It was something to be ashamed of. You were beginning to look forward to these nights with them in the forest.

At first, you had the usual, predictable fear that any sane person would. And truth be told, the fear was not gone. Instead, it had dulled, stretched into something thinner but heavier. The sensation was nostalgic in the same way a half-remembered dream haunts you well after you wake up. This newer fear had settled into the very core of you, lodging itself in the space between your bones like lead to the point you were starting to enjoy the feel of it. You realized too, to your horror, you were even beginning to crave it.

When they first decided to bring you along to 'help', you spent most of the time with your eyes closed. Both your palms pressed tight to the edges of your face, fingers digging down to block out everything you could. It was only on occasion that you peeked out, just when the sounds got too vivid to pretend you weren't hearing them anymore.

The impact of wood meeting flesh, grotesque thuds that would send jolts through your stomach before the distant crunch that followed. All noises of things giving way, whether that was bone, muscle, or something else entirely.

The night would swallow everything, absorbing the echoes of screams, cries, and—laughter.

Because yes, there was always laughter. Not only cruel, but excited for what was to come.

Sun and Moon enjoying their night as they exchanged giggles, Sun's high-pitched wheeze catching in his throat, too loud, always a breath away from a manic cackle. Moon's snicker softer, rising as the night went on, curling in after each loud hit.

You had seen them laugh before: jokes at the Arcade, shared smiles when someone had to clean up spilled popcorn. The way they smirked at each other from behind your shoulder as you were forced to deal with a customer demanding a refund they would never get, always amused by a mundane situation.

But these nights were no small joy to them. This was more sacred than that, pure in a way that only made sense to them. They laughed like they were exactly where they belonged. And that... More than the knives, the blood, the pleas rattling out of the sorry bastard's shattered jaw, was what had once terrified you the most.

And now? Now you didn't look away.

You watched Sun. Tracked his movements with intent focus as his lips curled back just before he leaned in. His knife, held gently, his favorite tool, sharp and curved... ready to be wet.

He dragged the blade, a single, precise stroke that sliced down along the meat of his victim's cheek. Skin peeled back like a neat ribbon, as if he had done this to the point of methodical perfection.

You no longer flinched.

Instead, you found yourself focused on the shine in his vivid blue eyes, the way his breath hitched not from fatigue, but elation. His lean forearm extended with each stroke, muscles pulled and defined. The corner of his grin caught in the light, mirrored in the blood as it glittered and dripped from his knuckles downward.

Sometimes, you caught him as he looked at you. A suggestion of nervousness in his stare before he resumed his performance.

This particular night, you sat at the edge of the action. Sun had been working a weak confession from the newest target's lips.

This target was especially heinous, a good page and a half of offenses in the little black book, which meant that the prior hour of slow torture that had left the man—creature—stripped of most skin was well deserved.

As he pressed the blade of his throwing knife into the exposed lines of muscle in the target’s thigh, you found yourself giggling along with Sun at the pained whine that broke free. It sounded like a wild pig being startled.

You turned in time to see Moon step back into the clearing, his silhouette emerging from the tree line. Pale-patched dark skin caught silver starlight in flashes through the leaves as he stalked forward.

His fingers flexed. Large hands, so familiar to you now, curled and released the handle of something heavy slung low at his side.

An axe.

Unlike Sun, Moon did not care to keep his toys as... polished. The axe never gleamed, not in all the time you had known him, just wore a dark film from extended use. From your place on the forest floor, you focused on the blade of the axe, dull and thick as ever.

The air took on a thick, metallic scent, deep enough that it raked the back of your sinuses raw. Despite how the fear had changed, you still could not stomach this part of the night.

As the screams began to quiet, hushing into sobbing gurgles punctuated by rhythmic crunches that tapered off, your attention pulled away.

You had other work to do.

Quietly, you rose to your feet and moved through the outer edge of the clearing, collecting what you could. Forgotten pieces of tattered fabric, the handle of something that had broken off while being used, a snapped metal chain link that gleamed a bit too brightly under the moonlight.

Sun and Moon would handle the rest. Cleanup was strangely meticulous, both of them extremely particular about how they handled disposal. It was almost ritualistic; there was no way to tell how they'd decide to do it next, if anything would be left.

