#jun fluff

Seungcheol 🍒

He’s protective with everyone. Leader mode never turns off.

But with you?

He doesn’t stand in front of you like a shield.

He stands beside you.

His hand rests on the small of your back when you walk through crowded places not to show you off. Just to make sure you’re there.

When he’s tired, he doesn’t talk.

He just lays his head on your lap and whispers, “Stay.”

He doesn’t ask that from anyone else.

😇Jeonghan

He’s clingy with everyone. Playful. Dramatic.

But with you? He’s quiet.

He brushes your hair behind your ear without teasing. He watches your expressions when you talk.

Sometimes he’ll rest his chin on your shoulder and just breathe.

No jokes. No tricks.

Just him choosing to be still.

🐰Joshua

He’s gentle. Always has been.

But with you?He’s deliberate.

He holds your hand under the table during group dinners. He listens when you’re speaking even if someone louder interrupts.

He waits for you to finish.

And when you doubt yourself, he says softly, “I know you. You’ll figure it out.”

He doesn’t say that to anyone else.

😺Jun

He’s shy-soft in public.

With you?

He’s expressive.

He sends you random photos of the sky. Sends voice notes instead of texts when he misses you.

When you’re stressed, he presses his forehead to yours and just stays there.

You’re the only one who sees how much he talks when he feels safe.

🐯Hoshi

He’s loud affection. Energy. Chaos.

With you?

He’s calm.

His voice drops when it’s just the two of you. His hands move slower.

He traces circles on your wrist while talking about his day.

Sometimes he’ll look at you like he’s memorizing you.

And when you catch him, he smiles smaller. Softer.

🦊Wonwoo

He’s reserved with most people.

But with you? He initiates.

He reaches for your hand first. He pulls you closer during movies.

When you fall asleep, he adjusts the blanket and tucks your hair behind your ear not because it’s cute.

Because he knows you hate hair on your face.

He remembers details no one notices.

🍚Woozi

He acts tsundere with everyone.

With you?

He’s honest.

When he’s insecure about a song, he tells you first.

When he’s overwhelmed, he doesn’t snap he sighs and says, “Can you sit with me?”

He lets you see him unfinished.

That’s rare.

⚔️DK

He’s sunshine. Hug everyone. Loud love.

With you?

He’s steady.

He doesn’t perform happiness.

He just leans into you and rests.

He tells you about the days he doubts himself. About the pressure. And when you hold his face and say you’re proud of him, his smile isn’t big.

It’s small. And real.

🐶Mingyu

He’s affectionate. Physical. Warm.

With you?

He’s careful.

He adjusts his strength when he hugs you. He checks your reaction before teasing.

If you’re upset, he kneels in front of you instead of towering over you.

And when you’re mad?

He doesn’t argue first.

He listens.

🐸The8 (Minghao)

He’s thoughtful with everyone.

With you? He’s vulnerable.

He talks about fears he never says out loud. He’ll sit in silence with you without needing to fill it. Sometimes he’ll take your hand and just press it against his chest.

“Feel that?” he says quietly.

That heartbeat? He only lets you feel it like that.

🍊Seungkwan

He’s affectionate, loud, dramatic.

With you?

He’s soft-spoken. He checks if you ate. He notices when your voice sounds off.

When you cry, he doesn’t joke to lighten the mood.

He cups your face and says, “Tell me properly.”

Because your feelings matter.

🐢Vernon

He’s chill with everyone.

With you?

He’s intentional.

He sends songs that remind him of you. He shares unfinished thoughts. Sometimes he’ll just look at you and say, “I like this.”

“What?”

“Us.”

Simple. But it hits every time.

🦦Dino

He’s playful. Confident. Teasing.

With you?

He’s grounding.

He wraps his arms around you from behind and rests his chin on your head. He asks for your opinion seriously.

He wants to grow and he wants you there while he does.

You can hear the racket of an engine, but with no headlights in sight, you only glance left and right before walking across. The police officers pays you little mind, but you call out, "Morning, Robert, Stan!"

"Morning!" they call back in unison. 

Despite the minuscule bustle, the only lights you see on are from the bakers, Paul lugging crates into the establishment. The man had been up long before you, no doubt. It smells heavenly, but Paul is too busy arguing with the delivery man about a mis-order to take your compliment. 

No matter, the crisp New York air, perfumed by baked goods and smoke, is overlayed by a cobbled scent you never quite learned to place. Your sister, far far away in Philadelphia, called it urban, said it like it was an insult. You were quick to remind her she grew up in the urban air all the same; it runs in her veins. 

You miss the lamppost by a hair, gracefully staggering over your own two feet. It will never matter how many years you take the same turn, the lamppost coming up 28th street will always stand barricade. You deflect to the right side of the sidewalk, and are immediately flanked by a whirring engine in your ear, the obscene creaking and banging of a Ford harassing you as you veer a little too close to the street. 

It's around this time during your commute that you have to start looking straight ahead instead of at your shoes or at the closed shops. Stepping over an abandoned string of pearls, you strut down the sidewalk with shoulders back and chin up, air of forced confidence engulfing you. 

It was important that you did so, for 28th street at five o'clock in the morning was passageway to the last drunken staggers of haphazardly clothed people, fried and sodden from their whoopees and wingdings, desperate for a cracking excuse to stay out another hour. Two men with their wits hardly about them pass you by, both jelly legged yet deluded into believing they can hold one another up. 

Broken glass crunched audibly under your feet, mixed with final drunken hurrahs in the distance, louder than necessary fits of laughter, the occasional brawl with slurred obscenities and muffled thumps and grunts.

It was easier to navigate than what appears, the point was to never look like a darty eyed squirrel in predator territory. They're like vultures, but instead of feasting, they look for meek individuals to inaugurate into the revelry. You ignore every slurred and intonated hellos and how you doings, stalking right up to the alley that would take you to your storefront. 

The alley off your flower shop has been wet since your first memory of the place. Your father wasted years of his life in attempts to get it fixed, letters returned and long commutes to city hall in vain. The alley remained as it was to this day. 

You step over a puddle and walk briskly out into the greying sky. Dawn was coming in, all while the streets evicted its night shift workers of pearls and dancing shoes into their cold beds, you take the turn towards the locked doors of your establishment. 

Maeve's Flowers was named after the wife of the man who opened the place decades ago. Your father bought it when you were young enough to not remember it, a compensation to himself for not being drafted into war for the sake of his crippled left leg, but your memory was full of every conscious moment after that. 

There's debris you're not keen to identify at the front door, but you merely step over it and pull the keys out of your bag. Unlocking, you hardly step inside the shop before closing the door and locking it once again. It wasn't unsafe, but it wasn't wise to leave the door open when the rowdiness was yet to dissipate. 

You take a moment to look around the shop—just like how you left it last night. It's silent when you place your bag on the counter save for the noise of the mechanical fridges in the corner, still looking around as you take off your coat. The light switch remains turned off, but the minimal light is enough for you. Slowly, with your coat hung over your arm, you take a tentative step towards coming around the counter. 

The door behind the counter, labelled with a conspicuous "BREAKROOM" is closed, but you're cautious anyway. You're next to the counter now, catching sight of the sliver of air the door leaves at the bottom. 

The light is on. 

Backtracking, you walk towards the front door again, making sure to make as little noise as possible. You grab your bag as you go, gripping the handle and pushing down. It's locked, doesn't open when you tug. But that isn't your goal. 

You take the handle and give it a good shake, rattling the door against the frame with enough noise to make you cringe. Quickly, you grab your keys and jam them into the lock, unlocking it, only to lock it again. 

As you're twisting the keys, you hear the sound of the door clicking open behind you. One last twist, you re-lock the door and turn around. Like you'd just walked in. 

He stands there in a suit too put together for five o'clock in the morning, pocket watch dangling from his pocket. There's a bulge on his left hip that is usually concealed by coat. It's a nice thing, black and leather, hiding his gun. 

"'Morning, Patrick," you say, feigning mild confusion. Before you can say anything else, he raises a hand. 

"We'll be out of your hair in a few. Feel free to start setting up shop." And then door clicks shut once more. 

Letting out a sigh, you let your shoulders sag, putting your bag right back on the counter and walking around it. You don't muffle your footsteps, in fact you make it a point to make noise, hanging your coat and bag, turning the lights on. It's bright, but you'll turn most of them off soon enough when the sun is awake and you've pulled the shutters up. 

Slipping out the inventory book, you refresh on what needs to be expected from the delivery coming in today, trying your best to pay minimal attention to the sanded conversation happening beyond the door behind you. 

Making your way around the counter, you move to the edges of the room to pull the potted plants out of hiding, bringing them to their usual spots where they're seen beyond the unfathomable hues of the flowers. The loud ruckus of the mechanical fridges are next, bringing out the last of the roses, lilies and orchids out of the tiny cold compartment. You set them in their usual spots, making room for the new ones to come in. 

Turning the refrigerator off would be a challenge, considering the compressor and switchboard resides within the breakroom. You make a mental note the next time one of them comes out. Joe was clear when they'd bought you the fridges to remember to turn them off when they weren't in use, but you would rather strip Patrick's gun right off his belt and laugh in his face about it than step into the breakroom while it was occupied. 

Opening one of the drawers, you pull out your father's old hardwood watch, checking the time. Your flower delivery would be here any minute, and you wonder if you should start feeling anxious about the men in the other room. 

You note the crack in the clock face, yet to be mended. It was your own doing, the day you had to face the aftermath of being your father's daughter. At least, who you thought your father was. 

It was a week after his death, you'd taken the same route to get to the shop, but this time without him leading you or waiting for you there. Joe was stood outside the door, a pack of Chesterfields being shoved in his pocket from where you could see him around the corner. You watched him light the cigarette, the dark fog of the April morning making quite a scenic view of the man in his dark coat and hat. 

You walked right past him towards the door, not realising he was waiting for you. And he had been waiting for a full week. 

Your natural reaction to an unfamiliar man telling you he owned a stake in your shop was nothing above baffling, but not more than the glinting metal strapped to his hip. You will never know if he flashed you his gun on purpose or not, but the effect was the same. This was not some ordinary man. 

The name Carmine was not unheard of, in fact it was far from it. The puppet master of the largest mafia in the city was not one so easily concealed. 

The man took a sledgehammer to the man you knew as your father, bludgeoning the familiar to a face you couldn't recognise. This wasn't the only front he owned, but it was the oldest, and he intended to keep it. Regardless of the line of inheritance. 

He stood there, claiming to be a fair man, promising to pay you exactly what he paid your father, give you the protection when needed, in exchange for the small breakroom behind the flower shop counter, and your sworn secrecy. 

Joe Carmine had turned your life inside out, because of course, it had already been turned upside down. And he'd done it all before snubbing out his first smoke of the day. 

Of course, you've grown familiar to the men over the years. Joe is hardly in, Patrick seemingly taking the brunt of the work around this part of town. You've grown used to the constant in and out of men with withered looks and permanently strained jaws, ignoring them as they loiter around the shop pretending to be interested in the flowers, before stalking right into the breakroom as soon as the customer says their goodbyes. 

You don't ask questions and they don't answer them. Perhaps for your own good. 

There isn't much to complain about. Business is good, and the extra cash is more than just a tip, and Joe seems to take care of you in his own detached way. You don't know if he and your father were close, and you're not sure if you want to know. The world of Carmine is far from squeaky clean. 

It's nearing six on the dot, and you're beginning to contemplate knocking on the door, when Patrick wrenches the door open. You whip around, watching him file out along with a couple more men you recognise but cannot name. 

"Apologies, we'll be out now" he says, moving towards the door. 

"Do I need to expect anyone during the day?" you call out before he can leave. He turns, his expression detached. He looks tired. 

He motions for the men to file out before him, one already fishing his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. Once they're gone, he iterates, "None that I know of. But plans might change. You can leave after you close."

Patrick leaves, but not before reaching up to tug the door chime that's tucked away at the end of the day, closing the door with the sound of twinkling metal, marking the day shift. 

Marcus has brought you the pink peonies, daffodils, orchids, gardenias and every other flower on your list, but very conveniently forgets the roses. 

"Crops not good!" he argues. 

"Is the crop not good or is Damson's store offering more for less," you say, checking the gardenias off the list. The guilt look on his face is enough, and you continue, "We've been giving you business before Damson could tell the difference between a daisy and a coneflower, is it impossible to expect a little more loyalty?" 

"You'll have them tomorrow morning," he promises. And you're left walking inside with the last box, calling out behind you, "You're lucky I had the foresight!" 

You're flipping the sign to open before 7 AM hits, still opening the last couple boxes when the first customer rolls in. It's the usual at this time, business meetings needing a flowery push, housewives wanting colour in their space, a wreath for a headstone, a rose for a disgruntled partner. You move like clockwork, wrapping flowers in ribbon and outdated newspaper, trying to avoid placing the latest statement from Coolidge somewhere noticeable. 

It isn't until the afternoon strikes when the other crowd pours in. Most have only just risen from bed, wanting lavish bouquets that rival the ones down every street in New York, enormous arrangements that hardly fit through the door. They come with shaded glasses to hide their eyes, rouge to cover their tired cheeks, a hidden flask under most coats that require the occasional spot of attention.

Men and women come in asking for fabulous, unprecedented, better than whatever Nancy showed out with at the parlour. They could walk out with flowers you picked blind and remain none the wiser. 

It's nearing eight o'clock when the rush subsides. It's a weekday, and there's less for you to do than usual. A customer walks in just as you're contemplating closing, a woman in a dark coat and hat, gloved hands folded over her torso, handbag tight against her hip. 

"Evening!" you say and she smiles when you smile, albeit a strained one. She looks uncomfortable, but it seems to stem from the loud yelling outside. 

"You wouldn't have any daisies left?" she asks. 

"Enough for one more bouquet. Would you like an arrangement?" 

"Just the last of your daisies, please," she says, wincing in irritation at the ruckus outside. 28th Street was on for the night shift. "Jesus Christ, how do you do it every day?" 

"Learn to zone it out," you laugh, gathering the last of the daisies with the petals still intact. 

"Oh, you can give me the defected ones too, it's alright," she waves you dismissively, opening her purse to fish out the cash. You gather the flowers together, placing them on the table to wrap them up. 

You're busy wrestling a big enough assortment of newspaper when the door chime rings, someone stepping through the threshold into the shop. 

Instinctively, you call out, "Evening!" Looking up from your assortment, you feel your breath catch in your throat. You think your heart might have stopped. 

