Jungkook loves your scent. It's addicting, it's like having his favourite candy times hundred for the first time. If he could turn your scent into perfume he would and he would also spray it everywhere so he can always smell it.

Jungkook was more proactive in the action department of his brain than the thinking. He had always his hyungs to do the thinking for him. It wasn't like he couldn't but he liked living not having to do the heavy lifting and being cared for,he would move mountains for them in return if that's what made them happy. And he was always going to have the pack and now maybe possibly even you.

How did he even get so lucky.. he had told this to Yoongi who'd gently replied. Whatever he did he must have been good.

And you're pretty. In all the ways he likes. If Jungkook wasn't busy being jealous of you when you were first introduced to him he would have followed you to the ends of the earth just to get a glimpse of you. He'd often watch the windows of your room sleeping only after you turned off the lights. Some times he wanted to scold you for staying up late. Or for being careless as a lone omega. He knew he'd get an earful if he ever confessed such thoughts to anyone but he couldn't help but worry. He wanted to be the one who protects you. Except he'd only caused you hurt. Maybe he wasn't good enough to be your mate maybe that's why the bond was one way instead of two. He must have been oblivious to not realise how much he cared for you.

Jungkook has always been a hopeless romantic. He knows it. Every one knows it. He remembers the one time that play fighting with Jin had gone too far and Jin had to leave for an offsite buisness trip and when Jin opened the trunk to get his luggage, he found Jungkook eating his emergency jellies... which made Jin both endeared and even more mad. Jungkook had followed Jin to his hotel and even had the audacity to order mint chocolate icecream.

Jin was extremely irritated having to deal with Jungkook but also secretly happy Jungkook had followed him even though Jin wouldn't be caught admitting it. He even made Hoseok lecture Jungkook later.

But being around you is so confusing for Jungkook. He wants to protect you but also hide from you. He wants to listen to you but also talking to you is so intimidating. He wants to hide you from the world but also show you off to everyone. He wants to never say the words out loud and scream from the rooftops. That yes yes he's in love with you.

Thats not the only thing on Jungkook's mind though.

As he eats instant noodles with Jimin, a random movie playing in the background. He can't help but be a little concerned.

The only one not into the recent change is Jimin and Jungkook thinks he might have something to do with it.

The truth is Jimin felt a little betrayed by Jungkook's change of stance. Jimin liked you, he did. He loved hanging out with you and the omega sleepovers and laughing silly with you ,but you were the newest friend he had made in a while and things would change once you were pack. And there wasn't any guarantee it'd change for the better.

He also felt a little threatened by you, he was used to being Jungkook's omega and the packs omega uncontested because Taehyung always folded even when Jimin knew he was being unreasonable or doing something just because he could and not to mention how it would inevitably change the pack dynamics. Namjoon and Yoongi had taken a great learning curve to respect each other, but because of you, they were already arguing again. While Jimin wouldn't say it our loud, he was grateful Yoongi was a beta because otherwise, it would have been a total disaster.

Also the pack was already accommodating you. When Jimin had introduced Jungkook there was a lot of adjustments and maybe its unfair on you for Jimin to compare but it's the truth. Jimin was furious when he glanced upon Hobi's idea notebook where he was already considering doing videos with you.

Everything felt too sudden. And thats not to mention having the responsibility of looking after the wellbeing of another omega. Jimin wasn't sure he could do it.

The pack sat together for dinner. Since Jungkook was going to be away from home Seokjin and Yoongi had gone the extra mile to make Junkook's favourite dishes. The mood across the table was cheery.

They all ate happily talking over each other. Jin was showing off by flexing his arm muscles because he had recently started going to the gym again. Tae too flexed his muscles. Hobi laughed. Jimin couldn't help but smile fondly at his pack.

"Jungkook. Do well." Yoongi said quietly as they were picking up dishes.

Before Jungkook could reply. Jimin spoke. "Its not necessary that Y/n will agree."

Yoongi was a little shocked by the bite present in Jimin's words.

"What do you mean?"

Shrugging he said." I mean she's a solo omega who hasn't lived in a pack for most of her life. It's hard to live with us. Besides she may just not want to. I think you guys are building it up too much. I mean she didn't even say anything about the gifts we gave her before so who knows maybe she was playing us. I mean you guys saw her with another alpha."

Yoongi felt angry. "Are you hearing yourself right now?"

"Ofcourse I'm just being realistic." Jimin replied defensively.

Yoongi lost his temper. "That's rich coming from you."

"What do you mean?" Jimin said even though he knew exactly what Yoongi was implying. He had introduced Jungkook to the pack when Jungkook was still a minor.

"What's going on?" Taehyung asked coming from the kitchen soap suds in his hand. "You guys smell angry."

Yoongi scoffs. "Nothing." Yoongi walks away leaving a Jimin who is both hurt and angry.

Finally the day of the trip arrives. Jungkook can feel the pressure.

Namjoon spots the tremble in Jungkook's hand. So he waits for everyone to say their goodbyes. Then he hugs Jungkook.

"Have fun. OK? And no matter what happens I won't be Dissappointed in you. You're still pack. Our Baby alpha."

And Jungkook feels himself relax. It's exactly what he needed to hear.

"Our kid is going camping alone. Jungkookie is all grown up. Come on everyone it's picture time " Hobi says ushering everyone close to take a picture.

"1 2 3, Say cheese" Hobi clicks the picture. The Polaroid film comes out blank and slowly but surely the colors start filling in.

"Why's his bag so heavy? It's like you're carrying rocks." Taehyung comments.

And his bag was quite a sight. An army style bag and luggage with extra sleeping bag containing snacks and a safety kit and a Swiss knife.

"Ok ok. He'll be late." Jin says ushering them along.