The only noticeable pattern that you had singled out was if the target had left a family behind. Only then did Sun and Moon ever leave anything to be stumbled upon. It also depended on the relationship, whether the family would be relieved or mournful... It was a wedding ring once, another time a bloodied ripped up shirt; one time Sun had hung a locket from a tree branch like an ornament.

You had yet to find courage to ask outright. Not yet.

With a heavy sigh, you looked down at yourself. Your shirt and pants were filthy, mud up to your knees, crushed leaves clinging to you, even your sleeves were freckled with thin pinpricks that read black under the night sky.

This was exactly why Sun had demanded you bring a change of clothes.

With the echo of the axe still being swung somewhere in the distance, followed by their low voices and the scrape of footsteps as they dragged through the earth, you went to undress.

You had taken a spot next to their van, having retraced your steps back to where it sat, far enough away from the staged area but hidden within the tree line from the dirt road. Half-shielded by its cabin, fingers fumbling at the hem of your shirt as you peeled it away.

The fabric clung, damp with your sweat and something stickier you did not want to guess at. It pulled across your back before it slipped loose, falling limp between your fingers. Without anything to stop it, the night air met your bare skin. It wasn't cold, only the sudden mid-summer warmth of the night. Your nerves were on edge after having watched them so closely. Now you were on full alert, completely alone. Goosebumps prickled across your exposed arms and trailed down the path of your spine.

You held still as the silence of the forest lulled in close; you waited for the feeling to pass before you let your shirt fall to the ground. It crumbled at your feet, too dirty and ruined to bother with saving. You wouldn't be wearing it again.

Your fingers shook as they found the waistband of your jeans, fumbling with the button as anxiety started to form in the pit of your stomach. It was almost too quiet now. A lone cloud slid across the moon, smothering your only light. Denim clung stubbornly to your waist, forcing you to struggle for a few awkward seconds as you shimmied the fabric loose.

With tiny shuddering motions, your hips pitched forward as you tugged your pants down, thumbs dug in as you worked them lower, inch by inch, distracted from how the shadows had deepened around you as you turned toward the van. Your only warning was a nearly silent exhale—

With steady force, you were pushed forward. The side of the van rocked as your chest pressed painfully flat against it; your bare skin jolting at the sudden chill of the metal. A high, broken gasp escaped you. Warm breath fogged the siding at your lips.

A presence coiled in behind you before you could try to push back, the way it neither rushed nor hesitated told you exactly who it was. A confident body aligned with yours in a smooth and slow press that swallowed the little space between you.

"Stuck, Star?" Moon's breath skimmed your ear as he leaned in, voice low.

The thing Taehyung hated most wasn’t hunger.

It wasn’t the ache in his arms after long days under the sun, or the way his back stiffened from hours bent over soil that never seemed to give enough back. It wasn’t even school—though that came close.

It was the difference.

The invisible line drawn between him and everyone else.

He saw it in the way his classmates wrinkled their noses when he passed by, the quiet snickers when he pulled out the same worn notebook, its edges curled and softened from years of use. He heard it in the careless comments—“Don’t you ever buy new clothes?” said like a joke, like it didn’t matter.

Like he didn’t.

Taehyung learned early how to smile through it. How to laugh, how to shrug, how to act like it didn’t burrow under his skin and sit there, festering.

Because at home, there was no room for that.

At home, he was the son his parents could rely on. The one who understood without being told. The one who stepped in before anyone had to ask. Perfect?

He carried crates heavier than his own weight. Counted bills faster than the buyers could question him. Skipped school on days his father’s hands shook just a little too much from exhaustion.

He told himself it was enough. That they were enough.

And they were. They really were.

Which was why it made him feel so much worse, because somewhere along the way, Taehyung realized something ugly had taken root inside him.

Something bitter.

Something he couldn’t quite pull out no matter how hard he tried. He hated people like them.

People who didn’t have to think about the price of things, those who didn’t measure meals, the same people who didn’t look at their parents and feel that quiet, suffocating guilt for simply existing.

People like his best friend. Y/N.

If someone asked Taehyung to describe Y/N, he wouldn’t know where to start, not because there wasn’t anything to say—But because nothing about her ever fit into one thing.

She wasn’t kind.

Not in the way people expected.