The man is tall enough to tower over you and everything else in the room, dark coat hung over his shoulders, a mop of ebony hair brushing over his eyes, down to his nape. 

He's handsome. At least you think he is. 

There's intrusions on his face in the form of smeared blood, tracks across his face like he made a crude attempt at wiping it off but failed. You catch sight of his hands, knuckles in the same state of bloodied, torn and bruised. He might be limping. 

He only nods in response to your greeting, and moves over to inspect the floor covered in potted plants. The woman is still rummaging through her bag to notice you falter so visibly, willing yourself to steel, picking up a corner of the newspaper to start wrapping. 

You pray he keeps his head turned away, needing this woman to pay and leave before she catches sight of him. 

You might not be on first name basis with most of the Carmine clan that utilises this space, but you could spot them by face a mile away. Despite the nature of their business, they all appear to be prim, well groomed men, guns holstered and covered, bruises and cuts bandaged and hidden away. 

The racing of your heart stems from a few things, namely that this man is the very opposite of prim and proper, in fact, he's walked in like he got into a brawl with a cement wall. And not to mention, you've never seen this man in your life. 

Nothing is indicating you to treat him like a Carmine. 

Panic is flooding your veins at the speed of light, an increasing amount of willpower channelling through to keep your hands from shaking. Your knees feel like they're moments away from buckling. You may be used to dealing with bad men, but you've never dealt with bad men. 

Your customer is tapping her fingers against her own hand, looking around the shop like she was taking it in. It was significantly more sparse than this morning, but she stares like you were hosting her a garden in spring. You wish she'd stop. 

The man is still observing your house plants like he's genuinely interested, brushing his fingers over the green of your golden pothos with his bruised hand, knuckles caked with dried blood. 

He's waiting for her to leave. You know he is. 

One of the drawers housing your ribbons catch onto the mechanism, taking a few minutes for you to pull the damn thing open. When you do, the force of your tugging makes an audible bang as wood slams against wood. The two other people in the room snap their heads towards you, and you make it a point to not look up. At least, not until you had your ribbon in your hands. 

His gaze was on you and the table.

You ignore it as you continue to tighten the strings around the bouquet and pulling the ribbon into a nicer bow. You don't realise how sweaty your palms are till you wipe them on your skirts. 

"Right," the woman beings, "How much do I owe you?" 

"That'll be a dollar fifty." 

The woman scrutinises the bouquet, "But these are more than a dozen."

"The defected are on the house, ma'am," you explain, noting how breathless you sound. 

"Oh, that's awful nice of you!" she cracks a smile, slipping the money out of her coin purse and placing them on the table. You count an extra dollar on the table, and you're already opening your mouth to call for her. 

But all you hear the distinct ringing of the bell at the door, and when you look up, she's gone. 

Slowly, but deliberately, you exhale out of your nose, sliding the coins and bill towards you off the table. You drop them into the drawer, closing it shut. 

Then you look over at the man that's now taking steps towards the counter, plastering a smile on your face like all the blood and grime coating his entire being are invisible to you. He's not smiling. 

"What can I get you this evening?" 

"Patrick said I could use the breakroom for the night." The first thing you note is his voice. It's coarse, but something tells you it's not always like that. 

You hesitate for a beat too long, and you know it. "I'm sorry?"

He turns his head, shifting his weight. He exhales forcibly. "Cut the shit. Patrick said I could use the breakroom at Maeve's on the 28th. Is this Maeve's on 28th?"

You're entirely unequipped to handle the situation, especially considering Patrick told you to expect no one just this morning. But he also said plans might change. 

You've been quiet for too long, except you have not a clue what to do. "I…I don't know who Patrick is."

He brings a hand to his forehead, rubbing his eyes. "Listen lady, clearly I've had a long day. I wouldn't know Carmine has quarters here if I wasn't told by someone on the inside."

But is he on the inside?

He continues. "Patrick's gonna be here any minute, and you oughtta let me in before he starts asking you questions."

"Patrick never—"

"So you do know him?"

Shit. 

"I can't let you in the back," you state. Clear and simple. 

Perhaps it wasn't at all intelligent to argue with a man who's clearly capable of getting himself this roughed up, not to mention one with a gun very conveniently within arms reach. But you aren't choosing to use an ounce of intelligence in the current moment, acting purely on instinct. 

"Fine," he says. Moving away from the counter slowly. "I have two options, both of them involve waiting for Patrick to get here." 

You don't have a response. 

"I can either stay in here, or I can wait right outside. Of course, I look like someone's worst nightmare brought to life and I can't imagine a scenario where you're not losing out on your last couple customers."

"We're closing."

"Scenario number three. You say that, and I say I'm not going anywhere." 

Your fists ball up at your sides. "I need you to understand that I can't just let you in. At least not until Patrick gets here." 

"You want me to understand? I'm bleeding out on your dainty little flowers , for fucks' sake!" he yells, arms coming up in frustration. Loud enough to rattle you. Taking an instinctive step back, you let your eyes move past his waist, and are quick to note the dark bloodstains on his trousers, and then shockingly, the distinctly crimson shoe prints surrounding him on the floor. 

"Why don't you understand that?" he asks. 

"I—"

You don't get to finish, because the bell sounds the alarm of a customer at the door, and you're making a split second decision, pulling yourself to sprint around the counter and whispering a harsh "Get inside" to the intruder before you can step over the blood, reaching the customer at the door to block their view. 

"Evening!" you yelp as the elderly man comes into view, and then proceeds to flinch at your overenthusiastic greeting. 

"I–oh!" 

"What can I get you sir?" you ask as he's barely through the threshold. You hear the door of the breakroom click shut, and that becomes one less problem to worry about. Now for the bloody footprints all over the floors. 

You position yourself to cover as much of his field of vision as possible, walking backwards as he walks inside. 

"I—I was looking for a bouquet for my wife—"

"What kind of flowers does she like?"

"Uh, daisies—"

"I'm so sorry sir, we just ran out of our daises."

"Roses perhaps!" 

"We're out of those too, I'm very sorry."

"Well, uh–" The man is stuttering, and you feel a pang of guilt at the way you're spinning him. But you need him out, for the same reasons you pushed the man into the breakroom regardless of what preluded it. 

"What do you have?" 

"I have…house plants. And a few hydrangeas left." 

The man stops and ponders for a moment. His silence is stretching too long, and you add in, "We were just about to close up shop, you see. Not a lot of stock at the end of the day." 

"I see..."

"How about you come back in tomorrow morning, and I'll make you a bouquet right out of the garden of Eden. On the house, for your inconvenience." 

"I can…I can come in tomorrow, yes."

"Perfect!" you exclaim, leading the man out the door as you talk. "I'll see you bright and early tomorrow morning, Mr…?"

"Cohen."

You let him down the steps of the front door and into the streetlights of New York, flashing the brightest smile you can muster. "I'll see you bright and early tomorrow morning, Mr Cohen."

And then he's gone, and you're slamming the door shut and pulling the deadlock shut, but not before flipping the open sign to closed, waiting to move the outside displays indoors. You have bigger problems than a few missing plants. 

The floors haven't magically reverted back to spotless, which means the man is still in your breakroom. 

There's a loud knock on the door, and it startles you enough to have you jumping up. The muffled voice on the other side, loud enough. 

"It's Patrick."

You move to undo the deadlock, opening the door for him. 

He stands in a fresh set of clothes, pushing his hat back to get a look at you inquisitively. There's a half smoked cigarette in his hands, the scent of tobacco making its way into the shop. "Why's the door locked?"

"I—I couldn't let anyone in."

"Whaddya mean?" his mouth his curled up in mild annoyance, flicking his cigarette butt to the ground, stepping on the lit embers. He steps inside, and you step away. 

The blood on the floor catches his sight immediately, yet he does nothing to show the slightest hint of alarm. 

"Jun made it then," he remarks, still looking at the bloody footprints. he closes the door for you. 

"So you did send him," you confirm, mostly to yourself. 

"I did. Why does it matter?"

"I just—"

He's walking towards the breakroom, "I don't have all night."

"He came in looking like hell, and you never told me he was coming. I didn't know what to do with him."

"What made you put him in anyway?"

"Customer came in."

"Well," he says, taking his hat off, "lady luck's on your side. Because if it was anyone else…"

He doesn't finish the thought, because you know. And he knows you know. 

The door of the breakroom closes, and you're left alone with the sparse of your shop, and the mess you need to clean off the floor. 

But the universe deems you a far cry from done for the night, because it's only been seconds before Patrick is re-opening the door, grim look on his face. 

"I need water. And towels."

"What?"

"Hurry!"

Gathering stray towels and a pitcher of water doesn't take long, but as you enter the breakroom, Patrick is putting his coat and hat back on. 

The breakroom is small, a couple couches and chairs pushed up against the walls, the remaining holding cabinets you never dared touch. It was mostly empty, sometimes cluttered with guns and unlabelled bottles and a million other things you could never catch from the small glances. 

It's cleaner today, if you didn't count for the coat, shoes and other bits of clothing strewn about. 

And the fact that Jun, is barely in his undershirt that you assume may have been white at one point. Because right now it shimmers crimson, soaked in blood. There's a particularly dark patch at his right side, concaving inwards. 

"Oh…" You knew he was bloodied up, but for some reason you assumed it was mostly the other guy's. 

Patrick is putting his coat on, grabbing his things. "Cut his shirt open and clean the wound as much as you can with water, I'll be right back."

"Where are you going?" you ask, petrified at being left alone with the scene. 

"The speakeasy around the corner, the drug store's gonna ask too many questions."

Alcohol. 

He seems to note the look your face, slowing down for a moment to reassure you. "It's a shallow wound. The worst thing that can happen is an infection. Just—just be gentle and use water and towels till I get back."

He waits for you to nod, before slipping out. 

Jun's eyes are screwed shut, breathing heavy. There's a moment of bewilderment, how he managed to conduct himself outside without collapsing, you may never understand. 

You put down the towels and pitcher of water, moving back outside to gather the shears you use to trim flowers, pans, bowls and tweezers. 

He seems to not have noticed you come in and out, but you move closer anyhow. He's slumped low on the couch in an odd sitting position. 

"Can you lay down flat? You're putting pressure on the cut."

Sure enough, there's an even larger pool of blood on the couch, dripping like an open faucet onto the floors. He does not seem to hear you for a few seconds, before he opens his eyes. 

"Just," he starts, voice barely there. "Just give me a second."

His condition's seemed to have worsened exponentially from your row outside. He gulps, and the begins to shift. You shuffle one of the cushions under his head, not knowing how else to support him as he groans at the movement. Gathering his legs, you aid him in pushing them up onto the couch. 

"I'm gonna cut open your shirt," you say, reaching for the shears on the table, kneeling in front of the gash. He barely nods. 

The shirt is so saturated it difficult to figure where his shirt ends and his skin begins. You decide to start at the hem, lifting it at his waist, hoping it would help you find the torn edge. It's easier after that, taking a deep breath before bringing your shears to start cutting. 

You cut down from his side to the hem, revealing skin that stands out like light amidst the deep red of his blood. Cutting as much you can, you pull the fabric away from the wound as far as possible, blood smeared over every inch of his abdomen, stomach and chest. 

His breathing is growing staggered by the second, and you'd be lying if you say it didn't panic you. Passing a wet towel, you drag it over the larger area of the wound first, as gentle as possible. 

And then inwards, slowly making your way towards the cut. It looks ghastly, dried blood clumped in places, fresh blood oozing from gaps you cannot make out. You realise it's about to hurt no matter how gentle you go. 

"This is gonna hurt," you warn, but don't wait for a response as you bring the towel towards the wound, pressing down. 

Immediately, he lets out a loud yelp, breathing louder, groaning intermittently. You push yourself to keep going, no matter the discouraging sounds. He gets reprieve when you stop to drain your soaked towels or bring a fresh pitcher of water. You find a sponge, and use it to squeeze water over the area, anything to get rid of the excess blood and clear the area. 

You're losing hope with all the oozing blood when finally, you hear the distinct sound of the door chimes outside, Patrick entering the breakroom that officially resembles a war zone. 

"I saw less blood in Belleau Wood, Jun," Patrick grunts as he puts down an armful of supplies on the table, before digging into his weighed coat, pulling out a few corked, unlabelled bottles. 

He urges you aside, and you comply as he uncorks one of the bottles, "Premium bathtub gin for the good man. Get him something to bite down on, this is gonna hurt like a motherfucker."

You've exhausted every last towel and rag on the premises, stalling for a moment before, bringing your fingers to undo your cardigan, slipping it off your shoulders and bunching it up. Patrick gives you an odd look, but you'd argue this was the least odd instance that's occurred tonight. 

You have to force the fabric into Jun's mouth at this point, his resolve visibly crumbling. "Bite down on this. Hard as you can."

Patrick is less cautious, because he takes a swig of the liquid into his mouth, wincing, "Hint of Palmolive, you're in luck boy."

And then he dumps the entire bottled straight onto the wound. 

Jun can barely keep still, muffled yells scratching out his throat into a siren. You're wincing at the sight yourself, the stream of reddish liquid mixed with alcohol pouring out onto the floor. 

"Hold him steady," Patrick calls out for you, and you have to brace yourself before placing both palms on his shoulders, pushing him down against the couch with your entire weight. He's still squirming, and Patrick is doing nothing but opening the second bottle and pouring straight out once again. 

The agony doesn't seem to end, until Patrick decides he's clean enough and relents. Sure enough, the cut is cleaner than you could ever get it with just water. 

It takes another hour or so for Patrick to clean him off and patch him up, forcing a few pills down his throat that knock him out almost immediately. 

"Wash up and go home, I'll clean up," he finally says, throwing Jun's shoes across the room to let the man sleep his injury off with ease. "We can't move him for a couple days, I'll stay here so you conduct business as usual."

"Do you need anything? Blankets, a mattress—"

"We'll manage, "he waves you off, grunting as he seats himself on the chair. "Need'a keep watch anyway." 

You make the conscious choice to ask no more questions, taking one last look at the couch where he's been crudely wiped down, bloody towels and pools of liquid all around him. He sleeps as though nothing is amiss. 

You walk out, and close the door of the breakroom behind you. 

TWO DAYS. YOU DON'T enter the breakroom for two days. 

You get in in the mornings, checking for the sliver of light under the doors, only to find them turned off. Suppliers drop your stock, customers come and go from your unassuming shop. 

