Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Hybrids without a collar are not allowed."

The man’s voice was rough, like gravel scraping against pavement, and it echoed off the brick walls of the narrow alley. Jongho’s breath hitched as he backed away, his broad frame casting a shadow against the cold, unyielding stone. The dim light above flickered, casting the scene in a harsh, unforgiving glow.

There was nowhere to go—just walls, garbage bins, and the looming figure of the animal control officer blocking his only exit. The officer’s uniform was dark and stiff, his expression a mask of indifference, as if this were just another day at work. But to Jongho, it was the end of a desperate chase.

Jongho clenched his fists, his sharp nails digging into his palms, the sting grounding him. He could fight. He knew he could overpower this man in seconds, snap the baton at his hip like a twig, and tear through the alley without breaking a sweat. His strength was undeniable, and for a moment, the thought tempted him.

But he didn’t.

Fighting would only make things worse. He’d seen it before—the way hybrids who resisted were branded as violent and dangerous. He didn’t want to be another story on the news, another reason for people to fear and hate hybrids like him. He didn’t want to give them more ammunition to use against him.

"Please...” he whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of his fear and exhaustion. His hands loosened slightly, though his body remained tense, braced for what was coming.

The man didn’t respond. His cold eyes showed no sympathy, no understanding. He simply reached for the heavy metal collar at his belt, the dull clink of steel against steel sending a shiver down Jongho’s spine.

Jongho flinched as the collar was clamped around his neck, the cold metal biting into his skin like frost on bare flesh. He could feel every ridge and edge of the device, a tangible reminder of his failure. The weight of it made him feel smaller, reduced to something less than himself—less than human.

The officer worked quickly, attaching the collar to a set of hand restraints. Jongho’s arms were pulled tight in front of him, the cold steel cutting into his wrists. His breath came in shallow gasps as the reality of his situation sank in.

And just like that, he was caught.

Pain flared across his back as the movement tugged at fresh wounds, still raw from his last encounter. The scars from older beatings crisscrossed his skin like a twisted map, but it was the new ones that burned the most, each laceration a cruel reminder of why he was running to begin with.

He could still hear their voices in his head, sharp and unforgiving. “Hybrids like you think you’re so strong, so untouchable. Let’s see how strong you are when you’re bleeding.”

Jongho had fought back tears then, his pride refusing to let them see him break. But now, in the quiet of the alley, with the cold collar around his neck and the sting of his wounds fresh in his mind, he felt the weight of it all.

He had been running for so long, driven by the desperate hope of finding freedom, of finding safety. But every step forward seemed to bring him closer to this—captivity, humiliation, pain.

The officer gave him a rough shove, forcing him to stumble forward. Jongho’s muscles ached as he moved, the small confines of the alley only serving to heighten his sense of entrapment. His heart pounded in his chest, but he kept his head down, swallowing his pride and the lump in his throat.

This wasn’t the first time he’d been caught. It probably wouldn’t be the last.

But each time, it felt like a little more of him was stripped away, leaving behind nothing but a hollow shell.

It had been 476 days since that moment.

476 days of confinement in a kennel far too small for a hybrid like him—a bear hybrid, made for vast wilderness, for the steady hum of nature’s pulse beneath his feet. His body craved the stretch of open skies and the rustle of leaves as he moved through the underbrush.

Here, the world had shrunk to cold concrete walls, a steel door, and a barred front that turned his existence into a spectacle. His muscles constantly ached, stiff and cramped from the unnatural stillness. His joints throbbed, protesting every minimal shift. The weight of confinement pressed down on him, making even his breathing feel laborious.

The shelter was chaos incarnate. Dog hybrids barked and howled, their frantic energy filling every corner. Cats yowled and hissed, their displeasure unmistakable. The sound never stopped—an unrelenting cacophony that clawed at Jongho’s fraying nerves. He endured it all in silence, his ears twitching at each sharp noise. The endless din seemed to seep into his bones, amplifying the loneliness that hollowed out his chest.

None of them could understand what it was like to be him.

The other hybrids didn’t feel the same suffocating weight of expectations. They weren’t caught between their nature and the world’s refusal to accept it. The shelter staff didn’t care to understand, either. To them, Jongho was just another case file, another body occupying space. When they looked at him, they saw inconvenience.

“Hide it,” they’d tell him, as if it were easy. “Make yourself smaller.”

Their advice was always accompanied by forced, toothy smiles, as hollow as the words they uttered. “Tell them you’re a house cat,” one worker joked once, her laughter brittle. Jongho never laughed. They’d shove him to the front of his kennel when visitors came, urging him to look meek, harmless. A sad performance in a cruel theater.

He tried, at first. He really did. Jongho hunched his massive shoulders, lowered his gaze to appear less threatening. He fought every instinct screaming for him to hold his head high. Every smile felt like he was carving a piece out of himself. His true self—wild, proud, and capable—was folded into a tiny, digestible version of what they wanted him to be. But even when he tried to fit their mold, nothing changed.

Visitors walked in daily, hope shining in their eyes as they searched for a companion. Jongho’s heart would flutter every time the door chimed. He would inch closer to the bars, a cautious optimism blooming in his chest. Today. Maybe today someone would see him, truly see him. But that fragile hope shattered with each passing glance.

Families and individuals flocked to the smaller hybrids, cooing and laughing as they pet eager dogs or sly, playful cats. Even other predator hybrids—wolves, foxes, hawks—were chosen. They had their allure, their mystique. Jongho stayed behind, his kennel a permanent fixture.

Sometimes, people would pause in front of him. His heart would leap, the faintest flicker of light in the darkness. But their curiosity would quickly sour, their eyes widening as they took in the size of his frame, the sheer presence he couldn’t suppress.

“He looks dangerous,” someone whispered once, their voice like a blade drawn slowly.

Jongho clenched his fists, his claws digging into his palms. Dangerous. The word clung to him, shaping the perception of everyone who saw him.

“Too unpredictable,” a woman murmured beside the man. Her voice was laced with a mixture of fear and disdain. “Who would even consider a hybrid like that? You’d never be able to relax.”

The words were a punch to the gut, but Jongho remained still, his expression neutral. Inside, his heart twisted painfully.

“And a beta,” the man added with a sneer, his voice dripping with contempt. “Not even an alpha to balance it out. Just a whole lot of trouble for nothing.”

Jongho’s breath hitched, his claws biting deeper into his skin. The insult echoed louder than the rest. A beta. Lesser. Overlooked. Unremarkable. His rank made him a contradiction—a predator with no bite, no commanding presence. To them, he wasn’t worth the risk.

The woman crossed her arms, her disdainful gaze unwavering. “You’d have to be desperate to pick that one.”

Their quiet laughter echoed, sharp and cutting as they moved on. But their words stayed behind, lingering in the stale air like smoke. Jongho turned away, forcing himself to feign indifference. But inside, something broke a little more.

He retreated to the thin mat in the corner of his kennel, curling his broad frame into as tight a ball as he could manage. His knees pressed to his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around himself, as if he could shield himself from the weight of their words. The collar around his neck bit into his skin, its cold metal unforgiving—a constant reminder of what he was and where he belonged.

His back throbbed faintly, the ghost of past wounds resurfacing in the stillness. Though the scars from his last beating had healed, they remained etched in his memory. Sometimes, when the staff handed out mirrors for grooming, Jongho avoided his reflection entirely. He didn’t need the reminder of the pain, the humiliation. The wounds on his body might have closed, but their presence lingered in the quiet moments, their weight as inescapable as the bars that surrounded him.

He wasn’t meant for this place. He wasn’t meant to be in a cage, surrounded by cold walls and sharper whispers. But here he was.

And all they saw was a bear. That was all it took for them to decide. That was all it took for him to be left behind again, unwanted and forgotten.

Desperate to change their minds, Jongho had begged the shelter staff for new clothes. “Just let me try,” he had pleaded, his voice low but insistent, carrying a quiet urgency. At first, they laughed at him, scoffing at the idea of a beta hybrid dressing up to make himself more appealing. Their dismissive chuckles stung, but Jongho refused to let their ridicule deter him. He begged for weeks, his tone growing more desperate each time. Eventually, whether out of pity or simply to shut him up, they relented.

They handed him bright clothes—a soft yellow sweater, a pair of light jeans, and a scarf with playful patterns that felt alien against his skin. Jongho held them for a moment, staring at the cheerful hues as if they might somehow hold the key to transforming him into something lovable, something wanted. When he slipped the sweater over his head, it felt wrong—the fabric too soft, the color too loud. But he wore it anyway. He forced a smile, a brittle, fragile thing that didn’t quite reach his eyes, and tried to stand a little taller when visitors entered the shelter.

The first time the bell above the door jingled after his transformation, Jongho’s heart leapt. He pushed himself forward, standing near the front of his kennel, his new clothes a glaring contrast to the drab concrete surrounding him. He plastered on that forced smile, hoping that, just maybe, someone would notice the effort he was making.

But nothing changed.

People still glanced at his way for a moment, their eyes flickering with mild interest before their expressions shifted—first to uncertainty, then to dismissal. He saw it over and over—a second or two of curiosity, quickly extinguished by the realization of what he was. The bright clothes didn’t soften his broad shoulders, dull the sharpness of his claws, or hide the powerful muscles beneath his skin. They didn’t erase the label of “bear” stamped invisibly across his being.

He overheard a visitor once, murmuring to another as they passed his kennel. “He’s trying too hard,” they said with a quiet chuckle. “It’s kind of sad.” The words cut deep, leaving an ache that lingered long after they were gone.

Jongho’s hope, already fragile, began to crumble. After weeks of watching those fleeting glances pass over him without a hint of interest, he couldn’t keep up the act. The yellow sweater felt heavier each time he wore it, as if the weight of his forced cheerfulness was pressing down on him. The scarf itched against his skin, a constant reminder of how out of place he was, even in his own efforts to belong.

One day, after yet another round of indifferent stares and muttered rejections, Jongho couldn’t take it anymore. He went back to his kennel, his hands trembling as he pulled off the sweater. He folded it neatly, setting it aside with the jeans and scarf, and shoved them into the corner. The brightness of the fabric seemed almost mocking, a cruel contrast to the dim, cold reality of the shelter.

He sat down on his thin mat, his back resting against the cold bars, and let out a long, shuddering breath. From that day forward, he stopped looking up when the bell above the door rang. He stopped waiting for those hopeful eyes to turn his way. He stopped hoping altogether.

The weight of the metal collar around his neck felt unbearable now, a constant reminder of his captivity. It bit into his skin with every movement, a silent declaration of his status: not a companion, not a friend, just another unwanted hybrid waiting for a future that would never come.

He wasn’t meant to be here. He wasn’t meant to be in a cage, surrounded by walls that closed in on him, stripping away the freedom his kind was born to crave. But here he was. And no one wanted him. Not as he was.

Day after day, Jongho lay on the cold floor of his kennel, staring blankly at the ceiling. His body still bore faint scars from old wounds; the bruises had long since faded, but their echoes haunted him. Sometimes, his hand would ghost over the skin of his back, where the worst of them had been, only to recoil at the memory of how they got there. Though the marks were gone, he avoided mirrors, avoided looking too closely at his reflection. The wounds may have healed, but the pain of them lingered, a quiet reminder of why he had been running in the first place.

And so Jongho waited. Alone. Forgotten. A life of quiet resignation stretching out before him, one monotonous day at a time.

The morning of Day 477 greeted Jongho with a heavy, unyielding silence, broken only by the faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead. He didn’t want to move; didn’t want to acknowledge that time continued to pass, dragging him along with it. His “bed,” a flimsy cot pressed against a cold metal wall, did little to offer comfort. The thin blanket tangled around his legs was a poor shield against the chill that seemed to seep into his very bones.

He stared at the ceiling, his mind running through the usual inventory of ways he could delay the inevitable. Maybe he could feign illness, stay curled up for just a little longer. But he knew from experience that sympathy wasn’t a currency that held any value here.

“We open in ten minutes, Jongho!”

The harsh voice jolted him from his thoughts, followed by the sharp clang of a broom handle striking the metal door. He flinched instinctively, the sound reverberating in his ears. His least favorite shelter worker, always so eager to assert their presence, didn’t bother waiting for a response. Jongho exhaled shakily, forcing himself to sit up. He hated how that sounded, but that simple action still had the power to make him feel small.

With a sigh, he shuffled over to the small pile of neatly folded clothes at the foot of his cot. His pajamas, faded and threadbare, clung to his skin like a second layer of exhaustion. He peeled them off reluctantly, eyeing the yellow sweater he’d once treasured. Its soft fabric and cheerful color had been a small rebellion against the dreariness of his reality, but now it felt like a hollow reminder of a happiness he could no longer reach. It didn’t make him feel pretty anymore. He tossed it aside, settling instead for the muted, familiar comfort of a dark grey T-shirt and black jeans.

Still, he needed something—anything—to keep from fading completely into the background. His eyes landed on the scarf, a simple strip of fabric in soft pastel tones. Carefully, he tied it around his wrist, a delicate promise to himself that he hadn’t completely disappeared.

Jongho’s stomach grumbled, but he ignored it. He had slept through breakfast, and he knew better than to expect any special treatment. The worker who had woken him would probably scoff at the idea of giving him extra food. His next meal would have to wait until lunch.

The distant sound of the front door jingling echoed through the shelter, signaling the arrival of visitors. Jongho sighed, retreating to the far corner of his kennel. There, he picked up the single book he’d been allowed for the week. The pages were worn, corners dog-eared from countless readings. It was the same every week: a brief escape in ink and paper, a fragile thread connecting him to a world beyond these cold walls.

He opened to his bookmarked page, but the words blurred in front of his eyes. His mind wandered, drifting between the lines of the story and the walls that enclosed him. His fingers brushed the scarf on his wrist as if seeking reassurance. This was how he endured—piece by piece, moment by moment, clutching onto the smallest fragments of himself.

All of a sudden, Jongho heard a light tapping on his kennel door. The sound was gentle, almost hesitant, a stark contrast to the sharp raps from earlier. He barely turned his head, expecting to see the same shelter worker wielding the broom. But when he glanced up, his eyes widened in surprise. Standing on the other side of the bars were two unfamiliar figures.

The shorter of the two immediately caught his attention. His bright orange hair was striking, but even more so were the soft, triangular ears perched atop his head, twitching slightly as he smiled. Beside him stood a taller man, his sleek black hair framing a face that radiated warmth. His gaze was direct but kind, his posture relaxed.

Jongho stiffened. Strangers. Visitors. He braced himself for the inevitable pity or, worse, the disgust when they realized what he was.
The one with orange ears raised his hand in a friendly wave. His smile didn’t falter, even when Jongho hesitated before giving a small, reluctant wave back. Without a word, Jongho quickly turned back to his book, his heart thudding in his chest. He forced his eyes to focus on the words, though they blurred together. They’ll leave, he told himself. They always did. Better to pretend he didn’t care than to watch their expressions change.

He managed to read two sentences—something about a protagonist’s moment of triumph—before the tapping resumed, this time more insistent. Jongho sighed quietly, placing the book down beside him. His brows knitted together as he slowly turned around, his mind racing. Were they trying to mess with him? The thought sent a chill down his spine. He had experienced pranks before, cruel jokes at his expense, and he braced himself for another.

But the tall man with black hair offered nothing but a gentle smile. He raised a hand in a calm gesture, as if to reassure Jongho that no harm was meant.
“I’m Seonghwa, and this is Hongjoong,” he said, his voice light and inviting.

Jongho blinked, momentarily disarmed by the introduction. “Hello,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
Seonghwa’s smile widened. “Do you want to sit in a private room to talk?” he asked, his tone soft yet encouraging.

Jongho hesitated. Every instinct screamed at him to say no, to retreat into the small, cold safety of his kennel. But something about Seonghwa’s demeanor—his calm sincerity—made it hard to refuse. He knew it was foolish. He shouldn’t trust them. He shouldn’t want to leave the safety of those bars. But the ache for something different, even for just a moment, was too strong.

“Sure,” he said, his throat dry. The word felt foreign, like it didn’t belong to him. He shifted uncomfortably, knowing he should’ve declined. Yet the moment passed, and Seonghwa didn’t question his answer.

The shelter worker unlocked the kennel door with a metallic clink. Jongho’s movements were slow, cautious, as if testing the air outside his confined space. His muscles were tense, his eyes darting between the two strangers as he stepped out.

Seonghwa and Hongjoong walked ahead, their steps unhurried. Jongho followed at a distance, his feet dragging slightly against the floor. They led him to a room he recognized—a space where new families often met their future hybrids. The walls were painted in soft, welcoming tones, a contrast to the sterile coldness of the rest of the shelter. There was a round table in the center, surrounded by comfortable chairs.

Jongho lingered at the threshold for a moment, his hands clenching at his sides. The room felt too open, too hopeful. But he forced himself to cross the threshold, his heart pounding with every step.

Seonghwa gestured to a chair, his smile never wavering. “Make yourself comfortable,” he said gently.

Jongho swallowed hard, his throat tightening. He lowered himself into the chair, his movements stiff and guarded. What did they want? The question echoed in his mind, but for now, he said nothing.

Chapter Text

~ 1 week ago, ~

The crisp evening air wrapped around Wooyoung and Mingi as they strolled home, their chatter echoing softly in the quiet streets. They hadn’t walked this route in a long time—since before San had joined their pack. The shelter loomed ahead, its familiar facade lit by harsh fluorescent lights, the windows revealing glimpses of the lives still waiting inside.

Wooyoung slowed as they approached, his gaze drifting toward the large glass window at the front of the shelter. Memories of the first time they’d seen San there flashed in his mind—the way he’d curled into himself, eyes darting nervously at every movement.

Without thinking, Wooyoung stopped. “Let’s look inside for a second,” he murmured.

Mingi gave him a curious glance but didn’t protest. Together, they stepped closer to the window, their eyes scanning the room beyond.

The shelter was as bleak as they remembered—stark white walls, rows of uncomfortable benches, and the soft hum of fluorescent lights overhead. Several hybrids were scattered throughout the room, talking quietly or sitting in small groups. But Wooyoung’s attention was drawn to one figure, seated alone on a bench near the corner.

"Do you see him?” Wooyoung whispered, his voice barely audible.
Mingi nodded, his eyes narrowing as he took in the hybrid. The man was broad-shouldered, his posture slouched, as if trying to take up less space. His head was bowed, and in his hands, he clutched a scarf, his fingers fidgeting with the fabric in slow, repetitive motions.

“What’s his story?” Mingi wondered aloud.

Wooyoung’s eyes softened as he observed the hybrid. “I don’t know, but look.” He gestured subtly with his chin. “No one’s sitting with him."

Mingi frowned. The other hybrids seemed to avoid the man entirely. Even those sitting nearby kept their distance, their conversations carrying on as if he wasn’t there. The hybrid didn’t seem to mind—or perhaps he was simply used to it. His gaze remained fixed on the scarf, his expression unreadable but heavy.

“He’s completely alone,” Wooyoung said, his voice thick with emotion. “Why aren’t they talking to him?”

Mingi shook his head slowly. “Maybe he’s new. Or maybe... he’s just different.”

Wooyoung couldn’t tear his eyes away. There was something magnetic about the hybrid, something that tugged at his heart. “He looks like he’s trying so hard to disappear,” Wooyoung murmured. “But he’s so—”

“—hard to ignore,” Mingi finished, his tone quiet.

Wooyoung nodded. “Exactly. How could anyone not want to be near him?”

Mingi glanced at his friend, noting the determination hardening in his eyes. “Wooyoung, we don’t know anything about him.”

"I don’t care,” Wooyoung said, his voice resolute. “I know what I feel. He’s perfect."

Mingi sighed, his gaze returning to the hybrid, who now shifted slightly, pulling the scarf tighter around his wrist. “You know it’s not that simple. Not everyone in the pack will agree. Another hybrid changes everything."

Wooyoung’s jaw clenched, but his voice softened as he spoke. “I’m not saying we decide now. But I can’t just leave him there, Mingi. He shouldn’t be alone like that.”

Mingi hesitated, then placed a hand on Wooyoung’s shoulder. “Alright. Let’s talk to the others. But you know how it’s going to go.”

Wooyoung gave a small, determined nod. “They’ll see what we see. They have to.”

Mingi cast one last glance through the window, his chest tightening as he watched the hybrid. “Let’s go,” he said quietly, steering Wooyoung away.

Later that night, the pack gathered in the warmth of their living room. The hum of casual conversation filled the space, but Wooyoung was fidgeting, his mind still on the hybrid at the shelter. Finally, he couldn’t hold it in any longer.

"Mingi and I saw someone today,” Wooyoung said, his voice cutting through the chatter.

San curled up on the couch beside him and tilted his head curiously. "Someone?"

"A hybrid,” Wooyoung clarified, his eyes scanning the room. “At the shelter.”

The room went quiet.

Hongjoong leaned forward slightly, his brows furrowing. “The same shelter we got San from?”

Wooyoung nodded, his heart racing. “Yes. He was sitting by himself, completely alone. The others wouldn’t even look at him.”

Seonghwa's soft smile faltered, and Yeosang exchanged a glance with Yunho, who crossed his arms. “Wooyoung, you know how complicated this is,” Yeosang said gently. “Bringing another hybrid into the pack isn’t something we can decide on a whim.”

“I know,” Wooyoung said, his voice growing firmer. “But you didn’t see him. He looked like he’d been there forever, waiting for someone. We must do something.”

"Wait," Yunho said, his tone cautious. “You don’t even know what kind of hybrid he is or if he’d want to join a pack. He might not even want help.”
Wooyoung shook his head. “He needs us. I can feel it. He wouldn’t be sitting there like that if he didn’t.”

San, who had been quiet, finally spoke. “If he’s still there, he’s probably been through a lot… like I was.” His tail curled around his legs as he added softly, “We should at least meet him.”

Hongjoong sighed, running a hand through his hair. “We’ll meet him,” he said, his tone measured. “But no promises.”

Wooyoung’s face lit up with hope. “That’s all I’m asking."

~Present~ Jongho POV

Jongho didn’t know how long they’d been sitting in the small, quiet room. Time felt like a distant concept, slipping away unnoticed as he focused on the scarf wrapped around his wrist. His thumb moved in slow, rhythmic circles over the soft fabric, the motion soothing in its repetition. It was the only thing grounding him, keeping the sharp edges of his thoughts from spiraling out of control. The frayed edges brushed against his skin, familiar and worn, a silent witness to his struggles.

For a moment, it was just him and the scarf. The rest of the world faded into a dull hum, the weight of the room’s silence pressing down on him but not quite breaking through. His fingers tightened and relaxed, curling around the fabric like it was a lifeline. The outside world, with all its noise and judgment, felt far away.

Then, a soft tapping broke the stillness.

The sound was steady, rhythmic. Jongho’s head jerked up, startled, his hand instinctively withdrawing. He quickly stuffed the scarf into his pocket, as though hiding it would conceal the vulnerability it represented. His heart raced, pounding loudly in his ears as his eyes darted to the source of the sound.

Hongjoong sat across the table, his fingers drumming lightly against the surface. His fox ears twitched subtly, and his sharp gaze was fixed on Jongho, unreadable but unwavering. The tapping wasn’t impatient or harsh—it was a quiet reminder, a gentle nudge back to the present.

Next to him, Seonghwa wore a softer expression, his eyes filled with quiet concern. He leaned forward slightly, hands clasped together on the table. “It’s okay,” Seonghwa said gently. “Take your time.”

Jongho’s throat tightened. He tried to swallow the lump forming there, his gaze flicking nervously between the two men. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper. “What did you ask?” His pulse quickened, a familiar mix of shame and anxiety settling in his chest. Would they think he was ignoring them? Would they get up and leave?

Seonghwa offered a kind smile, his tone light. “We were just asking how you’re doing.”

Jongho blinked, the question catching him off guard. How I’m doing? He couldn’t remember the last time someone had asked him that—if anyone ever had. The people he’d encountered didn’t care about his feelings or his well-being. They cared about obedience, about appearances. His worth had always been tied to how well he could suppress himself, not how he felt.

"I'm... fine,” he said hesitantly, the word feeling foreign on his tongue. It wasn’t the truth, but it wasn’t quite a lie either. He didn’t know how to describe the weight pressing down on him—the exhaustion that never truly went away. “Fine” was easier.

Seonghwa nodded, his smile widening as if Jongho had said something remarkable. “That’s good to hear,” he replied, his tone warm and encouraging.

“I noticed you had a book with you earlier. Do you like to read?”
Jongho hesitated, his shoulders tensing. He glanced at Seonghwa, then quickly dropped his gaze again. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I do.”

“That’s great!” Seonghwa’s enthusiasm was genuine, his smile lighting up the room. “I love reading too. It’s a good escape, isn’t it?”

Jongho nodded slightly, unsure how to respond. He wasn’t used to conversations like this—conversations that didn’t feel like an interrogation or a performance. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the weight of their attention pressing down on him.

Seonghwa leaned forward slightly, his voice soft and inviting as he continued, “I’m a teacher. I work with kindergarteners, helping them learn to read every day. On weekends, I teach art at the community center—it’s open to both humans and hybrids. I think you’d enjoy it there. I’d love to bring you sometime.”

Jongho’s entire body tensed at the suggestion, his fingers instinctively tightening around the scarf on his wrist. The thought of being around strangers and trying to create something under the weight of their eyes filled him with unease. But Seonghwa didn’t seem to notice, his eyes bright with the joy of sharing something he loved.

“And Hongjoong,” Seonghwa continued, his tone warm and fond, “he’s an amazing artist. A professional, actually. His work is stunning—paintings, sketches, even murals. He helps me out at the community center whenever he can. But when he’s not there, he’s usually in the studio with Mingi, working on music.”

A soft smile spread across Seonghwa’s face, his eyes distant as if recalling a cherished memory. The affection in his voice as he spoke about his packmate was palpable, a quiet testament to their bond. Jongho watched him, a pang of longing tightening his chest. He envied how easily Seonghwa spoke of his pack and of the connection and comfort they shared. Would I ever have that? Could I ever belong like that?

Seonghwa’s gaze returned to Jongho, his smile softening. “Do you have any hobbies, Jongho? Something you enjoy doing in your free time?”

The question hung in the air, gentle but persistent. Jongho’s mind raced. What could he say? What should he say? Most of his life had been consumed by survival, by the monotony of shelter routines and the weight of being unwanted. What place did hobbies have in that?

He shook his head slowly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Not really."
The light in Seonghwa’s eyes dimmed, his face falling ever so slightly. “Oh,” he said softly. The room fell into a heavy silence, the kind that pressed on Jongho’s chest and made it harder to breathe.

Jongho lowered his gaze, guilt swirling in his stomach. He hadn’t meant to disappoint Seonghwa, but the truth was, he didn’t know how to share the pieces of himself that felt so small, so insignificant.

The silence stretched thick and uncomfortable. Jongho’s hands fidgeted in his lap, his thoughts spiraling with the possibilities of what they might say next.
It was Hongjoong who finally spoke, his voice calm but deliberate. "Hwa, let’s not overwhelm him,” he said, placing a steady hand on Seonghwa’s arm. His gaze softened as he turned back to Jongho. “We’re not here to pressure you into anything. We just want to talk and see where things go.”

Jongho’s eyes narrowed slightly, his brow furrowing. “Why?” The question slipped out before he could stop it, his tone more defensive than curious. He immediately regretted it, his fists clenching beneath the table. He braced himself for the kind of response he’d grown used to—cold, dismissive, or worse, pitying.

Hongjoong didn’t flinch. His fox ears twitched slightly, but his voice remained even. “Because someone in our pack noticed you,” he said simply. “They thought you might be a good fit.”

Jongho blinked, confused. “Fit?” he echoed, his voice uncertain.
Seonghwa leaned forward slightly, his posture open but his expression serious. “We’re not looking to expand our family/pack just for the sake of it,” he clarified. “We weren’t planning to adopt anyone. But when we heard about you, it felt important to meet you ourselves.”

Jongho’s heart sank a little. Of course, they weren’t looking. They weren’t here because they wanted him; they were here because of some obligation, some fleeting curiosity. The same old story.

Seonghwa seemed to sense Jongho’s hesitation. “We’re not offering you a home today,” he said gently, but his voice was firm. “This isn’t a decision we make lightly. You’re not a decision we’d make lightly. What we’re offering is the chance to meet the rest of our pack over the next week. If things feel right, if everyone agrees—including you—then we’ll see where that leads.”

Jongho’s chest tightened. They weren’t offering guarantees. It was just a trial, a series of meetings with no promises attached. And yet, even this small opportunity was more than anyone else had ever offered. More importantly, it was a chance to get out of the shelter, even if only temporarily.

He swallowed hard, his throat dry. “I… I’d like to meet them,” he said, his voice quiet but resolute. “If it means getting out of here, I’ll do it.”
Seonghwa’s expression softened, his lips curving into a gentle smile. “That’s all we’re asking, Jongho. Just take it one step at a time.”

Hongjoong gave a small nod, his fox-like features unreadable but his tone supportive. “There’s no rush. We’ll go at a pace you’re comfortable with.”
The conversation shifted after that, becoming lighter. Seonghwa asked about Jongho’s favorite foods, his hobbies, and the kinds of books he liked to read. His questions were careful, never probing too deeply, as if he were coaxing a wary animal from hiding. Hongjoong’s input was less frequent, but when he did speak, his words carried a quiet reassurance that made it easier for Jongho to answer.

Though cautious, Jongho found himself gradually relaxing under their patient attention. He didn’t share much, but he could feel the weight of his guarded walls starting to ease, if only slightly. The two men didn’t press him, and for that, he was grateful.

After a while, Seonghwa glanced at the clock and sighed. “We should let you rest,” he said, rising from his chair. “But we’ll see you again soon. How about tomorrow?”

Jongho nodded, his throat tightening at the thought of them leaving. “Okay,” he said softly.

Hongjoong stood as well, his gaze steady. “We’ll bring someone from the pack with us next time,” he said. “Take care, Jongho.”

Seonghwa hesitated for a moment, then gently placed a hand on Jongho’s arm, the touch light but grounding. “You’re not alone in this,” he said, his voice quiet but firm.

Jongho nodded again, watching as they left. The soft click of the door closing behind them signaled the return of solitude, and the silence rushed back in, heavier and colder than before. Yet, this time, it didn’t feel as suffocating.

Back in his kennel, Jongho curled up on his thin cot, clutching the scarf tightly against his chest. The familiar texture and faint scent offered a small measure of comfort, grounding him in the face of his uncertainty. He stared at the ceiling, his mind a whirl of thoughts.

This was far from a guarantee. He knew better than to let hope take root too easily. But the idea of meeting others and possibly finding a place where he could belong was something he hadn’t dared to dream of for a long time.

Jongho was pulled from his spiraling thoughts by the sudden, jarring thud of a bag hitting his kennel door. His body flinched instinctively, the sound ripping through the fragile quiet like a slap. The shelter worker stood there, impatient as always, barely sparing him a glance. “Lunch,” they called, their tone sharp, before turning away to repeat the process down the row of kennels.

Jongho exhaled slowly, dragging himself off the thin mat that barely softened the hard floor beneath it. His joints protested as he stood, the stiffness a constant reminder of how long he’d been confined here. With sluggish steps, he made his way to the dining room.

The room was a cacophony of noise—clattering trays, muffled conversations, and the occasional bark of laughter. It was a stark contrast to the suffocating silence of his kennel, but Jongho found no comfort in it. He kept his head down as he collected his tray of food, then retreated to his usual spot: the far end of a table, as far from the others as he could manage.

He set his tray down and began to eat mechanically. The food was bland and lukewarm, but hunger gnawed at him, a dull ache he couldn’t ignore. He hadn’t eaten breakfast, his stomach too knotted with unease after his meeting with Seonghwa and Hongjoong. Now, he shoveled the food in with purpose, his mind focused on the simple act of eating.

But after just three bites, the familiar voice of his tormentor cut through the dining room.

“Well, well, Jongho.” Jihoon’s tone was syrupy with mockery, each word dripping disdain. Jongho didn’t need to look up to know the alpha hybrid was smirking. “Saw you heading into the adoptee room earlier. What’s the matter? Someone finally took pity on you?”

Jongho’s grip tightened around his fork, but he kept his eyes on his tray. “Maybe,” he muttered, his voice low, devoid of any real conviction.
Jihoon chuckled, the sound grating. “Maybe, huh? Don’t kid yourself. They’ll figure out the truth soon enough—that you’re worthless. Bet they won’t even last five minutes with you, just like everyone else.”

Jongho clenched his jaw, forcing himself to swallow the lump forming in his throat. He didn’t respond. He knew better than to engage. Jihoon fed off reactions, and Jongho refused to give him the satisfaction.

But Jihoon wasn’t done. He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Do they know how long you’ve been here? How nobody else wanted you? Do they know you’re a beta? Or about your scars?”

Jongho’s stomach churned. His back seemed to burn under Jihoon’s words, as though the alpha’s gaze could pierce through his shirt and lay his vulnerabilities bare.
Still, he stayed silent. He fixed his eyes on the dull surface of the table, willing himself to stay composed.

Jihoon smirked, his tone turning crueler. “I bet they don’t know about your little makeover attempts. Trying to dress up like some kind of doll, pretending you’re cute. You really think that works when you’re built like a damn tank?”

Jongho blinked rapidly, but it was too late. A single tear escaped, sliding down his cheek and landing on the table with a quiet splatter. He clenched his fists under the table, the nails biting into his palms as he fought to keep more from falling.

Jihoon’s grin widened at the sight. “Here, let me help you with that,” he said with mock kindness. Before Jongho could react, Jihoon grabbed his milk carton and upended it over Jongho’s tray, the pale liquid soaking into the food and pooling around the edges.

For a moment, Jongho just stared, his mind struggling to process the sudden act of cruelty. Then he shot to his feet, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. “What the hell?! You know I can’t ask for more food!”
Jihoon shrugged, unbothered. “That’s the point,” he said coolly, standing and walking away without a backward glance.

The noise of the dining room carried on as if nothing had happened, but Jongho felt the weight of every glance, every whisper. He gathered his ruined tray, the milk dripping onto the floor as he carried it to the trash. His hands shook as he dumped the contents and left the dining room without another word.

Back in his kennel, he collapsed onto the rough cot, the familiar fabric of the scarf still clutched in his trembling hands. The tears came harder now, unstoppable, each one carving a path down his face. The ache of hunger twisted in his stomach, but he didn’t care. It wasn’t the first time he’d gone to bed hungry, but the emptiness always felt just as cruel.

He curled into himself, clutching the scarf like a lifeline. His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to Seonghwa and Hongjoong. Their kind eyes, the gentle way they spoke to him—it felt like a distant memory, too good to be real. And yet, he found himself clinging to the hope that they might return.

***

It was rare he thought morning came too soon, dragging Jongho back into the monotonous routine. The same sterile walls, the same cold floor, the same hollow rhythm of the shelter. But something was different.

Jongho found himself glancing toward the main doors more often, his ears straining to catch any hint of familiar voices. The thought of meeting the rest of their pack stirred a mix of emotions within him: anticipation, fear, and a fragile hope that refused to be snuffed out.
He once again wondered if he should put on the yellow sweater. Thinking about what Jihoon said yesterday, he decided against it, but he still grabbed the scarf to tie around his wrist.

At breakfast, he forced himself to eat a few bites, determined not to let hunger or weakness ruin what could be his chance. Whatever came next, he needed to be ready.

For now, the small flicker of hope was enough to keep him going.

****

Jongho sat in the far corner of the common area, his back pressed against the cold, unforgiving wall. Through the large front window, he watched the world outside—a world that seemed distant, unattainable. People hurried past the shelter, some sparing fleeting glances inside, most not even bothering. Each time a shadow crossed the doorway, Jongho’s heart leaped, only to plummet again when the figure continued on, uninterested.

Hope was dangerous. He tried not to feel it, tried to keep it buried deep where it couldn’t hurt him. But it was stubborn, clawing its way into his chest despite every effort to suppress it.
Then he saw them.

His breath hitched as Seonghwa walked through the door, but the hopeful spark in his chest dimmed when he realized Hongjoong wasn’t with him. Instead, two unfamiliar men flanked Seonghwa—one tall and broad-shouldered, with a warm, easy smile, and the other shorter, exuding an energy so vibrant it was almost tangible.

Jongho’s fingers instinctively tightened around the frayed scarf tied around his wrist. They said they’d bring Hongjoong. Why isn’t he here? His mind spiraled. Did Hongjoong change his mind? Did he decide Jongho wasn’t worth the effort? The thought stung more than he wanted to admit.
After checking in at the front desk, the trio made their way toward him. Jongho tensed, his gaze dropping to the floor as they approached.

“Hi, Jongho,” Seonghwa greeted softly, his voice like a soothing balm. “I’d like you to meet Mingi and Wooyoung.” He gestured to each of them in turn.
Mingi gave a friendly wave, his smile genuine. “Hey, it’s really nice to meet you!”

“And I’m so excited to finally see you!” Wooyoung added, practically bouncing in place. “We’ve heard so much about you.”

Jongho blinked, unsure how to respond. Their enthusiasm was baffling. Why were they so happy to meet him? What did they hear about him? He could only mutter, "I'm... Jongho,” barely above a whisper.

As if sensing his unease, Seonghwa spoke again, his tone gentle. “Hongjoong wanted to come, but he had an important showcase to prepare for. He’ll be here next time, I promise.”

Jongho nodded slowly, forcing himself to believe the words because the alternative was too painful. "Okay."

Seonghwa offered a reassuring smile. “Shall we sit down and talk?”

Jongho hesitated but eventually led them to a private room, his steps heavy. As they passed through the common area, he caught Jihoon’s familiar sneer. The alpha hybrid lounged against the wall, his eyes full of mockery. When their gazes met, Jihoon’s lips curled into a dark chuckle, sending a shiver down Jongho’s spine.

Once inside the room, Jongho chose a seat across from the trio, maintaining a cautious distance. His hands sought the comfort of the scarf around his wrist, tracing small, calming circles into the fabric.

“I like your scarf,” Mingi said, breaking the silence with a warm smile. “It’s really pretty.”

Jongho’s head snapped up in surprise. Compliments were rare, and when they came, they were often laced with sarcasm. But Mingi’s words were sincere.
“Thank you,” Jongho replied softly, his lips forming a shy smile. “It’s my favorite.”

Wooyoung leaned forward, his grin impossibly bright. “Forget the scarf—you’re pretty, Jongho.”

Jongho’s eyes widened, his cheeks flushing a deep red. The word pretty felt foreign, almost unreal. “T-thank you,” he stammered, the warmth of the compliment lingering.

“Anytime,” Wooyoung said with a playful wink.

Seonghwa chuckled softly. “Mingi’s the music producer I mentioned. Why don’t you tell Jongho more about what you do?”

Mingi’s eyes lit up. “Sure! I’ve been producing music for a while now. It’s my passion, and I’ve got my own studio. San helps with vocals sometimes, and Yunho pitches in too when he’s not working on design projects with Yeosang.”

He paused, his gaze softening. “Do you like music, Jongho? Maybe singing?”

Jongho shook his head quickly, his grip on the scarf tightening. “I haven’t had much chance to listen here.”

Mingi’s smile didn’t falter. “Well, if you ever want to try, I’d love to hear you sing.”

Before Jongho could respond, Wooyoung jumped in, “Let me tell you about my restaurant! We’ve got this amazing menu, super inclusive, and hybrids love it. I even have dishes tailored just for hybrid dietary needs.”

Jongho’s stomach growled at the mention of food, and his face burned with embarrassment.

Wooyoung beamed. “I’d love to take you there. You deserve to enjoy a tasty meal.”

Jongho didn’t know how to respond, his mind whirling with conflicting thoughts.

Jongho looked at Wooyoung, confused and cautious. Why do they keep saying these things? Part of him ached to believe in their kindness, to trust the warmth they offered, but another part braced for the inevitable disappointment—the moment they’d change their minds, like everyone else had. Still, for now, he clung to the fragile warmth their presence provided, afraid to let go.

His voice came out in fragmented whispers, just enough to encourage them to keep talking, to keep the focus away from him. He didn’t want to reveal too much, not yet.

Wooyoung, ever the talkative one, began to share stories about the pack. His voice was light, weaving tales of love and camaraderie. He spoke fondly of Hongjoong and Seonghwa, how deeply they cared for each other and for everyone in their pack.

“Hongjoong’s a red fox hybrid,” Wooyoung added, confirming what Jongho had suspected. Jongho’s nose wasn’t the sharpest, so he hadn’t been sure. His curiosity stirred—what was Hongjoong’s subgender? He wanted to ask but thought better of it. He must be an alpha, Jongho reasoned. Hongjoong carried himself with such quiet authority, the kind of presence that demanded respect.

Lost in thought, Jongho barely registered the shift in conversation until Mingi’s voice cut through. “He doesn’t need to hear that, Wooyoung,” Mingi muttered, his cheeks tinged with pink. Jongho glanced at him, surprised by the uncharacteristic blush. He wished he’d caught what Wooyoung had said.
“Oh, come on!” Wooyoung teased, lightly slapping Mingi’s arm. “You tell him about Yunho, then!”

“I will,” Mingi said with a huff, straightening up. “Yunho’s another member of our pack. We’ve been together the longest. When he’s not working with Yeosang as an interior designer, he’s usually with me.”

Jongho nodded along, though his mind was already spinning.

“Yunho’s a German Shepherd hybrid,” Mingi continued.

Jongho froze; his nodding halted. His face went blank. Of course they have other hybrids. His heart sank. He should have asked. The thought of being around a dog hybrid unsettled him. He’d never had positive experiences with them. Before he could gather his thoughts, Mingi delivered the next blow.

“He’s an alpha.”

The world seemed to tilt. Jongho’s breath hitched. Two alphas? It was hard enough to imagine getting along with one, but two? His grip on the scarf around his wrist tightened, his knuckles turning white.

Seonghwa, who had been quietly observing, stepped in. “Yunho’s really nice,” he said softly, his voice a calming balm. “He can be possessive sometimes, but I’m sure you’ll get along just fine.”

Jongho tried to let Seonghwa’s words soothe the rising panic, but his thoughts kept spiraling. Mingi, sensing the tension, quickly changed the subject. “Why don’t you tell him about Yeosang and San, Wooyoung?”

Wooyoung lit up at the suggestion. “Yeosang’s been my best friend forever. He’s the reason I became a chef. He’s an architect, specializing in hybrid-friendly designs. Yeosang’s all about creating spaces that bridge the gap between hybrids and humans. And, of course, Yunho helps him with the hybrid-specific details.”

As Wooyoung spoke, Jongho noticed something. Whenever they talked about a packmate, their faces softened, their eyes filled with warmth and love. It was a kind of connection Jongho had never known but desperately craved. I want to be part of that, he thought, his chest tightening. I’d do anything to be part of that.

“And then there’s San,” Wooyoung continued. “My beloved sous chef. I taught him everything he knows—and he’s taught me plenty too! He helps Yeosang with hybrid designs as well.”

Jongho’s confusion deepened. Another hybrid? He couldn’t hide his reaction.

“San’s a Siamese cat hybrid,” Wooyoung added with a grin. “And he’s an omega.”

Jongho felt his world tip again. An omega-cat hybrid? His experiences with cats weren’t much better than with dogs. They’d never liked him. And an omega? Something so rare and valued? Jealousy twisted in his gut, bitter and sharp. He doubted he could hide it from San.

Wooyoung and Mingi noticed his spiraling thoughts immediately. “Don’t worry,” they said in unison. Wooyoung leaned closer. “San gets along with everyone. And I’m sure he’ll love you, just like I do.”

The words barely registered. Jongho was too deep in his head. Finally, he broke the silence. “Do you know what type of hybrid I am?” he asked quietly, his voice trembling. Before they could answer, he continued, his words starting loud but fading into a whisper. “I’m a bear. A brown bear. Do you really want a large predator hybrid around your precious puppy and kitty?”

He stared at the floor, bracing for the inevitable rejection. Silence stretched between them.

Seonghwa was the first to speak. “Oh, honey,” he said gently. “Yes, we knew you were a bear hybrid when we first met. That doesn’t change anything. The type of hybrid you are doesn’t affect our decision.”

Jongho’s throat tightened. “Do you know my subgender?” he whispered. He knew the shelter wouldn’t have told them, hoping it would make him more adoptable.

Mingi shook his head. “No, and we don’t need to know. It doesn’t matter to us. We’re going off how we feel—how you feel.”

Jongho’s heart ached with confusion and disbelief. Why didn’t Hongjoong mention it? Surely he could smell it?
Wooyoung leaned forward. “Would you feel better if you told us?” he asked softly.

Jongho froze, torn. It would be easier to rip off the band aid now, but he wasn’t ready to leave the fragile bubble of safety. After a long pause, he shook his head.

“And that’s perfectly okay,” Wooyoung said with a reassuring smile.

Seonghwa opened his mouth to ask something, but a knock at the door interrupted him. A shelter worker stepped in. “Visiting hours are over for today.”
The trio exchanged glances, then stood. Wooyoung walked over to Jongho. “Would it be okay if I hugged you?” he asked gently.

Jongho hesitated, then gave a small nod. It had been so long since anyone had hugged him. Slowly, Wooyoung wrapped his arms around him, careful and light, as if Jongho might shatter.

“It’s going to be okay,” Wooyoung whispered before letting go.
Jongho watched them leave, whispering to himself, they’ll come back tomorrow." He repeated it like a mantra, trying to believe it.

Jongho stood frozen as he watched them leave, their parting smiles lingering like a faint warmth in the cold. He whispered to himself, “They’ll come back tomorrow.” Over and over, the words tumbled from his lips, barely audible, as if repetition could transform hope into certainty. He clung to the mantra like a lifeline, desperately trying to believe it.

Turning away from the door, he headed back to his kennel, his thoughts swirling. But before he could take another step, he collided with Jihoon. The alpha hybrid stood there, arms crossed, a smug smirk playing on his lips. The sight sent an involuntary shiver down Jongho’s spine.

“They were talking to you for a while,” Jihoon drawled, his tone dripping with mockery. “Explaining why they can’t adopt you after all?”

Jongho lowered his gaze and tried to sidestep him, but Jihoon’s hand shot out, gripping his wrist with a vice-like hold. “Don’t ignore me,” Jihoon growled, yanking Jongho back and slamming him against the cold, unforgiving wall. The impact stole the breath from his lungs, and Jihoon’s face was suddenly inches from his own, eyes gleaming with malice.

Jongho’s fists clenched at his sides. He could easily overpower Jihoon, ending this confrontation in a heartbeat. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Fighting back would only bring more trouble, more whispers about the “dangerous bear hybrid” who couldn’t control himself.

Jihoon’s eyes flicked down to the scarf Jongho had tied securely around his wrist. A cruel smile curled his lips. “I’m so sick of seeing you with this thing,” he sneered, reaching for it.

“No, Jihoon, please!” Jongho’s voice cracked, panic seeping into his words as he pulled his arm away. “That’s mine! Don’t—”

Jihoon ignored his plea, yanking at the scarf. Desperation clawed at Jongho, and he reached out, grabbing Jihoon’s wrist with trembling hands. But it only seemed to amuse the alpha. With a quick, practiced motion, Jihoon tore the scarf free and held it up triumphantly.

“Not anymore,” he jeered, his voice laced with venom.

Jongho’s heart pounded as he reached for the scarf, but Jihoon was quicker. His free hand shot out, wrapping around Jongho’s throat and slamming him harder against the wall. Jongho gasped, his hands flying up to claw at Jihoon’s grip as his airway constricted.

“Betas like you don’t deserve pretty things,” Jihoon spat, his voice a low snarl. He waved the scarf mockingly in front of Jongho’s face.

“You’re nothing."

The pressure around Jongho’s neck grew unbearable, his vision blurring as tears pooled in his eyes. Just when he thought he couldn’t take it any longer, Jihoon released him. Jongho crumpled to the ground, coughing and gasping for air as pain radiated through his throat.

Jihoon loomed over him for a moment, a look of twisted satisfaction on his face, before turning on his heel and walking away. The scarf dangled from his hand like a trophy. “See you around, bear,” he called over his shoulder, his laughter echoing down the hallway.

Jongho stayed on the cold floor, tears streaming silently down his cheeks. His throat burned with every shallow breath, and his chest felt like it might cave in. Slowly, he forced himself to his feet, his legs shaking beneath him, and stumbled back to his kennel. The corridor was eerily silent, though he could feel the weight of unseen eyes that had witnessed everything and done nothing.

Once inside his kennel, Jongho collapsed onto the thin cot, curling in on himself as the sobs came in waves. His hands instinctively moved to his neck, where the skin was already tender and sore. He flinched at the touch, knowing bruises would bloom there by morning.

A new kind of panic gripped him. They can’t see this tomorrow. His thoughts raced, spiraling into darker corners. Yunho and San will think I’m weak. Pathetic. Ugly. Not worth it. He squeezed his eyes shut, as if that could stop the tears, stop the gnawing voice in his head that whispered he was unlovable, a burden no one would want to carry.

Jongho hugged his knees to his chest, trying to will away the pain, the fear, the crushing loneliness. Sleep wouldn’t come easy tonight—if it came at all. But for now, all he could do was lie there, trembling in the dark, and hope the morning would bring a sliver of mercy.

Chapter Text

Wooyoung’s POV 

“Leaving him feels wrong!” Wooyoung exclaimed, his voice trembling with frustration as he glanced between Mingi and Seonghwa. His chest felt tight, the image of Jongho’s quiet resignation at the shelter weighing heavily on his mind. 

“I know, Wooyoung,” Seonghwa replied gently, his tone steady but tinged with sadness. He reached out and squeezed Wooyoung’s hand, trying to anchor him. “It hurts me too, but we can’t decide this on our own. Jongho still needs to meet the rest of the pack, and everyone needs to agree before we move forward.” 

Wooyoung let out a frustrated sigh, his footsteps quickening. “I know they’ll love him! He’s so…” His voice faltered as he struggled to put his feelings into words. “He deserves to be loved,” he finally managed, glancing at Mingi. “Right, Mingi?” 

Mingi gave him a small smile. “Yeah. I think so, too. He’s…” Mingi hesitated, searching for the right word, before nodding firmly. “Special.” 

Wooyoung’s heart lifted slightly at Mingi’s agreement. He turned to Seonghwa, his voice softening. “If everyone agrees…, can we take him home tomorrow?” 

Seonghwa’s expression was unreadable for a moment, but then he nodded. “We’ll ask them tonight. It’s not up to just me, Wooyoung. But if everyone agrees, yes.” 

Relief mixed with nervousness bubbled in Wooyoung’s chest. As they reached the door to their shared home, his hands felt clammy with anticipation. Jongho’s future was in their hands now—his pack’s hands. He had to make them see what he saw to make them understand. 

The moment they stepped inside, Wooyoung barely had time to remove his shoes before Yunho appeared, his expression sharp and curious. 

“Why do you smell like that?” Yunho asked, his nose twitching as he stepped closer to Wooyoung. 

“What do you mean?” Wooyoung replied, startled; he stepped back. 

Yunho didn’t answer right away, instead leaning in and pressing his nose to Wooyoung’s neck. “Marshmallows!” he exclaimed, his voice tinged with excitement. “And… a campfire?” His eyes widened as he took another deep inhale, his tail wagging slightly behind him. “That’s not your scent, though. Who is it?” 

Wooyoung froze under Yunho’s scrutiny, heat rushing to his face. “I… might have hugged Jongho before we left.” 

“Jongho?” Yunho repeated, his voice softening as he tilted his head. 

“Do you like the scent, Yunho?” Mingi asked, his brows furrowing as he watched Yunho practically attach himself to Wooyoung again, taking another long sniff. 

“Mhm,” Yunho hummed in approval, his voice muffled as he pressed his face into Wooyoung’s shoulder. 

Before Wooyoung could respond, the sound of shuffling footsteps drew everyone’s attention. San, Yeosang, and Hongjoong emerged from their shared bedroom, their hair slightly messy and their eyes heavy with sleep. 

“What’s going on?” Yeosang asked, his voice groggy as he rubbed at his eyes. 

“Why is Yunho sniffing Wooyoung like that?” San added, tilting his head curiously as he padded closer to the group. 

“San, come smell this!” Yunho called out, waving him over enthusiastically. “You have to smell Wooyoung!” 

San hesitated for a moment, exchanging a puzzled glance with Yeosang before stepping closer. Yunho finally released Wooyoung, giving San full access to his neck. San leaned in cautiously, taking a small sniff at first, but his eyes widened in surprise. He inhaled again, deeper this time, before resting his forehead against Wooyoung’s shoulder. 

"That's... incredible,” San murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s so warm. Who is this?” 

“It’s Jongho,” Wooyoung replied, his voice brimming with pride. “That’s his scent.” 

San pulled back slightly, his gaze flicking to Yunho for confirmation. Yunho nodded eagerly, a grin spreading across his face. 

San nodded slowly, stepping back. “It’s… comforting.”

Yeosang, who had been sitting quietly on the couch with Hongjoong, finally spoke up. “What does he smell like?” 

“Toasted marshmallows and a campfire,” Wooyoung replied, glancing at Yunho and San for confirmation. 

“It’s perfect,” Yunho said, his tail still wagging behind him. 

“It blends so well with us,” San added, his eyes drifting to Hongjoong. “Especially you, hyung. Your smoky vanilla and citrus—it balances with his perfectly.” 

Hongjoong raised an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I did notice it earlier. He smells…” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “Grounding. Familiar, in a way.” 

Wooyoung turned to Yeosang, his heart pounding in his chest. “So, what do you think? If everyone agrees…, can we take him home tomorrow?” 

Yeosang considered for a moment, his expression thoughtful. Then he nodded. “I don’t see why not. If you all feel this strongly about him, I trust your instincts.” 

Wooyoung’s eyes darted to the rest of the pack. Yunho and San were already nodding eagerly, while Mingi and Seonghwa exchanged a small smile. Hongjoong leaned back against the couch, his expression calm but resolute. 

“Then it’s decided,” Hongjoong said. “We’ll bring him home tomorrow.” 

Relief flooded Wooyoung’s body, and he couldn’t stop the grin spreading across his face. For the first time since leaving the shelter, hope replaced the tightness in his chest. 

****** 

Jongho's POV 

Jongho was awake long before the sun, the darkness of the room a suffocating echo of the turmoil within him. Sleep had teased him cruelly through the night, offering fleeting moments of rest before wrenching him back into wakefulness. Each time his eyes closed, nightmares clawed at the edges of his mind, pulling him back into a past he had fought desperately to escape. 

The pain in his throat was a raw, persistent reminder of Jihoon’s cruelty, the bruise hidden beneath the cold steel of the collar that pressed against his tender skin. The weight of it was unbearable, not just in its physical discomfort but in what it represented—a shackle, a symbol of his captivity, and a declaration of his unworthiness. Every time it shifted, scraping against the inflamed flesh, the sting became a visceral reminder of his place in the world. 

Jihoon hadn’t hurt him badly, at least not physically. That wasn’t the Alpha’s goal. No, Jihoon’s words were the real weapons, wielded with precision to cut deep, to erode the fragile pieces of Jongho’s self-worth. Each mocking laugh and each cutting insult reminded him that he didn’t belong—that he was unworthy of respect, of kindness, of love. 

But this pain was nothing compared to the memories that plagued him, memories of a rejection so absolute that no wound could ever truly heal it. 

In his dreams, Jongho was back in his village. Back in the moment, everything shattered. 

The air had been heavy with tension that day, a storm brewing beneath the surface. Jongho remembered the way his heart raced as the door to his room slammed open with a deafening crack, the hinges groaning under the force. His father’s towering frame filled the doorway, his expression thunderous, his voice booming with fury.  

“What is the meaning of this?” His father bellowed, his eyes ablaze with anger.  

Jongho barely had time to react, the book in his hands slipping to the floor as his father stormed toward him. Behind the enraged figure, his mother lingered in the shadows, her head bowed low, refusing to meet his gaze.  

“Father—” Jongho began, his voice trembling, but his words were cut off as his father’s heavy steps forced him back until his shoulders hit the cold wall.  

“Your mother says you’ve presented,” his father growled, leaning in so close that Jongho could feel his hot breath against his face. “But I don’t smell you. What are you hiding?”  

“I haven’t presented!” Jongho’s voice cracked, his hands instinctively rising to put some distance between them. “I’m still waiting! I swear!”  

His father’s nostrils flared as he stepped towards him again, closer than before, his sharp features twisting with suspicion. “Liar!” he spat, his voice venomous. “I can smell you. It’s faint, but it’s there—sickly sweet, like somethings burt and rotting.” His expression darkened further as realization dawned. “You’re no alpha.”

Jongho froze, his chest tightening as the air around him seemed to collapse. Burnt sugar. He had noticed it, too—just barely—but he’d prayed it wasn’t true. He prayed his father wouldn’t notice.

From the corner of the room, his mother’s trembling voice broke the suffocating silence. “It’s true,” she whispered, each word a nail driven into his chest. “He’s… he’s a beta.”

The world tilted on its axis. Jongho’s vision blurred, his legs trembling as though the weight of her words alone could bring him to his knees. “No,” he whispered, his denial barely audible. He shook his head frantically, as if sheer willpower could undo the truth. “No, that’s not true. I—”

“Enough!” his father roared, his face twisted in disgust. “A beta! That’s why your scent is so weak. You’re nothing but a disappointment! A disgrace to the Choi clan!”

Before Jongho could process the words, his father’s hand clamped around the back of his neck, the grip so tight it made him gasp.  

“You’re no son of mine,” his father snarled.  

He was dragged from the room, his feet scraping against the wooden floor as he clawed uselessly at his father’s iron grip. His pleas caught in his throat as he glanced back at his mother, his eyes silently begging for her help. But she didn’t move. She didn’t even look at him. Her hands trembled at her sides, her head bowed as though she could will herself into nonexistence.  

The cold morning air hit him like a slap as his father hauled him into the village square. The familiar hum of daily life came to an abrupt halt as the villagers turned, their expressions a mixture of shock and curiosity.  

Forced to his knees, Jongho’s head hung low, his chest heaving as shame and fear warred within him.  

“My firstborn has failed to present as an alpha or omega!” His father’s voice rang out, sharp and unyielding.  

A gasp rippled through the crowd, their whispers slicing through the tense air like knives.  

“This disgrace has brought shame to the Choi name,” his father continued, each word a dagger lodged in Jongho’s chest. “But it will be dealt with accordingly.”  

Jongho’s body trembled as his father’s grip tightened. He didn’t need to look up to feel the weight of the villagers’ stares, their judgment bearing down on him like a crushing tide.  

Jongho woke with a strangled gasp, his chest heaving as though his father’s hand was still wrapped around his neck. His eyes darted around the dim confines of his kennel, the familiar cold metal and flickering fluorescent lights grounding him, if only barely. His pillow was damp with tears he hadn’t realized he shed, the remnants of his nightmare clinging to him like a second skin. 

He pressed a trembling hand to his throat, wincing as his fingers brushed against the bruised skin beneath the collar. His heart still raced, his breathing shallow as he stared blankly at the cracked ceiling above him. 

Sleep wouldn’t come again. He knew that much. 

Today, Yunho and San were coming. Today, his fate would be decided. 

The thought sent a shiver down his spine, dread curling in his stomach like a living thing. Would they see him for what he was—broken, scarred, unworthy? Would they turn away like so many others had before? 

He had to make them like him. He had to prove he could belong, that he wasn’t just a burden. 

Jongho rehearsed his words in his mind, imagining every possible scenario and every question they might ask. He tried to picture their faces, the way they might look at him—kind, he hoped, but not pitying. He couldn’t bear pity. 

As the first rays of sunlight pierced through the small window, Jongho forced himself to sit up, his body aching with the effort. This was his chance. His only chance. 

He wouldn’t let it slip away. 

First things first, Jongho needed to figure out how to hide the bruises. The thought gnawed at him, sharp and insistent, as he sat on the edge of his cot. He knew the shelter staff wouldn’t care—they rarely did. Bruises, scars, and the quiet misery of hybrids were just part of the scenery here. To them, pain was a mark of survival, something to be tolerated, not tended to. 

But Yunho and San were different. They weren’t part of this place. If they saw the marks on his neck, what would they think? Would they assume he was trouble, prone to fights? Would they see him as weak, incapable of protecting himself? The idea of them second-guessing their interest in him made his chest tighten painfully. 

His throat ached, the bruises’ dull throb a constant reminder of Jihoon’s cruelty. But the physical pain paled in comparison to the sharp sting of anxiety building inside him. He glanced down at the pitiful stack of clothing on the floor—threadbare shirts and worn pants that did little to hide anything, let alone the raw evidence of a recent attack. Panic clawed at his chest as he sifted through them, his movements growing more frantic with each passing moment. 

Nothing would work. 

His mind flashed to his scarf, the one small comfort he’d once had. The memory hit him like a punch to the gut. He could almost feel the soft fabric between his fingers, its weight around his neck like a protective shield. It wasn’t just an accessory; it was a lifeline. And Jihoon had ripped it away from him, just like everything else. 

The memory of that moment resurfaced with cruel clarity: Jihoon’s smirk, the way he’d dangled the scarf just out of reach, mocking Jongho’s desperation before tossing it aside like garbage. Jongho had tried to hold back his tears to keep some shred of dignity, but Jihoon had seen them anyway. He’d seen, and he’d laughed. The humiliation burned fresh in Jongho’s chest, as though it had happened moments ago. 

His hands trembled as he folded the last shirt, the act futile and mechanical. There was nothing here that could help him. No hoodies, no turtlenecks—nothing with the coverage he so desperately needed. His gaze dropped to the floor as the weight of his situation pressed down on him. 

What am I supposed to do? 

He bit his lip, his mind racing through possibilities. Maybe someone else had something he could use. But who? He had no food to barter with, no favors to call in. Even asking for help felt impossible. No one here talked to him unless they had to. He was the quiet, bruised bear hybrid everyone avoided—the one who stayed out of the way and kept his head down. 

The thought of approaching someone made his stomach churn. What if they mocked him? What if they turned him away? The shame of rejection would only deepen the humiliation already clawing at him. His shoulders sagged as the urge to give up, to stay invisible, took root. But then he pictured Seonghwas and Wooyoung's faces—the hope in their eyes when they’d spoken to him, the kindness in their voices. He couldn’t let them see him like this. He couldn’t let them think he wasn’t worth saving. 

Jongho pressed his fingers to the tender skin beneath the collar, wincing at the pain. His father’s voice echoed in his mind, sharp and cutting: “You’re useless.” Jihoon’s laughter followed, blending seamlessly with the whispers of the shelter residents, who always seemed to talk just out of earshot. 

Shaking his head, he tried to silence the noise. This wasn’t the time to break down. He had to focus to find a solution. If today didn’t go well, there wouldn’t be another chance. 

A shadow passed by his kennel, catching his attention. Jongho glanced up, his breath hitching. A hybrid was walking down the corridor, their steps purposeful, their head held high. He didn’t recognize them—likely a newer arrival—but what caught his eye wasn’t their face. It was their shirt: a dark gray turtleneck, simple but high enough to conceal anything beneath it. 

That’s it. That’s what I need. 

His heart pounded at the thought. But the hybrid was already heading toward the dining room, and he had only seconds to act. Jongho hesitated, the familiar weight of fear holding him in place. The dining room meant Jihoon, and he’d planned to avoid breakfast entirely to steer clear of the alpha. But this—this was worth the risk. 

Swallowing his apprehension, Jongho moved. The creak of the kennel door sounded too loud in the quiet corridor, but he didn’t stop. Bare feet against the cold floor, he hurried after the hybrid, his pulse roaring in his ears. 

“Excuse me!” His voice came out louder than he intended, raw and strained. 

The hybrid paused, turning with a wary expression. Their eyes flicked over Jongho, assessing him briefly before they spoke. “Yes?” 

Jongho skidded to a stop a few feet away, his chest heaving from the sudden rush. His throat felt tight as he forced himself to speak. “Can I… talk to you for a second?” 

The hybrid’s brow furrowed, their wariness deepening. After a moment, they stepped to the side of the hallway. “Alright,” they said cautiously. “What’s this about?” 

Jongho hesitated, his words catching in his throat. How was he supposed to explain this without sounding desperate? But despair was all he had left. 

“I…” His voice faltered. He clenched his fists to stop them from trembling. “I need your help.” 

The hybrid tilted their head, their expression softening slightly. “Help? With what?” 

Jongho glanced down, shame flooding his chest. Every instinct told him to run, to retreat before this got worse. But Yunho and San’s faces flashed in his mind, and he forced himself to continue. 

“Your shirt,” he said finally, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. “I… I need it.” 

The hybrid blinked, confusion flickering across their face. “My shirt?” 

Jongho nodded, his cheeks burning with humiliation. “I don’t have anything to cover these.” He gestured to his neck, where the bruises peeked out from beneath his collar. “If someone sees them, they’ll think…” His voice broke, and he couldn’t bring himself to finish. 

Understanding dawned in the hybrid’s eyes. Their posture relaxed slightly, and they studied Jongho with a newfound sympathy. “You’re meeting someone today, aren’t you?” 

Jongho froze, then nodded hesitantly. “They’re… deciding if they want to take me,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. 

The hybrid exhaled softly, their expression unreadable. After a moment, they reached for the hem of their turtleneck. “Alright,” they said, pulling it off in one smooth motion. Beneath it, they wore a thin undershirt. “Here.” 

Jongho stared at the offered shirt, his breath catching. He hadn’t expected them to agree so easily—or at all. 

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice trembling. 

The hybrid nodded, a faint smile tugging at their lips. “Yeah. You need it more than I do.” 

Jongho’s hands shook as he accepted the garment, the fabric still warm. “Thank you,” he murmured, clutching it to his chest. 

“Good luck,” the hybrid said quietly before turning and walking away. 

Jongho stood there for a long moment, overwhelmed by the kindness of the gesture. Pressing the turtleneck to his chest, he closed his eyes, a single tear slipping down his cheek. 

This small act of generosity felt monumental, a crack of light in the suffocating darkness. 

I won’t waste this, he thought, a flicker of determination igniting in his heart. I’ll show them I’m worth saving. 

Jongho hurried back to his kennel, clutching the turtleneck tightly around his neck as if it could shield him from the storm brewing inside him. His head was low, his shoulders tense, and every step felt heavier than the last. Once inside, he sank onto the thin cot, his hands shaking slightly as he adjusted the collar of the borrowed garment. The soft fabric brushed against his bruised skin, a small comfort in the chaos in his mind. 

He hated this feeling. The gnawing anticipation of meeting Hongjoong and Seonghwa again was unbearable, not because he didn’t want to see them but because he wasn’t sure if they would even come back. He hated the hope clawing at the edges of his chest, insistent and persistent despite every effort to snuff it out. Hope was dangerous. It had always been dangerous. People like him were easy to forget. 

The lunch call echoed through the shelter, a sharp, mechanical noise that barely registered in Jongho’s ears. His stomach twisted with hunger, a dull ache gnawing at him, but he stayed where he was. The thought of stepping into the mess hall and risking another encounter with Jihoon made his chest tighten painfully. 

Jihoon’s taunts from the day before rang loud in his mind, each word like a fresh wound. 

“What’s the point of you even being here, beta? No one’s coming for someone like you.” 

The memory was enough to root Jongho in place, his hands curling into fists as he tried to block out the alpha’s mocking voice. Instead, he reached for his book—a worn paperback with dog-eared pages that he’d read countless times before. Normally, it was a reliable distraction, a brief escape from the shelter’s suffocating reality. But today, even the words on the page betrayed him. He read the same sentence over and over, the meaning slipping away as his thoughts drifted. 

Minutes dragged into hours. The faint hum of activity around the shelter became a distant murmur, like waves crashing against the shore of his isolation. Jongho shifted restlessly on the cot, his legs cramping from sitting too long. He kept glancing toward the door of his kennel, his gaze flickering with a faint spark of hope that quickly dimmed when no one appeared. 

As the afternoon stretched on, exhaustion settled over him like a heavy blanket. He leaned back against the cold wall, the turtleneck scratching slightly as he tilted his head back. His eyelids grew heavy despite his best efforts to stay alert. Maybe they wouldn’t come. Maybe this was just another cruel twist of fate, a reminder that hope was for fools. 

A sharp tap against the bars of his kennel startled him awake. Jongho’s heart jumped, his breath hitching as he blinked away the haze of sleep. Standing just outside his kennel was Hongjoong, his warm smile radiating the same gentle kindness as before. For a moment, Jongho thought he might still be dreaming. 

But there was more. As his gaze shifted, Jongho froze. Beside Hongjoong stood Seonghwa, his presence calm and steady as ever. But they weren’t alone. Three unfamiliar faces lingered behind them, their expressions ranging from cautious curiosity to quiet warmth. The rest of the pack he’d briefly met the other day hovered nearby, filling the hallway with their presence. 

Jongho scrambled to his feet, his movements too quick. The sudden rush made his vision blur and his knees wobble, and before he could catch himself, a pair of hands steadied him. 

“Whoa there, are you okay?” Wooyoung’s voice was calm but laced with concern as he gently held Jongho upright. 

Jongho pulled back quickly, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “I’m fine,” he muttered, avoiding Wooyoung’s gaze. “I just stood up too fast.” 

Wooyoung didn’t look entirely convinced, but he stepped back, his concerned gaze lingering. Jongho straightened himself, tugging the neck of the turtleneck higher as if it could shield him from the group’s scrutiny. 

“Hello,” Jongho said quietly, his voice steady but guarded as he nodded toward Hongjoong, Seonghwa, and Mingi. His eyes darted briefly to the unfamiliar faces. “I’m Jongho.” 

The tallest of the newcomers stepped forward, his broad shoulders and protective stance immediately giving away his identity. “I’m Yunho,” the German Shepherd hybrid said, his deep voice steady and grounding. 

Jongho’s attention shifted to the next stranger. This one was smaller but no less striking, his smile bright and genuine, with a dimple that softened his sharp features. He stood close to the final member, their body language easy and familiar. 

“I’m Yeosang,” the human said, his voice gentle as he gestured to the hybrid beside him. “And this is San.” 

Jongho’s throat tightened. He hadn’t expected this many of them to come. He thought maybe three or four members at most—not the entire pack. 

“Should we go talk in the private room?” Seonghwa’s voice broke the silence, his tone gentle but firm. 

Jongho nodded. “Yes, please.” He stepped forward, carefully weaving through the group to lead the way. 

As they passed through the common area, Jongho kept his eyes fixed on the floor, his hands clenched tightly at his sides. He didn’t want to know if Jihoon was there; he didn’t want to see the smug grin that would undoubtedly spread across the alpha’s face. The walk felt endless, but the familiar door to the private room finally came into view. 

Inside, Jongho busied himself with arranging chairs around the table. The act gave him something to focus on, a way to steady his nerves. He tried to sit with some distance between himself and the others, but Wooyoung quickly took the seat to his right, followed by Yeosang and San. On his left, Mingi settled beside him, with Yunho taking the seat next to Mingi. Hongjoong and Seonghwa completed the circle, sitting near San. 

Jongho tried to steady his breathing, but his senses were overwhelmed. The scents filling the room swirled around him, distinct and heady. Juniper and fresh pine drifted from Yunho’s direction, grounding and steady. From San, there was a delicate warmth, like cherry blossoms in bloom, soft yet vibrant. And if he closed his eyes and focused, he could catch a faint note of citrus in the air—a brightness that seemed to tie everything together. 

Yet something was missing. 

His fingers unconsciously sought the scarf that used to rest on his wrist, but the fabric wasn’t there. A pang of emptiness spread through him, sharp and sudden, like the ache of a phantom limb. 

Mingi’s voice broke the silence, casual but laced with a hint of concern. “You’re not wearing your scarf today. I noticed you had it last time.” 

The words hit Jongho like a jolt, and his hand instinctively flew to his neck, brushing the turtleneck as if he could hide the truth beneath it. His throat tightened, his mind spiraling as Jihoon’s mocking laugh echoed in his ears. “Not anymore,” the alpha had sneered, the memory still fresh and raw. 

“I…” Jongho began, his voice faltering. His hand dropped to his lap, fingers curling into his palm as he fought the instinct to retreat. He couldn’t tell them what really happened. That would mean explaining too much—revealing too much. His lips parted, the lie forming before he could second-guess himself. 

“I let someone borrow it,” he said, his voice steadier than he expected. He avoided Mingi’s gaze, his fingers twisting the edge of the turtleneck. “They needed it more than I did.” 

The room went quiet for a moment, the weight of the words hanging in the air. Jongho felt the lie settle uneasily in his chest, but it was better this way. 

Mingi’s brow furrowed slightly, his eyes narrowing as if he could see the cracks in Jongho’s facade. But he didn’t press, instead exchanging a glance with Wooyoung. The silence stretched just long enough to make Jongho’s skin prickle, his pulse quickening under the scrutiny. 

“Kind of you,” Mingi said at last, though his tone was soft, almost unreadable. 

Jongho’s chest ached as he forced a small nod. Kindness had nothing to do with it, but he let the lie stand. 

Seonghwa’s voice broke the tension, his tone gentle yet firm. “You probably didn’t expect all of us to be coming today; sorry about that.”  

”It’s alright, I’m glad I could meet the rest of the pack,” he started playing with the neck of the sweater, hoping it would replace the feeling of his scarf.  

Jongho sat stiffly, his hands resting awkwardly in his lap. The weight of everyone’s attention pressed down on him, even though most of them weren’t looking directly at him. The energy in the room was palpable, making his heart race. He could feel Yunho’s steady gaze, the occasional glances from San and Wooyoung, and the quiet but perceptive way Yeosang studied the interaction between them all. 

San was the first to break the silence, his voice warm and curious. “So, Jongho,” he began, leaning slightly forward, “what kind of things did you like to do back… before?” 

The question caught Jongho off guard. For a moment, his mind was blank, and then it flooded with memories he’d long tried to suppress. He hesitated, his fingers twitching slightly against the fabric of the turtleneck. 

“I…” he began slowly, unsure how much to share. “I used to climb trees. Back in my village.” 

Wooyoung’s face lit up. “Climb trees? That’s so cool! You must’ve been amazing at it.” 

Jongho’s lips twitched, almost a smile, but the memories of those days were bittersweet. “It was peaceful,” he admitted softly. “The higher I went, the quieter everything felt. Like the whole world was far away.” 

San tilted his head, his curiosity deepening. “Did you do it for fun? Or was it something… more?” 

Jongho glanced down at his lap, his fingers brushing over the edge of the turtleneck. “Both, I guess. Sometimes, I just wanted to be alone. Other times, I’d bring back things from the higher branches—fruit, flowers, anything useful.” His voice grew quieter as he spoke, the memories pulling at him. “It felt good, being able to help.” 

San’s smile softened, and he shifted slightly closer to Jongho, the movement subtle but deliberate. “That’s really impressive. It sounds like you were important to your village.” 

Jongho’s throat tightened at the words. Important? He wasn’t sure he’d ever felt that way, especially not after… His fingers curled into the fabric of the turtleneck, and he shook his head. “Not really,” he murmured. “I just… did what I could.” 