She didn’t smile softly or speak gently or offer comforting words when things got difficult, she didn’t hesitate before pointing things out—flaws, mistakes, weaknesses, or embarrassing. Sometimes she said things that should’ve hurt more than they did.

Sometimes they did.

But she also wasn’t cruel, and cruel people didn’t stay.

They didn’t show up uninvited and start working like they belonged there. They didn’t kneel in the dirt without complaint, hands buried in soil, learning things no one had ever expected her to care about. They didn’t memorize which fruits were ripe just by color. Didn’t argue with customers over prices like it actually mattered to them. Didn’t sit at the edge of the table during dinner, quietly eating whatever was given to them without ever asking for more.

Y/N did.

And that was the problem.

Because she acted like none of it was a big deal, like helping his mother in the kitchen or carrying crates alongside his father was just… something to do. Like defending him at school was nothing more than swatting away an inconvenience.

Like he was just another part of her routine. Taehyung didn’t understand that.

Didn’t understand how someone like her—someone who could go back to a house bigger than their entire farm, to a life where none of this struggle existed, with a mother whose name could make a whole room turn silent—could stand in the middle of his world and look completely unaffected.

She didn’t pity him. That was the strange part.

If anything, she seemed… annoyed.

Annoyed when he brushed things off, annoyed when he smiled too easily, annoyed when he acted like things didn’t bother him.

Like she expected more from him.

Like she saw something he didn’t.

And Taehyung hated that.

He hated the way she spoke to him like he wasn’t fragile, like he wasn’t someone to be careful around. Like he didn’t need to be handled gently. Everyone else either looked down on him—or looked at him like something that might break.

Y/N did neither, she just… looked. Straight at him. Unfiltered. Unimpressed. Unafraid, and somehow, that was worse. Because it made him feel exposed in a way he couldn’t explain.

Like she could see past the smile, past the easygoing attitude, past everything he carefully kept in place.

Like she knew.

Not everything.

But enough to stay.

That part bothered him, because Y/N wasn’t supposed to fit into his life.

She wasn’t supposed to stand behind a worn wooden counter, counting change with hands that had probably never needed to before him. She wasn’t supposed to sit on the floor with his sisters, letting them braid her hair badly while she pretended not to care. She wasn’t supposed to exist in the same spaces as him so… easily.

It didn’t make sense. Nothing about her did.

And maybe that was the problem. Because no matter how much dirt clung to her shoes, no matter how much time she spent under the same sun, doing the same work—Y/N still had a place to return to that he didn’t.

A house that wasn’t falling apart with a liife that wasn’t held together by sacrifice, where she had a future that didn’t depend on how much he could endure.

She could walk away from all of this. From him. At any time.

So when she stood beside him, like it was a choice—when she defended him, like it was obvious—when she looked at his life and didn’t flinch, didn’t pity him, didn’t treat it like something lesser—It didn’t feel comforting.

It felt…Wrong.

Because Taehyung didn’t know what to do with someone who saw everything he tried to hide—And stayed anyway.

.

.

.

The oranges were the best they’d had all season.

Taehyung knew that without needing to be told. He could see it in the color alone—bright, almost too perfect, the kind that would sell fast without much effort. No bruises, no dull patches, no signs of rot hiding beneath the skin.

Perfect on the outside.

He stacked them carefully into the crate, wiping his hands against his pants before reaching for the next, Y/N sat on the low wooden step nearby, one leg bent, the other stretched out lazily in front of her. She’d been quiet for a while now, which wasn’t unusual. When she didn’t feel like talking, she just… didn’t.

No explanations, no real need for them anyways.

After a moment, she reached into the crate and picked one up, “You’re going to mess up the count.” Taehyung spoke out first as he stalked the second crate on top.

“I’m taking one.” Y/N drawled.

“That’s still messing it up.” He added

“I’ll pay for it.” She shot back at him. Taehyung would let out a quiet breath through his nose, like that somehow made it worse. Of course she would.

Y/N turned the orange in her hand, inspecting it briefly before pulling a small knife from her pocket. He didn’t question why she had it. She always carried things like that—random, practical, slightly out of place. The blade pressed into the skin, a soft tear, then—a thin line of juice welled up instantly, catching the light before spilling over her fingers.