They all say goodbye and leave for work.

Jungkook takes a deep breath and picks his luggage. Here goes nothing. .

The first order of buisness is that Jungkook is responsible for taking attendance. He can't help but notice your cheery mood. It puts him in a good mood too.

Soon it's time to board the bus. He directs the students along with the other volunteers to keep their bags in the bus. He's about to help you when Yeonjun that brat keeps your luggage.

"Your luggage is cute like you" the alpha says.

You giggle.

And Jungkook decides he hates this Yeonjun character. His hate only intensifies. When you sit next to each other. He breaks the pencil he was holding when he sees you share earphones.

He wants to stop you but he remembers he has no right to. He spends the rest of the ride plotting Yeonjun's demise.

He watches you fall asleep. Its early morning so it's only natural a lot of people are sleeping. The bus makes a stop he watches Yeonjun and others who are awake go to the bus stop. He covers you up with the shawl so you don't catch a cold. Then he goes back to his seat satisfied.

The bus resumes its journey. Finally the destination arrives. People start to get up. You look groggy and half asleep. So adorable.

"I'll take out our bags" Yeonjun tells you. You nod in response hugging the shawl closely. It smells nice. You stretch and stand up. Jungkook comes closer to you the apology ready on his lips but instead he changes his mind the last minute.

"Y/n.. I... the shawl please."

"Oh yeah sure." You're a little disappointed. Aren't you supposed to be mates. Isn't this supposed to be easy. You wait for him to say something else. Anything. But before he can say something one of the other volunteers asks Jungkook to hurry. And so once again he leaves you hanging.

You are alloted rooms luckily you and Sooyeon are sharing the room. You both quickly change into your hiking outfit.

You start at the base of the mountain excited but it isn't soon that you're already regretting it. The surroundings forest makes the air humid. And soon you're sweating. As the path goes on, it becomes more steep. Jungkook stays near you and though you loathe to admit it. It does make you feel more safe.

Despite grumbling the entire journey. The top view is spectacular. Though the weather is windy. You take pictures. You even have a group picture taken.

And then it's going down, which, though easier than climbing is still fueling your exhaustion. By the end your legs feel like jelly.

Soon it's time for dinner after eating and taking a shower you pass out on your bed.

The next morning after breakfast, your bus takes you to the camping site. The scenery is nice. A clearing at the base of the mountain surrounded by forests.

On reaching camps you are handed tents. Your first task is building tents. You start to read the information booklet with Suyeon.

"Don't worry Y/n. I'll help you out. I used to go camping with my dad. I've helped make tents."

You smile at her grateful, but before you can say more. A loud clap attracts your attention.

It's Jungkook.

"Gather round. I'll make one tent to show you how it's done. Play close attention."

He then picks up your tent and starts setting it up carefully going over the steps. And you wanna roll your eyes at his audacity but you're also secretly impressed.

Suyeon nudges you, a mischievous smile on her lips.

"Shut it." You say warning evident in your tone.

She only giggles thoroughly, enjoying the turn of events.

Jungkook knows he's probably trying to hard. But at this point it's all or nothing. It's best to finish this before he looses his nerve. Except all his plans seem to be backfiring. Anytime he tries to offer help. Show he can provide as an alpha. Its end up in a way where you offer to help others and do more work.

He then instructed people to chop wood for the barbecue. Assigning yeonjun to it. To you he put on the food preparation duty. So that you both wouldn't stick to each other. His satisfaction lasted only a little while.

After a while, every time Yeonjun transported the wood, he'd drop by the kitchen area. And you'd feed him a little something after he cutely whined for it. Even helping him drink water!!! Jungkook had to busy him in the actual grilling. Pretending to teach him to barbecue so that the two of you would stay separated.

You sat huddled together as a group when Yeonjun produced smores like he was smuggling alcohol.

As if that wasn't enough. Yeonjun fed you the fresh grilled pieces of the barbecue. And Jungkook was forced to handover the smores he bought for himself to Yeonjun because he wanted you to eat them. And he had to smile and pretend to be magnanimous to Yeonjun who thought Jungkook was favouring him.

Ha! As if he would favor his mortal enemy.

He just couldn't risk making you more angry then you were and have Jin hyung scold him that's it. And Yeonjun was a nice kid. But he wouldn't be caught dead admitting it.

"Wow where did you get these" Suyeon asked him taking a bite.

"Jungkook sunbaenim gave them to me. I think he likes me." Yeonjun replied confidently.

Suyeon choked back laughter. You handed her water with a pointed look.

"Ofcourse such a nice senior." Suyeon agrees patting your back.

And one might call him biased against Yeonjun. But whenever he tries to give him jobs you end up volunteering to help him out. Like he made Yeonjun do the dishes. And he had been away for a moment only to come back and find you sitting next to Yeonjun scrubbing away. And playing with the bubbles. He stromed away in barely concealed rage which stemmed out of jealousy and ended up scrubbing the rest of the pots. Which Yeonjun saw and felt even more respect for his senior.

Suyeon took a video of the incident and emailed it to you. Fulfilling her duty as your bestfriend. (Much later it would make rounds on the the boys phones.. Taehyung even gotted a screenshot of jungkooks face printed on a shirt for Christmas)

Still Jungkook left a hand cream on your bed for you. And just like that the second day ended with Jungkook grumbling to himself as he finished checking up on everything that needed to be done for the night. Complaining to the cactus pen he'd borrowed from Namjoon.

Authur's note: happy namkook month every one. I hope you're doing well. I finally finished this. I finally got to writing after watching Run Jin. Him coming back has like healed me. So I thought it would be nice to post this. Anyway please let me know your thoughts as always. I love hearing them. And remember to like and repost.

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