It's like that night never happend, nor Patrick or Jun to be seen for days, the bloody footprints cleaned off the main floor when you had walked in the next day. 

It wasn't entirely odd. Patrick would disappear for weeks at times, so would other members of the clan. Except you'd argue the situation is entirely different considering the pandemonium that preceded the quiet. 

It's a whole week after the day that you find the lights of the breakroom illuminating from under the door. A jolt goes through your spine, stepping back instictively. You gather yourself quickly, resuming business as usual as you open up shop. 

You're in the middle of checking your order slip when the front door is unlocked from the outside. The chimes are tucked away on the ledge, so there's no sound besides Jun's footsteps as he passes into the threshold. 

Instantly, you freeze. 

He notices you at the counter, and freezes all the same. There's a moment where you're both opening your mouth and closing it like fish out of water. He closes the door behind him, even locking it like usual. 

He's in a different ensemble from the last time you saw him, and you almost don't recognise him. His long black coat, the bloodstained clothes on the floor, the dried grime and blood on his skin. It's all replaced by a crisp suit in a deep gray, pocket watch chained to his waistcoat, a tie at his throat and two toned shoes at his feet. His hair is combed back in a neat manner, a clean homburg hat resting on top. His leather gloved hands grip the handle of the door.

"Morning," you break the ice first. 

Clearning his throat, he responds, "Morning."

Silence again. 

"Are you…feeling better?"

"Oh yes," he says, but does not move. "I—thank you. For what you did."

"Oh no, Patrick asked and I couldn't just…it's alright! You oughtta stay from those knives, huh?" you chuckle dryly, uncomfortable with yourself. You don't want to ponder on the fact that you attempted urge a clan member to ward off a weapon. 

He might be trying to keep your pride, so he responds, "I suppose so."

The door to the breakroom clicks open and its akin to a gust of wind on a hot summer day, Patrick walking out like a buffer sent from Christ himself. 

"Great!" he exclaims, and then turns to you. "Remember that face. Try not to let him bleed out on your peonies next time."

Heat surges to your cheeks, and you immediately start sputtering. He brushes you off, like he was only half joking. "This one's addicted to death, we've got a headstone in storage ready for him. Nothing new." 

"Are you done?" Jun asks, sighing. 

"Wait for me outside, I just need to grab something."

Jun nods, undoing the lock and stepping outside, closing the door behind him. You take the opportunity to turn towards Patrick, who's moving back into the breakroom. 

"You said he'd be okay?" you say. 

"Hm?" he calls out from inside. 

"You said the wound wasn't fatal."

"It wasn't," he reemerges from the room, strapping something onto his belt. "Know that now."

"Now?" 

He sighs, "I lied. I didn't know if it was fatal or not."

He sees the look on your face, and interrupts before you can say anything. 

"I don't know what was on that blade, and nor does he. He's been out in Harlem for years in this line of work, that place makes New York City look like a playground."

You've never left the city, and you certainly have no desire to. New York has been your everything, and you don't intend to change that. No matter how rough around the edges. 

"Don't turn yourself over, doll. Occupational hazard. He knows whats at stake." 

You can only nod, letting him walk past you and out the door. "I'm gonna be out of town in the next week," he calls out before clicking it shut and leaving you there. 

YOUR FATHER HAD MADE sure Maeve's Flowers would live beyond him, and beyond you. There was little left to learn by the time you inherited the shop, his lessons over the years ingrained into your memory. It was easy, it was natural. 

Of course, one of his teachings included the very fickle nature of the stakeholder. Marcus had been indespensible to your father for many years, but there were also the occassional days when he just has to be an absolute pain in your father's behind, and now, in yours. 

The telegram came in right as you closed up, sending the last customer away before you turned the sign from open to closed. Marcus has caught himself a cold. And he has no one else to send the supplies through. 

You grip the piece of paper in your hands and feel a striking pain pulse in your temple. Looking around, there is no way you could do another day's business without stock, the only thing remaining a few crushed petals and your potted plants. It's nearly eight, and you have to stop and contemplate the possibility of remaining closed tomorrow. 

Tomorrow is a Saturday, your busiest day of the week. 

There's nothing you can do but stare at the piece of paper and at your sparse plants. It was the end of the day, the last thing you want to do is solve an impending problem. You're left sitting in your chair at the counter, head in hands and trying not to scream instead of packing up and going home. 

You don't know how long you've been sitting there when the door of the shop rattles and clicks with someone attempting to unlock it from the outside. When you look up, Jun is standing in the threshold. 

His attire is similar to the one you found him in the first time you met, dark clothing that blends in. Except for the unceremonious lack of blood coating his skin, he might as well have worn the same clothes. Even his hair is mussed up, slight curled under his hat. 

"I thought you'd closed up already," he says, glancing at the door sign. 

"I have," you say, your voice comes out raspy. "I was just leaving."

He only nods, watching as you shuck your coat off the rack, pulling it on as you grab your bag and attempt to head out the door. "There's no need to keep the fridges running, they're empty. And tell Patrick shop's closed tomorrow." He once again, only nods in understanding, and lets you leave. 

By the time you get home, you come to terms with losing out on business, and perhaps even grow excited to have a day off tomorrow. You try not to think of what your father would say as you dispense you shoes, coat and bag, walking into your tiny, barren home. He'd closed up shop only twice in his life; one day when your sister was born, and another when he'd fallen so ill he could not sit himself up. 

His crippled leg was never an excuse. You close your eyes as you lean back on your bed; you can still see his limp as he walked in front of you towards the shop. He never bought himself a cane. 

The feeling surmounting in your chest is suddenly too much, pulling yourself upright in bed to avoid drowning in it whole. It puts your vision to your quarters, and the sight is suddenly equally unbearable. 

Working yourself to the bone meant nothing but neglecting every other part of your life. Drained colour of everything you set your eyes upon. A bedspace to sleep and eat and wash yourself, a landing zone for the less productive things in life. 

There's a loud knock on your front door, and your gaze darts to your windows. It was past nine o'clock, and fire escape forever mortified you. The curtains show no shadows, so you tiptoe towards the front door, making no sound as oyu prepare to pretend like no one's home. 

Unconvering the peephole, you have to bite down a yelp. 

Jun stands there in the same clothes as you saw merely an hour ago in, shuffling impatiently. He reaches his fist once more and raps at the door again. Between wondering how on earth he found you and the fear of awakening the wrath of Mrs. Miller's dog, you make the decision to unlock the deadbolt. 

Jun does not look startled to see you, confirming he knew where he wanted to be. 

"Why are you here?" you ask immediately. 

"I—"

"How do you know where I live?" 

He raises his brows at that, like the answer was obvious. "It's not entirely difficult to find out. And no, I need not tail you."

Of course. He's a Carmine. 

"Why are you here?" you ask again, gripping the door handle tightly. 

Jun presses his lips together, shifting his weight. "You don't have to worry about the shipment tomorrow. I handled it, you just need to be there at the usual time to recieve it." 

"What?" Perhaps you were a tad too loud, overcome by the confusion, because you suddenly hear the very distinct sound of a growling beast down the hall. Mrs. Miller's dog begins barking through the muffle of doors and hallway. 

"What's with all the commotion!" her voice pierces through the walls with reedy accuracy, and you have to think fast. 

Lurching forward, Jun is staring down the hall to where the noise is coming from, blissfully unaware as you take a full grasp of the front of his shirt and coat, postively yanking him inside your apartment. You don't wait to think before slamming the door closed and locking it shut. 

You also don't look back to assess Jun, because you're on your tiptoes staring out the peephole, sending out a quick prayer that she does not come knocking on your door. When you're sure she's picked a different innocent victim you drop to your heels and relax. 

When you look back, Jun is staring at you in even fiercer confusion. "What in Christ's name was that?"

"Mrs. Miller," you reply glumly. "Or her idiotic labrador. Gets set off by anything."

"Right," he clears his throat. "Anyway, I just wanted to let you know in case you were going to try anything else for tomorrow. It's been dealt with."

You furrow your brows. "But I never told you about tomorrow's delivery."

"You left the telegram on the counter. Patrick told me to figure it out for you," he explains. 

"I see." You did leave it on the counter in your haste. "Thank you for doing that, and I'll thank Patrick too when I see him—"

"There's no need. You know how he gets," he interrupts. You aren't quite sure, since Patrick's made it a habit to wave off any sliver of gratitude you try to give him for whatever reason. He's not very inclined to Thank Yous. 

You only nod, half smiling. 

"I'll get going now," he says. "If the coast is clear."

"Ah," you turn around to look into the peephole, staring at nothing but empty hallway for a few seconds. It gives you the opportunity to think, hands curling up against the door as you think about the space in your apartment, the ticking clock that is your life. 

Swiftly, you turn around to look into his expecting face. "Would you like to stay for a coffee?"

"Sorry?"

"I'm not brave enough to keep alcohol around the house, I have tea as well if that's what you like."

"You'd like me to stay for a coffee?" he confirms slowly. He's pointing at himself like there are other people in the room you could be talking to. 

"Yes. If you would like to, and if you have the time. I just thought since you're here—"

"I'd like that." 

Oh. 

"Oh." You stare at him, in a little but of disbelief. "Good. I'll put the kettle on. Will that be a tea or…?"

"Whatever you're having."

In a few minutes, you've set your practically unused living room table with two steaming mugs, both of which you had to double, triple check for crawlers and bugs before rinsing and drying. Jun sits on your couch, and you have a brief flashback to the last time you saw him in this position. 

"How's your wound healing?" you ask. 

"Better than I hoped," he responds. "Scabbed over without pain, I think that's a good sign." 

"It is," you confirm. "I'd ask you how you got it but that would be fruitless," you laugh at yourself. 

"It was a kid."

That has you looking up from your mug. "A…A kid?"

"I'd been assigned way down in Harlem for the past few years. It's a rough place. Hard to get out if you're in. I was on an assignment when this kid with a knife decided I was up to no good, came up to me in the middle of the street and got me right below the ribs. It was too easy for him, I knew it wasn't his first time."

"But you were covered in everything that night," you recall the grime, the blooming knuckles and smeared blood all over him. 

He laughs, taking a sip of his drink before setting the warm cup in his other palm. "People thought I was jumping the kid, that was an episode and then…I still had to go do my job."

"And then you came all the way to 28th? From Harlem?"

"Took the subway, got a couple look but that wasn't the worst of it."

You don't need to ask what the worst of it was, because you know. 

Closing your eyes, you cringe to yourself, "And I made you stand there for who know how long."

He chuckles, and you have the realisation that you…quite like his smile. It stretches across his face, lighting him up in a way you didn't realise his face could. It makes him look boyish, like the life he's chosen was meant for someone far, far removed from him. 

"I wouldn't normally be as worked up, there's not much else you could've done in that situation. But you stood your ground. That's good."

Your chest flourishes at being told a job well done. "Are you…Are you back from Harlem for good?"

It was a careful question, laced with something you aren't sure you want to admit. 

"I might be." Jun is dragging his fingernails across the bottom edge of his cup, contemplating. "I've been given a choice. I might end up taking it as a way out."

"Way out?"

"From Harlem, anyway. It's either Carmine or dead for us." 

The weight of what he says settles on you like a blanket. Carmine or dead. You wonder where you stand in this equation, neither sworn in nor an outsider. Are you a Carmine? And are you allowed a way out, ever?

You think of tomorrow, when you'll wake up in the morning as you always do, dress and leave for the same route you could walk in your sleep. Set up shop and do a days worth of trade, all while hiding some of the most dangerous people in the city in your backrooms. 

One of them sits on the same couch cushions as you right now, under your roof, drinking from your cup. 

The thought should unsettle you. But it doesn't. 

And then it hits you. 

You sit up straighter, face changing as you turn to face him. "You said Patrick sent you?"

Jun nods. 

"Patrick told he was going to be out of town for a week."

Jun's face is blank, blinking at you with a poker face gamblers would envy. And then he breaks. 

"He is out of town." 

"So you—"

"I saw the telegram on the counter and took matters into my own hands," he admits, but he's as nonchalant as ever, sipping the last dregs from his mug and setting it on the table. "It's getting late, I'll get going now. Thank you for inviting me in."

Inviting was a daring word considering you shanghaied him into your apartment by brute force, but you take it anyway. Other than that, you're not quite sure what to say with this new revelation. You watch him as he stands up, adjusting his coat and trousers as he begins to walk himself to the door. 

Catching up to him, you stop when he stops a couple feet from the entryway. He turns to look at you, and you can predict his goodbye. 

"Why did you do that?" you have to ask. 

For the first time, Jun looks unsure as for what to say. "I know that shop is important to you."

Why do you care?

Your lips press into a line, both your damp hands clasped in front of you. "Was it so we're even?"

Jun is staring at you an intensity you've never experience, an unmatched energy. "We were even the second you got on your knees to help me after I yelled at you."

"Then what's this for?" you press. 

Jun takes a step towards you, and you have the distinct feeling he might frustrated. Not with you, but perhaps with himself. "I…I don't know."

"That's not very Carmine of you," you whisper, suddenly realising just how close you've gotten. His gaze is unrelenting, and you feel the familiar rise in your chest that makes it a chore to breathe. 

Jun's getting closer, leaning over you like a towering stallion. His breath hits your face, warm and cascading. 

"I know." 

And then his mouth is on yours, and you're melting like this was the answer all along. His palm and fingers cup the back of your head in a secure motion, pulling you towards him. Your arms fly to grip his body, finding reprieve in the opening of his coat, hands splayed on his fabric covered chest. 

He's a demanding kisser, taking what you give in motions that have your knees going weak. You fingers scrunch against his shirt to grip him tighter, the warmth of his skin under his shirt seeping. 

You forget where you stand as his other arm holds you up and against him, you hands snaking up to wrap around his neck. His mouth moves against your own like he's already mapped out every hill, dip and crevice, the distinct wet of his tongue on your bottom lip as he sucks. 

The feeling is all consuming, one you cannot name. It's tingly, from the top of your head to the tips of fingers and toes. His scent encases you with remnants of coffee and sweet pea. It has you pushing into him closer, chest to chest, pelvis to pelvis. 

Your lungs are about to give in when you finally pull away, gasping loudly for air as you do nothing to move from your position. Your chest heaves, and so does his, in tandem as you throw your head back to reign yourself in. Jun's eyes never leave you. 

You cannot help but smile, one that stretches even more so when you see him crack one too. 