“Don’t downplay it,” Wooyoung said, nudging Jongho’s arm lightly. “Climbing trees to help your community? That’s badass. Yunho probably wishes he could do that.” 

All eyes turned to Yunho, who had been silent the entire time. The German Shepherd hybrid blinked, caught off guard, and his ears twitched faintly. “What? I wasn’t thinking about climbing trees,” he muttered, his voice gruff but flustered. 

“Then what were you thinking about?” Yeosang asked, his tone mild but curious. 

Jongho froze as the question lingered in the air, Yunho’s sharp gaze settling on him again. 

“I…” Yunho hesitated, clearly uncomfortable with the sudden attention. He shifted in his seat, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. “I was just… listening.” 

Yeosang raised an eyebrow; his interest clearly piqued. “Listening? Or staring?” 

Yunho’s cheeks flushed faintly, and he looked away. “I wasn’t staring.” 

“Yes, you were,” Wooyoung teased, leaning across the table to smirk at Yunho. “You’re not exactly subtle, you know.” 

Jongho’s stomach twisted, his pulse quickening under the weight of the conversation. “Is… something wrong?” he asked hesitantly, his voice barely audible. 

Yunho straightened in his chair, his expression softening. “No,” he said firmly. “I was just… thinking. You’re quiet, but you have a strong presence. It’s… interesting.” 

Jongho blinked, unsure how to respond. He dropped his gaze to his lap, feeling exposed under Yunho’s unrelenting attention. 

San’s voice cut in, light and reassuring. “That’s just Yunho’s way of saying he’s impressed,” he said, bumping Jongho’s shoulder lightly with a grin. “Don’t let him intimidate you.” 

Jongho’s lips twitched faintly, though he wasn’t sure if it was the start of a smile or just nervousness. The room felt tense yet strangely alive, each moment bringing a mix of discomfort and hope that he couldn’t quite unravel. 

Jongho watched as Hongjoong exchanged a brief look with Seonghwa, a small smile curling on his lips. Seonghwa took a deep breath, straightening slightly as he turned his attention to Jongho. 

“I think now is as good a time as any,” Seonghwa began, his voice calm but carrying a weight that made Jongho’s heart race. “Jongho, we’ve come to a decision about what we want to do.” 

The words hung in the air like an unspoken promise. Jongho froze, his hands instinctively reaching for his wrist, only to grasp at empty air where his scarf used to be. His chest tightened, and the absence of the comforting fabric felt like a chasm opening beneath him. 

Seonghwa’s gaze swept across the room, meeting each of the pack members’ eyes before continuing, “We would like to adopt you. We’d love for you to come home with us—if you’d like to. The decision is yours, Jongho. You have the final say.” 

Final say? Jongho’s breath hitched as his thoughts spiraled. How could they give him the final say? That wasn’t how things worked. If they really wanted to, they could take him—couldn’t they? He swallowed hard, his mind racing with questions. Did they already decide this before coming here? Do they even know what they’re getting into? They don’t know everything about me. If they did… 

“Hey,” Wooyoung’s voice broke through the whirlwind in his head. “What do you say?” 

San immediately swatted Wooyoung on the arm, scolding, “Don’t rush him!” 

The playful interaction eased some of the pressure in the room, and Jongho managed the faintest smile. His gaze darted nervously around the group, trying to meet their eyes, even if only for a fleeting second. “I…” he started, voice barely above a whisper. He exhaled shakily, clenching his hands in his lap. “I would like that.” 

For a moment, the world seemed to pause, the air thick with anticipation. Then Hongjoong and Seonghwa broke into matching smiles, their voices overlapping in excitement. “That’s great!” 

Wooyoung let out an exuberant cheer, immediately throwing his arms around San and Yeosang, pulling them into a triumphant hug. “We did it! He’s coming home!” 

Jongho’s shoulders relaxed ever so slightly at their enthusiasm, though the weight of Yunho’s gaze didn’t go unnoticed. When he glanced over, he saw Yunho watching him with a soft, steady smile, while Mingi, standing nearby, observed Yunho with quiet amusement. 

San broke free from the group hug and bound toward Jongho, his bright eyes wide with excitement. “Jongho,” he said, voice lilting with a playful plea, “can I hug you?” 

Jongho blinked, caught off guard. It didn’t seem polite to refuse, and… maybe he wanted to? A part of him, small and uncertain, craved the closeness. Plus, he was still curious about San’s scent. Hesitantly, he nodded, rising to his feet. 

San squealed in delight, rushing forward to wrap his arms around Jongho in a warm, tight embrace. Jongho inhaled as subtly as he could, and the faint, floral scent of cherry blossoms reached him. This must be San’s scent, delicate yet comforting. But before he could process it further, San shifted, sniffing lightly at Jongho’s neck. Jongho stiffened, panic bubbling up as he braced himself for what he expected to come next—disgust. 

But instead, San rubbed his cheek against Jongho’s neck, a soft, affectionate gesture that sent a jolt of surprise through him. San’s movements grew a little too forceful, and Jongho flinched with a small sound of pain. The noise was quiet but unmistakable, and the entire room went still. 

San pulled back immediately, confusion flickering in his wide eyes. “Jongho?” he asked softly, but his gaze fell to the edge of Jongho’s turtleneck, where the fabric had shifted to reveal the bruising on his neck. 

Jongho froze, the room blurring as San’s expression shifted from confusion to hurt—and then to something else. Anger? Jongho couldn’t be sure. Yunho was already moving closer, his sharp gaze locking onto the dark marks. 

“What is this?” Yunho’s voice was low and firm, though there was a thread of restrained anger woven into his words. 

Jongho’s pulse thundered in his ears as he tried to steady his breathing. The rest of the table was on their feet now, their concerned faces closing in. He wanted to retreat, to run, but his body refused to move. 

“It’s nothing,” Jongho stammered, his voice shaky and uneven. He forced a thin smile, though he stirred uneasily, protesting the lie. “It’s just… the collar. It can do that sometimes.” 

“That’s not true,” San said quickly, his hand still resting lightly on Jongho’s arm, though his grip tightened with determination. 

“It wasn’t like that yesterday,” Wooyoung added, his tone sharp with concern. He stepped closer, standing shoulder to shoulder with San. 

Jongho’s breathing quickened as their gazes bore into him, the scrutiny too much to handle. He glanced from one face to the next, his chest tightening with every passing second. His hands trembled at his sides, and the world seemed to close in. 

“Stop crowding him,” Seonghwa’s firm voice cut through the tension. He pushed past Yunho and gently guided San back, creating space. Then, Seonghwa cupped Jongho’s cheek with a soft, reassuring touch, tilting his head to meet his eyes. “Honey,” he said, his voice a soothing balm against the storm raging in Jongho’s mind, “can you tell us what happened?” 

Jongho’s resolve cracked, a tremor running through him as his body began to shake. Tears burned at the corners of his eyes, threatening to spill as he stood there, exposed and vulnerable. 

Seonghwa’s hand didn’t waver, his thumb brushing lightly over Jongho’s cheek as he whispered, “It’s okay. You’re safe here. No one’s going to hurt you. Just tell us the truth.” 

Jongho briefly leaned into Seonghwa’s touch, the warmth of his hand grounding him for just a moment. It was a fleeting comfort, like standing in the eye of a storm. But his thoughts broke through the stillness, cutting sharp and fast. 

Don’t look weak. Don’t look like trouble. They’ll regret their decision. They’ll— 

The panic surged, and Jongho abruptly pulled his head away from Seonghwa’s hand, his breath hitching as the room seemed to close in around him. 

His hands twisted the hem of his turtleneck, fingers trembling as he searched for the right words. His chest felt tight, each breath shallow and uneven. They were still waiting, their eyes fixed on him, quiet and expectant. The weight of their concern felt heavier than the bruises on his neck, and it pressed against him, making it harder to think. 

“I…” Jongho’s voice faltered. He swallowed hard, his throat dry, as he scrambled for an explanation. He couldn’t tell them the truth. The memory of Jihoon’s mocking sneer and the suffocating grip on his neck was still too raw, too painful. They didn’t need to know about the scarf being stolen—or that he’d been too weak to stop it. 

His eyes darted to the floor as he forced the words out. “It’s just the collar,” he mumbled, barely audible. “Sometimes, it digs in wrong if I move too fast or if it’s tightened too much. That’s all.” 

The silence that followed stretched long and uneasy, like a taut wire ready to snap. Jongho dared to glance up, just enough to see their reactions. Seonghwa’s brow furrowed slightly. Wooyoung’s lips parted as if he wanted to say something, and Yunho’s sharp eyes didn’t waver, watching him with an intensity that made Jongho’s stomach twist. 

But it was San who finally broke the stillness. Jongho flinched as all eyes shifted to him. San’s face was difficult to read—his usual bright expression dimmed by something quieter, more serious. Slowly, San shook his head, the movement slight but definitive. 

Jongho’s heart dropped, confusion prickling at the edges of his fear. What did that mean? Why were they looking at San? And why did their faces fall at the shake of his head? 

Wooyoung’s shoulders slumped, and he cast a glance toward San before looking away, biting his lip. Seonghwa’s expression softened, but there was a sadness in his eyes that made Jongho’s chest ache. 

“Okay,” Seonghwa said gently, turning back to Jongho. His voice was calm, almost too calm. “Thank you for telling us.” 

Jongho blinked, his mind stumbling over the words. That was it? No more questions? He’d expected them to push, to demand the truth he couldn’t give. But Seonghwa didn’t press him further. Instead, he offered a small smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“Hongjoong and I are going to speak with the shelter staff now,” Seonghwa continued. “We’ll let them know we’re ready to complete the adoption process today.” 

Jongho’s breath caught in his throat. They still want me? The thought sent a jolt of disbelief through him, followed quickly by gnawing doubt. Why? Why would they still want him after this? After seeing the bruises, after the lie? Didn’t they realize he wasn’t worth the trouble? 

Seonghwa gave his shoulder a light squeeze before stepping away, joining Hongjoong by the door. Jongho watched them leave, his thoughts a whirlwind of confusion and unease. He was left standing there, alone with the rest of the pack. 

The room felt heavier without Seonghwa and Hongjoong. Wooyoung and San seemed subdued, their usual liveliness replaced by quiet sadness. San kept glancing at Jongho, his lips pressed into a thin line, while Wooyoung fiddled nervously with the hem of his shirt. Yeosang, ever calm, stayed close to the two, murmuring softly to them in a soothing tone Jongho couldn’t make out. 

Jongho’s gaze shifted to Yunho and Mingi, who had moved to the far side of the room. Yunho’s back was to him, his shoulders tense as he spoke in hushed tones to Mingi. The alpha hybrid’s ears twitched with agitation, and his hands gestured sharply as if trying to make a point. Mingi’s expression was less readable, but there was a quiet seriousness to the way he nodded, his gaze flicking briefly toward Jongho. 

Jongho’s stomach churned. Yunho looked upset—no, angry. His pulse quickened, panic rising again. Did Yunho see through the lie? Is that why he’s upset? 

He felt the turtleneck brush against the bruises on his neck, a phantom echo of Jihoon’s grip. His hands trembled as he clasped them in front of him, trying to still the shaking. The silence in the room pressed down on him like a weight, his breathing shallow and unsteady. 

San’s voice broke through the quiet, soft but laced with something fragile. “Are you… okay?” he asked hesitantly, his gaze flickering between Jongho’s face and the turtleneck. 

Jongho hesitated, his lips parting as if to speak, but no words came out. He wasn’t sure how to answer that. Was he okay? No. Would he admit it? Never. 

Jongho hesitated for a moment, his throat dry and his thoughts swirling, before he settled on a small nod and the faintest smile. He hoped it would be enough to appease San’s quiet concern. Thankfully, San didn’t push further, though his eyes lingered on Jongho a little too long, as if trying to see beyond the surface. 

It was enough for now. 

Mingi, having finished his conversation with Yunho, turned and walked back to the table. Yunho followed slowly, his movements deliberate, his gaze flickering toward Jongho with a mixture of curiosity and something sharper—worry? Suspicion? Jongho couldn’t tell. 

“Jongho, come sit with us while we wait for Hongjoong and Seonghwa to return,” Mingi offered, his tone light, as if trying to ease the tension lingering in the room. 

Jongho nodded and obeyed without a word, his steps careful as he moved to sit at the table. The last thing he wanted was to draw more attention to himself. He could feel their eyes on him as he settled into his seat, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. 

*** 

The door creaked open, and all heads turned. Hongjoong and Seonghwa stepped in, Seonghwa cradling a large folder in his arms that Jongho was certain hadn’t been there earlier. He frowned slightly, his brow furrowing as his mind raced. 

Where did that come from? What’s in it? The questions buzzed in his head, but he didn’t dare voice them. 

“All right,” Hongjoong announced, his voice calm but carrying an unmistakable excitement. “We’re all set to leave. We just need to stop by Jongho’s room to grab his things, and then we can head home.” 

Home. The word felt foreign, almost surreal. Jongho blinked, his thoughts snagging on it even as Wooyoung shot up from his seat, his face alight with enthusiasm. 

“Yay! Jongie, let’s go pack up your room!” Wooyoung cheered, his tone bright and playful. 

Jongho’s stomach twisted. Room. They keep calling it my room. It’s not a room. It’s my kennel. 

The others stood, waiting for him to lead the way. He forced himself to rise, his legs feeling stiff and unsteady beneath him as he moved toward the hallway. Their footsteps followed him, and the closer they got, the more his chest tightened. 

He stopped in front of his kennel, the small space that had been his entire world for so long. The metal bars gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights, and for a moment, the weight of it all hit him like a tidal wave. 

Three things struck him at once. 

One: He had nothing. No bag to carry what little he owned. The book on his cot wasn’t even his—it belonged to the shelter. The clothes he wore now weren’t his either. He’d been told they were his to keep, but they still felt borrowed, temporary. 

Two: He hadn’t realized he’d be leaving today. He thought he’d have more time. Time for the bruises to fade, for his anxiety to settle. Time to prepare himself for what leaving meant. 

Three: He couldn’t leave wearing this sweater. It wasn’t his. He’d promised to return it. But if he took it off… they’d see everything. 

Not just the bruises on his neck—they were unavoidable—but the scars on his back. Scars he’d carried long before coming to the shelter. Scars that told a story he wasn’t ready for anyone to hear. 

His breathing quickened, panic clawing its way up his throat. His fingers brushed against the fabric of the turtleneck, the outline of his scars hidden beneath it a stark reminder of what he couldn’t escape. They’d already seen parts of the bruises on his neck. He couldn’t let them see the rest. He couldn’t. 

He turned to face the group, his voice trembling as he spoke. “I—I need to change. I have to give this sweater back. Can you… turn around? Please?” 

Hongjoong answered immediately, his tone steady and reassuring. “Of course. Take your time.” 

He motioned to the others, and they all turned without hesitation, their backs to Jongho as they stood near the kennel. Jongho swallowed hard, his hands shaking as he tugged the turtleneck over his head. He moved carefully, wincing as the motion tugged at the bruised skin on his neck. He slipped into his dark gray T-shirt, the fabric feeling thinner, less protective, against his skin. 

Once dressed, he gathered what little he had—just the turtleneck and a few small items—and left the book on the cot. He couldn’t bring himself to take it. 

“I’m ready,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. 

They turned, and the moment they saw him, their expressions shifted. Eyes widened. Faces tightened. Jongho’s stomach churned as their gazes locked onto his neck. The bruises—they must look worse than he thought. His hands fidgeted at his sides, his shoulders drawing inward as the silence stretched uncomfortably. 

Yunho stepped forward, his voice stumbling. “W-what—” 

“Not now, Yunho,” Yeosang cut him off, his tone sharp but controlled. He grabbed Yunho’s wrist, pulling him back. The look Yeosang gave the group was one Jongho couldn’t read, but it was enough to make everyone else fall silent. 

Yeosang turned to Jongho, his voice gentler now. “Are you ready to go?” 

Jongho nodded, his gaze dropping to the floor. “But I need to find someone first. I have to return this sweater.” 

“That’s fine,” Seonghwa said smoothly. “Lead the way.” 

Jongho hesitated for a moment before stepping past them, clutching the sweater tightly to his chest. He didn’t know the hybrid’s name or where their kennel was. He’d have to search the common areas. 

The first room they entered was filled with hybrids, some lounging on worn couches, others chatting in small groups. Jongho scanned the space, his heart racing as his eyes darted from face to face. Finally, he spotted the hybrid he was looking for, seated among a group of others. Relief washed over him—until he noticed who was sitting beside them. 

Jihoon. 

Jongho froze, his breath catching in his throat. Jihoon’s presence was like a shadow creeping over him, heavy and suffocating. Memories of his mocking sneer and the bruising grip on his neck flashed in his mind, and his feet refused to move. 

The group behind him stopped as well; their curiosity was piqued by his sudden hesitation. Jongho’s grip on the sweater tightened, his knuckles white as he struggled to decide what to do next. 

Jongho clenched the sweater tightly in his hands, his heart pounding as he forced himself to take slow, steady breaths. He reminded himself that this was temporary—just one more task. After this, he could leave. He just needed to hand the sweater over, and then it would all be over. 

He glanced back at the group, who stood waiting a few paces behind him. Their presence was a comfort, but he couldn’t risk them coming closer—not with Jihoon sitting there. Not with the possibility of them hearing something that would unravel everything he was trying to hold together. 

“They’re over there,” Jongho said, nodding toward the hybrid he was approaching. His voice was low but steady. “Could you wait here while I walk over to them?” 

He tried to look at everyone as he spoke, though his eyes darted away quickly when he met Yunho’s sharp gaze. He didn’t want to explain; he didn’t want to give them a chance to follow. 

Yeosang gave a verbal, “Of course,” while the others nodded, and Jongho turned away before anyone could say more. His steps were deliberate but quick as he made his way toward the hybrid. The knot in his stomach tightened with every step. He could feel Jihoon’s presence like a heavy shadow, the weight of his gaze prickling against his back. 

Jongho reached the hybrid and shoved the sweater into their hands, his words tumbling out in a rushed whisper. “Here’s your sweater. Thank you so much.” His voice was shaky, and he didn’t wait for a response. 

He turned to leave, his pulse racing, but he wasn’t fast enough. Jihoon’s voice rang out, loud and mocking, cutting through the room like a blade. 

“Oh, look who it is.” 

Jongho froze, his shoulders stiffening as he tried to force himself to keep moving. But before he could take another step, Jihoon grabbed his wrist, yanking him down to his level. Pain shot through Jongho’s arm as Jihoon’s grip tightened, his sneer curling into something cruel. 

“I heard the news,” Jihoon spat, his voice low and venomous. His breath was hot against Jongho’s face, and his grip felt like a shackle. “I bet you’ll be back in a week.” 

Jongho flinched as Jihoon’s spit hit his face, humiliation and fury simmering beneath his skin. He tried to yank his arm free, panic building as the hybrid’s grip didn’t loosen. On his second attempt, Jihoon’s hand slipped, and Jongho’s arm broke free so suddenly that he stumbled back, confusion momentarily overriding his fear. 

He didn’t say anything—couldn’t say anything. He turned away, his steps hurried, desperate to escape, but he stopped abruptly as he bumped into something solid. His breath caught in his throat as he realized it wasn’t something—it was someone. 

“What the…” he mumbled, looking up. 

Yunho stood there, towering over him, his expression stark and unreadable. His ears twitched slightly, and there was a tension in his jaw that made Jongho’s stomach twist. The alpha hybrid’s presence was overwhelming, and Jongho felt a shiver run down his spine. 

“Are you done?” Yunho asked, his voice low and edged with a growl. 

Jongho’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. He nodded quickly, not trusting himself to speak. Yunho’s gaze lingered on him for a moment before he turned, motioning for Jongho to follow as they walked back toward the group. 

“Good luck!” Jihoon’s voice called out behind them, sharp and mocking. Jongho stopped in his tracks, his body tensing as he turned slightly to look. Jihoon was waving, his grin smug and taunting, and Jongho’s eyes immediately locked onto his wrist. 

The scarf. His scarf. It was tied neatly around Jihoon’s wrist, the same wrist he was waving with. Jongho’s breath hitched, his vision blurring as he fought the overwhelming urge to cry. He clenched his fists tightly, nails digging into his palms as he forced himself to look away. 

Jihoon wasn’t saying “good luck” to him. He was saying it to the humans. Mocking them. Mocking all of it. 

Jongho turned back, his head down, hoping no one else had noticed. “We can go now,” he said quietly, his voice barely audible. 

Hongjoong gave him a small nod. “All right, let’s head to the car.” 

The group began moving toward the front door, their footsteps echoing softly in the hall. Jongho followed, his mind racing, the weight of the scarf on Jihoon’s wrist still pressing heavily on his thoughts. 

When they reached the front doors, Jongho stopped abruptly. He stared at them, his heart pounding. It had been over a year and a half since he’d stepped beyond those doors. He thought of the tiny fenced-in square where they’d been allowed “outside time” three times a week—bare dirt, no trees, no real sunlight. This was different. This was… freedom. 

He realized the group was waiting for him, their eyes filled with quiet patience. Swallowing hard, he forced his feet to move, stepping outside for the first time in what felt like a lifetime. The air hit him all at once—crisp and fresh, carrying faint scents of earth and city. The noise of distant traffic hummed in the background, and the light felt blinding against his skin. 

“The car is just this way,” Wooyoung said, his cheerful voice breaking through Jongho’s trance. He reached out, gently tugging Jongho forward. 

They walked toward a large black SUV parked near the curb. One by one, the group began climbing in, their voices blending into a soft hum of conversation. Jongho stopped just outside the door, his eyes darting down the street. He looked left, then right, his mind racing with the possibilities. He could run. He could try again. He could live on his own. He— 

“Jongho, come on!” Wooyoung’s voice was light but insistent as he ushered Jongho into the car before he could make a decision. 

San immediately leaned into Jongho’s shoulder as soon as he sat down, his soft warmth pressing against him. Jongho stiffened at first but didn’t push him away. He turned his head to the window instead, watching as the shelter grew smaller and smaller in the distance. 

And just like that, it was gone. 

The car hummed softly as they drove, the shelter fading into the distance with every passing second. Jongho sat stiffly between San and Wooyoung, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. The leather of the seat was smooth and cool beneath his fingers, a stark contrast to the rough floor of the kennel he’d been confined to for so long. He stared out the window, the shifting landscape blurring as his thoughts spun uncontrollably. 

The weight of the collar around his neck seemed heavier now, pressing into his skin like a brand. It was a thick band of cold metal, stiff and unforgiving. Its edges rubbed faintly against the bruises it hid, a constant reminder of his confinement. His fingers brushed against the unyielding surface absently, the rigid texture sending faint jolts of discomfort up his neck. It felt out of place here, in this car, surrounded by warmth and soft voices. 

A flicker of light caught his eye, drawing his attention to Yunho in the front seat. Yunho’s collar wasn’t metal like his—it was crafted from supple, velvety material that conformed perfectly to his neck. The soft, midnight blue fabric looked smooth to the touch, with a faint sheen that caught the sunlight as the car turned. Intricate golden embroidery traced along its edges in fluid, swirling patterns, delicate but sturdy. A small charm in the shape of a crescent moon hung from the center, its surface polished to a warm, inviting glow. It wasn’t just a collar—it was an accessory, thoughtful and comfortable, designed to enhance rather than constrain. 

Jongho’s gaze shifted to San beside him. San’s collar was entirely different yet just as exquisite. It was a slim band of cream-colored silk, its texture almost luminous in the soft light of the car. The fabric seemed impossibly soft, with faint gold threading woven throughout in a flowing pattern that reminded Jongho of rippling water. At the front, a single, teardrop-shaped opal was nestled into the design, its iridescent surface shimmering subtly with every tilt of San’s head. It was elegant and playful at the same time, perfectly suited to San’s warm, lively personality. 

Finally, Jongho’s eyes landed on Hongjoong, sitting quietly in the passenger seat. His collar was bolder yet still refined, made of deep crimson suede that looked impossibly soft. The fabric hugged his neck comfortably, its edges trimmed with delicate platinum stitching. A single faceted garnet was set into the center, its dark red surface catching the light and casting faint sparks of color around the car. The design was striking without being overwhelming, perfectly balancing Hongjoong’s quiet confidence with a sense of understated luxury. 

These weren’t collars meant to control or confine. They were symbols—of belonging, care, and identity. Jongho’s fingers tightened around the edge of his seat as an ache began to build in his chest. He hadn’t noticed them before, but now, they seemed impossible to ignore. 

A lump rose in his throat, and he swallowed hard, his fingers brushing against the cold, unyielding metal of his own collar. It felt so different from theirs. Harsh. Impersonal. A tool to mark his status as an unwanted hybrid at the shelter. His collar bore no elegance, no craftsmanship, and no meaning beyond its role as a shackle. Compared to theirs, it felt like a scar he couldn’t hide. 

His stomach twisted as he imagined what it might feel like to wear something like Yunho’s or San’s—a collar chosen for him, made to fit him perfectly. Something that wasn’t a burden but a gift. The thought made his heart clench painfully. He couldn’t imagine anyone giving him something so beautiful, so deliberate. He didn’t deserve it. Not after everything he’d been through, after everything he wasn’t. 

“You’re not what I wanted,” his father’s voice echoed in his mind, sharp and cutting. “Betas don’t succeed, Jongho. You’re weak—unfit for our family.” The words hit him like a blow, just as they always did, leaving a hollow ache in their wake. He blinked hard, trying to force the memory away, but it clung stubbornly, refusing to be banished. 

San shifted beside him, leaning closer until his shoulder pressed against Jongho’s arm. The warmth startled him, and he stiffened instinctively, unsure of what to do. San didn’t seem to notice, his head tilting to rest lightly on Jongho’s shoulder. His soft purring filled the space between them, steady and soothing. Jongho didn’t move, his hands gripping his knees tightly, but the tension in his shoulders began to ease despite himself. 

He caught a glimpse of San’s collar again, its cream-colored silk glowing faintly in the sunlight. His chest tightened, the longing he tried so hard to suppress rising unbidden. He glanced out the window, unable to look at the others anymore, but the image of their collars lingered in his mind. 

The car turned, and the sunlight fell across Yunho’s collar once more, the midnight-blue fabric glowing faintly against his skin. Jongho’s fingers brushed against his own collar, the cold, unforgiving metal rough under his touch. He let his hand drop back to his lap, shame washing over him. He wasn’t like them. He wasn’t someone worth a collar like that—something beautiful, something meaningful. 

The bruises on his neck throbbed faintly as if to remind him of his place. He tugged at the metal gently, but it didn’t budge. The ache in his throat grew, but he swallowed it down, willing himself to focus on the hum of the car and the warmth of San against his side. He didn’t deserve to wish for more, not when he was lucky to be here at all. 

San shifted again, his purring growing louder as he settled more comfortably against Jongho’s shoulder. Wooyoung glanced over, a soft smile playing on his lips as he took in the sight. Jongho didn’t return the look; his gaze fixed firmly on the window, but he didn’t pull away either. He simply sat there, the image of their collars etched into his mind, the ache in his chest both unbearable and strangely comforting. 

The car slowed, the gentle turn of the wheels shifting the balance of his body as they pulled into a long driveway. He glanced out the window, his breath catching in his throat. The house that came into view was enormous—easily one of the largest he’d ever seen. The structure loomed tall and proud, its sleek lines and soft exterior lighting exuding a quiet elegance. Large windows reflected the dim evening light, and the front garden was meticulously arranged, with winding paths that seemed to glow faintly under the soft illumination of hidden lights. It didn’t feel real. 

The car came to a stop, and Jongho’s fingers dug into his lap as he struggled to process the sight before him. The house seemed more like something from a magazine than a place where people lived. His heart pounded in his chest, a mix of awe and trepidation tightening his throat. 

“Come on,” San said gently, his purring voice cutting through Jongho’s thoughts. He opened the car door, the cool evening air brushing against Jongho’s skin as San reached out to take his hand. Jongho hesitated for a moment before allowing himself to be pulled out, his feet unsteady on the paved driveway. Wooyoung appeared on his other side, his warm, easy smile offering silent encouragement. 

Together, they guided Jongho toward the front door, the sound of their footsteps muffled by the soft stone beneath them. As they climbed the stairs leading up to the grand entrance, Jongho’s gaze wandered, taking in every detail. The intricate carvings on the wooden double doors, the soft glow of the lanterns flanking the entrance, the faint scent of flowers from the garden—it was overwhelming. He felt out of place, like he didn’t belong in a space so beautiful. 

Seonghwa stepped forward, a ring of keys in his hand, and unlocked the door with practiced ease. The door creaked open, revealing a warm, inviting glow from inside. Jongho hesitated on the threshold, unsure if he should follow. San nudged him gently from behind, his voice soft but insistent. “It’s okay. Go ahead.” 

Swallowing his nerves, Jongho stepped inside, his breath catching again as the interior of the house came into view. The space was vast but not cold—every detail seemed to strike a perfect balance between elegance and comfort. Polished wooden floors stretched beneath his feet, their warm tones complemented by soft rugs that added texture and coziness. The high ceilings were adorned with subtle lighting that cast a gentle glow, illuminating the carefully chosen furniture and vibrant artwork that adorned the walls. It was breathtaking, every detail harmonizing to create a space that felt alive and full of care. 

Jongho turned slowly, his eyes wide as he tried to take it all in. The air smelled faintly of fresh flowers and something warm and inviting, like baked goods. His chest tightened, the realization of where he was—of what this could mean—almost too much to bear. 

“Welcome home,” Hongjoong said, his voice soft but steady. Jongho turned to see him standing by the door, a small, reassuring smile on his face. The words lingered in the air, gentle but powerful, sinking into Jongho’s chest and settling there. 

Home. 

Jongho’s throat tightened, and for a moment, he didn’t know what to say. His hands fidgeted nervously at his sides, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. He didn’t know if he could call this place home—not yet. But something in Hongjoong’s voice, in the way the pack looked at him with quiet encouragement, made him think that maybe, just maybe, he could learn how. 

San stepped closer, his tail brushing lightly against Jongho’s arm. “Come on,” he said softly. “Let me show you around.” 

Jongho nodded slowly, his voice caught somewhere in his chest. As he followed San deeper into the house, he allowed himself one last glance back at Hongjoong, who watched him with quiet warmth. The door clicked shut behind them, and for the first time in a long while, Jongho felt something flicker faintly in his chest—a fragile, tentative hope. 

Chapter Text

Jongho trailed behind San, his steps faltering as they entered the heart of the pack’s home. Every inch of the space radiated warmth and comfort, but to Jongho, it felt overwhelming—like walking into a world he didn’t belong in. San stopped in the living room, turning back to him with a grin that seemed too bright, too effortless. 

“This is our living room,” San said, his voice as inviting as the space around them. “It’s where we all like to hang out. We have movie nights here sometimes. Hongjoong hyung said you could pick the movie for our next one.” 

Jongho’s gaze drifted across the room, soaking in its details as though he were an outsider peering through a glass wall. The plush couch dominated the center, piled high with soft throw blankets and cushions that looked like clouds. The rug beneath it was pristine, glowing faintly in the firelight that danced from a grand fireplace along the far wall. He didn’t dare step too far in, afraid that just breathing too hard might tarnish its perfection. 

The shelves lining the walls caught his attention, filled with trinkets and framed photographs. In the pictures, the pack was smiling, laughing, and leaning into each other with an ease that twisted something deep in Jongho’s chest. They looked so happy. So whole. 

They don’t need you. The thought struck like a dagger, sharp and cold. The fragile flicker of hope that had kindled when San first smiled at him was snuffed out, replaced by the dull ache of longing he had trained himself to ignore. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d watched a movie. That privilege—like so many others—had been stripped from him long ago. 

He blinked, the image of the living room blurring into the shadowed walls of his parents’ house. That house had been smaller, colder, and suffocating in ways that had nothing to do with its size. Its walls had been heavy with expectations he could never meet. 

“You disgust me, Jongho.” His father’s voice rang in his ears, sharp and cutting, as though it had been yesterday. “You’ll never be one of us, so stop pretending you belong.” 

“Jongho?” San’s voice broke through the storm of his thoughts, grounding him. The bright-eyed hybrid gestured toward a set of sliding doors. “Over here. There’s a room Seonghwa hyung said you’d love.” 

Jongho followed hesitantly, curiosity warring with apprehension. San pushed the doors open with a flourish, stepping aside to let Jongho through. The sight that greeted him made his breath catch in his throat. 

Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined the walls, crammed with books of every size, color, and texture. It wasn’t just a library—it was a sanctuary. The kind of place Jongho had only ever dreamed of. His feet moved before his mind could catch up, carrying him closer to the shelves. He reached out, his fingers trembling as they hovered over a worn leather spine. 

But before he could touch it, his father’s voice snarled in his mind: 

“Do not touch anything unless you’re asked! You have no right!” 

His hand snapped back as though burned, his body curling inward with the shame that always followed those words. 

San must have noticed, because a warm hand pressed gently against the small of Jongho’s back. “It’s okay,” San said softly, his tone soothing. “You can borrow any of these you want. They’re for everyone.” 

Jongho stared at him, unsure if he had heard correctly. Everyone? Even me? San’s smile didn’t falter, his gaze steady and encouraging. “Seonghwa hyung has them organized, though,” he added with a small laugh. “So maybe ask him if you’re looking for something specific.” 

Jongho nodded, though the thought of disrupting Seonghwa’s careful order filled him with quiet dread. He didn’t want to be a bother. He didn’t want to mess this up. 

“Come on,” San said, his hand slipping from Jongho’s back only to take his hand instead. The touch was light but firm, steadying Jongho in a way he didn’t expect. “There’s more to see before Wooyoung calls us for dinner.” 

San led him down the hall, stopping in front of another set of doors. He pushed them open carefully. 

“This is Hongjoong hyung’s art studio,” San said, his voice dropping with reverence. 

Jongho hesitated at the threshold, his eyes sweeping over the chaos within. Canvases of all sizes leaned against the walls, some completed, others barely started. Paints and brushes cluttered every surface, while strings of photographs hung like laundry in the air. The room pulsed with energy and life, as if each brushstroke carried a piece of Hongjoong’s heart. 

San gestured toward a half-finished painting propped on an easel. “Hyung’s working on that one now.” 

Jongho’s gaze locked on the painting. It was a portrait of San and Yunho, their figures bathed in soft, golden light. San’s pose was playful yet elegant, while Yunho exuded strength and quiet confidence. The longer Jongho stared, the heavier his chest felt. 

Why can’t I look like that? The thought crept in unbidden, bringing with it a wave of self-loathing. He was too big, too scarred, too plain. The painting didn’t just make him feel inadequate—it made him yearn for something he was certain he could never have. To be seen as graceful. Beautiful. Wanted. 

San tugged gently on his hand, pulling him back. “Let’s keep going,” he said cheerfully, already moving down the hall. 

Jongho followed silently, though his thoughts lingered behind in the art studio, tangled with feelings he didn’t know how to name. 

They stopped at an open door, and San let out a surprised sound. 

“Yeosang hyung?” He called, his tone curious as he stepped into the room. 

Yeosang sat at a large drafting table in the center of a room that seemed to hum with quiet creativity. Shelves lined the walls, filled with carefully organized tools, rolls of blueprints, and small, detailed models. The soft glow of a desk lamp illuminated his face as he worked on a detailed sketch, the pencil in his hand moving with precision and ease. 

At the sound of San’s voice, Yeosang looked up, a faint but knowing smile playing on his lips. “Just finishing some designs for a new client,” he said, setting his pencil down with deliberate care. He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head before glancing at San. 

“They’re moving faster than I expected,” Yeosang added, his tone casual but laced with something unspoken. He winked at San, the gesture subtle enough that Jongho might have missed it if he hadn’t been watching closely. 

San’s grin widened, but he said nothing, the corners of his mouth twitching with barely contained excitement. 

Jongho lingered in the doorway, unsure if he should step inside. The room felt personal, almost sacred, and he didn’t know if he had the right to intrude. But San turned toward him, his eyes bright with encouragement. 

“Come on, Jongho. You have to see this!” San said, gesturing for him to enter. 

Hesitantly, Jongho stepped forward, his gaze immediately drawn to the drafting table. The surface was covered with intricate blueprints and sketches—designs that felt alive, brimming with intention. He recognized spacious layouts tied to natural landscapes, with architectural ability balanced by a warmth that invited comfort. 

One design, however, caught his eye and refused to let go. It was a living space unlike anything he had ever seen. The ceilings were high, the windows wide and open to the forest beyond, and every detail was designed with purpose. Oversized furniture filled the room, sturdy but inviting, while thick rugs layered beneath them created a softness that offset the solid wood. Built-in shelves flanked a large stone fireplace, their contents illuminated by soft, warm lighting that made the whole space feel alive. 

It wasn’t just a room; it was a sanctuary. 

Yeosang noticed where Jongho’s gaze had landed and slid the sketch closer for him to see. “What do you think?” he asked, his voice calm but curious. 

Jongho hesitated, his throat tightening as he stared at the drawing. “It’s… beautiful,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. 

Yeosang’s faint smile widened. “That one’s for a bear hybrid,” he said casually, though there was something thoughtful in his tone. “They prefer open spaces with natural light and sturdy furniture. Durability is important, but comfort is even more so. Bears need room to breathe and places to retreat when the world gets too loud.” 

Jongho’s breath hitched. His fingers hovered above the sketch, trembling slightly. A bear hybrid. Someone like him. But this space, with its inviting warmth and quiet serenity, didn’t feel like it could belong to him. 

“They’re fascinating,” Yeosang continued, his voice steady as he traced the lines of the design with his pencil. “Bears are strong, sure, but what’s more interesting is the way they balance that strength with a need for gentleness. They thrive in spaces that feel safe.” 

The words made Jongho’s chest tighten, his gaze fixed on the drawing. Gentleness. Safety. They were foreign concepts to him, things he had never been allowed to claim for himself. His father’s voice echoed faintly in his mind, harsh and unforgiving: “You’ll never belong. Stop pretending you’re one of us.”  

“Dinner’s ready!” Wooyoung’s voice echoed through the house, breaking the tension in the room. 

San gave Jongho’s hand a light tug, breaking the moment. “Yeosang hyung is amazing, isn’t he?” he said brightly, his voice full of admiration. “But if we don’t go now, Wooyoung’s going to start banging pots and yelling. Let’s go before he scares the whole house.” 

Yeosang chuckled softly, gathering his papers and stacking them neatly. “I’m coming,” he said, standing and stretching briefly. “No way I’m missing dinner.” 

Jongho followed San out of the room, the weight of Yeosang’s words and the designs lingering heavily in his mind. The idea of something so carefully made—so full of care and thought—being tied to someone like him felt overwhelming. 

As they approached the dining room, the sounds of laughter and clinking dishes grew louder, pulling Jongho from his thoughts. San’s hand tightened around his briefly, a small, steadying gesture. It wasn’t rushed or forceful—it was calm and reassuring. 

Jongho glanced down at their hands, the warmth grounding him in a way he hadn’t expected. For a fleeting moment, the pressure in his chest eased, and his thoughts quieted. It wasn’t comfort exactly, but it was something close. 

They reached the threshold of the dining room, and the rich smell of dinner wrapped around Jongho like a blanket. The grand table came into view, its surface covered with steaming dishes that filled the air with tantalizing aromas. Jongho’s steps faltered, his gaze locking onto the scene before him. The rest of the pack was already seated, their voices mingling in easy, lighthearted conversation. 

“Finally!” Wooyoung called, waving a hand dramatically as they entered. “I was about to start without you.” His grin softened when his eyes fell on Jongho. “Come sit next to me! I saved you a spot.” 

San gave Jongho’s hand a light squeeze, pulling him gently forward. But as they approached the table, Jongho’s feet felt heavier with each step. The laughter and the clinking of dishes swirled around him, too bright, too much, like he didn’t belong in this scene. 

San stopped when he felt Jongho’s hesitation, turning to look at him with confusion. “Jongho? What’s wrong?” 

The question hung in the air, but Jongho’s thoughts were already spiraling backward, dragged into memories he wished he could forget. The last time he had been at a table surrounded by others was in his father’s house, though calling them a “pack” felt wrong. There had been no warmth, no laughter, only cold stares and suffocating judgment. He remembered standing in the corner, his stomach aching with hunger, waiting for permission that never came. His father’s voice rang sharp and cruelly in his ears, “You’re not worthy of this table. Just look at you.” He could still feel the weight of those words, the way they crushed him until he believed them. 

Yeosang, who had followed closely behind, stepped up, his calm presence grounding as he placed a hand lightly on Jongho’s shoulder. “Jongho?” he asked, his voice soft but steady. 

Jongho’s throat tightened, panic rising like a tide as he searched for an excuse. “I’m… I’m not hungry,” he stammered, but before he could say anything else, his stomach growled loudly, betraying him. 

Yeosang raised an eyebrow, and San’s expression softened into quiet understanding, though neither of them called him out directly. 

“Well,” Yeosang said after a moment, giving his shoulder a reassuring pat, “why don’t you try a couple of bites anyway? It’s been a long day, and you’ll feel better with something in your system.” 

San smiled, squeezing Jongho’s hand again. “Wooyoung’s food is really good. I think you’ll like it,” he said with an encouraging nod. 

Jongho’s gaze flickered toward the table, but the weight of the pack’s attention bore down on him like a physical force. His chest tightened as he noticed their eyes turning toward him. Hongjoong and Seonghwa sat at the head of the table, their expressions calm but watchful. Yunho and Mingi were on one side, Yeosang slipping into a seat beside them, while Wooyoung beamed from the opposite end. 

“You’re sitting next to me!” Wooyoung declared, gesturing to the empty chair beside him. 

San nudged Jongho forward gently. “Go on,” he said softly, his smile warm but unobtrusive. 

Jongho swallowed hard, forcing his legs to carry him to the seat between Wooyoung and San. As he lowered himself into the chair, he kept his head down, his shoulders hunched as though trying to make himself smaller. 

“Okay, let’s eat!” Wooyoung announced once everyone was seated, his cheerful tone cutting through the lingering tension. Plates and bowls began to pass around the table as the others piled food onto their plates with practiced ease. 

Jongho, however, stayed still, his hands resting tensely in his lap as he kept his eyes fixed on the table. His plate remained empty, the thought of reaching for food paralyzing him. 

It didn’t take long for Wooyoung to notice. “Do you not like what I made?” he asked, his playful tone giving way to quiet concern. 

Jongho’s head shot up, his cheeks burning. “No! It’s not that. I’m just… not hungry,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible. 

As if on cue, his stomach let out another loud growl, drawing the attention of everyone at the table. Jongho felt his chest tighten painfully, shame crashing over him in waves. He caught the flicker of sadness in Wooyoung’s expression, and it made him feel even worse. 

His hands clenched into fists under the table as a shiver ran down his spine. He wanted to disappear, to melt into the chair and escape their eyes. But another part of him—a small, fragile part—wanted to make Wooyoung happy, to prove he could be… enough. 

“Jongho,” Hongjoong’s voice cut through the haze, steady but firm. “You need to eat something.” 

Before Jongho could respond, Wooyoung grabbed his plate, filling it with small portions of several dishes before setting it gently in front of him. “I made a little bit of everything because I wasn’t sure what you’d like,” Wooyoung said quietly, his earlier cheer subdued. 

Jongho stared at the plate, the rich smells wafting up and making his stomach clench painfully. But his hands stayed frozen in his lap, his body locked in place by a mixture of fear and shame. 

“Jongho,” Yunho said, his voice kind but unyielding, “we heard your stomach growl. You’re shaking. You need to eat.” 

Jongho’s gaze darted around the table, his thoughts clouded by anxiety. He barely registered the way Mingi’s hand rested on Yunho’s arm or how Yeosang leaned forward slightly, his expression calm but concerned. The air was thick with worry, but all Jongho felt was the weight of his own inadequacy. 

“It’s okay, little cub,” Seonghwa said softly, his voice cutting through the noise in Jongho’s head. He stood from his seat and moved to sit beside Jongho, his presence steady and grounding. Gently, he placed a hand on Jongho’s back, rubbing soothing circles. “Can you take a couple of bites for us? Just a little.” 

Jongho’s hands trembled as he reached for his fork, the silence around him nearly unbearable. He speared a small bite of food and brought it to his mouth, the flavors exploding on his tongue in a way that made his eyes widen. It was rich and warm, better than anything he could remember eating. 

“Good job, little cub,” Seonghwa said quietly, his praise soft but sincere. 

Jongho felt a flicker of pride at the words, enough to push him to take another bite, and then another. The food filled a void he hadn’t realized was so deep, and for a moment, the tension in his chest eased. 

“Whoa, slow down,” San said gently, a soft laugh in his voice. “We’re not going to take it from you.” 

Jongho froze mid-bite, the fork trembling slightly in his hand as he realized how much of the food he had already eaten. His gaze dropped to the plate, now half-empty, and embarrassment crept over him like a rising tide. Setting the fork down quickly, he folded his hands tightly in his lap, his chest tightening with the familiar weight of shame. 

Seonghwa’s hand paused briefly on his back, his touch steady but watchful. “What’s wrong, Jongho?” he asked softly, his tone gentle and free of judgment. 

Jongho hesitated, the question hanging in the air as his mind churned with self-doubt. He wanted to say it was nothing, to dismiss the growing knot of anxiety in his chest, but the words caught in his throat. After a moment, he shook his head, his voice soft but strained as he replied, “No, thank you. It’s really good, but I’ve had enough. I don’t want to take more than I should.” 

His words came out stiff and hollow, and his hands clenched tighter in his lap. He kept his eyes fixed firmly on the table, unable to meet Seonghwa’s gaze. Don’t look up; don’t look at them. You’re already taking too much. The thought twisted painfully in his chest, pulling him deeper into the familiar ache of inadequacy. 

Seonghwa’s hand resumed its soothing circles on his back, the motion slow and steady. His voice, calm and patient, broke through the haze of self-recrimination. “There’s plenty of food, Jongho. Wooyoung always makes more than enough. No one here will go without because you take what you need.” 

Jongho’s shoulders tensed at the words, the kindness in them cutting through him like a knife. He wanted to believe Seonghwa, to let the reassurance sink in, but the echoes of his father’s voice were louder: 

“I don't want to waste good food on you! You'll eat whats left, if there is anything left”  

  The memory clawed at his chest, and the thought of taking another bite felt suffocating. His stomach churned with a nauseating mix of hunger and guilt, but he shook his head again, more insistently this time. 

“I’m done,” he murmured, his voice tight and wavering. “I’ve had enough.” 

Seonghwa studied him for a long moment, but the soothing motion of his hand never faltered. Finally, he gave a small nod, his tone as gentle as ever. “That’s okay. You’ve done well, Jongho.” 

The soft hum of conversation returned around the table, the others easing back into their meal as though nothing had happened. But Jongho couldn’t relax. The tension in his chest lingered, heavy and unyielding, even as Seonghwa’s praise echoed faintly in his mind. 

He folded his hands tighter in his lap, wishing he could make himself smaller, less noticeable. Yet, beneath the storm of self-doubt, there was the faintest flicker of warmth—a fragile sense of safety born from the pack’s quiet acceptance and Seonghwa’s steady presence. It wasn’t enough to chase away the shadows, but for a fleeting moment, it felt like a lifeline in the dark. 

Jongho was pulled back to the present by the sound of clinking dishes. The others were beginning to collect their plates, and instinctively, Jongho shot to his feet. His chair scraped faintly against the floor as he reached for the nearest dishes. “I can clean up,” he said quietly, his hands moving quickly, almost desperately, as though to prove his worth before anyone could object. 

He tried to beat Mingi and Yeosang to the other plates, confusion flickering in his chest. Why hadn’t they asked him to do this in the first place? Wasn’t it his responsibility to help? He wasn’t a guest here. He couldn’t just sit back and relax. 

Yeosang moved to intercept him, a warm smile on his face as he gently took the small stack of dishes Jongho had collected. “It’s alright, Jongho,” he said, his tone calm and reassuring. “It’s our turn to do the dishes tonight.” 

Jongho blinked, his hands still mid-reach, unsure of what to do with himself. He hesitated, his chest tightening at the idea of being told to stop. 

“You must be tired,” Mingi added, his voice soft but kind as he stepped forward. “Why don’t you get ready for bed? I’m sure Wooyoung and San want to show you where you’ll be staying.” 

“I do!” Wooyoung squealed, practically bouncing on his heels. Without waiting for Jongho to respond, he grabbed his hand and began pulling him toward the stairs, San trailing close behind. 

As they climbed, Wooyoung glanced back at him with a grin. “What’s going to be your bedroom isn’t finished yet, so you’ll be in the guest room for now. I promise it’s nice!” 

At the top of the stairs, Jongho hesitated, his eyes widening as he took in the space. He hadn’t realized second floors could be this big. The hallway stretched out in both directions, lined with polished doors and soft lighting that made the space feel almost otherworldly. 

“This way!” Wooyoung said, tugging Jongho toward the hallway on the right. “This hall has Mingi’s, Yunho’s, and Yeosang’s rooms, plus one of the guest rooms.” 

They stopped in front of a beautifully carved wooden door. Wooyoung pushed it open with a flourish. “This is the one!” 

Jongho stepped inside hesitantly, his breath catching in his throat as he took in the room. It was nothing like the cold, bare spaces he was used to. The bed in the center of the room was massive, draped in layers of soft-looking blankets and pillows that spilled over the edges like clouds. The walls were adorned with pictures, and shelves held books and little trinkets that gave the room a warmth Jongho didn’t know how to process. 

He moved closer to the bed, his fingers hovering above one of the fuzzy blankets before he gave in and brushed his hand over it. The softness was almost overwhelming, and he leaned into it without thinking, his eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment. 

“It’s soft, right?” San’s voice broke the silence, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I tried to find the best ones in the house.” 

Jongho nodded, unable to find his voice, and leaned further into the blankets. 

“Look over here!” Wooyoung chirped, pointing toward a door in the corner. “You’ve got your own bathroom, too.” 

Jongho straightened, starting toward the door, but before he could reach it, the sound of hurried footsteps filled the room. Hongjoong, Seonghwa, and Yunho entered, their faces a mix of worry and urgency. 

“I’m sorry, Jongho,” Hongjoong began, his voice laced with concern. He reached up to touch his own bare neck. “We usually forget to take ours off when we get home. I don’t know why we didn’t notice it during dinner.” 

San and Wooyoung turned to Jongho, their eyes widening as they seemed to realize what Hongjoong was talking about. Jongho, however, was lost, confusion knitting his brow. 

Seonghwa stepped forward, his gaze softening as he caught the uncertainty in Jongho’s expression. “Hey, little cub,” he said gently, crouching slightly to meet Jongho’s eyes. “Do you want us to take your collar off?” 

Jongho’s hand flew to his neck instinctively, fingers brushing against the familiar weight of the collar. He hadn’t even considered that it could be removed. It had been over a year and a half since he’d last felt the freedom of bare skin there. 

He wanted it gone—wanted to shed the suffocating reminder of everything he’d endured—but his body refused to cooperate. His head wouldn’t nod, his voice wouldn’t agree. 

Hongjoong approached him cautiously, his voice low and steady. “We can take it off now,” he said. “You don’t have to wear that anymore.” 

Panic shot through Jongho like lightning. “It’s fine,” he said quickly, his words tumbling over each other. “You don’t have to—” 

“Jongho,” Hongjoong interrupted, his tone firm but kind. “You don’t need to wear that anymore. Let’s take it off.” 

Jongho hesitated, his hands trembling at his sides. He didn’t want them to see the bruises hidden beneath, the marks and scars that felt like a map of his failures. But the thought of keeping the collar on, of carrying its weight for another day, was worse. 

Finally, he nodded. 

“Come sit on the bed,” Hongjoong instructed gently. 

Jongho obeyed, lowering himself onto the edge of the bed. The softness beneath him felt foreign, almost disorienting, but he didn’t have time to think about it as Hongjoong climbed up behind him, his fingers inspecting the collar. 

“It has screws,” Hongjoong muttered, his brows furrowing in confusion. He glanced at Seonghwa. “San’s didn’t have this when we got him.” 

Of course, it had screws. Jongho knew why. People thought he was aggressive. The shelter staff had said as much, muttering about how a bear hybrid like him needed extra precautions. Untrustworthy. Dangerous. Too strong for his own good. The words burned in his memory, echoing in the back of his mind. 

“I’ll get a screwdriver,” Yunho said after a moment, disappearing from the room. 

He returned moments later, several screwdrivers in hand. Hongjoong picked the one he needed and carefully began unscrewing the collar. His movements were slow and deliberate, but as the collar began to loosen, Jongho flinched. 

“It’s stuck,” Hongjoong said softly, his voice tight with concern. 

Jongho bit his lip to hold back a sound of pain as the metal tugged at his skin. His breathing grew uneven, but he stayed still, his hands gripping the bedspread beneath him. 

“Almost there,” Hongjoong murmured, his tone soothing. 

When the collar finally came free, the room fell into a shocked silence. 

Jongho didn’t have to look up to know why. 

The bruises on his neck were stark and angry, the skin raw in places where the collar had rubbed relentlessly. Faint outlines of finger marks lingered on the sides, a haunting reminder of hands that had once held him too tightly. 

His head dipped lower, shame flooding him in waves as he tried to shrink into himself. 

“Jongho…” Wooyoung’s voice was barely a whisper, filled with quiet disbelief. 

The air in the room shifted suddenly, thickening with a scent that made Jongho’s chest tighten. It filled his nostrils, sharp and overwhelming, and he felt like he might choke on it. Burning anger. He had smelled it before, back at the shelter, and his heart began to race. 

It was coming from Yunho. 

Before Jongho could process what was happening, Yunho started moving toward him, his large frame radiating intensity. Panic clawed at Jongho’s chest as he instinctively pushed himself further onto the bed, pressing back against Hongjoong. His mind spiraled, convinced Yunho’s anger was directed at him. 

Jongho’s breathing quickened, his hands gripping the bedspread as Yunho came to an abrupt halt. The taller hybrid raised his hands, his expression a mix of confusion and alarm. “I’m sorry,” Yunho said quickly, his voice laced with guilt. “I was just going to scent you.” 

Scent him? The words only added to Jongho’s confusion, his wide eyes darting between Yunho and the rest of the pack. 

San stepped in then, his movements calm but firm as he placed a hand on Yunho’s shoulder, guiding him back. “Hey, it’s okay,” San murmured, pulling Yunho into a gentle hug. Jongho watched in silence as Yunho leaned into San, burying his nose against his neck. The anger in the air began to dissipate as Yunho’s breaths evened out, his body relaxing against San’s. 

Jongho blinked, unable to tear his gaze away. He had never seen someone scent another with so much care, so much… tenderness. It was almost intimate, the way San soothed Yunho, and for a moment, Jongho wondered if that was what Yunho had meant to do with him. Why? What had he done to deserve that kind of attention? 

Feeling the weight of Jongho’s stare, San glanced back at him with a soft, apologetic smile. “Good night, Jongho,” he said gently, his voice warm but subdued as he guided Yunho out of the room. 

The tension in the air eased as the door clicked shut, but Jongho’s body remained stiff, his heart pounding in his ears. Slowly, he became aware of Hongjoong still behind him, solid and steady. He sat up quickly, his gaze darting toward Wooyoung and Seonghwa, who were watching him with quiet concern. 

Realization hit him like a punch to the gut—he had flinched away from one of their packmates. Embarrassment burned in his chest, and he lowered his head, unable to meet their eyes. 

Hongjoong shifted behind him, moving off the bed with deliberate slowness. He came around to kneel in front of Jongho, positioning himself so that Jongho couldn’t avoid his gaze. 

“Hey,” Hongjoong said softly, his tone so gentle it made Jongho’s throat tighten. “Why don’t you take a shower and get ready for bed? Seonghwa put the clothes you brought with you in the dresser.” 

Jongho nodded, his movements stiff, the action feeling like it had been on repeat all day. 

“I’ll show him how to work the shower and the products to use,” Wooyoung piped up, his voice cheerful but calm. 

Hongjoong whispered a quiet “Goodnight” before standing. His place was immediately filled by Seonghwa, who reached out and placed a hand over Jongho’s. 

“Goodnight, little cub,” Seonghwa said softly, his voice steady and soothing. “Try to get some sleep, okay?” He gave Jongho’s hand a gentle squeeze, his gaze lingering as though trying to reassure him without words. 

Jongho’s eyes followed Seonghwa as he stood and joined Hongjoong. The two hybrids exchanged a quiet glance before walking out hand in hand, their final smiles soft but sincere as the door closed behind them. 

Wooyoung stepped closer, gently taking Jongho’s hand. “Come on, let’s get you settled,” he said, guiding him toward the bathroom. 

As they entered, Jongho’s eyes darted away from the mirror, his focus snapping to the tiled floor. He didn’t dare look at his reflection, not with Wooyoung in the room. His throat tightened at the thought of seeing himself as they must have seen him—scarred, bruised, and broken. 

If Wooyoung noticed his avoidance, he didn’t say anything. “Okay,” Wooyoung began, opening a small closet and pulling out a fluffy towel. “Towels are in here.” He pointed to the neatly folded stack before turning toward the shower. 

“This handle’s for hot water, and this one’s for cold,” Wooyoung explained, twisting them both until the water began to stream out. He adjusted the temperature with quick, practiced motions, holding his hand under the spray. “There—just right.” 

Wooyoung turned back to Jongho with a small smile, his tone light but sincere. “Take your time, okay? No rush.” 

He patted Jongho’s shoulder gently before stepping out, closing the door softly behind him. 

Jongho stood frozen for a moment, the sound of the running water filling the quiet room. Slowly, his trembling hands moved to the hem of his shirt, gripping the fabric tightly as he pulled it over his head. The motion was hesitant, almost fearful, as though he were bracing for someone to see him, even though he was alone.  

Avoiding the mirror entirely, he stepped into the shower, the warm spray cascading over his skin. The water felt like a small relief, but it wasn’t enough to wash away the weight of the evening—or the ache of being seen. 

Jongho reached up, his fingers ghosting over the tender skin of his neck. The absence of cold, unyielding metal felt strange—liberating yet unfamiliar. He ran his fingers along the bruises, the sensation both soothing and unsettling. His neck was bare, free in a way it hadn’t been in years, but the soreness lingered, a stark reminder of what had been. 

Stepping out of the shower, he grabbed a towel and dried himself with slow, deliberate movements. His gaze flicked toward the fogged mirror, his chest tightening. He’d been avoiding this moment, dreading it, but he couldn’t anymore. With trembling hands, he wiped a patch of the glass clear, his reflection staring back at him. 

The sight made his breath catch. His neck was worse than he’d imagined—dark, angry bruises encircled it like phantom chains, evidence of every chokehold, every collar forced onto him. The scars and marks told stories he wished he could forget, but they refused to fade. For so long, the only touch he’d known on his neck was violent, degrading. Now, it was bare, but the damage lingered. 

Jongho turned slowly, letting his eyes fall to his back. Pale scars, some jagged and deep, others faint and smooth, stretched across his skin. He knew each one by heart, even if he hadn’t seen them in so long. Some were from his childhood, from sharp branches and brambles he fell into while climbing trees or running through the dense woods of his village. Others were inflicted by the claws of other bear hybrids during fights—some challenges, others punishments. His father had always demanded strength from him, insisting that pain was part of becoming a “real bear.” Jongho’s failures—whether real or imagined—had often been met with punishment. A clawed slap to his back when he disobeyed, a shove into thorny underbrush when he didn’t meet expectations. 

His fingers twitched at his sides as the memories bubbled to the surface—his father’s disapproving glare, the sting of thorns dragging across his skin, the jeers of other hybrids as they left him bruised and bleeding on the forest floor. Jongho shuddered, forcing the memories down. 

He couldn’t look anymore. He wrapped the towel tightly around himself and stepped into the bedroom, his eyes falling on the dresser. Pulling open the top drawer, he found his old clothes from the shelter folded neatly alongside new ones. The sight of the old garments made his stomach twist—they felt tainted, heavy with the weight of every nightmare, every hopeless day spent there. Without hesitation, he reached for the new ones, the fabric soft and unfamiliar under his fingertips. 

After dressing, he sat on the edge of the bed, his hands resting in his lap. The knock on the door startled him, and for a moment, he didn’t move. It came again, firmer this time, and he blinked, realizing he wasn’t in the shelter anymore. People here wouldn’t barge in. He stood slowly and opened the door. 

Wooyoung stood there in his pajamas, a small bottle in hand, and a slight pout tugging at his lips. “Hi. Can I put this cream on your neck?” he asked, tilting his head slightly. 

Jongho hesitated. No one had ever cared enough to tend to his wounds before. The thought of someone touching his neck—where only pain had lingered before—made his throat tighten. But Wooyoung’s soft, determined expression told him he wouldn’t take no for an answer. 

“Sure,” Jongho whispered, stepping back to let him in. 

Wooyoung slipped past him, grabbing his hand with a casual ease that still caught Jongho off guard. He led him to the bed and gestured for him to sit. “Come sit down,” he said softly. 

Jongho obeyed, watching as Wooyoung sat across from him and twisted the cap off the bottle. The sweet scent of the cream wafted through the air as Wooyoung squeezed a small amount onto his fingers. When he looked up, his eyes were filled with something Jongho couldn’t quite name—sadness, maybe, or quiet determination. 

“This might hurt a little. I’m sorry,” Wooyoung whispered. 

Jongho almost laughed at the absurdity of the apology. This pain was nothing compared to what he’d been through. “It’s alright,” he murmured, his voice low but steady. 

Wooyoung reached for his neck with deliberate slowness, as if giving Jongho time to pull away if he needed to. The cold cream touched his skin, and Jongho shivered, but he didn’t flinch. It was the first time anyone had touched his neck without anger or malice. He closed his eyes, letting himself focus on the strange, soothing sensation. 

Wooyoung worked carefully, spreading the cream over one side of his neck, his fingers barely brushing the bruises. Even though Wooyoung and San had shown him kindness before, this felt different. His neck had always been a target—something people grabbed or controlled. Now, it was being cared for, and that realization made Jongho’s chest ache in a way he didn’t understand. 

Wooyoung paused to get more cream, then moved to the other side of his neck. Jongho let out a shaky breath as Wooyoung’s fingers traced over what he knew were Jihoon’s marks. His heart tightened, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he leaned into the touch slightly, letting himself trust it, even if just for this moment. 

“Almost done,” Wooyoung whispered, his tone gentle. Jongho nodded faintly, keeping his eyes closed. 

“Thank you for letting me do this,” Wooyoung said after a moment, sincerity heavy in his voice. Then, hesitating, he added, “I hope one day you’ll feel safe enough with us to tell us what actually happened.” 

Jongho’s eyes snapped open, and he pulled back as if burned. His pulse quickened, panic rising in his chest. They didn’t believe him. They knew he was lying. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, shaking his head. His voice was barely audible. 

“It's alright,” Wooyoung replied gently. “Like I said, one day.” He gave Jongho’s knee a light pat as he stood. “Alright, I’ll let you rest. But first—can I get a goodnight hug?” 

Jongho blinked, startled. A hug? After everything? He hesitated, his mind racing with confusion, but Wooyoung’s open arms and expectant smile were hard to resist. Slowly, he stood and stepped forward. 

Wooyoung didn’t wait—he threw his arms around Jongho, pulling him into a tight embrace. Jongho froze at first, his hands hovering awkwardly, but eventually, he let them settle on Wooyoung’s back. The hug was warm and grounding, and Jongho found himself relaxing just a little. 

“Goodnight, little bear,” Wooyoung murmured as he pulled back, a soft smile on his lips. He waved once before slipping out the door, leaving Jongho alone. 

Jongho stood in the middle of the room, the echoes of Wooyoung’s touch still lingering on his skin. For a moment, he didn’t know what to do. Slowly, he reached for the light, turning it off before climbing into bed. 

The mattress was unlike anything he’d ever felt—soft and forgiving, cradling him in a way the hard cot in the shelter never had. The blankets were thick and fuzzy, the kind of warmth he’d forgotten existed. He ran his hand over them slowly, letting the sensation ground him. 

For the first time in years, sleep found him easily.  

The new pajamas, the soft bed, and the fuzzy blanket couldn’t keep the nightmares at bay. 

Jongho startled awake barely an hour or two into sleep, his heart pounding as if it wanted to escape his chest. Sweat clung to his skin, chilling him despite the warmth of the blankets. The shadows of his memories from the village had found him again, clawing their way into his dreams. 

He lay still, staring at the ceiling, willing his racing thoughts to quiet. Maybe if he stayed perfectly still, sleep would come back to him. Eventually, it did. 

But this time, the dream came back sharper. 

The square was suffocating, the circle of villagers pressing close, their whispers cutting through the night air like knives. Jongho stood in the center, his chest heaving as he stared at the alpha in front of him—a towering figure with cruel eyes and a smirk that promised nothing but pain. The village chief, his father, stood off to the side, his arms crossed and his face a mask of cold indifference.  

“Again,” his father commanded, his voice sharp and unyielding. Jongho flinched at the tone, his fingers trembling at his sides.  

He didn’t dare look at the crowd, but he could hear them. The murmurs were unmistakable.  

“Why does he even bother? A beta can’t win.”  

“His father must be ashamed. A son like that…”  

The alpha stepped forward, rolling his shoulders as though the fight bored him. “You should’ve stayed down the first time,” he taunted, his voice low and mocking. “You know how this ends.”  

Jongho’s fists clenched, his nails biting into his palms. His father’s voice cut through his hesitation: “Fight, Jongho. Or do you want everyone to see how worthless you really are?”  

The alpha lunged, and Jongho barely had time to move before the punch connected with his ribs. Pain blossomed across his side, sharp and unrelenting. He staggered back, his knees buckling beneath him, but he refused to fall. Not yet.  

“You can’t win,” the alpha sneered, circling him like a predator. “A beta like you? You were made to lose.”  

The words stung, but they weren’t new. Jongho had heard them his entire life—from the villagers, from the other hybrids, from his own father. The crowd’s whispers grew louder, a cacophony of judgment and disdain that made his chest tighten.  

“Hit him,” his father snapped. “Stop standing there like a coward.”  

Jongho moved on instinct, throwing a punch that the alpha dodged easily. The counterattack came too fast—a fist to his stomach that knocked the wind out of him. He crumpled to the ground, his hands clutching his abdomen as he gasped for air.  

The crowd erupted in laughter, the sound echoing in his ears like thunder. Jongho’s vision blurred, but he could still see the outline of his father’s figure—tall, rigid, and utterly unimpressed.  

“Get up,” his father barked, his tone cold and biting. “Or do you want to prove them all right?”  

Jongho pushed himself to his knees, his limbs trembling with effort. He didn’t know what he was fighting for anymore—his father’s approval? His pride? The hope that maybe, just once, he could prove them all wrong? The alpha was waiting, his smirk widening as he raised a hand, claws glinting in the dim light.  

“Stay down, beta,” the alpha hissed. “You’re only going to make this worse.”  

Jongho ignored him, forcing himself to his feet. He threw another punch, desperate and wild, but it barely grazed the alpha’s shoulder. The retaliation came swiftly—a clawed swipe that raked across his back. Pain exploded through him, sharp and searing, as though fire had been dragged across his skin.  

Jongho woke with a choked yell, his body jerking upright in the bed. His hands clawed at the blankets, his breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps as the phantom pain from the alpha’s claws lingered on his back. The room was dark, the faint outline of the furniture barely visible in the dim moonlight, but it wasn’t enough to chase away the vivid images of his dream. 

He swiped at his face, his hand coming away damp with tears he hadn’t realized were falling. Anger flared in his chest, hot and all-consuming, and he scrubbed at his face again, the motion quick and punishing. His father’s voice still echoed in his ears, the weight of the crowd’s judgment pressing down on his chest. 

He hoped no one had heard him. The last thing he wanted was to wake the pack, to disturb the fragile peace of the house. He sank back into the bed, his hands gripping the edge of the blanket as he stared at the ceiling. 

He resolved not to sleep again. His nightmares weren’t worth the risk of waking someone else, of dragging them into his storm of memories. Instead, he lay still, his eyes wide and unblinking as the seconds dragged on into minutes. 

A soft knock at the door broke the silence. 

Jongho’s heart lurched, his pulse quickening. 

I woke them up. They’re going to be angry. They’re going to yell at me. 

Not knowing if he could ignore it, he climbed out of bed and approached the door. His hand trembled slightly as he turned the knob. The door creaked open, and Jongho was met with a rush of cherry blossoms—soft yet heady, stronger than anything he’d smelled before. 

San stood in the doorway, his expression etched with worry. “Are you okay?” he asked, his voice gentle. 

The question caught Jongho off guard. He blinked, unsure how to respond. “What do you mean?” he asked, trying to sound unaffected, as though nothing had happened. 

San frowned, tilting his head slightly. “Yunho, Hongjoong, and I could all smell your distress. Then we heard you yell, so I came to check on you,” he explained, his tone casual, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. 

Jongho felt his stomach twist. “Oh… I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. He hesitated before admitting, “I just… have bad dreams sometimes.” 

A wave of San’s scent washed over him again—sweet, grounding. It seemed to ease the tension in Jongho’s chest without him fully understanding why. 

“That’s okay,” San replied softly. “I used to have them, too.” 

Jongho’s eyes widened in surprise. He hadn’t expected that. “You did?” 

San nodded. “I used to wake up yelling, with tears streaming down my face. But… they got better. Slowly. The pack helped me.” 

Jongho nodded mutely, unsure what that meant for him. Could they help him, too? 

San hesitated before continuing, “Sleeping next to someone helped me a lot. Can I stay with you tonight? Maybe it’ll help.” 

Jongho froze, the question knocking the air out of him. The last time he’d shared a bed with anyone was as a child, curled up next to his mother, long before he presented. The memory felt distant, like it belonged to someone else. 

He didn’t know what to say. He barely remembered what that kind of comfort felt like. 

But he wanted to feel it again. 

Without a word, Jongho stepped back and opened the door wider. 

San blinked, confused at first, until Jongho gave a small nod. Understanding dawned in San’s eyes, and a gentle smile spread across his face. He stepped inside, mimicking Wooyoung’s earlier gesture by grabbing Jongho’s hand briefly as he passed. 

“Get comfortable first,” San said, motioning toward the bed. 

Jongho climbed back into the bed, pulling the blankets halfway up to leave room for San. He felt his heart race as San moved cautiously, like he was afraid Jongho might bolt. San lay down facing him but didn’t cross an invisible line that divided the bed. 

They lay there in silence for a moment, their eyes meeting in the dim light. Jongho found himself inhaling San’s scent, the soft notes of cherry blossoms weaving their way into his senses. It was calming, but it wasn’t enough. He wanted more. 

The memory of earlier that day resurfaced—San and Yunho scenting Wooyoung. He wanted that. Craved it. But the thought of asking made his stomach churn with anxiety. Was he even allowed to ask for something like that? 

San’s head lifted slightly, his brows knitting in concern. “Jongho, what’s wrong?” 

Jongho looked away, his voice faltering. “Um… I-I wanted to ask if you would... if you’d do what you did earlier with Yunho.” He blurted the words out as quickly as he could, bracing for rejection. 

It didn’t come. 

San blinked, clearly caught off guard, before realization lit up his face. “Scent you? Do you want me to scent you?” he asked, his tone tinged with excitement. 

Jongho nodded hesitantly, then quickly added, “Only if you want to.” 

San’s smile grew as he shifted closer. “Of course I want to. I’ve wanted to do it this whole time.” 

Before Jongho could respond, San leaned in, wrapping himself around Jongho as his head nestled into the crook of Jongho’s neck. The scent of cherry blossoms flooded the room, stronger and warmer than ever before. 

Jongho’s eyes fluttered shut, the warmth of San’s body and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat lulling him into a peace he hadn’t felt in years. 

He fell asleep to the sound of San’s heartbeat and the soft fragrance of cherry blossoms filling his senses. 

                                                                                               **** 

The soft warmth of sunlight spilled through the curtains, coaxing Jongho awake. He stirred slowly, his face half-buried in the pillow, the faint scent of cherry blossom lingering in the air. For a moment, he forgot where he was. The room was too soft, too warm, too foreign to be the cold kennel he had called home for so long. 

Panic flickered through him as he blinked at his surroundings, his heart racing. But then the scent of cherry blossom deepened, wrapping around him like a quiet reassurance. His gaze drifted to the other side of the bed, where San lay sleeping, his face calm and unguarded. 

The memories of the previous night crept back into Jongho’s mind—the nightmare, San at his door, the soft invitation to let him stay. He remembered San saying they had smelled his distress, a thought that sent a fresh wave of uncertainty coursing through him. How strong had his scent been? Had he made too much of a mess of things? 

Then came the memory of San scenting him, the way the hybrid had wrapped him in warmth and safety without hesitation. The thought made Jongho’s stomach twist. Did he take too much? Taken advantage of Sans kindess? 

His breath quickened, anxiety bubbling to the surface. 

San stirred beside him, groaning softly as he stretched his arms above his head. His sleepy eyes blinked open, and a faint smile tugged at his lips when he saw Jongho. 

“Good morning,” San murmured, his voice thick with sleep. 

“Good morning,” Jongho whispered back, his voice barely audible. 

San tilted his head slightly, studying him. “How are you feeling? Did you sleep okay?” 

Jongho hesitated, unsure how to answer. He had slept better than usual—better than he had in years—but admitting that felt vulnerable. “Better than usual,” he muttered eventually, his voice careful. 

San smiled, his tail flicking lazily behind him. “Good. That’s what I was hoping for.” He reached out, his fingers brushing Jongho’s hand briefly, and the touch was enough to quiet some of the worry clawing at Jongho’s chest. 

For a moment, they sat in silence, San’s gaze steady but gentle as he watched Jongho. 

“Wooyoung’s probably working on breakfast by now,” San said finally, breaking the quiet. “I should go help him finish. Are you hungry?” 

Jongho hesitated. He didn’t want to lie, but he also didn’t know how to admit he wasn’t sure he could eat. “A little,” he said softly. 

San nodded, seeming satisfied with the answer. “We can work with that. I’ll freshen up and head down. Meet me in the kitchen when you’re ready?” 

Jongho nodded, and San’s smile widened as he stood, stretching before heading for the door. His scent lingered briefly, wrapping the room in a comforting warmth before it began to fade. 

Left alone, Jongho stared at the rumpled spot where San had been. Slowly, he pulled the blanket toward his face, inhaling the faint traces of cherry blossoms. It was grounding, soothing, and for a moment, he let himself sink into the comfort of it. 

But the room grew too quiet, and after a few minutes, Jongho forced himself to move. He ran a hand through his hair before crossing to the dresser. The top drawer opened with a soft creak, revealing a mix of clothes. 

His eyes landed on the yellow sweater. 

The sight of it made his chest tighten, memories of the shelter swirling in his mind.  

He swallowed hard and reached past it, pulling out a pair of gray sweatpants and a black sweatshirt. He dressed quickly, avoiding his reflection in the mirror. The bruise on his neck ached less today, but he still didn’t want to see it. 