She didn’t react, she just cut deeper, splitting it open with clean, precise movements.More juice. Sticky now. Running along her fingers, dripping down to her wrist. She brought it to her mouth without hesitation, biting into one half.

A pause.

Then she chewed. “…It’s sour,” she said around the mouthful of orange. Taehyung huffed quietly. “They’re not all sweet.”

“I can tell.” she answered, and yet, she took another bite. Juice clung to her skin. She didn’t wipe it off. Didn’t seem to care as it dried, tacky and slow. Taehyung watched for a second too long before looking away “You could’ve picked a better one.”

“How? they all looked the same.”

“That doesn’t mean they are.”

Y/N hummed, glancing down at the other half in her hand. "Still all oranges..."

He almost laughed. Almost. Instead, he reached for another orange, gripping it a little tighter than necessary. “You don’t have to eat it.”

“I know.” She didn't even look at him.

“Then why are you?” He pressed on.

That tone made her finally glance over her shoulder to meet his gaze, she looked at him, not in a confused way, not defensive, just… direct. Then she answered like it was the most obvious thing in the world, “Because....I already cut it?” Like that was enough of an answer.

The boy scoffed softly under his breath. He could end the conversation right now, maybe say something less blunt to lessen the tension settling between them. But he didn't.

“That doesn’t mean you have to keep going.”

She shrugged. “It’s fine.”

“It’s sour.”

“It’s still food.”

That—that made something twist. This was never about the oranges.

“You don’t have to force yourself,” he said, his voice a little flatter now.

“I’m not.” She narrowed her eyes, just slightly as she looked at him.

“You just said it’s sour.”

“And?”

“And you don’t have to act like that’s okay.”

She blinked once, “I said it’s fine.”

“It doesn’t have to be fine,” Something in his tone must’ve shifted, because she stilled slightly, her gaze settling on him more carefully now.

“…It’s just an orange.”

Taehyung let out a quiet, humorless laugh. 'Sure' He picked one up from the crate, turning it in his hand before pressing his thumb into the skin, not enough to break it, just enough to feel the give. “They all look perfect,” he murmured. “Doesn’t mean they are.”

Y/N didn’t respond, she didn’t interrupt. So he kept going. “They sell better that way, though, right?” he added. “No one wants the ones that look bad.”

The words sat heavier than they should have. Even to him.

Y/N stopped chewing. She tilted her head slightly to the side as her eyes examined him. He wasn't talking about the oranges, right? of course he wasn't. There it was again. That same attitude he gave her whenever he stuck around for too long, whenever she showed that she cared. "You're not talking about the same thing I am." She pointed out.

Taehyung's brows furrowed, his face showed it before he could old himself back, "About the oranges, yes I am." He'd fire back.

"This ain't about the damn oranges."

"and you would know?" Taehyung's voice rose just slightly.

Y/N stared at him for a long second, "I usually do." She answered with calm certainty, that quiet, unshaken confidence that always made him feel like he was the one a step behind.

Taehyung's grip on the orange in his hand tightened just slightly. He didn't look away like he normally did when bengals confronted, instead, he kept on pressing the topic. "Fine—" He scoffed, "—If I'm not talking about the oranges then what am I talking about?" Y/N held his gaze for a moment, then, simply, “You’re annoyed...” She look back down at the half eaten orange in one hand, like she was considering how honest she wanted to be. "...at me." She didn't say it arrogantly. She said it like it was a fact. One they both tried to ignore.

Taehyung let out a quiet breath, something sharp sitting just behind his ribs. For a second, he almost wanted to drop the topic, say he was sorry and continue to bottle up the words that clawed at his throat whenever he let his eyes linger on her for a second too long. “You think everything’s that simple?”

“I think you make things more complicated than they are.” There was a long pause. Y/N watched him carefully, her expression unchanged, but there was something more attentive in her gaze now. Like she knew she’d stepped into something, even if she didn’t understand where it would lead. “You’ve been like this all day,” she said. “If you’re going to say something, just say it.”

Taehyung could only look at her as if she was the one who was in the wrong. She was his problem. She always said things like that—direct, unfiltered, like words didn’t have consequences. Like once something existed, it should just be spoken.