"Patrick isn't here—" you start, but do not need to finish. 

"I think I heard Mrs. Miller outside." 

"Not very safe, Carmine or not," you jest. 

"Perhaps another coffee will do," he adds as you laugh. "Or a tea this time?"

He does not let you answer, because he dips his head towards you once more. 

All night, two cold mugs remain lone on the table. 

“You’re okay, just breathe… I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere” You kept repeating the words over and over again until he seemed to calm, until he seemed to hear you. 

Unlike Junhui you had always been a very vocal and extroverted person, always the loudest one in the room, the one who stole the attention of everyone without even trying, but after him, after the mark manifested, you drew into yourself, wanting to spend your time with him, getting to know him and his soul. 

It was difficult at first, not being able to really communicate, but at some point a few words started to make sense and as the communication became better, and your love for him grew. 

He told you about his move to Korea, his dance, his brothers, the struggles of his every day that looked so different from your own. 

The mark made it impossible to learn specific details about one another, every time he tried telling you where he was going for his tours, his voice would be muffled. Just as every time you would try and tell him about your university, yours would as good as disappear from his head. 

It made it hard, but you both knew people had it harder than the two of you did. You at least had your love singing you to sleep every night. 

Junhui was sitting in the beauty room before a shoot. Next to him was Soonyoung, and in his lap sat none other than his sweet soulmate that they had all nicknamed ‘Pink’ due to the famous hair that had brought the pair together. 

She ran her hands through his hair as she styled it. 

“Do you really need to rub it in?” Dino said with a somewhat low voice. 

“Obviously” Pink said before squeezing Soonyoung's cheeks together and kissing his lips sweetly. He chuckled in response, looking just as the hamster he claimed he wasn't. 

Jun explained the situation to you through that little link he had in his mind. 

Tell them they’re disgusting. You quickly commented with a laugh. 

As he repeated the words, Pink clutched her imaginary pearls, before jumping down from Soonyoung's lap, earning her a whine from this very grown man. 

“Don’t worry Jun, I’ll make you pretty for her, in hopes that she’s watching along” 

He laughed. You had not found him yet, and he doubted that a performance unit song would be what did the trick. But he could always hope. 

They hadn’t expected carats to go as feral for the music video as they did. But apparently a little bling and smooth moves would be all it took. 

And they did look good, ethereal almost. 

Jun couldn’t help but hope that this would mean you found him, after all that was the reason behind becoming an idol. 

“I hope you see it” He said in his mind as he reached out.

You knew he did something within the music industry, but you couldn’t even imagine the scale it was actually on. How famous your soulmate was, how beautiful. 

Once in a while you stumbled upon Seventeen music videos, but you never clicked on them. There were too many views, and for some reason you had imagined him being from a smaller, more unknown group. 

If you were being completely honest you did think that the music was kind of a side gig. A passion that made life bearable. A hobby. 

It wasn’t until your friend actually forced you to sit down and watch the newly dropped music video for “Spell” that you realized exactly who he was. 

“You have to watch it!” She said as she gently stroked the clock that was counting down on her arm. 

You rolled your eyes with a smirk on your lips. “It’s not gonna be him” 

She shrugged. “You don’t know that! I’m staying in my delusional era, convinced that Minghao has a clock somewhere on that beautiful body of his” 

You pulled her close to you on the couch. “Fine, I’ll watch it” 

A small shriek escaped her throat. You could humor her. 

Exactly two seconds after the music video had started your heart stopped. Because you knew that voice, and on screen was the most beautiful human being you had ever seen. 

The brown curls framing his head, the eyes so soft and kind were looking into your soul. It was him, there was no doubt in your mind. 

The whole scenario was overwhelming, you knew the song, he had been humming it for months, singing it to you at night. 

“This makes no sense” you said slowly as tears welled in your eyes. 

Your bestie had her arms around you in a second, pulling you close as you sobbed into her chest. You didn’t know why, but this wasn’t happy tears, no. You were devastated. 

There was no way in hell a man like that, a man like him would be okay, that he would be happy with someone like you.

He didn’t know what he had done wrong. But he had to have done something. You had been quiet now for around 3 days, and it was the longest time since he had found you, that he had gone without hearing your voice. 

The remaining of the guys had all picked up on it. He was agitated, annoyed and snapped over the smallest mistakes. 

He was currently located in one of the small kitchens in the Hybe building, filling up on water in between breaks of practicing the choreo for the upcoming tour. 

Minghao was leaned up against the fridge, arms crossed in front of his chest as he looked at his best friend.  

“You need to tell me what the hell is going on” as usual when something was bothering either of them, they spoke mandarin. It gave them a sense of privacy even when there were people around. 

Junhui sighed as he looked down at his feet. “She doesn’t speak to me anymore…” it was almost just a whisper, but the hurt, the broken heart that was lying beneath that surface of his was evident. 

Minghao pulled him close, and for once he allowed himself to be comforted. He hid his face in his friend's shoulder as he let the silent tears fall. 

“Did you do anything?” He asked as he pulled away to look at his friend. 

Jun just shook his head as he dried his eyes. “No, at least I don’t think so. I’ve been ragging my brain over and over to find out what could make her pull away. But honestly? The only thing I can think is that she found me… and that she’s disappointed it’s me and not someone else” 

His voice shook, and he burried his head in his hands, hoping the tears would stop falling if he just squeezed the palms of his hands into his eyes hard enough. It didn’t help. 

“I don’t get it, I thought she loved me… I thought she was supposed to accept me for me, and not judge me for it” 

He felt a hand on his shoulder, one that didn’t belong to Minghao, but to Chan. And as he turned there stood the remaining 11 of his brothers. 

The youngest pulled him close and as he cried again, they all rallied around him.

Like the first time you had heard him, he hadn’t meant to let you in. But it did happen from time to time, if their emotions were out of control. And what he had said, had broken your heart. 

You were convinced it would be for the best, that he wouldn’t love someone as normal as you, someone as boring. You were convinced he deserved better. 

But hearing him break, hearing his sobs knowing you were the reason for them. Broke you even more than the potential heartbreak of him not wanting you. 

The days following his breakdown he had stopped trying to reach out, and it almost felt like he had given up. You had scoured the internet to find any kind of update, to see what he was doing, if he was okay. 

Dino had done a live with Minghao, begging Carats to send Jun all their love because he was struggling. 

This wasn’t what was supposed to happen, he was supposed to be relieved, supposed to be happy that he, as a world famous artist, didn’t have to settle for someone as ordinary as you. 

But you were slowly learning that you had made a mistake. Because Seventeen was despite being world famous, global superstars, kind people. 

You had watched every going seventeen episode, seen every music video and over all catches up on everything. 

It was funny seeing everything after the fact. You had heard story about his friends going crazy when they played games, and Hoshi and Mingyu especially fit that bill in the ‘Don’t Lie’ episodes. 

He was quiet, more quiet in these settings than he usually was with you. But then you noticed it, hidden smiles and small laughs, it was because when he was with them, he talked to you as well. 

Always updating you on their shenanigans, filling you in on the new games they made along the way or retelling the jokes he knew you would find funny. 

You had fucked up. Severely. Now all that was left to do was trying to fix it.

As the days went by you started to reach out to him. But he wasn’t quite ready to talk yet. He could feel the sorrow in your voice, in the emotions that ran through his mind as you said good morning and good night to him every day. 

You never pushed him, and he appreciated that. He wanted to hear your explanation, as to why you had chosen to cut him out, but he was scared, so scared that the explanation would be a confirmation of all his worst fears. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Joshua said as he laid a hand on his shoulder. 

He sent a tight lipped smile his way. “Yeah, let’s just get through the day” 

“Are you still not sleeping?” Minghao said as he looked up from his phone. 

Jun shook his head and sent a sad smile his way, his friends sighed in unison as Seungkwan entered the room. 

“You need to look after yourself hyung” 

“Maybe you need to talk to her” Joshua pushed. 

Jun only played with his long fingers as he released something in between a huff and a laugh. “I know, but what if all she wants is to cut the tie between us?” 

They would never quite get used to seeing their brother cry, and this past week they’d seen it more than they had in the last few years. 

It was his anxiety talking, he knew that, and so did they. But it was hard talking him down the edge when they had no chance of communicating with you, to actually hear your side. 

Seungcheol looked into the room, and all he got was a small shake of the head in return from the boys. “We’re going on in 5, game face on Jun” 

He took a deep breath and stood from his chair.

Your leg was bouncing up and down, fingers pulling on one another as you simultaneously chewed on your bottom lip. 

Something inside of you couldn’t quite figure out how this had happened, how you had made it happen on such short notice. But here you were sitting in a hall filled with carats, waiting for your soulmates and his brothers fansign. 

They entered the stage and you literally felt your heart stop in anticipation. And there he was, and if handn’t been because of the lack of oxygen you’re pretty sure you would’ve flown from your seat and into his arms before security would even have a chance to notice. 

He’s beautiful, he’s so so beautiful…

He heard your words eccho in his head and for the first time in a week he smiled genuinely all while his cheeks were painted in a subtle blush beneath the make up. 

You better be talking about me and not someone else. He quickly responded. It was a pure instinct, needing to know that you still loved him, that the silence hadn’t been because of a lack of love for him. 

He heard your chuckle in his head. It’s most definitely you Wen Junhui.

You watched him on the stage, hand quickly flying from his side to cover his mouth. You watched as his eyes sparkled. He turned away from the crowd and made these small almost awkward movements, as if he almost wanted to run away but couldn’t. 

Minghao looked his way with furrowed brows, but when he saw his friends smile, he knew that all the anxiety had just been whisked away from his body. And the remaining 12 of them quickly found that the burden they had been carrying was lifted.

“Hi” Minghao said as you sat before him on the long table. He pulled the album you had in front of him closer to sign it. It felt surreal sitting here in front of the people you knew so much about, the people who knew so much about you, but somehow had never met. 

“I feel like I owe you an apology” you said with a small voice in mandarin. The mans eyes lit up as he chuckled. 

“Why would you owe me an apology?” He asked with curious eyes and a smirk. 

You sighed. “Because I’m guessing you’ve had a rough week because of me. I didn’t… I didn’t mean to hurt him. It was just when I found out who he was, I suddenly felt like I was lacking in every aspect” 

You looked towards Junhui as you talked, and shrugged as you ended the sentence. 

“Oh…” you looked up at the beauty that sat there, looking at you with tears in his eyes. He left the album behind and reached out over the table, grabbing your hands in his, giving them a squeeze. 

“He was afraid that you were disappointed, that you had hoped he was someone else” 

You quickly looked back to Minghao with big eyes. “What?! How the hell would he think that?” 

This time it was Minghao's turn to shrug. “I don’t know, but now our time is up, so go get your man” 

He sat up in his chair, leaned over the table and kissed your forehead. “I’ll talk to you after” 

You heard the gasps, the murmuring that had started in the room. Minghao was known for not playing along with carats parasocial relationships, he was known for always giving people a wake up call. So you could understand the shock of suddenly seeing him kiss a carat at a fan sign. 

You also knew your bestie would end up killing you for not bringing her along for this. 

Before you knew it you were in front of him. He didn’t look up from the album right away, he just introduced himself, and when his eyes finally met yours, all he saw was you sitting there with an open mouth, trying to get the words out. 

He blushed, he actually blushed when he looked at you, and in your mind you heard a small; wow. 

You took a deep breath and then you blurted it all out. “I’m so sorry… I’m so sorry I made you doubt yourself, doubt me, doubt us. It was never my intention. I just, I finally found you and every bad thing I have ever thought about myself was suddenly under a magnifying glass. I felt so ordinary, so plain, so incredibly boring next to you, your life…” 

He hadn’t taken a single breath since you had started taking. He knew your voice as well as he knew his own. And before he knew it, before you even blinked he had thrown himself over the table and pulled you close. 

“You’re here”  he whispered into your hair, loving the smell of your hair, your skin and your perfume. 

“I’m here” you whispered back as your hands pulled him as close as physically possible despite the table. 

He pulled away and ran a hand over your cheek, catching your tears with his thumb. He rested his forehead against yours as he laughed, a laugh that you returned. It was one of disbelief and pure joy. 

You heard all the people move around you, heard as people were ushered out of the room to give the two of you some type of privacy. The fansign would continue when everyone had a chance to calm down. 

He stood up and walked around the table. “I can’t believe you’re here, that you actually found me, that you got in here so quickly” He pulled you into his chest and rested his cheek on the top of your head. 

You could hear his frantically beating heart beneath his chest, god you could feel his chest, every muscle. Beneath your skin. 

I swear you were hand sculptured by all the gods that have ever existed. 

You said through the link in your mind. He laughed. Loud and genuine. 

You’re so beautiful my love. That you were ever in doubt about being good enough for me… I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I loved you more often, that I didn’t tell you more often just how proud I am of you. That I didn’t manage to make you feel safe with me. I promise I will spend the rest of my life trying to make it up to you. 

He pulled you close with one of his hands on the back of your neck, the other on your cheek. He caressed your nose against his, looking for any type of doubt in your eyes. But he found none. Instead you closed the distance and kissed him. 

The room broke out in whistles and cheers, loud and chaotic. Just as you had always imagined they would be. 

The two of you smiled, before looking towards those he called his brothers. 

They were all over you in a second. Introducing themselves, bickering with one another about who should have the privilege of meeting you first. And Jun, he never let go of you, his fingers stayed intertwined with yours. Just as they were meant to be.

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The horn blared across the strawberry fields, sharp and insistent, signaling the start of Capture the Flag. Camp Half-Blood erupted into motion. Demigods in Greek armor sprinted toward their zones, weapons flashing under the late-afternoon sun. Shouts, laughter, and the metallic clang of practice swords filled the air like a war drum.

You rolled your shoulders, feeling the familiar weight of your bronze breastplate settle into place. The Ares cabin banner: a snarling boar on blood-red fabric, fluttered from the spear slung across your back. Your team was already massing near the jagged boulders that marked the edge of your territory. Soonyoung stood at the front, electric spear in hand, barking orders with the kind of enthusiasm that made lesser campers flinch.

"Front line, on me!" you shouted, voice cutting through the noise. "We hit hard, we hit fast. No overthinking, just steel and guts!"

Roars answered you. Your siblings grinned, feral and ready. This was home. No strategy meetings, no endless debates. Just the clean burn of adrenaline, the promise of contact, the satisfaction of bodies hitting the ground.