The faint murmur of voices and the clatter of dishes guided him to the kitchen. As Jongho stepped inside, the savory aroma of breakfast enveloped him—eggs, toast, and something faintly sweet mingling in the air. 

Wooyoung stood at the stove, gesturing animatedly as he spoke to San, who leaned against the counter with an easy grin. Both of them turned when Jongho entered. 

“Good morning, Jongho!” Wooyoung greeted brightly, his voice filled with excitement. 

Jongho hesitated by the doorway, his hands fidgeting at his sides. The rest of the pack was scattered around the room, their movements slow and relaxed in the morning light. 

Yunho leaned against Mingi, the two sharing a quiet conversation at the table. Mingi’s black hair was slightly messy, his sharp eyes warm as he laughed softly at something Yunho said. 

Hongjoong was seated at the far end of the table, scrolling through his tablet. His crimson hair fell into his eyes, but he didn’t seem to notice, his attention split between the device and Mingi. 

Yeosang and Seonghwa stood near the window, both holding cups of tea. The sunlight framed Yeosang’s golden hair, giving him an almost ethereal glow, while Seonghwa’s soft smile and calm demeanor radiated warmth. 

” Let's eat!” Wooyoung announced as he brought the final bowl of food over to the table.  

San waved him over. “Come sit!” he called, motioning to the empty chair between him and Wooyoung. 

Jongho swallowed hard, nodding as he made his way to the table. His steps were cautious, and he lowered himself into the seat slowly, his hands curling into his lap. 

Wooyoung placed a plate in front of him moments later, already loaded with food. “Hot and fresh! Eat as much as you want—or as little,” he said cheerfully. 

Jongho nodded, picking up his fork. He took a small bite, the flavors surprising him with their warmth. Slowly, he continued eating, each bite coming easier than the last. 

“Do you like it?” Wooyoung asked eagerly, leaning forward slightly. 

Jongho nodded, managing a small smile. “It’s really good. Thank you.” 

“Yay!” Wooyoung cheered, throwing his hands up triumphantly. 

“Why don’t you ever ask if I like it?” Yeosang teased, raising an eyebrow. 

Wooyoung pointed his fork at him. “You know why.” 

Soft laughter rippled around the table, and for the first time, Jongho didn’t feel out of place. The pack’s conversation flowed naturally, their easy camaraderie filling the room with warmth. They didn’t force him to join in, letting him simply listen and observe. 

By the time breakfast ended, Jongho’s plate was nearly empty.  Seonghwa looked at him with a smile when he saw Jongho's plate.

He stood as the others began clearing the table, his hands fidgeting nervously before he finally spoke. 

“Can I help?” he asked, his voice quiet but steady. 

The pack paused, their gazes turning to him in mild surprise. 

“You don’t have to,” Seonghwa said gently, his smile warm. “But if you’d like, you can grab those plates and bring them to the sink.” 

Jongho nodded quickly, carefully gathering the dishes. His movements were deliberate, almost reverent, as he handed them to Seonghwa. A faint warmth bloomed in his chest as he worked, a quiet sense of belonging settling over him. 

As he finished, Yeosang and Hongjoong approached him. 

“Would you like to see more of the house?” Yeosang asked, his tone calm but inviting. 

Jongho hesitated, then nodded. “Sure.” 

Jongho followed Hongjoong and Yeosang through the large glass doors at the back of the house, stepping into the backyard. The soft grass underfoot gave way to a stone path that led toward the garden, bathed in warm morning sunlight. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves and petals, carrying with it a blend of earthy and floral scents that immediately eased some of the tension in Jongho’s chest. 

As they walked further, the garden came into view. It was carefully arranged yet natural, as though each plant had grown into its perfect spot on its own. Colors bloomed in every direction, from vibrant yellows and reds to the calming greens of herbs nestled among the flowers. 

“This is one of the most peaceful places here,” Yeosang said, his voice calm as he gestured toward the garden. “It’s far enough from the house that all you can hear are the birds and the wind.” 

Jongho nodded faintly, his eyes scanning the rows of flowers and plants. A patch of bright orange and gold marigolds caught his attention, their petals glowing in the light. 

“Seonghwa’s marigolds,” Yeosang said with a small smile, noticing Jongho’s gaze. “They’re light and warmth, and they remind him to appreciate fleeting moments. He’s good at finding beauty everywhere.” 

Jongho lingered for a moment before following them further along the path. Nearby, a section of small lavender bushes swayed gently in the breeze, their pale purple blooms releasing a calming fragrance. Among them were clusters of delicate bluebells, their bell-shaped flowers nodding softly. 

“Lavender and bluebells,” Hongjoong explained, nodding toward Yeosang. “They’re for him—calm and steady. They make this place feel grounded.” 

Yeosang dipped his head modestly, but the corners of his lips twitched upward in a faint smile. 

Further down, Jongho spotted tall sunflowers standing proudly, their golden faces turned toward the sky, with small chamomile flowers blooming at their base. The sight made him pause, warmth flickering in his chest. 

“Those are Mingi’s,” Yeosang said softly. “The sunflowers are his strength and positivity. He always finds light, no matter how hard things get. And the chamomile—it’s his calmness, his quiet ability to heal.” 

Jongho nodded, understanding the connection at once. He could see Mingi in those flowers, their quiet presence inviting and reassuring. 

They passed a patch of zinnias and calendula, their bright colors standing out like bursts of energy. Jongho tilted his head slightly, already guessing their meaning. 

“Wooyoung’s,” Hongjoong said with a grin. “Joy, friendship, and healing. You’ve seen how he is—always bringing life to everything around him.” 

Jongho found himself smiling faintly. It was impossible not to picture Wooyoung’s vibrant personality reflected in the blooms. 

Nearby, a mix of mint and other herbs grew in neat rows, their scents mingling in the air. Among them were sprigs of lemon balm, their leaves shimmering faintly in the sunlight. 

“Lemon balm,” Hongjoong said, crouching to brush his fingers over the plant. “It’s mine—light, refreshing, and healing. I like to think it keeps things balanced.” He gestured toward a cluster of echinacea flowers nearby, their spiky petals striking against the green backdrop. “And these too—resilience and creativity. They’re important to me.” 

Jongho nodded, his gaze moving to the next section. A cluster of sweet alyssum formed a soft, delicate border around a patch of rosemary, its tiny blooms and fragrant leaves creating a subtle contrast. 

“Yunho’s,” Yeosang said with a knowing smile. “Kindness, protection, and loyalty. That’s him, isn’t it?” 

Jongho crouched slightly, brushing his fingers over the sweet alyssum blooms. Their simplicity and quiet strength reminded him of Yunho’s steady presence in the pack. 

Not far from the herbs, a bold hibiscus flower caught his eye, its vibrant petals soft but striking. Beside it grew a patch of catnip, its scent playful and calming at once. 

“San’s spot,” Yeosang said lightly. “Hibiscus for joy and beauty, catnip for his curiosity and warmth.” 

Jongho nodded again, finding comfort in the thoughtfulness of the garden’s layout. Each plant seemed to echo the pack’s personalities in ways that felt natural, not forced. 

As they continued, Yeosang guided them toward a quieter corner. Jongho froze when he saw the small lingonberry shrubs nestled there, their bright red berries standing out against the dark green leaves. Nearby, bold dahlias bloomed in intricate layers, their deep colors commanding attention without overpowering the space. 

“These are for you,” Yeosang said gently, stepping aside to let Jongho approach. 

Jongho crouched down, his fingers hovering over the lingonberries. Their vibrant red reminded him of the shrubs in his village, the taste of the berries still sharp in his memory. 

“They’re resilient,” Yeosang continued. “Strong, adaptable, and deeply rooted—just like you.” 

Jongho’s throat tightened, and his gaze shifted to the dahlias. He hesitated, unsure if he should touch them. 

“They’re beautiful,” he murmured, his voice barely audible. 

“They’re yours too,” Hongjoong said softly. “They remind us of you—complex, bold, and quietly strong.” 

Jongho’s chest tightened further, the weight of their words settling heavily on him. He reached out, his fingers brushing over the soft petals of a dahlia. The texture was smooth, almost velvety, and it made his breath hitch. 

The garden felt like more than just a collection of plants. It felt intentional, like every flower and herb had been chosen with care and meaning. It was overwhelming, but in the best way—a quiet reminder that he belonged here, even if he couldn’t fully believe it yet. 

After a while, Yeosang glanced toward the house. “We should head back,” he said gently. “The others might be wondering where we’ve gone.” 

Jongho nodded slowly, rising to his feet. He followed as they made their way back toward the house, the soft hum of the garden fading into the distance. 

As they stepped inside, the scent of lavender and wood polish greeted them, mingling faintly with the morning air. Jongho glanced down at his hands, dirt faintly smudged on his fingertips from the garden. 

“We can wash up here,” Yeosang said, motioning toward the sink. 

Jongho nodded, rinsing the dirt from his hands as Hongjoong and Yeosang did the same. The faint scent of lavender soap mixed with the coolness of the water, grounding him amidst the uncertainty. 

Yeosang glanced toward the stairs, his expression calm but unreadable. “The others are probably upstairs,” he said casually, though his tone carried a subtle weight. 

Hongjoong dried his hands, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “We should go check on them,” he said, turning toward Jongho. “I think you’ll want to see what they’ve been working on.” 

Jongho hesitated, his hands curling slightly at his sides. “Working on?” he asked softly. 

“You’ll see,” Yeosang said, his voice almost teasing. 

Hongjoong gestured for Jongho to follow, leading him up the staircase. The faint murmur of voices grew clearer as they reached the landing, punctuated by soft movements and the occasional scrape of furniture. Jongho’s heart thudded in his chest, anticipation and apprehension warring within him. 

At the end of the hall, Hongjoong stopped in front of a closed door. Resting a hand on the knob, he glanced back at Jongho with a steady smile. “Ready?” 

Jongho swallowed hard, his chest tightening, but he nodded. 

With a quiet push, Hongjoong opened the door, stepping aside to let Jongho enter first. 

Jongho froze in the doorway, his breath catching at the sight before him. 

The room was warm and inviting, with a balance of earthy tones and soft accents of color that made it feel vibrant without overwhelming the senses. The walls were a calming shade of blue-gray, grounding the space, while a mural stretched across one corner, depicting a grove of trees in twilight hues. Their dark silhouettes and intricate branches seemed almost alive, blending into the natural theme of the room. 

The bed stood at the center, its frame sturdy but simple. The comforter was a deep forest green, layered with throws and pillows in soft blues, muted creams, and subtle touches of burnt orange. The combination was striking yet understated, a blend of strength and softness that instantly drew the eye. 

Near the window, a low shelf held a single patch of dahlias in small, neat pots. Their vibrant, intricate blooms stood out against the subdued colors of the room, adding a sense of life and quiet beauty. Jongho’s gaze lingered on them, something unspoken catching in his chest. They didn’t feel like an afterthought—they felt deliberate. He knew enough about flowers to understand their meaning: bold, intricate, layered. Like there was more to them than met the eye. 

A sleek wooden desk sat near the far wall, its surface clear except for a lamp and a stack of blank notebooks. Above it hung an abstract print, its shades of green and blue blending with the tones of the room while adding a modern touch. The desk chair was cushioned and inviting, placed at just the right angle to catch the morning sunlight through the large window. 

San knelt by the foot of the bed, smoothing out the edges of a soft, woven rug. Its design was understated but beautiful, with overlapping patterns of leaves and vines that added depth to the floor. Yunho stood near the doorway, arms crossed, surveying the space with a satisfied smile. Wooyoung perched on the edge of the bed, his hands tugging at the last corner of the comforter, ensuring it sat just right. Seonghwa adjusted the pillows with precision, while Mingi set down a small box near the desk, quietly stepping back to admire the room. 

Jongho stepped inside slowly, his gaze sweeping across the space. “This is…” he began, his voice faltering. “This is incredible.” 

“It’s yours,” Hongjoong said softly, stepping beside him. “We wanted it to feel like you.” 

Jongho blinked, his throat tightening. His gaze flicked to Yeosang, who stood leaning casually against the doorway, a knowing smile playing on his lips. The layout of the room suddenly clicked in his mind, and recognition dawned. “The sketch,” he whispered. “This is it.” 

Yeosang gave a small nod, his voice light. “Of course. It was always meant for you.” 

Jongho’s gaze traveled back to the room, lingering on the mural, the bed, the carefully chosen details. He traced the edge of the desk with his fingers, the smooth wood cool beneath his touch. “I don’t... I don’t deserve this,” he murmured, the words slipping out before he could stop them. 

“You do,” Seonghwa said firmly, stepping away from the bed. His tone was warm but resolute, leaving no room for argument. “You deserve a space that’s yours. One that’s safe.” 

“And you can make it your own,” Yunho added from his spot near the door. “Move things around, change it up—whatever you want. It’s all yours.” 

Wooyoung grinned, hopping off the bed. “I told them you’d love it,” he said, his tone playful but proud. 

San stood, brushing off his hands as his tail flicked behind him. “I think he’s speechless,” he teased, glancing at Wooyoung with a grin. 

Jongho nodded faintly, his voice caught in his throat. His gaze settled on the dahlias by the window, their vibrant hues a quiet contrast to the room’s softer tones. The sight of them stirred something in him—a sense of quiet pride, of possibility. They were intricate and bold, yet delicate in their own way. He didn’t understand why they were there, but they felt… right. 

He looked back at the pack, the warmth of their presence filling the room like a soft hum in the background. For the first time in years, Jongho allowed himself to think of the word home. It wasn’t a certainty—it was more like a fragile seedling, something that might take root if given time. 

But standing here, surrounded by their care, it didn’t seem so impossible. 

Mingi approached, holding something behind his back. His steps were slow and deliberate, as though he were gathering courage with each one. “Wait,” he said softly, his deep voice steady but carrying a hint of nervousness. “There’s one more thing.” 

Jongho turned to him, confusion flickering in his tired eyes. “What is it?” he asked cautiously. 

Mingi stepped closer, holding out a small box with both hands. “Here,” he said simply, his tone steady but kind. 

Jongho hesitated, his hands trembling as he reached for the box. The weight of it felt heavier than it should have, as if it carried more than just its contents. He opened it slowly, unsure of what to expect. 

Inside was a scarf—a soft, beautiful piece that made Jongho’s breath hitch. The pastel colors were familiar: pale pinks, gentle yellows, and soft blues blended together in a delicate floral pattern. It wasn’t exactly the same as the one he had lost, but the moment he saw it, memories flooded back. The scarf reminded him of the hope he had tried so hard to hold onto, the comfort it had once brought him when everything else felt impossible. 

His fingers brushed over the fabric, impossibly soft, as though it were woven from something unreal. The faint shimmer in the light made it seem even more precious. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe, the thoughtfulness of the gift overwhelming. 

“I remembered how you used to hold the old one,” Mingi said quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. His voice was low, tentative, as though afraid of Jongho’s reaction. “It looked… important to you. So, I thought you might like something similar.” 

Jongho stared at the scarf in his hands, his vision blurring as tears filled his eyes. His throat tightened, and the lump there refused to budge. He wanted to say something—anything—but no words came. His hands trembled as he clutched the scarf closer to his chest. 

“I… I don’t deserve this,” Jongho whispered finally, his voice cracking. 

Mingi’s brows furrowed, concern softening his features. “Of course you do,” he said, his tone firm but gentle. Then, more softly, he asked, “Jongho… Can I hug you?” 

The question broke something inside him. Jongho nodded, the movement jerky and hesitant, but his grip on the scarf didn’t falter. 

Mingi stepped forward, wrapping his arms around Jongho in a firm but careful embrace. His hold was steady, grounding, as though trying to anchor Jongho in the moment. The hug wasn’t rushed, wasn’t fleeting—it lingered, offering a quiet reassurance that Jongho didn’t know how to accept. 

The tears came then, silent but heavy, slipping down Jongho’s cheeks as he sank into Mingi’s embrace. The scarf pressed against his chest was a tangible reminder of the care behind the gesture, of the effort they had put into making him feel seen. 

“You don’t have to say anything,” Mingi murmured, his voice warm and steady. “We just... we wanted you to have something that felt like you again.” 

Jongho closed his eyes, letting himself lean into the hug as the weight of his emotions threatened to spill over entirely. For the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to take the comfort being offered to him. The pastel threads of the scarf brushed against his skin like a quiet promise. 

Wooyoung broke the moment, hopping off the bed with an exaggerated flourish. “Alright, everyone out! Jongho needs time to soak it all in.” 

San laughed softly, ruffling Wooyoung’s hair as he passed. “You just want to take credit for your part,” he teased. 

The pack began filing out, their soft laughter and banter filling the space with warmth. Yeosang leaned into Seonghwa as they walked to the door, his head resting lightly on the older member’s shoulder. The sight made Jongho’s chest ache with longing—a longing he quickly pushed down. 

Hongjoong lingered by the door, his gaze steady but gentle as he glanced back at Jongho. “We’ll be downstairs if you need anything,” he said quietly. 

The door clicked shut, leaving Jongho alone in the quiet room. 

For a moment, peace settled over him. He sat on the edge of the bed, his fingers trailing over the soft comforter as his eyes swept across the space. The warmth of the scarf against his wrist grounded him, and he let out a shaky breath. The room felt unfamiliar but inviting, like something he might one day learn to call home. 

But the peace didn’t last. 

Guilt crept in slowly at first, a whisper in the back of his mind. They don’t know, it said, its voice growing louder with every beat of his heart. They don’t know you’re a beta. They think you’re something else—something worth keeping. What will they do when they find out the truth? 

Jongho’s breath quickened, his hands clenching in his lap. His chest tightened as the voice grew sharper, more insistent. They’ll hate you. They’ll kick you out. You don’t belong here. 

He stood abruptly, pacing the room as the panic rose. The scarf fluttered at his side, the pastel colors a stark contrast to the storm brewing inside him. He tried to push the thoughts away, but they clung to him, refusing to let go. His mind spun with what-ifs, each one worse than the last. 

They deserve to know, he thought suddenly, his steps faltering. He couldn’t keep hiding it. If they were going to reject him, he needed to know now—before he let himself believe this could be his home. 

With trembling hands, he tied the scarf carefully around his wrist, the soft fabric brushing against his skin like a fragile tether. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, but his legs still felt shaky as he stepped out of the room. 

The walk downstairs felt endless, each step heavier than the last. Sweat clung to his skin, and his heart pounded so loudly he thought the pack might hear it before they saw him. When he reached the living room, he stopped, his breath catching at the sight before him. 

The pack was sprawled comfortably across the space, their ease palpable. Yeosang was curled into Seonghwa’s side on the couch, his head tucked against the older man’s shoulder as they quietly flipped through a book together. San and Wooyoung sat cross-legged on the floor, laughing over a card game. Yunho was stretched out on the other couch, his arm slung casually over Mingi’s shoulders as they shared quiet conversation. Hongjoong was in the armchair, his tablet resting on his lap, his crimson hair catching the soft glow of the lamp beside him. 

They all looked so at home, so perfectly connected. Jongho felt like an intruder just standing there, the warmth of the room pressing against the icy panic in his chest. For a fleeting moment, he considered turning back, but his resolve held. 

One by one, their heads turned toward him, their conversations pausing as their eyes met his. The sudden weight of their attention made his throat tighten, and he fidgeted nervously with the scarf tied around his wrist. 

“I…” His voice wavered, the words catching. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to try again. “I have to tell you something,” he said, his tone shaking under the weight of his fear. 

The pack stayed silent, their gazes steady but gentle. Jongho’s hands trembled at his sides as he took a small step forward, the scarf brushing softly against his skin—a fragile reminder of the care they had shown him. 

Chapter Text

Yunho’s POV 

Yunho stood near the back of the room, his sharp eyes tracking Jongho as he stepped inside. The younger hybrid’s movements were slow and hesitant, his posture stiff with unease. The weight of the room shifted immediately, all eyes turning toward him. 

Jongho paused a few steps in, his hands fidgeting nervously. Jongho’s fingers brushed over the scarf tied loosely around his wrist, his motions repetitive and faintly trembling. Yunho wondered if the small, deliberate touch was a comfort or just something to distract him from the weight of the moment. His gaze flickered around the pack, avoiding direct eye contact, and Yunho could see the tension radiating off him. The room was silent, expectant. 

Yunho could feel the others waiting—Hongjoong with his calm but worried expression, Seonghwa sitting upright with his hands folded neatly in his lap, Mingi leaning forward slightly, his broad shoulders tense. Even Wooyoung and San, usually restless, were unusually still. 

Jongho opened his mouth but faltered, his lips pressing into a thin line as if the words had caught in his throat. His hands clenched at his sides, his breaths coming uneven and shallow. 

Yunho’s chest tightened. Whatever Jongho was carrying, it was clearly crushing him. 

Finally, Jongho’s voice broke the silence, trembling and faint. “I—I lied to you.” 

The words hit like a jolt. Yunho’s brows furrowed as he straightened, his sharp gaze locked on Jongho. The younger hybrid’s shoulders trembled as he sank to his knees.  

Yunho felt something twist painfully in his chest. No one should look this small, this broken—not here, not with them. 

As Jongho knelt on the floor, his hands trembled, clenching tightly around the scarf tied to his wrist. The fabric bunched beneath his fingers, a small, fragile anchor as his voice faltered under the weight of his words.  

Around him, the rest of the pack moved almost instinctively. Hongjoong was the first to leave his seat, lowering himself onto the floor with a soft, deliberate motion. Seonghwa followed, his expression steady but tinged with worry. Wooyoung and San shifted next, their movements slow and careful as they knelt close enough to offer comfort without crowding him. Even Mingi, usually deliberate and slow to act, slid down onto the floor in one smooth motion, his presence as solid as ever. 

“What do you mean?” Hongjoong asked, his voice calm but filled with concern. “What did you lie to us about?” 

Jongho’s breath hitched audibly. Yunho’s sharp ears caught it, along with the faint, rapid thud of his heartbeat. His own frustration simmered beneath the surface—not at Jongho, but at whatever had driven him to this point. 

“The bruises on my neck,” Jongho whispered, his voice shaking as he stared at the floor. “They’re not from my collar.” 

The room seemed to hold its breath. Yunho’s fists clenched at his sides, his anger bubbling dangerously close to the surface. 

“What are they from, then?” Seonghwa asked gently, his tone feather-light. 

Jongho squeezed his eyes shut, his entire body trembling. Yunho could feel the tension radiating off him, the way he seemed to curl inward under the weight of his own words. 

“A hybrid at the shelter,” Jongho admitted, his voice cracking. 

Yunho felt a sharp flare of anger burn through him, hot and unrelenting. His fists curled tighter as he fought to keep his scent neutral, but the acrid edge of his frustration still leaked into the air. The thought of someone hurting Jongho—someone who should have been in the same position of vulnerability, someone who should have understood—made his blood boil. 

Jongho’s trembling worsened, and Yunho realized his scent wasn’t helping. He stepped back slightly, forcing himself to breathe and reel it in. 

“What happened?” Wooyoung asked softly, his voice coaxing and gentle. 

Jongho inhaled shakily, his shoulders hunching as he forced the words out. “I—I wasn’t listening to him… or responding.” His voice wavered, breaking slightly as he continued. “He… he took my scarf, and I tried to get it back, but then…” His hand trembled as it gestured toward his neck, the words trailing off into silence. 

Yunho couldn’t stop himself this time. “Why didn’t you protect yourself?” The words came out sharper than he intended, cutting through the room like a blade. 

Jongho flinched violently, his ears flattening against his head. Guilt surged in Yunho’s chest immediately. He opened his mouth to apologize, but Hongjoong’s voice cut him off. 

“Yunho.” The single word was calm but firm, laced with reprimand. 

Mingi’s hand landed on Yunho’s shoulder, grounding him with its weight. Yunho bit down on his frustration, forcing himself to step back. 

“I couldn’t,” Jongho choked out, his voice trembling as he struggled to keep speaking. “Most people are already scared of me. I couldn’t risk being seen as... as aggressive. If I told someone, they would’ve blamed me. I—” His voice broke entirely, and Yunho felt his stomach twist painfully as tears spilled down Jongho’s cheeks. “I wanted to see you guys. If I had gotten in trouble, they wouldn’t have let me. I couldn’t risk that.” 

Yunho’s chest ached. The fear in Jongho’s voice was visceral, raw, and it filled the room like a weight. 

Wooyoung leaned closer to Jongho, his voice soft but steady. “Thank you for telling us. You did a good job.” 

Jongho blinked up at Wooyoung, wide-eyed and disbelieving. Yunho could see the way he searched Wooyoung’s face, looking for doubt or pity. He wouldn’t find either—only quiet reassurance. 

As the rest of the pack moved closer, Yunho hung back, his sharp eyes never leaving Jongho. His frustration lingered, but it wasn’t at Jongho. It was at the system that had failed him, the shelter that had let this happen, and the hybrid who had taken advantage of Jongho’s silence. 

Yunho clenched his fists again, forcing himself to stay steady. For now, Jongho didn’t need anger. He needed stability. 

Yunho could do that. 

Yunho stayed where he was, his sharp eyes tracking every movement as Jongho shifted uncomfortably. Even with Wooyoung and San close by, offering quiet reassurance, Jongho’s body was stiff with tension, like he was ready to bolt. 

And then he did. 

Jongho wiggled free of their gentle touches, his hands trembling as he scrambled backward, putting space between himself and the pack. His breathing was uneven, each exhale shaky, and Yunho felt his stomach twist at the sight. Yunho noticed the way Jongho’s hands lingered on the scarf, his grip tight and desperate. It was like he was clinging to it—clinging to the only thing that felt like his. 

“There’s… there’s something else,” Jongho said, his voice barely audible. 

Yunho frowned, stepping forward cautiously. He didn’t move quickly—didn’t want to push Jongho further—but he kept his sharp gaze on him, taking in the trembling of his shoulders and the way his arms wrapped tightly around himself. 

The rest of the pack stayed still, their concern radiating in the quiet as their gazes followed Jongho. 

Jongho’s head dipped lower, his voice cracking when he spoke again. “It’s alright if you want to take me back. I promise I’ll understand.” 

Yunho’s breath caught at those words. Take him back? 

“What? No!” Wooyoung’s voice rang out sharply, startling Jongho enough to make him flinch. Wooyoung softened immediately, shaking his head. “That’s not going to happen!” 

Hongjoong shifted closer, still calm and steady. “We’re not taking you back, Jongho. You’re part of this family now.” 

Jongho stilled at those words, his shoulders trembling visibly. Yunho didn’t need to be in his head to know something wasn’t landing right. The way Jongho’s hands clenched against his arms, his breath coming faster, told Yunho enough: he wasn’t accepting it. 

“I’m…” Jongho’s voice faltered before breaking entirely. “I’m a beta.” 

The words hit the room like a stone dropped into still water. 

Yunho exchanged a quick glance with San, who tilted his head slightly in acknowledgment. Of course, they’d already known. Scent wasn’t something hybrids could hide, not entirely—not from someone like Yunho, whose instincts were sharp and finely tuned. San had probably picked up on it too, though neither of them had thought much of it at the time. Jongho’s scent, warm and steady like toasted marshmallows near a campfire, didn’t scream for attention like some alphas or omegas. It was subtle but grounding, and Yunho hadn’t seen any reason to bring it up. To him, it was just another part of Jongho, no more or less significant than the quiet determination in his eyes or the scars he carried so carefully. What did it matter if he was a beta? But now, seeing the way Jongho’s hands trembled slightly, his voice quieter than before, Yunho realized it mattered a lot—to Jongho.

Yunho felt the ripple of emotion in the air, though no one spoke right away. He stayed where he was, observing the way Jongho’s frame seemed to collapse inward, his arms tightening around himself like a shield. 

Silence stretched until Mingi’s calm, deep voice broke it. “Okay. Thanks for telling us.” 

Yunho glanced at Mingi in surprise, the simplicity of his words almost startling. 

“What?” Jongho whispered, his voice trembling as he looked up, his eyes wide and confused. “That’s it? Just… okay?” 

“Hongjoong has a beta buddy now!” Yeosang added with a small, tentative grin, nudging Hongjoong lightly. 

Jongho froze, his breath catching audibly. His gaze darted to Yeosang, then to Hongjoong, his confusion growing. 

“Wait… what do you mean?” Jongho asked, his voice shaking. “Hongjoong isn’t... he can’t be a beta.” 

Yunho took another step forward, crouching slowly to meet Jongho’s level. He kept his voice steady, soft. “Why do you think Hongjoong can’t be a beta?” 

Jongho hesitated, his hands trembling as his lips parted and closed again. “He’s… he’s too confident,” he said finally, his voice breaking. “Betas aren’t like that. He doesn’t act like one. People look at him. They listen to him. They respect him. That doesn’t happen to betas.” 

Yunho’s chest tightened at the rawness in Jongho’s tone, the way his voice cracked with each word. 

“People like me,” Jongho continued, his voice rising slightly with panic, “they look at us like we’re disposable. Like we don’t matter. That’s why I thought…” His gaze darted nervously to Hongjoong before dropping back to the floor. “I thought he was an alpha. Or maybe an omega on suppressants. But not a beta. He can’t be.” 

Yunho let out a quiet breath, his gaze softening. “Do you know who leads this pack, Jongho?” 

Jongho blinked, his head lifting slightly in confusion. He shook his head slowly. 

“It’s Hongjoong,” Yunho said, his lips tugging into a small, warm smile. “And no, he’s not an alpha. He’s not an omega. He’s a beta. Just like you.” 

Jongho’s breath hitched, his expression flickering between disbelief and something deeper—something Yunho couldn’t quite name. 

“That’s not possible,” Jongho whispered, his voice barely audible. “Betas can’t lead. They’re not strong enough. They’re not… enough.” 

Yunho’s voice softened further, a quiet sadness creeping into his tone. “Who told you that?” 

Jongho flinched, his arms tightening around himself again as his gaze dropped. “It’s just the truth,” he muttered, his voice small and defeated. “I’m not strong, or brave, or smart. I’m nothing. My father... he told me I’d never be enough. And he was right.” 

“No,” Yunho said firmly, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “Your father was wrong.” 

Jongho’s tears spilled over as he shook his head harder. “He wasn’t! I couldn’t protect myself at the shelter. I let people walk all over me. I can’t do anything. I’m just weak—and that’s all I’ll ever be.” 

Hongjoong’s voice was calm but unyielding. “Jongho,” he said gently, shifting closer. “Look at me.” 

Jongho hesitated, his watery gaze lifting reluctantly to meet Hongjoong’s. 

“I’m a beta,” Hongjoong said firmly, his expression unwavering. “And I lead this pack. Do you know why?” 

Jongho shook his head, his lips trembling. 

“Because leadership isn’t about being an alpha or omega,” Hongjoong continued. “It’s about trust. It’s about care. It’s about strength—but not the kind you’re thinking of. Strength isn’t about dominating or fighting. It’s about protecting the people you love. It’s about enduring. And I see that strength in you.” 

Yunho stayed silent, letting Hongjoong’s words settle. He didn’t move closer, but his sharp eyes remained locked on Jongho, taking in every subtle shift of his expression. 

“I’m not strong,” Jongho whispered, his voice breaking. “I’m not like you.” 

“You’re stronger than you think,” Hongjoong said gently. “You’ve survived things no one else has. You’re here, despite everything you’ve been through. That’s strength.” 

Seonghwa’s voice joined next, soft and sure. “You don’t have to carry this by yourself anymore, Jongho. You’re not alone.” 

San leaned in closer, his calming scent wrapping around Jongho like a blanket. “You’re safe with us,” he said quietly. “We’re not going anywhere.” 

Wooyoung rested his hand lightly on Jongho’s shoulder. “You’re part of this family now,” he murmured. “And we don’t leave family behind.” 

Jongho finally crumbled, a sob tearing free as he leaned into San’s shoulder. Yunho let out a quiet breath, his body relaxing slightly. The pack’s warmth surrounded Jongho, steady and unyielding. 

And for the first time, Yunho allowed himself to believe that Jongho might begin to see what they already did. 

That did not last long.  

The weight of the room had shifted, but Yunho could still feel the lingering tension pressing down on everyone, heavier than before. Even as Jongho’s sobs subsided into uneven breaths, his body remained taut with unresolved emotion. San’s arm stayed firmly wrapped around Jongho’s shoulders, and Wooyoung’s hand traced slow, calming circles on his back. 

At first, Yunho thought the contact was helping. But as he watched Jongho’s ears twitch—flattening tight against his head before flicking forward again—and noticed the way his chest heaved with shallow, unsteady breaths, Yunho realized it wasn’t. San’s grip, Wooyoung’s touch, the pack’s closeness… it was too much. It was suffocating him. 

“Maybe we should give him a little space,” Seonghwa said softly, his calm but purposeful tone cutting through the silence. 

San stiffened immediately, his ears pinning back in protest. His grip on Jongho tightened slightly, and his tail curled protectively around him. “But—he—” 

“San.” Seonghwa’s voice was gentle but firm, his gaze steady. “He’s overwhelmed. We’ve all been there.” He glanced at Jongho, who hadn’t moved from his curled position, his trembling worsening with every second of contact. “He needs to breathe. Let him.” 

San hesitated, his tail flicking nervously before he reluctantly loosened his grip. His hands lingered for a moment, hovering over Jongho’s shoulders like he wasn’t ready to let go, before finally retreating. 

Wooyoung hesitated too, his hand faltering mid-motion on Jongho’s back. He exchanged a brief look with San before pulling away, retreating with obvious reluctance. 

Yunho’s tail flicked behind him as he watched the rest of the pack follow suit. Mingi crouched beside Jongho briefly, his large hand brushing lightly over his shoulder. “We’re here if you need us,” he said, his deep voice steady but low. Then he stood and stepped back, giving Jongho the space Seonghwa had asked for. 

Hongjoong lingered longer, his sharp eyes scanning Jongho’s hunched form, but he didn’t speak. His silence was heavy with unspoken worry before he moved back to join the others. Yeosang was the last to kneel briefly, placing a hand on Jongho’s knee. His lips pressed into a firm line before he stood and followed the rest. 

The soft scuff of their footsteps faded, leaving the room quieter than it had been all night. Almost quiet. 

Not completely. 

Yunho stayed where he was, leaning against the far wall. His tall frame was still, his posture deliberate. He let his tail sweep gently along the floor, its slow movement purposeful, as if to show he wasn’t a threat. 

Jongho didn’t lift his head. His ears were flattened tight against his skull, and his arms curled around his knees as though trying to shield himself from the world. Yunho stayed silent, keeping his presence steady but unobtrusive. 

He didn’t press. He waited. 

The silence wasn’t heavy. It was open, like a space Yunho had left deliberately for Jongho to fill whenever he was ready. 

Finally, Yunho spoke, his voice breaking the stillness. “I’ll stay close,” he said softly. The words were simple, but they carried weight. It wasn’t a question or a command—it was a promise. 

Jongho’s fingers twitched faintly where they gripped the fabric of his pants, but he didn’t look up. His ears flicked forward slightly at the sound of Yunho’s voice before flattening again. 

Yunho’s tail stilled, curling around his side as he adjusted his posture slightly, careful not to move too quickly. 

Time stretched between them, broken only by the sound of Jongho’s shaky breaths as they slowly began to even out. 

“Can I… go to the garden?” Jongho asked, his voice trembling and small. 

Yunho straightened immediately, his ears perking forward. “Of course,” he said softly. After a brief pause, he added, “Can I come with?” 

Jongho hesitated, his shoulders stiffening slightly. His ears flicked again, a nervous motion Yunho didn’t miss. After a moment, Jongho gave a small nod, his movements slow and reluctant. 

As he pushed himself unsteadily to his feet, Yunho’s tail swished once in relief before settling behind him again. Jongho’s legs were shaky, his body stiff as he started toward the door, and Yunho followed at a careful distance, keeping his steps soft and deliberate. 

When they stepped outside, the cool evening air brushed over them, ruffling Yunho’s tail. He caught the faint scent of soil and greenery, the garden’s familiar calmness wrapping around them. 

Jongho moved toward the far corner of the garden, where the tall hedges offered privacy. He sank onto the grass without a word, curling his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms tightly around them. 

Yunho followed, stopping a few feet away. He lowered himself to the ground cross-legged, his tail curling neatly around his side. He didn’t move closer, didn’t speak, letting the quiet of the garden settle between them. 

Jongho’s ears twitched faintly, but his gaze stayed fixed on the ground. His fingers traced faint lines in the fabric of his pants, trembling slightly. 

“I’m sorry,” Yunho said suddenly, his voice breaking the stillness. 

Jongho’s ears flicked toward him, his fingers stilling. “Why?” he asked softly, his voice raw and strained. 

“For snapping at you earlier,” Yunho admitted, his tone filled with quiet regret. His tail curled tighter against his side. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like you had to explain yourself.” 

“You didn’t,” Jongho said quickly, though his voice cracked. “You were just… frustrated.” 

“I was,” Yunho agreed, his honesty cutting through the tension. “But not at you. I was frustrated because I wasn’t there. I wasn’t there to stop it.” 

Jongho’s ears flattened again, his hands curling tightly around his knees. “You didn’t even know me then,” he whispered. 

“I know,” Yunho said softly. “But it doesn’t make it easier to hear. Knowing what happened to you, knowing you felt like you couldn’t fight back or ask for help—it makes me angry. Not at you,” he added quickly, his voice firm. “At the world for putting you in that position. At myself for not being there sooner.” 

Jongho’s breath hitched, his shoulders trembling slightly. He didn’t meet Yunho’s gaze, but his body seemed just a little less tense. 

“It’s not your fault,” Yunho murmured, his voice steady but filled with quiet intensity. “What happened to you matters, Jongho. Your pain matters.” 

Jongho’s fingers curled into the fabric of his pants, his shoulders trembling as though he was trying to hold himself together. Yunho watched the subtle twitch of his ears, flicking once before flattening tightly against his head again. 

He wanted to reach out, to close the space between them, but he knew better. Jongho’s tension was a barrier Yunho couldn’t cross—not yet. 

Jongho’s chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, and when he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper, trembling with the weight of his confession. “I don’t feel strong,” Jongho said, his words breaking. “I feel broken.” 

Yunho’s tail flicked once before stilling. His body leaned forward slightly, his movements careful and deliberate. “You’re not broken,” he said softly, his voice steady but gentle. “You’re hurt. But hurt can heal. And you don’t have to do it alone.” 

The words hung in the air between them, quiet but firm. Jongho’s fingers stilled, his grip loosening slightly, though his gaze stayed fixed on the dirt beneath him. 

Yunho watched carefully, his sharp eyes catching the faint tremble of Jongho’s shoulders. He didn’t push; he let the silence breathe, letting the words settle like a light touch. 

“You’re stronger than you think,” Yunho continued, his voice quieter now, unwavering in its certainty. “I see it, even if you don’t. You’ve survived things no one should ever have to face. That takes strength.” 

Jongho shook his head, his ears pressing even flatter against his skull as fresh tears welled in his eyes. “I don’t feel strong,” he said again, his voice cracking under the weight of the words. “I feel… hollow. Like there’s nothing left.” 

Yunho’s chest tightened, his tail curling reflexively around his side. “That’s okay,” he said gently, his tone softer now. “Feeling empty doesn’t mean you are. It just means you’ve been carrying too much for too long. Let us help you carry it, Jongho.” 

He could see the shift in Jongho’s posture as the words landed. His shoulders slumped, his head dipping lower as a shaky breath escaped him. Silent tears spilled down his cheeks, carving uneven trails across his skin. 

Yunho stayed where he was, his presence steady and deliberate. He didn’t move closer, didn’t speak again right away. He let the silence return, open and unpressured, giving Jongho the space to feel without interference. 

“Whenever you’re ready,” Yunho said softly after a long pause. His voice was calm, even, but there was weight behind it. “We’re here. I’m here.” 

Jongho didn’t respond. His lips trembled, and his fingers brushed faint lines in the dirt. His shoulders shook lightly, his breath uneven as he stayed curled in on himself. 

Yunho’s tail flicked once again, the slow movement matching the deliberate calm he kept in his posture. He didn’t expect a response, and when none came, he simply stayed, unmoving, letting Jongho feel without judgment. 

Time passed slowly, the quiet of the garden wrapping around them like a shield. Yunho let his sharp eyes drift to the surrounding greenery for a moment, grounding himself in the steady rustle of leaves and the cool breeze brushing through his fur. 

Finally, Jongho’s voice broke the stillness, trembling but audible. “Why are you all like this?” he asked softly, his gaze still fixed downward. “Why don’t you just… give up?” 

Yunho blinked, surprised by the question. His tail swished slowly as he considered his answer. 

“We don’t give up,” he said carefully, his voice firm but kind, “because you’re one of us now. That’s what family does. We’re not perfect, but we’re here. For you.” 

Jongho’s lips parted slightly, but no words came. His arms tightened faintly around his knees, his ears twitching as he processed Yunho’s words. 

Yunho waited, watching the tension in Jongho’s frame gradually shift, though it didn’t fully leave. After a long moment, Yunho broke the silence again. 

“There’s something else I want to say,” he said softly, his voice hesitant but steady. “Something I’ve learned from being with this pack.” 

Jongho glanced up faintly, his teary gaze meeting Yunho’s for the briefest moment. 

“You don’t have to be perfect to belong,” Yunho said, his voice filled with quiet conviction. “None of us are. We’re messy, and we’ve all struggled in different ways. But that’s why we’re here—for each other. You don’t have to prove anything to us, Jongho. You already belong.” 

Jongho swallowed hard, his throat tightening visibly as more tears slipped down his cheeks. He buried his face in his arms, his body trembling with emotion. 

Yunho didn’t say anything else. He let his tail curl lightly against his side, his presence steady and unyielding. The garden felt quieter now, the air lighter, and Yunho simply stayed, unmoving, as Jongho let himself cry. 

  **** Jongho's POV **** 

The cool evening air clung to Jongho’s skin, the growing chill seeping into his bones as the garden fell silent around him. Jongho’s fingers traced the edge of the scarf tied snugly around his wrist, the fabric warm from the heat of his skin. It was a nervous gesture, one he hadn’t even realized he was doing, but it kept his hands steady as the chill of the evening air crept in. His ears twitched, flicking toward the horizon where the last traces of sunlight were swallowed by the darkening sky. The garden had been a refuge, a space to breathe, but the cold and hunger gnawed at him now, pulling him back to reality. 

“It’s getting dark,” he murmured softly, his voice barely audible as his arms wrapped around himself. 

Yunho’s head turned at once, his ears perking slightly as his sharp gaze settled on Jongho. His tail gave a slow, deliberate swish as he rose from the grass, brushing stray blades from his pants. “You’re right,” he said gently, his tone calm. “Let’s head inside. It’s getting cold.” 

Jongho hesitated, glancing at Yunho’s easy smile. The sight of it stirred something in him—a warmth he didn’t know how to hold onto. Yunho had been kind, steady in a way that felt almost foreign, and though Jongho appreciated it, he didn’t quite know how to respond to it. 

His legs felt stiff as he pushed himself up, his knees aching from sitting so long. His movements were slow, and Yunho stayed close, his presence steady without crowding him. 

“You okay?” Yunho asked, his brows furrowing slightly as he watched Jongho rub at his knees. “You should’ve said something if you were uncomfortable.” 

“I’m fine,” Jongho replied quickly, his ears flicking back. “It’s nothing.” 

Yunho tilted his head slightly, his tail swishing once behind him. He studied Jongho’s tense posture for a moment before he stepped closer, his expression soft. “Can I hug you?” 

Jongho froze. His ears twitched at the question, and his arms tightened instinctively around himself. 

A hug. It shouldn’t have felt like such a monumental offer, but the simplicity of it left him off-balance. He wanted to say yes—wanted to step forward and close the space between them. Yunho had been patient and warm, his steady presence grounding Jongho in a way that felt safe. 

And yet, he couldn’t move. 

The thought of reaching out, of letting Yunho’s arms wrap around him, was enough to make his chest tighten painfully. His mind raced with doubts: What if Yunho only offered because he felt sorry for him? What if he let himself lean into it and found it wasn’t what he thought it would be? What if he broke apart completely? 

Jongho shook his head quickly, his ears flattening slightly. “I… I’m fine. Really.” 

Yunho’s tail stilled, and his brows furrowed just enough to show a flicker of concern. But he didn’t push. “Alright,” he said softly. His smile was still there, warm and unwavering. “Just let me know if you change your mind.” 

Jongho nodded stiffly, keeping his gaze fixed on the ground. His chest ached, the urge to step closer and accept Yunho’s offer warring with the sharp sting of his fears. 

The two began walking back toward the house, Yunho falling into step beside him. The warm glow spilling from the windows seemed almost inviting, but Jongho’s nerves buzzed faintly as the faint hum of voices carried through the walls. 

A familiar scent reached him before they stepped inside—rich and savory, with a subtle warmth that tugged at his memory. His nose twitched as he tried to place it, the sensation both comforting and disorienting. 

Yunho held the door open, and Wooyoung’s voice rang out from the dining room before they could step inside. “Wait a second!” 

They both froze, and Wooyoung appeared in the doorway, his hands on his hips. “You two are not walking into dinner like that. Wash up first.” 

Yunho raised his hands in mock surrender, his grin easy. “Alright, alright.” 

Wooyoung’s sharp gaze shifted to Jongho, softening slightly as he pointed down the hall. “Bathroom’s that way. Wash your hands before you touch anything.” 

Jongho nodded quickly, eager to avoid more attention. He glanced at Yunho, who gave him an encouraging smile, before heading down the hall. 

When they returned a few minutes later, the scent of dinner was even stronger, and Jongho stopped short in the doorway to the dining room. The sight before him made his ears twitch in surprise. 

The table was covered in dishes that filled the air with a comforting mix of aromas—rich stew, golden soup with fresh herbs floating on top, perfectly grilled fish, warm flatbreads, and even a plate of spiced rice that tugged at a memory he hadn’t visited in years. 

The pack was seated around the table, their voices falling quiet as they noticed him. Wooyoung’s grin was the first thing to break the silence. “There you are! We were starting to think Yunho got lost bringing you back.” 

Jongho blinked, his eyes flicking from Wooyoung to the food. His chest tightened, a strange mix of confusion and something softer blooming inside him. “You... you made all of this?” he asked quietly. 

Wooyoung nodded, his grin widening “I did most of it,” he said lightly. “San helped with the soup, and the others pitched in here and there. But—he gestured toward the spread—“I did some research. I wanted to make sure you’d like it.” His voice softened. “I hope I got it right.” 

Jongho’s gaze lingered on the plate of spiced rice, the faint scent tugging at something deep in his chest. It was the same dish his mother used to make on cold evenings, her soft hands guiding his as she taught him to sprinkle the perfect blend of spices. 

The memory hit him hard, his throat tightening as he swallowed against the wave of emotion rising inside him. “You didn’t have to…” he said, his voice faltering. 

“We wanted to,” Seonghwa said gently, his tone steady. “You’ve had a long day. This is our way of welcoming you.” 

“Come sit,” Wooyoung added, gesturing to a chair. “Try the soup first. San swears by it.” 

San nodded, his lips curving into a small, proud smile. “It’s my favorite recipe. I think you’ll like it.” 

Jongho hesitated, his ears flattening slightly as he shuffled toward the chair Wooyoung had pulled out for him. The weight of their gazes pressed against him—not harsh or judgmental, but warm and steady, like they were waiting for something. It wasn’t the heavy, suffocating attention he was used to. It was expectant, almost hopeful, and it unsettled him in a way he didn’t quite understand. 

When he sat, Wooyoung immediately placed a bowl of soup in front of him, the steam rising in delicate curls. “Here,” he said, his voice softer now, the usual brightness subdued. “It’s hot, so take your time.” 

Jongho stared at the bowl for a moment, his fingers brushing tentatively against its edge. The warmth seeped into his skin, grounding him just enough to pick up the spoon. He took a small sip, the rich flavor spreading across his tongue like the first touch of sunlight after days of rain. It wasn’t complex, but it didn’t need to be. It was simple, comforting, like being wrapped in a soft blanket after a long, cold day. 

“It’s good,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. His ears flicked slightly as he glanced up at Wooyoung, then at San. “Really good.” 

Wooyoung’s grin brightened immediately, and he nudged San with his elbow. “Told you he’d like it.” 

San rolled his eyes but didn’t hide the pleased flick of his tail. “I knew he would. It’s the best soup.” 

Jongho’s gaze drifted back to the table, his chest tightening faintly as his eyes lingered on the plate of spiced rice. The faint ache of longing rose again, uninvited, curling tightly in his stomach. The scent was so familiar it was almost disorienting, but there was something else woven through it this time—gratitude. 

He hadn’t expected this. He hadn’t expected them to care this much, to go out of their way to create something so… intentional. 

“This is… a lot,” he said softly, his voice uneven as his ears twitched nervously. “I don’t know how to—” 

“You don’t have to do anything,” Wooyoung interrupted gently, cutting through his words with a calm assurance. “Just eat. That’s all we want. Okay?” 

Jongho nodded slowly, his fingers tightening slightly around the spoon. He took another sip of the soup, then another. With each bite, the flavors seemed to ground him further, pulling him into the present moment. 

Around him, the pack’s chatter picked up again, light and easy, like the gentle hum of a quiet stream. They passed dishes around, shared quiet jokes, and filled the space with a warmth that seemed to wrap around Jongho despite his silence. 

He stayed quiet, his focus on his plate, but his ears flicked forward instinctively, catching snippets of their conversation. It wasn’t forced or overbearing—just natural, familiar. And though his nerves still buzzed faintly in the back of his mind, the food and the atmosphere helped. 

His spoon dipped into the spiced rice, and he took a tentative bite. The flavors bloomed on his tongue, bringing with them the echo of a memory—his mother’s soft hands guiding his as she taught him how to blend the spices just right. 

“This is how we take care of each other,” she’d said, her voice warm and patient. 

The memory returned now, not as sharp and painful as it had been earlier but softened at the edges. It lingered as he took another bite, grounding him in a way he hadn’t expected. 

This wasn’t just food. It was care, connection—something he hadn’t realized he’d been missing until now. 

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Jongho let himself take comfort in the quiet warmth of it all. 

*** 

The chatter around the table gradually softened as the last of the dishes were emptied. A comfortable warmth filled the room, lingering in the quiet laughter and occasional murmurs of conversation. Jongho’s gaze flicked over the table, taking in the empty bowls and plates smeared with remnants of the meal. The faintest flicker of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. 

“This was… really good,” Jongho murmured softly, his voice hesitant but genuine. 

Wooyoung grinned at him from across the table, leaning back in his chair. “Told you we’d make something you’d like,” he said, his tone light but proud. “But don’t get used to it—I’m not cooking like this every night.” 

San snorted, his tail flicking behind him as he leaned forward. “Ignore him. I’ll cook like this every night if it means you eat more.” 

“You’re so dramatic,” Wooyoung shot back, though his smile widened. “Okay, fine. We’ll cook like this every night—but only if San doesn’t ruin the soup again.” 

“Ruin it?” San gasped, feigning offense. “I saved that soup!” 

“You were about to dump in way too much salt,” Wooyoung teased. 

San rolled his eyes, his tail swishing in mock annoyance. “Fine. Next time, you’re in charge of everything. Let’s see how well you do without me.” 

Jongho ducked his head, his ears flicking forward at their banter. Warmth crept into his chest, unfamiliar but comforting, and he nodded slightly, letting their lightheartedness ease some of his lingering tension. 

The noise in the room shifted as chairs scraped softly against the floor, and everyone began rising to clear the table. Jongho followed suit, reaching instinctively for the nearest stack of plates. 

“Here, let me help,” he offered quietly, his hands already gathering dishes. 

“You don’t have to,” Yunho said, his brow furrowing slightly as he watched Jongho balance a precarious stack. “You should rest.” 

“I want to,” Jongho interrupted quickly, his tail twitching nervously behind him. His voice faltered slightly as he added, “It’s the least I can do after everything you’ve done for me.” 

Seonghwa stepped closer, his gentle smile easing some of the tension in Jongho’s chest. “If you’d like to help, you can,” he said softly. “But don’t feel like you have to.” 

Jongho nodded, his grip on the dishes tightening slightly. “I want to,” he repeated firmly, the quiet conviction in his voice making Seonghwa’s smile widen just a fraction. 

The quiet rhythm of cleaning filled the dining room as everyone moved about, stacking plates, rinsing bowls, and wiping down the table. The scarf slipped down slightly on Jongho’s wrist as he rinsed another dish, the frayed edges brushing against the edge of the sink. He adjusted it without thinking, the familiar motion calming his hands even as his chest tightened faintly with unease. Jongho focused on the simple motions, the repetitive tasks grounding him as the soft hum of conversation drifted in the background. 

By the time the last dish was dried and put away, most of the pack had already started drifting toward the hallway. Wooyoung stretched his arms overhead, his voice cutting through the quiet. “We’re heading up,” he announced, gesturing toward the stairs. “Try not to stay up too late, okay?” 

San nodded, his smile soft as he added, “Don’t let Seonghwa bore you to sleep with his lectures.” 

“I don’t lecture,” Seonghwa replied calmly, though the faint arch of his brow betrayed his amusement. 

Wooyoung laughed, throwing a casual wave over his shoulder. “Good luck, Jongho!” 

Mingi ruffled Jongho’s hair gently as he followed the others toward the stairs, his deep voice low and kind. “You did good today,” he murmured before disappearing around the corner. 

Jongho hesitated, his gaze flicking toward the stairs where the others were disappearing one by one. He shifted on his feet, unsure of whether he should follow, but Seonghwa’s voice stopped him before he could take a step. 

“Wait,” Seonghwa said gently, his tone calm but deliberate. 

Jongho turned, his ears twitching slightly. Seonghwa’s soft smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he gestured toward the hallway leading deeper into the house. 

“There’s something I’d like to show you before you go to your room,” Seonghwa said warmly. “Come with me?” 

Jongho hesitated for only a moment before nodding slowly. He fell into step beside Seonghwa as they made their way down the hall, the soft glow of the lamps casting long shadows on the walls. 

They stopped in front of a tall, intricately carved door that Jongho recognized immediately. His ears flicked forward as Seonghwa pushed it open, the faint scent of polished wood and aged paper wafting into the hallway. 

The library felt quieter than it had earlier, the warm glow of a single lamp casting soft light over the shelves. Seonghwa stepped inside, his movements slow and deliberate as he glanced back at Jongho. 

“San mentioned you liked this room,” Seonghwa said softly, his gaze warm. “I thought it might be nice for you to pick out something to take with you to your room tonight.” 

Jongho’s chest tightened faintly, his gaze flicking over the rows of books lining the walls. “I don’t know what to choose,” he admitted, his voice barely audible. 

“That’s alright,” Seonghwa said gently. “I can help.” 

He reached for a shelf near the center of the room, his fingers brushing lightly over the spines of the books. “This one,” he said, pulling out a well-worn copy of Watership Down. “It’s about resilience, survival, and finding a place to belong. It’s one of my favorites.” 

Jongho blinked at the title, his ears twitching slightly as he accepted the book. 

Seonghwa smiled, then reached for another. “Here’s The Little Prince,” he said, pulling out the slim volume. “It’s beautifully written and thoughtful—one of those stories that stays with you.” 

Jongho’s gaze lingered on the book, but he didn’t reach for it. 

“And,” Seonghwa continued, pulling a smaller book with intricate illustrations, “The Secret Garden. It’s about healing and finding joy in unexpected places.” 

Jongho glanced at Watership Down in his hands, the solid weight of it grounding him as he traced the title on the cover with his fingers. “I think I’ll take this one,” he said softly. 

Seonghwa’s smile softened. “A good choice,” he said gently. “You’ll have to tell me what you think of it.” 

Jongho nodded, moving to a nearby chair. As he sat, he opened the book carefully, his eyes scanning the first page. Seonghwa didn’t interrupt, stepping back slightly to let Jongho sink into the story. 

For a while, the only sound was the soft rustle of pages turning. Seonghwa settled into a nearby chair, watching silently as Jongho’s expression shifted subtly with the words he read. 

When Jongho’s eyelids began to droop, his head nodding slightly, Seonghwa rose quietly. “I think it’s time we head upstairs,” he said softly, his tone warm but firm. 

Jongho blinked up at him, startled but not resistant. He closed the book carefully, holding it close as he followed Seonghwa out of the library and toward the stairs. 

Seonghwa stopped just outside the door to Jongho’s new room, his warm smile softening in the dim light of the hallway. The faint rustling of the house settling for the night filled the air, a quiet reminder of the day winding down. Jongho stood beside him, clutching Watership Down to his chest, the comforting weight of the book grounding him. 

“Well,” Seonghwa said softly, his voice steady but gentle. “Here we are. I hope it feels like home soon.” 

Jongho glanced at him, his ears twitching slightly. There was a hesitance in his posture, but the warmth in Seonghwa’s expression eased some of the tension lingering in his chest. 

“Goodnight, Jongho,” Seonghwa added, his tone lighter now, like he was offering something simple but important. 

“Goodnight,” Jongho replied, his voice quiet but genuine. 

Seonghwa waited a beat longer, his gaze lingering on Jongho as if to reassure him one last time before he turned and headed back down the hall. Jongho stood there for a moment, watching Seonghwa’s figure retreat until he disappeared around the corner. 

The soft quiet of the hallway settled around him, leaving Jongho alone with his thoughts. He turned back to his door, his fingers brushing over the handle before pushing it open. 

The sight that greeted him stole his breath for a second time. 

The room was just as he’d left it earlier, yet it felt different now under the soft, golden glow of the lamp by the bed. The carefully chosen furniture, the soft textures of the blankets, and the subtle but warm touches of decor made it feel alive in a way no space had in years. 

A single dahlia flower sat in a small vase on the windowsill, its deep crimson petals catching the soft light and adding a quiet warmth to the room. Jongho’s gaze lingered on it for a moment, his chest tightening with something he couldn’t quite name. 

It was beautiful. Too beautiful. 

The thought crept in uninvited, curling like a shadow around the edges of his mind. A space like this wasn’t meant for someone like him—someone worn and battered, carrying scars that ran far deeper than skin. 

He tried to push the thought away, focusing instead on the small details that made the room feel like it belonged to someone. The bed looked inviting, its neatly arranged blankets practically calling to him, and the thoughtful placement of the desk and shelves gave the space an air of purpose. The faint scent of fresh linens lingered in the air, grounding him further in the moment. 

Jongho stood by the dresser, his gaze falling to the scarf tied snugly around his wrist. He reached for the knot, his fingers working it loose with slow, deliberate care. As the fabric slipped free, he held it for a moment, the soft texture grounding him. Finally, he set it down gently on the dresser, smoothing out the fabric as though to keep it safe. It wasn’t goodbye—just a pause. 

With a careful touch, Jongho set the book Seonghwa had given him on the bedside table. His fingers lingered on its cover, the faint texture of the embossed design grounding him briefly before he straightened and turned toward the small adjoining bathroom. 

His steps were slow and deliberate, as if part of him was afraid to disturb the fragile peace that hung in the air. The bathroom light flickered on with a soft hum, illuminating a clean, neatly arranged space. Jongho hesitated at the threshold, his gaze catching the mirror above the sink. 

The reflection staring back at him felt distant, almost unrecognizable. His chest tightened as he took in the hollow look in his eyes, the faint shadows that clung stubbornly to his features. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to look away before the creeping weight in his chest could settle further. 

Not tonight, he thought quietly. Not now. 

He turned his focus instead to the shower, its polished glass door gleaming under the light. The water turned on with a comforting hiss as steam began to rise, filling the room with a soothing warmth. Jongho slipped out of his clothes quickly, his movements automatic as he avoided the mirror entirely. 

The first touch of hot water against his skin made him flinch slightly, but he didn’t move away. Instead, he let it cascade over him, easing the tension in his shoulders and back. The heat seeped into his muscles, grounding him in the present moment even as his thoughts began to spiral. 

He closed his eyes, his arms wrapping loosely around himself as the water ran down his back. The sound of the spray filled the space around him, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the voice in his head. 

What are you even doing here? 

Jongho’s jaw tightened, his hands curling into loose fists. The pack had given him everything—kindness, patience, a room that felt like a sanctuary—and yet, all he could feel was the weight of his own inadequacy pressing down on him. 

They don’t really want you here, the voice whispered. They’re just being nice. 

The scars on his back burned faintly under the water, phantom sensations stirring memories he didn’t want to relive. He shifted slightly, pressing one hand against the tiled wall as the ache in his chest grew sharper. 

No one had ever given him a reason to believe otherwise. The world had taught him, over and over, that people like him—quiet, unremarkable, broken—weren’t meant to belong. 

His breath hitched, the steam-heavy air sticking to his lungs as he fought to keep the memories at bay. The shelter, the hybrids who had pushed him down, the cutting words of his father—all of it tangled together in a suffocating knot. 

You’re too soft. Too passive. You’ll never be enough. 

Jongho shuddered, his ears pressing flat against his head as the water ran over his face. The heat was almost too much now, stinging against his skin, but he didn’t move. He didn’t know how to. 

They’ll see it eventually, the voice continued, relentless. They’ll see you’re not worth it. And then what? 

His hand trembled as he reached up, pressing his palm lightly against the base of his neck. The bruises were still tender, a physical reminder of how easily he’d been pushed aside. The faint scent of the bruise cream lingered there too, a sharp contrast to the memories tied to the pain. 

The pack had been different. Their kindness had felt real, steady, but that only made it harder to believe. What if they changed their minds? What if they realized they’d made a mistake? 

Jongho exhaled shakily, the sound barely audible over the rush of water. He straightened slowly, his movements stiff as he reached to turn the shower off. The water stopped with a final hiss, leaving the bathroom eerily quiet except for the faint drip of condensation from the tiles. 

The steam lingered, clinging to his skin as he stepped out of the shower and reached for a towel. He didn’t look at the mirror. He couldn’t. 

The warmth of the room settled around him, but it couldn’t quite chase away the chill that had taken root deep in his chest. 

For now, it was enough just to move, to focus on the simple act of drying off and dressing. The rest would have to wait. 

The water shut off with a soft hiss, leaving the bathroom filled with lingering warmth and steam. Jongho reached for a towel, carefully avoiding the fogged-up mirror above the sink. He didn’t need to see himself—not now, not ever if he could help it. His chest was still heavy from earlier, but he clung tightly to the fragile peace he’d built during the shower, unwilling to let it slip away. 

Drying off quickly, he stepped out of the bathroom, his bare feet padding softly against the cool floor. The room greeted him with its comforting stillness, the golden glow of the bedside lamp casting long, soft shadows on the walls. For a moment, he simply stood there, his gaze sweeping over the carefully arranged space. 

His eyes drifted to the small dresser, and he moved toward it almost automatically. The open drawer revealed neatly folded clothes the pack had left for him—soft fabrics carrying a faint, soothing hint of lavender detergent. But his gaze inevitably shifted to the far corner of the drawer, where his old shelter clothes sat in a worn, haphazard pile. 

The sight of them sent a faint chill through him. Those clothes had been his only comfort for so long, even in their frayed and faded state. They had been the last thing he had control over, a threadbare barrier against the harshness of the shelter. But now, in the warmth of this new room, they looked out of place—like a ghost of a life he didn’t want to hold onto anymore. 

Jongho’s hand hovered over them for a moment, hesitation tightening his chest, before he reached for the new clothes instead. The fabric was strange against his skin, softer than he was used to, but there was something reassuring about its unfamiliarity. The shelter pajamas remained untouched, folded neatly in the drawer like a piece of his past he was finally ready to leave behind. 

Jongho’s gaze flicked to the scarf where it sat folded neatly on the edge of the dresser. After pulling on the soft clothes from the pack, his fingers hesitated over the fabric. Finally, he picked it up, smoothing out the wrinkles carefully before placing it on the nightstand. It needed to be washed after the long day, but leaving it close felt right. 

Once dressed, Jongho moved back to the bed. The book Seonghwa had shown him earlier rested on the nightstand, its cover simple but elegant, the faint outline of an oak tree embossed on the front. He picked it up carefully, running his fingers over the slightly worn spine. The faint scent of aged paper reached him, grounding him in a way few things could. 

Settling against the pillows, Jongho opened the book to where he’d left off. The story was gentle, its characters navigating hardships that mirrored emotions he couldn’t quite articulate. The steady rhythm of reading began to calm the unease still coiling in his chest, the words weaving a quiet comfort around him. 

A soft knock at the door pulled him from the pages. Jongho blinked, his ears twitching slightly as he set the book down. He hesitated, glancing toward the door. Likely San or Wooyoung, he thought, here to check on him as they often did. 

But when he opened the door, it wasn’t San or Wooyoung. 

Hongjoong stood there, a small, unassuming jar of bruise cream cradled in his hands. His sharp eyes flickered briefly to Jongho’s neck before settling back on his face, his ears tilting slightly forward in quiet focus. His tail swayed slowly behind him, its movement deliberate but calm. 

“Hey,” Hongjoong said softly, his voice steady but warm. “I thought I’d bring this by before you turned in. Wooyoung mentioned it helped yesterday.” 

Jongho blinked, surprise flickering in his wide eyes as he glanced between Hongjoong and the jar. He hadn’t expected this—not Hongjoong, not tonight, and certainly not the quiet patience in his tone. 

“I—” Jongho started, his voice catching slightly. 

“Do you need help putting it on?” Hongjoong asked, his tone unhurried, as though the question was the most natural thing in the world. His tail stilled briefly, the tip curling slightly before falling back into its slow rhythm. 

Jongho hesitated, his ears flicking nervously. He didn’t need help. He could do it himself. But something about Hongjoong’s steady presence, his calm gaze, and the subtle, soothing swish of his tail made Jongho want to say yes. 

“I... I guess,” he murmured, stepping back slightly to let Hongjoong in. 

Hongjoong stepped inside without hesitation, closing the door softly behind him. His movements were deliberate, each step measured, as though he didn’t want to startle Jongho. He took a moment to glance around the room, his sharp eyes scanning the small but personal touches left by the pack, before his gaze settled on the scarf lying neatly on the nightstand. 

“You’ve kept this close,” Hongjoong said softly, his voice carrying a calm warmth. 

Jongho followed his gaze, his ears flicking nervously before he gave a small nod. “I like it,” he murmured, his voice quiet but firm, as though admitting it felt like revealing something vulnerable. 

Hongjoong’s expression softened, his sharp features easing into something gentler. He stepped closer, pausing beside the bed before turning back to Jongho. “I’m glad,” he said simply, his tone steady. “It suits you.” 

The words lingered in the air for a moment, their weight sinking in slowly. Jongho shifted on his feet, his arms brushing against his sides as the quiet praise worked its way past his defenses, settling somewhere deep in his chest. 

Hongjoong motioned toward the bed with a subtle tilt of his head. “Come here,” he said gently, patting the space in front of him. “Sit down. This’ll be easier.” 

Jongho hesitated for a beat, his gaze darting between Hongjoong’s calm expression and the jar of cream in his hand. Finally, he nodded, moving to sit on the bed. His steps were slow and deliberate, as though he was bracing himself for something he couldn’t quite name. 

Hongjoong waited patiently, his movements unhurried as Jongho settled into place. The younger hybrid perched stiffly on the edge of the bed, his shoulders tense and his hands resting awkwardly in his lap. 

“Relax,” Hongjoong said softly, his voice carrying a quiet reassurance. He shifted slightly, moving to sit cross-legged directly in front of Jongho. Their knees nearly touched, and the closeness made Jongho’s ears twitch faintly, though he didn’t pull away. 

“This might feel cold,” Hongjoong warned, his tone light but steady as he dipped his fingers into the cream. 

Jongho braced himself as Hongjoong leaned closer, his sharp eyes focused on the bruises lining Jongho’s neck. But when Hongjoong’s fingers made contact, it wasn’t the chill of the cream that caught Jongho’s attention—it was the touch itself. 

Hongjoong’s hands were gentle, his fingers deliberate as they worked over Jongho’s skin with a care that felt foreign. He didn’t rush, didn’t press too hard. Instead, his touch lingered, soft and precise, as though he was trying to show Jongho something he couldn’t quite put into words. 

“You’re doing a good job of letting this happen,” Hongjoong said after a moment, his voice low but steady. “Being taken care of is strange when you’re not used to it, isn’t it?” 

Jongho swallowed hard, his ears twitching faintly as he tried to find his voice. “It is,” he admitted quietly, his words trembling slightly. 

“That’s okay,” Hongjoong replied gently, his gaze flicking up briefly to meet Jongho’s. “It’s not something you have to be good at overnight. Just let yourself adjust. Let us try.” 

Jongho’s breath hitched, his hands curling slightly in his lap as the words settled over him. He didn’t respond, but his body leaned forward ever so slightly, a quiet, hesitant motion that Hongjoong didn’t miss. 

Hongjoong didn’t move back. Instead, his focus stayed on Jongho’s neck, his touch unwavering as he continued applying the cream. “We’re going to take care of you,” he said softly, his voice filled with quiet conviction. “That’s what family does.” 

The words hit Jongho harder than he expected, the weight of them pressing into his chest as his gaze dropped. He blinked quickly, willing the sting in his eyes to fade, though he knew Hongjoong could see through him. 

When Hongjoong finished, he didn’t move right away. His fingers lingered for a moment, the touch not heavy but present—steady. Then, carefully, he pulled back, his hands falling to his lap as he met Jongho’s gaze again. 

“You’re safe now,” Hongjoong said softly, the corners of his lips lifting just enough to hint at a smile. “No one’s going to hurt you here.” 

Jongho nodded slowly, his chest tightening with a swirl of emotions he couldn’t quite name. He wanted to say something, to acknowledge the care Hongjoong had shown, but the words stuck in his throat. 

Instead, he leaned forward ever so slightly, his forehead brushing against Hongjoong’s shoulder in a quiet gesture of trust.  

Hongjoong didn’t react with surprise—he simply stayed still, letting Jongho linger as long as he needed. 

When Jongho finally pulled back, Hongjoong’s hands hovered faintly, as though ready to steady him if needed. “Get some rest,” Hongjoong said softly, his tone lighter now. “You’ve had a long day.” 

Jongho nodded again, his fingers brushing against the edge of the bed as he watched Hongjoong stand and move toward the door. 

“If you need anything,” Hongjoong added, pausing with his hand on the handle, “you know where I am.” 

The door clicked softly behind him, leaving the room quiet once more. 

As the door closed, Jongho sat motionless for a long moment. The faint warmth of Hongjoong’s presence lingered in the air, wrapping around him like the comfort left by the shower. He let out a slow breath, his chest tightening as his gaze shifted back to the book on the nightstand. 

Its worn cover gleamed faintly in the lamplight, and the familiar weight of it grounded him as he picked it up again. He settled back against the pillows, his fingers brushing the edge of the pages as his eyes scanned the lines of text. 

The story pulled him in slowly, its steady rhythm a temporary distraction. But the quiet hum of the room around him felt too open, too still, and unease curled at the edges of his thoughts. 

Jongho couldn’t let himself sleep—not yet. The fear of waking up in a panic, the kind that twisted his chest and left him gasping for air, loomed too heavily over him. Worse was the thought of waking the others, of disturbing the fragile balance of this new space with his nightmares. 

His mind drifted to the nights at the shelter—how his dreams would snap him awake, his chest heaving as he tried to silence the small, broken sounds escaping him. There was no one there to care if he woke up. No one to notice. 

But here, everything was different. The pack was close, their warmth and quiet concern wrapping around him in a way that was both reassuring and terrifying. He couldn’t risk breaking that—not by letting his fears bleed into their rest. 

Jongho’s fingers tightened faintly on the book, his focus drifting back to the printed words. The story felt safe, its quiet persistence anchoring him in the present. For now, it was enough to keep the fear at bay. 

He turned another page, the steady rhythm of reading filling the silence. Sleep could wait. 

*** 

A soft knock echoed through the room, pulling Jongho from the steady rhythm of his reading. His ears twitched slightly, the sound breaking through the quiet that had settled since Hongjoong left. Setting the book down carefully on the nightstand next to the scarf, he hesitated for a moment before standing. 

He padded softly across the room, his bare feet brushing against the cool floor. When he opened the door, he was met with the familiar sight of San, standing there with an easy smile and a slight tilt of his head. The faint scent of cherry blossoms clung to him, wrapping around Jongho like a gentle embrace. 

“Hey,” San greeted casually, leaning against the doorframe. “I know it’s late, but… mind if I crash here again tonight?” 

Jongho blinked, surprise flickering in his wide eyes. “You… want to sleep here?” he asked hesitantly, his voice soft. 

San nodded, his grin widening just a fraction as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. Last night helped me sleep better than I have in a while,” he said lightly, his tone casual. “Figured we could make it a thing—for me, you know? If that’s okay with you.” 

Jongho’s ears twitched, his gaze flicking over San’s easy posture and warm expression. He could tell San wasn’t pressuring him, wasn’t pushing—but there was something about the way his tail swayed slowly behind him, deliberate and steady, that felt… genuine. 

“I don’t want to bother you,” Jongho murmured, his voice wavering slightly as he glanced away. 

“Bother me?” San echoed, his brow furrowing. He leaned forward slightly, his gaze steady but light. “Jongho, you’re not bothering me. If anything, you’re helping me out. You wouldn’t believe how many nights I’ve tossed and turned. But last night? It was… nice.” 

Jongho hesitated, brushing his hands against the doorframe as he processed San’s words. He could feel the truth in them, the way San’s scent carried no trace of pity or hesitation—just warmth and sincerity. And yet, the lingering doubts curled around his chest, refusing to let go entirely. 

“I… guess that’s okay,” Jongho said finally, his voice small but steady. “If it helps you.” 

San’s smile softened, his tail swaying a little faster as he stepped inside. “Thanks,” he said warmly, his tone light. “You’re saving me here.” 

Jongho closed the door quietly behind him, watching as San moved toward the bed with a kind of ease that felt foreign to Jongho. San plopped down onto the mattress, bouncing slightly before settling against the pillows with an exaggerated sigh of relief. 

“This bed is way too nice,” San said with a chuckle, patting the space beside him. “No wonder you didn’t want to leave it earlier.” 

Jongho blinked, his ears flicking faintly as he hesitated by the edge of the bed. “It’s… comfortable,” he admitted softly, his hands brushing against the fabric of his pajama pants. 

San tilted his head, his gaze softening as he patted the spot beside him again. “Come on,” he said gently. “It’s not as comfortable without you here.” 

The words sent a faint warmth curling through Jongho’s chest, though he didn’t quite know what to do with it. Slowly, he moved to sit on the edge of the bed, his movements tentative as he glanced at San. 

“You can relax, you know,” San said lightly, his tone teasing but not unkind. “I’m not going to bite.” 

Jongho huffed softly, the faintest flicker of a smile tugging at his lips despite himself. “I know,” he murmured, shifting to lean back against the pillows. 

The quiet settled between them, the faint rustle of the blankets and the soft hum of the room filling the space. San’s presence was warm, steady, and Jongho found himself relaxing bit by bit, his body sinking into the comfort of the bed. 