But those feelings he felt didn't deserve to be expressed. Not to her. Never to her. But that was the funny thing, feelings don't follow rules. Feelings are just manifestations of one's internal desires, from that unconscious part of our being that knows what it wants.

Finally he found the strength to speak again, “Why do you even come here?” He dragged a hand through his hair, not even giving her a chance to react. “This—” he gestured vaguely around them, at the farm, the crates, the dirt beneath their feet, “—this isn’t your life.”

The words hung heavier than he intended, but he didn’t stop.

“You get to choose this,” he continued, his voice tightening. “You get to come here when you feel like it, play farm for a few hours, and then go back to your house, your life—like none of this actually matters.”

Y/N words caught in her throat. She was thrown off balance. how weird. "I'm not playing around, even if it might seem like it, what kind of crazy person would? I know—" But he caught her off short, "—Do you, Y/N?” The question came out harsher than anything before it. Because that was the part that always got him, that quiet confidence she had—like she understood.

Like she could.

“You say that like you get it,” he went on, his voice lower now, but no less sharp. “Like you know what this is like besides playing pretend.”

Y/N fingers tightened slightly around what was left of the orange in her hand, juice drying against her skin. “I help because I can,” she shot back, “That’s all." Her voice held an undertone of urgency.

"Exactly,” Taehyung said, a bitter edge creeping in. “Because you can. A pause. Then, quieter—“Because it doesn’t cost you anything.”

That landed.

Not loudly. Not dramatically.

But it landed.

Y/N didn’t respond right away. Her gaze stayed on him, searching now, like she was trying to understand where this was coming from. “It does,” she said after a moment.

Taehyung shook his head immediately. “No—it doesn’t.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

“And you don’t get to pretend this is the same,” he voice louder than hers.

“I’m not pretending.”

“Then what are you doing?”

Y/N hesitated. Just for a second. And for someone like her—that was enough. “…I’m just here,” she said. 'Im just right here. next to you. Isn't that enough?'

Taehyung let out a short, hollow laugh. “Yeah,” he muttered. “That’s the problem.” The words slipped out before he could catch them, on cue, he saw it then—the smallest shift in her expression. Not dramatic, not obvious. Just a flicker of something quieter.

Something hurt.

But he didn’t stop. Couldn’t. “Do you know what people say?” he went on. “At school?”

Y/N didn’t answer.

“They think it’s funny,” he said, voice saccharine sweet. “You. Coming here. Hanging around me like this.”

Her gaze hardened slightly at that. “I don’t care what they think.” She bit.

“Yeah, well, I do.” he nodded, silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. “They think I’m some kind of charity case,” Taehyung added, his voice tightening. “Like you’re doing me a favor just by being here.”

“I’m not—” “That’s what it looks like!” he cut in sharply.

She flinched, it was small, barely noticeable. But it was there. And he saw it.

And still—He kept going.

“They look at you and they see someone who has everything,” he said. “And then they look at me—” He should've stopped. But it was too late, the next words came out anyway. “They look at me and wonder why you’d even bother.”

Y/N went very still. The air between them shifted, something fragile snapping clean in half. Taehyung felt it the second it happened. But instead of pulling back—He pushed to the point of no return.

“Maybe they’re right,” he said, quieter now. “Maybe this is just… something you do when you’re bored.”

Y/N stared at him. Not angry, not defensive, just… still. Like she was waiting and giving him one last chance to take it back. He didn’t.

“Because that’s what it feels like,” he finished. “Like I’m just—”He hesitated, “—something you can pick up and put down whenever you feel like it.”

Silence. Heavy. Suffocating.

Y/N looked at him for a long moment, her expression unreadable in a way it had never been before. Then, slowly she stood up. The movement was calm, controlled. Almost too controlled. “You’re wrong,” she said. her voice wasn’t sharp, it wasn’t raised. If anything, it was quieter than usual.

That made it worse.

Taehyung swallowed, something twisting uncomfortably in his chest, but he didn’t speak. He didn't rush to apologize.

She glanced down at the orange still in her hand, now half-crushed, juice sticky against her fingers.

“…It’s just an orange,” she said softly. “It’s not that serious.”

The words echoed from earlier.

But they didn’t mean the same thing anymore, she looked back at him, and for the first time—he couldn’t read her at all. “That’s the way things go,” she added. Then she dropped the orange back into the crate.