Across the creek, deep in the woods Athena had claimed, Junhui stood apart from the bustle. His dark hair was pulled back neatly, exposing the clean line of his jaw. He wore the standard orange camp T-shirt beneath light leather armor, simple, functional, no unnecessary flair. In his right hand rested a plain xiphos; his left was empty. He didn’t need props. His real weapon had always been the quiet machinery behind his eyes.

He scanned the field in one long, deliberate sweep: the depth of the creek at three different crossing points, the density of underbrush along the left flank, the precise angle of sunlight slicing through the canopy. Every variable filed away. His siblings waited in neat ranks, already divided into squads per the plan he’d drawn on birch bark the night before.

One of his sibilings leaned in from his left. "Ares is going straight for the shallows again. Same as last time."

Junhui’s mouth curved, just the ghost of a smile. "Perfect."

He lifted two fingers. Archers slipped into the trees without a sound. Illusionists moved to their marks. The trap squad vanished like shadows. Everything locked into place.

The game began. You led the charge. Feet pounding dirt, heart slamming, you vaulted the first fallen log and plunged into the creek. Cold water exploded around your greaves, soaking your legs to the thighs. Behind you, twenty Ares campers surged forward in a roaring tide, spears leveled, shields locked, a moving wall of bronze and fury. The plan (if anyone could call it that) was brutally simple: overwhelm. Smash whatever defenses Athena thought they’d built and seize their flag before they could blink.

A flight of arrows hissed overhead. Blunted tips, red paint for scoring hits, but they still stung like wasps if they landed. You raised your shield on instinct; crimson splattered across the bronze in ugly streaks.

"Keep pushing!" you bellowed. "They’re already running!"

Another volley came, tighter, more precise. One grazed your shoulder guard, the impact jarring bone. You snarled and drove forward.

The far bank loomed ahead: steep, muddy, a natural choke point. You grinned wide. They’d funneled you exactly where brute force thrived, close quarters, no room to maneuver, perfect for breaking lines.

Then the world tilted. The bank simply collapsed beneath the front rank. You felt the ground give, heard the startled yells as your siblings dropped into a wide, concealed pit lined with soft earth and illusion-draped branches. You twisted mid-stride, boots skidding on slick roots, trying to leap clear, but momentum betrayed you. Something caught your spear (thin wire?) and yanked. A net snapped shut around your legs like a steel trap.

You hit the dirt hard, rolling once before the webbing pinned you facedown. Paint arrows rained from the canopy above, marking "kills" on anyone still twitching. Your team was unraveling fast, some snared in secondary traps, others pinned by Athena’s flanking squads who appeared from nowhere, moving like they’d rehearsed every step.

A hush fell over the creek, broken only by distant cheers from safe zones and the occasional groan of defeat.

You thrashed, testing the net. It held, tight, professional, no give. Your spear lay tangled just out of reach.

Boots crunched softly on the bank above. You twisted your neck enough to glare up. Junhui stood there, arms loosely crossed, expression calm. Almost detached. His dark eyes swept over you once, assessing damage, position, remaining threat, then locked on yours.

"Reckless" he said, voice low and even, carrying that faint, clipped precision he never quite shook. "Predictable. That’s why you’ll never win."

Fury flooded your face, hot, immediate, humiliating. The sting of truth made it worse.

You bared your teeth. "Keep hiding behind your little diagrams, brainiac. Real warriors don’t need to cheat."

He tilted his head, studying you the way someone might study a battle map that refused to behave.

"I don’t cheat" he replied. "I calculate. There’s a difference."

One of his siblings tossed him their flag, blue silk embroidered with a silver owl. He caught it one-handed without breaking eye contact.

The conch sounded three long blasts. Game over. Athena victorious.

Junhui gave the net a small, almost casual tug; it loosened just enough for you to sit up. He didn’t offer a hand. Didn’t need to. The victory was already written in every clean line of his posture.

You shoved upright anyway, ripping the last strands free, ignoring the dull ache blooming across your ribs from the fall. Paint streaked your arms, your chest, bright red proof of failure.

Your siblings were dragging themselves out of pits and snares, cursing viciously. One caught your eye across the water; she looked ready to set the entire forest on fire. Probably starting with you for not spotting the trap.

Junhui turned to leave.

"Hey" you called.

He paused, half-turning.

"This isn’t over" you said, voice rough.

His mouth quirked, not quite a smile, more acknowledgment than anything else.

"I know."

Then he walked away, blue banner over his shoulder, leaving you standing in the mud with your pride shredded and something unfamiliar twisting under your ribs. Not respect. Definitely not.

Just… irritation. Definitely irritation.

The rest of the afternoon blurred into cleanup and post-game noise. Athena cabin stayed quiet, smug in that infuriating, understated way only planners who’d accounted for every variable could manage. Ares cabin was loud, furious, already plotting next month’s revenge with increasingly creative threats.

You skipped the dining pavilion. Instead you ended up at the edge of the beach, sitting on a salt-bleached log, running a whetstone along your spear blade with more force than necessary. The sun dipped low, painting the water in molten copper.

Footsteps behind you, light, deliberate. You didn’t turn.

"Still brooding?" Junhui’s voice, closer now.

You snorted. "Hardly. Just making sure this spear’s sharp enough to carve through your next master plan."

He stopped a few feet away. Didn’t sit. Just stood, hands in his pockets, watching the water ripple.

"You charged exactly where I expected" he said after a moment. "Same crossing point as last summer. Same speed. Same tight formation."

You stiffened. "So?"

"So maybe change it next time."

You whipped around, eyes blazing. "Don’t lecture me, son of Athena. I don’t need your pointers."

He met your glare without flinching. "It wasn’t a lecture. It was an observation."

Silence stretched, taut, crackling. Then he added, quieter "You almost broke the line anyway. If Soonyoung had shifted left instead of right at the second volley…"

You blinked. Was that… praise? He seemed to catch himself. His expression shuttered instantly. "Forget it" he muttered.

He started to walk away.

"Wait."

He stopped again. You stood, spear still gripped tight. "Why’d you come down here?"

A long beat.

"I don’t know" he admitted. For the first time all day, he sounded almost… human. Uncertain.

You stared, really looked. The dying light caught the sharp edges of his face, the faint scar above his left brow from some old monster scrape, the way his shoulders stayed squared even when exhaustion tugged at the corners of his eyes.

Something shifted in your chest. Annoyance, sure. But underneath it, curiosity. Dangerous, unwelcome curiosity.

"Then figure it out" you said, turning back to the water. "And stay out of my way next time."

He didn’t answer immediately. When he finally spoke, his voice was so low the waves almost swallowed it.

"I will."

But the way he said it didn’t sound like retreat. It sounded like the opening move of something much longer.

A week after the Capture the Flag disaster, the camp still hummed with the aftermath. Ares cabin ate louder, trained harder and glared across the pavilion at Athena’s table like they could set it on fire with looks alone. You threw yourself into sparring sessions until your muscles screamed, trying to burn away the memory of that net snapping shut and Junhui’s calm voice calling you predictable.

It almost worked.

Then Chiron summoned you both to the Big House porch at dawn.

The centaur stood tall, tail swishing slowly, his expression grave in the pale morning light. Mr. D lounged in a deck chair nearby, nursing a Diet Coke and looking bored enough to die.

"You two" Chiron began without preamble, "have been selected for a retrieval quest."

You blinked. Junhui, standing a careful three steps to your right, went very still.

"An ancient bronze diadem, once worn by a minor sea nymph, was stolen from the camp borders three nights ago. Satyrs tracked the thief to an old cyclops forge hidden in the pine woods north of here. One cyclops, possibly with a few guards. The artifact is minor, but its theft is a deliberate provocation. We need it back before word spreads."

You felt a grin tug at your mouth. Finally, real action. No games, no paint arrows. Just monsters and steel.

Junhui spoke first, voice measured. "Why us specifically?"

Chiron’s eyes flicked between you. "Strength and strategy. The forge is trapped, mechanical, precise. Raw power alone will trigger every trap. Calculation alone will be too slow when the cyclops wakes. Together…" He let the word hang.

You crossed your arms. "I don’t do together. Especially not with him."

"Exactly why you’re perfect" Chiron said dryly. "You’ll balance each other. Or kill each other trying. Either way, the diadem returns by sunset tomorrow."

Mr. D snorted. "Try not to die. Paperwork’s a nightmare."

Dismissed.

Outside, you rounded on Junhui before he could open his mouth.

"I lead. You follow. No arguments."

He raised one dark brow. "You’ll walk straight into every pressure plate and tripwire."

"And you’ll sit there analyzing shadows until the cyclops uses your skull as a hammer."

He exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh, but too controlled. "We leave at dusk. Meet me at the armory in two hours. I need to see your gear."

"My gear’s fine."

"It’s not about fine. It’s about compatibility."

You stared. "You’re unbelievable."

"So I’ve been told."

He walked away first this time, leaving you fuming on the steps. Two hours later, the armory smelled of oil, leather and heated bronze. You arrived early, already strapped into your favorite kit: greaves, vambraces, breastplate and the heavy spear that had tasted more monster than you could count. A short sword hung at your hip for close work.

Junhui entered quietly, carrying a small pack and wearing light reinforced leather: dark, flexible, designed for movement over brute protection. No helmet. His hair was combed back again, exposing the sharp lines of his face.

He looked you over once, clinical.

"Too heavy" he said immediately. "You’ll sink in the soft ground near the forge. Ditch the breastplate."

You laughed, short, sharp. "And get skewered by a cyclops spike? No thanks."

"The cyclops won’t get close enough to skewer you if we do this right." He pulled a folded parchment from his pack, hand-drawn map, annotations in neat Greek script. "Entry from the east ridge. Narrow path, single-file. I go first to mark traps. You cover rear. Once inside, I disable mechanisms; you handle the guardian."

You snatched the map. It was annoyingly detailed: elevation marks, probable trap locations marked with tiny Xs, wind direction arrows. "You spent all day on this?"

"Three hours. Sleep is overrated."

You rolled your eyes but kept the map. "Fine. But if your fancy plan fails, I’m charging anyway."

"Noted."

Dusk came fast. You slipped past the border, pine needles muffling your steps. The forest thickened quickly, old growth, twisted roots, the faint metallic tang of forge smoke on the wind. Junhui moved ahead like a shadow, pausing every few meters to study the ground, then marking safe paths with small white stones from his pocket.

You followed, spear low but ready, irritation simmering. Every time he stopped, you had to stop. Every time he murmured "wait" your fingers tightened on the haft.

After twenty minutes of silent trekking, he crouched beside a fallen log and beckoned you down.

"Tripwire" he whispered, pointing to a thin bronze filament stretched ankle-high across the path. Moonlight caught it in a faint gleam. "Pressure plate three meters ahead. Probably drops boulders."

You squinted. Barely visible. "How’d you even see that?"

"Practice."

You wanted to snap something sarcastic, but the truth was, you hadn’t seen it. At all.

He stepped over the wire with careful grace, then waited for you. You followed, feeling oversized and clumsy next to his precision.

Another hundred meters. The smoke thickened, carrying the clang of distant hammers: cyclops working late. Junhui froze mid-step.

"Movement" he breathed.

You heard it a second later, heavy footfalls, then a low growl that vibrated through your boots. Hellhound. Two, maybe three.

Junhui’s hand shot out, pressing flat against your chest to stop you. The touch was brief, firm (pure reflex) but it sent a jolt through you anyway. You shoved his hand away.

"I can handle dogs" you hissed.

"Not quietly."

He pulled a small bronze disk from his pack: Athena’s gift, illusion rune. He crushed it between his fingers; faint mist rolled out, cloaking you both in a shimmer that bent light. Not invisibility, more like a suggestion to look elsewhere.

The hellhounds passed within ten meters, noses twitching, but they kept moving toward some distant scent. You exhaled slowly.

Junhui met your eyes. "See? Brains."

"Shut up" you muttered, but there was no heat in it.

The forge appeared through the trees: a cavern mouth braced with iron beams, glowing orange from within. Anvils rang sporadically. One cyclops: massive, one-eyed, skin like cracked granite, hammered at something on a workbench. The diadem sat on a stone pedestal nearby, bronze gleaming.

Junhui crouched behind a boulder, sketching quick lines in the dirt: entry vector, cyclops position, trap indicators.

You leaned in despite yourself. "How do we get past the big guy?"

"Distraction on the left flank, loose rockfall. He turns. You slip in from right, grab it. I cover exit with smoke bombs."

You studied the sketch. It was solid. Annoyingly solid.

"Fine" you said. "But if he charges you-"

"I won’t let him."

You snorted. "Big talk."

He looked at you then, really looked. Something flickered in his dark eyes. Not fear. Not arrogance. Just… focus. "Let’s move."

You took the right approach while he circled left. Heart pounding, not from nerves, but anticipation. This was what you lived for.

Junhui triggered the rockfall with a precise throw of a weighted sling stone. Boulders rumbled down the slope. The cyclops roared, lumbering toward the noise, hammer raised.

You sprinted. The cavern mouth swallowed you. Heat blasted your face. The diadem was heavier than it looked: solid bronze, etched with wave patterns. You snatched it, tucked it into your belt pouch. Behind you, the cyclops turned back too fast. It saw you. Roared. Charged.

You drew your spear, grinning wide. "Come on, ugly!"

It swung the hammer in a wide arc. You ducked, rolled, came up slashing at its thigh. Bronze bit deep; ichor sprayed. The cyclops bellowed, staggering.

Then the ground shook, not from the fight. A massive boulder (part of the ceiling?) detached and plummeted straight toward Junhui’s position outside. He was still marking the exit path, back turned. You didn’t think. You sprinted.

The cyclop lunged after you; you ignored it. You reached Junhui just as the boulder dropped, slamming your shoulder into his side. You both hit the dirt hard, rolling down the slope as stone crashed where he’d stood seconds earlier.

Dust choked the air. Pain bloomed across your ribs: bruised, maybe cracked, but you were alive.

Junhui coughed, pushed up on one elbow. His eyes were wide, genuine shock. "You-"

"Shut up" you growled, shoving to your feet. The cyclops was recovering, roaring fury.

Junhui scrambled up, grabbed your arm. "Run."

You ran. Through trees, leaping roots, the diadem banging against your hip. Hellhounds howled behind, drawn by the noise. Junhui tossed another illusion disk; mist bloomed, confusing their pursuit.