“Thanks for letting me stay,” San said after a moment, his voice low but genuine. “I know I joked about it helping me, but… I think it helps both of us. You know?” 

Jongho glanced at him, his ears flicking slightly as he nodded. “Maybe,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. 

San smiled, his gaze warm as he adjusted the blanket over them both. “Goodnight, Jongho,” he said, his tone light but steady. 

“Goodnight,” Jongho replied, his chest tightening faintly as he let his eyes close. 

San’s presence beside him was a quiet comfort, the faint scent of cherry blossoms wrapping around Jongho like a blanket. And for the first time in a long while, the weight of sleep didn’t feel so heavy. 

*** San's POV**** 

The quiet stillness of the room wrapped around them, but even in the dark, San could feel the subtle shift in the air. Jongho stirred beside him, his breathing uneven, his body tense as his fingers curled tightly into the blanket. A faint, muffled sound—half a whimper, half a sigh—slipped from his lips, and San’s ears twitched, immediately alert. 

He opened his eyes slowly, the dim light casting soft shadows over Jongho’s face. The younger hybrid’s brows were drawn together, his expression pinched with unease. Even in sleep, Jongho seemed unable to escape the weight he carried. 

San’s chest ached faintly at the sight. Without a second thought, he shifted closer, his movements slow and deliberate so as not to startle him. He let his arm drape lightly over Jongho’s waist, his hand resting against his side. The warmth of his body pressed gently against Jongho’s back, steady and grounding. 

“Shh,” San murmured softly, his voice barely above a whisper. He leaned in, brushing his nose against Jongho’s shoulder. With a deep breath, he let his calming cherry blossom scent roll over them, filling the air with its sweet, soothing warmth. It wasn’t overbearing, just enough to nudge Jongho away from whatever dream had taken hold of him. 

The tension in Jongho’s body began to ease, his breathing evening out as the scent wrapped around them. San felt the tight grip of Jongho’s fingers on the blanket loosen, the faint whimper subsiding into soft, steady breaths. 

San shifted even closer, his forehead resting lightly against the back of Jongho’s neck. His arm tightened slightly, a subtle gesture of reassurance that didn’t demand anything in return. His tail curled loosely around Jongho’s ankle, a quiet reminder that he was there—steady, present. 

“You’re okay. I got you,” San murmured, his voice steady and soft. For a moment, the air between them felt heavy—Jongho’s scent had soured, sharp and acrid, no doubt a lingering remnant of whatever nightmare had gripped him. San’s chest ached at the thought of the fear Jongho carried, even in sleep. He exhaled slowly, letting his own scent bloom around them, gentle and calming, like cherry blossoms on a spring breeze.

Gradually, he felt the tension ease from Jongho’s body, and the acrid edge began to fade. San stilled when he caught it—the sweet shift in Jongho’s scent, like marshmallows caramelizing over a campfire. It was faint but unmistakable, warm and delicate, and San couldn’t help the small smile tugging at his lips. His scent had done its job, grounding Jongho in the safety of the moment. The realization filled San with a quiet pride, and he stayed still, letting the comforting warmth of Jongho’s scent settle between them.

Jongho’s body relaxed further, leaning unconsciously into San’s warmth. The rise and fall of his chest evened out, syncing with San’s in a quiet, steady rhythm. 

San stayed like that for a while, his sharp eyes flicking over Jongho’s now-peaceful face. His scent lingered in the air, wrapping around them like a protective shield. For the first time in a long time, Jongho looked almost at peace, and San felt the faintest flicker of pride at that. 

Brushing his nose lightly against Jongho’s hair, San allowed his eyes to close again. “Sleep well,” he murmured, his voice barely audible as sleep pulled him under once more. 

*** 

The room was quiet, save for the faint rustling of blankets as San blinked awake. The morning light seeped through the curtains, casting a soft, golden glow over the room. For a moment, San stayed still, letting his senses adjust. His nose twitched, catching the faint scent of cherry blossoms lingering in the air from the night before, mingling with the subtle, earthy notes of Jongho’s scent. 

San turned his head slightly, his gaze falling on the younger hybrid still tucked under the covers. Jongho was curled up, his face half-buried in the pillow, his breaths slow and even. There was a quiet vulnerability in the way he slept—something unguarded that made San’s chest ache. 

He couldn’t help but smile softly. It was rare to see Jongho like this, untroubled by the weight of his usual defenses. San shifted slightly, careful not to disturb him as he leaned back against the headboard. His tail curled around his side, the tip flicking lazily as he let himself enjoy the rare moment of peace. 

“Morning,” came Jongho’s quiet voice, rough with sleep. San looked down to find Jongho stirring, his eyes blinking open slowly. His ears flicked slightly as he stretched, his movements slow and hesitant. 

“Good morning,” San replied warmly, his voice soft. “Did you sleep okay?” 

Jongho nodded faintly, though his gaze dropped to the edge of the blanket. “Yeah… better than usual,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. 

San’s smile widened. “Good. That’s what I like to hear.” He reached out, ruffling Jongho’s hair gently before pulling his hand back, not wanting to overwhelm him so early. “I’m glad you stayed.” 

Jongho’s ears twitched at the words, and he glanced up briefly before looking away again. There was a faint blush coloring his cheeks, but he didn’t say anything. 

San leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees as his tail flicked behind him. “So,” he began casually, “I thought I’d let you know what everyone’s up to today. That way, you’re not stuck wondering where we’ve all disappeared to.” 

Jongho’s ears perked slightly, and he shifted to sit up, his curiosity clear despite his quiet demeanor. 

“Well,” San started, his tone light, “Wooyoung and I are heading to the restaurant. It’s a busy day, but I’ll try not to let him stress me out too much. He gets bossy when he’s focused.” He grinned, the teasing lilt in his voice earning a faint huff of amusement from Jongho. 

“Seonghwa’s got an art class to teach, so he’ll be gone most of the day,” San continued. “And Hongjoong’s going to be in his studio, probably lost in some new project. If you want to check it out, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.” 

Jongho nodded slowly, his fingers brushing the edge of the blanket as he listened. 

“Yunho and Yeosang are working from home,” San added. “They’re finalizing plans for some hybrid-friendly housing projects. You could probably sit with them if you want. Yeosang’s good at explaining things, and Yunho’s… well, he’s Yunho.” 

Jongho tilted his head slightly, his ears flicking. “And Mingi?” he asked softly. 

San chuckled. “Mingi’s unpredictable. He might be in his home studio working on music, or he might decide to raid the kitchen and make a mess while Wooyoung and I are at work. Either way, you’ll probably see him at some point.” 

Jongho nodded again, his gaze drifting toward the window. The soft morning light caught the faint shadows under his eyes, but there was a quiet calm in his expression that hadn’t been there before. 

“You don’t have to do anything today if you don’t want to,” San said gently, his voice softer now. “But if you feel like joining any of us, we’d all be happy to have you.” 

Jongho hesitated, his ears flicking back slightly. “I don’t want to get in anyone’s way,” he murmured. 

San shook his head, his tail swishing lightly behind him. “You’re not in the way, Jongho. You’re part of this pack now. That means you’re welcome wherever we are.” 

Jongho blinked, his gaze flicking up to meet San’s for a brief moment. There was a flicker of something in his eyes—doubt, maybe, or something softer that San couldn’t quite place. 

San smiled again, his tone lighter as he stood. “Come on,” he said, stretching his arms above his head. “Let’s get some breakfast before Wooyoung eats it all. I bet he’s already been in the kitchen for an hour.” 

Jongho hesitated for a moment before sliding out of bed, his movements slow and careful. San waited, keeping his pace unhurried as they stepped into the hallway together. The warmth of the morning sun filtered through the windows, and the faint hum of activity in the house made the space feel alive. 

As they headed toward the kitchen, San glanced at Jongho out of the corner of his eye. He seemed quieter than usual, but there was a faint lightness to his steps that hadn’t been there the day before. It was small, but it was something—and for now, San would take it. 

The scent of fresh coffee and warm pastries filled the kitchen as San walked in, his ears flicking slightly at the soft hum of conversation. The table was already set, each plate and mug placed with Wooyoung’s meticulous touch. Warm light filtered through the windows, casting a gentle glow over the room. 

Jongho trailed behind him, his steps hesitant but quiet. San caught the way his gaze darted around the room, lingering briefly on each pack member before skimming away. His small, round bear tail twitched faintly, and his hand brushed absently over the scarf tied loosely around his wrist, a nervous but grounding gesture. 

“Perfect timing!” Wooyoung’s cheerful voice cut through the quiet. He stood by the stove, and moved with a practiced grace as he worked. “Breakfast is ready. Grab a seat before it gets cold.” 

San guided Jongho to a chair near the end of the table, pulling it out with a warm smile. “Here, sit,” he said gently, his tone casual but steady. “Wooyoung’s ego will inflate if we don’t appreciate his masterpiece.” 

“Excuse me?” Wooyoung huffed, spinning around with a spatula in hand. “I’m nothing but humble and generous, thank you very much.” 

San chuckled as he sat down beside Jongho, his lips curling into a teasing grin. “Sure, you are.” 

Wooyoung rolled his eyes, turning back to the stove. “You’re lucky I’m cooking, or you’d be eating Yunho’s ‘experimental’ creations.” 

“Hey,” Yunho’s warm voice cut in from across the table. He leaned back in his chair, a mug of coffee cradled in his hands. His tail swayed lazily behind him, the motion unhurried and calming. “I’ll have you know my food is perfectly edible.” 

“Keyword: edible,” Wooyoung shot back, his grin widening. “That’s a low bar.” 

The playful banter filled the room with warmth, but San’s focus remained on Jongho. The younger hybrid sat stiffly in his chair, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. His gaze flicked toward the table, lingering on the carefully arranged plates before darting to the others. San caught the way his round ears twitched faintly at the lighthearted exchange, but the tension in his shoulders didn’t ease. 

Yunho’s sharp eyes softened as they lingered on Jongho. “Sleep alright?” he asked gently, his tone warm but careful. 

Jongho nodded quickly, his voice soft. “Yeah.” 

San noticed the way Yunho’s gaze lingered, a quiet, steady check-in that wasn’t invasive but deliberate. Hongjoong, seated at the far end of the table with his tea, was quieter but just as attentive. His sharp gaze followed Jongho’s movements with quiet intensity, the corners of his lips tugging into a faint, thoughtful smile as if he were studying something precious. There was love in the way he watched, unspoken but clear. 

Seonghwa appeared next, carrying a plate of fresh-cut fruit. His movements were graceful, his expression calm as he placed the plate in the center of the table. “Jongho,” he said gently, his voice soft but warm, “would you like me to make you something specific?” 

Jongho blinked, his round ears flicking back nervously. “I… I’m fine with whatever’s here,” he said quickly, his hands tightening slightly on his lap. “You don’t have to go out of your way.” 

“It’s no trouble,” Seonghwa assured him with a small smile. “But if you change your mind, just let me know.” 

Jongho nodded faintly, his gaze dropping back to the table. 

“Here,” Wooyoung announced as he approached, setting a plate down in front of Jongho with a flourish. The smell of scrambled eggs, warm toast, and sliced fruit wafted up. The meal was simple, but the careful arrangement spoke volumes. “Made it just for you.” 

Jongho blinked at the plate, his wide eyes flicking up to Wooyoung before dropping back to the food. “Thank you,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. 

Wooyoung beamed, his eyes filled with warmth. “Don’t mention it. Just enjoy.” 

San watched as Jongho picked up his fork, his movements slow and tentative, like he was still convincing himself he was allowed to enjoy it. His fingers fidgeted faintly between bites, brushing against the scarf tied to his wrist. Though his focus remained on his plate, San could feel the subtle tension radiating from him. 

The quiet weight of the pack’s attention lingered in the air—not heavy or pressing, but steady. Yeosang, seated near the window, watched Jongho in quick, fleeting glances, his brow furrowing slightly as if trying to piece something together. Even Mingi, usually laid-back, seemed unusually still. He leaned back in his chair, his sharp features softening whenever Jongho shifted. 

Hongjoong’s gaze was the most constant. His sharp eyes remained fixed on Jongho, his expression steady but filled with an unspoken warmth. There was no pity in his gaze, only quiet, unyielding care. 

“You doing okay?” San asked softly, his voice low enough not to draw attention. 

Jongho looked up, startled for a moment before nodding. “Yeah,” he murmured, his voice quiet but sincere. His eyes flicked to San briefly, then back to his plate. “I’m fine.” 

San smiled lightly, leaning back in his chair. He didn’t push further, content to let Jongho settle at his own pace. 

The light chatter around the table picked up again, filling the space with an easy warmth. Yunho and Wooyoung exchanged playful barbs, and Seonghwa passed more fruit to Yeosang, who accepted it with a small, grateful nod. Mingi leaned forward slightly, his deep voice cutting through the noise. 

“Jongho,” Mingi said warmly, his tone casual but inviting. “Do you want to check out my studio today? I’ve been working on some new tracks.” 

Jongho hesitated, his ears twitching slightly as he glanced up at Mingi. His wide eyes flickered with surprise, followed quickly by curiosity. “Your studio?” he asked softly. 

“Yeah.” Mingi’s grin widened, his easygoing nature shining through. “It’s nothing fancy, but I think you’d like it. You don’t have to stay long if you don’t want to.” 

Jongho blinked, his gaze dropping to his plate for a moment. When he looked back up, there was a faint light in his expression—a quiet interest that San hadn’t seen before. “I... I think I’d like that,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. 

Mingi’s face brightened. “Great. Just let me know when you’re ready, and we’ll head over.” 

Wooyoung leaned forward slightly, his voice softening as he added, “No rush, though. Take your time.” 

San watched the subtle shift in Jongho’s posture, the way his small tail gave the faintest twitch. He still seemed reserved, but there was something lighter about him now—like the warmth of the pack was slowly beginning to reach him. 

As the conversation moved on, San leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting to Jongho. There was still so much the younger hybrid wasn’t saying, so many walls he hadn’t let down yet. But as San watched the faintest flicker of a smile tug at the corner of Jongho’s lips, he couldn’t help but feel hopeful. 

They were getting there—slowly but surely. 

**** Jongho's POV **** 

The soft clink of dishes in the sink echoed through the kitchen as Jongho wiped his hands on a towel, his movements slow and deliberate. Breakfast had been… different. He couldn’t quite name the feeling that lingered in his chest, but it was warm, foreign, and fragile, like holding something precious and unfamiliar. 

The pack’s presence still lingered, the warmth of their voices and gazes trailing after him like a faint scent. His fingers brushed over the scarf tied loosely around his wrist as if grounding himself in the moment. 

“Jongho.” 

Seonghwa’s calm voice pulled him from his thoughts, and he turned to find the elder approaching. Seonghwa’s coat hung neatly over one arm, and his warm smile carried a quiet reassurance. 

“I just wanted to say goodbye before I head out,” Seonghwa said softly, stepping closer. “I’ll only be gone for a few hours. I’ll be back before the evening.” 

Jongho blinked, his small tail twitching faintly as his fingers tightened on the towel. “Oh,” he murmured, lowering his gaze slightly. “Okay.” 

Seonghwa’s free hand reached out, his fingers brushing lightly over Jongho’s shoulder before resting there with a gentle squeeze. “You’ve done so well,” he said, his voice filled with quiet conviction. “Don’t forget that.” 

Jongho nodded slowly, though his gaze stayed fixed on the floor. 

Seonghwa shifted slightly, stepping closer and bending enough to gently press his forehead against Jongho’s in a quiet gesture of care. “I’ll see you later,” he murmured warmly. “Take it easy today, alright? You deserve to breathe.” 

Jongho froze at the unexpected contact, his round ears flicking back nervously, but he didn’t pull away. The warmth of Seonghwa’s presence was steady and grounding; he found himself nodding faintly as Seonghwa straightened with a soft smile. 

“See you later, Jongho,” Seonghwa said again, his gaze lingering for a moment before he turned and headed for the door. 

As Seonghwa left, Wooyoung and San entered, already pulling on their jackets. Wooyoung glanced toward Jongho as he opened the fridge, carefully placing a neatly packed lunchbox on one of the shelves. 

“That’s for you,” Wooyoung said over his shoulder, his voice light but firm. “It’s just in case you get hungry before dinner.” 

Jongho blinked, his wide eyes flicking to Wooyoung and then toward the fridge. “You didn’t have to…” 

“I wanted to,” Wooyoung interrupted firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You need to eat, and I figured this would make it easier.” 

Jongho’s ears flicked nervously, his gaze dropping. “Thank you,” he murmured, his voice soft. 

Wooyoung smiled brightly. “Don’t mention it. You’re my baby bear, after all.” 

Hongjoong’s voice cut through the moment, smooth and laced with amusement. “Did you pack one for me too?” he asked, leaning casually against the doorway with a steaming cup of tea in hand. 

Wooyoung turned, raising a brow. “Nope,” he replied lightly. “Just for my baby bear.” 

Hongjoong let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head fondly. “Guess I’ll fend for myself, then,” he said, though his gaze lingered on Jongho with a warmth that didn’t need words. 

San stepped closer to Jongho, resting a hand lightly on his shoulder. “We’ll be back before dinner,” he said gently, his tone steady. “If you need anything, Mingi, Yunho, Yeosang, and Hongjoong are here. Just let them know.” 

Jongho nodded, his tail twitching slightly as he shifted on his feet. 

Wooyoung turned back to Jongho, his voice softening. “Take it easy today, alright? No pressure. You’ve got nothing to prove to anyone.” 

Jongho glanced between the two of them, his ears flicking nervously before he gave a small nod. “Okay,” he murmured. 

Wooyoung flashed him one last grin before following San out the door. Their voices carried faintly through the hallway, a mix of lighthearted teasing and quiet reassurances. 

The house fell quieter, the stillness settling gently around Jongho. He turned back toward the sink, his fingers running over the edge of the towel as he tried to ground himself in the moment. 

From the corner of his eye, he noticed Hongjoong still standing in the doorway, his sharp gaze following Jongho with quiet intent. 

“You alright?” Hongjoong asked softly, his voice calm but laced with care. 

Jongho hesitated, his ears twitching slightly before he nodded. “Yeah,” he said quietly. 

Hongjoong’s lips curved faintly, a subtle but warm smile that softened the intensity of his expression. “Good,” he said simply. “If you need anything, I’ll be in the studio. Just knock, okay?” 

Jongho nodded again, his chest tightening faintly at the quiet reassurance in Hongjoong’s tone. 

The faint hum of music pulled Jongho’s attention, drawing his gaze toward the hallway. It was soft but steady, a rhythmic beat that vibrated faintly through the air. 

Mingi. 

The thought settled in Jongho’s mind, and after a moment of hesitation, he started toward the sound. His steps were slow and deliberate, as though he were bracing himself for something he couldn’t quite name. 

The beat grew louder as he approached a slightly ajar door, the soft rhythm weaving through the house like a heartbeat. Jongho paused, his hand hovering over the edge of the doorframe. 

Taking a steadying breath, he knocked softly. “Mingi?” he called, his voice hesitant but clear enough to carry over the music. 

The sound stopped immediately, followed by a low, familiar voice. “Come in.” 

Jongho pushed the door open cautiously, stepping inside. 

The room was warm, filled with soft lighting and the hum of scattered equipment. Mingi was seated at a desk, his broad frame hunched slightly as he adjusted something on a keyboard. 

He glanced up as Jongho entered, a smile spreading across his face. “Hey,” Mingi greeted warmly, leaning back in his chair. “Looking for me?” 

Jongho nodded, his ears flicking nervously. “You said I could see your studio,” he said softly. 

Mingi’s grin widened, a playful glint in his eyes as he gestured to the seat beside him. “You’re just in time,” he said lightly. “Come sit. I’ll show you what I’ve been working on.” 

Jongho hesitated for only a moment before crossing the room and settling into the chair. The warmth of Mingi’s easy presence settled around him, grounding him in a way he hadn’t expected. 

The soft glow of the studio lights bathed the room in a cozy warmth as Jongho sat stiffly in the chair beside Mingi. The soundproofed walls seemed to wrap around them, muting the world outside and drawing all of Jongho’s attention to the space they shared. The studio felt alive in a way Jongho couldn’t describe—vibrant yet calming, filled with subtle warmth. 

Mingi leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping a steady rhythm against the edge of the desk. “Alright,” he began, his voice tinged with excitement, “let’s start with something light.” 

He swiveled to face his laptop, his sharp features softening as he scrolled through his playlist. A moment later, the speakers hummed to life, and a soft, melodic tune filled the room. It was warm and layered, with a steady rhythm that felt like a heartbeat. 

Jongho’s ears twitched immediately, his gaze snapping to the speakers. The music seemed to wrap around him, each note striking something deep within his chest. He didn’t realize how tightly he’d been gripping his knees until the sound softened the tension in his shoulders, coaxing him to lean back slightly in his chair. 

“This is beautiful,” Jongho murmured, his voice barely audible over the music. 

Mingi glanced at him, his lips curving into a small smile. “You think so?” he asked casually, though a flicker of hope tinged his tone. 

Jongho nodded, his round ears twitching slightly as he focused on the melody. “It’s… warm. It feels like something you’d listen to while watching the sunrise.” 

Mingi’s smile widened, pride glowing faintly in his expression. “That’s exactly what I was going for. It’s part of a series I’m working on—songs inspired by different times of day.” 

Jongho’s gaze shifted to Mingi, his round eyes filled with curiosity. “There’s more?” 

Mingi chuckled, reaching for his laptop again. “Oh, there’s plenty more. Let me show you.” 

The next track was slower, deeper, with a subtle complexity that tugged at something raw and unspoken. Jongho’s breath caught as the sound washed over him, his hands tightening faintly on his knees. 

“It feels… lonely,” Jongho said softly, his voice trembling slightly. “But not in a bad way. Like… like you’re walking through the woods by yourself, but the trees are keeping you company.” 

Mingi turned to him, his brows lifting in surprise. “You’re good at this,” he said warmly. “That’s exactly what I was trying to capture.” 

Jongho flushed faintly, ducking his head. “I just… I don’t know. I feel it.” 

“Music’s meant to be felt,” Mingi replied easily, his voice steady. “That’s why I love it. You can say things with sound that words can’t always express.” 

Jongho nodded, his gaze drifting back to the speakers as Mingi played another track. This one was brighter, playful, with an energy that brought the faintest flicker of something softer to Jongho’s expression. 

“What about this one?” Mingi asked, his tone lighter now. “What does it feel like to you?” 

Jongho tilted his head slightly, his ears twitching as he listened intently. “It feels… free,” he said slowly. “Like running down a hill without stopping.” 

Mingi laughed, the sound rich and genuine. “That’s perfect,” he said, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied grin. “I always thought it felt like freedom.” 

They fell into an easy rhythm, Mingi playing song after song and Jongho offering quiet but thoughtful impressions. Each melody seemed to unlock something in Jongho, pulling emotions to the surface he hadn’t realized he was still holding back. 

After a while, Mingi stood, moving to a shelf lined with small trinkets. He picked up a small, circular device with a faintly glowing button on the side. “This is a portable sound recorder,” he explained, holding it up for Jongho to see. “I use it to capture sounds from outside—birds, rain, wind—anything that catches my ear.” 

He pressed the button, and a soft recording of birdsong filled the room, layered with the faint rustle of leaves. Jongho’s ears perked up immediately, his expression softening slightly as he listened. 

“That’s beautiful,” Jongho said softly, his voice filled with quiet awe. “It’s like… being in the forest.” 

Mingi’s grin widened as he set the recorder back on the shelf. “I can show you how it works sometime if you want,” he offered casually. 

Jongho blinked, surprise flickering in his expression. He didn’t respond, but the faintest movement of his ears and the soft dip of his head gave him away. Mingi caught it, his grin softening into something fond. 

When he returned to his chair, Mingi hesitated before pulling up another file. “This one’s special,” he said, his voice quieter now. “It’s not finished yet, but I think it’s my favorite.” 

The music began slowly, a soft, aching melody that wrapped around the room like a quiet whisper. Jongho froze, his chest tightening as the sound filled the space. It wasn’t just beautiful—it was raw, heavy, brimming with emotions that felt too familiar. Each note seemed to echo the ache in his heart, pulling him under. 

Jongho’s breath hitched, his hands tightening on the scarf tied around his wrist. The melody swelled, layered with subtle harmonies that felt like voices reaching out in the dark. 

When the track ended, the silence that followed was heavy. Jongho stayed still, his eyes fixed on the desk, his ears pressing flat against his head. 

Mingi turned his chair slightly, his movements slow and deliberate. “It’s a little rough still,” he said carefully. “What do you think?” 

Jongho swallowed hard, his fingers brushing faintly over the scarf. “It felt…” He paused, the words caught in his throat. His ears flicked back nervously, and he shook his head. “It’s hard to explain.” 

Mingi didn’t push. “That’s okay,” he said softly. “Sometimes music says things we don’t have words for.” 

Jongho nodded faintly, his hands still fidgeting with the scarf. The studio’s warmth seemed to press around him, the lingering weight of the song heavy in his chest. He couldn’t say it—not out loud—but the way his shoulders eased, just slightly, said enough. 

Mingi leaned back, his gaze steady but unobtrusive. “Do you want to hear another one?” he asked after a long pause, his tone casual but kind. 

Jongho hesitated, his gaze flicking to Mingi for the briefest moment before dropping back to his lap. Slowly, he nodded. 

Mingi smiled gently, turning back to his laptop. As the next song began to play, Jongho let his eyes close, the melody washing over him like a tide. It didn’t erase the weight he carried, but it soothed the edges, made it bearable. 

And for now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

〜 Mingi’s POV 〜

Mingi spun his chair around, ready to get Jongho’s feedback on the track. He opened his mouth to speak but froze when he saw Jongho’s head tilted to the side, his eyes closed, and his breathing soft and steady. 

Jongho had fallen asleep. 

The gentle music still played through the speakers, filling the studio with a calming atmosphere. Mingi leaned over to turn the volume down a couple of notches, his movements slow and quiet so he wouldn’t disturb the sleeping hybrid. As the sound softened, he lingered, studying Jongho for a moment. 

It wasn’t what Mingi had expected. His gaze settled on Jongho’s peaceful expression, the faint rise and fall of his chest, the way his small, round ears occasionally twitched as if responding to some unseen dream. 

A memory tugged at him, drawing him back to the pack’s shared room the night before. Everyone had been piled on the bed, exchanging updates about Jongho, their voices a mixture of concern and quiet hope. 

“He ate more at dinner than usual,” San had said, his tone bright but careful. “It’s progress.”  

“Yeah, but it’s still not enough,” Wooyoung had muttered, frowning. “He needs more than a few spoonfuls to stay healthy. He’s trying, sure, but…” He had trailed off, frustration edging his words.  

“He’s not used to this,” Hongjoong had said, his calm voice steady but tinged with worry. “Not the food, not the safety, and definitely not being cared for. It will take a long time for him to believe this is real.”  

Yunho nodded in agreement. “We just have to keep showing him. Be consistent. That’s what matters.”  

San had sat a little straighter, his expression resolute. “I’ll keep sleeping in his room if it helps. He needs rest to start healing, and if that’s what it takes for him to sleep, I’ll do it.”  

Seonghwa, his back resting against the headboard, had sighed softly. “He’s trying, though. You can see it in the little things—how he looks at us like he wants to say something but doesn’t know how.”  

Mingi had leaned back, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. “Do you think it’s enough? I mean… he’s been through so much. What if we’re pushing too hard, even by just being here?”  

Yeosang glanced up from where he was adjusting his glasses. “We’re not pushing,” he had said quietly. “We’re just offering. He’ll come to us when he’s ready.”  

Wooyoung had tilted his head thoughtfully, a faint spark of mischief in his eyes. “Maybe when he’s ready, we could invite him to spend some time in the pack room. Not to pressure him or anything, just to show him how normal it is for us to be together.”  

San had tilted his head, considering. “That might help eventually, but I don’t think he’s ready yet. He barely lets us sit near him during meals.”  

“He needs his own space for now,” Seonghwa had agreed. “But the idea isn’t bad. When the time feels right, we’ll ask him.”  

“Yeah, not now,” Hongjoong had said firmly. “He needs to take things at his own pace. If we bring him in too soon, it might make him feel cornered.”  

The room had gone quiet after that, a hush fell over the room, each member of the pack seeming to withdraw slightly into their own thoughts. Mingi had turned the conversation over in his mind long after they’d dispersed, uncertainty still tugging at him.  

Now, sitting in the quiet studio, he let his gaze drift back to Jongho. The younger hybrid’s peaceful expression seemed so at odds with the tension he usually carried. 

One good night’s sleep wouldn’t erase everything Jongho had been through. It hadn’t been long since he joined the pack—recovery wouldn’t be quick or easy. But as Mingi watched him sleep, another realization settled in, warmer and more reassuring. 

Jongho must have felt safe here. Safe enough to let his guard down, even if only for a moment. 

Mingi stood carefully; his movements slow as he grabbed the blanket draped over the end of the couch. He walked back and gently placed it over Jongho’s shoulders. The younger hybrid stirred slightly, his fingers clutching the edge of the fabric as he curled deeper into its warmth. His small bear tail twitched faintly, a subtle motion that Mingi almost missed. 

A soft chuckle escaped Mingi as he shook his head. “You’re killing me here, little cub,” he murmured under his breath, a fond smile tugging at his lips. 

Returning to his chair, Mingi slid on his headphones and returned to his equipment. But before diving into the track again, he glanced at Jongho again. The blanket had shifted slightly, revealing a hint of his cheek as he slept, his features calm and serene. 

The studio felt different now—warmer and softer like the good energy in the room had seeped into the walls. 

Leaving one speaker on to play the calming music, Mingi began working on the track again. The melodies seemed to flow more easily now, the layers richer and more nuanced than before. He thought about how the song mirrored Jongho’s presence—tentative yet steady, layered with quiet strength. 

Mingi didn’t know if Jongho would ever hear this version of the song, but it didn’t matter. 

This moment, this calm—it was for Jongho. 

And maybe, just maybe, for himself too. 

〰〰〰

The studio was quiet except for the low hum of the speakers, the calming melody looping softly in the background. Mingi leaned back in his chair, his focus drifting from his work to the peaceful presence of Jongho beside him. 

Jongho had fallen asleep not long ago, his head tilted slightly to the side and his breathing slow and steady. For a moment, Mingi allowed himself to relax, too, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Seeing Jongho at ease was a rare sight, one Mingi felt lucky to witness. 

But then something shifted. Jongho’s brows furrowed, his fingers curling tightly around the chair's armrests. His small, round ears twitched, flattening against his head as a soft whimper escaped him. 

Mingi stilled, his chest tightening as he watched Jongho begin to stir. His breathing grew uneven, shallow gasps that made Mingi’s heartache. He instantly knew—this wasn’t just restless sleep. 

“Jongho?” Mingi called softly, his voice careful not to startle him. 

Jongho didn’t respond, his frame tensing as if bracing against an unseen threat. His hands gripped the armrests harder, and a low, broken sound escaped his lips—a sound that made Mingi’s breathing catch. 

He hesitated, torn between wanting to comfort Jongho and fearing that touching him might make things worse. His hand hovered just above Jongho’s arm, trembling slightly as he debated what to do. Jongho had been through so much—more than anyone should—and Mingi didn’t want to risk adding to his fear. 

Instead, he knelt beside the chair, keeping his movements slow and small. “It’s okay, Jongho,” he murmured, his voice as steady as possible. “You’re safe. You’re here with me.” 

Jongho shifted, his breaths hitched, coming in short, ragged bursts. Mingi felt a pang of helplessness wash over him. Jongho’s shoulders slumped, his body trembling, and he curled in on himself, clutching the blanket tightly as if seeking solace in its warmth. He wanted to do more, to reach out and ground Jongho in the present, but he forced himself to stay still. 

“It’s just a dream,” Mingi continued, his tone calm but firm. “I don’t know what’s chasing you, but I promise it can’t reach you here. Not while I’m around.” 

For a moment, it felt like his words weren’t getting through. Jongho’s trembling worsened, and Mingi’s chest ached with the urge to act. But then, Jongho stirred again, his eyes fluttering open. They were wide, unfocused, and panicked as they darted around the room. 

“Jongho,” Mingi said gently, leaning slightly closer but still keeping his distance. “It’s me. You’re in the studio. You’re safe.” 

Jongho blinked rapidly, his breaths still uneven as his gaze landed on Mingi. Recognition flickered in his eyes, but the fear lingered, his body still locked in the remnants of his nightmare. 

“You’re okay,” Mingi said softly, smiling. “I’ve got you.” 

Jongho’s shoulders slumped slightly, the tension in his frame easing just enough for his hands to release their grip on the armrests. He sat up straighter, his gaze dropping to his lap as his breaths began to steady. 

“I… I didn’t mean to…I’m sorry,” Jongho whispered, his voice shaking. His fingers fidgeted with the scarf tied to his wrist, twisting the fabric between trembling hands. 

Mingi shook his head quickly, his expression soft. “You don’t have to explain or apologize,” he said firmly. “Nightmares happen. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” 

Jongho’s ears twitched faintly, but he didn’t respond, his gaze fixed firmly on the floor. Mingi stayed where he was, observing him. The quiet between them wasn’t heavy, but it carried an unspoken weight. 

After a moment, Mingi stood and moved to the small fridge in the corner, pulling out a water bottle. He twisted off the cap and held it out to Jongho, waiting until the younger hybrid hesitantly accepted it. 

“Drink,” Mingi said gently. “It’ll help.” 

Jongho obeyed, taking a small sip before lowering the bottle. His hands were steadier now, though his grip remained tight. 

Mingi returned to his seat, but he didn’t start working again. Instead, he leaned back and spoke, his tone light but sincere. “You know, you don’t have to carry all of this alone,” he said. “If you ever want to talk, I’m here. No pressure, no judgment. Just me.” 

Jongho glanced at him briefly, his round ears flicking forward momentarily before flattening again. He nodded, the motion small but genuine. 

Mingi didn’t push further, letting the quiet settle between them again. The music from the speakers continued its gentle rhythm, filling the space with a soothing presence. Jongho’s breathing evened out entirely, and though his hands still fidgeted, the tension in his frame mainly had eased. 

“Thanks,” Jongho said suddenly, his voice so soft Mingi almost didn’t hear it. 

Mingi smiled, his gaze warm as he turned back to his equipment. “Anytime,” he replied, his tone as steady as his presence. 

He let Jongho sit in the quiet, knowing that sometimes, it was enough just to be there. 

Mingi leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting toward Jongho, who sat beside him with his fingers brushing absently over the scarf tied to his wrist. The soft glow of the studio lights cast warm shadows across Jongho’s face, but his expression was distant. Mingi didn’t have to guess why. He’d seen the way Jongho had jolted awake earlier, his small, round ears pinned back and his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. 

The nightmare had lingered, Mingi could tell, even if Jongho was trying to mask it. The heaviness in the air pressed on Mingi’s chest, and he knew he had to do something to pull Jongho out of his thoughts. 

An idea sparked, and Mingi spun his chair to face the computer, a grin tugging at his lips. “Alright,” he said, breaking the silence with a playful edge to his voice. “How do you feel about a little… chaos?” 

Jongho blinked, his wide eyes flickering with faint confusion. “Chaos?” he echoed, his voice soft and uncertain. 

“Yeah,” Mingi replied, spinning back to his computer and pulling up a folder labeled Pack Chaos Vol. 2. He clicked it open with a flourish, glancing at Jongho from the corner of his eye. “We’re making a remix.” 

Jongho tilted his head, his round ears twitching forward slightly. “A remix?” he asked, his tone cautious but curious. 

Mingi nodded, his grin widening. “Yup. And lucky for us, I’ve got some premium-grade material to work with.” 

He clicked on the first file, and the speakers came to life with Wooyoung’s dramatic, high-pitched laugh, followed by Seonghwa’s exasperated, “Mingi, I swear to—” 

Jongho’s nose twitched, and his lips pressed together as if trying to stifle a smile. Mingi didn’t miss it. 

“See?” Mingi said, gesturing to the screen. “Pure gold.” 

Jongho’s brow furrowed faintly as he leaned forward, his curiosity piqued. “You recorded them?” he asked, his voice still hesitant. 

Mingi’s grin turned mischievous. “Of course. Do you think genius pieces like this just happen? No way. I’ve been collecting these for exactly this purpose.” 

Jongho’s lips twitched again, and this time, the faintest hint of a smile broke through. “Won’t they be mad?” he murmured. 

“Eh,” Mingi said, waving a hand dismissively. “Maybe for a second. But they’ll laugh. Eventually.” 

He dragged Wooyoung’s chaotic laughter and Seonghwa’s sharp tone into his music software, layering them over a simple beat. The result was as ridiculous as Mingi had hoped—Wooyoung’s laugh turned into a percussive rhythm, with Seonghwa’s exasperation adding a surprisingly melodic quality. 

The first huff of amusement escaped Jongho before he could stop it. Mingi’s grin widened. “Not bad, huh?” he said, glancing at Jongho. 

“It’s… funny,” Jongho admitted softly, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of his scarf. His ears twitched forward, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. 

“Funny?” Mingi repeated, feigning offense. “This is a masterpiece.” 

He clicked on another file, and Yunho’s deep, resigned voice filled the studio: “Why do I always end up fixing this mess?” 

This time, Jongho let out an unguarded laugh—soft, warm, and completely real. The sound caught Mingi off guard, and he froze momentarily, letting it settle in the air. 

That laugh. Mingi hadn’t realized how much he’d wanted to hear it until now. It was quiet and fleeting, but it carried a warmth that made his chest tighten. He’d do anything to listen to it again. 

“You’ve got a great laugh, you know,” Mingi said after a pause, his voice softer now. 

Jongho’s ears flicked back slightly, and he ducked his head, his faint blush but noticeable. “It’s just a laugh,” he murmured. 

“Not to me,” Mingi replied, his grin softening. “It’s like… proof that I’m doing something right. So, fair warning—I will keep making these remixes if it means I get to hear it more.” 

Mingi teased lightly, spinning back to his computer. “Alright, let’s see what happens when we throw in San’s dramatic sighs.” 

As they worked, Jongho’s laughter became more frequent—quiet but genuine. Mingi felt a sense of pride swell in his chest with every soft chuckle and every fleeting smile. The track morphed into a chaotic blend of the pack’s voices, perfectly timed to an upbeat rhythm that practically begged for laughter. 

When they played it back, Jongho leaned back in his chair, his laughter filling the studio. Mingi paused, watching him with a quiet sense of awe. 

It wasn’t just the sound of Jongho’s laugh that struck him; it was how it transformed him. The tension that usually clung to his frame had melted away, replaced by something lighter, more complimentary. 

Mingi leaned back in his chair, letting the moment wash over him. “You’ve got a good ear,” he said after a pause, his tone gentle. “If you ever want to help me again, just say the word.” 

Jongho glanced at him, his gaze cautious but softer than before. When he nodded, Mingi’s smile returned. 

This was good, he thought. This was progress. And as Jongho’s laughter echoed in his mind, Mingi made a quiet promise to himself: whatever it took, he’d make sure Jongho had more moments like this. Moments where he could laugh, where he could feel lighter. 

Because that laugh? Mingi never wanted to go without it again. 

Mingi leaned back in his chair, his eyes drifting to the clock on the wall. A thought struck him, and he sat up quickly, turning to Jongho. “Hey,” he said casually, though there was a spark of mischief in his tone, “you hungry?” 

Jongho blinked at him, his small, round ears twitching. “I… guess?” he replied hesitantly. 

“Perfect,” Mingi said, standing and stretching. “Because if Wooyoung gets home and sees your full lunchbox, we’re all doomed. And trust me, none of us want that.” 

Jongho’s ears flicked back slightly, his expression uncertain. “I didn’t mean to—” 

Mingi waved a hand, cutting him off. “Don’t worry about it. Wooyoung probably packed you something Michelin-star-worthy, anyway. Let’s not waste it.” 

Jongho hesitated, but mentioning Wooyoung’s cooking seemed to soften his resistance. He nodded slowly, standing carefully to follow Mingi out of the studio. The hallway was quiet as they walked, the muffled hum of voices growing clearer as they approached the kitchen. 

When they entered, the scene was comfortably domestic. Yunho stood by the counter, wiping it down with practiced ease. Yeosang was at the table, arranging neatly sliced fruit on a platter, while Hongjoong leaned back in his chair, a steaming mug of tea in his hands. 

“You two finally emerged,” Yunho said, glancing up with a small smile. “How’s the chaos lab?” 

“Thriving,” Mingi replied, dropping into a chair. “The future of music has never looked brighter.” 

Hongjoong raised a brow over the rim of his mug. “Should I be concerned?” 

“Always,” Mingi said with a grin. He gestured for Jongho to sit in the chair beside him. “Come on, little cub. Don’t just hover.” 

Jongho hesitated, his fingers brushing the scarf tied around his wrist, but he eventually sat down. His wide eyes darted around the room, lingering briefly on Yeosang’s calm demeanor before dropping to the table. 

Yunho set a familiar, elaborately packed lunchbox on the table before Jongho with a grin. “Wooyoung’s pièce de résistance,” he said, his voice teasing. “We’ve got sushi rolls, hand-pressed rice balls, grilled chicken skewers, and a little bear-shaped cake. The works.” 

Jongho’s ears twitched, his gaze flicking over the meticulously arranged food. His fingers hesitated on the lid before he looked up. “He… made all this for me?” he asked softly. 

“Of course,” Yeosang said, glancing over from his fruit platter. “He said you deserve to eat like royalty.” 

“Plus, Wooyoung’s too extra to make anything simple,” Mingi added with a chuckle, earning Yunho's amused head shake. 

Jongho's shoulders relaxed slightly, and a faint smile touched his lips as he picked up one of the skewers. The tension in his shoulders seemed to ease as he took a small bite. 

As Jongho began to eat, Mingi leaned forward, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “Speaking of extra,” he began, “did I ever tell you about the time San tried to ‘improve’ Wooyoung’s soufflé recipe?” 

Hongjoong groaned softly, setting down his mug. “Oh no.” 

“It was glorious,” Mingi continued, his tone exaggerated and theatrical. “San said Wooyoung’s soufflé wasn’t ‘fluffy enough,’ so he decided to add his ‘secret ingredient.’” 

“What was it this time?” Yeosang asked dryly. 

“Protein powder,” Mingi declared, raising his hands dramatically. “San wanted to make a “healthy soufflé.” And instead of a light, fluffy masterpiece, we got a sad, dense pancake thing.” 

Yunho chuckled, shaking his head. “And then?” 

“And then,” Mingi said, leaning in, “San tried to save it by blending the whole thing with milk. He called it a ‘soufflé smoothie.’ But the blender exploded, and Wooyoung walked into the kitchen as batter hit the ceiling.” 

Jongho blinked, his wide eyes darting between Mingi and the others. His ears twitched forward slightly, and his lips pressed together as though trying to stifle a smile. 

“And the best part?” Mingi added, barely able to keep a straight face. “Wooyoung didn’t yell. He just stood there, took a deep breath, and said, ‘San, never touch my recipes again.’” 

That did it. A soft, quiet laugh escaped Jongho, small and fleeting but undeniably real. The room seemed to pause for a moment, all eyes turning toward him. 

Hongjoong’s harden features softened as he lowered his mug, his lips curving into a faint smile. Yeosang froze briefly while reaching for another slice of fruit, his eyes darting to Jongho as his lips curved into a quiet smile. Yunho leaned back against the counter, folding his arms with a satisfied look, the kind that came from seeing something rare and cherished. 

Mingi didn’t say anything at first, just watching the way the tension in Jongho’s posture seemed to melt away, the faint curve of his lips still lingering. 

After a moment, Hongjoong broke the silence, his tone thoughtful. “So, Mingi,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “What about the actual music? Are you making progress, or is the remix chaos taking over?” 

Mingi turned back to him, his grin softening. “It’s going to be amazing,” he said, his voice steady with confidence. “Especially now that I’ve got Jongho in the studio.” 

Jongho’s ears twitched, and he glanced at Mingi, his wide eyes full of surprise. “Me?” 

“You,” Mingi confirmed. “You’re inspiring, little cub. Being around you—it’s like I’m hearing music differently.” 

Jongho flushed, his gaze dropping to his lunchbox, but there was no mistaking the faint smile that tugged at his lips. 

Hongjoong’s smile grew slightly as he took another sip of his tea, his soft eyes still on Jongho. “Sounds like you’re onto something special.” 

Mingi nodded, glancing back at Jongho with quiet determination. “Oh, I am,” he said softly. “And it’s just the beginning.” 

The rest of the meal passed in a comfortable hum of conversation and laughter, the pack’s presence wrapping around Jongho like a shield.  

〰〰〰

〜 Hongjoong POV ～ 

Hongjoong lingered at the table long after the plates had been cleared and the others had scattered. The house was quieter now, the soft hum of conversations replaced by the distant creaks of floorboards and faint sounds from the studio. Across the table, Jongho sat still, his hands resting in his lap, his gaze distant but not uncomfortable. The light spilling through the kitchen window painted soft highlights along his rounded ears and the faint curve of his jaw. 

It was a rare moment of calm, and Hongjoong didn’t want to rush it. He had watched Jongho through lunch—the tentative way he picked at the meal Wooyoung had prepared for him, his ears twitched at every sudden sound, and the quiet hesitation in his smiles. But there had been a breakthrough, too: the laugh. That soft, unexpected laugh at San’s soufflé disaster story had warmed the entire room, and Hongjoong had seen it—the way Mingi and Yeosang exchanged glances, the way Yunho’s intense gaze softened. 

Hongjoong hadn’t said anything then, content to let the moment unfold naturally. But now, as Jongho sat quietly across from him, Hongjoong felt the stirrings of an idea, one that had been forming since the day Jongho joined their pack. 

He straightened slightly, breaking the comfortable silence with a warm tone. “Did you like lunch?” 

Jongho blinked, his ears twitching at the sudden question. “It was… good,” he said softly, his fingers brushing against the scarf tied to his wrist. “Wooyoung always makes sure there’s too much food.” 

Hongjoong chuckled. “That’s Wooyoung for you,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “He doesn’t believe in ‘just enough.’ It’s either everything or nothing.” 

Jongho huffed a quiet laugh, though he quickly ducked his head as if embarrassed by the sound. Hongjoong’s smile widened. 

“You know,” he continued, his tone conversational, “when San showed you around the house, I heard you got a quick look at my studio.” 

Jongho glanced up briefly, his wide eyes flickering with curiosity. “I… did,” he said hesitantly. “San said it was your space. He said you painted… everyone.” 

“I do,” Hongjoong said with a nod, his gaze steady. “It’s where I go to think. To make sense of things. Each portrait I’ve done—it’s not just about capturing how someone looks. It’s about showing who they are.” 

Jongho’s expression grew guarded, his round ears flattening slightly. “They’re all… beautiful,” he murmured, his voice barely audible. 

“They are,” Hongjoong agreed easily, his voice calm and warm. He let the statement linger briefly before adding, “But so are you.” 

Jongho stiffened, his fingers tightening around the scarf. “I’m not like them,” he said quietly, his voice laced with hesitation. “I don’t… look like that.” 

Hongjoong studied him for a moment, his attentive eyes eyes soft with understanding. He stood, moving around the table to lean against the edge closest to Jongho. He didn’t sit or crowd—just stood close enough to be present. 

“You don’t see yourself the way we see you,” Hongjoong said gently. “But that doesn’t make it any less true.” 

Jongho glanced at him, his wide eyes filled with uncertainty. Hongjoong’s tone didn’t waver, his steady presence wrapping around the younger hybrid like a shield. 

“I’ve been thinking about this for a while,” Hongjoong continued. “I’d like to paint you, Jongho. Not because you need to look like anyone else, but because you deserve to see yourself like I do.” 

Jongho’s breath hitched slightly, his gaze dropping to the table. “I don’t know if I can,” he admitted, his voice trembling faintly. “I don’t… I’m not like the others.” 

Hongjoong nodded, giving him the space to voice his thoughts. “That’s true,” he said softly. “You’re not like the others. You’re you—and that’s exactly why I want to do this.” 

Jongho hesitated, his ears flicking back and forth as he processed Hongjoong’s words. The weight of doubt and self-consciousness was evident in every line of his posture, but there was something else, too—something fragile and hopeful, hidden beneath the surface. 

“Come with me,” Hongjoong said, his voice gentle but firm. “You don’t have to decide right now. Just let me show you the studio again. No pressure.” 

Jongho hesitated a moment longer before nodding slowly. Hongjoong smiled, stepping back to give him space to rise. The two walked down the hall together, their footsteps soft against the hardwood floors. 

When they entered the studio, Jongho paused in the doorway, his wide eyes scanning the space. The light streaming through the windows bathed the room in warmth, illuminating the shelves of paints and brushes and the stacks of blank and finished canvases. The room smelled of linseed oil and wood—a clean, calming scent that seemed to put Jongho at ease. 

Hongjoong moved to the center of the room, gesturing toward one of the larger canvases leaning against the wall. It was Yunho’s portrait, the strong lines of his face softened by the golden glow of afternoon light. 

“San said you saw some of these before,” Hongjoong said, his voice casual. “But I didn’t get to explain what they mean to me.” 

He stepped aside, letting Jongho take in the portraits—Mingi’s bright energy, Yeosang’s quiet intensity, Wooyoung’s playful spark. Each was alive in its own way, a celebration of individuality and connection. 

“I don’t paint what people expect to see,” Hongjoong said, his tone thoughtful. “I paint what I see—the little things that make someone who they are.” 

Jongho lingered near Yunho’s portrait, his fingers twitching slightly at his sides. “You make them look… perfect,” he said quietly. 

“They’re not perfect,” Hongjoong replied, his voice steady. “They’re real. And so are you. Let me show you that.” 

Jongho glanced at him, uncertainty flickering in his wide eyes. Hongjoong held his gaze, his expression calm but unwavering. 

“I promise,” Hongjoong said, his tone soft but sincere. “This isn’t about changing anything. It’s about showing you what we all already see.” 

After a long pause, Jongho nodded slowly, his ears twitching forward. “Okay,” he whispered. 

Hongjoong’s smile widened, warmth flooding his chest. He gestured toward the comfortable chair by the window. “Sit wherever you’d like,” he said lightly. “We’ll take our time.” 

As Jongho moved to the chair, still hesitant but willing, Hongjoong picked up his brushes and selected a blank canvas. His movements were fluid and consistent; the quiet rhythm of the studio settled over them like a warm blanket. 

The work would take time, but that was the point. This was about more than painting on a canvas—it was about trust, connection, and showing Jongho a reflection of himself that he could believe in. 

And Hongjoong was ready to do just that. 

The studio was quiet except for the soft scrape of Hongjoong’s brush against the canvas. The paint spread smoothly, blending into the beginnings of a portrait that already held more life than the room itself. Across from him, Jongho sat in the chair near the window, his posture hesitant but steady, the afternoon light framing him in a warm glow. 

Hongjoong didn’t rush. He worked slowly, his brush moving in small, fluid strokes. His focus wasn’t just on the technical precision—it was on capturing what couldn’t always be seen. Jongho’s round ears twitched slightly as a bird chirped outside, and Hongjoong allowed himself a small smile. 

He leaned back to look at the canvas, tilting his head as if to gain a new perspective. The foundation was there: the gentle curve of Jongho’s jaw, the softness of his gaze, the quiet strength he carried even when he didn’t realize it. But it was only the beginning. 

“You don’t have to stay perfectly still, you know,” Hongjoong said, his voice light and warm. “This isn’t one of those formal portraits where you can’t move for hours.” 

Jongho glanced at him, his wide eyes filled with uncertainty. “I don’t want to mess it up,” he said softly, his hands fidgeting with the scarf tied to his wrist. 

“You won’t,” Hongjoong assured him. “I paint what I see, and what I see is always moving. Life isn’t still, Jongho—it’s fluid, like this paint.” 

Jongho didn’t respond right away, but his ears flicked forward slightly, a subtle sign that he was listening. Hongjoong dipped his brush into the palette again, adding a soft shade to the canvas and blending it with the warm tones of the background. 

As he worked, the rhythm of the brushstrokes became meditative. Hongjoong’s gaze flickered between Jongho and the canvas, catching the way the light shifted across his features, the way his posture relaxed just slightly the longer they sat in the studio. 

Hongjoong leaned back slightly, examining the canvas with a critical eye. His brush hovered mid-air for a moment before he set it down on the small table beside him. He wiped his hands on a cloth, then carefully lifted the canvas, turning it around to face Jongho. 

“What do you think so far?” he asked, his voice calm and measured as he held the canvas upright. 

Jongho blinked, his ears twitching slightly as his gaze shifted to the painting. He didn’t respond right away, his wide eyes scanning the rough outlines and muted strokes. The image was unfinished, with broad shapes and soft washes of color hinting at something deeper. Even in its raw state, it felt undeniably familiar. 

“It’s… me,” Jongho said after a long pause, his voice barely above a whisper. There was no awe or disbelief, just quiet acknowledgment like he was trying to process the idea. 

Hongjoong tilted his head slightly, watching Jongho’s reaction. “Of course it’s you,” he said gently. “Who else would it be?” 

Jongho’s ears twitched again, and he looked away, his shoulders hunching slightly as his hands gripped the arms of the chair. “I just… I don’t see myself like that.” 

Hongjoong frowned thoughtfully, carefully resetting the canvas on its stand. He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees as he regarded Jongho. “Like what?” he asked, his tone soft but curious. 

Jongho hesitated, his gaze flickering toward the floor before settling somewhere past Hongjoong’s shoulder. “I don’t know. Like… something worth painting.” 

The words hung in the air, quiet but heavy. 

Hongjoong studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, without a word, he stood and walked over to his worktable, leaning against its edge as he faced Jongho. 

“That’s the thing, Jongho,” he said, his voice quiet but steady. “You don’t see yourself the way we see you. But that doesn’t make it any less true.” 

Jongho’s ears perked slightly, though his posture remained guarded. He glanced at Hongjoong, a flicker of curiosity breaking through the uncertainty in his gaze. 

“I paint to show people what I see,” Hongjoong continued, gesturing slightly toward the canvas. “Not to change anything or make it something it’s not. Just to reflect the truth.” 

He paused, letting the words settle. “And the truth is, you’re more than you think.” 

Jongho’s hands, which had been gripping the chair’s armrests tightly, relaxed slightly. He didn’t respond, but the shift in his posture—his shoulders lowering just a fraction, the tension in his frame easing—was enough for Hongjoong to count it as progress. 

“This is just the foundation,” Hongjoong added, his tone lightening. “The first layer. It’s rough, but it’ll come together. You just have to trust me a little.” 

Jongho nodded faintly, his eyes flicking back to the canvas momentarily. “It’s… interesting,” he said finally, his voice quiet but genuine. 

Hongjoong chuckled softly, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Interesting is a start,” he replied. 

The quiet settled again, but it felt less tense this time, the weight between them easing. Hongjoong picked up his brush, his movements steady and precise as he returned to the canvas. The soft scratch of the brush filled the room, blending into the warm hum of the studio. 

Jongho sat still, his posture no longer rigid but not fully relaxed. His ears twitched slightly, following the sound of Hongjoong’s brushstrokes as his mind wandered. The beginnings of the portrait lingered in his thoughts, the raw lines and soft colors coming together in a way he couldn’t quite explain. 

It wasn’t perfect—not even close—but there had been something in it. Something familiar. 

“Let me know if you get tired,” Hongjoong said, his voice breaking the quiet without disrupting it. He didn’t look away from the canvas, but his tone was casual, as if they’d been conversing all along. “We can always stop and pick it up again later.” 

Jongho shifted slightly, his shoulders lowering just a little more. “I’m okay,” he replied softly. 

Hongjoong nodded without turning, his focus still on the canvas, and Jongho watched the way his hands moved—confident and purposeful, as if each stroke was part of something bigger than either of them could see yet. 

It wasn’t much, but for Jongho, the space between them felt just a little less intimidating now. 

It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make Hongjoong smile faintly as he dipped his brush back into the paint. 

The rest of the afternoon passed in quiet focus, the studio filled with the soft sounds of brushstrokes and the occasional chirp of birds outside. Hongjoong worked steadily, layering paint and blending colors as the portrait slowly came to life on the canvas. Every stroke felt intentional and significant, a testament to the trust that was building between them. 

As the light shifted, casting golden hues across the studio, Hongjoong felt a quiet sense of fulfillment settle over him. This wasn’t just another painting—it was a step forward, a way to show Jongho that he belonged, was seen, and mattered. 

The work was far from finished, but Hongjoong wasn’t in a hurry. This was about more than art; it was about connection. As he glanced at Jongho, sitting quietly by the window with the sunlight framing him like a halo, Hongjoong knew this was only the beginning. 

The room had settled into an easy quiet, the faint scent of paint mingling with the sunlight spilling through the windows. Across the room, Jongho shifted in his chair, his hands resting in his lap, his gaze distant but not uncomfortable. 

Hongjoong’s brush dipped into the paint again, the soft bristles catching the light as he worked. His focus wasn’t entirely on the canvas. He glanced at Jongho out of the corner of his eye, his mind turning over the quiet observations he’d collected since Jongho joined the pack. 

Jongho had been with them for a few days, but he still felt fragile—like a thread stretched thin, moments away from snapping. Hongjoong noticed how Jongho moved through the house, always quiet and cautious. He hovered before entering a room as if waiting for permission or sat at the edge of his seat, ready to leave at the slightest provocation. 

And then there was the scarf. Always there, tied around Jongho’s wrist like an anchor. Hongjoong didn’t know its story, but he didn’t need to—it was clear the scarf was essential, a piece of Jongho’s past that he clung to, even as he tried to find his place in the present. 

Hongjoong’s hand stilled, the paintbrush hovering over the canvas. He let out a slow breath, gentle warmth spread across his eyes as he watched Jongho. There was so much the younger hybrid wasn’t saying, so much he seemed to carry alone. Hongjoong’s chest ached with the weight of it, the silent reminder of how much work lay ahead. 

“You’re being very patient,” he said lightly, breaking the silence with a warm tone. “Most people get antsy after sitting still for this long.” 

Jongho blinked, his ears twitching at the sudden comment. “It’s… not bad,” he murmured. “I don’t mind watching.” 

“Good,” Hongjoong said, offering a small smile. “I was worried I might be boring you.” 

Jongho shook his head quickly, his round ears flicking forward. “No, it’s… interesting,” he said softly. “The way you work—it’s… different than I expected.” 

Hongjoong raised a brow, intrigued. “Different, how?” 

Jongho hesitated, his fingers brushing against the scarf. “I guess I thought it would be… faster. Like you’d already know exactly what you wanted to do.” 

Hongjoong chuckled softly, dipping his brush into a pale hue. “That’s the thing about painting,” he said, his voice thoughtful. “It’s never just about the result. It’s about the process—figuring things out as you go, letting the piece evolve naturally. Kind of like life, I guess.” 

Jongho tilted his head, his ears twitching slightly. After a moment, he asked, “Why did you start painting?” 

The question gave Hongjoong pause, and he lowered the brush to his palette, studying the colors as he mixed them. “That’s a good question,” he said softly. “I think it started as a way to express things I couldn’t put into words. Feelings, thoughts… things I didn’t know how to share with anyone else.” 

He glanced at the canvas, his gaze distant as memories surfaced. “When I was younger, I used to feel… overwhelmed a lot—by expectations, by responsibilities. Painting became my escape. It was the one place I could be myself without worrying about what anyone else thought.” 

Jongho’s ears flicked back slightly, his gaze dropping to his lap. “That… sounds nice,” he murmured. 

“It is,” Hongjoong agreed. “But it’s also something I had to learn to share. When I met the others, I realized art could be more than an escape. It could be a way to connect with people—to show them how I see the world, how I see them.” 

He turned back to Jongho, his brush still in hand. “That’s why I paint the pack. It’s not just about capturing how they look—it’s about capturing who they are. It’s my way of saying, ‘I see you, and I care about you.’” 

Jongho’s breath hitched slightly, his wide eyes meeting Hongjoong’s. “That’s… a lot,” he whispered. 

“It is,” Hongjoong said gently. “But it’s also the truth. You’ve only been here a few days, Jongho, but I already see so much in you—strength, resilience, and kindness. That’s why I want to paint you. Not to make you look like anyone else, but to show you what I see.” 

Jongho’s hands tightened around the scarf. “I don’t think I’m like that,” he said quietly. “Not the way you’re saying.” 

Hongjoong didn’t argue. Instead, he picked up his brush again and resumed his slow, meticulous strokes. “Maybe you don’t see it yet,” he said calmly. “But that’s okay. That’s what this is for.” 

The room fell quiet again, the rhythm of the paintbrush against the canvas filling the space. Hongjoong’s mind wandered as he worked, the intense concentration on Jongho’s features translating to every line and shade. There was so much he wanted to capture—the way Jongho’s ears twitched at the faintest sounds, the way his shoulders relaxed when he thought no one was looking—the quiet strength in how he held himself, even when he didn’t believe in it. 

“You inspire me, you know,” Hongjoong said after a long moment, his voice breaking the quiet. 

Jongho looked at him, his ears flicking with surprise. “Me?” he asked, his tone disbelieving. 

Hongjoong nodded, his gaze still on the canvas. “You remind me why I do this,” he said simply. “Why it’s important to look deeper, to see the things people try to hide. You’ve been through so much, Jongho, but you’re still here. That matters.” 

Jongho didn’t respond, but his posture shifted slightly, his shoulders relaxing a bit more. Hongjoong allowed himself a faint smile as he continued to paint. 

This wasn’t just a portrait. It was a promise—to show Jongho what Hongjoong saw and to remind him, every day, that he was part of something bigger now.  

〜  Jongho POV 〜

The studio was quiet, save for the soft, rhythmic scratch of the paintbrush against the canvas. Jongho sat stiffly in the chair, his hands resting in his lap. His fingers toyed with the scarf tied loosely around his wrist, tracing its frayed edges like a lifeline. The golden light pouring through the windows warmed his skin but did little to ease the knot of tension coiled deep in his chest. 

Hongjoong’s intense yet oddly gentle gaze felt tangible—like sunlight breaking through a dense canopy. Jongho couldn’t decide whether it was comforting or unnerving. It wasn’t the hostile scrutiny he was used to, but something about being watched so intently made his skin prickle. It wasn’t cruel, but it was unyielding as if Hongjoong could see past the surface to places Jongho wasn’t ready to share. 

His round ears twitched involuntarily, betraying his nervousness. He fought the urge to fidget, knowing even the slightest movement could disrupt whatever vision Hongjoong was coaxing onto the canvas. But the longer the silence stretched, the harder it became to sit still. 

“Relax,” Hongjoong murmured, his voice cutting through the quiet like the first breeze of spring. It wasn’t a command, just an invitation, soft and unassuming. “You don’t have to sit like a statue. Just be yourself.” 

Be yourself. 

The words hit Jongho with a weight he didn’t know how to carry. He tightened his grip on the scarf, the fabric rough against his fingertips. What did that even mean? For as long as he could remember, he’d been trying to shrink himself—to make his presence smaller, less noticeable, less threatening. The idea of simply being felt foreign, like trying to step into shoes he didn’t fit. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible. His ears flattened slightly as he lowered his gaze to his lap, unable to meet Hongjoong’s eyes. 

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Hongjoong replied, his tone easy, unbothered. The soft, even strokes of his brush continued uninterrupted. “Take your time. This isn’t supposed to be stressful.” 

Jongho nodded faintly, though he wasn’t convinced. His eyes wandered the room, drinking in the unfamiliar surroundings. The studio felt like a place pulled from a dream—shelves crammed with jars of paint and brushes, their handles stained with years of use. Canvases leaned against the walls, some blank and full of potential, others bursting with vibrant life. 

One caught his attention—a familiar portrait propped up near the corner. Yunho, rendered in bold strokes and golden light, stood tall and steady, exuding strength and warmth. Like all of Hongjoong’s work, it was stunning, but the sight of it sent a tightness creeping up Jongho’s throat. 

He couldn’t imagine himself looking like that. Being captured on a canvas felt inconceivable, let alone being placed next to someone like Yunho. The thought left him spiraling. He didn’t belong in the same frame. Not here. Not like this. 

The studio was quiet except for the soft rhythm of Hongjoong’s brush against the canvas. Jongho sat stiffly in the chair, his gaze drifting across the room. He tried to focus on the warmth of the golden light and the steady scratch of the brush, but his thoughts kept circling back to this morning. 

Mingi’s studio had felt calm at first, and the hum of the equipment and Mingi’s casual explanations of his songs made the space feel lighter than usual. Jongho had listened intently, his ears flicking toward the beats as Mingi spoke.  

“This one’s still rough,” Mingi had said, tapping his desk. “But I think it’s got potential. What do you think?”  

Jongho murmured a quiet response, unsure how to express his thoughts. Mingi didn’t seem to mind, grinning before moving on to the next track. The music filled the room, layered and intricate, and it felt like a shield against everything else for a moment.  

But the calm had been deceiving.  

Jongho hadn’t even realized he was falling asleep until it was too late. The studio's warmth, the low hum of Mingi’s voice—it had all pulled him under.  

The nightmare came quickly, as it always did. Dark and consuming, it gripped him in a place that felt too familiar, too relentless. He’d thrashed against it, clawing for air until—  

“Jongho.”  

The memory of Mingi’s voice brought heat to his cheeks. Mingi had been beside him when he woke, his large hand hovering near Jongho’s shoulder, his expression careful but concerned. Jongho had tried to brush it off, muttering an apology and forcing himself to focus on the present. Mingi hadn’t pushed, instead returning to his desk and changing the subject with a comment about reworking a remix. 

Jongho had seen through it. The gesture had been calculated—a quiet way to shift the mood and move forward without lingering on the moment. 

But now, hours later, the shame lingered. Had Mingi told the others? Did Seonghwa or Yeosang know? Did Hongjoong? 

The thought made Jongho’s chest tighten. He’d tried so hard to keep his struggles hidden, to fit in without showing the cracks he carried. But now, more than one of them had seen those cracks, and he couldn’t stop wondering how far the knowledge would spread. 

His fingers twitched slightly against the chair's armrest as he tried to shake off its weight. What would they think of him now? That he couldn’t even sleep without falling apart? That he didn’t belong here, in their home, in their pack? 

The rhythmic sound of the brush pulled him back to the present. Hongjoong worked steadily, his gaze darting between Jongho and the canvas with unwavering focus. His expression was not judgmental, and there was no indication that he knew what had happened that morning. 

And yet, Jongho couldn’t help but feel exposed, the cracks in his armor far more visible than he wanted them to be. 

The silence in the studio grew heavier, pressing down on him. He shifted slightly in his chair, his muscles tense as he fought the urge to fidget. 

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. He hadn’t meant for Mingi to see him like that. And now, he couldn’t help but wonder if the rest of the pack knew, if they were all thinking, what have we gotten ourselves into?  

“Why me?” The words tumbled from his lips before he could stop them, soft but trembling with unspoken weight. His fingers tightened instinctively around the scarf. “Why do you want to paint me?” 

The brush strokes paused. The sudden stillness filled the air, heavy and expectant. Jongho’s ears twitched, but he didn’t dare look up. He could feel Hongjoong’s eyes on him, patient and searching. 

“Why not you?” Hongjoong asked after a beat, his tone light but sincere, as though the question needed no further explanation. 

Jongho felt his throat tighten. The response sounded simple, almost obvious, but it wasn’t an answer he knew how to accept. He wanted to argue, to explain why the very idea of “why not” didn’t apply to him. But the words caught, tangled in his chest. 

“You don’t see yourself the way we see you,” Hongjoong said gently, his voice dipping into something quieter, more intentional. “But that’s exactly why I want to paint you. You deserve to see what we see.” 

Jongho’s fingers stilled against the scarf, his chest tightening almost painfully. The mixed emotions swirling inside him—disbelief, fear, a flicker of something fragile he couldn’t name—were overwhelming. He didn’t trust himself to speak, so he stayed silent, his gaze glued to the scarf in his lap. 

The brush strokes resumed, slower now. The quiet between them settled, not heavy but thick with unspoken understanding. Jongho focused on the soft rhythm, letting it fill the gaps where his thoughts threatened to spiral. 

And for a moment, Hongjoong’s steady presence became a kind of anchor—a reminder that, here in this room, he didn’t have to explain himself. He didn’t have to make sense of the mess inside. He just had to sit and exist. 

Time seemed to slow in the studio, the soft scratch of Hongjoong’s paintbrush filling the quiet. Jongho sat in the chair, his back straight but not rigid, his hands resting lightly on the armrests. The golden sunlight pouring through the windows illuminated the room, casting warm patches across the floor and walls. 

It was peaceful—almost too peaceful. Jongho wasn’t used to this kind of stillness, this kind of focus. He wasn’t sure where to look, so his gaze wandered, flicking between the canvas and Hongjoong, who stood across from him, immersed in his work. 

Hongjoong's concentration was unlike anything Jongho had ever seen. His eyes darted intently between the canvas and Jongho, each brush stroke carefully considered as though the image already existed in his mind, and he was simply revealing it. His movements were fluid, confident, and almost hypnotic.

Jongho studied him for a moment longer, curiosity bubbling to the surface. He paused before speaking, his voice breaking the stillness. “Is it… hard? Painting, I mean.” 

Hongjoong didn’t stop, but his lips curved into a faint smile. “Sometimes,” he said, his tone easy. “But it’s a good challenge. It’s like putting together a puzzle—figuring out how everything fits.” 

Jongho nodded, his gaze flicking briefly to the half-formed shapes on the canvas. “And me?” he asked quietly, the question leaving his mouth before he could second-guess it. “Am I a hard puzzle?” 

This time, Hongjoong paused, setting his brush down carefully. He turned to face Jongho, his expression thoughtful. “You’re not a puzzle,” he said, his voice soft but confident. “You have layers… and are something I want to understand, not solve.” 

Jongho blinked, caught off guard by the answer. He didn’t know how to respond, so he didn’t. Instead, he let Hongjoong’s words hang in the air, their weight both unsettling and grounding simultaneously. 

Hongjoong returned to his painting, and Jongho let his gaze wander again. The rhythmic strokes of the brush filled the silence, a sound that had somehow become soothing. This wasn’t the tense, expectant quiet he had learned to navigate in other spaces. It was calm, almost comforting, and allowed him to simply exist without judgment. 

He found himself relaxing—just a little. His posture softened, his shoulders lowering as the quiet rhythm of the studio washed over him. 

The faint creak of the front door opening broke the stillness, followed by Seonghwa’s familiar voice calling out from the hallway. “I’m back!” 

Jongho’s ears twitched, instinctively flattening momentarily before flicking forward again. His gaze darted to the doorway as soft footsteps approached, his body tensing slightly out of habit. 

Seonghwa appeared in the doorway, his expression brightening when he saw them. “There you are,” he said warmly, his eyes sweeping the room. He stepped inside, a slightly battered bag in one hand. 

“Welcome back,” Hongjoong said without looking up, his tone calm but carrying a distinct fondness. His brush moved steadily across the canvas, though Jongho noticed his strokes slowed as if Seonghwa’s presence had subtly shifted the atmosphere. 

Seonghwa crossed the room, leaning down to kiss the top of Hongjoong’s head. “How’s it going?” he asked softly. 

“Steady,” Hongjoong replied, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he glanced briefly at Seonghwa before returning to the canvas. “You can see for yourself soon.” 

Seonghwa’s gaze shifted to Jongho, his smile widening. “And how about you?” he asked, his voice light but sincere. 

Jongho hesitated, his fingers twitching slightly. “I’m… okay,” he said quietly, his tone steady but cautious. 

Seonghwa nodded as if he’d expected the answer. “That’s good to hear,” he said simply, setting the bag on the table. He reached inside, pulling out a small, rectangular object. “I brought something for you.” 

“For me?” Jongho asked, his round ears flicking forward slightly. 

Seonghwa stepped closer, holding out the bookmark. “I painted this earlier today while the kids were working on their projects,” he explained, his voice warm. “I thought you might like it.” 

Jongho reached out tentatively, his fingers brushing against the smooth surface as he took the bookmark. His wide eyes scanned the design—a teddy bear sitting under a tree; its round face tilted toward the pages of an open book. The soft browns of its fur blended seamlessly with the greens of the grass and leaves, and a vibrant red ribbon tied neatly around its neck brought the image to life. 

“It’s… cute,” Jongho softly said, his voice barely audible. 

Seonghwa chuckled, his expression fond. “That’s the idea,” he said. “When I thought about what to paint, this just felt right. A bear who loves books—it reminded me of you.” 

Jongho blinked, his gaze dropping to the tiny bear. The thoughtfulness behind the gift sent a confusing wave of warmth and discomfort through him. 

“Thank you,” he murmured after a pause, his fingers tightening slightly around the bookmark. 

Seonghwa’s smile softened. “You’re welcome. I thought it might make things feel a little more… yours. A reminder that it’s okay to settle in, even just a little.” 

Jongho nodded faintly, though the weight of the words sat heavily in his chest. He didn’t trust himself to respond, so he focused on the painted details, tracing the tiny leaves of the tree with his thumb. 

Hongjoong cleared his throat softly, breaking the moment. “Would you like to see what I’ve done so far?” he asked, his voice calm as he gestured toward the canvas. 

Jongho blinked, his ears flicking slightly. “Okay,” he said hesitantly, his chest tightening with apprehension. 

Hongjoong turned the canvas to face him, revealing the portrait. It was further along than the first time—more defined now, with soft details beginning to emerge. The curve of his jaw, the rounded edges of his ears, and the faintest hint of expression in his eyes—all captured with an unmistakable care. 

Jongho stared at the painting, his fingers tightening around the bookmark as his breath hitched slightly. 

“It’s coming along,” Hongjoong said lightly. “Still plenty to do, but I thought you might like to see the progress.” 

“It’s… good,” Jongho finally managed, his voice low. He glanced briefly at Hongjoong, unsure of how else to respond. 

Hongjoong nodded, satisfied. “Good is a start.” 

The quiet returned, and the soft sound of Hongjoong’s brush again filled the studio. 

Jongho had long since lost track of time. The faint hum of Hongjoong’s brush against the canvas filled the quiet studio, broken only by the occasional shifting of his chair or the clink of a brush against a jar. 

“Just a little longer,” Hongjoong had said… three “little longers” ago. 

Jongho’s muscles ached slightly from holding the same pose for so long. His back protested every second he stayed still, but he didn’t want to complain. The last thing he wanted was to disrupt Hongjoong’s focus—or worse, disappoint him. 

Hongjoong’s intensity was unlike anything Jongho had ever seen. His gaze darted between Jongho and the canvas, every movement precise and purposeful, as though he was uncovering something hidden rather than creating it from scratch. Jongho couldn’t bring himself to break the spell. 

Even when Seonghwa had excused himself a while ago, murmuring something about freshening up, Hongjoong hadn’t looked up. His focus never wavered, his brush moving with a fluid precision that left Jongho hesitant to speak or move. 