You burst past the camp border as the moon hit zenith. Safe.

You both collapsed against a pine trunk, chests heaving. Silence, except for ragged breathing. You pulled the diadem free, tossed it into his lap without looking. "There. Your stupid plan worked."

He caught it, fingers brushing yours for half a second. "You improvised."

"Had to. Boulder wasn’t in your diagram."

He huffed, almost a laugh. "No. It wasn’t."

You glanced sideways. Sweat streaked his face, hair coming loose from its tie. A thin cut above his eyebrow leaked blood, probably from the fall.

He noticed you staring. "What?"

"You almost died."

"So did you."

"Yeah, well." You shrugged, wincing at the pull in your ribs. "Brains need brawn sometimes."

He looked at you, long, searching. Then, quietly: "And sometimes brawn needs brains."

You held his gaze. Something shifted again, heavier this time. Not quite respect. Not yet. But close.

He stood first, offering the diadem back. "Chiron will want this."

You took it, fingers lingering on his. "Don’t get used to me saving your ass, nerd."

"Don’t get used to me needing it, warrior."

But as you walked back toward the Big House, side by side, not quite touching, the space between you felt smaller than it had an hour ago. And neither of you moved to widen it.

Weeks blurred into the familiar rhythm of camp life after the cyclops quest. Mornings meant archery drills or horse grooming. Afternoons brought sword practice, wall climbs and the endless cycle of bragging, bruises, and ambrosia squares. You threw yourself into it all harder than usual, as if extra sweat could erase the memory of tackling Junhui out of a falling boulder’s path or the way his fingers had brushed yours when you handed back the diadem.

It didn’t.

The whispers started small. A Hermes kid snickering during dinner about how "the Ares psycho and the Athena robot almost looked like they cared about each other out there." One of your sisters overheard, slammed her fist on the table hard enough to crack the wood and declared loudly that anyone spreading that garbage would eat their own spear. The rumors didn’t die, they just went quieter, more amused.

Then Chiron changed the training rotation. Joint cabin drills. Every third day, Ares paired with Athena for partnered sparring, strategy simulations and combined obstacle courses. No opting out. No substitutions. Chiron’s exact words: "Rivalry sharpens both blade and mind. Learn to use each other’s strengths instead of pretending they don’t exist."

You wanted to argue. You didn’t.

First session was brutal. The arena floor had been raked smooth, weapons racks gleaming under floodlights as the sun dipped. Ares campers lined up on one side in full gear: spears, shields, war whoops already building. Athena’s side stood opposite: lighter armor, precise stances, eyes scanning opponents like equations to solve.

Chiron paired names. Of course your name landed right next to Junhui’s.

You stepped into the marked circle together. He wore his usual dark leather reinforced with bronze scales at vital points: minimal, efficient. His xiphos hung at his hip; no shield. You carried spear and hoplon shield, the weight grounding you.

"Rules" Chiron called. "No maiming. No killing intent. First to three solid touches or disarm wins the round. Begin on my mark."

You twirled your spear once, loosening your wrists. "Don’t hold back, brainiac. I won’t."

Junhui’s mouth curved, just the tiniest fraction. "I never do."

Chiron’s whistle shrilled. You lunged first, standard Ares opener: fast thrust aimed at center mass to force a dodge and create opening. Junhui sidestepped smoothly, not retreating, just shifting angle. His blade flashed up in a parry that rang against your spear shaft, the vibration traveling up your arms.

You pressed, sweeping low. He jumped the arc, countered with a quick downward slash toward your shoulder guard. You blocked with the shield rim, shoved forward hard enough to make him stagger a step.

He recovered instantly, too instantly. Pivoted, used your momentum against you, hooked your spear with his xiphos and twisted.

You let go before he could fully disarm you, rolling sideways and coming up with shield raised. He didn’t pursue aggressively; he circled instead, studying.

"Stop dancing" you growled. "Fight."

"I am fighting" he replied, calm. "You’re just louder about it."

You charged again, feint high, drop low, spear thrusting for his thigh. He anticipated, stepped inside your reach, forearm blocking the haft while his free hand snapped out in a palm strike to your chest plate. Not hard enough to hurt, just enough to jolt you back.

Score one for him.

You snarled, reset stance. "Cheap."

"Effective."

Next exchange was faster. You hammered shield against shield (he’d grabbed one from the rack mid-fight, smart bastard), then spun out and cracked the butt of your spear against his ribs. Solid contact. Point for you.

He exhaled sharply but didn’t complain. Just nodded once, acknowledgment.

By the third touch: his blade tapping your throat guard after a slick disarm, you were both breathing hard, sweat darkening hair and leather. The round ended in a tie. Chiron called time.

You lowered weapons. He did the same.

"Not bad" you said grudgingly.

"You almost had me on the second disarm" he replied. "If you’d committed to the feint instead of hesitating."

You snorted. "Don’t critique my form while I’m still holding a spear."

He almost smiled. Almost.

The sessions repeated every few days. Sometimes you won. Sometimes he did. Most times it ended in draws that left you both bruised, frustrated and strangely energized.

One evening after a particularly grueling drill, the arena emptied slowly. Most campers headed to the campfire or showers. You stayed behind, methodically wiping down your spear with an oiled rag. The floodlights buzzed overhead; crickets sang in the darkening woods.

Footsteps approached, light, familiar. Junhui stopped at the edge of the circle, arms crossed loosely. He hadn’t changed out of his training gear yet; a faint sheen of sweat still clung to his collarbones.

"You’re doing that wrong" he said.

You glanced up. "Excuse me?"

"Your grip on the haft. Too tight at the base. Limits wrist rotation." He stepped closer, voice dropping to demonstration level. "Here."

Before you could protest, he reached out, slow enough to give you time to pull away if you wanted. You didn’t. His fingers closed over yours on the spear shaft, adjusting position with careful pressure. Thumb here. Fingers looser there. The correction was precise, clinical. But his skin was warm against yours, calluses matching in places where sword and spear had worn matching grooves.

You felt your pulse kick up, annoyingly loud in your ears.

"Try it" he said, stepping back.

You did. A practice thrust. The motion felt… smoother. More control without losing power.

You hated that he was right.

"Better" he said quietly.

You lowered the spear. "Why are you still here?"

He shrugged one shoulder. "Same reason you are. Cooling down."

You studied him in the artificial light. Sweat-damp hair falling across his forehead. The faint scar above his brow more visible now. The way his chest rose and fell in measured rhythm, never quite frantic even after an hour of combat.

Something tightened in your stomach, hot, unfamiliar, unwelcome.

"You stare a lot for someone who claims not to care" you said, aiming for mockery.

His eyes met yours. Steady. Unreadable for a second. "I’m observing" he corrected. "There’s a difference."

"Right. Athena thing." You turned away, setting the spear in the rack with more force than necessary. "Always analyzing."

He didn’t answer immediately. When he spoke again, his voice was lower. "You changed your footwork last week. Wider stance on defense. It’s working."

You froze mid-motion. "You noticed that?"

"I notice everything."

The words hung between you, simple, factual, but weighted somehow.

You turned back slowly. He hadn’t moved closer, but the space felt smaller.

"Then notice this" you said, stepping into his space until only a hand’s width separated you. "I don’t need your pointers. I don’t need your observations. And I definitely don’t need you looking at me like I’m some puzzle you’re trying to solve."

His gaze dropped to your mouth for half a heartbeat, barely long enough to register, then flicked back up.

"Maybe you are" he said quietly.

Your breath caught. For one stupid, suspended second, neither of you moved. Then you laughed, short, rough, breaking the tension like glass. "Keep dreaming, nerd."

You shouldered past him, deliberately brushing his arm. The contact sparked, electric, irritating. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t follow. But as you walked toward the cabins, you felt his eyes on your back the entire way.

The whispers grew bolder after that.

"They’re always the last ones out of the arena."

"Did you see how close they got during that last spar? Looked like they were about to-"

"Shut up before they hear you."

You pretended not to hear. Junhui probably did the same.

Another week passed. Another joint session. This time the exercise was different: blindfolded paired combat. Trust exercise, Chiron called it. One partner blindfolded, the other giving verbal directions to navigate an obstacle course filled with moving dummies and low swinging pendulums.

You drew the short straw. Blindfold first. Black cloth tied snug over your eyes. World reduced to sound, vibration, smell. Junhui’s voice came from your left, low, steady.

"Step forward. Three paces. Stop."

You obeyed, grudgingly. Boots scuffed dirt.

"Right. Pivot forty-five degrees. Forward five steps, slow. Pendulum at head height in three… two… duck now."

You dropped instinctively. Air whooshed overhead.

"Good" he said. Something almost warm in the word.

You hated how much you liked hearing it.

Next obstacle: narrow beam over a shallow pit of mud. "Left foot first. Balance. I’ll count cadence."

You moved, slow, deliberate. His instructions were precise: "Shift weight center… good… right foot now… hold…"

Halfway across, a dummy lunged from the side: mechanical, spring-loaded.

Junhui’s voice sharpened. "Left, block high, now!"

You swung your practice sword on reflex. Wood cracked against wood. Dummy staggered.

"Finish it. Right cross."

You did. The dummy toppled.

"Clear" he said.

You reached the end of the beam, heart pounding from more than exertion.

He untied the blindfold himself, fingers brushing your temples as he pulled the cloth free. You blinked against sudden light.

His face was close, closer than necessary.

"You trusted me" he said. Not a question.

You swallowed. "Had to."

A beat. Then, quieter he says "I won’t let you fall."

The words landed heavier than they should have.

You stepped back, too fast. "Don’t get sentimental on me."

His mouth quirked. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

But as he turned to take his turn on the course, you caught the way his shoulders relaxed, just a fraction, like something had settled inside him.

That night you lay awake in the Ares cabin, listening to snores and the distant hoot of owls. The memory of his fingers near your face replayed on loop. The calm certainty in his voice when he said he wouldn’t let you fall.

You rolled over, punched your pillow. Stupid. He was still a nerd. Still insufferable. Still the guy who’d called you predictable. But the irritation didn’t burn quite as hot anymore. It felt… different. Warmer. Dangerous.

Across camp, in the Athena cabin, Junhui sat at his desk with a half-finished strategy scroll in front of him. He hadn’t written a single new line in twenty minutes. Instead he stared at the empty space where your silhouette had been during the blindfolded drill: shoulders squared, blind but fearless, trusting his voice to guide you through chaos. He exhaled slowly. Recalculating.

The border alarm shattered the quiet just past midnight. Three long, bone-deep blasts from the conch horn: emergency, not drill. Camp Half-Blood jolted awake. Cabins emptied in seconds: demigods spilling onto the green in hastily buckled armor, weapons already drawn, eyes wide and bright with the kind of adrenaline that only came from real monsters at the edge of the magical barrier.

You were out of the Ares cabin before the third blast faded, spear in hand, breastplate half-strapped. Your sibilings were right behind you, electric spear crackling blue-white in the dark. "Dracaenae" one snarled, already tasting the fight. "Satyrs spotted a raiding party crossing the western tree line. They’re testing the border, hard."

You didn’t waste breath on questions. You ran. The woods west of the cabins were thickest: old pines, tangled underbrush, perfect cover for serpentine bodies slithering through shadows. The barrier shimmered faintly ahead, a golden veil stretched between ancient trunks. Beyond it, movement: hisses, scales scraping bark, the wet slap of tails.

Chiron galloped up as you reached the front line, bow already nocked. "Hold the perimeter" he ordered. "They can’t cross unless the barrier fails. Push them back before they find a weak point."

Athena cabin arrived seconds later, Junhui at the front, moving with that same quiet purpose he always had. No panic. No shouting. Just eyes scanning the treeline, calculating angles, numbers, vectors of attack. He carried his xiphos and a small round shield; behind him, younger siblings fanned out with bows and javelins, already taking elevated positions in the branches.

Your eyes met his across the chaos for half a second. No words. Just a nod, sharp, mutual. We’ve got this.

Then the dracaenae hit. They burst from the undergrowth in a wave, dozens, maybe more. Upper bodies humanoid, women with copper skin and venom-green eyes; lower halves massive serpent coils that propelled them forward faster than any horse. Spears tipped with jagged coral, whips crackling with Stygian ice. They hissed war cries in ancient Greek, voices overlapping like a nest of vipers.

The barrier flared as the first wave slammed into it, golden light rippling, holding, but straining. Arrows from the trees answered immediately: Athena’s archers, precise, dropping three dracaenae before they could regroup.

You charged the breach point where the barrier flickered weakest.

"Front line, with me!" you called.

Ares campers surged forward in a wedge. You led, spear leveled, shield up. The first dracaena met you head-on, whip cracking toward your face. You ducked, thrust low, bronze punching through scaled midsection. She shrieked, dissolving into golden dust. Another lunged from the side; you spun, cracked your shield rim into her jaw, then finished with an upward stab.

Around you the fight exploded: younger Ares kids holding formation with grim determination, Athena strategists calling targets "Left flank, three incoming, archers now!" and the border itself groaning under repeated impacts.

Junhui stayed back at first, directing, repositioning. "Archers, concentrate fire on the whip-wielders! Swords, plug the gaps on the right!" His voice cut clean through the noise, calm anchor in the storm.

You caught glimpses between kills: him sliding between two dracaenae, xiphos flashing in tight, economical arcs; him shoving a younger camper out of a whip’s path; him scanning the entire line like it was a living chessboard.

Then everything went wrong. A larger dracaena (leader, maybe) broke through a thin spot in the barrier. Eight feet of coiled muscle, coral spear longer than you were tall. She hissed triumph, eyes locking on the cluster of unarmored Athena kids still scrambling into position. Junhui was closest, back turned for a split second, shouting orders over his shoulder.

She lunged.

Time slowed.

You saw the spear rise, saw the killing arc descending toward his unprotected back.

You didn’t think. You ran. Feet pounding dirt, spear forgotten in favor of raw speed. You slammed into Junhui from the side, full tackle, shoulder driving into his ribs. You both went down hard, rolling across pine needles and roots. The coral spear whistled through the space where his heart had been, embedding in the earth with a thud that vibrated up your spine.

Pain exploded across your side: hot, wet. The dracaena hadn’t missed entirely. Her spear had raked a deep gash along your ribs as you shoved him clear. Blood soaked your shirt instantly, warm and sticky.

Junhui hit the ground beneath you, breath punched out of him. His eyes: wide, stunned, locked on yours.