But as the minutes stretched into what felt like hours, the ache in Jongho’s back became harder to ignore. He shifted slightly, careful to keep his movements small, hoping it wouldn’t catch Hongjoong’s attention. 

The faint creak of the studio door broke the stillness, and Jongho’s ears twitched at the sound. He glanced up cautiously and saw Yeosang standing in the doorway, his arms loosely folded, his eyes sweeping the room. 

Yeosang’s lips curved into a faint smile as he took in the scene: Hongjoong, absorbed in his work, and Jongho, stiff as a board, his hands tightly clasped in his lap. With a soft sigh, Yeosang stepped inside, the weight of his presence somehow grounding. 

“You’ve been at this for a while,” Yeosang said, his tone calm and even. His gaze lingered on Jongho before shifting to Hongjoong. “Don’t you think it’s time for a break?” 

Hongjoong paused mid-stroke, his brush hovering over the canvas as Yeosang’s words sank in. For the first time, he seemed to notice the stiffness in Jongho’s posture—his shoulders were slightly hunched, his back rigid with tension. 

“Ah, Jongho,” Hongjoong said softly, guilt flashing across his face. He set his brush down, standing as he crossed the room in a few quick steps. “I didn’t realize how long you’ve been sitting there. Why didn’t you say something?” 

Jongho blinked, his ears flattening slightly. “I didn’t want to ruin the painting,” he murmured. 

Hongjoong sighed, running a hand through his hair. His expression softened as he leaned lightly against the worktable. “You’re not ruining anything,” he said firmly. “If anything, I should’ve been paying more attention. That’s on me.” 

He glanced back at the canvas, tilting his head slightly. “We’ve made good progress today,” he continued, his tone thoughtful. “Why don’t we call it here for now? We can pick it up again later.” 

Jongho hesitated, his fingers twitching slightly. “Are you sure?” he asked quietly. 

“Absolutely,” Hongjoong replied with a nod. “Art shouldn’t come at the expense of comfort. Besides, I want this to be something you enjoy, not dread.” 

Yeosang stepped closer, his faint smile returning. “See? Even Hongjoong knows when to take a break.” 

Hongjoong rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, he reached out to squeeze Jongho’s shoulder gently. “You’ve been incredible, Jongho. Thank you for trusting me.” 

Jongho’s ears twitched forward slightly, warmth blooming in his chest at Hongjoong’s words. He didn’t know how to respond, so he settled for a slight nod. 

Yeosang moved to Jongho’s side, his calm presence grounding. “Come on,” he said, his tone light but firm. “Let’s get you moving before you turn into part of the chair.” 

Jongho hesitated before standing slowly, his limbs stiff from sitting for so long. Yeosang was at his side instantly, steadying him with a light touch on his arm that Jongho didn’t realize he needed. 

As they approached the door, Hongjoong called after them, “Don’t worry, Jongho. We’ll pick up right where we left off another time.” 

Yeosang guided Jongho into the cooler hallway; the quiet outside the studio was a welcome change. “You’re too polite for your own good,” Yeosang said lightly, glancing at Jongho with a knowing smile. “Next time, just speak up. Hongjoong gets so caught up in his work easily.” 

A faint chuckle escaped Jongho, and Yeosang’s smile widened in response. “That’s better,” he said softly, his voice warm. 

Jongho ducked his head; his cheeks tinged with a faint blush. “Thank you,” he murmured. 

Yeosang nodded, his presence steady and comforting. “Anytime,” he replied. “Now, let’s find you somewhere less stiff to stretch out, yeah?” 

Jongho nodded, letting himself be guided down the hall.  

〰〰〰

Yeosang led Jongho down a quiet hallway and up a narrow staircase Jongho hadn’t noticed before. The wood creaked softly under their feet, but Yeosang moved with practiced ease, glancing back once to ensure Jongho followed. 

When they reached the top, Yeosang pushed open a small door, and sunlight spilled into the stairwell. 

“This is the balcony,” Yeosang said, stepping outside. 

Jongho followed hesitantly, his ears twitching as he took in the space. It was small but charming, with two chairs and a low table against the railing. Beyond that, the view opened to the yard below. 

The sight of the garden and the oak tree instantly captivated Jongho’s attention. From this height, the swing hanging from the tree looked almost like a painting, its ropes swaying gently in the breeze. To the right, he spotted the plant nursery, its glass walls glinting in the sunlight. 

“It’s peaceful up here,” Yeosang said, leaning against the railing. “I come here often when I need a moment to think—or when the others get too loud.” 

Jongho let out a quiet huff of laughter, his gaze lingering on the swing. “It’s nice,” he murmured. 

Yeosang nodded, his expression softening. “The swing and the greenhouse… they’re part of what makes this place feel alive. It wasn’t always like this, though. When we first moved in, it felt empty. It took time to make it a home.” 

Jongho glanced at him, curiosity flickering in his wide eyes. “How long have you all lived here?” 

“A few years,” Yeosang replied. “Hongjoong and Seonghwa found the place first. The rest of us joined over time. It’s funny—I didn’t think I’d stay when I moved in. I didn’t think I could fit.” 

Jongho’s ears twitched, his gaze dropping to the railing. “What changed?” 

Yeosang’s lips curved into a faint smile. “The pack did,” he said simply. “They’re stubborn, but in the best way. They won’t let you keep to yourself for too long. They pull you in without you even realizing it.” 

Jongho didn’t respond, but his posture softened slightly as he let Yeosang’s words sink in. 

“Come on,” Yeosang said after a moment, nodding toward another door at the far end of the balcony. “There’s more to see.” 

Jongho followed him through the door and up another narrow staircase. This one led to a rooftop space hidden above the main house. 

When they stepped outside, Jongho’s eyes widened. The rooftop was open and airy, with a low wall around the edges and a scattering of potted plants that swayed gently in the breeze. A couple of beanbag chairs were positioned near the center, facing the sky. 

“This is the rooftop,” Yeosang said, spreading his arms slightly. “It’s not fancy, but it’s a good place to watch the stars.” 

Jongho stepped closer to the edge, his gaze sweeping over the treetops. The view here was different—broader, more expansive. He could see the distant line of the horizon, where the late afternoon sky blended into soft hues of orange and pink. 

“The pack comes up here sometimes,” Yeosang continued, his tone casual. “Yunho and Mingi like to sit and talk for hours. Wooyoung likes to try balancing on the wall, which is… not recommended.” 

Jongho’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “It’s… quiet,” he said softly. 

Yeosang nodded, stepping up beside him. “It is. That’s why I like it. It’s one of the few places in the house where you can hear yourself think.” 

He glanced at Jongho, his expression thoughtful. “You don’t have to say anything, but… I know this whole thing—being here with us—probably feels overwhelming. It did for me at first.” 

Jongho tilted his head, his ears flicking forward slightly. 

Yeosang leaned lightly against the wall, his gaze distant. “When I joined the pack, I didn’t know how to let myself be part of it. I thought I had to earn my place as if there were some tests I needed to pass. But the truth is, you don’t. You’re already here. That’s enough.” 

Jongho’s chest tightened at the words, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he let his gaze drift back to the horizon, the quiet between them surprisingly comfortable. 

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, Yeosang straightened and nodded toward the stairs. “There’s one more place I want to show you,” he said, his tone lighter now. 

Jongho followed him back into the house and down a different hallway. They stopped at a narrow door partially hidden behind a bookshelf. Yeosang pushed it open, revealing a small alcove tucked into the corner of the house. 

The space was cozy, with a cushioned bench set into the wall, surrounded by shelves filled with books, candles, and small trinkets—a soft, warm light filtered in through a high window, casting the room in golden hues. 

“This is my spot,” Yeosang said, stepping inside. “I come here when I need to get away from everything.” 

Jongho lingered in the doorway, his wide eyes taking in the space. The bench looked inviting, piled with soft blankets and pillows. On the shelves, tiny figurines and polished stones were arranged with care. 

“It’s… yours?” Jongho asked hesitantly. 

Yeosang shrugged. “It’s mine, but that doesn’t mean you can’t use it. If you ever need somewhere quiet, this room’s always open.” 

Jongho stepped inside slowly, his gaze lingering on a small, intricately carved figurine of a fox sitting on one of the shelves. 

“The others don’t come here much,” Yeosang said, his tone calm. “They all have their own spots. But I figured you might like it.” 

Jongho ran his fingers lightly over the edge of the bench, the soft fabric grounding. “It’s… peaceful,” he said finally. 

“That’s the idea,” Yeosang said with a faint smile. 

As they settled into the quiet of the alcove, the warmth of Yeosang’s words and the space itself seemed to wrap around Jongho like a blanket. 

The quiet of the alcove settled over them like a gentle blanket. Jongho and Yeosang had moved to sit comfortably next to each other on the bench, the small room bathed in the faint glow of its high window. Yeosang’s attention was on the book in his lap, his fingers turning the pages carefully, the faint rustle of paper filling the stillness. 

Jongho found himself watching him, his gaze tracing the line of Yeosang’s focused expression. The defined yet soft features of his face and the way his eyes moved with quiet concentration as he read were oddly mesmerizing. Jongho didn’t realize he was staring until Yeosang glanced up briefly, catching his eye. 

“You okay?” Yeosang asked, his voice low but steady. 

Jongho’s ears twitched, and he quickly looked away, the tips of his ears warming. “I’m fine,” he murmured, his voice quieter than usual. 

Yeosang hummed softly in response, turning his attention back to the book. He didn’t say anything else, and the silence between them returned, unbroken and comfortable. 

The peace was interrupted by the distant sound of Wooyoung’s voice calling out through the house. 

“Dinner’s here!” Wooyoung’s shout carried faintly through the walls, full of his usual energy. “Get down here before San eats everything!” 

Jongho’s ears twitched at the sound, but neither he nor Yeosang moved. It wasn’t until footsteps approached and the door creaked open that Wooyoung finally popped his head in, his grin bright as always. 

“Ah, there you are,” he said, his tone lighter now that he’d found them. “San said I’d have to come drag you two out myself, and here I am.” 

Yeosang closed his book calmly, glancing up at Wooyoung. “You’re dramatic.” 

Wooyoung huffed, stepping fully into the room and moving to stand beside Yeosang. “And you’re a hermit. Now come on, the food’s still hot, and I’m not letting anyone miss out on the kimchi stew I made.” 

Yeosang stood without a word, brushing past Wooyoung to place the book on a nearby shelf. As he did, Wooyoung leaned over and quickly kissed Yeosang’s cheek, his grin softening. 

“Thanks for not making me carry you out,” Wooyoung teased. 

Yeosang rolled his eyes but didn’t push him away. 

Turning to Jongho, Wooyoung’s gaze softened even further. “Come on, Jongho,” he said, holding his hand out with an easy smile. “You’ve got to try this. You’ll love it.” 

Jongho hesitated, glancing at Yeosang, who nodded faintly. Tentatively, Jongho reached out, letting Wooyoung’s hand wrap around his own. The warmth of it startled him, but he didn’t pull away as Wooyoung led him out of the alcove. 

The warm scent of food drifted through the air as Jongho followed Yeosang and Wooyoung into the dining room. The clatter of chopsticks and the faint hum of conversation spilled out, drawing them closer. Jongho hesitated at the threshold, his gaze flicking to the dining table with steaming dishes. 

The pack was scattered around the table, their movements easy and unhurried. Mingi was pouring water into glasses, and San stood by the head of the table, nudging containers into neat rows. Seonghwa sat near the center, quietly arranging side dishes, his hands moving with practiced precision. 

“There they are,” San said, looking up with a small smile as Wooyoung ushered them inside. 

“Late, as usual,” Wooyoung said teasingly, though his tone was light. He guided Jongho toward the table, his hand briefly resting on his shoulder. “Come on, sit down before the food gets cold.” 

Yeosang moved to his usual seat, gesturing silently for Jongho to sit beside him. Jongho obeyed, briefly feeling the weight of everyone’s attention before it passed as naturally as a breeze. 

The table was alive with warmth—steaming bowls of japchae, plates of pajeon, and a pot of bubbling kimchi stew sat at the center. Wooyoung busied himself with scooping portions onto plates, moving with the same focus he’d likely shown in the restaurant kitchen earlier. 

Jongho sat quietly, watching as Mingi nudged a bowl of japchae toward him, his tone casual. “Here, try this—it’s one of Wooyoung’s specialties.” 

“Thanks,” Jongho murmured, his voice low. He took a small portion, his fingers trembling slightly as he picked up his chopsticks. 

The others fell into a natural rhythm, passing dishes and sharing quiet commentary about the food. Wooyoung leaned against San’s shoulder as he picked up a plate of pajeon, and Seonghwa reached across the table to refill Yeosang’s bowl without a word. 

Jongho couldn’t stop watching the way they moved around each other. The small touches, the easy smiles, the way no one hesitated to lean into one another—it was so foreign, yet it felt strangely comforting. 

“You’ve got to hear what happened today,” Wooyoung said suddenly, his tone bright as he glanced around the table. “Some guy at the restaurant had the nerve to complain about San being in the kitchen.” 

Seonghwa’s head snapped up, his brows knitting. “What?” 

San sighed, shaking his head. “Apparently, he didn’t like the idea of a hybrid cooking his food.” 

Wooyoung scoffed, stabbing his chopsticks into a piece of pajeon. “I told him if he didn’t like hybrids, he didn’t need to eat at our restaurant. Then I told him to leave.” 

“You’re underselling it,” San added, his tone dry. “You said all of that while holding a cleaver. Very calmly.” 

“I wasn’t threatening him!” Wooyoung protested though the grin tugging at his lips gave him away. 

San tilted his head. “You also called him 'sir' five times, and it made it like it was some kind of performance.”

Jongho blinked, the image of Wooyoung wielding a cleaver and sarcastically addressing a rude customer forming in his mind. A soft, unexpected laugh bubbled up before he could stop it. 

The sound silenced the table for a moment. 

Wooyoung turned to Jongho, his grin softening. “There it is,” he said warmly. “I knew we’d get you to laugh eventually. It suits you, you know.” 

Jongho’s cheeks flushed, and he quickly ducked his head, his ears twitching nervously. 

“It’s a good laugh,” Seonghwa added gently, his gaze warm. “You should let us hear it more often.” 

Jongho didn’t know how to respond, so he focused on his plate, the warmth of their words settling over him like sunlight breaking through clouds. 

As the conversation shifted, Jongho found himself listening more than speaking, the rhythm of their voices washing over him. 

“You handled that customer better than I would have,” Seonghwa said, his tone calm but firm. “I don’t think I would have had the patience.” 

“It’s Wooyoung,” Yeosang chimed in, his voice quiet but amused. “Patience is never part of his process.” 

Wooyoung gasped dramatically but leaned back into San’s shoulder, letting the complaint roll off him. “You love me anyway,” he quipped. 

“Unfortunately,” San replied, though his small smile betrayed the truth. 

Mingi reached across the table to nudge Jongho’s plate closer. “You’re a part of this now too, Jongho,” he said casually as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “You don’t have to sit there like you’re on trial. Eat more. You’re family.” 

The word made Jongho’s chest tighten. Family. It felt heavy, unfamiliar, yet strangely comforting. He glanced at Mingi, who gave him an easy smile, and then at the others, who were already back to passing dishes and leaning into one another’s spaces like it was second nature. 

Family. Could he really be part of something like this? 

When dinner began to wind down, Jongho stood instinctively, gathering a few dishes. 

“Jongho,” San said, his tone gentle but firm, “you don’t have to help. Sit down and relax.” 

“You’ve done enough today,” Wooyoung added, already stacking bowls with practiced ease. 

“It’s only fair,” Jongho said quietly, holding his ground. “I can’t just sit here while you clean everything up.” 

Yeosang tilted his head, his gaze calm as he reached to take the dishes from Jongho’s hands. “You’re not here to work,” he said simply. “You’re here to rest.” 

Jongho hesitated, his ears flicking back nervously, but Seonghwa intervened with a warm smile. “If it makes you feel better, you can dry the dishes,” he said. “But only if you want to.” 

That compromise was enough. Jongho nodded faintly, following Seonghwa into the kitchen to help. 

As the others moved around him, their banter soft but constant, Jongho found himself relaxing into the rhythm of it. For the first time, the thought of being part of this—this family—didn’t feel so impossible. 

～ Seongwha POV～

The kitchen was finally spotless, and the last dish was placed carefully on the rack to dry. Jongho stepped back, wiping his hands on a dish towel. He had insisted on helping despite their protests, and though Seonghwa had wanted to argue, he hadn’t missed the quiet determination in Jongho’s eyes. 

“Thank you for helping,” Seonghwa said softly, his tone warm. “Even though we told you it wasn’t necessary.” 

“It’s nothing,” Jongho murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. 

Mingi leaned against the counter, grinning as he passed Jongho on his way out. “Good job, Jongho. We might just make a proper dishwasher out of you yet,” he teased lightly, giving Jongho a playful nudge. 

Jongho blinked, his ears twitching slightly, but the faintest hint of a smile tugged at his lips. 

The rest of the pack had already started gathering in the hallway, their footsteps soft as they headed upstairs. Seonghwa hung back for a second, watching as Jongho glanced around the empty kitchen, his gaze lingering on the now-clean surfaces. 

“You coming?” Seonghwa asked gently, gesturing toward the others. 

Jongho hesitated but nodded, following Seonghwa as they left the kitchen. 

The pack moved together up the wide staircase, the house filled with the quiet creaks of old wood under their feet. Jongho walked near the back of the group, his shoulders slightly hunched as if trying to take up as little space as possible. 

Seonghwa stayed close behind him, his eyes catching every subtle movement—the way Jongho’s ears flicked nervously at the sound of Mingi and Wooyoung chatting ahead, the way his hand brushed against the banister as if grounding himself. 

Jongho barely spoke during dinner; his words were few and measured. But Seonghwa had noticed how his gaze lingered on the others—the warmth in their easy touches, the quiet affection in their smiles. He wondered if Jongho had ever seen anything like it before if he even knew what to make of it. 

At the top of the stairs, the group began to disperse, each member heading toward their rooms. 

“Goodnight, Jongho,” Yeosang said first, his voice quiet but sincere as he passed. 

Jongho dipped his head slightly in acknowledgment. “Goodnight,” he replied, his voice soft. 

Mingi was next, grinning as he clapped Jongho lightly on the back. “Sleep well,” he said, his tone cheerful. 

Hongjoong lingered a moment longer, his hand brushing Jongho’s arm as he met his gaze. “If you need anything tonight, don’t hesitate to knock, okay?” 

Jongho’s ears twitched, and he nodded faintly. “Okay. Goodnight.” 

Seonghwa waited until the others had disappeared into their rooms, his gaze lingering on Jongho as he stood awkwardly in the hallway. 

“Goodnight, Jongho,” Seonghwa said gently, his voice carrying an edge of warmth he hoped would put the younger hybrid at ease. 

Jongho glanced up at him, his wide eyes reflecting something unreadable. “Goodnight,” he murmured before retreating into his room and closing the door softly behind him. 

As Seonghwa turned toward his room, he couldn’t help but replay the small, fleeting moments he’d seen that night—the way Jongho’s shoulders had lowered slightly at dinner when Mingi piled food on his plate, the brief, startled laugh when San told his story about Wooyoung, the quiet way he seemed to take everything in, as if trying to decide if it was real. 

Jongho was trying; Seonghwa could see that. But there was still so much doubt in his eyes and weight in how he carried himself. Seonghwa’s chest tightened at the thought. 

When Seonghwa stepped into his room, the silence felt heavy. He had already showered earlier, so he changed into sweatpants and a loose T-shirt, but instead of lying down, he perched on the edge of his bed, staring at the floor. 

He had expected Jongho to be guarded—he’d known that much from the start. But every time he saw the faint flicker of hope in Jongho’s gaze, followed by how it quickly disappeared, it made him want to do more. To show Jongho that he wasn’t just welcome here—he belonged here. 

Seonghwa waited for Jongho’s door to close, a quiet signal that the younger hybrid had settled for the night. Then, with a calm breath, he stood and stepped into the hallway, heading toward the pack room. 

Seonghwa slipped quietly out of his room and made his way to the pack room. Inside, he found Hongjoong seated cross-legged on the floor, sorting through a small pile of papers. Mingi lounged on one of the couches, his long legs stretched out, while Yunho perched stiffly on the armrest of the same couch, his posture unusually tense. 

Hongjoong glanced up as Seonghwa entered, offering a faint smile. “The others are still showering and getting ready for bed,” he said, gesturing for Seonghwa to join them. “It’s just us for now.” 

Seonghwa nodded, settling into an armchair near the corner. His eyes flicked to Yunho, noting the tension in his shoulders and the distant look in his eyes. 

“What’s on your mind?” Seonghwa asked gently, his voice breaking the silence. 

Yunho exhaled softly, his fingers threading through his hair. “It’s Jongho,” he admitted, his voice quieter than usual. 

Hongjoong set his papers down, his attention shifting entirely to Yunho. “What about him?” 

Yunho hesitated, his gaze fixed on the floor. “I feel like… I don’t know how to reach him,” he said finally. “I’ve been trying to talk to him and make him feel comfortable, but every time I get close, it’s like he pulls away.” 

“He’s been pulling away from everyone,” Seonghwa said softly. “It’s not just you.” 

“I know,” Yunho replied quickly, his tone almost defensive. “But it feels different with me. When he looks at me…” He paused, his jaw tightening. “There’s this wariness in his eyes like he’s waiting for me to snap at him or… worse.” 

Hongjoong leaned forward slightly, his brows furrowing. “What makes you think it’s different with you?” 

Yunho ran a hand over his face, letting out a frustrated sigh. “Because I’m an alpha,” he said bluntly. “And I don’t think he can separate me from whatever alphas he’s dealt with before. I’ve tried everything—being calm, soft, giving him space—but it feels like he won’t trust me no matter what I do.” 

“You don’t know that he doesn’t trust you,” Mingi chimed in, setting his phone down. “He’s just… scared. Probably of all of us, but you most of all because of what you represent.” 

Yunho’s shoulders slumped slightly, his frustration giving way to something more vulnerable. “I know that,” he said, his voice quieter. “But it doesn’t make it any easier to see. I always think about him— how small he looks when he’s around us, how careful he is with his words, how he barely meets my eyes. And I can’t stop wondering what he’s been through to make him like this.” 

The room fell silent momentarily, Yunho’s words hanging heavy in the air. 

“He’s been through a lot,” Seonghwa said softly, his gaze steady. “But that’s not something you can fix overnight. It’s going to take time, Yunho. And consistency.” 

Hongjoong nodded, his expression thoughtful. “You don’t have to erase his past, Yunho. That’s not your job. But you can give him something better—new memories, better ones, ones that are louder than the bad.” 

Yunho looked up at him, eyes that seemed to burn with an inner fire reflecting a mix of frustration and determination. “I don’t even know if he wants those memories with me,” he admitted. “What if he never does?” 

Hongjoong tilted his head, his tone calm but firm. “That’s a possibility,” he said honestly. “But it doesn’t mean you stop trying. You’re not doing this to get quick results, Yunho. You’re doing this because you care about him. And if you keep showing him that, eventually, he’ll see it too.” 

“I just…” Yunho hesitated, his voice wavering slightly. “I hate the thought of him being scared of me. I don’t want him to see me as someone who could hurt him. I want him to feel safe with me like he belongs here.” 

“He will,” Mingi said firmly. “You’re not like whoever hurt him, Yunho. You’re not even close. Jongho’s smart. He’ll figure it out.” 

Seonghwa leaned forward slightly, his gaze softening. “Mingi’s right. You’ve been showing Jongho who you are since he got here. You don’t have to force it, Yunho. Just keep being yourself. That’s enough.” 

Yunho exhaled slowly, some of the tension in his shoulders easing. “I hope so,” he murmured. “I just want him to feel like he’s part of this family.” 

The room fell into a thoughtful silence, the weight of the conversation lingering between them. Seonghwa’s gaze shifted to the small jar of bruise cream sitting on the table beside Hongjoong. 

“I’ve been thinking,” Seonghwa said after a moment, his tone careful. “Would it be alright if I put the cream on Jongho tonight?” 

Hongjoong tilted his head, studying him curiously. “Why?” 

“I feel like he’s starting to trust me,” Seonghwa said softly. “Even if it’s just a little. I want to build on that.” 

Hongjoong’s eyes lingered on him for a moment before he nodded. “Alright,” he said. “Just be gentle. Don’t push him.” 

“I won’t,” Seonghwa promised, picking up the jar. 

Yunho offered a faint smile. “Good luck,” he said quietly. 

“Thanks,” Seonghwa replied, standing. “I think I might need it.” 

As he left the pack room and walked down the hallway, Seonghwa felt the weight of the small jar in his hand. It wasn’t just about the bruise cream—it was about showing Jongho, in small, meaningful ways, that he was safe here 

Seonghwa stood before Jongho’s door, the small jar of bruise cream cradled in his hand. His fingers tightened around it as he paused, a wave of uncertainty washing over him. He knew Jongho was awake—it had only been a short while since the pack had all gone to their rooms.

It wasn’t that he was nervous about applying the cream; Seonghwa had always been good at caring for others. But something about Jongho made him tread more carefully as if the slightest misstep would send him retreating into himself again. 

With a quiet breath, Seonghwa raised his hand and knocked softly. 

The door seemed to fly open after a couple of seconds. Seonghwa blinked as a freshly showered Jongho greeted him. His damp hair clung to his forehead in soft waves, and he wore one of Yunho’s old long-sleeve shirts, the wide neckline resting slightly off his shoulder. The faded fabric hung loosely on Jongho’s frame, and Seonghwa’s chest tightened at the sight. 

He looked good—comfortable, almost. Seonghwa felt a small surge of relief. Placing some of their clothes in Jongho’s drawers to help him get used to their scents had been a good idea, after all. 

But then his gaze caught on the faint bruising along Jongho’s neck, the familiar marks standing out against his pale skin. 

Seonghwa held up the jar, offering a small smile. “I brought the bruise cream. Mind if I put it on for you?” 

Jongho hesitated, his wide eyes flicking to the jar and then back to Seonghwa. For a moment, Seonghwa thought he might refuse, but then Jongho nodded faintly and stepped aside, motioning for him to come in. 

The room was quiet as they moved to sit on the bed, facing each other. Jongho carefully lowered himself onto the mattress, his hands resting loosely in his lap. Seonghwa sat across from him, the jar of cream balanced on his palm. 

He unscrewed the lid and scooped out a small amount with his fingers. “This is going to be cold,” Seonghwa warned gently, his voice soft. 

Jongho hummed in acknowledgment, his eyes steady but guarded. 

Seonghwa reached out carefully, pressing the cream to the bruised area on Jongho's neck. His movements were gentle and precise, ensuring a light touch. Jongho’s skin was cool and slightly damp from his shower, and Seonghwa focused on smoothing the cream evenly over the discolored patches. 

Seonghwa pulled his hand back to scoop more from the jar each time the cream began to absorb. He noticed how Jongho’s shoulders gradually relaxed with each pass, and the tension in his posture eased. When Seonghwa’s fingers brushed against a particularly sore spot, Jongho leaned into the touch, his eyes fluttering closed. 

Seonghwa smiled at the sight, warmth blooming in his chest. 

“Does this hurt?” he asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper. 

Jongho shook his head faintly, not bothering to open his eyes. “No,” he murmured, his tone quiet but steady. 

Seonghwa continued his careful work, his hands moving in smooth, practiced motions. Each time Jongho leaned in just a little more, his expression softening, Seonghwa’s resolve to care for him only deepened. 

When Seonghwa finally pulled his hands away, he leaned back slightly, studying Jongho’s face. The younger hybrid looked peaceful, almost drowsy, his eyes closed as he sat quietly on the bed. 

But then Seonghwa’s gaze dropped to Jongho’s damp hair, the water dripping onto his shoulders and the neckline of Yunho’s shirt. Jongho looked like a wet puppy, and Seonghwa bit back a chuckle at the thought. 

“Have you been going to bed with your hair wet?” Seonghwa asked, tilting his head. 

Jongho opened his eyes, blinking in mild confusion. “I… guess?” he said hesitantly, shrugging as if it wasn’t a big deal. 

Seonghwa frowned, his eyes narrowing slightly. “No one mentioned this to you?” 

Jongho shook his head, clearly puzzled. 

Seonghwa let out a quiet sigh, running a hand through his own hair. “These children,” he muttered under his breath, though there was no actual irritation in his tone. 

Then, with a softer voice, he added, “That’s alright, honey bear. Someone should have told you sooner that going to bed with wet hair can make you sick.” 

Jongho’s eyes widened slightly, his ears flicking forward in alarm. 

Seonghwa chuckled lightly, his expression softening. “It’s okay,” he reassured. “You’re not in trouble. But we’ll fix it.” 

Jongho relaxed slightly, though his wide eyes still held a hint of uncertainty. 

“Can I blow-dry your hair for you?” Seonghwa asked, tilting his head. 

Jongho hesitated for a moment before nodding, his ears twitching faintly. 

Seonghwa smiled, standing and making his way to the bathroom attached to Jongho’s room. He opened the cabinet beneath the sink, retrieving the blow dryer with practiced ease. 

As he stepped back into the room with the blow dryer in hand, his gaze instinctively fell on Jongho, who was still sitting on the edge of the bed, taking in the soft lines of his posture, the faint vulnerability in the way he sat waiting. He wavered for a moment, then glanced toward Jongho’s desk chair. 

“It’ll be easier if you sit in the chair,” Seonghwa said softly as he picked the chair up and moved to set it in front of Jongho “I’ll sit on the bed.” 

Jongho blinked at him, his wide eyes flicking to the chair and then back to Seonghwa. Without hesitation, he stood and moved toward the chair, sitting obediently, facing away from the bed.  

Seonghwa smiled faintly; he sat down on the edge of the mattress and plugged the blow dryer into the nearest outlet. 

“I’ll try to be gentle,” Seonghwa said warmly as he turned the dryer on, the soft hum filling the room. 

The warm air began to flow, and Seonghwa used his free hand to gently tousle Jongho’s hair, running his fingers through the damp strands to help dry them evenly.  Jongho seemed to melt in response, and a small,  and a small, unexpected giggle escaped him. 

Surprised by the sound, Seonghwa froze for half a second, but then his heart swelled. He smiled as he continued, this time playfully fluffing Jongho’s hair. 

“That feels nice, doesn’t it?” Seonghwa teased lightly, his tone soft. 

Jongho nodded, giggling again, the sound so unguarded that it made Seonghwa’s chest ache.  

As Seonghwa continued drying, his hand drifted toward one of Jongho’s ears, brushing gently against it. On a whim, he let his fingers scratch lightly behind the base of Jongho’s ear. To Seonghwa's surprise, a low, purr rumbled in Jongho's chest.

Jongho giggled, his shoulders shaking slightly as he ducked his head, the top of his ears are now red and his cheeks have a pink flush to them. 

“Stop,” Jongho said softly, his voice laced with laughter, though he didn’t pull away. 

Seonghwa grinned, his own heart lighter at the sound. “I’ll stop if you promise to keep laughing like that,” he teased gently, the warmth in his voice unmistakable. 

Jongho nodded, giggling again, the sound so unguarded that it made Seonghwa’s chest ache. He felt like he was seeing a glimpse of the real Jongho—something soft, innocent, and untouched by fear. 

Seonghwa couldn’t help but let his fingers linger, combing through Jongho’s hair gently. His free hand drifted down, resting on Jongho’s shoulder as if to steady him. 

That’s when he felt it. 

His hand had brushed against a part of Jongho’s back where the wide neckline of the shirt had slipped slightly. The skin was raised—uneven, textured in a way that made Seonghwa pause. 

He stilled completely, his gaze lowering instinctively. Slowly, his eyes trailed down to where his hand rested, and that’s when he saw it: the top of multiple scars crisscrossing Jongho’s upper back. 

The blow dryer in his other hand continued to hum, but Seonghwa barely registered the sound. His fingers moved almost of their own accord, brushing gently over one of the raised lines. His heart clenched painfully as he realized the scars weren’t small—they were deep, deliberate, the kind that spoke of old pain and cruelty. 

He forgot himself entirely, the blow dryer dropping slightly as his hand lingered on Jongho’s back, tracing the edges of one of the scars. His mind raced, a flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm him: sorrow, anger, protectiveness. 

Jongho stiffened suddenly, and his entire body became rigid. 

Seonghwa snapped back to reality, but it was too late. Jongho shot up from the chair, his movements abrupt. His hand flew to the back of his shirt, yanking the fabric to cover the scars as he turned to face Seonghwa. 

His expression was filled with pure terror, his wide eyes shimmering with unshed tears. 

“Jongho—” Seonghwa stood quickly, his voice soft and urgent as he tried to close the distance between them. “It’s alright, honey bear. I promise it’s alright” 

Jongho flinched at the nickname, taking a step back. His breathing was shallow and rapid; panic was written all over his face. 

“Jongho, please,” Seonghwa whispered, his voice breaking slightly. 

But Jongho spun on his heel and bolted for the bathroom before he could say anything else. Seonghwa’s heart sank as he heard the door slam shut, followed by the unmistakable sound of the lock clicking into place. 

Seonghwa rushed to the door, pressing his palm flat against the wood. “Jongho,” he called gently, trying to keep his voice steady despite the tightness in his chest. “It’s okay. I promise it’s okay. Please open the door.” 

There was no response, only muffled whimpering from the other side. 

Seonghwa pressed his forehead against the door, closing his eyes. “Jongho,” he tried again, his voice softer this time. “It doesn’t matter. None of it changes anything. You don’t have to talk about it, but please, don’t shut me out like this.” 

Still nothing. The faint, heartbreaking sound of Jongho’s quiet cries continued, and Seonghwa felt his own eyes sting with unshed tears. 

“I’m going to be right back,” Seonghwa said after a moment, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I’ll come back, I promise.” 

He reluctantly stepped away from the door, his hands trembling as he turned and left Jongho’s room. His steps were hurried as he made his way down the hall, his mind racing with what to do next. He didn’t hesitate as he pushed open the door to the pack room, his voice unsteady as he called out, “I need help.” 

The effect was instantaneous. All six of the members shot up from where they had been lounging—Hongjoong setting down a notebook, Wooyoung practically vaulting off the couch, and Mingi dropping his phone without a second thought. Their voices overlapped, a cacophony of concern as they rushed toward Seonghwa. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Are you okay?” 

“Seonghwa, what happened?” 

Seonghwa couldn’t answer right away. His chest felt tight, his thoughts tangled with the memory of Jongho’s panicked expression and the sound of the bathroom door lock. He tried to steady his breathing, but the moment's weight pressed down on him. 

Yunho stepped forward, his tall frame grounding as he placed a firm but gentle hand on Seonghwa’s shoulder. “Is Jongho alright?” he asked, his voice low and filled with worry. 

Seonghwa shook his head, his lips pressing together tightly before he managed to speak. “No,” he said finally, his voice breaking slightly. “No, he’s not.” 

The room fell silent, all the urgency replaced with a quiet tension as the pack hung on his next words. 

“I was blow-drying his hair,” Seonghwa began, the words spilling out in one breath, “and I… I saw scars on his back. Scars we haven’t seen before. He didn’t want me to see them—he started freaking out, and then he locked himself in the bathroom.” 

Wooyoung’s eyes widened, his usual lighthearted demeanor replaced by visible distress. San stepped closer to him, his hand instinctively resting on Wooyoung’s arm. 

“He locked himself in the bathroom?” Hongjoong asked, his tone calm but tight with concern. 

Seonghwa nodded, his eyes glistening as he struggled to keep his composure. “He didn’t say anything. He just ran. I tried to talk to him, but he wouldn’t answer me.” 

Before anyone could ask more questions, Seonghwa turned on his heel and headed for the door. “I’m going back to his room,” he said firmly, not waiting for a response. 

The rest of the pack immediately followed, their footsteps echoing in the quiet hall as they trailed after Seonghwa. 

The tension was palpable as they made their way down the hallway. Yunho walked beside Seonghwa; his brows furrowed deeply as he tried to process what he’d just heard. “Did you touch the scars?” Yunho asked carefully, his voice low so only Seonghwa could listen. 

“I didn’t mean to,” Seonghwa admitted, his voice tight. “I was drying his hair, and my hand just… brushed against his back. That’s when I felt them.” He swallowed hard, his throat dry. “I didn’t even realize I was staring until he stiffened. He must’ve noticed.” 

Yunho’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t respond right away. Behind them, Mingi and Yeosang exchanged concerned glances while Wooyoung and San stayed close, their usually playful energy replaced by quiet determination. 

When they reached Jongho’s door, Seonghwa hesitated for half a second before knocking gently. The faint sound of muffled whimpering came from the other side, making Seonghwa’s heartache. 

“It’s us, Jongho,” Seonghwa said softly, his voice steadier now with the pack’s presence at his back. “We’re all here. Please let us in.” 

The air in Jongho’s room was heavy, thick with worry and unspoken fear. The pack stood frozen in place, their breaths shallow as they strained to hear anything from behind the bathroom door. The only sounds were Jongho’s fast, uneven breathing and the faint whimpers that broke through every few seconds. 

Seonghwa’s hand was still pressed against the door; his head bowed slightly as if trying to make Jongho feel his presence. No one moved or spoke, too afraid that even the slightest noise might miss Jongho’s response. 

Wooyoung finally stepped forward, his hand hovering over the door before he knocked softly. The sound was delicate and careful, as if afraid the slightest misstep might send Jongho spiraling further. 

“Jongho,” Wooyoung began, his voice trembling but full of warmth. “Please, no one is mad. I promise. We just want to make sure you’re okay.” 

The silence that followed was unbearable, stretching long enough that Seonghwa felt his heart pounding in his ears. Everyone exchanged tense glances, their worry mirrored in each other’s eyes. Then, finally, Jongho’s voice came, small and broken, muffled by the door. 

“I—I’m fine,” he stammered, a soft hiccup breaking through the words. “You guys can go to bed.” 

The room fell into an uneasy quiet. No one believed him, not for a second. Seonghwa turned to Hongjoong, his eyes silently pleading for guidance. But even Hongjoong looked unsure, his tail flicking behind him in restless agitation. 

“We should unlock the door and go in,” Yunho suggested, his voice low and steady, but his worry was apparent in the tight set of his jaw. His scent, thick with anxiety, filled the room, making the tension even heavier. 

“No,” Hongjoong said firmly, cutting him off. “That’s a bad idea. We’ll scare him if we do that.” He crossed his arms, his gaze flicking toward the door. “He needs space. Pushing him won’t help.” 

Yunho hesitated, his lips pressing into a tight line. He took a step back reluctantly, though the tension in his posture didn’t ease. Seonghwa could tell he was struggling, torn between wanting to give Jongho what he needed and the instinct to protect him. 

San broke the silence, his calm voice grounding them all. “We just have to wait,” he said simply. The others turned to him, their eyes searching his face. “You guys go to bed. I’ll stay here and talk to him. I was already planning to stay the night with him.” 

Yeosang, Mingi, and Wooyoung looked at him with wide, pleading eyes, their reluctance clear. But San’s expression didn’t waver, his calm resolve holding firm. 

“Everyone being here is probably overwhelming him,” San continued, his tone gentle but steady. “It should just be one person he sees when he’s ready to come out.” 

There was a long pause before the others began to nod, one by one, reluctantly accepting San’s reasoning. 

Before leaving, each member approached the door, their goodnights soft and filled with quiet love. 

“Goodnight, Jongho,” Yeosang said, his voice steady and kind. “We’re here for you, no matter what.” 

“Sleep well, honey bear,” Mingi added, his tone warm, even as his worry showed in his eyes. “You don’t have to come out, but we’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“You’re safe, Jongho,” Wooyoung said, his voice breaking slightly. “Don’t forget that. I’ll see you in the morning, okay?” 

Yunho stepped closer, his broad frame radiating quiet strength. “Goodnight, Jongho,” he said gently. “Take all the time you need. We’ll be here when you’re ready.” 

Hongjoong’s voice was calm but carried the weight of his conviction. “Goodnight, Jongho. We’ll always be here for you, no matter what.” 

Seonghwa was the last to speak. He lingered, his palm still pressed flat against the door. “I’m so sorry, Jongho,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Please, sleep well.” 

The pack began to leave the room, their footsteps soft and hesitant. But Seonghwa lingered, his eyes drawn to San, who was lowering himself to the floor beside the bathroom door. Instead of sitting on the bed, San shifted until his back was pressed firmly against the wall next to the door, his shoulder barely brushing it. His posture was relaxed but attentive; his head tilted slightly as he listened carefully to every sound Jongho made. 

San didn’t say anything, didn’t try to force conversation or coax Jongho out. Instead, he let his quiet presence fill the space, a steadying force for Jongho to sense on the other side. Seonghwa watched him for a moment, his chest tightening at the sight. San’s breathing was slow and even, his calm energy grounding not just Jongho but Seonghwa too. 

Seonghwa let out a slow breath, finally stepping away from the door. “Thank you,” he whispered to San, his voice barely audible. San didn’t look up, but he gave a small nod, focusing entirely on the door. 

Seonghwa left the room with one last glance, the door clicking softly shut behind him. 

～ Jongho POV ～

Jongho sat huddled in the bathroom corner, his knees pulled tightly to his chest and his arms wrapped around them. His entire body trembled, his breaths coming in harsh, uneven gasps that refused to calm. His fingers curled into the fabric of his pants, gripping so hard his knuckles turned white. He tried to stop the tears, to force them back, but they kept spilling down his face, hot and relentless. 

The memories wouldn’t leave him. His father’s voice echoed in his mind, a voice that cut through him like a knife commanding. “Stand up. Again. If you can’t defend yourself, what good are you?” Jongho had tried so hard to obey, to push through the pain, but the other alphas were always stronger, faster, and crueler. 

He flinched, his breath hitching as the memory reasserted itself. The claws—they always ended it with claws. A swipe down his back, a mark of dominance and humiliation. He could still feel it, the sting of flesh tearing, raw, open wound with blood dripping down his skin as his father’s disapproving glare burned into him. “Pathetic.” 

His body jerked involuntarily, his muscles tensing as if bracing for another blow. His chest ached, his heart pounding erratically, and his stomach twisted in on itself. He felt small again, like he had back then, like no matter how hard he tried, he would never be enough. 

The memories shifted, flashing forward to the shelter. He remembered standing in the communal showers, water running over his skin as he tried to scrub away the shame. But the other hybrids had seen the scars. Their laughter still rang in his ears, cruel and mocking. 

“What happened, bear? Did you get in a fight with a tree?” 

“No, look at him. He didn’t fight back—just let them tear him apart.” 

“Weak. All that muscle, and you can’t even protect yourself.” 

Jongho shook his head violently, burying his face against his knees as a strangled sob escaped him. His shoulders shook uncontrollably, his body heaving as if trying to purge the memories, but they clung to him, suffocating. 

They would know now. The pack had seen his scars, and soon they’d think the same. Weak. Pathetic. Unworthy. His throat tightened, his breathing growing faster and more erratic as panic took hold. His claws dug into his arms, desperate to ground himself, but it only hurt more. 

And yet, beneath the fear, a small, aching part of him longed for something else. He thought of Seonghwa’s kind eyes, Hongjoong’s steady reassurance, Yunho’s calming presence, Wooyoung’s warmth, Mingi’s laughter, Yeosang’s quiet strength—and San. 

San, who always looked at him like he wasn’t broken. San seemed to believe in him even when he couldn’t believe in himself. Some of Jongho wanted to believe them all, to trust that they wouldn’t laugh at him or leave him behind. But what if he was wrong? What if they saw his scars and decided he wasn’t worth the effort? 

The knock on the door startled him. His head jerked up, his breath catching in his throat. 

San’s voice came softly through the door, low and soothing. “They all left, Jongho. It’s just me now…” He paused for a few minutes, and Jongho could almost picture him sitting on the other side, leaning against the door with that patient smile. “We don’t want to leave you alone in this state, little cub. Can you come out so you can help me fall asleep?” 

Jongho let out a shaky, breathy laugh between his hiccups, though it was laced with bitterness. He knew San didn’t need him to sleep. San was just saying whatever he thought might make Jongho feel needed. 

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The silence stretched on, broken only by his ragged breathing and the occasional hitch of a sob. He hugged his knees tighter, trying to calm down, but the storm inside him refused to let go. 

Then, a soft hum reached him. It started low and steady, a gentle vibration passing through the door. Jongho’s ears perked up despite himself, his mind latching onto the unfamiliar sound. It was comforting and warm in a way that made his chest ache. 

The hum shifted into a melody, and San’s voice followed. It was rich and smooth, effortlessly carrying the tune in a way that felt like being wrapped in a blanket. Jongho couldn’t move at first, frozen as the notes washed over him. 

San’s lyrics: 

*“When the night feels cold and endless,  

And the weight is too much to bear,  

Close your eyes and feel the stillness,  

Let me hold the pain you wear.  

You’re not alone, little one,  

The storm will fade, the light will come.  

Rest your heart, rest your mind,  

I’ll stay here; take your time.” *  

Jongho’s body reacted before his mind did. Slowly, shakily, he shifted forward, his movements hesitant and unsteady. The tile was cold against his palms as he crawled toward the door, drawn closer by San’s voice. His heart still ached, his throat still felt raw, but the tension in his chest began to loosen. 

He stopped just short of touching the door, his forehead resting against the wood as his body trembled. San’s voice continued, unwavering and full of quiet strength. Each word felt like a lifeline, grounding him in the present, pulling him away from the claws of his past. 

Jongho closed his eyes, his breathing slowing as he let the melody wrap around him. For the first time that night, the storm began to subside. He knew San wouldn’t leave—not until he was ready to open the door. That thought scared him, but it also grounded him.  

For a while, he let himself stay there, listening, his tears slowing until they finally stopped. His breathing evened out, but the exhaustion in his chest felt heavier now—a dull ache that wouldn’t go away. 

After a while, he pushed himself upright, his legs shaky and stiff from sitting for so long. The silence on the other side of the door was comforting now, no longer oppressive. He turned toward the sink, his movements slow and hesitant. The reflection in the mirror still made him wince—red-rimmed eyes, tear-streaked cheeks, and a look of exhaustion that ran more profound than the surface. 

Jongho turned on the cold water, splashing his face and letting the icy sting bring him fully back into the moment. He inhaled deeply, the crisp chill clearing some of the lingering fog in his mind. His shoulders slumped as he gripped the edge of the sink, letting out a slow, shaky breath. 

The ache in his chest hadn’t disappeared, but the overwhelming chaos had quieted enough for him to take the next step. Slowly, he turned back toward the door, his fingers hesitating on the handle for a moment before he unlocked it and pulled it open. 

The room outside was dim, the soft glow of moonlight spilling through the curtains. Jongho stepped out tentatively, his eyes scanning the space. For a moment, it seemed empty—San wasn’t by the bed, and the stillness made him wonder if San had finally given up and left. 

Then he saw him. 

San was sitting against the wall beside the bathroom door; his head tilted back slightly as if he’d been resting. At the sound of the door opening, San’s eyes snapped to Jongho, widening briefly before softening with quiet relief. He stood quickly, careful not to make any sudden movements, and turned to face Jongho fully. 

San’s gaze was warm and pleading, filled with nothing but gentle concern. “Do you want to go to bed?” he asked softly, his tone innocent, like it was the most natural thing in the world to ask. 

Jongho blinked, caught off guard by the question. Of all the things he thought San might say—questions about his scars, his breakdown, or why he’d locked himself in the bathroom—this wasn’t one of them. There was no judgment, no pity in San’s voice—just care. 

Exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him, his head pounding from crying and his limbs heavy with weariness. Yet, he nodded.He didn’t have the energy to think about anything else. He just wanted to lie down. 

Jongho moved toward the bed, his steps slow and uncertain. The mattress dipped slightly as he climbed in, the covers cool against his skin as he slipped beneath them. He barely had time to settle before San followed, slipping under the blankets beside him. 

San didn’t give him the chance to pull away. As soon as he was close, San wrapped his arms around Jongho, pulling him into a firm but gentle embrace. The warmth of his body was immediate, soothing in a way Jongho didn’t expect. His first instinct was to tense, to brace himself for the unfamiliarity, but San didn’t let go. Instead, he shifted slightly, his hands moving in slow, steady circles against Jongho’s back. 

Jongho wasn’t used to this—being held, being comforted—but he didn’t hate it. There was no pressure in how San held him, no demands or expectations. Just quiet reassurance, like he was offering Jongho a safe place to land. 

It felt strange but not alarming. Jongho found himself leaning into the warmth, his body relaxing despite his initial hesitation. The tension in his muscles melted away, leaving behind a strange sense of calm he didn’t fully understand. His eyelids grew heavier, the night's exhaustion pulling him closer to sleep. 

San’s breathing was slow and even steady against Jongho’s ear. Jongho let the rhythm of it soothe him, his mind growing quieter with each passing moment. His eyelids finally closed, and he drifted into sleep, his body fully relaxed in San’s arms. 

Outside the quiet of sleep, the night held a sense of anticipation, as if something unseen was gently shifting, waiting for the right moment to unfold. 

Chapter Text

〜〜Wooyoung’s POV〜〜 

With heavy steps, Wooyoung returned to the pack room, his mind swirling with too many emotions to name. Anger. Sadness. Frustration. Helplessness. It all pressed down on him, a weight that seemed to grow heavier with every step. He opened the door quietly, his vision blurry, and walked straight to the bed, collapsing face-first onto it. 

The muffled sound of footsteps reached his ears as he lay there, face pressed into the mattress. He didn’t look up, but he felt them—the pack moving into the room one by one, their presence filling the space. 

The soft creak of a chair by the window. The dip of the mattress near his feet as someone sat down. The faint rustle of fabric as Hongjoong leaned against the wall, arms crossed. No one spoke. The silence was thick, heavy, almost unbearable, broken only by the occasional uneven breath or the shuffle of Yunho pacing slowly near the window. 

The air in the room felt suffocating. It wasn’t just the weight of their emotions—it was the shared knowledge that something was deeply wrong, and none of them knew how to fix it. Even the familiar scents of the pack, usually comforting, felt muted. The tension had drained the warmth from the room. 

Wooyoung turned his head to the side, blinking through watery eyes. The soft glow of the bedside lamp cast long shadows across the walls, making the room feel smaller, almost claustrophobic.  His eyes scanned the space, searching for something to steady the storm inside him. He found it in Seonghwa, perched on the edge of the couch. 

The older man sat hunched over, shoulders curled inward as though he were trying to make himself smaller. His head was lowered, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. Even from across the room, Wooyoung could see the tension radiating from him—the slight tremor in his fingers, the rigid line of his jaw. 

“Seonghwa Hyung,” Wooyoung called softly, his voice barely more than a whisper. 

Seonghwa lifted his head, his movements slow and reluctant. His eyes, glossy with unshed tears, met Wooyoung’s, a lump formed in Wooyoung's throat. Seeing Seonghwa like this—so shaken, so vulnerable—was almost worse than the turmoil inside himself. 

“What did the scars look like?” Wooyoung asked, his voice trembling. “How bad are they?” He didn’t know if he even wanted to hear the answer, but the question clawed its way out of him anyway. 

Seonghwa flinched at the question, his fingers curling into his palms. For a moment, he seemed frozen, His eyes darted around the room, seeking something. His lips parted, but no sound came out. He swallowed hard, lowering his eyes back to his hands. 

“I…” His voice cracked, and he shook his head, taking a shaky breath. “They’re… worse than I expected.” The words came out in fragments, heavy and halting. “I didn’t mean to see them. He turned away so fast, but I—” He broke off, his voice catching. 

“It’s okay, hyung,” Hongjoong murmured, leaning forward slightly. “Take your time.” 

Seonghwa nodded faintly, his jaw clenching. “It was just for a second,” his voice trembling. “But that second was enough. The scars… they’re deep. Really deep. Some of them… they’re old, but some looked newer. They… they didn’t stop at his shoulders. They kept going down his back. I couldn’t see the end of them.” 

His breathing hitched, and he lifted a hand to cover his mouth as though he could stop the sob threatening to break free. “I didn’t mean to make him feel exposed,” he whispered, his shoulders trembling. “I should’ve looked away sooner—I didn’t mean to stare… or touch them.” A sob broke through, and his shoulders shook. 

“It’s not your fault, Seonghwa,” Wooyoung said firmly, his voice rough. “You couldn’t have known.” 

Seonghwa shook his head again, his tears spilling over. “But it is. He trusted me enough to put the bruise cream on and blow dry his hair, and I— I made him feel vulnerable. I made him panic.” 

Hongjoong stood and crossed to Seonghwa’s side. He wrapped his arms around the older man, pulling him into a firm but gentle hug. “It’s alright,” Hongjoong said, his voice low and soothing. “It was an accident. Jongho knows that.” 

The room fell into a heavy silence, the weight of Seonghwa’s words pressing down on everyone. Wooyoung sat up slowly, wiping his cheeks as the image of what Seonghwa described formed in his mind. It was too much, too cruel. The thought of anyone laying a hand on Jongho like that—leaving marks so permanent, so devastating—made his stomach twist with anger and grief. He wanted to scream, to hit something, to do something, but all he could do was sit there, the ache in his chest growing sharper with every second. 

Yunho’s pacing stopped abruptly. He stood by the window, his back rigid as his hands curled into fists at his sides. “Who could do something like that?” he asked, his voice tight with fury. “Was it punishment for something? Or just… pure cruelty?” 

No one answered immediately. The question hung in the air, sharp and suffocating, the tension in the room growing heavier by the second. 

Yeosang was the first to speak, his voice calm but cold. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing justifies violence like that. Nothing explains it away.” 

“But it does matter,” Mingi said quietly, his tone measured but firm. “Don’t you think Jongho’s reaction would make more sense if we knew who did it? And why? Understanding might help us figure out how to help him.” 

“What if we never know?” Yeosang shot back, his eyes blazing with intensity as he looked at Mingi. “It’s his story to tell, not ours to uncover. Forcing him to relive it just so that we can understand isn’t the answer.” 

“I wasn’t saying we should force him—” Mingi started, but Wooyoung cut him off. 

“Yeosang’s right,” Wooyoung said, his voice steady despite the storm inside him. “We can’t push him for answers. If we do, he’ll only retreat further.” 

Mingi frowned but didn’t argue, his eyes dropping to the floor. Yunho turned back toward the window, running a hand through his hair. The tension in his shoulders was unrelenting. 

Hongjoong’s voice broke through the silence, calm but resolute. “Jongho doesn’t need us to fix his past. He needs us to make his present safe. That’s what matters.” 

Yunho let out a shaky breath, his hand still tangled in his hair as he turned to face the room. “But what if it does matter?” he asked, his voice tight, frustration bleeding through. “How do we help him if we don’t know what caused it? What if it’s not just about the scars? What if whoever did it… what if they’re still out there?” 

His words sent a ripple of unease through the group. The idea that Jongho’s pain wasn’t just in the past—that it could still linger, waiting to resurface—was a chilling thought. 

Wooyoung sat straighter, his eyes locking onto Yunho. “What do you want us to do, Yunho? Demand answers he isn’t ready to give? Show up at his door with a list of questions about something he probably wants to forget?” 

“I don’t want to push him,” Yunho said, his voice quieter now but still strained. “I just… I don’t know how to help him if we’re in the dark.” 

“Sometimes being there is enough,” Hongjoong said softly. His steady tone drew their focus, his words wrapping around the room like a quiet promise. “Jongho doesn’t need us to fix his past. He needs us to make his present safe. That’s what matters.” 

Yunho vacillated, his shoulders slumping slightly as the tension eased. He didn’t respond, but the look in his eyes was clear: he wanted to do more. They all did. 

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was thick with unspoken promises, a shared understanding that they were in this together, no matter how hard it got. 

Yeosang leaned back against the bed's headboard, crossing his arms over his chest. “We don’t need to know every detail to support him,” he said firmly. “He’s already part of this pack. That means we stand by him, no matter what.” 

Mingi nodded, his expression pensive. “He might not believe it yet,” he said quietly, “but he’s not alone in this. He doesn’t have to carry it by himself anymore.” 

Wooyoung's heart ached with Mingi’s words. Jongho had spent so long on his own, guarding himself from the world. Even now, surrounded by people who cared for him, he still seemed to think he had to bear everything silently. 

“We’ll get through to him,” Wooyoung said, his voice steady despite the storm still raging inside him. “Even if it takes time. Even if he doesn’t believe it yet, we’ll show him he’s safe here.” 

Hongjoong gave a slight nod, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Together,” he said simply, and the weight of the word settled over them all like a quiet vow. 

Wooyoung sat up fully as the silence deepened, brushing a hand over his face to wipe away the lingering dampness. He looked around the room at his packmates—his family—and felt a flicker of something almost like hope. They couldn’t erase Jongho’s scars, couldn’t take away the pain he’d endured, but they could do this. They could be here. They could make sure he never had to feel alone again. 

Yeosang, sitting closest to the bedside lamp, reached over and turned it off, leaving only the soft glow of the overhead light. The action was quiet but deliberate, a silent acknowledgment that tonight wasn’t about solutions—it was about solidarity, about being here for one another, even when the answers didn’t come. 

Mingi shifted closer to Wooyoung, sitting down beside him on the bed. Without a word, he placed a hand on Wooyoung’s shoulder, a steadying weight that anchored him. Wooyoung didn’t shrug it off. He leaned into it, letting the quiet comfort sink in. 

Across the room, Seonghwa reached for a tissue from the coffee table, dabbing at his eyes before setting the box down within arm’s reach of everyone. The small gesture didn’t go unnoticed. It was Seonghwa’s way of trying to give back something—anything—after feeling like he’d taken too much from Jongho. 

Hongjoong shifted to turn to look at the rest of the pack while still holding to Seonghwa, “Tomorrow,” he said softly, his voice breaking the quiet. “Tomorrow, we’ll figure out what to do next. Tonight, we focus on being here—for him and each other.” 

No one argued. No one questioned. They all just nodded, their silence speaking louder than words. 

“I think… he’ll tell us when he’s ready,” Seonghwa said softly, his voice fragile but sincere. “Jongho isn’t the type to open up easily, but he’s stronger than he thinks. Stronger than we think, maybe.” 

Mingi leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “What if he never tells us?” he asked, his tone more contemplative than worried. “What if this is something he never wants to share?” 

“Then that’s his choice,” Yeosang said firmly. “We’re here to support him, not dig up his past. If he wants to talk, we’ll listen. If he doesn’t, we’ll show him it doesn’t change how we see him.” 

“Still,” Hongjoong added, his tone thoughtful, “it’s worth remembering that trust isn’t just about time—it’s about consistency. If we keep showing him he’s safe and that he’s part of this family, he’ll feel it. And when he’s ready—if he’s ready—he’ll come to us.” 

The room seemed to settle at his words, the quiet hum of understanding weaving through the tension. None of them knew what the future held, but they were in this together. Jongho’s story was his to tell, but they would be there when he was ready to let them in. 

Wooyoung’s attention turned to the blanket crumpled in his lap. The silence left space for his thoughts to wander, and he remembered something he hadn’t thought about in years. 

“There was a hybrid at the restaurant a few years back,” Wooyoung said suddenly, his voice low. The others turned to look at him, their expressions curious but patient. “A raccoon hybrid. He used to come in every week and always sat in the same corner booth. He never talked much, but he tipped well. One day, I asked him about it—why he came so often.” 

He paused, the memory unfurling slowly in his mind. “He told me the restaurant felt safe. It was the only place where people didn’t look at him like trash. I thought he was joking at first, but he wasn’t. He meant it.” 

The weight of the memory pressed against his chest as he glanced up at his packmates. “It made me realize how much I take for granted—being part of something, having people who see you for who you are, not just what you are. That’s what we need to give Jongho. A place where he doesn’t have to be scared of what people see when they look at him.” 

The room fell quiet again, but this time the silence felt different. It wasn’t heavy with helplessness or uncertainty. It was filled with something steadier, something stronger—a quiet resolve that bound them together. 

Wooyoung glanced around the room, taking in the faces of his packmates. He could see it in each of them: in Seonghwa’s hands, still trembling but now loosely clasped in his lap; in Yunho’s stance, no longer rigid but grounded with quiet determination; in Yeosang’s steady gaze, unwavering even as his expression softened; and in Mingi’s shoulders, which carried their usual ease but now with a sharper focus. 

Hongjoong, spoke calmly and confidently, breaking the silence. “We’ll show him he’s safe. We’ll show him he’s part of this pack—every day, in every way we can. And when he’s ready, we’ll be here.” 

Wooyoung felt a flicker of warmth in his chest, a tiny ember of hope amidst the lingering ache. They couldn’t undo the scars on Jongho’s body, couldn’t erase the pain he had endured. But they could be here for him now. They could ensure he never had to face that kind of hurt again. 

Yeosang unexpectedly interrupted the quiet, his calm voice slicing through the tension. “We should talk about his collar.” 

The words hung in the air, catching everyone off guard. Wooyoung blinked, his mind still tangled in thoughts of Jongho’s scars, while Yunho paused mid-step near the window. 

“His collar?” Wooyoung echoed, slightly frowning as he sat up straighter on the bed. “You think it’s the right time to bring that up?” 

Yeosang leaned back slightly against the bed's headboard, his arms crossing over his chest. “It’s not about timing,” he said evenly. “It’s about being prepared. He’s part of this pack now. A collar isn’t just a symbol—it’s protection. It shows that he belongs somewhere that he’s claimed. If he’s ever in a situation where someone questions him, it could make the difference between him being safe or… not.” 

The weight of Yeosang’s words settled over the group, the implications sinking in. It wasn’t just about belonging—it was about ensuring Jongho never had to face the world alone again. 

Hongjoong, seated beside Seonghwa on the couch, nodded faintly. “You’re right,” he said, his voice calm but thoughtful. “But it’s a delicate thing. A collar means something different to everyone. We don’t know how he’d take it.” 

“What if he thinks we’re pushing him?” Seonghwa asked softly, his voice still raw. “It’s such an intimate gesture. What if he sees it as… control?” 

“Then we wait,” Yeosang replied simply. “But when he’s ready, it should be something meaningful. Something he can’t doubt comes from love.” 

Mingi sprawled on his stomach near the foot of the bed and tilted his head thoughtfully. “What would it look like, though?” he asked. “If we’re talking meaningful, it’s got to be luxurious, right? Something that says we see him as… special.” 

“Luxurious, but not in an over-the-top way,” Yunho said, leaning against the windowsill. “It should be soft, comfortable—something he can wear daily and feel good about. Maybe deep blue velvet. It’s elegant, but it’s also strong, just like him. A rich color that stands out but isn’t overwhelming.” 

Yeosang nodded, his tone thoughtful. “Velvet could work, but I think something more unique would suit him. What about silk? A smooth, deep emerald green. It’s timeless but vibrant, something that reflects his strength and resilience. And the color would bring out the warmth in his features.” 

“Green’s a good idea,” Mingi said, nodding, “but it needs more than just color. What if it had some embroidery? Something intricate—like gold stitching. It's not too much, just a design along the edges. Something elegant but personal.” 

Wooyoung snorted, shaking his head. “That’s way too busy for Jongho. If we’re going all-out, it should be subtle but beautiful. Like woven fabric—soft as a cloud, maybe cream or silver, with a hint of shimmer when the light hits it. Something delicate and refined.” 

Mingi raised an eyebrow, rolling onto his side to look at Wooyoung. “Delicate? Are we talking about the same Jongho here?” 

“Why not?” Wooyoung shot back. “Just because he’s strong doesn’t mean he wouldn’t appreciate something beautiful. Something that feels like it was made for him.” 

Hongjoong’s lips quirked into a faint smile as he listened to them debate. “You’re all saying the same thing in your own way,” he said finally. “You all want his collar to show how much he means to us.” 

The pack quieted at that, letting Hongjoong’s words sink in. Finally, Wooyoung sighed, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Okay, but for the record, my soft and shimmery fabric idea’s still the best.” 

“Gold-stitched green,” Mingi argued with a grin. 

“Blue Velvet,” Yunho said firmly. 

“Silk,” Yeosang concluded simply. 

Hongjoong shook his head, the faintest twitch of amusement pulling at his lips. He stood and stepped toward the bed. “Alright, enough. Let’s save the design debate for later.” 

Mingi groaned dramatically, throwing himself back against the mattress. “Fine, but only if I get to veto anything tacky.” 

“You’re the definition of tacky,” Wooyoung shot back, shoving Mingi’s shoulder as he made room on the bed. 

Hongjoong gave them both a sharp look, then turned to the rest of the pack. “Now, everyone on the bed. We’re supposed to be resting, not bickering.” 

Wooyoung sighed but obeyed, shifting to lie down properly. Yunho followed with a faint grumble, settling near the edge. Yeosang didn’t move from his spot against the headboard; his arms were still crossed as he watched the others with mild amusement. 

Hongjoong turned to Seonghwa, his voice softening. “You too, Hwa.” 

Seonghwa wavered but finally nodded, moving from the couch to the edge of the bed. He perched carefully as though not wanting to disturb anyone, but Hongjoong reached out, pulling him closer with a gentle hand on his shoulder. 

When everyone was settled, Hongjoong climbed onto the bed last, situating himself in the middle. “Alright,” he said, his voice firm but calm. “No more talk about collars, scars, or anything else. Just… rest. We’ll figure out the rest tomorrow.” 

The pack fell quiet, their exhaustion finally catching up to them. The weight of the day still lingered, but the warmth of their closeness softened it, reminding them that, together, they could face whatever came next. 

〜〜San’s POV〜〜 

San hadn’t realized how long the night would feel. After Jongho’s panic attack, he had hoped exhaustion would pull the younger hybrid into a deep, dreamless sleep. He’d hoped the worst of it had passed, that his presence and steadying scent of cherry blossoms would be enough to anchor Jongho through the night. 

But it didn’t take long for those hopes to crumble. 

Jongho shifted constantly, his body twisting and turning, even in San's tight hold. At first, it was subtle—small movements, a faint tension in his limbs. But then the scent began to change. 

The comforting warmth of marshmallows and campfire—the scent that always reminded San of cozy nights under the stars—twisted into something darker. The sweetness turned bitter, sharp, and acrid, like sugar burning in a pan. It didn’t stop there. Beneath the burnt sweetness came something harsher, more jarring—like the suffocating stench of a house fire. 

San’s nose twitched. A wave of nausea washed over him at the transformation. He hated it, not because of the scent itself but because of what it meant: Jongho was trapped in a nightmare, his distress spilling out in every way he couldn’t express aloud. 

Soft, broken whines escaped Jongho’s lips as he turned in San’s arms, his breath hitching in uneven gasps. 

“It’s okay,” San whispered, his voice low and soothing. He pressed his nose to the back of Jongho’s neck, exhaling deeply as he released his scent into the air. The delicate aroma of cherry blossoms filled the room, a calming balm against the burnt chaos. 

Jongho stilled, trembling but no longer writhing. San tightened his grip, his arm wrapping more securely around Jongho’s waist. “You’re safe,” he murmured, his voice barely above a breath. “I’ve got you.” 

The burnt edge of Jongho’s scent began to fade, the sharpness dulling as the marshmallow warmth returned—tentative and fragile but present. San’s chest relaxed slightly, his hand moving in slow, rhythmic circles against Jongho’s side. 

The pattern repeated throughout the night. Jongho’s scent would shift, the burnt sugar and fire returning like an unwanted guest. Each time, San stayed close, holding him tighter and flooding the space with cherry blossoms until Jongho’s whines softened and his body settled. 

San stayed awake through it all, his senses attuned to every shift in Jongho’s breathing, every flicker of distress in his scent. He wouldn’t sleep—not when Jongho needed him. 

As the first hints of dawn broke through the curtains, San rested his chin lightly on Jongho’s shoulder. His eyes burned with fatigue, but he dared not let them close. The faint pink of the early morning light reminded him of the cherry blossoms he’d associated with his own scent, a symbol of peace and renewal. 

But tonight, they felt fragile—too delicate to stand against the weight of Jongho’s pain. 

San’s mind wandered as he traced soothing circles along Jongho’s side. He thought about all the nights he’d spent alone before finding the pack. The way silence could feel so loud, suffocating and inescapable. Jongho had spent even longer in that isolation, carrying scars San couldn’t begin to imagine. 

“Maybe that’s why I can’t leave him like this,” San murmured under his breath, his voice barely audible. He pressed closer to Jongho, feeling a surge of protectiveness as the burnt scent lingered faintly in the air. “You’ve been alone for so long, haven’t you? Even now, you don’t know how to let yourself rest.” 

He felt Jongho shift slightly, a faint sound escaping his lips—not quite a word, but not the broken whine from earlier either. It felt like a plea, one San couldn’t ignore. 

“I’ll stay right here,” he promised softly, his lips brushing Jongho’s hair. “As long as you need.” 

The warmth of marshmallows and campfire grew stronger, and for a moment, San allowed himself to believe Jongho heard him—if not in his sleep, then somewhere deeper. 

〜〜Jongho’s POV 〜〜 

The first thing Jongho noticed was the sunlight. It crept through the curtains, casting faint golden streaks across the room. The warmth hit his face, coaxing his swollen eyes open. 

His body felt heavy, his limbs sluggish with exhaustion. His chest ached, tight with the remnants of last night’s emotions. 

Then he felt a weight against his back, an arm wrapped securely around his torso. His eyes dropped to the hand resting on his chest, its warmth seeping through the fabric of his shirt. 

San. 

The memories of the previous night flooded back in an overwhelming rush. 

Seonghwa saw my scars.  

The pack saw me panic.  

They all know.  

His breathing quickened, the panic clawing at his chest again. He wanted to hide, to bolt to the bathroom where he could lock the door and pretend none of this had happened. His body tensed, and he tried to wiggle out of San’s grip, moving cautiously to avoid waking him. 

But San’s hold didn’t budge. 

“Where are you trying to go?” San’s voice was low and raspy with sleep, carrying a warmth that was both comforting and disarming. 

Jongho froze, his heart pounding in his chest. He couldn’t bring himself to turn around, couldn’t face the look San might give him. “I… I need to go to the bathroom,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. 

San lifted his head slightly, propping himself up on one elbow. His dark eyes were soft but piercing as they studied Jongho’s rigid frame. 

“Okay,” San said gently, his tone steady but firm. “But please… don’t lock yourself in there and hide from me.” 

Jongho’s breath caught, his fingers clutching the blanket beneath him. San’s words hit him harder than he expected, the quiet plea in his voice cutting through the fog of panic. 

“You don’t have to run,” San continued, his arm loosening slightly to give Jongho space. “You don’t have to face everything right now, but don’t shut me out. Let me stay with you.” 

Jongho tried to steady himself, his chest tight with conflicting emotions. He wanted to run, bury himself in the bathroom, and keep everyone at a distance. But there was something in San’s voice—an unshakable sincerity, a quiet determination—that made it hard to pull away. 

“I… I won’t lock the door,” Jongho murmured finally, though his voice wavered uncertainly. 

San nodded, his arm slipping away as he gave Jongho the space to move. But the warmth of his presence lingered, wrapping around Jongho like an invisible shield. 

Jongho sat up slowly, his limbs stiff from the night’s tension. He didn’t look at San as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, his eyes remaining firmly fixed on the floor. The sunlight seemed too bright now, the weight of the room pressing down on him. 

He stood shakily, his movements hesitant as he made his way to the bathroom. The air felt heavier with every step, the shame from last night threatening to swallow him whole. 

As he reached the bathroom door, he paused, his hand hovering over the handle. He turned slightly, glancing back at San, who was still watching him from the bed. 

“Thank you,” Jongho whispered, his voice almost too quiet to hear. 

San’s lips curved into a soft, understanding smile. “Always,” he replied, his tone steady and reassuring. 

Inside the bathroom, the quiet was suffocating. The faint drip of the faucet filled the room as Jongho turned on the water. He kept his eyes down, refusing to look at the mirror. He didn’t need to see his reflection to know how he looked—puffy, swollen eyes, blotchy skin, and exhaustion dragging at his every move. 

Splashing cold water onto his cheeks, he let out a quiet, shuddering sigh. The sharp chill stung, but it helped anchor him in the present. He finally noticed the dull ache in his arms as he rubbed his face dry. 

His breathing faltered as the memories rushed back. I did this to myself. 

The vivid image of his claws digging into his skin resurfaced, sharp and unrelenting. His arms throbbed, a cruel reminder of the chaos he had been unable to contain. 

Leaning heavily against the sink, Jongho pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, fighting the storm brewing in his chest. He wanted to stay here longer, away from everyone, away from their concern. But he couldn’t. San would come looking for him if he took too long, and the last thing Jongho wanted was to make him worry more. 

Drawing a steadying breath, Jongho dried his face and opened the door. 

San was sitting upright on the bed, his posture tense, his eyes glued to the bathroom door. The moment he saw Jongho, his expression eased, but the concern in his eyes remained intense.

Jongho staggered, his ears lowering as San’s eyes swept over him. 

“There’s blood,” San said, his voice urgent as he scrambled off the bed. “There’s blood on your shirt.” 

Jongho instinctively stepped back, his ears pinning flat against his head as San approached. His arms moved toward his chest, his body curling defensively. 

San froze immediately, his movements halting as he caught the way Jongho retreated. He raised his hands slowly, his voice quieter now but no less firm. “Why didn’t you tell me you were bleeding last night?” 

Jongho’s focus dropped to the floor, shame curling in his stomach. “I… I didn’t want to bother you. You were already—” He swallowed hard. “You were already helping me.” 

San’s expression softened, his ears perking up slightly. “Worrying about you isn’t a burden, Jongho.” He stepped closer, his movements deliberate and calm. “Please, can I take a look?” 

After a moment of hesitation, Jongho nodded, reluctantly extending his arms. 

San’s hands were warm as they made contact with his arms He moved with painstaking care, rolling up one sleeve to reveal fresh puncture wounds. The skin around them was red and inflamed, and San’s breath hitched as he took in the sight. 

He rolled up the other sleeve, his shoulders tensing as more marks appeared. His eyes grew glassy, and Jongho felt his stomach twist at the sight. 

“I didn’t mean to…” Jongho whispered, his voice cracking as shame spilled out before he could stop it. 

The intensity in San’s eyes lessened, his hands hovering protectively over Jongho’s arms. “I know, little cub,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. “But you don’t have to do this anymore. Not when we’re here. You’re safe with us.” 

San’s fingers brushed near the wounds, not fully touching them, and his cherry blossom scent thickened in the air, calming and steady. 

“Come on,” San said, nodding toward the bed. “Let me clean these up before they get worse.” 

Jongho blinked, his ears twitching at the firm gentleness in San’s tone. He opened his mouth to protest, but San’s steady expression stopped him. 

Reluctantly, Jongho allowed himself to be guided back to the bed. 

San disappeared briefly, returning with a first-aid kit. Kneeling in front of Jongho, he opened it with care, spreading out the supplies on the bed beside him. 

“This might sting a little,” San said gently, soaking a cotton pad with antiseptic. 

Jongho winced as the pad made contact, the sharp pain a reminder of the chaos he had caused himself. But San’s hands were steady, his touch careful, as though tending to Jongho’s wounds was the most critical thing in the world. 