For half a heartbeat, neither moved. Then reality crashed back. The dracaena reared, hissing fury. You rolled off him, staggering upright despite the fire in your side. Spear still in hand (somehow) you thrust blindly. Bronze met scale; she recoiled with a scream.

Junhui was up in the next second, faster than you’d ever seen him move. He grabbed your arm, dragged you behind the thick trunk of an oak. "Cover" he barked, voice cracking on the word.

You leaned against bark, breathing shallow. Blood dripped steadily onto the forest floor. "I’m fine" you lied through gritted teeth.

"You’re bleeding out" he snapped, actual anger in his tone, rare and sharp.

He tore a strip from the bottom of his camp shirt, pressed it hard against the wound. His hands were steady, clinical, but his face was pale, jaw locked so tight you thought it might crack.

"Hold this" he ordered.

You did. He stepped out from cover, shield raised, xiphos ready. "Stay down."

"Like Hades" you growled, shoving upright despite the dizziness.

He shot you a look, pure exasperation mixed with something rawer. "Don’t you dare die on me, reckless idiot."

The words landed like a punch. You stared.

He didn’t wait for a reply. He charged back into the fray, covering the retreat of the younger campers, drawing the leader dracaena’s attention. His movements were tighter now, angrier. Every strike precise and vicious. He disarmed her spear, slashed across her coils, forced her back step by step until an arrow from above finished her, golden dust exploding in a glittering cloud.

The rest of the raiding party faltered. Without their leader, coordination broke. Athena archers picked them off; Ares front-liners mopped up the stragglers. Within minutes the woods fell quiet again, save for the crackle of dissipating monster essence and the groans of the wounded.

Chiron’s voice boomed across the line. "Secure the perimeter! Healers to the front!"

Junhui appeared at your side again, breathing hard, ichor streaking his arms, a shallow cut above his eyebrow leaking blood into his lashes. He didn’t speak. Just hooked your arm over his shoulders and half-carried you toward the clearing where the Apollo kids were already setting up triage.

You tried to pull away. "I can walk."

"You can’t" he said flatly. "Shut up and let me."

You were too dizzy to argue. By the time you reached the infirmary tent, the adrenaline crash had hit full force. The world tilted; pain throbbed in time with your heartbeat. Apollo campers swarmed: nectar, gauze, hymns that glowed faintly gold.

Junhui stayed. He didn’t hover, didn’t pace. Just sat on a stool beside your cot, elbows on knees, hands clasped so tight his knuckles whitened. He watched every stitch, every application of salve, like he was memorizing the procedure in case he had to do it himself later.

When the head healer finally stepped back "She’ll be fine. Deep cut, but no organ damage. Rest, ambrosia, no training for a week" Junhui exhaled like he’d been holding the breath since the border.

The tent emptied slowly. Moonlight filtered through canvas, turning everything silver-blue. You shifted on the cot, wincing. "You gonna sit there brooding all night?"

He looked up. Eyes shadowed. "I’m not brooding."

"You’re doing a pretty good impression."

Silence stretched. Then, quietly "You didn’t have to do that."

You snorted, regretted it instantly as pain flared. "Yeah, well. Couldn’t let the camp’s favorite strategist get skewered. Who’d make all the annoying plans then?"

He didn’t smile. "You could have died."

"So could you."

"That’s different."

"How?"

He leaned forward, forearms on thighs. "Because I-" He stopped. Swallowed. Tried again. "I had the position. I should have seen the angle. The spear trajectory was obvious if I’d just-"

"Stop." You reached out, slow, careful and grabbed the front of his ruined shirt. "You were busy saving everyone else. That’s your thing. Mine’s the charging-in-like-an-idiot part."

His gaze dropped to where your fingers curled fabric. Then back to your face. Something flickered there, something unguarded, unguarded in a way you’d never seen from him.

"I hated it" he said, voice rough. "Watching that spear come down. Knowing I wouldn’t make it in time."

Your throat tightened. "Yeah. Well. I hated watching it too."

Another beat. He reached up, hesitant and covered your hand with his. Warm. Steady. Thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles.

"You scared me" he admitted, so soft you almost missed it.

You stared. Heart slamming against bruised ribs. Then, because words failed, you tugged him closer. He came without resistance. Foreheads touched, careful, mindful of wounds. Breathing mingled. His hand slid to the nape of your neck, fingers threading gently into sweat-damp hair.

"I’m sorry" he whispered.

"For what?"

"For not seeing it sooner."

You huffed a small laugh. "Took you long enough, brainiac."

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. "I see it now."

The tent flap rustled, someone checking on patients. Junhui straightened, but he didn’t let go of your hand. Not yet.

"Rest" he said. "I’ll be here when you wake up."

You wanted to argue, habit, but exhaustion pulled too hard.

"Fine" you muttered. "But if you start debriefing me in my sleep, I’ll haunt you."

A ghost of a smile touched his mouth. "Deal."

You drifted off with his hand still wrapped around yours, warm anchor in the dark.

Hours later, deep night, camp finally quiet, Junhui still sat there. He didn’t sleep. He watched the slow rise and fall of your chest, counted every breath like it was proof of something fragile and vital.

And for the first time in years, the relentless machinery of his mind went quiet. No calculations. No contingencies. Just you, alive, stubborn, impossible and the bone-deep certainty that he would burn every strategy he’d ever written if it meant keeping you that way.

The infirmary cot felt too small after that night at the border. The gash along your ribs healed faster than it had any right to, thank Apollo kids and a steady drip of nectar, but the scar it left was angry, pink and raised. Every time you twisted wrong in training or reached too far, it pulled, a sharp reminder of coral spear and the split-second decision that had put you between Junhui and death.

You avoided the arena for the mandated week. Chiron’s orders. Instead you haunted the edges of camp: the beach at dawn, the strawberry fields at dusk, the climbing wall when no one was looking. Anywhere that didn’t smell like pine needles and blood and the faint, clean scent of whatever soap Junhui used.

He didn’t crowd you. Didn’t hover. But he was there. A water bottle left on the porch railing of Cabin 5 when you came back sweaty from a solo run. A fresh roll of bandages slipped onto your bunk without comment. Once, you found a small jar of salve: Athena’s own recipe, handwritten label in his precise script, tucked under your pillow. "For scar tissue" the note read. Nothing else. No signature. Didn’t need one.

You hated how much it steadied you. The mandatory week ended on a Thursday. You were back in the arena by sunrise Friday, spear in hand, testing the limits of the new scar. It hurt, good hurt, the kind that reminded you you were still here, still fighting. You ran through forms alone until the sun climbed high and sweat soaked through your shirt.

Footsteps on the sand. You didn’t turn. "Thought you’d be here" Junhui said from the entrance arch.

You kept moving: thrust, parry, pivot. "Stalking me now?"

"Observing." Same old line. But his voice was quieter today. Less guarded.

You finally stopped, spear tip resting in the dirt. Turned.

He stood just inside the shadow of the colonnade, arms loose at his sides. No armor. Just camp shirt, dark shorts, hair slightly messy from whatever he’d been doing before this. The cut above his eyebrow had healed to a thin silver line. It suited him, made him look less like a statue and more like someone who bled the same as everyone else.

"You’re supposed to be resting" he said.

"I rested. Now I’m training."

He stepped forward, slow, deliberate. "You’re favoring your left side. The scar’s pulling."

You rolled your eyes. "I’m fine."

"You’re not."

The words weren’t accusatory. Just fact. Something in his tone made your stomach flip. You planted the spear butt harder. "What do you want, Junhui?"

He stopped a few feet away. Close enough that you could see the way his throat moved when he swallowed. "I want to spar."

You laughed, short, disbelieving. "You want to fight me? Now?"

"Not fight." He met your eyes. Steady. "Train. Properly. No holding back. No blindfolds. Just us."

Your pulse kicked up. "Why?"

"Because we’ve been dancing around this for months." His voice dropped. "And I’m tired of it."

The arena suddenly felt too quiet. No wind. No distant shouts from the beach. Just the two of you and the weight of everything unsaid.

You studied him, really studied. The faint tension in his shoulders. The way his fingers flexed once, then stilled. The look in his eyes that wasn’t calculation anymore. It was hunger.

"Fine" you said. Voice rougher than you meant. "But if I pin you, you admit I’m better."

His mouth curved, just a flicker. "And if I pin you?"

You stepped closer. "You won’t."

He exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh. You both moved to the center circle. No shields this time. Just spear against xiphos. Bare feet on warm sand. The sun beat down, turning everything gold and sharp-edged.

You circled first, slow, testing. He mirrored you. No rush. No feints yet. Just eyes locked, breathing synced without meaning to. You struck first. Spear thrust, fast, aimed at his shoulder to force a dodge. He twisted inside your reach, xiphos flashing up to parry. Metal sang. You spun out, reversed the haft, cracked it toward his ribs. He blocked, barely, staggered half a step. Recovered instantly. Countered with a low slash that forced you to leap back.

"Sloppy" he said. Breath even.

"Shut up."

You went harder. Thrust-parry-thrust-feint-high-low. He read every move half a second before you finished it, dodging, deflecting, never quite retreating. You pushed him toward the edge of the circle. He let you. Then, sudden pivot, he hooked your spear haft with his blade, yanked, used your forward momentum to spin you. Your back hit his chest. His arm banded across your waist, tight, unyielding. The spear clattered to the sand. Pinned. Breath exploded out of you.

His mouth was at your ear. "Yield?"

You twisted, hard, elbow driving back toward his ribs. He anticipated, shifted, took the blow on his forearm instead. Didn’t let go. You stomped his instep. He grunted, pain, not surprise, but his grip only tightened.

"Yield" he repeated. Voice low. Rough.

You stopped struggling. Not surrender. Just… stillness. Your back pressed to his front. His heartbeat hammered against your spine, fast, unsteady. His breath stirred the hair at your nape.

"No" you whispered.

He turned you, slow, careful. Hands sliding to your hips. You let him. Faces inches apart. Sweat beaded on his temple. A drop slid down the side of his jaw. You reached up, slow, thumb brushing it away. His eyes darkened.

Then he kissed you. Not gentle. Not tentative. Desperate. Like he’d been holding the strategy back for too long and the entire plan had just collapsed. You kissed him harder, teeth, tongue, all the frustration and want and fear that had been building since the cyclops forge, since the border, since every single time he’d looked at you like you were the one variable he couldn’t solve.

Hands everywhere. Yours fisted in his shirt, yanking him closer. His slid under yours, palms hot against the small of your back, careful of the scar but not shying away. You bit his lower lip, sharp enough to make him groan into your mouth.

Clothes came off in pieces. Shirt, yanked over his head, tossed. Yours followed, careful around the ribs, but fast. Sand stuck to sweat-slick skin. You shoved him backward until his shoulders hit one of the wooden support posts.

He reversed, pinned you instead. Back to the post. Hands braced on either side of your head.

He pulled back just enough to look. Eyes searching yours, asking without words. You answered by dragging him back in. The kiss turned slower, deeper. His mouth moved to your jaw, your throat. You tipped your head back, fingers threading into his hair, tugging when he found the spot below your ear that made your knees weak.

He dropped to one knee, slow, eyes never leaving yours. Mouth trailing down sternum, ribs, pausing at the new scar. He pressed a kiss there, soft, reverent. Then another. And another.

You swallowed hard. "Junhui-"

He looked up. "I hated how close I came to losing this."

The words cracked something open inside you. You pulled him up, urgent, kissed him again. Hands roaming. His skin was fever-hot. You traced every line of muscle, every old scar, memorizing the way he shivered when your nails dragged lightly down his back.

He lifted you, effortless, your legs wrapping around his waist. Post at your back, his body pinning you there. The friction made you both gasp.

"Tell me to stop" he murmured against your lips.

"Don’t you dare."

He didn’t. He reached between you, slow, careful, checking. You nodded. He pushed in, slow at first, giving you time to adjust. The stretch burned sweet. You bit his shoulder to muffle the sound.

He groaned, low, wrecked. Then he moved. Steady rhythm at first, controlled, like everything he did. But you met him thrust for thrust, harder, hungrier. Nails digging into his shoulders. Legs tightening. His control frayed fast.

"Fuck" he breathed, rare curse, raw. "You’re-"

You cut him off with a kiss. Rolled your hips. Took him deeper. He lost the rhythm, became desperate. Faster. Harder. The post creaked behind you. Sand shifted under his feet.

You felt it building, tight coil low in your belly. His hand slid between you, fingers finding exactly where you needed. Precise. Perfect.

You shattered first, back arching, name tearing from your throat in a broken gasp.

He followed seconds later, burying his face in your neck, shuddering, hips stuttering as he spilled inside you.

For a long moment neither moved. Just breathing. Hearts slamming against each other. Sweat cooling on skin.

He eased you down slowly, careful, until your feet touched sand again. Didn’t let go. Forehead to yours.

You laughed, shaky. "We just..."

"Yeah."

You both exhaled at the same time. He kissed you again, soft this time. Slow. Like he was memorizing the taste.

When you finally pulled apart, you rested your head against his shoulder.

"I still think you’re a nerd" you muttered.

He huffed a quiet laugh. "And you’re still reckless."

You tilted your head back. "But you like it."

His thumb brushed your cheek. "More than like."

The admission hung there, simple. Heavy.

You swallowed. "Me too."

He smiled, small, real, unguarded.

You stayed like that until the sun dipped lower, tangled, sandy, bruised in the best ways.

Eventually you separated enough to gather scattered clothes. Dressed slowly. Shared glances. Small touches, a hand on his wrist, his fingers brushing your scar.

As you walked out of the arena together, shoulders brushing, the camp lights were just flickering on. Distant laughter from the pavilion. Normal sounds.

But nothing felt normal anymore.

At the fork in the path: one way to Ares cabin, one to Athena, he stopped. You turned. He looked at you, long, searching.

"Tomorrow?" he asked. Quiet.

You stepped closer. Kissed him once, brief, promising.

"Tomorrow" you said.

He nodded. You walked separate ways. But the space between didn’t feel empty. It felt like anticipation. Like the moment before a perfect strategy clicked into place.

The final Capture the Flag of the summer arrived on the last Saturday before most campers shipped back to mortal schools or whatever fragile normalcy waited beyond the border. The air smelled of pine, sea salt and anticipation thick enough to choke on. Chiron had announced the teams at breakfast that morning with his usual calm gravitas: "For this game, the blue team will be led jointly by Athena and Ares cabins. One strategy, one assault force. Work as one, or lose as two."

Groans had rippled through the pavilion. Traditionalists from both sides muttered about "mixing oil and water" but no one argued with Chiron. Not out loud.

You stood at the edge of the forest as the sun climbed, armor gleaming, spear balanced across your shoulders. The red boar banner still flew over Ares territory, but today it shared space with Athena’s silver owl stitched onto blue silk. A compromise. Junhui had suggested it the night before, quietly, over stolen kisses behind the armory.

"Symbols matter" he’d said against your mouth. "Let them see we’re not pretending anymore."

You’d rolled your eyes. "You and your metaphors."

He’d smiled, small, private. "You love them."

You hadn’t denied it. Now he stood beside you in full gear: dark leather reinforced with bronze at the shoulders and chest, xiphos at his hip, no shield. His hair was tied back, exposing the sharp line of his jaw and the faint scar above his brow. He looked calm. Focused. Like always. Except when his eyes met yours.

Then something warmer flickered there, something that made your pulse kick despite the weight of bronze on your shoulders.

"Ready?" he asked.

You twirled the spear once. "Born ready. You?"

He nodded once. "Plan’s locked. You remember your part?"

"Charge where you point. Improvise when I feel like it."

His mouth quirked. "Try to stick to the plan."

"No promises, brainiac."

He didn’t argue. Just brushed his knuckles against yours, brief, hidden by the angle of your bodies, before stepping forward to address the combined force.

Blue team gathered in a loose semicircle: Athena kids with bows, maps, and illusion runes; Ares siblings with spears, shields, and barely restrained grins. They watched Junhui with wary respect and you with familiar hunger for violence. The mix still felt strange, like handing a wolf a chess set, but no one questioned it. Not after the border fight. Not after the whispers had turned into open bets on whether you two would kill each other or end up sharing a bunk.

Junhui spoke first, voice carrying without shouting.

"Red team: Hephaestus, Hermes, Apollo, has the creek as their primary crossing. They’ll feint north with Hermes speed, then push hard south with Hephaestus traps. We let them think we’re defending the shallows like last time."

Murmurs. He raised a hand. "We’re not."

He knelt, traced lines in the dirt with his dagger, quick, precise.

"Archers and illusionists take the high ridge here. Create false movement, make them believe the north flank is weak. When they commit, we collapse the trap: Ares hits the south crossing in full force, funneled exactly where we want them. I’ll coordinate from the center ridge with signal flares. No deviations unless I call it."

Eyes turned to you. You stepped forward. "My job’s simple. We hit hard, we hit fast. Shields lock, spears low. No one breaks formation until we have their flag or they’re dust. If they scatter, we chase. If they trap us, we break through. Clear?"

Nods. Feral grins from your siblings.

Junhui met your gaze. "We move on the horn. Stay sharp."

The conch sounded. Game on. You led the Ares contingent south through the underbrush, silent at first, then building to the low thunder of boots and clanking bronze. Junhui’s signal flare arced overhead, green smoke, the go code. You broke cover at a dead run.

The south crossing was chaos exactly as planned. Hermes kids sprinted ahead, thinking they’d caught the flank open. Hephaestus traps: spiked pits, tripwires, waited in neat rows. But Athena archers had already marked them; blue flares burst above each one, warning your line.

You yelled "Shields!"

The front rank locked, bronze wall moving as one. You were at the center, spear thrusting through gaps, driving forward. A Hermes kid appeared on your left, dagger flashing. You bashed him with your shield rim, sent him sprawling. Behind the line, Junhui’s voice carried over the din, calm, precise. "Left shift, two degrees! Archers, suppress the ridge!"

Arrows hissed overhead. Red team faltered.

You pushed harder. The creek appeared, shallow here, rocks slick. Red team’s flag waved from a fallen log on the far bank, guarded by a knot of Hephaestus heavies in makeshift armor.

You grinned. "There it is."

Junhui appeared at your side, sudden, silent. He’d left the ridge, moving with the front line now. No hesitation.

"Flank left" he said low. "I’ll draw the center."

You nodded. No argument.

He broke right, fast, drawing attention. Red team pivoted toward him. You swung left with half your squad, splashing through the creek, using the distraction to close the distance.

Junhui fought clean: parry, dodge, strike, never wasting motion. A Hephaestus kid swung a hammer; Junhui ducked, hit tendons behind the knee, dropped him without killing intent. Another charged; Junhui sidestepped, used momentum to throw him into the creek.

You reached the log first. The flag guard, a burly Hephaestus girl with a massive shield, met you head-on. You slammed shield against shield, sparks flying. She pushed; you held. Then shoved hard. She staggered. You spun the spear haft, cracked it across her wrist. The shield dropped. You lunged, spear tip tapping her chest plate. "Out."

She cursed, stepped aside. Your hand closed on blue silk. Victory horn blasted, three long notes.

Blue team erupted. You raised the flag high, cheering with your siblings. Across the field, Athena kids whooped, quietly, but real. Junhui jogged up, breathing hard, ichor and sweat streaking his face.

You tossed him the flag. He caught it one-handed. Didn’t smile, just looked at you like you’d solved the last equation he’d never quite cracked.

Then he stepped forward, hooked a finger in your breastplate strap, and pulled you in.

Right there, in the middle of the creek, surrounded by cheering demigods and settling dust, he kissed you. Slow. Deep. Unhurried.

One hand cupped the back of your neck; the other stayed fisted in your armor. You kissed back, fierce, possessive, fingers threading into his damp hair.

The noise around you swelled: cheers, wolf-whistles, a few theatrical groans from the traditionalists. Someone's laugh boomed over everything: "About damn time!"

You broke apart only when air became necessary. Junhui rested his forehead against yours. "Told you brains and brawn work better together."

You huffed a laugh. "Took you long enough to admit it, nerd."

He smiled, small, real, unguarded. "Worth the wait."

Later, after the gear was stripped, wounds patched, and the pavilion rang with post-game stories, you found him by the lake.

Moonlight silvered the water. He sat on the same salt-bleached log where you’d once sharpened your spear and tried to hate him. Now he looked up as you approached and the look in his eyes was softer than you’d ever seen.

You sat beside him. Shoulders brushing.

"Some game" you said.

"Some team."

Silence stretched, comfortable. You nudged him. "You know they’re already making bets on how long before we kill each other."

"Let them bet." His fingers found yours, lacing together. "We’ve got better odds."

You snorted. "Optimist."

"Realist."

You leaned your head on his shoulder. He rested his cheek against your hair. The lake lapped quietly. Somewhere distant, the campfire crackled and campers sang off-key. Normal camp sounds.

But nothing felt normal anymore. It felt better.

"Next summer" he murmured, "we run the whole thing together again."

You tilted your head. "You asking me to co-captain?"

"I’m telling you we’re co-captains." A pause. "Unless you’d rather keep calling me predictable."

You laughed, quiet, warm. "Nah. I like keeping you on your toes."

He turned, kissed your temple. "Good. Because I like watching you charge in and ruin every perfect plan I make."

"Admit it, you love the chaos."

"I love you" he said simply.

The words landed soft. Certain.

You swallowed. Turned to face him fully.

"Love you too, brainiac."

He smiled, slow, devastating. Then he pulled you in again, kissing you under the stars, lake at your feet, camp at your back.

Scoups: you get to listen to the demos

– Normally, is to get a no-professional opinion, wanting to hear about what he could change or improve on his sound or flow.

– But sometimes, when he is really proud of a demo, he just has to tell you about it

– And, knowing him, you know is to receive praise, being the leo he is.

– Oh well, the songs are actually good. so how can you not praise him for it?

Jeonghan: teaming together

– You gained your place as his second player.

– Yes, you may have bribed him with kisses and praises, but you are also really good at looking innocent and lying to his teammates.

– So, how can he say no to team up with you when you look at him across the room, ready to take out Mingyu on the first round?

– He is a weak man, after all.

Joshua: takes the lead

– As a person that prefers to follow rather than to lead, is not so common for him to decide for you.

– For example, you ask him to get take out for dinner? He will ask you what you’re craving, or what kind or food, or how greasy you want the meal

– But, whenever he sees you too stressed from constantly having to take decisions, he is ready to help you with it.

– Will decide for you what you’re eating, what you’re watching- even the time you’re going to sleep that night.

– Not because he likes to control you like this, not at all. But because he knows it helps you relax that brain of yours.

Jun: expresses his emotions

– When Minghao listens to Jun say a quick “love you” to you through the phone, he doesn’t really believe it.

– Jun? just expressing himself? just like that? without blushing or shutting himself after?

– But, it is common to you to experience a raw Junhui. A Junhui that will look deeply into your eyes, before smiling and saying how much you mean to him

– A Junhui that, between giggles, will explain to you how he fell in love with you. But also a Junhui that will hide himself on the crook of your shoulder when his members start begging for a little of the love he shows to you, mumbling a quick “love y’all” before blushing.

Hoshi: Supports your silence time

– He is not quite sure why you love meditating so much, or why he is asking Myungho for tips on how to help you.

– Well, he does know. Because he loves you.

– So, when Minghao gives him a couple of candles and some youtube channels to help you meditate, he is quick to thank the youngest.

– He even tries to sit down with you to meditate, he bought you matching pads to meditate and do yoga with.

– He is too hyper tho, but he tries his best, always. For you.

Wonwoo: calling dibs on a camera roll

– He doesn’t really care anymore.

– Nowadays, he even takes pictures of specific scenarios because he just knows you will like them.

– When he gets the roll back, he can already see how many pictures you’re giving to take away from him.

– It’s okay tho, your instagram and journal will look cute with those pictures.

Woozi: sleeping privileges

– He hates how you can just command him to go sleep.

– Is like if you’ve got superpowers. It creeps him out.

– He had been going strong on the (he wants to believe) last hour of the studio session. Sleep? He doesn’t need it. Energy? Is at its fullest. Did he write much in the last two hours? No. Did he make much progress? Not either.

– So, when he peeks your name on his lock screen, he’s quick to text you back. And, just like that, the energized Woozi is feeling his eyes heavy, and his hands need to hold you.

– He can see he had one too many missed calls from Hoshi and Vernon, and he was quick to tell the eldest about his where about.

– And, he was just as quick to get to you, and to bed.

Jeonghan: Jeonghan and hugs make me think of fluffy pillows, I feel like hugging Hannie would feel like falling into a pile of feathers, he’s just so soft :((( There are times when he’d poke your side, or blow into your ears/neck to which you’d yelp and tell him “Hannie, stop it! It tickles!” And you know he won't stop, he’d just continue tickling your sides giggling at your attempt to get out of his hold, until the two of you are tangled on the floor. But there are also days when all you need is his chest to breathe into. His arms lazily wrapped around you, yours too. And you’d find his head on your shoulder mumbling something you can’t quite here, but you know it goes something along the lines of “There, there my baby.” 

Joshua: With shua hugs are always casual, nothing suffocating, nothing to lose. He’s the goldilocks of hugs might I say. You’d find yourself leaning your entire body onto him with your head on his shoulder and an arm of his will snake up your waist, making sure you're steady in his hold. Shua’s the type to use his other free hand to play with your hair or the hem of your shirt, trace a finger over your lips, pick an eyelash that has fallen, and shoot you that saccharine smile of his before saying “Make a wish, y/n” He’s the type to let you see whatever it is he’s scrolling through, or if he’s holding a drink, he’d immediately offer it. The man is just a giver, so attentive and affectionate without even realizing it. And when you’ve decided that the proximity has fulfilled your needs, shua will make sure you leave with a kiss on your temple.

Jun: Jun clings on to you before you even ask for a hug. That man is around you 24/7 there’s no way he’ll waste time not hugging you. If you are smaller than him, he’d make himself shorter to fit your frame. Laying his head on your shoulder whilst his hand make its way around you. Hugs with him are also not far from mindless giggles and laughter. It would only take a millisecond of eye contact for the two of you to burst out laughing with identical hues of red on your faces. You’d try to hide it but he beats you to it as he buries his face on your neck. “Oh you,” You breathed, “What do I do with you?” His hands would make their way to lay flat on the small of your back, drumming his fingers away. And in return, your hands would be over his shoulder, playing with his strands, combing it through with your fingers. 

Soonyoung: Simply put, soonyoung free falling onto you = hugs. You’d be lying on the sofa and whoops this 178 cm man has fallen on top of you, oh whatever must you do? Comply, that is, because soonyoung would not let go. The thing about that man is when he loves he LOVES. There’s just this urge in him to feel at the fullest and when it comes to love it’s oh-so evident through every single action he does. Whether it is grabbing you a snack when your stomach lowly grumbles without you having to tell him to, or carrying your bag even when you’re using a small one. But then it also goes without saying that he shows it all physically, as grandiose and as big as it gets. Hence, crushing on you is the only acceptable form of hug, because to him that’s how it feels like to fall in love with you. Spontaneous, an all-consuming warmth, and without notice. He’d snuggle up on you, wrapping his body on top of yours. His hand, one on your waist, the other intertwined with your own. And there’d be subtle confessions of love through “Have you eaten?” or “You smell good today.” 

Wonwoo: I feel like wonwoo’s hugs scream “mine” There is just something about being close to him that makes you feel safe and secure. As if nothing in the world could get to you when you're in his arms, and even if they did, they’d have to face your lover first before they could even think of getting to you. He’s protective when it comes to the people he loves, and though he might not be good at conveying it verbally, his actions surely speak for him. Or rather, screams for him. His hands are around your waist, the chaste kiss on your forehead, the other hand guiding yours to wrap around his waist, as if telling you “Just hold on” You don't even need to feel tired to want to return to his embrace. Wonwoo’s whole presence is able to recharge you, and you're just hoping your frame against his does the same thing to him too.. 

Jihoon: With jihoon, hugs are a rare occasion, especially when there are other people around. But when the two of you have retired for the day, getting comfy underneath the comforter, you’d slowly feel his arms snake around you before pulling your entire being flush against him. He’d be behind you, head close to the back of your neck and it’d be a matter of seconds before you could feel his lips. But god forbid you spoke, because when it comes to Hoon, being close to you makes him feel like he’s under a spell. Like the whole world stops and he could laze without burden, existing simply without expectations. Therefore most times, hugs with Hoon are quiet. Tranquil. Serene. You’d place your hands on top of his, caressing the skin beneath you in tandem with the breath that exhaled onto your shoulder. Allowing you two to just, exist.