“Thank you,” Jongho whispered, his voice so quiet it was almost inaudible. 

San looked up at him, his eyes soft and filled with something Jongho couldn’t quite name. “You don’t have to thank me, Jongho. This is what family does.” 

Jongho’s breath hitched at the word family, a flicker of warmth breaking through the heavy fog of his shame. He wanted to believe in that. 

San finished by carefully wrapping Jongho’s arms in soft, clean bandages. His touch was deliberate, almost reverent, as though he were mending something far more fragile than skin. When the last strip was secured, San didn’t immediately pull away. His fingers lingered, brushing lightly over the bandages before sliding down Jongho’s arm to clasp both of his hands in his.  

Jongho glanced up, startled by the warmth in San’s eyes. There was no pity there, only patience and a quiet determination that made something twist painfully in Jongho’s chest. San squeezed his hands gently, his thumbs brushing soothing circles over Jongho’s knuckles. 

“Everyone will want to see you,” San said softly, breaking the silence. His voice was calm but carried an undercurrent of encouragement. “Do you want to change and then go downstairs for breakfast?” 

Jongho froze. The idea of facing the rest of the pack felt overwhelming—daunting, even. What would they say? How would they look at him now? Fear, cold and sharp, pierced him, but he knew he couldn’t avoid them forever. They deserved that much after what they’d seen last night.

“Okay,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. 

San’s expression softened further, his lips curving into a gentle smile. Slowly, he stood, releasing Jongho’s hands but not moving far. “Let’s walk down together,” he said, his tone as steady as his gaze. “I’ll wait for you at the top of the stairs.” 

Jongho nodded, offering a small, faltering smile in return. It wasn’t much, but it was the best he could manage. 

San lingered for a moment longer before turning toward the door. Just before stepping out, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder. “You’ve got this,” he said quietly, his words reassuring. 

Then the door clicked shut behind him. 

The silence in the room felt heavier without San’s presence, and Jongho let out a shuddering breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The air left his lungs in a rush, carrying the tears that threatened to spill over. He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to keep them at bay. Not now, he told himself. Not when I must face everyone. 

He pushed himself off the bed, his legs unsteady beneath him as he crossed to his dresser. His hands hovered over his clothes, unsure of what to pick. 

He noticed the scarf, which rested neatly on top of the dresser. The soft fabric was a familiar comfort—a shield he had carried with him. Wrapping it around his wrist had been his silent armor, a way to steady himself when the world felt overwhelming. 

But now, the sight of it only twisted something inside him. 

What comfort could it offer now? When the pack had already seen everything? The scars he’d spent so long hiding, the panic he hadn’t been able to control—it was all out in the open. There was no shield for that, no way to retreat from the truth they now knew. 

Jongho’s fingers brushed the scarf lightly, his touch hesitant, as if testing whether it still held the comfort it once did. 

But it didn’t. 

Instead, it felt like a reminder of how much he had failed to keep himself hidden. His scars, his weakness, his panic—they had all been exposed. The scarf wasn’t protection anymore. It was just another thing he didn’t deserve. 

The realization stung, sharp and bitter, but Jongho didn’t shy away. His hand fell from the scarf, his fingers curling into a fist as he turned to his clothes. 

If they’ve already seen my worst, what does it matter? 

He reached for a short-sleeved shirt, his fingers trembling slightly as they brushed against the fabric. A long-sleeved shirt would have been safer; it would have hidden the bandages and spared the pack the sight of his wounds. 

But the thought of covering himself again—of hiding—made his skin itch. He was tired of feeling confined, of carrying the weight of what he couldn’t bear to show. 

They’ve seen everything already. 

With careful movements, Jongho pulled the short-sleeved shirt over his head, wincing as the fabric brushed against his tender arms. The bandages stood out starkly against his skin, a glaring reminder of everything he couldn’t erase. 

When he caught his reflection in the mirror, he hesitated. 

His swollen eyes, blotchy cheeks, and faint bruises on his neck told the story of a sleepless, chaotic night. The bandages wrapped around his arms only amplified his vulnerability, making him look… fragile. 

Jongho’s stomach twisted at the sight. He hated it—hated the way he looked, the way he felt, the way his shame clung to him like a second skin. But there was no point in changing now. No one could unsee what they already knew. 

He took a deep breath, steadying himself as best he could, and turned away from the mirror. The scarf stayed on the dresser, untouched. 

The hallway was quiet as Jongho stepped out of the room, his footsteps hesitant. He knew San was waiting just beyond his line of sight, and the thought gave him enough courage to keep moving. 

As he approached the stairs, he found San leaning casually against the railing. The moment their eyes met, San straightened, his ears perking up. A small, encouraging smile tugged at his lips as his eyes swept over Jongho, lingering briefly on the bandages. But he didn’t comment. 

Instead, he extended a hand, an unspoken offer of support. 

Jongho faltered for only a moment before taking it. The warmth of San’s grip was steadying, grounding him as they descended the stairs together. 

The murmur of voices grew louder as they neared the kitchen, the smell of breakfast wafting through the air. Jongho’s heart pounded in his chest, each step feeling heavier than the last. But San didn’t let go of his hand, and that simple connection gave him enough courage to keep moving forward. 

When Jongho stepped into the kitchen, the air seemed to shift. The quiet hum of conversation disappeared, replaced by a tense silence. 

The entire pack was already seated at the table, their heads lifting as one to meet him and San. 

Jongho’s steps faltered under their attention, his hand tightening instinctively around San’s. 

They were all looking at him—except for Seonghwa. 

Hongjoong sat at the head of the table, his fox ears twitching slightly as his sharp eyes took in Jongho’s form. Yunho’s tall frame was hunched somewhat; his ears pulled back in a clear sign of concern as he glanced between Jongho and San. Wooyoung, who usually exuded boundless energy, fidgeted with his hands in his lap. Mingi and Yeosang sat side by side; their brows furrowed in identical confusion as they exchanged brief looks. Even San, who still stood beside him, radiated a protective warmth. 

But Seonghwa… Seonghwa didn’t look at him at all. 

Seonghwa was already seated at the table's far end, his posture tense, hands clasped tightly in front of him. He stared at the table, his expression unreadable. His shoulders seemed heavier than usual, his figure smaller. 

Jongho’s heart sank. Of course, he can’t look at me. He must be disgusted after seeing my scars. They all probably are. Why wouldn’t they be? 

The rest of the pack hadn’t said a word yet. Their silence felt deafening, the weight of their stares pressing down on him. His eyes were drawn involuntarily to the floor, heat crawling up the back of his neck. He thought of the bandages wrapped around his arms, now fully visible in the short-sleeved shirt he had chosen. They know. They all know what happened. 

San gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, his thumb brushing lightly over Jongho’s knuckles. Without a word, he guided him forward toward the empty bench on the opposite side of the table. 

The gentle scent of cherry blossoms surrounded Jongho like a protective cocoon, grounding him enough to take the next step and then another until they reached their seats. 

San sat beside him, keeping close enough that their shoulders brushed. Jongho hesitated before sitting, his ears lowering slightly as he felt everyone’s eyes follow his every move. He fixed his gaze on the table, refusing to meet their eyes. 

〜〜Hongjoong POV〜〜 

Hongjoong watched silently as Jongho lowered himself onto the bench, his movements slow and deliberate. San settled beside him, his hand resting lightly on Jongho’s arm, a quiet anchor amidst the tension that filled the room. The silence was oppressive, heavy with unsaid words and shared worry, and it stretched far too long for Hongjoong’s liking. 

Jongho kept his shoulders hunched, ears pinned flat against his head. His hands were clenched tightly in his lap, the bandages stark against his skin. To anyone else, he might have looked small, withdrawn—but Hongjoong saw the strength it took for Jongho to sit there, surrounded by all of them, when he so clearly wanted to run. 

The scrape of Yunho’s chair shifted Hongjoong’s focus. The German Shepherd hybrid leaned forward slightly, his hands braced against the table's edge. His amber eyes flickered between Jongho and San, his concern palpable. Yunho was the type who wore his heart on his sleeve, and now, it was breaking for Jongho. But he didn’t speak. Not yet. 

Across from Yunho, Wooyoung sat rigid, his usual lively demeanor replaced by a tense stillness. His fingers fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, and his lips pressed into a thin line as he glanced around the table. Wooyoung always struggled in moments like these—moments where his actions couldn’t immediately fix the problem. 

Mingi, seated beside Wooyoung, had his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his brow furrowed as he stared at the empty plate before him. He wasn’t often serious, but today, the weight in his eyes was undeniable. Beside him, Yeosang’s posture was calm, his hands folded neatly in front of him, but Hongjoong caught the subtle tension in how his jaw tightened, the crease in his usually serene expression. 

Seonghwa, though, was the hardest to look at. He sat at the far end of the table, his body wound tight with guilt. His delicate features were pale, his hands clasped together so tightly they trembled. He hadn’t glanced at Jongho once; he stared intently at the table as if afraid of what he’d see—or how he’d be seen.

Hongjoong’s chest ached. He’d seen Seonghwa like this before, too many times to count, but it never got easier. Seonghwa was the heart of their pack, the one who carried everyone’s burdens as if they were his own. But now, it was clear he was drowning in the weight of it. 

Jongho, unaware of the silent turmoil around him, fidgeted slightly in his seat. The scrape of his nails against the table's wood reached Hongjoong’s ears—a sound so soft it could have been missed by anyone not attuned to it. 

Enough.  

Hongjoong set down his coffee, the porcelain clinking softly against the table. He leaned forward, his fox ears twitching as he spoke, his voice calm but steady enough to cut through the tension. “Jongho.” 

The younger hybrid flinched, his eyes darting up for just a fraction of a second before returning to the table. His hands gripped the edge of the bench, his knuckles white. 

Hongjoong softened his tone, letting his words settle gently in the air. “You’re not in trouble,” he said. “No one here is upset with you.” 

Jongho’s ears twitched faintly at the words, but he didn’t respond. His breathing remained shallow, his entire posture guarded. 

The silence stretched again, pressing down on the room like a weight. Hongjoong surveyed the table, his packmates looking to him for guidance, for reassurance. He straightened slightly, drawing strength from their trust. 

“We’re worried about you,” he continued, his voice warm but firm. “That’s all. You don’t have to explain anything, and you don’t owe us an apology. But you need to know—there’s nothing about you that we’re ashamed of.” 

A faint hitch in Jongho’s breathing betrayed the impact of Hongjoong’s words. He saw San’s hand shift slightly, squeezing Jongho’s arm in quiet encouragement. 

Seonghwa stirred at the end of the table, his trembling hands moving to grip his mug. His voice was unsteady when he spoke, but the words carried weight. “Jongho,” he began, his eyes drawn to Jongho's face., “I need to say this. About last night…” 

Jongho tensed visibly, his ears flattening further. “You don’t have to—” 

“I do,” Seonghwa interrupted, his voice firmer now. Slowly, he lifted his head, his glassy eyes meeting Jongho’s. “I froze when I saw your scars. I panicked—not because of you, but because I couldn’t stop thinking about what you’ve been through. And I hated myself for it. For not being able to protect you.” 

Jongho’s head jerked up, his wide eyes locked onto Seonghwa’s. “What?” he whispered, disbelief lacing his voice. 

“I wasn’t disgusted,” Seonghwa said, his voice trembling. “Not for a second. I just… I couldn’t stand the thought of someone hurting you like that. I froze because I didn’t know how to help you.” Hongjoong noticed how Seonghwa's fingers clenched around the mug, his knuckles turning white with the effort. “And I’m sorry for that. But I need you to know—you don’t have to hide from me. From any of us.” 

The words hung in the air, raw and vulnerable, and Hongjoong could see how they reached Jongho. His posture loosened slightly, the rigid tension in his frame easing by the smallest fraction. 

Yunho leaned forward, his voice low and steady. “He’s right, Jongho. None of this changes the way we see you. You’re part of this pack, meaning you don’t have to carry any of this alone.” 

Yeosang added quietly, warmth filling his eyes as he looked at Jongho.“You don’t have to be ready to talk about everything right now. Or ever. Just know that you’re not alone in this. We’re here.” 

San, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke, his voice soft but resolute. “Little cub, you don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to be anything but yourself. We’re not going anywhere.” 

Hongjoong’s chest tightened as he watched Jongho’s expression shift. His wide eyes glimmered faintly, and his lips parted as if to speak, but no sound came. Slowly, he scanned the room, taking in the faces of his packmates, their expressions filled with unwavering support. 

“Okay,” Jongho whispered, his voice barely audible but filled with something fragile and tentative. “I’ll… try.” 

Relief rippled through the pack like a shared breath. Their postures relaxed as the unspoken weight eased. Hongjoong leaned back slightly, his tension now loosening. 

“That’s all we ask,” he said softly, his ears twitching slightly as a faint smile curved his lips. 

For now, it was enough. 

The tension in the room eased as Jongho’s quiet “I’ll try” hung in the air, a fragile but significant step forward. Hongjoong allowed himself a soft breath, his sharp ears twitching at the subtle sounds of chairs creaking as his packmates settled. The oppressive weight that had lingered in the room seemed to lift, replaced by a warmth that wasn’t quite hope but was close enough. 

Jongho’s gaze dropped again, his hands still fidgeting in his lap. He wasn’t looking at anyone, but there was a faint shift in his posture—something less guarded, less afraid. 

Hongjoong’s heart ached for him. For all the strength it took Jongho to sit there, surrounded by a pack that loved him, it was clear he didn’t quite believe he belonged. Not yet. But it was a start. They’d take it one step at a time, as slow as Jongho needed. 

San was the first to move, his hand slipping from Jongho’s arm to his shoulder, his touch steady and grounding. “You did good, little cub,” he murmured, his voice so low it was almost a whisper. Jongho’s ears twitched at the words, a slight, almost imperceptible movement, but he didn’t pull away. 

Hongjoong let the quiet linger for a moment before speaking again. “Why don’t we get some food in you?” he said, his tone light but encouraging. “You barely touched your plate.” 

Jongho’s fingers twitched nervously in his lap, his hesitation evident. His appetite was probably nonexistent after everything, but Hongjoong knew the importance of small acts of normalcy—grounding Jongho in the present. 

“We made one of your favorites,” Wooyoung chimed in, his voice carefully controlled but carrying a hint of his usual cheer. “Pancakes with honey. Fresh fruit on the side.” 

Jongho glanced up briefly, his eyes catching Wooyoung's. It was just a second, but it was enough to make Hongjoong’s chest swell with quiet pride. 

“Take your time,” Hongjoong added gently, nodding toward the plate in front of Jongho. “No rush.” 

For a moment, Jongho didn’t move; his eyes darted between the plate and his hands, mirroring the tremor in his own hands. Then, slowly, he reached for the fork San had placed beside his plate earlier. His movements were tentative, almost as if he were testing the waters, but when no one pushed him further, he picked up a small piece of pancake and took a bite. 

The silence that followed was heavy, but not in the same suffocating way as before. It was quiet and careful, the kind of silence that allowed space for healing. 

Yunho leaned back in his chair, his tense shoulders finally relaxing. “The honey’s fresh,” he said conversationally, though his tone was softer than usual. “Wooyoung got it from that new market down the road.” 

Wooyoung perked up at the mention, his hands gesturing animatedly as he added, “You should’ve seen the vendor, Jongho. He was so excited when I told him I’d use his honey in our recipes. Gave me a discount and everything.” 

Jongho didn’t respond, but his lips twitched faintly, a subtle reaction that didn’t go unnoticed by Hongjoong. Progress. It's small but undeniable. 

Hongjoong let his packmates guide the conversation for a while, their voices filling the room with a warmth that had been missing earlier. Yunho spoke about his latest design project, his steady voice soothing as he described how hybrid-friendly features could make a space feel more welcoming. Mingi added his ideas for a music studio design, his excitement showing how his hands moved as he spoke. Yeosang chimed in with his usual calm precision, suggesting subtle design elements that might go unnoticed but made all the difference. 

San, ever-attentive, listened quietly while keeping a protective eye on Jongho. Even Seonghwa, though quieter than usual, managed a small smile at the thought of spending a movie night together as a pack—one that included Jongho. 

Jongho didn’t join in, but he didn’t withdraw either. He ate slowly, his focus shifting between his plate and the table. Every now and then, Hongjoong caught him glancing at the pack as though trying to understand how he fits into the lively dynamic. 

It wasn’t much, but it was enough to ease some of the heavy tension in Hongjoong’s chest. Jongho was listening, and though he wasn’t ready to engage yet, he wasn’t shutting them out. 

When Jongho’s plate was nearly empty, Hongjoong leaned forward slightly, keeping his voice steady and gentle but loud enough to catch everyone’s attention. “Hey, Jongho,” he began, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “I was thinking—it’s been a while since we’ve had a proper movie night. What do you think about joining us tonight?” 

Jongho stilled, his fork hovering mid-air as his round ears twitched nervously. He glanced up briefly, his wide eyes meeting Hongjoong’s before darting back to his plate. 

Before Jongho could answer, Wooyoung’s voice broke in, bright and eager. “Movie night? Yes! We should bring back the blanket fort.” 

“And snacks,” Mingi added, grinning. “Popcorn, hot chocolate, and maybe something sweet?” 

“I can bake something,” San offered softly, his attention fixed entirely on Jongho. “Maybe brownies? If you’d like that.” 

Jongho blinked, his eyes scanning the faces of his packmates as their chatter filled the room with newfound energy. His hands fidgeted slightly in his lap, and Hongjoong worried that the sudden attention might be too much. 

Yunho leaned forward then, his deep, steady voice adding to the chorus. “You don’t have to stay for the whole thing, Jongho. Even just a little bit is enough. Whatever feels right for you.” 

Jongho’s ears twitched slightly at Yunho’s words, his fidgeting slowing. 

“I…” Jongho’s voice wavered, barely audible over the excitement around him. “I don’t know.” 

The words hung in the air, drawing immediate quiet from the pack. 

“That’s okay,” Hongjoong said quickly, his voice steady but warm. “There’s no pressure at all. Just think about it. You don’t even have to decide now.” 

Jongho paused, his eyes still on his lap. “I’ll… think about it,” he murmured. 

“That’s all we ask,” San added, his tone low and reassuring. 

The pack let the conversation shift naturally, their chatter softening into a calmer discussion about movies and snacks. Jongho stayed quiet, his hands still fidgeting in his lap, but Hongjoong noticed his posture had relaxed just slightly. 

〜〜Yeosang’s Pov 〜〜 

The scrape of chairs and the soft clatter of plates signaled the end of breakfast. Yeosang’s sharp eyes lingered on Jongho, noticing how the younger man seemed slightly more at ease than earlier. His shoulders weren’t as tense, and his posture had relaxed—just a fraction—but the weariness in his eyes was impossible to miss. His movements were deliberate but slow, as though drained from holding himself together. 

Jongho lingered at the table, his eyes moving between the doorway and the empty plates. His hands fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, betraying the indecision weighing on him. Yeosang thought he might offer to clean up for a moment, but before Jongho could act, Hongjoong’s calm voice broke through. 

“You don’t need to worry about that,” Hongjoong said gently, leaning forward slightly. His tone was firm but kind, leaving no room for debate. “Take some time for yourself. You still look like you need it.” 

Jongho froze, his hand hovering above his plate as his eyes searched Hongjoong's face for an answer. His lips parted, but no words came out. Instead, he dithered, his grip tightening briefly on the table's edge. 

“Go on,” Hongjoong added, tilting his head slightly toward the doorway in encouragement. “We’ll take care of this.” 

Jongho’s eyes flickered to San, who gave him a slight nod of reassurance. With a quiet sigh, Jongho rose to his feet. His movements were careful, as though each one cost him effort. He momentarily gripped the back of his chair, steadying himself before stepping away from the table. 

Yeosang watched Jongho as he crossed the room. At the doorway, Jongho paused, his fingers brushing lightly against the frame. For a moment, it seemed like he might speak, but instead, he murmured a quiet “thank you” and slipped out into the hallway. 

The sound of his retreating footsteps left the kitchen in a weighted silence. 

San broke it first, his shoulders sagging as though the effort of staying composed had finally caught up to him. “He didn’t sleep much last night,” he murmured, his voice low, tinged with exhaustion. “Every time I thought he’d settled, he’d start moving again. Tossing, turning… He couldn’t stay still.” 

“What kind of dreams?” Yunho asked, his deep voice steady but laced with quiet concern. 

San exhaled, his brows furrowing as he leaned back in his chair. “Nightmares,” he said grimly. “The kind that doesn’t let you go. His scent kept changing—burnt sugar and fire. It reminded me of something… suffocating, like a blaze that wouldn’t stop growing.” He ran a hand through his hair, his expression tight. “He’d whimper sometimes—soft, broken sounds like he was trying to hold it even while asleep.” 

Yeosang’s jaw tightened at the description, his fingers curling slightly on the table. His voice was calm, but there was a sharpness as he asked, “And the bandages on his arms? That wasn’t from before, was it?” 

San wavered, his eyes dropping for a moment. “No. It happened last night during the panic attack. He must’ve clawed at himself when he was in the bathroom. I didn’t notice then—he said nothing about it.” His voice softened, guilt threading through his tone. “This morning, I saw the dried blood on his shirt when he came out of the bathroom. He still didn’t tell me—I had to point it out before he even realized.” 

The weight of San’s words settled heavily over the pack. Seonghwa flinched visibly, his hands trembling slightly as he gripped his mug. He’d been silent most of the morning, but now his voice wavered as he finally spoke. 

“If I hadn’t…” Seonghwa’s words faltered, his knuckles whitening against the mug. “If I hadn’t panicked when I saw his scars, maybe—” 

“No,” Hongjoong interrupted sharply, his tone cutting through Seonghwa’s guilt. “This isn’t on you, Hwa.” His expression warmed slightly as his eyes met Seonghwa's. “Jongho’s been carrying this for a long time—probably longer than we know. What happened last night didn’t create this pain; it’s something he’s been fighting for years.” 

“But I didn’t help,” Seonghwa said, his voice breaking. “I saw the way he looked at me, Joong. Like he thought I couldn’t handle it. Like I… didn’t want him here.” 

Yeosang spoke before Hongjoong could respond, his tone quiet but resolute. “You’re not the reason he feels that way, Seonghwa. It’s years of people making him feel like he’s too much or not enough. What matters now is that he sees how much you care.” 

The table fell silent again; each pack member was lost in their thoughts. Wooyoung fidgeted with his mug, his usual energy subdued, while Mingi stared at the empty plates, his jaw tight with unspoken frustration. Yunho leaned back in his chair, his expression serious as he glanced toward the doorway Jongho had disappeared through. 

San’s voice broke the silence, softer now but no less pained. “He’s terrified of being a burden– That’s why he didn’t say anything about the bleeding. He thought it wasn’t worth mentioning—that he wasn’t worth mentioning.” 

Yeosang’s head lowered, the weight of San’s words settling heavily on his chest. Jongho’s actions made sense now—his quiet withdrawal, how he avoided drawing attention to himself. But understanding it didn’t make it any easier to bear. 

After that, the pack didn’t speak for a while, each of them caught in the quiet storm of their thoughts.  

Yeosang reached for the nearest plate, his movements careful as he began stacking the dishes. Around him, the others followed suit, their shared silence filled with unspoken determination. They couldn’t fix what had happened to Jongho in the past, but they could be here for him now—and they would be, no matter how long it took. 

The pack dispersed after finishing their talk about Jongho. Yeosang lingered in the kitchen for a moment, staring at the table but not seeing it. He had work waiting for him—designs that needed his attention—but his thoughts kept circling back to Jongho. Despite the reassurances they’d given at breakfast, Yeosang couldn’t shake the image of Jongho sitting so stiffly, his hands clenched in his lap, as though bracing for something unseen. 

Yeosang knew Jongho needed time alone to process everything. He understood the importance of giving him space. But he also knew how isolating silence could be, how easily unspoken fears could grow when left unchecked. He didn’t want Jongho to spiral, trapped in his thoughts. 

With a quiet sigh, Yeosang stood and made his way down the hall. He thought he’d heard Jongho heading toward the library earlier, so he started there. 

When Yeosang entered the library, he paused, scanning the room. It was quiet, the morning light filtering softly through the large windows, but Jongho was nowhere in sight. Yeosang frowned and began checking the small nooks and corners where someone might retreat. The library had plenty of secluded spots, and Yeosang knew it wasn’t impossible that Jongho might have tucked himself away somewhere out of sight. 

Still, no Jongho. 

Yeosang stepped into the hallway, the house's quiet amplifying the steady thrum of his heartbeat. His worry gnawed at him as he moved with purpose, checking each room one by one. The library had been his first guess, but Jongho wasn’t there, nor had he been in the sunroom or the music room. With every empty space, a wave of dread washed over him. His steps quickened as his mind raced. 

The house felt vast, every shadow and quiet corner a potential hiding place. It was warm and inviting, yet Yeosang knew how isolating it could feel when someone was lost in their thoughts. The soft creak of the floorboards beneath his feet sounded louder in the stillness, echoing his growing concern. Then, as he stood in the doorway of the unused music room, staring at the untouched piano, realization struck him like a spark. Of course. 

Yeosang turned sharply, his pace brisk but deliberate as he headed toward the alcove. It wasn’t an obvious place—tucked away near the back of the house, hidden behind a nondescript door—but that made it perfect. He’d shown it to Jongho the night before, a private sanctuary, quiet and safe. Precisely the kind of place Jongho would retreat to. 

When he reached the door, Yeosang contemplated for a moment. He took a steadying breath, lifting a hand to knock softly. “Jongho?” he called gently, his voice calm and low, careful not to disturb the stillness too much. 

There was no answer. 

Yeosang’s hand lingered on the handle, the pause stretching for a moment longer. Then, carefully, he pushed the door open. The dim light from the hallway spilled into the alcove, casting a soft glow that outlined the small, cozy space. The room had been designed as a retreat, a quiet corner filled with oversized cushions and a thick, inviting rug. Shelves lined the walls, half filled with books and trinkets, giving the space a living-in, comforting feel. The air smelled faintly of cedarwood and old paper, grounding in its simplicity. 

It didn’t take long for Yeosang to spot Jongho. He was curled up in the far corner, wrapped tightly in a blanket that seemed far too big for his frame. His knees were drawn up to his chest, his head resting against the wall, and his eyes were closed. The tension in his posture was evident, his shoulders hunched inward as though trying to protect himself from something unseen. 

Yeosang stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him. “Hi,” he said quietly, his tone gentle and unintrusive. 

Jongho’s eyes opened slowly, blinking as he registered Yeosang’s presence. His expression didn’t shift much—no sign of alarm or discomfort—but there was a flicker of recognition. He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, his attention returning to the floor. 

“Can I sit with you?” Yeosang asked, his voice soft but steady. He didn’t want to overstep, didn’t want to make Jongho feel cornered. “Only if you’re okay with it.” 

Jongho hesitated, his fingers curling tighter around the edge of the blanket. His eyes fixed downward as he mumbled, “It’s your hideout.” 

Yeosang smiled faintly, taking a careful step closer. “It’s yours now, too,” he said, keeping his tone warm. “You can decide whether you want me to stay or not.” 

There was a pause, Jongho’s grip on the blanket loosening slightly as he mulled over the words. Finally, he gave a small nod, a barely visible movement but enough for Yeosang to take as permission. 

“Thank you,” Yeosang said simply, settling on the rug a few feet away. He sat cross-legged, his posture relaxed but open, ensuring there was enough space between them to make Jongho feel safe. 

The silence that followed was thick but not uncomfortable. It wrapped around them like the blanket Jongho held so tightly, the quiet hum of the house beyond the door fading into the background. Yeosang resisted the urge to speak immediately, letting Jongho have the necessary time and space. 

After a moment, Yeosang said softly, “If you want me to leave, just say the word. I’ll go.” 

Jongho didn’t answer right away. He shifted slightly, the blanket slipping from one shoulder as he leaned back against the wall. His gaze stayed downcast, but his voice was steadier when he finally spoke. “I… I don’t mind.” He stopped short, then added, barely above a whisper, “I want you to stay.” 

Yeosang’s chest warmed at Jongho’s quiet acceptance, though he kept his expression neutral, careful not to intrude on the younger hybrid’s fragile peace. “Okay,” he said softly, his tone steady and reassuring. “Thank you for letting me stay.” 

Jongho tilted his head back against the wall, his eyes fluttering shut as if to shield himself from the world. His fingers toyed with the edge of the blanket in small, repetitive motions that spoke louder than any words could. Yeosang didn’t move or speak, simply allowing the silence to stretch between them. It wasn’t the kind of silence that demanded to be filled, but one that offered space—space to think, feel, and simply be. 

The dim light filtering through the curtains softened the edges of the room, casting faint, uneven shadows that flickered with each shift in the hallway. The alcove felt like a world apart from the rest of the house, cocooned in quiet and stillness. Yet even here, Yeosang could see the weight Jongho carried. The tension in his shoulders hadn’t fully eased, and the faint furrow in his brow betrayed the thoughts still racing in his mind. 

Yeosang adjusted his position slightly, the movement deliberate and unhurried, his body language open and calm. He stayed cross-legged a few feet away, close enough for Jongho to know he wasn’t alone but far enough to give him the space Yeosang knew he needed. He watched as Jongho’s chest rose and fell in a slow, uneven rhythm, each breath carrying the exhaustion of someone who had fought too many unseen battles. 

Jongho’s fingers stilled briefly, his grip on the blanket tightening briefly before relaxing again. “I used to have hideouts like this back in my village,” he murmured suddenly, his voice low and distant. He didn’t open his eyes, his words carrying the weight of memories that had long been buried. 

Yeosang felt his heartache at the quiet admission. He leaned forward slightly, his movements careful and unintrusive. “What kind of hideouts?” he asked gently, his tone soft enough to match the fragile moment. 

Jongho held back for a moment, his lips pressing into a thin line before he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. “Nothing like this,” he said, his tone almost wistful. “They weren’t cozy or safe. Just… places I could crawl into. Spaces where I could disappear.” 

The words hung in the air, sharp in their simplicity. Yeosang's breath hitched in his throat as his mind conjured images of a younger Jongho, small and frightened, tucking himself into tight spaces to escape something—or someone. He swallowed hard, forcing his voice to remain steady. “Where did you hide?” 

“Anywhere I could,” Jongho admitted, his voice flat, as though reciting a fact he’d accepted long ago. “Under porches. Behind stacks of firewood. Inside closets. Sometimes I’d climb trees or find a corner in the barn. It didn’t matter where, as long as it was somewhere they wouldn’t think to look.” 

Yeosang’s heart ached at the thought, his hands curling into fists in his lap to keep himself grounded. He could picture it so clearly: Jongho crouched in the shadows, his small frame hidden from sight, his breath held in fear. The image was almost too much to bear. 

"Who were you hiding from?" Yeosang asked softly, his voice careful, coaxing but not demanding. He observed as Jongho's face paled slightly at the question

“My father,” Jongho whispered, the words brittle, barely audible. “Other alphas. Everyone.” 

The room seemed to grow quieter in the wake of Jongho’s admission, the weight of his words settling heavily between them. Yeosang’s chest felt impossibly tight, but he forced himself to stay composed, knowing that Jongho didn’t need pity—he needed presence and understanding. 

“Why did you need to hide?” Yeosang asked carefully, his voice barely more than a breath. 

Jongho’s eyes opened slowly, and his gaze dropped to his hands as his grip on the blanket tightened again. His expression was guarded, and his voice was low as he answered, “They didn’t like me.” 

The simplicity of the statement struck Yeosang like a blow. He felt his throat constrict, his instincts urging him to reach out, to do something to ease the pain behind those words. But he stayed still, knowing that Jongho needed space more than anything else. 

“I’m sorry,” Yeosang said quietly, his voice filled with quiet sincerity. “I’m sorry you had to go through that. It must have been terrifying.” 

Jongho didn’t respond, his gaze on the blanket pooled in his lap. But Yeosang noticed the faintest change—the slight dip in Jongho’s shoulders, the way his hands loosened their grip on the fabric. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to tell Yeosang that the words had reached him. 

The silence wrapped around them, heavy yet oddly soothing, like the weight of a thick blanket on a cold night. Yeosang let it linger, resisting the urge to fill the space with words or movement. He knew that sometimes silence was the most powerful gift one could offer—a quiet sanctuary where thoughts could settle, and emotions could surface without fear or expectation. For now, just being there was enough. 

Jongho barely shifted, his head still leaning against the wall. His fingers brush over the edge of the blanket in slow, absent motions. His gaze was distant and unfocused, as though trapped in the echo of memories that pulled him somewhere far from the present. The dim light from the hallway barely touched his face, leaving the weariness etched into his features softened by shadow but not erased. 

Yeosang remained still, his presence steady but unintrusive. He let his eyes roam the alcove, noting the uneven texture of the wooden walls and the way the faint light slipped through the gaps in the curtain, casting faint, shifting patterns on the floor. The space felt disconnected from the rest of the house, as if it existed solely for moments like this—for quiet reflection, for being unseen yet understood. 

Time stretched, unmeasured, as Yeosang waited. He had long since learned that Jongho would speak when he was ready and not a second before. There was no point in rushing him or trying to guide the moment. Yeosang’s role was simply to be present, a quiet reassurance that Jongho wasn’t alone. 

Finally, Jongho’s voice broke the stillness, soft and hesitant, as if testing the air before fully stepping into it. “Yeosang hyung?” 

Yeosang turned his attention back to him immediately, his posture straightening slightly. “Yes?” 

Jongho didn’t look at him, his eyes focused somewhere on the floor. His fingers tightened around the blanket as he spoke, his words slow and deliberate. “Did you… come here because you wanted to see them?” 

Yeosang blinked, caught off guard. “See what?” he asked softly, though he had a sinking feeling he already knew the answer. 

“The scars.” Jongho’s voice was barely audible, but it carried a weight that settled heavily in Yeosang’s chest. “Is that why you came looking for me?” 

The question hung in the air, fragile and raw. Yeosang’s breath hitched slightly, and he carefully shifted his position, leaning forward just enough to close the distance between them without crowding him. 

“No,” he said firmly, his voice quiet but unwavering. “That’s not why I came.” 

Jongho finally lifted his gaze, his round eyes filled with a mixture of uncertainty and something softer—something vulnerable. “Then why?” he asked, his tone cautious. 

“I came because I didn’t want you to be alone,” Yeosang answered honestly, meeting Jongho’s gaze without hesitation. “I wanted to make sure you were okay. That’s all.” 

Jongho’s shoulders relaxed slightly at the words, but the tension in his grip on the blanket remained. He looked down again, his fingers fidgeting nervously. “You can see them if you want,” he said after a pause, his voice barely above a whisper. “If that’s what you need to… understand.” 

Yeosang’s chest tightened, and he felt a rush of emotions—sadness, empathy, and, more profoundly, an ache for everything Jongho had endured. He reached out, stopping short of touching Jongho’s hand, his voice gentle but firm. “Jongho, you don’t have to show me anything you’re not ready to share. I don’t need to see your scars to understand or to care about you.” 

Jongho’s grip on the blanket loosened slightly, his brow furrowing as he processed Yeosang’s words. “You don’t?” he asked, his voice laced with quiet disbelief. 

“No,” Yeosang said, his tone steady. “I don’t need to see them to know they’re there or to know they’ve shaped you. But those scars don’t define you, Jongho. And you don’t have to prove anything to me—or anyone.” 

Jongho’s lips parted slightly as if he wanted to say something, but no words came. Instead, his gaze dropped back to his hands, his fingers curling into the blanket again. For a moment, the room was quiet again, the faint hum of the house the only sound. 

Yeosang waited, giving Jongho the space to think, feel, and decide what he needed. After a long moment, Jongho let out a shaky breath, his shoulders dipping slightly as the tension began to ease from his frame. 

“I just… thought maybe it would help,” Jongho admitted quietly, his voice trembling slightly. “If you saw them. Then maybe you’d understand why I’m like this.” 

Yeosang’s heart ached at the words, and he leaned forward slightly, his voice gentle but resolute. “I don’t need to see them to understand why you’re guarded, Jongho. I understand because you’ve trusted me enough to tell me about your father, about the alphas in your village, about hiding. That trust means more than any scars ever could.” 

Jongho’s head tilted slightly, his eyes meeting Yeosang’s for just a moment. There was something raw and searching in his expression, as if he were trying to gauge the sincerity of Yeosang’s words. 

Yeosang didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. He let Jongho see the truth in his eyes, the quiet but unwavering determination to be someone Jongho could rely on. 

After a long pause, Jongho nodded faintly, his grip on the blanket loosening further. He didn’t say anything more, but how his shoulders relaxed and his eyes softened told Yeosang enough. 

“Thank you,” Jongho murmured finally, his voice barely audible but filled with a quiet sincerity that warmed Yeosang’s chest. 

“You don’t have to thank me,” Yeosang said softly, his lips curving into a faint smile. “I’m here because I want to be. That’s all.” 

Jongho leaned back against the wall again, his eyes drifting shut as the tension continued to ease from his posture. Yeosang stayed where he was, his presence a silent reassurance. The quiet between them carried a sense of understanding that didn’t need to be spoken aloud. 

〜〜Jongho’s POV〜〜 

The dim alcove's silence lingered, comforting in its stillness. Jongho leaned his head against the wall, the tension in his chest loosening, if only slightly, with Yeosang’s steady presence nearby. His grip on the blanket had eased, and the fabric rested lightly in his lap now. 

The soft knock at the alcove door startled Jongho out of his thoughts. He became tense again, his ears perking up instinctively. He turned toward the entrance just as Yunho’s familiar face appeared, his amber eyes warm but cautious as he peeked inside. 

“Hey,” Yunho said gently, his deep voice soft enough not to disturb the room's peace. “Mind if I join you two?” 

Jongho’s fingers tightened around the edge of the blanket in his lap, his nerves prickling at the unexpected intrusion. Yunho’s presence felt big, even when tempered with his usual care. He drew back, his gaze flickering toward Yeosang. Yeosang said nothing, only looking at Jongho with quiet patience, leaving the choice in his hands. 

Jongho swallowed, his heart pounding against his ribs as the decision weighed on him. Yunho had always been kind, and Jongho didn’t feel the same fear around him as he did with other alphas. There was something steady and warm about him. And while part of Jongho wanted to say no, to cling to the fragile quiet they had built, another part whispered that he needed to try. 

“…Okay,” Jongho murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “You can come in.” 

Yunho’s tail subtly wagged at the response, and a soft smile curved his lips. “Thanks,” he said, stepping fully into the room and closing the door behind him. 

The alcove was small, so Yunho had to lower himself carefully onto the floor to avoid crowding it. A few feet from Jongho, he sat cross-legged, his posture relaxed and open. His tail brushed softly against the rug as it swayed behind him. 

“This is such a great spot,” Yunho said with an easy smile, his gaze moving over the cozy space. “Yeosang showed it to me a while ago, but it’s been forever since I’ve been in here.” His amber eyes flicked to Jongho. “I was hoping I’d find you here. I wanted to spend some time with you.” 

Jongho’s gaze darted to Yunho, surprised by the admission. His fingers 

tightened slightly around the edge of the blanket as he processed the words. There was no pressure in Yunho’s tone, only a quiet sincerity that caught Jongho off guard. He wasn’t used to people wanting to spend time with him—not without expecting something in return. 

Yeosang shifted slightly, drawing Jongho’s attention. “Yunho’s been talking about that game he bought for weeks,” Yeosang said lightly, his tone teasing enough to break the tension. “Maybe he’ll finally get to play it.” 

Jongho glanced back at Yunho, whose tail gave an eager thump against the floor. “It’s true,” Yunho admitted with a sheepish grin. “I bought this board game a while ago, but no one’s had time—or maybe they just didn’t want to play with me.” He added the last part with a dramatic sigh, though his smile didn’t falter. “I was hoping you two might want to give it a shot. What do you think?” 

Jongho hesitated, glancing at Yeosang again. He felt a flutter of apprehension but Yunho’s hopeful expression made it hard to say no. There was something disarming about how Yunho spoke, like he wasn’t expecting anything, just offering. 

“I… I think that’s okay,” Jongho said softly, his voice steady despite his nerves. 

Yunho’s smile brightened, his tail wagging more enthusiastically now. “Great! I’ll grab it. Don’t go anywhere, okay?” He stood quickly, his long legs carrying him to the door in a few strides. Just before leaving, he turned back with a playful grin. “Seriously, stay right here. I’ll be back in a second.” 

Jongho blinked at Yunho’s playful insistence, and a faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He glanced at Yeosang, who was watching him with an encouraging expression. The warmth in the alcove felt different now—lighter, as though Yunho’s energy had filled the space with something new. 

As Yunho’s footsteps faded down the hall, Jongho let out a quiet breath. His fingers loosened their grip on the blanket, and his chest didn't feel quite as heavy for the first time in what felt like hours. 

It wasn’t long before rapid footsteps echoed down the hall, growing louder until Yunho reappeared in the doorway. His chest rose and fell with exaggerated breaths, his hair slightly tousled as though he’d just run a marathon. In one hand, he held a brightly colored board game box, and in the other, a bulging bag that jingled faintly with every step. 

“Got it!” Yunho announced triumphantly, stepping back into the alcove with an excited grin. His tail wagged enthusiastically behind him, its steady rhythm betraying his excitement. He held up the bag like a prize. “And I come bearing provisions!” 

Yeosang raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching in faint amusement as he leaned slightly forward. “Provisions?” 

“Snacks,” Yunho said with mock seriousness, dropping onto the floor with a dramatic flourish. “And drinks. You can’t play a board game properly without refreshments. It’s basic gaming etiquette.” 

Jongho blinked at Yunho’s earnestness, caught between amusement and bewilderment. His gaze flickered to the bag as Yunho began pulling items out one by one, narrating as he went. 

“Behold!” Yunho said, producing a container of mixed nuts and dried fruit. “Energy boosters. Perfect for strategizing.” He set them down carefully before pulling out a bag of mini pretzels. “Classic. Crunchy, salty, and satisfying.” Next came a box of chocolate-covered almonds, a container of strawberries, a bag of sour gummy bears, and finally, a thermos. 

“What’s in the thermos?” Yeosang asked, tilting his head. 

“Homemade chai,” Yunho said proudly, unscrewing the lid to release the fragrant scent of spiced tea. “It’s sweet, warm, and caffeinated enough to keep us sharp. I made it this morning.” 

Jongho stared at the growing pile of snacks and drinks, unsure what to say. He wasn’t used to this kind of energy—so lighthearted, so thoughtful—and it left him feeling oddly warm. Yunho’s effort was apparent, and it was hard not to feel a little touched by it. 

Yeosang let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “You don’t do anything halfway, do you?” 

“Nope,” Yunho said with a grin, his tail wagging harder. “I’ve had this game for weeks, but no one’s been free to play with me. I’ve been saving it for the right moment.” He glanced at Jongho, his expression softening. “And now, it feels like the right time.” 

Jongho ducked his head, his cheeks warming at the sincerity in Yunho’s voice. He didn’t know how to respond to the attention, so he focused instead on the board game Yunho was now pacing on the floor. 

“Hope you’re ready,” Yunho said as he began unpacking the game pieces, his movements quick and precise. “This is a fun one. Strategy, cooperation, and maybe a little sabotage. But I promise it’s easy to learn.” 

Yeosang leaned over to help sort the pieces, his calm demeanor balancing Yunho’s enthusiasm. “Jongho’s a fast learner,” he said lightly, glancing at the younger hybrid. “I think he’ll catch on quickly.” 

Jongho stalled, his hands curling slightly around the edge of the blanket. He wasn’t sure he believed that, but the warmth in Yeosang’s voice and Yunho’s encouraging smile made it hard to doubt altogether. 

“You’re going to like this, I promise,” Yunho said as he spread the game board out on the floor. “And if you don’t, we’ll find something else to do. No pressure, okay?” 

Jongho nodded faintly, the corner of his lips twitching in what could almost be called a smile. For the first time in a long while, spending time with others didn’t feel so intimidating. 

At one point, Yunho leaned forward, his large frame blocking Jongho’s view of the board as he reached for a game piece near Yeosang. His knee brushed lightly against Jongho’s in the process, and Yunho froze, his tail giving an apologetic flick. 

“Ah, sorry,” Yunho said quickly, his ears drooping slightly as he pulled back. “I didn’t mean to—tall guy problems again.” 

Jongho stiffened, his fingers tightening slightly around the edge of his blanket. For a moment, memories of looming alphas and unwanted proximity threatened to creep in, but Yunho’s expression—open and genuinely concerned—cut through the haze. 

“It’s fine,” Jongho said quietly, his voice steadier than expected. He glanced at Yunho, meeting his gaze for just a moment. “Really.” 

The tension in Yunho’s shoulders eased immediately, and his tail gave a gentle wag as he smiled. “Thanks,” he said softly, his voice warm. 

Jongho looked down again, his cheeks warming, but he didn’t feel the usual rush of discomfort. Instead, there was something almost reassuring about Yunho’s reaction—careful, thoughtful in a way Jongho wasn’t used to. 

They returned to the game, the atmosphere growing lighter with each turn. Yunho’s playful narration of his moves filled the room, earning an occasional chuckle from Yeosang and even a faint twitch of Jongho’s lips. When Yunho tried to execute an overly ambitious strategy, Yeosang countered it with calm precision, drawing a dramatic groan from Yunho. 

“You’re ruthless,” Yunho complained, flopping back against the rug as his tail thumped softly against Yeosang’s side. 

Yeosang arched a brow, his lips curving into a faint smile. “I’m strategic.” 

“Strategic, sure,” Yunho said with a laugh, sitting back up. He grabbed a bag of pretzels from the snack pile and opened it, holding it out toward Jongho first. “Want some?” 

Jongho hesitated, his gaze flickering to the bag. The simple offer felt surprisingly significant, and he reached out carefully, his fingers brushing against Yunho’s as he took a handful. The brief contact sent a slight, unexpected warmth through his chest. 

“Thanks,” Jongho murmured, his voice soft. 

Yunho grinned. “Anytime.” 

As the game continued, Yunho’s tail occasionally brushed against Jongho’s leg or Yeosang’s arm, and each time, he offered a quick apology. But the touches felt unintentional and harmless, even comforting in their casualness. Jongho grew less tense with each one, the small gestures slowly chipping away at the walls he’d built. 

At one point, Yunho stretched dramatically, groaning as his hand accidentally bumped into Jongho’s arm. “Oops, sorry again,” Yunho said, pulling back quickly. 

“It’s okay,” Jongho said quietly, surprising himself with how easily the words came. His gaze flickered to Yunho, and for the first time, he managed a small, tentative smile. 

Yunho’s face lit up, his tail wagging enthusiastically. “You’re way too forgiving, Jongho. I’ll try to be less clumsy.” 

Yeosang chuckled softly. “I think we’ve all learned by now that’s impossible for you.” 

“Fair,” Yunho conceded with a laugh, popping a piece of dried mango into his mouth. “But hey, I’m persistent.” 

By the time the game ended, Jongho realized the knot in his chest had loosened significantly. Yunho stretched again, this time knocking over a water bottle in his enthusiasm. 

“Alright, I’ll admit it,” Yunho grinned, “Yeosang’s too good at this. But I’m not ready to give up. How about another round?” 

Jongho considered, glancing between Yeosang and Yunho. The idea of continuing felt daunting, but the warmth in Yunho’s voice and the steady encouragement in Yeosang’s gaze made it hard to refuse. 

“…Okay,” Jongho said softly, reaching for a handful of chocolate-covered almonds. His voice was quiet but steady as he added, “One more.” 

“Yes!” Yunho exclaimed, his tail wagging with renewed enthusiasm. He began resetting the board, his energy infectious. “This time, I’m going all in.” 

Yeosang smirked. “You said that last time.” 

“And I mean it even more now,” Yunho shot back, his grin widening. 

As they set up the game for another round, the snacks became a centerpiece of their little circle. Yunho poured more tea into their cups, the spiced aroma mingling with the faint sweetness of the strawberries and chocolate. Jongho found himself reaching for the snacks more easily now, the quiet camaraderie easing some of the tension that had weighed on him earlier. 

The game board returned to life, pieces shifting and laughter filling the alcove. For the first time in what felt like forever, Jongho felt something unfamiliar but welcome: a quiet, tentative sense of belonging. 

As they reset the board for another round, Yunho reached for the last chocolate-covered almond in the packet and grinned. “You know,” he said, popping it into his mouth, “Wooyoung and San were in the kitchen earlier whispering about some ‘top-secret baking project.’ I think it’s for tonight.” 

“Movie night,” Yeosang added with a small nod, glancing at Jongho. “It’s been a while since we’ve had one as a pack.” 

Jongho took a breath as his fingers traced the edges of the game pieces. The prospect of a group evening stirred a familiar unease within him, but this time, it was tempered with a flicker of curiosity. Yunho and Yeosang watched him expectantly, their smiles warm and inviting, and a hesitant hope bloomed within him.

Yunho leaned forward, his tail swishing slowly against the rug. “I’ll bet they’re up to something sweet,” he said, his grin widening. “Probably enough to ruin my dinner, but totally worth it.” 

Yeosang hummed thoughtfully, then turned his attention back to Jongho. “If you feel like it later,” he said softly, his voice calm and reassuring, “I think you might enjoy it. We’ll keep it simple.” 

Jongho tried to gather his thoughts,, the familiar tug-of-war in his chest returning. But as he glanced at the two of them, the warmth in their expressions and the quiet comfort of the alcove settled some of the unease. 

“Maybe,” he murmured, his voice soft but steady, before placing his game piece down on the board. 

Yunho’s tail wagged faintly at the answer, his grin returning. “That’s all we need,” he said brightly. “Now, prepare to lose this round.” 

The three of them leaned back into the game, the chatter and laughter flowing easily, but Jongho’s thoughts lingered on the mention of the baking and the night ahead. For the first time in a long while, the idea of being part of something—of belonging—felt just a little less impossible. 

Chapter Text

~~San’s POV~~

San leaned against the counter, arms crossed, as he watched Wooyoung shuffle through a bag of ingredients with restless energy. Wooyoung muttered under his breath about sugar ratios and cocoa percentages, his movements sharp and distracted.

“Do you think brownies are enough?” Wooyoung asked, holding up a jar of cocoa powder. “I mean, they’re simple, but… are they too simple? What if Jongho doesn’t even like chocolate? What if we’re just feeding him stuff he hates because we don’t know anything about him?”

San frowned slightly, his ears twitching at the edge of Wooyoung’s frustration. “We don’t know much about what he likes yet,” he admitted. “But brownies are safe. Comforting.”

“That’s what you said about the lunch I packed him yesterday,” Wooyoung muttered, setting the jar down a little too hard. “But did he even like it? Did he eat it?”

San hesitated. “He ate some of it,” he said carefully. “But he didn’t say much.”

Wooyoung groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “So he probably hated it and didn’t want to tell me. Great.”

“I don’t think he hated it,” San said, stepping closer. “He’s just… not used to people doing things for him.”

Wooyoung didn’t respond immediately, his fingers curling around the edge of the counter. After a moment, he exhaled shakily, his voice quieter when he spoke again. “I hate this, Sannie.”

San tilted his head, his brows drawing together. “Hate what?”

“Not being there with you at night,” Wooyoung said, his words tumbling out like they had been waiting to escape. He finally looked at San, his wide eyes filled with frustration and something rawer. “I hate that you get to hold him, comfort him, and be the one he turns to when he’s scared. And I’m just… here. On the outside.”

San’s chest tightened at the desperation in Wooyoung’s voice. He took another step closer, resting his hands lightly on Wooyoung’s waist. “It’s not about me,” he said softly. “Or you. It’s about what Jongho needs right now.”

“I know,” Wooyoung said quickly, though his voice cracked. “I know it’s not about me, but that doesn’t make it any easier. I want to be there, Sannie. I want to help him the way you do. I want him to look at me and see someone he can trust. Someone who… who makes him feel safe.”

San’s hands tightened slightly, his thumbs brushing against Wooyoung’s sides. “He does see you, Woo,” he said firmly. “More than you realize. But he’s still figuring us out. It takes time.”

Wooyoung shook his head, a soft whimper escaping him. “I don’t want to wait. I miss you. I miss sleeping next to you, and I hate that I miss him too. I don’t even know why I’m like this. It’s not like I want to take your place—it’s not that. I just... I want to be part of it.”

San’s ears flattened slightly as he leaned in, resting his forehead against Wooyoung’s. “I know,” he murmured. “I’ll talk to him, Woo. I’ll ask him if he’s okay with you staying in the room—just for one night.”

Wooyoung blinked, his lips parting slightly. “You’d ask him? For me?”

San nodded. “Of course. But if he says no, it’s not because he doesn’t want you around. It’s just… where he’s at right now.”

Wooyoung exhaled shakily, his hands coming up to grip San’s arms. “I’ll take whatever he’s willing to give,” he whispered. “Even if it’s just a corner of the room. I’ll stay quiet. I’ll stay still. I just want to be near him. Near you.”

San’s heart ached at the raw vulnerability in Wooyoung’s voice. He lifted one hand, cupping Wooyoung’s cheek as his voice softened. “I’ll ask him,” he promised. “But you have to be patient, Woo. He’s been through so much. This isn’t easy for him.”

Wooyoung nodded reluctantly, his lips pressing into a thin line. “I’ll wait,” he murmured. “But I don’t have to like it.”

San smiled faintly, brushing his thumb against Wooyoung’s cheek before pulling back slightly. “That’s fair.”

Wooyoung let out a shaky laugh, stepping back and crossing his arms. “Think we’ve given Yeosang and Yunho enough time with him?”

San’s expression softened, his mind drifting to the moment earlier when Yunho had passed through the kitchen with his usual excitement. “Yunho grabbed that board game he’s been dying to play. By now, they’ve probably gone through more than enough rounds for one day.”

Wooyoung perked up at that, his eyes glinting with renewed energy. “Perfect. Let’s go get him. He should bake with us. Maybe he’ll actually tell us what he likes.”

San arched a brow. “You just want an excuse to interrupt them.”

“Obviously,” Wooyoung said with a grin. “And you’re coming with me. The last one there has to clean the kitchen.”

Before San could respond, Wooyoung darted out of the room, his laughter echoing down the hall.

San sighed, shaking his head as he followed at a slower pace. But despite his exasperation, a faint smile tugged at his lips.

~~Yunho’s POV~~

The quiet hum of the alcove wrapped around Yunho like a warm cocoon. The game board lay forgotten between him, Jongho, and Yeosang, its colorful pieces scattered after multiple rounds. Yunho stretched out on his stomach, propping his chin in his hand as he lazily traced patterns on the soft rug beneath him.

Beside him, Jongho mirrored his position, lying flat on his stomach with his arms folded beneath his chin. His eyes flickered over the game board, though he wasn’t really looking at it. Instead, he seemed lost in thought, his small, round ears twitching occasionally at the faint noises outside the room.

Yunho’s gaze drifted downward, landing on the soft, round fluff of Jongho’s tail peeking out from where he lay. It barely moved—just the faintest twitch now and then—but it still caught Yunho’s attention.

It’s cute, Yunho thought, a soft smile tugging at his lips. Jongho’s tail wasn’t like the dramatic swishes of a fox or the expressive movements of a dog. It was subtle, understated—like him. Even the tiny flicks of movement carried so much unspoken emotion: curiosity, caution, maybe even a hint of relaxation.

Yunho wondered if Jongho realized how much that small, fluffy tail betrayed him. The thought made Yunho want to reach out and give it the gentlest touch, just to feel its softness. But he knew better than to overstep, so he kept his hands to himself, content to admire it from a distance.

The quiet settled between them, soothing and unhurried. Yeosang sat nearby, leaning against a pile of cushions with his eyes closed. The three of them had fallen into this peaceful rhythm after the last round of the game, and Yunho wasn’t ready for it to end.

Then, faint footsteps broke the stillness. The sound echoed down the hall, quick and uneven, growing louder with each second. Yunho’s ears twitched, and he frowned, already suspecting who it was.

The knock came a moment later, sharp and impatient.

“Don’t answer it,” Yunho muttered, glancing at Yeosang.

Yeosang cracked one eye open, his lips curving into a faint smirk. “Why not?”

“Just… don’t,” Yunho said, his voice lower now.

Another knock followed, more insistent this time. “Yunho, Yeosang, Jongho! You in there?” Wooyoung’s voice carried easily through the door, bright and unapologetic.

“Go away,” Yunho called out, though there was no real force behind his words.

“Open the door, or we’re coming in!”

Yeosang stretched lazily, his arms going over his head in an exaggerated yawn. “We’re not ignoring them all night,” he said lightly, glancing at Yunho with amusement.

Yunho groaned, burying his face in his arm. “We could try.”

But Yeosang ignored him, calling out, “Come in!”

The door creaked open, and Wooyoung poked his head inside, his sharp eyes scanning the room. San followed closely, his gaze immediately settling on Jongho.

Wooyoung stepped fully into the room, his grin widening. “Looks cozy in here,” he said, his tone teasing as he took in the scattered game pieces and their relaxed positions on the floor.

San’s focus remained on Jongho, who lifted his head slightly at their arrival. Jongho’s round ears perked up, and the faintest twitch of his tail was visible—a small, instinctive movement that Yunho noticed immediately.

He’s happy to see them, Yunho realized, the thought sparking an uncomfortable pang in his chest.

“How’s it going in here?” Wooyoung asked, glancing briefly at Yunho before turning his attention back to Jongho.

Yeosang pushed himself upright with a soft sigh. “It’s been… productive. If you count playing more rounds than I care to admit.”

San finally spoke, his voice calm but inviting. “We’re about to start baking for movie night,” he said, his eyes still fixed on Jongho. “We wanted to see if you wanted to help out. All of you,” he added, glancing briefly at Yunho and Yeosang.

Yeosang didn’t hesitate, rising to his feet with practiced ease. “Sounds good to me,” he said, brushing invisible dust off his sleeves.

Jongho hesitated, his dark eyes flicking to the game board as if reluctant to leave. But when San offered him a warm, encouraging smile, Jongho pushed himself up slowly, brushing his hands off on his pants.

Yunho stayed where he was, watching as Yeosang and Jongho made their way toward the door. His gaze lingered on Jongho’s tail, which twitched faintly as he walked, the movement so subtle it was almost imperceptible.

He didn’t want this moment to end, didn’t want to give up the quiet closeness they’d shared. But the thought of letting San and Wooyoung have Jongho to themselves—of not being part of whatever came next—spurred him into action.

With a soft sigh, Yunho pushed himself to his feet and followed the others out of the alcove.

Yunho followed the group down the hall, his steps slow as he trailed behind them. His eyes were drawn to Jongho’s back, to the way his small frame moved quietly through the space, his round ears twitching slightly at every creak of the floorboards. He walked with a kind of cautious grace, and Yunho couldn’t stop the pull in his chest.

The kitchen lights bathed everything in a warm glow, making the wooden counters and carefully arranged baking tools feel inviting. Wooyoung and San immediately began gathering ingredients and bowls, moving with the easy rhythm of people who had done this together countless times.

Jongho lingered near the island, his hand brushing the edge of the counter as though grounding himself. Yunho stayed by the doorway, reluctant to move closer and interrupt the moment. He watched as Jongho’s gaze shifted to the stand mixer on the counter, curiosity flickering across his face.

“Yunho,” Yeosang said softly, stepping closer to him. His voice was calm, eyes flicking between Yunho and the kitchen. “Let Wooyoung and San have this time with him. We should find the others and get them started on the living room.”

Yunho’s gaze stayed fixed on Jongho, his chest tightening as he noticed the younger hybrid’s lingering hesitation. His fingers brushed the edge of the counter in small, careful movements as though grounding himself in the unfamiliar space. Though San and Wooyoung moved around him with ease, Jongho stood rooted in place, still trying to figure out where he fit in.

“You go ahead,” Yunho replied quietly, his voice low but resolute.

Yeosang hesitated, his brow furrowing slightly. “They’re good at this,” he said, glancing briefly at Jongho. “He’ll be okay without you for a little while.”

“I know,” Yunho said, finally turning to look at Yeosang. His voice was steady, but there was an edge of resolve beneath it. “But I’m staying.”

Yeosang studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable, before he sighed softly. “Alright,” he said simply, stepping back toward the hallway. He cast one last glance at the kitchen before disappearing into the corridor.

Yunho exhaled, his focus shifting back to Jongho. There was something almost magnetic about the way Jongho stood there, caught between hesitation and focus. Yunho’s chest ached, an ache that was nearly physical in its intensity. He wanted to close the distance, to reach out and smooth the furrow in Jongho’s brow, to reassure him that he belonged here.

“Alright, Jongho,” Wooyoung said, sliding a bowl of softened butter and sugar closer to the stand mixer. “First step for brownies: creaming the butter and sugar together. I’ll set this up for you—just turn it on low when I say so, okay?”

Jongho nodded, his fingers brushing over the mixer’s controls as he studied it. There was a quiet concentration in his movements, but Yunho noticed the way his shoulders stayed tense, as though he wasn’t quite sure he was doing it right.

Yunho’s chest tightened again. He couldn’t look away, couldn’t stop drinking in the way Jongho’s lashes cast soft shadows on his cheeks, the faint pink flush coloring his skin under the warm kitchen light. He was beautiful in a way that felt unassuming yet utterly captivating, like the kind of painting that grew more stunning the longer you looked at it.

You don’t even realize how alluring you are, do you?

The thought sent a pang of longing through him. Yunho wanted to step closer to see if Jongho’s warmth felt as magnetic up close as it did from here. He wanted to hear his voice more often, to know what made him laugh, to uncover every piece of who he was beneath the layers of hesitance.

“Are you just going to stand there staring at Jongho,” San’s voice cut through, laced with teasing, “or are you going to help?”

Yunho blinked, heat creeping up his neck as he realized he had been standing there too long. Jongho’s head turned slightly at the sound of San’s comment, his ears twitching before his cheeks flushed a soft pink.

“I wasn’t staring,” Yunho muttered, stepping further into the kitchen.

San smirked, his sharp eyes glinting with amusement. “Sure you weren’t,” he said, pushing a bag of chocolate chips toward the counter. “Come on. Cookies won’t make themselves.”

Jongho lowered his gaze, focusing on the mixer as Wooyoung finished setting it up. The faint blush on his cheeks deepened, and Yunho caught the slight curve of his lips—a shy, fleeting smile that made something twist painfully in his chest.

“Alright, Jongho, you’re good to go,” Wooyoung said cheerfully. “Just turn the dial to the first setting and let the mixer do its thing.”

Jongho reached out, his hand hovering briefly before turning the dial. The mixer whirred to life, blending the butter and sugar together into a creamy consistency. Wooyoung leaned in, checking the mixture before giving Jongho an approving nod.

“Perfect! See? You’ve got this,” Wooyoung said with a grin.

Jongho’s lips twitched into another small smile, his hands resting lightly on the counter as he watched the mixer.

San leaned closer to Yunho, his voice dropping low enough for only him to hear. “You’re so obvious it hurts,” he said, his tone amused but not unkind.

Yunho shot him a glare, but the blush creeping up his neck betrayed him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered.

San snorted softly, grabbing a bowl and tossing a bag of marshmallows into it. “Sure you don’t.”

Yunho tried to focus on the cookie ingredients San handed him, but his gaze kept drifting back to Jongho. He watched the way Jongho relaxed ever so slightly with Wooyoung’s encouragement, the way his round ears twitched forward as he tilted his head to study the mixer.

For a moment, Yunho let himself get lost in the sight of him again. And in that moment, all he wanted was to keep Jongho in this warm, safe space—to make him feel seen, wanted, and adored.

San handed Yunho a bowl and a whisk, sliding softened butter and sugar toward him. He leaned closer, keeping his voice low. “You’re in charge of creaming these together. Think you can do it without getting distracted this time?”

Yunho frowned, his ears flicking slightly at the teasing tone. “I wasn’t distracted,” he muttered, though his hands moved automatically to start mixing.

San smirked, leaning in a little closer, his voice dropping even further. “You weren’t? Because from where I was standing, you looked ready to burn a hole through Jongho with how hard you were staring.”

Yunho froze for a moment, heat prickling at the back of his neck. “I wasn’t staring,” he whispered sharply, though he didn’t quite meet San’s amused gaze.

“Sure, whatever you say,” San said with a soft laugh. He straightened, grabbing a bag of mini marshmallows. “Anyway, this recipe’s special. I found it after Jongho moved in.”

Yunho paused, his whisking slowing slightly as his curiosity piqued. “Special how?” he asked, his voice quieter now as if instinctively matching San’s tone.

San glanced toward the island where Jongho stood by the stand mixer, carefully adding cocoa powder under Wooyoung’s guidance. His short bear tail was still, but his ears twitched slightly, signaling how intently he focused on Wooyoung’s instructions.

“It’s for s’mores cookies,” San said, his voice soft but tinged with something wistful. “Chocolate, marshmallows, graham crackers… The second I saw it, I thought about him. His scent—campfire and marshmallows. It just fits, doesn’t it?”

Yunho followed San’s gaze, his chest tightening at the sight of Jongho’s delicate movements, the faint pink in his cheeks, the soft curve of his lips. “It does,” he admitted quietly, almost to himself.

San leaned against the counter, his eyes lingering on Jongho. “I thought maybe it’d make him feel… I don’t know, a little more at home,” he murmured. “Even if it’s just cookies, it’s something that might remind him of something warm, something safe.”

Yunho exhaled softly, the ache in his chest growing sharper. “Do you think he’ll like it?” he whispered, glancing back at San.

San shrugged, his expression thoughtful but laced with yearning. “He hasn’t really told us what he likes yet. But it feels right, you know? Like something he deserves.”

Yunho’s hands paused, his grip on the whisk tightening slightly. His gaze shifted back to Jongho, who was now scraping the edges of the bowl under Wooyoung’s careful instruction. The younger hybrid’s movements were small and precise, his focus intense, and yet there was a faint vulnerability in the way he kept glancing at Wooyoung for reassurance.

Yunho swallowed, his voice barely above a whisper. “He deserves more than just cookies, though.”

San’s smile softened, a quiet understanding passing between them. “Of course he does,” he said, his voice low and steady. “But you’ve got to start somewhere, right? Little things, one step at a time. It’s not about fixing everything overnight. It’s about showing him that we see him. That we care.”

Yunho exhaled, his chest aching as he resumed whisking the dough. He could still feel the pull in his chest, the quiet desperation to do something, anything, that might make Jongho’s life even a little easier.

“He doesn’t even know how much we already care about him,” Yunho murmured, his words slipping out unfiltered.

San chuckled softly, nudging Yunho’s arm. “That’s not a bad thing,” he said. “It just means we’ve got more chances to show him.”

Yunho nodded faintly, his focus on the dough in front of him even as his thoughts remained on Jongho. The scent of sugar and butter filled the air, but it wasn’t enough to distract him from the steady ache in his chest.

Jongho deserves more than this, Yunho thought again, glancing back at him. More than cookies. More than careful words and stolen moments.

He promised himself he would give Jongho everything and more. 

~~Seonghwa POV~~

Seonghwa knelt on the rug, tucking the edge of a thick quilt beneath the weighted cushions that formed the base of the fort. It sprawled across the living room like a nest, its soft layers of blankets and pillows stretching outward in an unspoken invitation. Sheets hung in soft arches from the couch to a sturdy table, anchored by stacks of books and cushions Hongjoong had arranged earlier.

Inside, the fort was expansive yet enclosed. Its walls glowing with the soft light of fairy strings that Yeosang had carefully woven through the fabric. The floor was lined with plush blankets piled high with oversized pillows that sank under the slightest touch. It was spacious enough for all of them to fit—a den designed to hold the pack as one.

But just beyond the fort’s entrance, Seonghwa had made a smaller space. The couch nearby was prepared with the same care: a folded throw blanket, a single pillow against the armrest, and a clear line of sight to the projector. If Jongho didn’t feel ready to join them inside the fort, he’d still have a place to sit—somewhere that felt just as thoughtful, just as included.

It wasn’t enough to build the fort. They had to show him that wherever he chose to sit, he was already part of this.

Seonghwa sat back on his heels, his eyes tracing the soft edges of the fort’s structure. His chest tightened with the quiet ache he didn’t dare speak aloud. He hoped that tonight they would finally start to come together—not as seven and one, but as eight.

“Hyung, should we add more light inside?” Yeosang’s voice broke the quiet, his hands stilling where he’d been adjusting the fairy lights along the fort’s edge.

Seonghwa considered the question, his gaze drifting toward the interior of the fort. The glow from the fairy lights was soft and warm, but it might not be enough. Jongho needed control, something small he could reach for if the shadows felt too heavy.

“There’s a lantern in the hall closet,” Seonghwa said. “It’s battery-operated—low and adjustable.”

Yeosang nodded and slipped out of the room, returning a moment later with the lantern in hand. He crouched near the fort’s entrance, placing it inside before turning to Seonghwa. “Where do you want it?”

“Just in the corner,” Seonghwa replied, gesturing to the far edge of the fort. “Somewhere easy to reach but out of the way.”

Yeosang angled the lantern carefully, its soft light spilling across the floor in a way that felt more gentle than intrusive. He tested the settings, dimming and brightening the glow until it felt just right.

“Perfect,” Seonghwa murmured.

Yeosang stepped back, his sharp gaze sweeping over the fort before landing on Seonghwa. “Do you think he’ll sit inside?”

Seonghwa hesitated, his fingers brushing over the edge of a folded blanket. “I’m not sure,” he said quietly. “But even if he doesn’t, he’ll know this space is for him.”

At the far side of the room, Yeosang moved to adjust the projector. A faint hum filled the quiet as light spilled across the blank wall they’d cleared for the screen. He dialed the focus, the edges of the image sharpening until the colors softened into a steady glow.

“Is it good?” Hongjoong asked, stepping closer.

Yeosang nodded. “It’s aligned. The brightness should be fine even if he stays on the couch.”

As the projector hummed softly, casting a faint glow onto the blank wall, Hongjoong lit a small candle on the coffee table—the warm scent of vanilla and citrus blended into the room, adding an extra layer of comfort.

“This feels right,” Hongjoong said, his voice thoughtful as his gaze lingered on the fort and the nearby couch.

Seonghwa glanced at him, noting the quiet weight in his expression. Hongjoong’s leadership had always been steady, grounding them through every challenge. But tonight, his expression carried something more profound—a longing not just for Jongho to join them but for all of them to connect, to feel the ease they’d once taken for granted.

“It does,” Seonghwa agreed softly.

He looked at the fort again, the glow of the lantern faint but steady, casting soft patterns across the blankets. The thought of Jongho hesitating at the edge—unsure if he could step into this space they had built—made Seonghwa’s chest ache. Every touch, every light, every carefully placed pillow was meant to show Jongho that this wasn’t just a place to sit. It was a place where he belonged.

The room was ready. The fort, the couch, the soft flicker of light from the lantern—it all stood as an invitation to be together, to laugh, and to find comfort in each other’s presence.

“Do you think San, Wooyoung, and Yunho are doing okay with him in the kitchen?” Mingi asked, breaking the quiet. His voice was softer than usual, carrying the same tension they all felt.

“I hope they haven’t overwhelmed him,” Seonghwa replied, his gaze drifting toward the hallway. Wooyoung’s energy could fill an entire room, and San’s quiet steadiness usually balanced him out, but Jongho wasn’t used to being surrounded like this.

“San knows when to pull back,” Hongjoong said, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “And Wooyoung… He can be a lot, but I think Jongho likes that about him.”

Mingi tilted his head, uncertainty flickering across his features. “Do you think so?”

Seonghwa nodded, his thoughts drifting to moments when Jongho’s guarded exterior had softened—when Wooyoung’s enthusiasm had earned a small, almost-hidden smile. “Wooyoung has a way of pulling people out of their heads,” he said. “Even if it’s just for a moment. I think that’s something Jongho needs.”

“And Yunho?” Yeosang asked, his calm voice breaking the silence as he leaned against the wall.

Seonghwa’s gaze shifted back to the fort’s glowing entrance. “Yunho makes people feel steady. Safe,” he said. “Between the three of them, I think Jongho’s in good hands.”

Hongjoong hummed softly, his expression easing as he glanced toward the hallway. “They’re doing their part,” he said. “And we’re doing ours.”

Seonghwa nodded, a quiet resolve settling over him. The room was ready, and now it was up to Jongho. Wherever he chose to sit—whether it was inside the fort or on the couch—they’d made space for him.

~~Jongho’s POV~~

The kitchen was warm, and the scent of sugar and cocoa thickened the air as the soft hum of the stand mixer filled the room. Jongho stood near the counter, his fingers lightly brushing the edge as he watched Wooyoung expertly pour a ribbon of melted chocolate into the brownie batter. The steady rhythm of movement around him was comforting, almost hypnotic, but there was a lingering tension in his chest—like he was standing too close to something fragile.

“You’re doing great so far,” Wooyoung said brightly, nudging Jongho’s arm gently with his elbow. “Want to try cracking the eggs next?”

Jongho hesitated, glancing at the bowl of eggs with a faint frown. “I… I can try.”

Wooyoung grinned, placing a hand lightly on Jongho’s shoulder. “That’s the spirit,” he said, giving him a reassuring squeeze before stepping aside to let Jongho take his place.

Jongho moved cautiously, his hands hovering over the eggs like he was afraid of breaking more than just their shells. He picked one up carefully, his thumb brushing against its cool, smooth surface. His hands felt clumsy as he tapped it against the edge of the bowl, the crack sounding louder than expected in the cozy kitchen. When the shell broke unevenly, spilling a bit of yolk onto his fingers, Jongho froze, his breath hitching.

“Oops,” Wooyoung said, stepping closer with a playful chuckle. “It happens to the best of us. Here—” He took Jongho’s hand in his own, gently wiping the yolk away with a damp towel he’d grabbed from the counter. His touch was firm but warm, and Jongho’s chest tightened at the casual intimacy of it.

“You’re doing fine, Jongho,” Wooyoung added, his voice softening as he glanced up at him. “It doesn’t have to be perfect. Just keep going.”

Jongho nodded faintly, swallowing the lump in his throat as he cracked the next egg with a little more confidence. This time, it slid cleanly into the bowl, and Wooyoung gave an exaggerated cheer.

“Perfect! See? You’ve got this!” Wooyoung said, leaning in to bump their shoulders together lightly.

Jongho allowed himself a small smile, his ears twitching slightly at the praise. Before he could reply, San appeared at his other side, holding a tray of graham cracker crumbs.

“Hey,” San said, his voice low and warm. He set the tray down and leaned against the counter, his arm brushing Jongho’s lightly. “You’re doing a great job.”

The quiet sincerity in San’s tone made Jongho’s cheeks flush faintly. He ducked his head, murmuring a soft “Thank you” as his hands fidgeted with the edge of the counter.

San’s lips quirked into a small smile. “Don’t mention it,” he said, giving Jongho’s arm a light squeeze before returning to the cookie dough he and Yunho were working on.

Yunho, who had been carefully mixing the dough, glanced up at Jongho and offered a gentle smile. “You’re a natural,” he said, his deep voice carrying a quiet warmth. He moved closer, his broad frame filling the space as he handed Jongho a spoonful of cookie dough. “Want to taste?”

Jongho blinked, startled by the offer. His gaze flicked between the spoon and Yunho’s expectant expression before he hesitantly opened his mouth. Yunho fed him the dough carefully, his hand steady, and Jongho’s lips closed around the spoon.

The sweetness of the dough melted on his tongue, the chocolate and marshmallows blending in a way that felt strangely familiar—like late nights by a fire, safe and warm. Jongho’s eyes widened slightly, and he gave a small, involuntary hum of approval.

Yunho’s ears perked up at the sound, a soft chuckle rumbling from his chest. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he said, his voice tinged with pride.

Jongho’s cheeks burned, and he turned back to the counter, feeling the warmth of their attention settle over him like a heavy blanket. He wasn’t used to this—the gentle touches, the soft encouragement, the way they made space for him without hesitation. It was overwhelming, but it wasn’t bad. It was… different.

“Alright, team,” Wooyoung called out, clapping his hands together. “Let’s pick up the pace! We’ve got brownies to bake and cookies to shape.”

Jongho found himself pulled into the rhythm of their movements, his hands steadying as Wooyoung guided him through the next steps of the recipe. San and Yunho worked seamlessly at the other counter, their quiet laughter and whispered exchanges adding a layer of warmth to the room. Every now and then, one of them would brush against Jongho—a hand on his shoulder, an elbow grazing his side, a fleeting touch that grounded him in the moment.

As the mixer whirred to life again, Jongho glanced around the kitchen, taking in the chaos of bowls and utensils and the bright energy that filled the space. For the first time in a long while, he felt like he wasn’t just watching from the sidelines. He was part of something—messy and imperfect and achingly warm.

San’s voice broke through the soft whir of the stand mixer. “Have you ever shaped cookies before?” he asked, his tone warm and inviting as he leaned slightly against the counter, tail swaying lazily.

Jongho shook his head, glancing at the bowl of cookie dough. “No,” he admitted, his fingers brushing the edge of the counter as if anchoring himself.

“Well, no better time to start,” San said with a small smile. He turned to Yunho, who had been helping him portion the dough earlier. “Switch with Jongho. You can help Wooyoung finish the brownies.”

Yunho nodded, wiping his hands on a towel. As he stepped toward the other counter, his arm brushed lightly against Jongho’s in passing, a fleeting but grounding touch. Jongho hesitated for a moment before moving forward, settling into the new task.

San handed him the scoop and guided him toward the baking tray. “Just portion them like this,” he said, demonstrating with an easy motion. “And make sure to give them enough space to spread. These cookies tend to expand more than you’d expect.”

Jongho nodded, carefully mimicking San’s actions. The dough felt cool and sticky in his hands as he scooped and dropped small mounds onto the tray. His movements were slow and steady—focused on getting it right.

Across the kitchen, Yunho stood beside Wooyoung, carefully pouring the brownie batter into a prepared pan. Jongho’s gaze flicked toward him, catching the quiet concentration in his features. His brow furrowed slightly, his movements precise but unhurried, and there was a faint curve to his lips—a calm, unassuming kind of focus that softened the usual strength of his presence.

Jongho shifted slightly, his ears twitching as he studied Yunho. Alphas—especially ones like Yunho—had always felt distant to him, their presence too large, too commanding to feel anything but guarded around them. But Yunho didn’t feel like that. He moved through the kitchen with a quiet kind of confidence, his energy calm and steady instead of overwhelming. For the first time, Jongho wondered if it was possible for someone like him to feel at ease with an alpha. The thought settled somewhere deep, unfamiliar but not entirely unwelcome.

A strange sensation fluttered in Jongho's chest at the thought, and he quickly looked away, focusing back on the cookies. He wasn’t sure what to make of the feeling, but it wasn’t unpleasant. 

“Looking good,” San said, peering over Jongho’s shoulder. His voice was light, but his approval felt genuine. “You’ve got a knack for this.”

Jongho’s ears twitched at the praise, and he ducked his head slightly. “I’m just following what you told me,” he mumbled.

San chuckled, giving him a gentle nudge. “Still counts.”

Wooyoung’s voice cut through the moment. “Alright, brownies are ready to go in,” he said, holding up the pan triumphantly. He glanced at San. “How are the cookies coming?”

“Just finished,” San replied, gesturing to the tray Jongho had been working on. He turned to Jongho with an encouraging smile. “Want to do the honors?”

Jongho hesitated before nodding. He carefully picked up the tray of cookies, his hands steady despite the faint nervousness bubbling in his chest. San opened the oven door for him, and Jongho slid the tray inside with slow precision. The warmth of the oven brushed against his skin, grounding him as he repeated the action with the brownie pan Wooyoung handed him.

Once the door clicked shut, San set the timer with a satisfied nod. “Perfect. Now, let’s tackle these dishes before the mess gets out of hand.”

Jongho instinctively stepped toward the sink. “I can help—”

San cut him off with a wave of his hand. “You’ve done enough. Besides,” he added with a sly glance at Yunho, “someone needs to keep an eye on those cookies, right?”

Yunho, who had been wiping down the counter, let out a soft laugh. “I’ll help you,” he said to San, already rolling up his sleeves.

The two of them moved toward the sink, falling into an easy rhythm as they began washing the dishes. San scrubbed while Yunho rinsed, their quiet banter filling the space with a soft hum of warmth. Jongho lingered near the oven, unsure of where to settle himself. His gaze drifted toward the faint orange glow of the oven window, where the cookies and brownies were just beginning to bake.

The steady rise of the cookies and the way the batter spread evenly across the trays was strangely mesmerizing. The warmth of the oven seeped into his skin as he stood close, grounding him in a way he couldn’t quite explain. For the first time in a long while, he felt… still.

“Watching them already?” Wooyoung’s voice broke through, light and teasing. Jongho blinked, startled, and glanced over to see Wooyoung leaning against the counter, a small grin tugging at his lips.

Jongho hesitated, his ears twitching faintly. “I just wanted to make sure they didn’t burn,” he said softly.

“The timer’s got that covered,” Wooyoung said, stepping closer. “But I get it. There’s something nice about it, right? Watching everything come together.”

Jongho tilted his head slightly, considering the words. He nodded faintly but stayed quiet, his gaze drifting back to the oven. The soft glow, the quiet hum of conversation, the warmth filling the kitchen—it all felt like a moment he didn’t want to let go of.

Jongho tilted his head slightly, considering Wooyoung’s words. He nodded faintly but stayed quiet, his gaze drifting back to the oven. The soft glow from the small window illuminated the cookies and brownies as they slowly rose and spread. The quiet hum of the kitchen wrapped around him like a blanket, but his chest still felt tight. Moments like this, warm and unhurried, weren’t familiar. They were strange, fragile things that felt almost impossible to hold on to.

He stared into the oven, trying to focus on the way the dough transformed, on the steady ticking of the timer. Maybe if he concentrated hard enough, he could keep the moment from slipping away. Perhaps he could ignore the ache just beneath his ribs.

“You know,” Wooyoung said after a few moments, his voice soft, as if hesitant to break the silence. “Do you have a favorite dessert?”

The question caught Jongho off guard. His fingers curled against the edge of the counter, his body stiffening slightly. “I don’t know,” he replied automatically, his voice quieter than he intended. It wasn’t entirely a lie—he couldn’t remember the last time he’d thought about things like that.

Wooyoung didn’t push, but Jongho could feel the weight of his gaze, steady and curious. “Not even one?” Wooyoung asked, his tone gentle, almost coaxing. “Something you liked growing up?”

Jongho’s throat tightened, and for a moment, he considered brushing the question off. It would be easier—safer—not to answer. The warmth in Wooyoung’s voice made it harder to retreat, though. He shifted uncomfortably, his gaze flicking to San and Yunho, who were finishing the dishes together. They weren’t looking at him, but he could feel their presence—steady, grounding, and impossible to ignore. He knew they were listening, even if they pretended not to be.

He felt a suffocating weight in his chest as a familiar mix of shame and longing clawed its way to the surface. Memories he’d spent years trying to bury began to creep back, unbidden and unwanted. Should he share this? Should he risk exposing a piece of himself that he’d kept locked away?

“I don’t think…” Jongho started, his voice faltering. His fingers twisted the edge of the counter. “I don’t know if it matters.”

“It does,” Wooyoung said gently, his arm brushing Jongho’s in a way that felt steadying. “What you like, what makes you happy—that’s always important.”

Jongho swallowed hard, the ache in his chest growing sharper. His fingers twisted tighter against the counter as he forced himself to speak. “Lingonberry muffins,” he said finally, his voice so quiet he wasn’t sure it would carry.

The words felt like a confession, fragile and exposed. He expected Wooyoung to pounce on them, to press for more. But instead, Wooyoung stayed quiet, his presence calm and unassuming, as if giving Jongho the space to continue.

“My mom used to make them,” Jongho added, his voice trembling slightly. The memory surfaced, sharper now, carrying both warmth and an ache he couldn’t shake. “Every week, we’d go pick berries together. She said the fresh ones always made the best muffins.”

He hesitated, his ears twitching faintly. “She’d bake them right after we got home. She always let me try the first one while they were still warm.”

A faint smile ghosted across his lips, but it faded just as quickly. “But after I presented… everything changed.” His voice dropped to a near-whisper, the weight of the words pressing down on him.

“Changed how?” Wooyoung asked softly, his tone careful but encouraging. San and Yunho had gone quiet behind him, their silence heavy and watchful

Jongho exhaled shakily, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I wasn’t allowed to go with her to pick berries anymore,” he said softly, each word feeling heavier than the last. “And she stopped making the muffins.”

He hesitated, his chest tightening as the memories clawed their way forward. “My dad… he said there was no point. Those muffins were for kids who had potential, not for someone like me. He told her not to waste time or food on a beta who’d never amount to anything.”

The words burned as they left his mouth, raw and unfiltered. His fingers tightened on the edge of the counter as he continued, unable to stop. “He called me a mistake. Said I’d never be strong enough to be worth anything, that all I’d do was bring shame to the family. He didn’t even want me at the table most days—said I was better off staying out of sight.”

The kitchen fell into a heavy silence, Jongho’s words hanging in the air like a weight. The moment they left his mouth, regret surged through him, sharp and suffocating. He had said too much—revealed too much. His chest tightened as the fear of judgment clawed its way to the forefront of his mind. His ears flicked back, and he gripped the counter, bracing for discomfort or pity.

But instead of the silence stretching endlessly, Wooyoung spoke first. His voice was quiet but steady, carrying a warmth that made Jongho’s breath hitch. “Your dad was wrong.”

Jongho froze, his gaze fixed on the counter, unable to look up. Wooyoung stepped closer, his movements slow and careful. His arm brushed Jongho’s lightly, grounding him. “You’re not a waste of anything, Jongho,” he said, his voice soft but fierce. “You’re worth every ounce of time, care, and effort. And anyone who made you feel otherwise… they’re the ones who failed. Not you.”

Jongho’s throat tightened, his regret flickering uncertainly. He risked a glance at Wooyoung and found no pity in his eyes—only sincerity and something deeper, something steady. His lips parted, but he couldn’t form the words that trembled on the edge of his tongue. Instead, he nodded faintly, his grip on the counter loosening just slightly.

San moved closer next, stepping to Jongho’s other side. His hand settled gently on Jongho’s shoulder, the touch light yet anchoring. “Wooyoung’s right,” San said, his tone low and filled with warmth. “Your dad… he didn’t see you. Not for who you really are. But we do, Jongho. We see you. And you deserve so much more than what he gave you.”

Jongho’s ears twitched, and he let out a shaky breath. He didn’t know what to do with their words, with the weight of their sincerity pressing against the barriers he’d spent years building.

Behind him, Yunho stepped closer. The sound of him setting down the towel he’d been using was faint but distinct, and Jongho felt the alpha’s presence at his back—solid, steady, and reassuring. “San’s right,” Yunho said, his voice calm and steady. “You didn’t deserve any of that, Jongho. You deserve to be cared for, to be treated like you matter—because you do.”

Jongho turned his head slightly, glancing at Yunho from the corner of his eye. The alpha’s expression was soft; his broad shoulders relaxed as he held Jongho’s gaze. There was no judgment in his eyes, no pity—only quiet assurance, like a steady flame that refused to waver.

The regret that had been suffocating Jongho began to loosen, though his chest still ached with the weight of his emotions. He hadn’t expected this—not the lack of judgment, not the quiet patience they all seemed to exude. It was disarming in a way that made him feel exposed and raw but also... safe.

Wooyoung shifted even closer, his hand brushing Jongho’s arm again before resting lightly on his forearm. “You deserved better,” he said, his voice soft but unwavering. “You still do.”

Jongho swallowed hard, his throat tight as he glanced at Wooyoung. The earnestness in his gaze was almost too much to bear, and Jongho had to look away, his ears flicking back again.

San’s hand squeezed Jongho’s shoulder gently. “Let's carry this together, okay? You don't have to shoulder it all,” he said quietly.

Jongho blinked rapidly, his vision blurring as he struggled to process their words. The warmth of their touches, their voices, their presence—it was overwhelming, but not in the way he was used to. It didn’t suffocate him. It didn’t demand anything of him. It just... was.

For a moment, he didn’t trust himself to speak. His hands fidgeted against the edge of the counter, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. Finally, he managed to murmur, “I don’t… know what to do with this.”

Yunho stepped closer, his hand brushing lightly against Jongho’s back in a way that was both grounding and careful. “You don’t have to do anything with it,” he said softly. “Just let us be here. That’s all.”

Jongho’s breath hitched, and he closed his eyes briefly, letting the words settle over him. They didn’t feel like a demand or a burden. They felt like a lifeline—like something he hadn’t realized he needed until now.

Wooyoung’s voice broke the moment, soft and gentle. “Next time, we’ll make those muffins. Lingonberries and all. And not because you have to earn them or prove anything. Just because they’re your favorite.”

Jongho hesitated, glancing between them. The warmth in their eyes didn’t waver, and slowly, the tension in his chest began to ease. “Okay,” he whispered, the word barely audible but carrying more weight than he’d expected.

Wooyoung smiled, his hand giving Jongho’s arm a reassuring squeeze. San’s touch on his shoulder remained steady, and Yunho stayed close, his presence solid and reassuring. 

The timer on the oven beeped, breaking the moment. San straightened, his hand falling away as he moved toward the oven with a faint smile. “Perfect timing,” he said lightly, though his gaze lingered on Jongho for a moment longer, warm and steady.

Wooyoung followed, grabbing an oven mitt as he opened the door. “Alright, hot and gooey perfection coming through,” he announced, carefully sliding the tray of cookies onto the counter. The rich scent of chocolate and butter filled the kitchen, wrapping the space in a warmth that felt almost tangible.

Jongho stayed near the island, his fingers brushing the edge of the counter as he watched. Wooyoung grabbed a platter and began arranging the cookies with practiced ease, his movements quick and precise. Beside him, San worked on the brownies, cutting them into neat squares and setting them on a cooling rack. Their rhythm was seamless, a quiet exchange of glances and motions that spoke of familiarity and trust.

Footsteps approached from the open entrance, and Jongho glanced up as Mingi and Yeosang entered. Mingi’s eyes lit up immediately at the sight of the cookies, his grin wide and unrestrained. “Finally! I’ve been dreaming about these,” he said, reaching for one without hesitation.

“Hey! Hands off!” Wooyoung snapped, swatting at Mingi’s hand with the spatula. “They’re not ready yet.”

“Come on, just one!” Mingi protested, rubbing his hand like he’d been gravely injured. “I’m starving.”

“Later,” Wooyoung said with a smirk, waving him off. “If you’re so hungry, you and Yeosang can start the popcorn.”

Mingi sighed dramatically but moved toward the counter where Yeosang had already begun gathering the kernels and oil. “You’re no fun,” he muttered, though his tone lacked any real complaint.

Yeosang shot him a sideways glance. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t burn it,” he said calmly, pulling out a large pot.

“Hey, I’m perfectly capable of making popcorn!” Mingi protested, grabbing the salt with exaggerated indignation.

“You’re perfectly capable of burning it, too,” Yeosang replied, his tone dry but teasing. The corners of his mouth twitched, betraying his amusement.

Jongho’s eyes lingered on them, the contrast between their energies drawing his attention. Mingi’s loud, dramatic gestures were balanced by Yeosang’s quiet efficiency, the two of them moving around each other with ease. It was like watching a puzzle fit together, each piece naturally finding its place.

Before Jongho could dwell on the thought, more footsteps sounded from the hall, and Hongjoong and Seonghwa appeared in the kitchen. Hongjoong’s sharp eyes scanned the space, taking in the activity, while Seonghwa’s expression softened as he approached the counter.

“Need a hand?” Hongjoong asked, his tone casual but curious.

“Yes,” Wooyoung said immediately, pointing at Seonghwa. “You’re on hot cocoa duty. Grab the mugs, milk, and cocoa powder. Hongjoong, you can help.”

Seonghwa arched a brow but didn’t argue, moving toward the stove with a small sigh. “Hot cocoa, huh? I see how it is.”

“Don’t act like you’re not the best at it,” Wooyoung shot back with a grin. “You add that cinnamon thing that makes it taste fancy.”

Hongjoong chuckled, already pulling out the milk and a small whisk. “Come on, Seonghwa, cinnamon duty calls.”

Jongho watched as the two of them worked, their movements smooth and efficient. Seonghwa’s hands were careful as he measured out the cocoa powder, his focus sharp but unhurried. Hongjoong moved alongside him, passing the milk and cinnamon without needing to ask. There was a quiet understanding between them, the kind of ease that came from knowing exactly how to complement one another.

“Alright,” Hongjoong said, glancing over his shoulder. “What’s the plan for dinner?”

“Pizza,” Mingi said immediately, his voice muffled as he peered into the popcorn pot. “It’s perfect for movie night.”

“Ramen could be good,” San offered, cutting another row of brownies. “Something warm.”

“Burgers,” Yeosang said without looking up, his focus still on the popcorn. “With fries.”

“Tacos,” Wooyoung chimed in, sliding the last batch of cookies onto the platter. “Something spicy.”

Hongjoong chuckled, shaking his head as he glanced at Jongho. “What about you? Any preferences?”

Jongho froze, his chest tightening as all eyes turned to him. “I… I don’t know,” he said softly, his voice barely audible. “I’m fine with anything.”

Wooyoung groaned, setting the platter down with a loud clatter. “That’s not an answer, Jongho. You’ve got to pick something.”

Jongho hesitated, his fingers curling against the counter. “Pizza,” he said finally, his voice so quiet it was almost lost in the hum of the kitchen.

Mingi let out a triumphant cheer, his grin stretching wide. “I knew you had great taste!”

Yunho, who had been standing quietly by the entrance, moved closer to Jongho. His presence was steady and grounding, and Jongho’s ears flicked slightly at the faint sound of his steps. Yunho’s voice was soft when he asked, “Have you ever had pizza before?”

Jongho shook his head, his round ears tilting back slightly. “No.”

The room went still, the air thick with surprise. Wooyoung stared at him, his mouth opening slightly before closing again. Even Mingi, usually quick to joke, blinked in stunned silence.

Seonghwa was the first to recover, his expression softening as he glanced over his shoulder. “Then we’ll get a bunch of different kinds,” he said lightly, as though it were the most natural solution in the world. “That way, you can try them all and figure out your favorite.”

Jongho blinked, the casual kindness in Seonghwa’s words catching him off guard. He nodded slowly, his grip on the counter loosening.

“Hot cocoa’s ready,” Hongjoong announced, setting a tray of mugs on the counter. “Popcorn?”

“Almost done,” Yeosang said, handing Mingi a large bowl filled with fluffy kernels. “Just don’t eat it all before we get to the living room.”

Wooyoung picked up the dessert platter, balancing it carefully. “Alright, let’s go before someone burns something else.”

As the group began to move toward the living room, Yunho lingered beside Jongho, his quiet presence a reassurance. Jongho followed hesitantly, his chest tight with an unfamiliar mixture of nervousness and anticipation. 

The warmth of the kitchen still lingered on Jongho’s skin as he stepped into the hallway, trailing behind the others. The soft hum of voices and laughter grew louder as they walked toward the living room, and Jongho’s steps slowed, uncertainty tugging at his chest.

Ahead of him, Yeosang cradled a large bowl of freshly popped popcorn, his eyes fixed on the path ahead. Mingi, however, was less focused, his hand darting into the bowl to steal a handful of popcorn. Yeosang swatted at him without looking, his calm voice cutting through the quiet. “Mingi, wait until we’re in the living room.”

“I’m taste-testing,” Mingi replied, popping a kernel into his mouth with a grin.

Yeosang sighed but didn’t argue, shifting the bowl slightly to make it harder for Mingi to reach.

San and Wooyoung followed closely behind, each carrying a platter piled high with cookies and brownies. Wooyoung’s voice was animated as he chatted with San, gesturing slightly with one hand while keeping a firm grip on the dessert tray with the other.

“Do you think they’ll try to eat all the brownies before the movie even starts?” Wooyoung asked, glancing over his shoulder at the others.

“Probably,” San replied, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. 

Hongjoong and Seonghwa brought up the rear, their hands steady as they carried trays of steaming hot cocoa. The faint scent of chocolate and cinnamon wafted through the air, mixing with the buttery aroma of popcorn. Hongjoong’s quiet voice carried over the soft clink of the mugs as he spoke to Seonghwa.

“Careful with that tray,” Hongjoong murmured, his gaze flicking toward the edge of Seonghwa’s. “We don’t want any spills on the blankets.”

“I’ve got it,” Seonghwa replied, his tone patient but amused. “You worry too much sometimes.”

Jongho trailed behind them, his eyes drifting over the group as they entered the living room. Yunho stayed a few steps behind Jongho. 

Jongho paused just at the edge of the open archway, his breath catching as the living room came into view. The fort stood at the center, glowing softly with the light of fairy strings and the faint flicker of the lantern inside. Its layered blankets and plush pillows looked impossibly inviting, stretching out like a nest meant to hold something precious. He could hear the others inside, their laughter spilling out like warmth into the open space.

It was beautiful. Too beautiful.

Jongho’s eyes flicked to the couch, where a small space had been prepared with the same care—a folded throw blanket, a pillow tucked neatly against the armrest, and a clear line of sight to the screen where the movie would play. It was thoughtful, like a quiet acknowledgment of his hesitation. But as much as it calmed him, it also left a faint ache in his chest.

They knew he might not join them in the fort. They’d made space for him outside of it—just in case.

He bit his lip, his hands curling into loose fists at his sides. His gaze darted between the couch and the fort, a knot of uncertainty tightening in his stomach. The fort looked intimate, like a space meant to be shared by those who belonged together. It wasn’t just a pile of blankets and pillows—it was a nest. A nest he didn’t know if he was allowed to step into.

Jongho’s throat tightened, memories of scolding voices and strict rules surfacing unbidden. He had never been allowed to build his own nest for comfort. And he had certainly never been allowed in anyone else’s. The idea of stepping into one now felt almost unthinkable.

“Jongho?”

The soft voice startled him, and he turned quickly to find Yunho standing beside him. His tall frame was relaxed but attentive. Yunho’s ears tilted forward slightly, and his golden-brown eyes warmed as they met Jongho’s.

“You okay?” Yunho asked, his voice low and steady, like a quiet anchor in the storm of Jongho’s thoughts.

Jongho hesitated, his gaze darting back to the fort. “I… I don’t know if…” He trailed off, his words caught in the tangle of uncertainty and longing.

Yunho didn’t press him. Instead, he stepped closer, his shoulder brushing Jongho’s lightly. His tail swayed slowly behind him, a calming rhythm that mirrored the gentle tone of his voice. “You don’t have to decide right now,” Yunho said softly. “The couch is there if you need it. And if you want to join us inside…” He glanced toward the fort, a small smile tugging at his lips. “There’s plenty of room for you. Wherever you’re comfortable, we’ll be happy to have you.”

Jongho swallowed hard, the knot in his stomach loosening just slightly. Yunho’s words weren’t a demand or a push—they were an open door, an invitation without pressure.

His gaze drifted back to the fort, where the soft glow of the lantern caught his eye. The light spilled across the blankets in warm, golden patterns, chasing away the shadows in the corners. It felt… safe.

Jongho took a deep breath, his fingers uncurling from the tight fists they had formed. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to step inside, but the knot of hesitation had loosened enough for him to take a small step forward.

“Come on,” Yunho said gently, his hand brushing against Jongho’s arm in a fleeting touch. “The others are waiting for us.”

Jongho nodded faintly, his chest still tight but no longer suffocating. He followed Yunho into the living room, his steps slow and tentative as the warmth of the fort’s glow drew him closer.

The voices quieted as they entered, all eyes turning toward them. Wooyoung was perched on the edge of a pile of pillows, a grin spreading across his face as he waved them over. “Finally! We thought you were going to keep us waiting all night.”

“Patience, Wooyoung,” San said, nudging him lightly with his elbow as he set the dessert platter down on the coffee table.

Hongjoong glanced up from where he was helping Seonghwa set down the tray of hot cocoa. His sharp eyes softened as they landed on Jongho, and he gave him a small, encouraging nod. “Come in, Jongho,” he said, his voice calm and welcoming.

Jongho’s gaze flicked to the fort again, his steps faltering as he approached the edge. Up close, the blankets seemed to glow even brighter, and the soft hum of voices inside blended with the warmth of the space. It was overwhelming, but it wasn’t bad. The air felt lighter here, filled with quiet laughter and the faint scent of cocoa and vanilla.

“Wherever you want to sit,” Yunho said quietly, his voice grounding Jongho as he stood beside him. He didn’t move, his broad frame still as if waiting for Jongho to take the first step.

Jongho hesitated, his chest tightening as his gaze darted toward the couch. The neatly folded blanket and pillow sat there, a thoughtful gesture meant to reassure him. But then his eyes drifted back to the lantern’s glow, its soft light spilling across the edge of the blankets like a quiet invitation. His hand brushed the edge of the fort, fingers grazing the fabric before he took a slow, shaky breath and stepped inside.

The space was more expansive than it had seemed from the outside, yet still enclosed enough to feel safe. The fairy lights wove soft patterns across the walls, and the layers of pillows and blankets felt impossibly plush beneath his feet. His breath caught as he took in the scene before him.

The others had already found their places, their relaxed forms spread across the cozy interior. Yeosang reclined gracefully in one corner of the fort, his long fingers absently smoothing the blanket draped over his legs. The soft fabric pooled slightly at his ankles, and he seemed perfectly at ease, his sharp eyes flicking over the space with quiet observation. Beside him, Mingi was sprawled on his stomach, his chin propped in his hands as he nudged Yeosang’s leg with his foot. Yeosang responded only with a faint raise of his brow, his focus shifting briefly to Mingi before returning to the room.

San and Wooyoung were settled near the center of the fort, their bodies naturally leaning into each other’s space. A platter piled high with cookies and brownies sat between them, and Wooyoung had already snagged one, his animated chatter filling the space as he gestured wildly. San, ever the contrast, sat with quiet ease, his tail swaying lazily behind him as he sipped from a steaming mug. The faint, knowing smile on his lips suggested he was used to Wooyoung’s energy, his calm presence grounding the playful chaos.

At the far edge, Hongjoong and Seonghwa were seated by the trays of hot cocoa, their movements deliberate but unhurried. Seonghwa’s hand rested lightly on the edge of a mug, his fingers absently tracing its rim as he nodded at something Hongjoong said. Hongjoong, with one leg tucked beneath him, leaned slightly toward Seonghwa, his eyes softening with a rare ease. Their quiet exchange was steady and seamless, the kind of rhythm that didn’t demand attention but anchored the room nonetheless.

The fort's mix of energy—playful and calm, loud and soft—felt overwhelming yet oddly harmonious. Jongho’s chest tightened as he scanned the space again, his gaze settling on the open spot near Yeosang. It was inviting, with a pillow and blanket carefully placed as though someone had anticipated his presence. But stepping inside, crossing that invisible threshold, felt impossibly daunting.

His eyes flicked toward the couch. The space prepared there mirrored the same thoughtfulness: a neatly folded throw blanket, a pillow propped against the armrest, and a perfect view of the screen. It felt safe and comforting in its simplicity, but it also felt distant, like an echo of the hesitation tightening his chest.

“Go ahead,” Yunho’s voice broke through the storm of his thoughts, low and steady.

Jongho turned his head slightly to find Yunho standing just behind him; his broad frame half-turned as if to give him space. The alpha’s golden-brown eyes were soft, his expression patient in a way that didn’t demand anything. His ears tilted slightly forward, and his tail swayed with a slow, steady rhythm.

Jongho hesitated, his hands curling into loose fists at his sides. “I don’t know if—” He stopped, the words sticking in his throat.

Yunho didn’t press. Instead, he stepped to the side, his shoulder brushing lightly against the doorway of the fort. “I’ll wait,” he said, his voice calm, like it wasn’t a big deal at all. His tail flicked once before curling loosely around his ankle; his posture relaxed as he glanced toward the others. “Take your time.”

Jongho blinked, startled by the simplicity of Yunho’s response. It wasn’t an order or even a nudge. It was just… space—permission to decide on his own.

His gaze drifted back to the fort, the lantern’s glow catching his eye. The light spilled across the blankets in delicate, shifting patterns, chasing away the shadows and softening the edges of his doubt. It was too warm, too inviting, and it made his chest ache in a way he didn’t quite understand.

“Hey, you coming, or what?” Wooyoung’s voice called out, breaking through the quiet. He leaned over the edge of the fort, his sharp grin bright against the soft glow of the lantern. “We saved you the best spot.”

“Be nice,” San murmured, nudging Wooyoung with his shoulder, though there was no real bite in his words.

Wooyoung ignored him, tossing a small pillow toward the empty space near Yeosang. It bounced once before landing softly against the blankets. “There. It’s officially reserved. So hurry up.”

The tension in Jongho’s chest eased, just slightly, at Wooyoung’s playful tone. His lips twitched faintly, though he wasn’t sure if it was enough to be called a smile.

He took a slow breath, his hand brushing against the edge of the blanket as he stepped inside. The plush fabric gave slightly under his weight, and he felt the subtle shift of the fort’s structure as he lowered himself near Yeosang. He sat stiffly at first, his hands resting awkwardly on his knees, but the warmth of the space began to creep into his skin, softening the edges of his nerves.

Yeosang glanced at him briefly, his sharp eyes flicking over Jongho’s posture before he shifted slightly to make more room. “Comfortable?” he asked, his voice low but steady.

“Yes,” Jongho replied softly, though he wasn’t entirely sure if it was true yet.

San caught his gaze from across the fort, his sharp features softened by the faint curve of his lips. Without a word, he reached for one of the drinks beside him and passed it to Wooyoung, who handed it across the circle with a bright grin. “Hot cocoa delivery,” Wooyoung said, winking as he set it down within Jongho’s reach. “Careful, it’s still hot.”

Jongho nodded faintly, his fingers brushing the edge of the mug. He glanced up to find the others moving with a quiet ease that felt almost hypnotic. Mingi sprawled further onto his stomach, tossing popcorn into his mouth with exaggerated precision. Hongjoong leaned closer to Seonghwa, their conversation melting into the background hum of the fort. And Wooyoung, as usual, filled the space with his bright energy, his voice carrying as he teased San about something Jongho couldn’t quite catch.

The tension in Jongho’s chest loosened further. No one was watching him too closely. No one was waiting for him to do anything. They were just… here.

Yunho stepped inside the fort last, his tall frame folding into the space with surprising ease. He glanced briefly at Mingi, who was sprawled next to Jongho and nudged him lightly with his foot. “Mingi, scoot over.”

Mingi groaned but shifted closer to San, muttering something under his breath as he made room. Yunho settled into the newly cleared space beside Jongho, stretching one leg out in front of him while folding the other beneath him. His tail curled loosely around his leg, swaying lazily as he relaxed.

Yunho leaned closer to Jongho, his voice low and steady. “You okay?”

Jongho nodded faintly, though the weight of everything—the fort, the group, the overwhelming warmth of it all—still pressed against his chest. He shifted awkwardly, his hands resting in his lap as his gaze darted between the glowing lantern and the soft, scattered smiles of the pack.

Yunho watched him for a moment, his golden-brown eyes flicking briefly to the stack of blankets nearby. Without a word, he reached for one and unfolded it carefully, draping it over Jongho’s shoulders with slow, deliberate movements. The soft fabric settled around Jongho like a gentle cocoon, and he blinked in surprise, his hands instinctively clutching the edges.

“You looked cold,” Yunho said simply, his lips curving into a faint smile. “Thought this might help.”

Jongho’s chest tightened, but the knot of tension loosened slightly at the quiet gesture. The blanket was warm, its weight grounding him in a way he hadn’t expected. He nodded again, his voice too caught in his throat to respond.

The soft rustle of movement around them pulled his attention, and Jongho glanced up to see Wooyoung already leaning over to poke at the snack platters. The gentle hum of the pack’s voices filled the space, playful and warm, as Yunho shifted beside him, the quiet steadiness of his presence offering an anchor amidst the chaos.

Wooyoung’s voice broke through the quiet, bright and impatient. “Alright, now that everyone’s settled, what are we watching?”

“Something funny,” Wooyoung added quickly before anyone else could speak. “Lighthearted. Nothing depressing.”

Hongjoong, seated near the trays of hot cocoa, raised an eyebrow. “We’re not watching another one of those comedy specials you love. Half of them are just yelling, and the other half don’t even have a plot.”

“That’s the point,” Wooyoung argued, his tail flicking with exasperation. “It’s supposed to be fun. Not everyone wants to cry over some art film.”

“Classic doesn’t mean sad,” Hongjoong countered, his tone calm but firm. “We could watch something with actual substance instead of mindless chaos.”

“Mindless chaos is literally the best part of movie night,” Mingi interjected, propping his chin on his hand as he leaned toward Yeosang. “Right?”

Yeosang didn’t look up from the popcorn bowl he was holding, his tone completely dry. “We could just play rock-paper-scissors and spare the rest of us.”

The group dissolved into light bickering, voices overlapping as Wooyoung and Hongjoong continued to argue. Jongho stayed quiet, his gaze flicking between the pack members. Despite the chaos, there was a rhythm to it—like a dance they had performed countless times before.

San caught Jongho’s eye from across the fort and offered a faint, reassuring smile. “What about you, Jongho?” he asked, his voice cutting gently through the noise. “Do you have a preference?”

The attention shifted to Jongho almost instantly, and his breath hitched at the sudden focus. He hesitated, his fingers curling slightly into the edge of the blanket. “I… I’m okay with whatever,” he mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper.

Wooyoung wasn’t having it. “That’s not an answer,” he said, scooting closer and leaning into Jongho’s space just enough to make him feel included without overwhelming him. “Come on, what’s your favorite? Anything you like—we’ll watch it.”

A hesitant smile touched Jongho's lips at the unexpected encouragement, but he forced himself to think. A memory surfaced unbidden, hazy but warm: a small, grainy screen in the shelter’s common area, surrounded by other hybrids during one of the rare quiet evenings. They’d watched an animated movie together, something bright and colorful with talking animals. He hadn’t known the title, but he’d liked it. It had made the room feel less cold, less heavy, even just for a little while.

“There was this one movie,” Jongho said slowly, his voice gaining a little strength. “It was animated… about animals, I think. I don’t know the name, but it was… nice.”

Wooyoung’s eyes lit up immediately. “That’s perfect!” he said, clapping his hands together. “Something family-friendly. I love it.”

Mingi snickered, throwing a piece of popcorn at Wooyoung. “You love everything,” he teased, but there was no malice in his voice—just warmth.

Hongjoong was already moving to queue up a selection, his movements efficient and calm. “We’ll put on something animated,” he said, his voice decisive but kind. “Maybe one of the classics. Something that fits.”

Seonghwa nodded from beside him, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “That’s a good idea. Something easy for everyone to enjoy.”

Wooyoung grinned, nudging Jongho lightly with his elbow. “See? You picked, and we’re watching it. End of story.”

Jongho felt his shoulders relax slightly, the tension in his chest easing as he took in the casual acceptance around him. No one was judging him; no one was watching too closely. They were just… happy he was there.

“All settled?” Hongjoong asked as he finished setting up the projector. The screen flickered to life, the soft hum filling the room as the opening credits began to play.

“Finally,” Wooyoung said, leaning back against San and grabbing another brownie. “Let’s start before Mingi eats all the popcorn.”

Mingi made a show of glaring at him, shoving a handful of popcorn into his mouth before tossing a piece toward Yeosang, who caught it effortlessly without looking.

The soft glow of the projector cast shifting patterns across the fort as the animated movie played, its colorful characters moving through scenes of laughter and adventure. Jongho sat stiffly at first, unsure of how to settle in the unfamiliar space, his hands resting awkwardly on the edge of the popcorn bowl Mingi had handed him earlier. He wasn’t sure if it was meant for him or just something to hold, but Yeosang had reached over at one point, effortlessly taking a handful without saying a word. That silent reassurance allowed Jongho to tentatively take a piece for himself, the buttery kernel warm and light against his fingertips.

Yeosang sat on Jongho’s left, his sharp features soft in the flickering light. As the scene on the screen shifted, Yeosang leaned forward slightly and unfolded a blanket he’d brought in earlier. Without a word, he draped it over Jongho’s legs, smoothing it gently so it wouldn’t slip. The action startled Jongho, but before he could speak, Yeosang settled back into his place, his focus returning to the movie as if nothing had happened.

Jongho’s hands hovered over the blanket for a moment, his throat tightening. The gesture wasn’t obtrusive, but it carried a quiet weight. He hadn’t asked for the blanket, hadn’t even thought about needing one, yet Yeosang had noticed anyway. That thought sat heavy in his chest, stirring something unfamiliar and bittersweet.

He shifted slightly, his gaze flicking to Yunho on his other side. The alpha’s broad frame was close but not suffocating, a quiet presence that didn’t demand anything from Jongho. Yunho seemed engrossed in the movie, but when Jongho glanced at him, Yunho’s ears twitched slightly as though sensing his gaze.

Yunho turned, offering Jongho a small, reassuring smile before reaching out. The blanket he’d placed over Jongho’s shoulders earlier had slipped slightly in his movement, and without a word, Yunho adjusted it, tucking it more securely around Jongho’s upper body. His fingers brushed lightly against Jongho’s arm before retreating, the touch brief but warm.

“You good?” Yunho murmured softly, his voice low enough not to draw attention.

Jongho nodded, unable to find his voice. His throat felt tight, but not in a bad way. Yunho held his gaze for a moment longer, then turned back to the screen, his tail curling loosely around his ankle.

Jongho leaned back slightly, his fingers brushing the edge of the blanket on his lap as he tried to focus on the movie. But his thoughts drifted, drawn back to memories he’d long since buried. He thought of the shelter, of the small, worn television set that a group of hybrids used to gather around. They had watched something animated, something colorful and loud, and Jongho had hovered just outside the circle, watching from a distance. He hadn’t been invited to join them, and he hadn’t dared to ask. He’d stayed at the edges, alone, yearning for something he didn’t know how to name.

The weight of the blankets and the warmth of the fort pulled him back to the present, but the ache lingered. The pack had made space for him here, both physically and emotionally, in a way that felt unfamiliar. They hadn’t just included him—they had anticipated his needs, offering quiet gestures that asked nothing in return.

A sudden burst of laughter snapped him out of his thoughts. Wooyoung’s bright cackle filled the fort as a particularly funny moment played on the screen, his legs sprawled across San’s lap while Mingi leaned against San’s shoulder. The three of them were tangled together, their easy closeness both playful and comforting. Wooyoung whispered something to San, earning a soft chuckle, while Mingi reached for the popcorn bowl that had been set aside.

On the other side of the fort, Hongjoong and Seonghwa sat pressed together, their heads tilted close as they murmured quietly. Hongjoong’s hand rested lightly on Seonghwa’s knee, and every so often, Seonghwa would tilt his head to catch Hongjoong’s words, his expression soft with amusement. Their quiet companionship contrasted with the livelier energy of the others, but it felt no less warm.

Jongho’s chest ached, but he couldn’t tell if it was from the weight of his past or the strange, cautious hope that tugged at the edges of his heart. He adjusted the popcorn bowl in his lap, his fingers tightening around it as he risked another glance at Yeosang and Yunho. Yeosang focused on the screen, his sharp features softened in the dim light, while Yunho sat comfortably at Jongho’s side, his presence steady and calming. Both of them felt close but not overwhelming, as though they had found a way to make space for him without crowding him.

The movie rolled on, its colors and sounds blending with the quiet hum of voices and the occasional rustle of blankets. Jongho took a deep breath, letting the warmth of the fort settle around him. It wasn’t perfect, and he still felt the ache of uncertainty, but for the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to lean into the moment, letting the pack’s presence fill the quiet spaces he had grown so used to.

Jongho glanced around at the pack, his chest tight with something he couldn’t quite name. The glow of the fairy lights reflected off warm smiles and playful grins, and he let himself think that maybe—just maybe—he was allowed to be part of this too.

Jongho shifted slightly in his spot, the soft warmth of the blankets and popcorn bowl in his lap doing little to ease the lingering tension in his chest. The laughter of the pack felt both comforting and distant, as if he was watching something he wasn’t sure he was allowed to fully join. His fingers brushed absently against the blanket Yeosang had draped over his legs, his thoughts swirling.

Beside him, Yunho stirred. The alpha’s steady presence hadn’t wavered, but now there was a subtle shift as Yunho leaned just a little closer. Jongho caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and felt his breath hitch when Yunho’s hand moved toward him. His large, warm fingers hovered near Jongho’s, the touch not yet made but unmistakably there.

Jongho’s heart pounded, his instincts screaming caution. He wasn’t used to this—physical closeness without warning, without the potential for harm. His shoulders stiffened, and for a moment, he considered pulling away entirely. But Yunho didn’t rush. His hand stayed where it was, the space between them filled with quiet patience.

“It’s okay,” Yunho said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t have to, but if you want… I’m here.”

Jongho hesitated, his gaze flicking toward Yunho’s face. The alpha wasn’t looking at him directly; his focus remained on the screen, giving Jongho the space to decide without pressure. His tail curled loosely around his leg, twitched slightly, the only indication of his nervousness.

Jongho swallowed hard and, with a shaky breath, let his hand slide forward just enough to brush Yunho’s fingers. The alpha’s warmth seeped into his skin, grounding him in a way that felt both terrifying and safe. Yunho’s hand enveloped his slowly, his grip light but secure, as though he was afraid of startling Jongho.

The contact was foreign, but it wasn’t unwelcome. Jongho’s fingers trembled slightly in Yunho’s grasp, his heart pounding in his chest. He didn’t pull away, though. He let Yunho’s presence anchor him, the weight of the alpha’s hand a reminder that he wasn’t alone here.

They stayed like that for a while, the quiet bond between them unspoken but palpable. Jongho’s chest felt tight, but it wasn’t the suffocating kind of tension he was used to. It was something softer, something that hinted at the possibility of comfort if he let it.

From across the fort, Wooyoung’s voice broke through the quiet hum of the movie. “Hey, Yeosang,” he called out, a playful edge in his tone. “Switch with me.”

Jongho blinked, his hand twitching faintly under Yunho’s. He glanced toward Wooyoung, who was leaning half into San’s space with an exaggerated grin.

Yeosang raised a brow, sharp eyes narrowing slightly. “And why would I do that?”

“Because I want to sit by Jongho,” Wooyoung replied with a shrug, his grin unwavering. “Come on, Yeosang. Don’t be selfish.”

Yeosang sighed, his gaze flicking briefly to Jongho. After a moment of consideration, he stood gracefully, brushing invisible creases from his pants. “Only because you’ll never let it go,” he muttered, stepping aside.

Wooyoung wasted no time, practically bounding over and flopping down beside Jongho with all the energy of someone who couldn’t sit still for long. His grin softened as he leaned slightly toward Jongho, his voice dropping into something quieter but no less warm. “Hey.”

“Hi,” Jongho murmured, quieter than he intended.

Wooyoung’s eyes flicked to the popcorn bowl on Jongho’s lap. “Want to keep holding that?” he asked, his tone casual but careful.

Jongho hesitated before shaking his head, shifting the bowl, and holding it out. Wooyoung took it with a small laugh.

“Thanks, but I think Yeosang’s better suited for popcorn duty.” Without missing a beat, he leaned across Jongho to pass the bowl back to Yeosang, who had already settled into his new spot with a faint sigh of resignation.

“You owe me for this,” Yeosang said lightly, though there was no real annoyance in his tone.

“Yeah, yeah,” Wooyoung replied with a dismissive wave before turning his attention back to Jongho. “You good? Too warm? Too cold? I can fix it.”

Jongho blinked, momentarily caught off guard by Wooyoung’s concern. “I’m fine,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Good.” Wooyoung’s grin softened into something gentler. “Because I’m staying right here.”

Jongho’s lips twitched into the faintest of smiles, more tension in his chest loosening just a little. With Yunho’s steady presence on one side and Wooyoung’s bright energy on the other, the warmth of the group settled around him in a way that felt… okay.

And that was enough.

As the movie played, the soft flicker of the projector bathed the fort in a gentle glow, casting shifting patterns across the blankets and pillows piled around them. The vibrant scenes filled the air with laughter and lighthearted chaos, blending seamlessly into the quiet comfort of the moment. The fort felt alive, wrapped in warmth and familiarity—the rustle of blankets, the occasional murmur, the steady rhythm of their collective presence.

Jongho sat between Yunho and Wooyoung, his hand loosely held in Yunho’s steady grip. The blanket Yeosang had draped over his legs earlier provided warmth, but a faint tension still lingered in his chest. The laughter from the screen and the soft murmurs around him was soothing yet overwhelming—like a melody he wasn’t sure how to harmonize with.

“Hey,” Wooyoung’s voice cut through the hum in his head, soft and careful. Jongho turned, startled to find Wooyoung watching him with an expression that lacked its usual teasing edge. “You okay?”

Jongho’s gaze dropped to his lap. “I’m fine,” he murmured, the words feeling hollow even as he said them.

Wooyoung tilted his head slightly. “You sure?” he asked, voice low but insistent. “You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.”

The offer hung between them, not a push but a reminder that the choice was his. Jongho’s chest tightened at the thought of leaving, and he quickly shook his head. “I want to stay,” he said, his voice catching. “I just… I’m not used to this.”

Wooyoung’s lips curved into a faint smile. “That’s okay,” he said, warm and understanding. “You don’t have to be used to it. Just take your time.”

Jongho swallowed, the words settling over him like a gentle weight. He glanced at Yunho, whose hand remained steady in his, offering a grounding presence. Between Yunho’s quiet support and Wooyoung’s steady warmth, the knot in his chest slowly began to loosen—just a little.

“Mind if I stay here?” Wooyoung asked softly, his voice casual but careful.

Jongho hesitated for a brief moment before nodding. “It’s okay,” he whispered.

Wooyoung’s grin softened into something more tender. Without another word, he leaned in, resting his head gently against Jongho’s shoulder. The weight was unfamiliar but not unwelcome. Jongho sat stiffly at first, uncertain, but the fort’s quiet comfort and the steady hum of the movie encouraged him to relax—just a little.

Around them, the pack shifted occasionally, their laughter punctuating the quieter moments of the film. Mingi let out a muffled snort from across the fort, earning a playful shove from San, while Hongjoong and Seonghwa whispered quietly, their heads tilted close in their own conversation.

Jongho’s gaze drifted, taking in the soft glow of fairy lights and the effortless way the pack fit together. He wasn’t sure if he belonged here fully yet, but with Wooyoung leaning into him and Yunho’s steady hand grounding him, the thought felt… less daunting.

A sudden knock at the door shattered the soft lull of the movie, pulling everyone’s attention toward the entrance of the fort. Hongjoong was already shifting to stand.

“That’ll be the pizza,” he said, stretching before stepping through the entrance with practiced ease.

“Don’t drop it, Captain!” Wooyoung called after him, his grin breaking into a quiet laugh as the fort stirred with anticipation.

Jongho blinked, his gaze following Hongjoong’s retreating figure. The rustle of pizza boxes and the low murmur of voices carried from the doorway, blending with the steady hum of the movie still playing in the background. The sounds filled the silence, warm and grounding.

The fort filled with soft blanket rustling and quiet murmurs of anticipation as Hongjoong ducked back inside, balancing a tall stack of pizza boxes in his arms. The smell of melted cheese, garlic, and warm dough flooded the space, instantly drawing the pack’s attention.

“Make way, make way!” Wooyoung declared dramatically, scooting aside to clear a spot on the coffee table. Mingi and Yunho followed suit, shifting things around to make enough space.

As Hongjoong set the boxes down with a victorious grin, Wooyoung clapped his hands together. “Our hero,” he declared, eyes gleaming with exaggerated admiration. “Truly a man of the people.”

Hongjoong rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the pleased smile tugging at his lips. “I try my best.”

Seonghwa pushed himself up from his spot, smoothing the wrinkles in his shirt. “I’ll get the plates,” he said, already moving toward the kitchen with a purposeful stride.

“Plates are for people with self-control,” Wooyoung quipped, flipping open the top box and inhaling deeply.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Yeosang murmured, unimpressed, as he leaned back against the pillows with his arms crossed.

Jongho sat quietly, watching the easy banter unfold around him as his fingers curled into the edge of the blanket draped over his lap. The warmth in the fort felt tangible—alive in a way he wasn’t used to but didn’t entirely mind.

Mingi, perched next to him, lifted the lid of one of the boxes and glanced over. “What kind do you want, Jongho?”

Jongho blinked, staring at the variety in front of him. Cheese, pepperoni, supreme, and something with pineapple that San was eyeing eagerly. He hesitated, his shoulders tensing slightly. “I… I’m not sure.”

Mingi grinned and, without missing a beat, grabbed a slice of pepperoni. “Start with this,” he said, handing it over with easy confidence. “Can’t go wrong with pepperoni.”

Jongho accepted it, the warmth of the crust seeping into his fingertips. He took a careful bite—and immediately, his expression shifted. His chewing slowed slightly, and his eyes flickered with something almost like surprise.

Wooyoung, watching him from the corner of his eye, nudged Yunho with a smirk. “You see that? He’s having a moment.”

Yunho chuckled softly, not saying anything, but the fond amusement in his gaze didn’t go unnoticed.

Jongho, oblivious to their exchange, took another bite, chewing thoughtfully before reaching for another slice without thinking. San, catching the movement, grinned. “Looks like we’ve got a pepperoni guy.”

Yeosang, ever observant, gave Jongho an approving nod. “Good choice.”

Hongjoong leaned back, grabbing his own slice. “Eat as much as you want,” he said simply. “We always over-order.”

Seonghwa returned, balancing a stack of plates with the efficiency of someone used to managing chaos. He handed one to San, then Wooyoung—who accepted it begrudgingly—and finally to Jongho, who hesitated for a moment before taking it.

Jongho placed his half-eaten slice onto the plate, but before he could even consider reaching for another, a fresh piece appeared on it. He blinked, looking up to see Yunho casually grabbing another slice and placing it in front of him without a word.

Jongho glanced at him, a question forming on his lips, but Yunho only smiled and returned to his own food as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

And it happened again.

Every time Jongho finished a slice, Yunho would quietly refill his plate, never letting it sit empty for long. There was no fuss, no teasing, just an unspoken understanding that made something tighten in Jongho’s chest.

The moment stretched, and when he looked up, he noticed the pack watching him—not in an overwhelming way, but with quiet smiles exchanged between them. Yunho’s eyes softened, Wooyoung grinned knowingly, and even Seonghwa paused for a second to take in the sight before turning his attention back to his own food.

Jongho shifted in place, feeling warmth creep up his neck, but no one said anything. Instead, they settled back down, eating and chatting as if nothing had happened.

The movie played softly in the background, but it felt secondary to the group's easy warmth as they ate and talked. Their voices weaved together in a way that made the space feel… right.

Jongho sat back slightly, letting the chatter flow around him as he reached for another slice, something in his chest easing bit by bit.

~~Hongjoong’s POV~~

The soft hum of the ending credits filled the fort, blending with the rustling of blankets and the occasional contented sigh. No one moved right away. The glow of the fairy lights overhead cast a golden warmth over the room, making it feel like their own little world tucked away from everything else. The lingering scent of pizza and the quiet murmur of voices made it easy to stay.

Hongjoong leaned back against the pillows, his gaze drifting across the fort. Wooyoung sprawled comfortably beside Jongho, stretching with a satisfied groan. “I have to say,” he grinned, “that was actually a pretty good choice.”

Mingi snorted from the other side of the fort. “You say that about every movie.”

Wooyoung shot him an exaggerated glare. “Because I have impeccable taste.”

Hongjoong glanced at Jongho, seated between Yunho and Wooyoung. The faintest hint of a smile curled at the edges of his lips. It was small, but it was there. He took the last bite of his pizza, chewing slowly before murmuring, “It was… fun to watch.”

Yunho, ever steady, gave Jongho’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “Glad you liked it,” he said, his voice as calm and warm as always.

Hongjoong let his head rest against the cushions, a quiet sense of satisfaction settling in his chest. It had taken time, patience, and effort, but watching Jongho here—eased into their space, no longer bracing for rejection—felt like a small victory.

He glanced toward Seonghwa, noticing that his shoulders sat lower than usual. The exhaustion that had weighed on him over the past days had eased just a little. Seonghwa had carried so much of their concern for Jongho in silence, shouldering the weight of it as only he could. But tonight, surrounded by the soft glow of the fort and the quiet laughter of their pack, Seonghwa looked better—more at ease.

Hongjoong stretched with a satisfied sigh. “I kind of don’t want to move,” he admitted. “The fort’s too comfortable.”

A chorus of agreement rippled through the group.

“Yeah, we should just stay here,” Wooyoung said, tugging his blanket higher. “Let’s watch another one.”

Hongjoong watched as Jongho hesitated, his fingers curling into the fabric of his blanket. He could see the gears turning in Jongho’s head—the lingering uncertainty of whether he should stay, whether he was intruding.

Seonghwa, always gentle, spoke first. “Jongho, do you want to watch another, or are you ready to head to bed?”

Jongho’s gaze flicked around the fort, pausing on Yunho’s quiet presence, Wooyoung’s expectant grin, and Seonghwa’s patient expression. After a moment, his voice came, soft but steady.

“I’d like to stay.”

The pack didn’t make a big deal of it, but Hongjoong could feel the shift in the air. A silent exchange of relief passed between them, Wooyoung’s grin widening, Yunho’s grip on Jongho easing, and Seonghwa’s lips twitching in a barely-there smile.

“Good choice,” Mingi said, offering Jongho an easy grin before leaning back into his pillow.

Hongjoong smiled to himself. “Alright, then. What should we watch?” He shifted to get more comfortable. “Jongho, do you want to pick again?”

Jongho shook his head quickly, a flicker of nervousness in his eyes. “Um… you can choose.”

There was no pressure, just a quiet understanding that Jongho still needed time. Hongjoong hummed thoughtfully. “Animated, right? We could stick with that.”

Wooyoung sat up eagerly. “Yes! Animated movies are elite.”

Yeosang rolled his eyes, but the small upward tug of his lips betrayed him. “Fine. But nothing with singing animals.”

San threw a pillow at him. “You have no taste.”

As the group fell into easy debate, Hongjoong shared a glance with Seonghwa, and without a word, they began gathering the empty pizza boxes and plates. They moved in sync, careful not to disturb the peaceful atmosphere.

Hongjoong stacked a few plates and glanced at Jongho again. He looked more settled now, still wrapped in his blanket but leaning just a little into Yunho’s space. It was a far cry from the tense, uncertain hybrid they had first met, and seeing him like this—comfortable, safe—filled something deep inside Hongjoong’s chest.

Seonghwa nudged him lightly, offering a small smile. “He’s doing okay,” he murmured, just loud enough for Hongjoong to hear.

Hongjoong nodded, watching the way Jongho quietly followed the pack’s conversation, how Wooyoung was practically buzzing beside him. “Yeah. I think he is.”

With the fort tidied and the next movie finally selected, everyone resettled into their spots, brushing shoulders and sharing blankets. Hongjoong leaned back into the cushions, letting the warmth of the fort wrap around him.

For the first time in a while, everything felt just right.

~~Mingi’s POV~~

Mingi leaned into his pillow, absently tracing the edge of his blanket between his fingers as Seonghwa and Hongjoong quietly moved around, gathering the empty plates. The fort buzzed with soft conversation and laughter, but Mingi’s attention kept drifting—his gaze drawn, almost unwillingly, to where Jongho sat nestled between Yunho and Wooyoung.

Jongho looked… settled. Yunho’s hand still rested lightly on his wrist, a steady, grounding touch that seemed second nature. Wooyoung, ever tactile, had curled comfortably against Jongho’s side, his chatter weaving through the air as if it belonged there.

And Mingi—Mingi was all the way over here.

He swallowed around the odd twist in his chest and forced a grin when Wooyoung loudly declared animated movies to be “peak cinema.” Mingi didn’t care what they watched; his focus kept slipping back to Jongho, to the way he was starting to relax, starting to fit.

It wasn’t jealousy. Not really.

It was just…

Mingi wanted to be part of that comfort.

He had spent so much time thinking about Jongho—wondering what music he liked, how his voice might sound if he really laughed, what it would take to make him feel safe. He wanted to be the one helping Jongho settle in, to offer the quiet touches and steady reassurances Yunho and Wooyoung seemed to provide so easily.

Jongho shifted slightly, adjusting his blanket, and for the briefest moment, his gaze flicked toward Mingi. Their eyes met, and Jongho’s lips twitched—small, but something close to a smile.

Mingi felt warmth creep up his neck and quickly looked away, stuffing a piece of leftover popcorn into his mouth as if that would distract him. It didn’t.

His gaze flickered again to Yunho, to the way he leaned in close to Jongho, murmuring something that made Jongho nod. It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, but lately, Yunho had been more attentive—watching Jongho with that soft, patient gaze, Mingi knew so well.

A quiet weight settled in Mingi’s chest. Yunho was always like that, warm and reliable, but recently it felt… different. More focused. More intimate.

Mingi’s fingers curled into the blanket in his lap. It wasn’t fair to think like this, to feel like this. Jongho deserved their kindness, and their attention. But a small, unwelcome voice whispered that Yunho had been gravitating toward Jongho more and more lately, and Mingi wasn’t sure where that left him.

“You good?”

The familiar voice pulled him from his thoughts. He turned to find San watching him with that sharp, knowing gaze; his head tilted slightly in concern.

Mingi swallowed and forced a shrug. “Yeah. Just tired.”

San didn’t look convinced. He shifted closer, their shoulders brushing, his voice softer now. “You know you’re not subtle, right?”

Mingi opened his mouth to protest but gave up halfway, sighing instead. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s not,” San replied, tugging the edge of Mingi’s blanket over both of them without another word.

Mingi exhaled slowly, letting himself lean into San’s warmth. It was comforting—familiar. But even as he tried to focus on the screen, his eyes kept drifting, stealing glances at Jongho, at Yunho.

San followed his gaze and hummed thoughtfully. “You’re overthinking again.”

Mingi huffed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah, well… maybe I have a reason.”

San nudged him lightly. “Yunho’s still Yunho. He’s just… giving Jongho what he needs right now.”

Mingi swallowed around the tightness in his throat. “And what if that’s… more?”

San was quiet for a moment before leaning in a little closer, his voice gentle but firm. “It’s not.”

Mingi didn’t answer, but the words sat heavy in his chest, settling alongside his uncertainty.

They fell into a quiet rhythm, San’s steady presence grounding him, but Mingi couldn’t stop himself from stealing another glance across the fort. Watching the way, Jongho shifted just a little closer to Yunho, the way Yunho’s touch lingered.

San squeezed his arm gently, pulling him closer, and Mingi allowed himself to settle just a little. “You’re fine, Mings. Just… be here.”

Mingi let out a slow breath, resting his head against San’s. He tried. He really did. But his gaze still drifted—lingering on Jongho, on Yunho.

In the quiet space, he wasn’t sure how to fill anymore.

~~Jongho’s POV~~

The fort was warm—almost too warm. Jongho shifted under the weight of the blanket draped over his legs, his fingers gripping the fabric tightly as if it could ground him. Around him, the soft hum of the movie filled the space, blending with the quiet murmurs of his packmates. He could hear Wooyoung’s voice somewhere beside him, a steady stream of commentary that had become familiar enough to fade into the background.

He wasn’t used to this kind of quiet—not the silence of loneliness, but the type that felt safe, filled with soft laughter and the occasional rustling of blankets. It made his chest feel tight, and an unfamiliar ache settled beneath his ribs.

Jongho blinked slowly, his eyelids growing heavier with each passing minute. He fought it, forcing himself to stay present, to focus on the flickering screen, the muted colors dancing across the fort. Sleep wasn’t something he let happen easily—especially not when he wasn’t alone. The idea of drifting off here, surrounded by so many people, felt… dangerous.

But Yunho’s arm was warm beside him, solid and unwavering, the faint scent of juniper and amber surrounding him in a way he didn’t quite understand. Wooyoung’s presence on his other side was persistent but not suffocating, his energy quieter now, his breathing even. If he focused hard enough, he could smell the scent of cherry blossoms lingering in the air, blending softly with the smoky vanilla and citrus that always clung to Hongjoong. Jongho could feel the faint rise and fall of his chest, a soft, familiar rhythm that made the world feel a little less uncertain.

His grip on the blanket loosened slightly.

He could still hear the others—Hongjoong’s soft voice making some offhand comment, Seonghwa’s quiet chuckle, the gentle sighs of shifting bodies settling deeper into the fort. They weren’t watching him. They weren’t expecting anything from him.

Jongho exhaled slowly, his head dipping slightly before he jerked it back up, heart pounding. No. He should stay awake. He should…

A quiet laugh from Yunho, too close and too warm, made his chest tighten again—this time in a way that didn’t feel so bad.

Jongho’s lashes fluttered shut for a moment, then opened again. Maybe just a little longer.

The exhaustion that had been pulling at him since dinner won. His body betrayed him, leaning ever so slightly into Yunho’s side, and for once, no one seemed to notice. Or if they did, they didn’t say anything.

Someone whispered something—he thought he heard Wooyoung calling him cute—but it felt distant, like a dream he wasn’t sure he was awake for anymore.

His breathing evened out, the soft warmth of the fort wrapping around him, and before he could think of another reason to fight it, sleep took over.

The last thing he registered was the sound of the volume lowering, followed by the quiet shuffling of blankets and the unmistakable feeling of being… safe.

~~Yeosang’s POV~~

Yeosang let out a slow breath, sinking a little deeper into San’s warmth. San’s arm pressed firmly against his, offering a quiet reassurance that didn’t need words, though most of his attention remained on Mingi. Mingi had curled up beside him, his fingers still clutching the edge of his blanket in a way that made Yeosang’s heart ache with understanding. His eyes drifted now and then toward Jongho, his expression unreadable yet full of something Yeosang could recognize all too well.

He let his gaze follow, landing on Jongho’s sleeping form.

Jongho had finally given in to the weight of exhaustion. His head rested lightly against Yunho’s arm; his features softened in a way Yeosang had rarely seen. His usual guarded expression was gone, replaced by something far more vulnerable—unguarded in the quiet of their shared space. Each slow, steady breath felt like a reassurance that, for now, he wasn’t fighting anymore.

Wooyoung, always the first to notice these things, grinned softly and whispered, “He’s really out.”

Yunho’s eyes flickered down, his lips curling with something gentle as he tugged the blanket higher around Jongho, moving with care that spoke louder than anything he could say. “Didn’t take long,” he murmured, the warmth in his voice making Yeosang’s chest tighten.

A soft huff came from Mingi. “Told you the pizza would get him.”

The laughter that followed was subdued, careful not to disturb the peaceful quiet they had built. Wooyoung adjusted Jongho’s blanket with a touch so delicate it made Yeosang wonder if any of them had ever realized just how much they had needed Jongho here. How much they had needed someone to protect, someone to care for.

Hongjoong’s voice carried from across the fort, quieter now but no less firm. “Let’s turn the volume down. No need to wake him.”

There was no protest, and no one made a move to leave. The decision settled over them naturally, unspoken but unanimous. Mingi fumbled for the remote, lowering the sound until it was barely a whisper. The fort seemed to breathe with them, the soft rustling of blankets and the gentle exhales of those drifting off into sleep blending into the faint hum of the movie.

Yeosang let himself watch Jongho a little longer, his chest filled with something heavy, something hopeful. The way Jongho had unconsciously leaned into Yunho’s side, the way his fingers had loosened from their tight grip around the blanket—it was progress, small but real. And it was enough.

San’s voice, thick with sleep, broke the quiet. “He’s really starting to feel like one of us, huh?”

Yeosang swallowed against the sudden tightness in his throat. “Yeah,” he said softly. “He is.”

One by one, the pack settled deeper into the fort’s warmth, the weight of the day giving way to the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of their breathing. San was the first to drift off completely, his head nestled comfortably against Mingi’s shoulder. Wooyoung followed, his body curled close to Jongho’s, and Yunho stayed right where he was—solid and unwavering, his quiet presence keeping them anchored.

Even Hongjoong, ever the last to let himself rest, blinked slower and slower before his eyes finally slipped shut.

Yeosang remained awake a little longer, his gaze drifting from face to face, taking in the quiet sense of belonging that filled the space between them all. Jongho had come into their lives carrying so much weight and so many unspoken fears, but here, now, surrounded by them, he looked like he was finally finding his place.

And maybe, just maybe, this was precisely where they were meant to be.

Yeosang let his eyes close, the warmth of the fort settling around him, but just as sleep began to pull him under, he felt the slightest shift beside him. Jongho stirred a faint twitch in his fingers against the blanket, his breathing hitching for the briefest moment before settling again. Yeosang’s eyes fluttered open, watching in the dim glow of the fairy lights as Jongho curled in slightly, brows pinching together in sleep.

A flicker of concern crossed Yeosang’s mind, but he brushed it aside, chalking it up to a restless dream. They all had them sometimes. With a quiet exhale, he let his head sink back against the pillows, dismissing the thought.

If he had been paying closer attention, he might have noticed the way Jongho’s breaths remained just a little too shallow, the way his body tensed before relaxing again. And if he had been fully awake, he might have caught the faint change in Yunho’s scent—something deeper, something unfamiliar—settling into the fort like a whisper of something yet to come.

Chapter Text

~~Yunho’s POV~~

The night was too quiet.

Yunho woke with a start, heart pounding like it was trying to break free from his chest. His breath came in ragged gasps, too loud in the suffocating stillness. The faint glow from the TV’s standby light blinked in the corner, casting soft shadows over the tangle of blankets and bodies sprawled around the living room.

But none of it registered.

All he could feel was heat—burning under his skin, coiling in his gut, twisting around his ribs until it hurt to breathe. Sweat slicked his back, clinging to the thin fabric of his shirt. His muscles ached, not from exhaustion but from something else, something sharp and unrelenting.

His rut was close.

Too close.

And right beside him, barely an arm’s length away, was Jongho.

Yunho’s gaze snapped to him, heart stuttering like a broken metronome.

Jongho was asleep, his face soft and unguarded in the faint light, lips parted slightly with each slow, steady breath. His scent—campfire marshmallow and cedarwood—was stronger now, thick in the small space between them. Sweet and smoky, warm and grounding, it wrapped around Yunho’s senses like a snare, tightening with every inhale.

Mine.

The thought wasn’t his—or maybe it was. It didn’t matter.

His hand moved before his mind caught up.

Fingers trembling, Yunho reached out, brushing lightly against Jongho’s cheek. Warm. Soft. Real. His thumb traced the faint curve of Jongho’s cheekbone, lingering like it had nowhere else to go. His breath hitched, chest tightening as his fingers slid up, threading gently into Jongho’s hair, cradling the back of his head.

His heart raced, each beat screaming against his ribs, but it was nothing compared to the way his body ached—for closeness, for connection, for something he couldn’t name.

Yunho’s forehead dipped, resting lightly against Jongho’s temple. The contact was electric, searing through him, grounding and destabilizing all at once. His eyes fluttered shut, breath mingling with Jongho’s, close enough to feel the warmth of each exhale.

He could stay like this forever.

But forever was a fragile thing.

Jongho shifted slightly in his sleep, a soft sound slipping from his throat—barely more than a sigh, but it shattered Yunho’s fragile grip on reality.

What are you doing?

The thought hit like ice water, cold and cruel.

Yunho recoiled, jerking his hand back as if burned. He scrambled to his feet, breath ragged, chest heaving like he’d run a marathon. His skin didn’t feel like his own—too tight, too hot, suffocating. Shame crashed over him, thick and choking.

He scrambled to his feet and fled. 

The kitchen was dark; shadows stretched like claws across the floor. Yunho stumbled in, breath ragged and uneven, his chest heaving as if the very act of breathing had become a battle. His hands shook as he wrenched open the fridge, the cold air slamming into his overheated skin like a slap. He grabbed a bottle of water, twisting the cap off with trembling fingers, and drank greedily. The cold liquid burned down his throat, but it did nothing—nothing—to douse the fire raging beneath his skin.

Too hot. Too tight. Too much.

The air felt thick, suffocating, filled with something he couldn’t escape. His rut was crawling under his skin, digging in like hooks, and no matter how much water he drank, no matter how deep he breathed, it wouldn’t stop.

Because his scent was still there.

Jongho.

Even here, away from the living room, Jongho’s scent lingered—sweet and smoky, campfire marshmallow and cedarwood, clinging to Yunho’s senses like it had been stitched into his very bones. It wrapped around him, tightening, suffocating, until Yunho’s nails bit into the plastic bottle, crumpling it in his grip.

And then—soft footsteps.

Yunho didn’t have to turn to know who it was.

“Yunho?” Jongho’s voice was soft, thick with sleep and concern.

It was the final thread snapping.

Yunho spun around, his vision blurred at the edges, breath ragged. In two strides, he was in front of Jongho, slamming his hands against the wall on either side of his head. The impact rattled the cabinets, the sharp sound echoing in the dark, vibrating through Yunho’s chest. He caged Jongho in, their faces inches apart, his eyes wild and dark with something feral, something he couldn’t control.

Jongho froze, his back pressed against the wall, eyes wide with confusion and something else Yunho couldn’t face—fear.

But Yunho didn’t stop.

“Why do you smell like that?” Yunho’s voice was low, guttural, filled with raw desperation. His chest heaved, his pulse thundering in his ears. “Why do you keep looking at me like that?”

Jongho opened his mouth to speak, to deny it, maybe to ask what Yunho meant—but Yunho’s hands shot out before he could form the words. He gripped Jongho’s face, fingers digging in tighter than before, thumbs pressing into the soft skin of his cheeks. His breath was hot and uneven, mingling with Jongho’s in the small space between them.

Yunho’s forehead crashed against Jongho’s, not gentle—never gentle—just desperate. His nose brushed against Jongho’s, lips a breath away, trembling with restraint he didn’t have. His heart screamed in his chest, clawing to break free, to take more, just a little more.

Jongho’s hands came up, pressing against Yunho’s chest—not forceful, not shoving, just trying to create space to breathe. That soft resistance made something dark curl in Yunho’s gut, a low growl rumbling from deep within his chest as his hands slid down, gripping Jongho’s shoulders, thumbs pressing into the tense muscle like he could hold him there—keep him there.

“Yunho, stop,” Jongho whispered, voice shaky, breath catching in his throat.

But Yunho didn’t stop.

He leaned in closer, his nose brushing along Jongho’s jaw, inhaling like he could drown himself in that scent. His lips ghosted over Jongho’s skin—too close, too much, too far.

Jongho flinched.

That tiny movement was the crack that shattered it all.

A sharp voice cut through the haze. “Yunho!”

Yunho didn’t even register it until strong arms wrapped around his chest from behind, yanking him backward. He snarled, a guttural, animalistic sound tearing from his throat as he thrashed against the grip. San’s arms locked around him, pulling him away from Jongho’s warmth, his scent, his—

Mine.

“Get off me!” Yunho roared, his voice raw, struggling against San’s hold like a wild animal, his fingers clawing at the empty space where Jongho had been. His vision blurred with rage, desperation, and need.

“Yunho, STOP!” Hongjoong’s voice cracked like a whip, sharp and commanding, slamming into Yunho’s brain like a jolt of electricity. Hongjoong was in front of Jongho now, standing between them, shielding Jongho with his body.

But Yunho still tried to reach for him, his hands shaking, breath ragged as he strained against San’s iron grip. His voice broke into a desperate, guttural whimper. “I just—I just need—”

San’s grip tightened, grounding him. “Yunho, it’s me. Look at me,” San murmured, his voice low but steady, cutting through the fog in Yunho’s mind. “You’re okay. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

But Yunho wasn’t okay. His heart thrashed in his chest like it was trying to escape, his whole body trembling. He tried to lunge forward again, but San shifted, twisting him around slightly to face him. Without hesitation, San leaned in and pressed his forehead against Yunho’s, scenting him—grounding him. The familiar, comforting scent of cherry blossoms and white tea wrapped around Yunho like a soft blanket over raw skin.

“Breathe with me,” San whispered, voice soft but firm. “Just breathe, Yunho. You’re not alone.”

Yunho’s legs buckled, the fight draining out of him all at once. San went down with him, holding him close, arms locked around his chest like a lifeline. A broken, guttural sound tore from Yunho’s throat—half-growl, half-sob—as his face crumpled against San’s shoulder.

The noise must’ve echoed through the house because suddenly, the rest of the pack burst into the kitchen.

Mingi was the first to move, dropping to his knees beside Yunho, his hand resting gently on Yunho’s back. “Hey, I’m here. We’ve got you,” Mingi murmured softly, his presence a steady anchor.

Wooyoung’s eyes snapped to Jongho, who was still pressed against the wall, his face pale, eyes wide, chest heaving with shallow breaths. His hair was mussed, lips parted like he wanted to say something—but no words came.

Wooyoung’s expression twisted with rage. “What the hell, Yunho?!” he barked, stepping forward as if he was going to tear into him—anger and fear tangled in his voice.

But Yeosang’s hand shot out, gripping Wooyoung’s arm tightly, stopping him. “Not now,” Yeosang said quietly, his voice low but sharp enough to cut through Wooyoung’s fury. “This isn’t helping.”

Hongjoong turned then, his shoulders tense, his face drawn with worry as he glanced back at Jongho. He took a cautious step toward him, his voice softer now, layered with guilt and concern. “Jongho…”

But Jongho didn’t wait to hear the rest.

The moment his name left Hongjoong’s mouth, Jongho bolted—pushing off the wall and running out of the kitchen, his footsteps echoing down the hall until the sound faded into crushing silence.

Yunho’s sob broke free, ragged and raw, as he crumbled further into San’s hold, trembling with the weight of everything he’d done.

And the worst part—the part that hollowed him out completely—was how much he still craved him.

Silence followed the fading echo of Jongho’s footsteps.

No one moved. The tension hung thick in the air, heavier than the heat burning under Yunho’s skin. His chest heaved, breath ragged as his face remained buried in San’s shoulder, the faint scent of cherry blossoms doing little to cut through the haze of shame and lingering desperation.

Then—movement.

Wooyoung shoved Yeosang’s steadying hands off his shoulders and took a sharp step forward, his face drawn tight with something Yunho couldn’t quite name—fury, maybe, or something even sharper.

Yunho’s head snapped up, his cheek pulling from the damp warmth of San’s neck. His eyes met Wooyoung’s, wide and glassy with exhaustion and the weight of everything he couldn’t explain.

“Why did you do that?” Wooyoung’s voice cut through the room like a blade, sharp and shaking.

Yunho’s mouth opened, words scrambling in his head, tangled with the heat still roaring beneath his skin. His throat felt raw, his voice coming out rough.

“I—I don’t know,” Yunho stammered, his body trembling as he tried to form something coherent. “I think—” His breath hitched, chest squeezing painfully. “I think my rut is coming on.”

Wooyoung’s jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing just slightly, but before he could respond, Hongjoong’s voice came from behind him, cold and precise.

“It’s two months early.”

The words hit like a slap.

“I know!” Yunho snapped, his voice cracking as it spilled out—loud, desperate, frayed at the edges. His body jerked slightly in San’s hold, his hands fisting into the fabric of San’s shirt as if it would keep him grounded. “I don’t know why it came on or why it came so suddenly—I didn’t feel like this when I went to sleep.”

His voice broke into a soft, frustrated whimper at the end, the heat and guilt tangled too tightly to separate.

San didn’t say anything, just shifted slightly, pressing his forehead to the side of Yunho’s head, his scent stronger now as he tried to soothe Yunho through instinct alone. But it wasn’t working. It wasn’t enough.

Wooyoung shook his head, his expression dark, mouth twisting with something bitter. “Why couldn’t you control yourself,” he spat, voice rising, sharp with disbelief—maybe even disgust.

The words felt like knives.

Mingi shot to his feet, his sudden movement breaking the tension for a second. “This is not the time to talk about this!” His voice boomed louder than Wooyoung’s, his glare cutting straight to the heart of the room.

Yeosang was there in an instant, his hand closing around Wooyoung’s arm, pulling him back before he could lunge again. His voice was low, but Yunho heard it clearly.

“He’s right.”

Wooyoung’s chest heaved, his jaw tight, but he didn’t say anything else, letting Yeosang pull him back a step. His gaze stayed locked on Yunho, burning with something Yunho didn’t have the strength to face.

The world blurred at the edges, sounds muffled like they were underwater, except for the echo of Jongho’s ragged breathing as he fled—each panicked footstep pounding in Yunho’s skull, sharp and unforgiving. His own chest heaved, the heat of his rut simmering just beneath the surface, but it wasn’t the fever burning through him that made his legs feel like lead.

It was the memory of Jongho’s face.

Wide, terrified eyes.

Flinching.

Frozen.

Because of him.

Then—

Wooyoung moved.

Without hesitation, he turned and rushed toward the stairs, his steps sharp and quick, each one filled with an urgency that carved itself deep into Yunho’s chest. His breath hitched, throat dry and tight, watching Wooyoung disappear around the corner—watching him go after Jongho.

I should be the one—

But he couldn’t. He’d lost that right the moment his hands had closed around Jongho’s shoulders.

Seonghwa, who had been silent until now, stepped forward. His calm composure was an unsettling contrast to the chaos swirling around them. His voice was cool and measured, cutting through the thick tension.

“San, take Yunho to the pack room.”

San was at his side before the words even settled in the air. His hands gripped Yunho’s arms, strong but careful, grounding him in a way nothing else could. Yunho’s knees buckled slightly under the crushing weight of it all, but San didn’t falter. He kept Yunho upright, tucked close, guiding him toward the same stairs Wooyoung had just disappeared up.

Yunho’s heart raced—not from the fever, not from exhaustion, but from the echo of Jongho’s fear still reverberating in his chest. The thought of following the same path Jongho had fled along twisted something deep inside him, sharp and unforgiving.

They reached the stairs, and Yunho’s gaze flicked upward. He caught a glimpse of Wooyoung—already halfway up, his hand white-knuckled around the banister, moving like nothing else mattered.

And then Wooyoung’s voice rang out, sharp but trembling at the edges like he was holding himself together with nothing but willpower.

“I need to check on Jongho.”

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a request.

No one stopped him.

Yunho didn’t try. He didn’t deserve to.

San’s grip tightened as they started up the stairs, following the same path but feeling worlds apart. Each step felt heavier than the last, the echo of Wooyoung’s footsteps ahead of them like a countdown Yunho couldn’t escape. His legs shook—not from weakness, but from the memory of his own hands, his own voice, the way he’d snapped like a tether had been cut inside him.

When they reached the landing, Wooyoung was already disappearing down the hall toward Jongho’s room. He didn’t look back.

Yunho didn’t either.

San guided him the opposite way toward the pack room, their footsteps swallowed by the tense, fragile silence left in Wooyoung’s wake. But it wasn’t the silence that haunted Yunho.

It was the fear in Jongho’s eyes.

And the sickening, undeniable truth that he had put it there.

~~Jongho’s POV ~~

Jongho’s breath came in sharp, ragged gasps as he tore up the stairs, his heart pounding so hard it drowned out everything else—the echoes of voices, the crash of furniture, the sharp snap of Yunho’s growl still ringing in his ears. His bare feet slipped on the polished wood, toes catching awkwardly on the edge of a step. He stumbled, nearly falling, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.

His body moved on instinct, legs burning as he pushed himself faster, the ache in his chest spreading like wildfire—hot, tight, suffocating. He didn’t know where he was going, didn’t care. Just get away. Get away. Get away.

The hallway upstairs blurred past him, his pulse roaring in his ears. Without thinking, his feet carried him to his room, the door familiar beneath his trembling fingers as he fumbled with the handle. He slipped inside, slamming the door shut behind him and locking it with shaking hands, the small metallic click a fragile barrier against everything he’d left downstairs.

Then his legs gave out.

He collapsed against the door, sliding down until he hit the floor with a muffled thud. His knees curled to his chest automatically, arms wrapping around them like a shield. But it didn’t help. It didn’t stop the shaking, didn’t ease the crushing weight pressing down on his ribs.

His skin burned where Yunho had touched him—not with warmth, but with the cold aftershock of fear. He could still feel it, phantom impressions left behind: Yunho’s fingers digging into his shoulders, the unbearable closeness of his breath, the desperate heat of his body. The wildness in his eyes—dark and feral—etched into Jongho’s mind like a brand.

Why do you smell like that?

The words echoed, guttural and sharp, carving into the hollow space behind his ribs.

Jongho pressed his hands against his face, fingers trembling. His breath hitched, chest too tight, lungs refusing to pull in enough air. It felt like drowning—suffocating on dry land.

What did I do wrong?

His mind spiraled, replaying everything on an endless, merciless loop: Yunho’s snarl, the crushing force of his body pinning Jongho against the wall, the way his thumbs had dug into Jongho’s cheeks like he was trying to hold him in place—like he had the right to. The shouting that followed, voices overlapping in a mess of anger and fear, but none of it mattered because the damage had already been done. The looks. The silence.

Did I smell wrong? Did I do something to trigger him?

His stomach twisted, nausea creeping in. He hated himself for freezing—again for standing there like a cornered animal, too afraid to fight back, too afraid to even move. His body had betrayed him, locked up in terror while his heart begged to run.

You’re pathetic.

The thought cut deep, sharper than Yunho’s grip, sharper than the memory of his father’s voice telling him no alpha would ever want him. And wasn’t that the truth? 

Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, hot and unwanted. He blinked them back, biting down on the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood. Don’t cry. Don’t be weak.

But the tears didn’t listen.

They slipped down anyway, silent and steady, tracing paths over trembling skin. He curled tighter, burying his face against his knees, trying to make himself smaller, like if he folded in far enough, he could disappear completely.

The room was too quiet, save for the ragged, broken sound of his breathing.

And beneath it all, one question kept clawing at him, over and over, relentless and cruel:

Why wasn’t I enough to be safe?

Jongho didn’t know how long he sat there—curled against the door, his breath ragged and uneven, tears drying in sticky trails along his cheeks. Time didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except the hollow ache spreading through his chest, gnawing at his ribs like it was trying to carve out everything soft and fragile inside him.

But then—it crept in.

The memory.

Uninvited, sharp-edged, and merciless.

His mind drifted back to the village—the cold gray of the sky the day it happened, the sting of winter air against his skin as he stood there, surrounded by faces that had never looked at him with kindness, only thinly veiled disgust. But none of it had mattered then. Not when he was there. The alpha who’d smiled at him, spoken softly, reached out like maybe—just maybe—Jongho wasn’t something to be ashamed of.

But it was a lie.

All of it.

The warmth, the laughter, the illusion of safety—it had all been part of the plan. A cruel joke at his expense. He’d trusted that alpha. Liked him. Maybe even wanted something more. And in return, he’d been paraded in front of the village like a broken toy, held up as an example of what happened to betas who forgot their place.

The humiliation had cut deeper than the scars.

And now, Yunho’s face overlapped with his, the betrayal stitching itself neatly into the same wound. The wildness in Yunho’s eyes, the possessive grip of his hands—it wasn’t so different after all.

“I was stupid to think this was different,” Jongho whispered, the words breaking apart as soon as they left his mouth, fragile and brittle in the empty room.

His fingers twitched against his knees before they moved on their own, clawing at his arms without thought, without restraint. His nails dragged over his skin, leaving behind angry red lines as if he could scrub away Yunho’s touch, the phantom heat still clinging like a stain he couldn’t wash off. His breathing hitched, uneven, and sharp, chest tightening until it felt like his ribs might crack under the pressure.

But it wasn’t enough.

His scars—the ones etched deep into his back—felt like they were burning, not from Yunho’s touch but from the weight of memory. Invisible, yet suffocating. His hands shot up, trembling as they gripped the fabric of his shirt. He yanked at it, desperate and rough, pulling it over his head with shaking arms. The cool air hit his skin, but it didn’t feel like relief. It felt like exposure, like every awful thing he’d ever been reduced to, was right there, carved into his flesh for the world to see—even if no one was there to look.

You’re still the same. Broken. Unwanted.

A broken sob escaped—small, choked off before it could become anything louder. Jongho pressed the heel of his hands into his eyes, trying to push it back, to bury it deep where no one could see. But it didn’t stop. The tears kept coming, silent and relentless, each one a betrayal of the strength he pretended to have.

His fingers dug into the skin of his arms again, nails leaving crescent-shaped marks as if he could ground himself with pain. But it didn’t anchor him. It only made the hollow space inside feel bigger.

He curled in tighter, pressing his forehead to his knees, trying to disappear into himself. His bear instincts screamed for isolation, for darkness, for somewhere to hide until the ache dulled enough to pretend it wasn’t there. But there was nowhere to go. No fur to shield him. No den to retreat into.

Just an empty room, a locked door, and the echo of his own quiet, broken sobs.

The room felt too small.

Jongho’s chest ached with every breath, the walls pressing in like they knew he didn’t belong. His knees were drawn tight to his chest, fingers clutching at the fabric of his pants as if holding on could stop everything from unraveling.

But it was already unraveling.

His heart wouldn’t slow down—not after Yunho’s voice had carved through the air downstairs, sharp and heavy, pulling all of Jongho’s fear to the surface like it had been waiting for permission. His mind wouldn’t stop replaying it: the growl, the shift in Yunho’s scent, the heat in his gaze. The echo of it lived in his chest now, rattling like it belonged there.

I shouldn’t be here.

The thought was sharp, cutting through the haze, but it didn’t bring clarity—just more ache.

Then—

A voice.

Soft, muffled slightly by the door.

“Jongho?”

His breath hitched, body tensed instinctively. His fingers dug deeper into the fabric of his pants, grounding himself with the faint burn beneath his nails.

Wooyoung.

Confusion slipped through the fear like a crack in the ice. Why? Why was Wooyoung here? It didn’t make sense. He should’ve left—should’ve gone back downstairs with the others. With his pack.

Jongho didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His throat felt tight, the words stuck somewhere deep, tangled in the knots of everything he couldn’t say.

There was a pause. Then—

A soft sound. The faint scrape of fabric against wood as Wooyoung slid down to sit on the other side of the door.

“I’m just gonna stay here for a bit,” Wooyoung said quietly like he wasn’t expecting an answer. “If that’s okay.”

Jongho didn’t know if it was okay.

He didn’t know anything except that the ache in his chest shifted slightly like the edges had dulled just a little. It didn’t make sense. Wooyoung wasn’t doing anything—just sitting there, his voice a fragile thread slipping through the door.

But the room didn’t feel as empty anymore.

Jongho’s fingers loosened slightly from where they’d been digging into his knees. His breathing was still shaky and uneven, but it didn’t feel like it was spiraling out of control.

And then—without warning—the tears came.

Not like before. Not the choking, gasping kind that felt like drowning.

These were quieter.

Softer.

But heavier in a different way.

They slipped down his face silently, not because he was scared—not this time. It was because he wanted so badly to be different.

He wanted it to be easier.

Easier to reach.

Easier to comfort.

Easier to love.

The pack had done nothing but show him kindness, warmth, patience—and all he could do was break under it. He wanted to let them in. God, he wanted it so badly it hurt. But the walls he’d built weren’t just around him—they were part of him now, woven into the way he breathed, the way he thought, the way he flinched even when he didn’t mean to.

Why can’t I just be better?

The thought looped in his mind, sharp and relentless. He wished he wasn’t like this—fragile and afraid, too broken to hold onto the good things being offered to him. If he were someone else, someone stronger, maybe Yunho’s growl wouldn’t have shattered him. Maybe Wooyoung wouldn’t have to sit on the other side of a locked door, trying to reach someone who didn’t know how to be reached.

Jongho pressed his forehead to his knees, biting down on the sob that threatened to slip out.

But it didn’t matter.

Because even though he didn’t make a sound, Wooyoung didn’t leave.

And somehow, that made the tears fall even harder.

~~Wooyoung’s POV~~ 

Wooyoung sat with his back pressed against Jongho’s door, knees drawn up to his chest, fingers tangled tightly in the fabric of his sleeves. His heart hadn’t settled since Jongho’s footsteps had disappeared up the stairs, leaving nothing but the hollow echoes of Yunho’s growl and the image of Jongho’s face—terrified, fragile, breaking.

The silence now felt suffocating.

He could hear Jongho’s ragged breathing on the other side, faint but there—like proof that Jongho hadn’t completely disappeared, even if part of him seemed to have slipped through Wooyoung’s fingers when he’d fled. Guilt gnawed at the edges of his thoughts. I should’ve done more. I should’ve been faster. I should’ve protected him.

But sitting here, he didn’t know how to fix it. Words felt flimsy, too small for something this heavy. But doing nothing felt worse.

So he started to speak. Quietly, his voice rough around the edges.

“Did I ever tell you about the time Mingi fell asleep in the fridge?” His lips twitched slightly, though the ache in his chest didn’t ease. “We were slammed at the restaurant, summer rush, no AC working in the back. He said he was ‘just resting his head for a minute.’”

Wooyoung huffed out a breath, almost a laugh, but not quite. “An hour later, I find him curled up on the bottom shelf with a bag of frozen peas like it’s a pillow.”

No response. Just the faint hitch of Jongho’s breath.

But before he could continue, he heard the creak of the floorboards at the top of the stairs.

Wooyoung tensed, heart stuttering as he turned his head slightly toward the sound. San and Yunho.

Yunho’s steps were hesitant and uneven as if he didn’t trust his own legs. His face was drawn tight with guilt, eyes dark with something heavier, something raw. Then—a soft whine, low and broken, slipped from Yunho’s throat as he took a tentative step closer to Jongho’s door.

Wooyoung’s chest clenched. No, not now.

Before Yunho could get any closer, San reached out, his hand firm around Yunho’s wrist. “Not yet,” San whispered, voice gentle but insistent. He tugged Yunho back, guiding him toward the pack room. Yunho resisted for a second, his gaze lingering on the door, another quiet whine caught in his throat, but San didn’t let go.

Wooyoung held his breath, heart pounding, hoping—praying—that Jongho hadn’t heard.

When the faint shuffle of their footsteps faded down the hall, Wooyoung let out a shaky breath and pressed his forehead against his knees for a moment, gathering himself.

Then he kept going.

Not because he expected an answer. But because the silence felt like it might swallow them both whole.

“And San—" he started again, his voice softer this time—“once tried to ‘help’ me organize the spice rack. He thought it’d be ‘more efficient’ if everything was arranged by color.” He shook his head, leaning back against the door. “It took me two weeks to find the paprika again.”

Still nothing.

But Jongho’s breathing hadn’t stopped.

And Wooyoung didn’t leave.

The quiet stretched thin, fragile as glass. His back ached from sitting so long, but he didn’t move. His voice had faded minutes—or maybe hours—ago when words felt too small to fill the space between him and Jongho.

Then—

A faint click.

His breath caught. He didn’t dare shift, afraid even the slightest movement might scare Jongho back into himself. The door creaked open, just a sliver, not enough to see much—just a thin line of dim light spilling into the hall.

Through the gap, he could make out a shadow—Jongho’s outline, small and hunched; knees still pulled to his chest. His face was half-hidden, but Wooyoung could see enough to know he’d been crying—red-rimmed eyes, tear-streaked cheeks, skin too pale in the faint light.

Wooyoung didn’t rush to fill the silence.

Didn’t reach out.

Didn’t lean in.

He just whispered, “Hey.”

Jongho didn’t reply. Didn’t even really look at him. But he didn’t close the door either.

And somehow, that was enough.

Wooyoung stayed right where he was.

And he didn’t leave.

But then—

More footsteps.

Louder this time, voices soft but unmistakable—Mingi’s low hum of worry, Seonghwa’s quiet words, Yeosang and Hongjoong following close behind. The rest of the pack was coming up the stairs.

Jongho’s eyes flicked past Wooyoung’s shoulder, catching the movement, and his body tensed. His hand gripped the door again, starting to pull it shut.

Panic surged through Wooyoung—not fear for himself, but fear of losing the fragile thread they’d just started to weave.

“Wait,” Wooyoung whispered, his hand shooting out to press gently against the door before it could close. It's not forceful, just enough to keep it open. His heart pounded, but his voice stayed soft. “Jongho… can I come in? Just me. No one else.”

A beat of silence. Tense. Heavy.

Then Jongho’s grip on the door loosened, hesitation flickering across his tear-streaked face. His gaze darted past Wooyoung’s shoulder again, but this time… he didn’t close the door.

Wooyoung softened his voice even more, his heart in his throat. “You don’t have to talk. You don’t have to do anything. I just… I just don’t want you to be alone.”

Jongho didn’t answer.

But after a long, fragile pause, the door creaked open—just enough for Wooyoung to slip through.

Inside, the room was dim, shadows stretching across the floor. Jongho had retreated to the corner, knees pulled to his chest, arms wrapped tightly around them. His face was blotchy, eyes red and swollen from crying, but he didn’t turn away.

Wooyoung didn’t move any closer. He just sat down quietly by the door, folding himself into a small shape, keeping the space between them.

No words this time.

Just breathing.

Just being there.

And he didn’t leave.

Jongho was still curled in on himself, knees tucked tightly to his chest, his arms wrapped around them like a fragile shield. Wooyoung stayed where he was, back pressed against the door, his heart a quiet, steady ache.

He watched as Jongho’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment, only to snap open again, fighting sleep like it was something dangerous. His breathing was uneven, the exhaustion written in the droop of his shoulders and the faint tremble in his fingers.

Wooyoung’s voice was soft when he spoke. “You should lay down, Jongho. The bed will be more comfortable.”

Jongho didn’t move at first. His gaze flicked to Wooyoung, hesitation clear in the faint light. But slowly—like each movement took more effort than it should—he uncurled and climbed onto the bed, sitting on the edge with his knees pulled loosely toward his chest. His fingers twisted in the blanket, his eyes drifting back to Wooyoung.

The silence stretched between them, fragile but not unbearable.

“You can go be with the pack,” Jongho whispered, his voice hoarse and thin. “They probably need you.”

Wooyoung’s chest tightened, but he kept his voice light and gentle. “I’m sure they have it figured out. I’d like to stay here with you… if that’s alright?”

Jongho’s brow furrowed slightly, confusion flickering across his face like he didn’t quite understand why Wooyoung would choose to stay. But after a moment, he gave a small, tentative nod.

“Okay,” he whispered. “It’s… alright.”

Wooyoung stayed where he was, giving Jongho space, watching as he slowly lowered himself to lie back on the bed. His eyes drifted closed for a second, then opened again—still fighting the pull of sleep.

Wooyoung shifted slightly, adjusting against the door, trying to get comfortable. But something sharp and restless ached in his chest.

What if Yunho ruined this?

The thought crept in, uninvited and ruthless, coiling around his heart like a vice.

What if Jongho couldn’t look at any of them the same way anymore? 

What if every time he saw Wooyoung, he’d only feel echoes of fear, tangled up with Yunho’s voice, Yunho’s hands, Yunho’s loss of control?

What if this fragile thread between them—this quiet, tentative connection—had already snapped, and he was just too stubborn to see it?

He swallowed hard, the fear bitter and heavy in his throat. What if I’m not enough to fix it?

Then—barely a whisper, so soft he almost missed it—Jongho spoke.

“Do you… want to lay with me?”

Wooyoung’s heart skipped, something warm and fragile blooming in his chest, tangled with the ache of everything he was afraid to lose. He wanted to. God, he wanted to. But he kept his face neutral, not wanting to overwhelm Jongho with the intensity of his feelings.

“This wouldn’t be my first time sleeping on the floor,” Wooyoung chuckled softly, trying to ease the tension, to mask the way his heart was racing. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. Do you… want me to lay up there?”

Jongho didn’t respond with words.

Instead, his hand moved slowly, tugging the blanket back—just enough to make space, just enough for Wooyoung to understand.

Wooyoung swallowed hard, his heart racing. He stood carefully, trying not to make any sudden movements, even though every part of him wanted to sprint to the bed. He crossed the room, his steps soft against the floor, and slid under the covers, leaving a respectful gap between them.

The warmth from Jongho’s body was faint, but there was a quiet presence in the space between them.

Wooyoung turned his head slightly, his gaze falling on Jongho’s profile—soft in the dim light, his features relaxed but still etched with exhaustion.

Then Jongho whispered again, voice even softer than before.

“I got used to sleeping with San.”

Wooyoung’s heart ached, but he smiled gently, his voice low and warm. “That’s alright. I’m happy to fill in for him.”

But beneath the warmth of his words, the fear still lingered.

What if this is the closest I’ll ever get?

What if tomorrow he pulls away?

Wooyoung stayed awake for a little while longer, just watching the rise and fall of Jongho’s chest, the faint crease between his brows smoothing out as sleep pulled him under.

Eventually, Wooyoung’s own eyes grew heavy, the warmth beside him grounding him in a way he hadn’t expected.

He fell asleep to the quiet rhythm of Jongho’s breathing, the fragile space between them filled with something tender, real, and terrifyingly fleeting.

But he didn’t leave.

~~Hongjoong’s POV~~ 

The pack room felt suffocating.

Not from the heat—though Yunho was burning up, his skin slick with sweat—but from the weight of everything that had happened. The walls seemed to inch closer with every passing hour, thick with the heavy press of Yunho’s scent. It was sharp and tangled with distress, undercut by something unfamiliar—an edge that made Hongjoong’s instincts twist uncomfortably in his chest.

Yunho lay tangled in the sheets, trembling, his breath ragged and uneven. Low, broken whines slipped from his throat, fragile sounds that frayed the already thin threads holding Hongjoong together. His skin was flushed an alarming shade of red, damp with sweat that clung to his temples and soaked through the collar of his shirt. His eyes—when they opened—were glassy, pupils blown wide but unfocused, like he was looking straight through them.

San was wrapped around him like an anchor, his arms tight but gentle, face buried in the crook of Yunho’s neck as he whispered soft reassurances: “I’ve got you. You’re okay. I’m here.” His words were steady, but there was a tremor beneath them, frayed at the edges from exhaustion.

Mingi sat in a chair beside the bed, his hand shaking slightly as he dipped a rag into a bowl of cold water, wringing it out before pressing it gently against Yunho’s burning forehead. The coolness faded almost instantly, swallowed by the fever burning beneath Yunho’s skin. Mingi’s jaw was tight, dark circles heavy under his eyes, his expression drawn taut with worry.

Yeosang and Seonghwa sat close on the bed, their bodies tense, exhaustion etched into every line of their faces. Hongjoong sat at the edge, legs crossed, his hands resting in his lap. Fatigue tugged at all of them, heavy and insistent, but none of them could give in—not when Yunho’s grip on reality was this fragile.

Yunho wouldn’t let them leave.

Every time someone shifted even slightly away, Yunho’s hand shot out—weak, trembling, but desperate. His fingers curled around wrists, sleeves, and whatever he could reach. His glassy eyes were wide with panic, and his pupils dilated as if the space between them felt too vast, even when it was just inches.

“Don’t go,” he’d whisper, voice wrecked from hours of crying, his tone fragile and raw, like the words were all that kept him tethered.

So they stayed.

But Hongjoong couldn’t stop his thoughts from spiraling.

Why didn’t I see it?

The signs had been there—the sharp edge creeping into Yunho’s scent, the restless energy crackling beneath his usually steady presence, and the way his gaze had started to linger on Jongho, not with desire but with something heavier—a pull, maybe, a need he couldn’t name yet.

The shift had been subtle but not invisible.

I should’ve known.

Yunho whimpered again, his body tense beneath San’s arms. His hands fisted in the sheets, then relaxed, only to tighten again, like he couldn’t find a way to settle. His breathing hitched, uneven, and then—without warning—he turned toward Yeosang, pressing his face into the crook of his neck, inhaling like it was the only thing keeping him from unraveling completely.

Yeosang stiffened briefly, then relaxed, his hand coming up to rest gently against the back of Yunho’s head, his fingers threading through sweat-damp hair. But it wasn’t enough.

Yunho pulled away, his movements restless, untethered. He reached for Seonghwa next, clutching at his shirt with trembling fingers, burying his face against his chest, inhaling sharply like he could pull Seonghwa’s steadiness into his lungs.

But even that wasn’t enough.

Then Hongjoong felt it—Yunho’s hand, burning hot and shaking, reaching for him.

Hongjoong shifted closer without hesitation, letting Yunho pull him in. His face pressed against Hongjoong’s neck, breath scorching against his skin, uneven and broken. The sound of Yunho’s sobs, raw and wrecked, made Hongjoong’s heartache in places he didn’t know existed.

“I’m sorry,” Yunho whispered over and over again, his fingers clutching at Hongjoong’s shirt like he was afraid of being left behind. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—I didn’t—I’m so sorry.”

Hongjoong swallowed hard, trying to ignore the sting in his chest. He wanted to say something to ease the guilt in Yunho’s voice, but nothing felt right. Words felt too small, too fragile.

Then Yunho’s body tensed again, his grip tightening painfully around Hongjoong’s wrist.

“Where’s Jongho?”

His voice was hoarse, raw from hours of crying and whispering. His eyes flicked open, wild and glassy, darting around the room like he could pull Jongho into existence through sheer will.

“Yunho—” San tried to soothe him, but Yunho shook his head, tears slipping down his flushed cheeks.

“I need him. Please—I need him here. And Wooyoung. I—I need them.” His voice cracked, the desperation spilling out in waves, drowning the room in silence.

No one moved.

No one knew what to do.

Mingi’s hand trembled as he wiped Yunho’s forehead again, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked painful. Seonghwa’s eyes were glassy, his fingers digging into the sheets like he was trying to hold himself together. Yeosang stared at the floor, his face blank, but his shoulders were tight, his jaw clenched.

Hongjoong swallowed, forcing his voice to stay steady even though his chest felt like it was caving in.

“They’re okay,” he whispered, more to himself than to Yunho. “Wooyoung’s with him. They’re safe.”

But Yunho shook his head, his sobs growing louder, more broken. “I need them. I need to tell them I’m sorry. I didn’t—I didn’t mean—” His words dissolved into a choked sob, his body trembling harder as San tightened his hold, whispering soft reassurances that did little to ease the raw desperation spilling from Yunho’s chest.

Hongjoong’s heart twisted painfully, guilt clawing at the edges of his mind.

I should’ve seen it. I should’ve known.

But he didn’t.

And now they were here—fragile and frayed, holding onto each other because it was the only thing left to do.

Hongjoong reached out, brushing Yunho’s damp hair away from his face, his fingers trembling slightly.

“We’re not going anywhere,” he whispered, his voice soft but certain, even when everything inside him felt like it was falling apart.

The words had barely left his mouth before Yunho’s body jolted beneath him, sharp and sudden, as the fragile thread of control had finally snapped.

Yunho’s whines grew louder, rising from soft, broken sobs to something deeper—frayed with panic, thick with desperation. His hands shot out, trembling and frantic, clawing at Hongjoong’s shirt, then Seonghwa’s sleeve, then San’s arm, as if anchoring himself to them was the only thing keeping him grounded.

But it wasn’t enough.

With a sudden burst of strength fueled by pure instinct, Yunho shoved them off. It wasn’t violent—just frantic, desperate to move, to do something. San fell back with a startled gasp, Mingi stumbling as Yunho twisted out from under their hands.

“Yunho—” Hongjoong called out, but Yunho was already moving, legs unsteady as he scrambled out of the bed. His bare feet hit the cold floor, slipping slightly on the slickness of sweat clinging to his skin, but he didn’t stop. His breath came in ragged gasps, tears blurring his vision as he stumbled toward the door like it was the only thing that mattered.

“I need them—I need to make sure—they’re not—” His words tumbled out between sobs, his voice raw and broken. His hand reached for the doorknob, fingers slipping against the cool metal.

But Mingi was faster.

He lunged, wrapping his arms around Yunho’s waist from behind, pulling him back with a strained grunt. Yunho fought, his body thrashing with wild, desperate strength, arms flailing to break free.

“Let me go!” Yunho sobbed, his voice hoarse and wrecked. “I need them—I need—I can’t—”

San was there in an instant, grabbing Yunho’s arms, trying to pin them to his sides without hurting him. Yeosang moved next, pressing his weight against Yunho’s back, his arms firm but steady. Seonghwa reached for Yunho’s face, trying to get him to look—see them.

“Yunho, it’s us. It’s okay,” Seonghwa whispered, his voice trembling but gentle. “We’re here. You’re not alone.”

But Yunho was beyond words, his mind lost in a haze of fear and instinct. His body trembled violently, his legs buckling under the strain.

“Scent him,” Hongjoong commanded, his voice cutting through the chaos like a sharp blade. “Now.”

No hesitation.

San leaned in first, pressing his face against Yunho’s neck, his nose burying into the damp skin as he released a low, soothing hum. His scent—familiar and grounding—flooded the space between them, warm and steady.

Mingi followed, his face pressed against Yunho’s shoulder, inhaling deeply, his breath shaky but steadying as he exhaled warmth into Yunho’s overheated skin.

Yeosang and Seonghwa weren’t far behind, their touches gentle but firm, scenting along Yunho’s jaw, his hairline, his collarbone—anywhere they could reach, anywhere that might remind Yunho of where he was, of who he was with.

Hongjoong moved last, stepping closer until he could cradle Yunho’s face between his hands, his thumbs brushing over tear-streaked cheeks. He leaned in, forehead resting against Yunho’s as he exhaled slowly, letting his scent fill the small space between them.

The moment Hongjoong’s scent washed over him, Yunho whimpered—a fragile, broken sound caught somewhere between relief and surrender. His body sagged, the last thread of resistance slipping through his fingers as exhaustion finally pulled him under.

Mingi caught him before he hit the floor, strong arms wrapping around Yunho’s trembling form. There was no hesitation, no second-guessing—Mingi simply lifted him with ease, cradling Yunho against his chest like he was something precious.

“I’ve got you,” Mingi whispered, voice soft against Yunho’s temple as he carried him back to the bed.

The others followed, crowding close as Mingi gently laid Yunho down. They settled around him instinctively—San curling at his side, Seonghwa’s hand resting over his ankle, Yeosang’s fingers tracing light, grounding patterns along his thigh.

Hongjoong remained nearby, his hand slipping back into Yunho’s damp hair, fingers gently weaving through the strands as if he were untangling the tension buried deep within.

Yunho’s breathing evened out; each exhale softer than the last. His face, twisted with tension and fear, smoothed until only faint traces of exhaustion remained. His grip on Mingi’s sleeve loosened—not from defeat, but because he didn’t need to hold on so tightly anymore.

The room grew quieter, filled only with the soft rustle of blankets and the steady pattern of their breathing syncing together. Exhaustion crept in at the edges of Hongjoong’s awareness, heavy but not unwelcome.

And as Yunho finally drifted into sleep, surrounded on all sides, Hongjoong’s hand remained in his hair—a steady presence woven into the heartbeat of the pack.

***

~~Jongho’s POV~~

The first thing Jongho noticed was the quiet.

Not the comforting kind that settled in after a long day, but the kind that felt too still—like the walls themselves were holding their breath. Pale streaks of sunlight slipped through the edges of the curtains, cutting across the floor and the tangled sheets around his legs. His body felt heavy, not with sleep, but something deeper like the ache had settled into his bones overnight.

Fragments of the night before crept in—Yunho’s voice, raw and strained, the sharpness of it still echoing somewhere inside Jongho’s chest. It clung to him like static, invisible but impossible to shake.

He stared at the ceiling, letting his eyes trace nothing, hoping the emptiness would dull the sharp edges inside. But it didn’t. The ache stayed.

Then—

A soft breath beside him.

Jongho’s thoughts stuttered, pulling him back to the present. He turned his head slightly.

Wooyoung.

Curled on his side, awake but still—his eyes heavy, distant, like he was somewhere far away even though he was right there. Their gazes met, and Wooyoung blinked slowly as if dragging himself back into the moment.

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, fragile and worn around the edges.

“Hey,” he whispered, voice rough from sleep—or maybe from everything else. “Morning.”

Jongho swallowed, his throat dry.

“Morning,” he managed, quieter than he meant to be.

Wooyoung’s smile lingered, faint and tired, like it was more out of habit than anything else.

“I guess I wasn’t terrible company if you managed to sleep,” he said softly, trying to tease, but the words didn’t land with their usual energy. It wasn’t meant to be funny—just something to fill the space between them.

Jongho didn’t laugh, but his lips twitched slightly—a quiet acknowledgment.

Silence settled again, heavier this time, thick with everything unspoken.

Wooyoung’s gaze drifted to the blanket between them. His fingers found a loose thread, fiddling with it absently.

“I should check on Yunho soon,” he murmured, voice low, like speaking louder might crack something fragile between them.

Jongho’s chest tightened. He didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to say anything that would matter.

Wooyoung didn’t seem to expect an answer. He just kept pulling at the thread, his voice softer when he spoke again.

“Last night was bad.” He let out a slow breath, his shoulders sinking with it. “Worse than I’ve ever seen.”

Jongho stared at him, the words settling like stones in his chest. Yunho’s voice echoed again in his memory—desperate, frayed at the edges. He’d never seen anyone unravel like that, not even in the shelter, not like that.

"He's usually not like this," Wooyoung continued, voice distant, like he was trying to figure it out as he spoke, "This time's different."

His fingers stilled. His gaze lifted, meeting Jongho’s again, softer now. Tired but soft.

“I think he scared himself more than he scared us.”

Jongho nodded slowly. It felt like moving through thick, heavy water. The weight of it all pressed down on him, unfamiliar but sharp.

Wooyoung’s smile returned, faint and shaky around the edges like he was trying to smooth over something jagged even though it wasn’t working.

“I should go help with Yunho,” he said gently, his fingers brushing against Jongho’s arm—a light touch, fleeting, like grounding himself. Or maybe grounding Jongho. His voice softened even more. “You should go downstairs and get something to eat. Seonghwa and Yeosang are probably up.”

Jongho nodded again, his throat too tight for words.

Wooyoung sat up slowly, stretching his arms over his head with a soft sigh before swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He paused, his hand resting on the mattress like he was going to say more. But he didn’t. He just stood, casting one last glance over his shoulder—a small, tired smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes—before slipping out of the room.

The door clicked softly behind him.

Jongho stayed there, staring at the space where Wooyoung had been. The faint warmth of his presence lingered like an echo in the quiet.

Then, with a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, he pushed the blankets back, swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and started to get ready.

The stairs creaked softly under Jongho’s weight as he made his way down, each step feeling heavier than the last. He expected to hear something—laughter, voices overlapping in easy conversation, the faint sound of someone rummaging through the kitchen. The pack always seemed to fill the house with a warmth that reached into every corner.

But today, there was nothing.

The thick, unfamiliar silence pressed against his ears. The air felt too still like the house itself was holding its breath.

Jongho paused at the bottom of the stairs, his heart stumbling in his chest. The living room was empty; shadows stretched long across the floor where sunlight filtered through half-drawn curtains. The usual mess of blankets and pillows from the pack’s impromptu gatherings remained untouched, but it felt distant now—just objects, hollow without the people who made them feel like more.

In the kitchen, Seonghwa stood by the stove, his hands wrapped around a mug of tea. His posture was tight, his shoulders slightly hunched, as if the weight of something unseen pressed down on him. Across from him, Yeosang leaned against the counter; arms crossed over his chest. His expression was unreadable but focused in the quiet.

Jongho hovered at the edge of the room, unsure if he should step forward or turn back.

Seonghwa noticed him first, his head lifting slightly, eyes softening when they met Jongho’s.

“Good morning, Jongho,” he greeted gently, his voice calm but lacking its usual warmth. It wasn’t cold—not distant—but there was something held back, tucked beneath the surface like he was trying to keep it together.

Jongho nodded, swallowing the knot in his throat.

“Morning.”

Yeosang’s gaze shifted toward him then, sharp and steady. He didn’t soften the way Seonghwa did, but there was no malice in it—just blunt honesty.

“Yunho’s going into his rut,” he said, straight to the point, like ripping off a bandage.

Jongho froze, the words hanging in the air between them. He wasn’t sure what he expected to hear, but it wasn’t that. His mind scrambled to process it, unfamiliar with the dynamics, unsure how to react.

Seonghwa must’ve seen the shift in his face because he set his mug down gently and stepped closer, his expression softening even more.

“Jongho,” he said quietly, his voice steady but softer now, like he was choosing each word with care. “It’s not what you think. A rut isn’t… some out-of-control thing. It’s just intense. It pulls at instincts and emotions and makes everything feel bigger than it is. But it’s still Yunho. He’s still in there, even when it doesn’t seem like it.”

Jongho didn’t respond, his throat too tight.

Seonghwa’s hand hovered for a second, then settled lightly on Jongho’s arm—a grounding touch, careful and warm.

“He’s not dangerous,” Seonghwa added, his thumb brushing lightly as if to emphasize the truth in his words. “Not to us. Not to you.”

Before Jongho could nod again, Yeosang moved to the counter and pulled out a small plate with a few pieces of toasted bread, some cut fruit, and a small jar of honey—simple but fresh. Without saying anything, he set the plate on the table and gestured for Jongho to sit.

Jongho hesitated, but the warmth from Seonghwa’s touch lingered, gently urging him forward. He slid into the seat, the chair cool beneath him, and stared at the food for a moment before picking up a piece of toast. His hands felt clumsy, but the first bite helped—just enough to ground him, the faint sweetness of the honey soft against the dryness in his mouth.

Seonghwa joined him, sitting across the table with his tea, while Yeosang leaned back against the counter again, casually picking at a slice of apple.

“It’s probably best if we give them space,” Yeosang continued, his tone practical but not unkind. “The three of us can head out for a bit. It’ll help—less noise, less tension.”

Jongho swallowed hard, nodding because it felt like the only thing he could do. The bread sat heavy in his stomach, but it was better than the empty ache from before.

Seonghwa reached for a piece of fruit, his slow gesture a silent invitation for Jongho to follow.

As if mirroring Seonghwa, Jongho reached for a piece as well. He turned it between his fingers, feeling the slight give of its skin, but didn’t immediately take a bite. His appetite was uncertain, dulled by the weight of the morning and the lingering presence of the pack’s scent upstairs. It wasn’t unpleasant, not exactly, but it pressed in on him—reminding him of how closely he was tied to them now.

He brought the fruit to his lips but only managed a small bite, chewing without much thought. The taste was fine. Sweet, even. But he still felt out of place at the table, like he was occupying a space that didn’t quite belong to him.

Seonghwa didn’t say anything about the way Jongho hesitated, only watching him with quiet understanding. The silence wasn’t heavy, but it left Jongho feeling exposed as if Seonghwa could see through the way he toyed with the fruit instead of eating it. He took another small bite, more out of obligation than hunger, before carefully setting the rest down.

“Go grab your things,” Seonghwa said gently. “We’ll head out soon.

Jongho nodded again, his fingers lingering on the last bit of fruit before setting it down. The silence wasn’t as heavy now—not quite filled, but no longer pressing in around him. It rested between them like the last notes of a song fading into quiet, something unspoken but understood.

As he made his way back upstairs, the faint taste of honey lingered on his tongue, a fragile reminder of warmth that didn’t fully settle the ache in his chest. The soft creak of the steps was the only sound breaking through the thick stillness, each step feeling heavier than the last.

But it wasn’t just the quiet that pressed in around him.

The moment he reached the top of the stairs, it hit him—an overwhelming wave of scent, thick and layered, clinging to the walls as it had seeped into the very air. Yunho’s was the strongest, sharp and raw beneath the familiar grounding notes of juniper and amber, now frayed at the edges with something desperate and wild. Intertwined with it were San’s softer undertones—cherry blossoms and white tea, usually light and airy, now dense, almost suffocating in how fiercely it lingered. And threaded through it all was Hongjoong’s smoky vanilla and citrus, usually subtle, now heavy with the weight of exhaustion and worry.

Jongho’s breath caught, his chest tightening around something he couldn’t name. It wasn’t the strength of the scents—it was the way they filled every inch of space, tangled together like echoes of something he hadn’t witnessed but could still feel.

He didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until his lungs burned, forcing him to exhale slowly, shakily. His own scent—faint and buried beneath it all—felt distant, almost absent.

Without thinking, his steps carried him toward his room, the door a fragile boundary against the weight pressing in from the rest of the house. But even there, the traces lingered, woven into the quiet like threads he couldn’t pull loose.

The room was exactly as he’d left it. The bed was rumpled, the faint imprint of where Wooyoung had been still visible. The morning light slanted across the floor, casting long, pale streaks that didn’t reach the corners, leaving shadows untouched.

His eyes landed on his scarf, folded neatly on the small dresser. He picked it up without hesitation, the familiar fabric soft and worn beneath his fingers. Without thinking too much about it, he tied it around his wrist, the motion quick but careful, the knot snug against his skin. It felt like a quiet reassurance, something solid and real.

His gaze drifted toward the small stack of items on the nightstand. Sitting there was the book Seonghwa had given him. His fingers hovered over it for a moment before he picked it up, the weight of it familiar and grounding. The cover was smooth, edges slightly worn from where his thumb had traced it more than he’d realized. He didn’t know if he’d read it today, but he tucked it under his arm anyway.

Crossing the room, he opened the small closet tucked in the corner. A jacket hung there—one he hadn’t worn yet. The fabric was clean, the folds still sharp from when it had been packed away. He slipped it on, the sleeves a little stiff compared to the one he usually wore, but it was warm, the weight of it settling over his shoulders like a quiet comfort.

When he walked downstairs, Seonghwa was by the door, slipping on his shoes with quiet efficiency. Yeosang stood nearby, his expression neutral but not unkind, fingers absently fiddling with something small and black in his hands.

As Jongho approached, their gazes lifted to meet his—Seonghwa’s soft and warm, Yeosang’s sharp but steady. There was something else beneath the surface, though—something he couldn’t quite name. Their eyes lingered on him in a way that felt too much and not enough all at once as if they were seeing something he didn’t understand.

Seonghwa’s lips curved into a faint smile, the corners soft like it was meant just for him. Yeosang’s expression didn’t shift much, but there was a quietness to it, an intensity that felt less like scrutiny and more like… something else. Something Jongho didn’t know how to hold.

Without a word, Yeosang stepped forward, holding out a small black item in his hands. It took Jongho a moment to realize what it was—a collar. It was simple and unadorned, with a soft matte finish that caught the faint light from the window.

“It’s just temporary,” Seonghwa said gently, his voice low as if he didn’t want to disrupt the quiet. “Something for when we’re outside. We’ll get you a different one soon—something you like.”

Jongho’s breath hitched, his gaze fixed on the collar. The words felt distant, blurred around the edges. His fingers hovered before reaching out, brushing over the material. It was softer than he expected—smooth, with no sharp edges, the clasp light but secure.

For a moment, he just held it, his thumb tracing the curve of the band. It was simple. Ordinary. But to him, it felt like more.

When he glanced up, Seonghwa and Yeosang were both watching him. There was no impatience in their faces, no expectation. Just… something soft. Something steady. Their eyes didn’t move, didn’t shift away like people usually did when they’d had enough of looking at him. They stayed. And it felt like standing in the sun after too long in the shade—warm but unfamiliar, almost too much to bear.

Jongho swallowed hard, his throat tight, and carefully fastened the collar around his neck. The motion was slow and deliberate like he needed to get it right. It fit perfectly—not too tight, not too loose—just enough to remind him it was there.

Yeosang stepped back, his expression unreadable, but his gaze lingered for a second longer like he was holding something unspoken. Seonghwa gave Jongho another soft smile, warm in a way Jongho couldn’t understand like he was someone worth smiling at.

The house was quiet again as they gathered their things, but it wasn’t the same kind of quiet as before. This one felt softer somehow, filled with the faint traces of what had been left unsaid.

At the door, Jongho hesitated. His hand hovered near the knob, fingers brushing the cool surface. He glanced back toward the stairs and the hallway beyond—like he was expecting to hear someone call him back. But the house remained still, filled only with echoes.

A gentle hand settled on his shoulder.

Seonghwa.

His touch was light but steady, grounding Jongho in place.

“They’ll be okay,” Seonghwa said softly, his voice a quiet anchor in the stillness. After a pause, he added, “And so will we.”

Jongho swallowed hard and nodded, stepping outside with them. The faint weight of the collar around his neck and the warmth of Seonghwa’s touch lingered even after the door clicked shut behind them.

Chapter Text

〜〜Jongho’s POV〜～

The drive was quiet but not uncomfortable. The low hum of the engine filled the space between them unobtrusively, accompanied only by the occasional turn signal and the faint rustling of fabric as someone shifted in their seat.

Jongho sat in the back, his hands resting loosely on his lap. His fingers absently brushed over the soft edge of his scarf, which was tied around his wrist. The new collar, light around his neck, was unfamiliar but not constricting, a constant presence against his skin. He hadn’t touched it since fastening it earlier, unsure if acknowledging it would make the weight feel heavier.

Seonghwa drove, one hand resting lightly on the wheel, the other occasionally adjusting the climate controls or changing lanes with smooth, practiced ease. Yeosang sat in the passenger seat, scrolling through his phone in silence, the faint glow of the screen reflecting in his eyes.

No one had spoken much since they left the house, but it wasn’t tense. It felt… settled, like they were all catching their breath after an exhausting morning.

Jongho’s gaze flickered to the window, watching as the buildings blurred past, eventually giving way to wider streets lined with bare trees, their skeletal branches stretching toward the overcast sky. The shift from the city’s density to something quieter was gradual but noticeable—the way the roads seemed less cluttered, the sidewalks less hurried.

A sign flashed by—Maplewood Park—and Jongho’s fingers instinctively curled against his knee. It didn’t say anything about being hybrid-friendly.

“We’re almost there,” Seonghwa said, his voice smooth but soft, like he didn’t want to break whatever fragile quiet they had settled into.

Yeosang glanced up from his phone and turned slightly in his seat. “It’s a hybrid-safe park,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact, like he already knew what Jongho was thinking. “They just don’t advertise it on the signs.”

Jongho nodded but didn’t say anything. He wasn’t sure if that made him feel better or worse.

Seonghwa pulled into the small parking lot, maneuvering the car into a space near the entrance. The park stretched out beyond the windshield—wide, open, edged with winding paths and clusters of trees. A few scattered benches sat beneath covered awnings, and further in, Jongho could make out the blurred figures of a few hybrids walking or sitting along the pathways.

It was quiet. Peaceful.

Seonghwa shut off the engine and turned slightly in his seat, offering Jongho a small, warm smile. “We’ll just walk for a bit,” he said lightly as if sensing Jongho’s hesitation. “No rush. No plans. Just fresh air.”

Jongho swallowed, then gave a small nod.

Yeosang opened his door first, stepping out without a word. Jongho followed, the cool air hitting him as soon as he stepped onto the pavement. It wasn’t too cold, but enough that he was glad for the new jacket. The material was still stiff from being unworn, but the warmth settled over him in a way that made him feel a little more grounded.

Seonghwa stretched briefly before shutting the driver’s side door. “Come on,” he said, nodding toward the path. “Let’s walk.”

Jongho hesitated for only a moment before stepping forward, falling into a quiet step beside them.

The path stretched ahead of them, curving gently through the park. The trees were mostly bare, their branches thin and reaching toward the overcast sky, but the crisp air carried the faint scent of damp earth and fallen leaves.

Jongho kept his hands tucked into his jacket pockets, his gaze flickering from one thing to another—watching but never lingering. The space around him felt open in a way that made his steps too deliberate as if he was supposed to be going somewhere specific even though they had no real destination.

Seonghwa and Yeosang walked on either side of him, their conversation light. Their easy rhythm filled the quiet without demanding anything from him.

“I told them the window placements were wrong,” Yeosang said, sounding unimpressed. “They ignored me. Now they’re calling because the sun hits directly into the main seating area at the worst possible angle.”

Seonghwa huffed a small laugh. “Let me guess—they want you to fix it without changing the design.”

Yeosang sighed. “Exactly. As if I can magically reposition the sun for them.”

Jongho said nothing, but he liked listening. Their low murmur was steady and grounding, making the open space feel a little less unfamiliar.

It took him a moment to realize they were watching him.

Not directly—Yeosang’s eyes flicked toward him in quick glances, and Seonghwa’s voice had softened like he was leaving room for him to step in.

Yeosang tilted his head slightly in Jongho’s direction. “What about you? Do you like big windows?”

Jongho blinked, caught off guard by the question. “I… don’t know.”

Seonghwa smiled, gentle but encouraging. “What about in the shelter? Did the rooms have a lot of light?”

Jongho hesitated, thinking back. “Some of them did.” His fingers curled slightly in his pockets. “I didn’t like sitting near them, though.”

Yeosang raised a brow. “Too bright?”

Jongho shook his head. “Too open.”

Yeosang hummed like that made perfect sense, nodding to himself. “I get that.”

Seonghwa didn’t say anything, but Jongho could feel his quiet understanding, the way he didn’t press for more.

They didn’t push him for another answer after that. They just kept walking, letting him settle back into the quiet.

The three of them walked in silence for a while after that, the conversation fading into the soft sounds of the park—the rustling of leaves, the distant murmur of voices, the occasional chirp of a bird overhead.

Jongho let himself focus on the rhythm of their steps, the quiet ease of simply existing alongside them.

Until a flicker of movement caught his eye.

Something small darted across the open grass, fast and light on their feet. They weaved between a bench and a tree, momentum barely slowing before they made a sharp turn—straight toward him.

Jongho stopped short, his muscles locking up before he even thought about it.

A hybrid.

Small, with white and brown fur and large ears that twitched as they skidded to a sudden stop in front of him.

“WHOA!”

Jongho barely had time to react before the bunny hybrid bounced on their heels, staring up at him with wide, gleaming eyes.

“You’re a bear!” they blurted, their nose twitching rapidly. “You’re really big!”

Jongho didn’t move.

The bunny hybrid stepped closer, their entire body practically buzzing with excitement.

“Do you climb trees?! Do you hibernate?! Are you really strong?!”

Seonghwa let out a quiet laugh beside him but didn’t interfere.

Jongho wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do.

The bunny hybrid’s gaze swept over him like they were committing him to memory, their nose twitching again.

“Wait—are you warm?” Their tail flicked. “I bet you’re warm. Do you like hugs?”

Jongho took half a step back.

A voice—breathless and strained—called out behind them.

“Hey! Slow down!”

A human jogged up, panting like they had been trying to keep up for a while.

“I’m so sorry,” they gasped, pressing a hand to their side. “He—he saw you and just took off—he gets excited around big hybrids—”

The bunny completely ignored their owner.

They rocked back on their heels before tilting their head toward Seonghwa and Yeosang.

“Can he play?”

Jongho stiffened.

The word lodged itself in his throat.

Playing. He knew what that meant—or what it had meant before. A test. A way to see who was strongest, fastest, worth keeping.

His fingers curled in his pockets. “I don’t… know how.”

The bunny hybrid blinked up at him.

Then—without hesitation—they beamed.

“That’s okay! I can show you!”

Jongho’s fingers curled tighter in his pockets. He didn’t know what to do.

The bunny hybrid was still looking at him expectantly, ears twitching, tail flicking behind them like they were barely holding still.

Jongho’s first instinct was to step back. To shake his head. To turn away.

Instead, he glanced at Yeosang and Seonghwa.

Yeosang raised an eyebrow, arms loosely crossed, looking as unreadable as ever. But there was no impatience, no expectation—just a quiet, lingering gaze that told Jongho the choice was his to make.

Seonghwa’s expression was warmer, softer. Encouraging.

Neither of them told him what to do. They didn’t answer for him.

But they weren’t stopping him, either.

Jongho exhaled slowly, his grip loosening. The bunny hybrid was still watching, practically vibrating in place.

Jongho hesitated. His muscles were locked tight, instincts screaming at him to stay still, to not fall for it, to not trust it.

But… the bunny wasn’t mocking him.

They weren’t testing him.

They just wanted to play.

Jongho inhaled sharply through his nose. Then, finally—he moved.

It was stiff at first. Uncertain.

He took one step. Then another.

The bunny hybrid grinned and took off instantly, feet barely touching the ground as they darted forward.

“Come on! Try to catch me!”

Jongho barely had a chance to react before they looped back around, hopping in place beside him before darting forward again.

They weren’t running away. They were inviting him in.

Jongho tensed, his legs stiff, unsure of what to do with himself. But the bunny hybrid kept circling, looping back toward him, weaving in and out, giving him chances to follow.

“Are bears slow? I thought you’d be faster!” they teased, laughing.

Jongho’s ears twitched. He wasn’t sure why, but something about the way they said it didn’t make him bristle.

It wasn’t a taunt. It was an invitation.

His shoulders dropped slightly.

And then—he moved.

At first, his steps were too controlled, too careful.

But the bunny twisted around again, darting just out of reach, still laughing, still waiting.

So Jongho let go.

The next step came easier. And the one after that.

His pace quickened, weight shifting naturally as his body adjusted—not perfect, not graceful, but not hesitant either.

The bunny let out a delighted yelp and bolted ahead, weaving between the trees.

Jongho followed.

Jongho couldn’t remember the last time he ran like this.

Not because he was being chased.

Not because he had to get away.

Just… because he could.

His steps felt natural, his body moving in a way that wasn’t forced or stiff. He was keeping up, adjusting without thinking, shifting his weight smoothly as the bunny hybrid darted ahead. His muscles burned—not in the way they used to, from pushing himself too hard to prove something—but with something lighter.

Something easy.

He was having fun.

The realization hit him all at once, throwing him off balance in a way that had nothing to do with his steps.

Jongho slowed, breathing steadily but suddenly aware of himself again. His gaze flickered to the side, toward where Seonghwa and Yeosang had stopped walking, standing a little farther away.

They were watching him—not analyzing, not waiting for him to fail, but simply watching.

Seonghwa’s smile was soft, the kind that wasn’t meant to be noticed but still carried warmth, like a quiet reassurance. Yeosang’s expression was unreadable at first, but there was something certain in his eyes—a quiet understanding, like he was seeing something in Jongho that even Jongho hadn’t figured out yet.

They weren’t calling him back.

They weren’t stopping him.

They were just there.

Jongho looked away, something heavy settling beneath his ribs.

Before he could untangle it, the bunny hybrid skidded to a stop in front of him, grinning.

Their ears twitched as they tilted their head. “You’re not bad at this, you know.”

The game stretched on longer than Jongho expected, the bunny hybrid’s energy seemingly limitless.

Jongho, on the other hand, was starting to slow down.

The bunny looped around him one last time before stopping abruptly, their chest rising and falling quickly, their nose twitching as they grinned.

“That was fun!” They rocked back on their heels, ears flicking excitedly. “You’re fast! Not as fast as me—but still fast!”

Jongho huffed a quiet breath. “You… run a lot.”

The bunny hybrid beamed. “Of course! Running’s the best part of playing!”

Jongho didn’t respond right away, his heartbeat still settling, his muscles buzzing with a kind of lightness he didn’t know what to do with.

He wasn’t sure how to describe it.

But when the bunny hybrid’s nose twitched, and they tilted their head, ears flopping slightly, the next words came surprisingly easy.

“…It was fun.”

The bunny hybrid’s tail flicked excitedly. “Then we should play again sometime!”

Jongho blinked.

Play again?

The idea sat unfamiliar but not unwelcome.

Slowly, he nodded. “…I’d like that.”

The bunny hybrid beamed with such enthusiasm that their whole body seemed to buzz with joy. Then, as if recalling something, they abruptly turned around to face Seonghwa and Yeosang, who approached alongside the bunnies' owner. 

“Can he?”

Yeosang raised an eyebrow. “Can he what?”

“Come back and play again!” The bunny hybrid stomped a foot, tail twitching as they stared up at them. “He said he wants to, but I have to see him again! Please?”

Seonghwa let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head fondly. “That’s not up to us.”

The bunny hybrid pouted dramatically. “But you’re with him!”

Yeosang sighed, glancing at Jongho. “That’s true. What do you think?”

Jongho felt all four sets of eyes on him.

He hesitated. Not because he didn’t know the answer—but because it had been a long time since someone had asked him what he wanted like this.

“…I wouldn’t mind coming back,” he admitted.

The bunny hybrid grinned so hard they practically bounced.

“Then it’s a deal!”

Jongho was still catching his breath when Seonghwa placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Ready to head out?”

Jongho blinked, grounding himself in the present. The bunny hybrid had finally relented, though they were still beaming like they’d just won something. Their tail flicked happily as they gave Jongho one last little bounce before trotting back to their owner, who looked equal parts exasperated and amused.

Seonghwa’s touch was light, not pushing, just a small reminder that they were moving on.

Jongho nodded. He was warm from the running, from the lingering energy buzzing in his limbs, but he let himself settle as they started walking again.

The atmosphere shifted as they moved away from the open space. The sound of leaves crunching beneath their feet filled the silence, the cool air brushing against Jongho’s heated skin. He wasn’t sure what to do with the lightness still lingering in his chest.

It wasn’t bad. Just… unfamiliar.

“You’re quiet,” Yeosang observed, glancing at him.

Jongho hesitated. “I don’t… usually run like that.”

Yeosang hummed like that was expected. “Because you didn’t want to?”

Jongho shook his head. “Because I never had a reason to.”

Seonghwa’s expression softened. “Did you like it?”

Jongho thought about it for a moment. “I think so.”

Seonghwa’s lips curled into something small, something that made Jongho’s stomach twist for reasons he didn’t understand.

“Good,” Seonghwa said simply.

They reached the edge of the park, where Yeosang had parked the car earlier. It wasn’t a long drive to his office, but when they slid inside, Jongho still felt the warmth of the park clinging to his skin, lingering in the edges of his mind.

Yeosang started the car, adjusting his seatbelt before speaking.

“I need to stop by my office for a bit,” he said, glancing at them in the rearview mirror. “It won’t take long. I just need to check in on a few things while we’re out.”

Jongho’s ears twitched slightly as he listened.

He was still trying to understand what Yeosang did exactly. He knew it involved architecture, specifically designing spaces for hybrids, but the details were vague beyond that.

Now, he was about to find out.

The city outside blurred past the window, buildings and signs flickering in and out of focus as they drove.

The drive didn’t take long.

Jongho watched the city pass by through the window. Buildings stacked against the sky in neat rows, the streets lined with people moving in steady, purposeful streams. The houses and storefronts gradually gave way to taller, sleeker structures, glass and steel reflecting the muted afternoon light.

Yeosang pulled into an underground parking garage, maneuvering smoothly into a reserved space near the elevator. The moment the car engine shut off, the stillness inside the vehicle became more noticeable.

Jongho shifted slightly, fingers curling against his jacket.

“This way,” Yeosang said simply, already stepping out.

Jongho hesitated for only a second before following.

The garage smelled of cement and faint exhaust, but it wasn’t unpleasant—just another unfamiliar place in a long list of unfamiliar places.

Seonghwa walked beside him as they approached the elevator, the quiet hum of their footsteps echoing against the concrete walls.

Yeosang pressed the call button, and the doors slid open smoothly.

Jongho stepped inside last, standing near the back as Yeosang hit the button for the eighth floor.

The ride up was quiet.

Jongho’s ears twitched slightly as the soft chime announced their arrival. The doors slid open to reveal a sleek, open office space—modern but not cold. Large windows lined one side, allowing natural light to spill across the polished floors. Several workstations were neatly arranged throughout, occupied by a few employees who barely glanced up as they entered.

The air smelled different here—wood, fresh paper, faint traces of coffee.

Jongho hesitated at the threshold.

He didn’t know what he had expected, but it wasn’t… this.

He had assumed offices would be harsh—stiff chairs, sterile walls, spaces that weren’t meant to be lived in. But this place was nothing like that.

It felt thoughtful. Purposeful.

Seonghwa stepped in first, glancing back at Jongho before nodding toward Yeosang. “Where do you need to go?”

“My office,” Yeosang replied, already leading the way. “I just need to grab a few things.”

Jongho followed them through the space, his steps quieter than necessary.

As they passed one of the desks, a man looked up from his screen, brows pulling together in faint confusion.

“I didn’t think you were coming in today.” He leaned back slightly, spinning his chair toward Yeosang. “You hate being here.”

Yeosang exhaled through his nose. “Thanks for the reminder, Taehyun.”

Taehyun smirked but didn’t argue. His gaze flickered briefly to Seonghwa and then to Jongho, but he didn’t linger; he just nodded in acknowledgment.

“What brings you in, then?” Taehyun asked, shifting his focus back to Yeosang.

“Needed to grab some things.” Yeosang’s response was clipped but not impatient.

Taehyun hummed, unconvinced, but didn’t push. Instead, he gestured toward Yeosang’s office with his pen. “Your blueprints came in this morning. Left them on your desk.”

“Good,” Yeosang said. “Anything else?”

Taehyun shook his head. “Nope. But if you’re actually working from here today, I might have a heart attack.”

Yeosang scoffed, already walking away. “You’ll survive.”

Jongho followed without a word, but his eyes lingered on the designs spread across Taehyun’s desk. The neat sketches, the precise lines, the scribbled notes filling the margins—it was all structured but alive in a way he hadn’t expected.

This wasn’t just work.

It was the blueprint for something real.

They reached Yeosang’s office, a glass-walled room near the far end of the space. Inside, large design boards leaned against the walls; sketches spread across the desk, and blueprints stacked in neat piles.

Jongho stepped in cautiously, unsure if he should be here at all.

The office smelled like paper and ink, faint traces of coffee, something clean and precise. Jongho had never been in a place like this before—not a shelter, not a home, not anywhere he belonged.

His gaze moved over the designs first—layouts for hybrid-friendly housing, community centers, and modifications for existing spaces. It was all clean and efficient—but full of small details meant for hybrids and spaces built with movement in mind.

But as he followed Seonghwa and Yeosang inside, his gaze caught on something unexpected.

A photograph.

It sat on the desk, half-buried under the edge of a blueprint like it had been set down in a hurry and never moved. Not a professional portrait, not something staged—just a simple picture, slightly off-center, of the pack.

Jongho recognized it instantly. The kitchen—warm, familiar, full.

Yunho had an arm around Mingi, both of them laughing at something out of frame. Seonghwa’s eyes were crinkled at the corners; head tilted like he had just said something that made Hongjoong roll his eyes. Wooyoung was mid-motion, probably yelling about something ridiculous, and San was half out of the shot, leaning into Mingi’s side.

And Hongjoong—Hongjoong was the only one looking directly at the camera. His expression was softer than usual, like he already knew the picture would turn out lopsided, but he didn’t mind.

Jongho swallowed.

He wasn’t in it.

Of course, he wasn’t. He hadn’t been there yet.

But that didn’t stop the sharp, inexplicable ache that settled low in his ribs.

It wasn’t jealousy. It wasn’t even longing. It was… something else.

Like standing in a doorway, watching the warmth of a house spill out onto the street, but never quite stepping inside.

Something in his chest pulled tight.

He forced himself to look away.

Yeosang didn’t notice, already flipping through a stack of papers. Seonghwa glanced at him once—noticing but not prying.

Jongho exhaled through his nose, shifting his focus.

It didn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter.

But the feeling stayed.

Then Yeosang spoke. “I need to check something before we go.”

He was already moving toward the desk, flipping through the files with quick, practiced motions. He pulled a stack forward, frowning slightly before flattening a few pages against the surface.

Jongho barely glanced at them at first—just more papers, more numbers, none of his business.

But then—the word caught his eye.

Shelter.

His stomach twisted before his mind caught up.

Rows of images. Neat blocks of text. The kind of clinical formatting that stripped places like that of the people inside them.

Jongho knew what those places looked like.

And suddenly, he couldn’t look away.

Seonghwa leaned over slightly, scanning the papers on Yeosang’s desk. “Is this for a client?”

Yeosang shook his head. “No. It’s a shelter project I’m consulting on.”

Jongho’s fingers curled slightly at the word. Shelter.

He hadn’t meant to look, but the stack of papers wasn’t just filled with neat diagrams and technical notes. There were pictures. Stark, grainy images of rooms that felt too familiar—rows of bunk beds, sterile white walls, nothing personal in sight.

He recognized the kind of place immediately.

His stomach twisted.

Seonghwa flipped through a few pages. “What’s the issue?”

Yeosang exhaled through his nose, setting one of the files down. “The usual. Overcrowding, bad layouts. They don’t design with hybrids in mind, just what’s easiest to maintain. It’s all cold surfaces and cheap materials.”

Jongho knew exactly what that meant. He had lived it.

The rigid mattresses offered no relief for aching muscles. The overhead lights buzzed, bright and sterile, preventing the rooms from ever feeling dark enough for true relaxation. The walls were sound-absorbing, leaving every noise—every breath, every rustle of fabric—resonating.

The kind of space that made it impossible to forget you weren’t home.

Seonghwa frowned, flipping to another section. “So what’s your role in all this?”

“I’m reviewing their planned renovations, making sure they actually work instead of just looking good on paper.” Yeosang’s voice was calm, but there was an edge to it—subtle, but there. “Some of them don’t see the problem with what they have.”

Jongho’s jaw tensed. Of course, they don’t.

He was still staring at the papers, but he wasn’t really seeing them anymore.

The feeling pressed in too fast, too tight—like his own memories had been shoved under fluorescent lights, forced to sit still for dissection.

Yeosang’s voice cut through his thoughts. “You don’t have to look.” His tone was even, steady, but not dismissive.

Jongho swallowed his throat tight. “I know what shelters look like.”

It came out flat, more bitter than he meant.

Seonghwa’s head turned slightly toward him, but he didn’t interrupt.

Yeosang didn’t react much, either. Just watched him for a second. Then, instead of brushing past it, he said, “They shouldn’t look like that.”

Jongho’s breath caught.

It wasn’t a comforting statement. Not a soft reassurance. Just matter-of-fact.

But something about it landed deeper than any attempt at sympathy would have.

He forced himself to look back at the papers, but it didn’t feel the same anymore. Because now, instead of just seeing what was, he could see the changes Yeosang had marked in the margins—small adjustments but thoughtful ones.

Shatterproof glass was replaced with sound-dampening glass. Cheaper foam mattresses were swapped for memory support ones. Spaces were divided not just for efficiency but also for actual comfort.

They weren’t huge changes.

But they mattered.

Jongho exhaled through his nose, feeling the tension ease—just slightly. “Are they actually listening to you?”

Yeosang’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “They don’t have a choice.”

Jongho glanced at him, caught slightly off guard by the certainty in his voice.

Yeosang met his gaze. “I have funding connections.” A pause. “And I know how to make them nervous.”

Jongho didn’t know what to do with that.

Seonghwa huffed a quiet breath. “That sounds about right.”

Yeosang went back to stacking the files, brushing the last of the images into a neat pile. “Come on,” he said, tone shifting back to something brisk, final. “I’m done here.”

And just like that, the conversation was over.

But when Jongho stepped away from the desk, he still felt the weight of it settle somewhere deep in his ribs.

Jongho didn’t realize how tightly his fingers had curled until Yeosang moved, smoothly gathering up the files. The papers rustled, breaking the silence that had settled between them.

“Let’s go,” Yeosang said, voice even as he stacked the documents back into a folder.

Jongho hesitated for a fraction of a second before stepping back from the desk. The sharp feeling in his chest hadn’t faded completely, but the weight of it was easier to ignore now—buried beneath the steady movements of Seonghwa and Yeosang as they prepared to leave.

He followed them toward the exit, the quiet hum of the office setting behind them. Taehyun was still at his desk when they passed, his gaze flicking up briefly as he rolled his chair back just enough to block Yeosang’s path.

“You’re leaving already?” he asked, an amused lilt to his voice. “Wow. That was a record.”

Yeosang sighed, sidestepping without slowing down. “If you want me to stay, you can pay me.”

“You already get paid,” Taehyun shot back.

“Not enough,” Yeosang called over his shoulder as he pressed the elevator button.

Taehyun huffed a quiet laugh but didn’t argue. His gaze flicked toward Jongho for a brief moment—just long enough to register his presence before shifting away, uninterested.

Jongho didn’t mind.

The elevator doors slid open, and the three of them stepped inside. The descent was quiet, the faint hum of the floor indicator ticking down each level

Jongho exhaled slowly through his nose, focusing on the even rhythm of the motion beneath his feet.

The office had felt… strange. Not bad, not uncomfortable, just unfamiliar in a way he hadn’t been expecting. Seeing the word shelter had twisted something deep in his stomach, but he wasn’t sure if it was from recognition or something closer to dread.

Still, the moment they stepped back into the garage, the tension in his chest loosened slightly. The air felt different out here—cooler, less contained.

Yeosang unlocked the car with a short beep, slipping into the driver’s seat.

Seonghwa clicked his seatbelt into place, stretching slightly before shifting to look at Yeosang. “So, what’s the plan now?”

Yeosang adjusted his mirrors, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. “We could head home.”

Seonghwa hummed, considering. “Maybe. I don’t know if going back right now is the best idea, though.”

Jongho glanced between them.

Yeosang exhaled as he had already expected that response. “Yeah. The house might still be…” He didn’t finish the sentence, but the weight of it hung between them.

Jongho didn’t need them to explain. The scent of heat and tension had lingered upstairs when they left.

Seonghwa pulled out his phone. “I’ll text Hongjoong and see how things are. But in the meantime, we should get something to eat. We didn’t really have breakfast.”

Yeosang nodded once, already reversing out of the parking spot. “There’s a café nearby. We’ll stop there first.”

Jongho’s fingers twitched slightly in his lap.

A café.

He had never been to one before.

He had seen them, of course—glimpsed warm-lit windows from a distance, watched people filter in and out, hands wrapped around steaming cups or balancing trays filled with pastries. But that was different. Watching from the outside wasn’t the same as being inside.

The thought settled uneasily in his stomach, but he didn’t say anything.

Seonghwa typed out a quick message, his thumb moving fluidly over the screen before setting his phone down with a sigh. “Alright, we’ll eat first. Hongjoong will let us know if we should head back after.”

Yeosang merged onto the road smoothly, his attention fixed on the street ahead. “Good. Let’s see how things are in an hour.”

Jongho curled his fingers loosely against his jacket and let the city pull him forward.

〜〜Seonghwa’s POV〜〜

Seonghwa stepped inside first, holding the door open for Jongho and Yeosang to follow. The café was quiet, the kind of place people lingered rather than rushed through. A few customers sat at tables, hunched over laptops or stirring their drinks absently, lost in thought. The air smelled warm—fresh bread, steeping tea, something subtly spiced.

Jongho hesitated just inside the doorway. Not tense, but… uncertain.

Seonghwa had seen it before—Jongho taking in new places like they might turn on him at any second. Even now, his gaze flicked over the space, noting the layout, the distance between tables, and where the exits were.

Yeosang barely paused before heading toward the counter. “They’ve got good food here.” A simple statement like that was all that mattered.

Seonghwa let Jongho adjust at his own pace, waiting until his shoulders dropped just slightly before stepping forward. “Come on. We’ll order first.”

Jongho followed, his gaze flicking toward the menu behind the counter. Seonghwa watched him, trying to read if anything caught his interest.

Yeosang ordered a rice bowl, something with grilled fish and greens, and a hot drink first. Seonghwa ordered a simple vegetable soup with honey ginger tea.

Jongho didn’t move at first. His fingers twitched at his sides like he was weighing the right answer rather than just choosing.

“Their soup is good,” Seonghwa said lightly. “And the rice bowls.”

Jongho nodded slightly, then spoke quietly but without hesitation. “I’ll have the soup.” A pause. Then, like he was testing the words, “And rice, too.”

Seonghwa smiled. “Good choice.”

Jongho shifted slightly, his gaze flickering to the drinks. After a moment, he looked at Seonghwa’s cup. “What’s that?”

“Honey, ginger tea.” Seonghwa lifted the cup slightly. “It’s warm, a little sweet, and the ginger helps with—” He stopped himself. Jongho didn’t need a lecture on tea benefits. “It’s good.”

Jongho hesitated, his fingers flexing at his side. Then, after a brief pause—“I think I want to try it.”

Seonghwa blinked, caught a little off guard, but his smile softened. “Yeah?”

Jongho gave a small nod.

Seonghwa turned back to the barista without missing a beat. “Add another honey ginger tea.”

Jongho’s lips parted slightly as if he hadn’t expected Seonghwa to just do it without hesitation. But he didn’t protest.

Seonghwa paid before Jongho could try to, and they took their drinks while the food was being prepared.

Finding a Seat

Seonghwa let Jongho choose the table without making it obvious.

He slowed his steps near a few open spots, giving Jongho time to gravitate toward one. Not tucked away in a corner, but not too exposed either—a quiet seat near the window.

Jongho sat down first, his fingers absently brushing the rim of his teacup as he glanced out at the street.

Seonghwa took the seat across from him, sipping his drink. The warmth of honey and ginger settled into his throat, soothing in a way he hadn’t realized he needed.

Yeosang sat to the side, taking a slow sip from his own drink before glancing at Jongho. “You like tea?”

Jongho exhaled softly through his nose. “I don’t know.” He lifted the cup, studying it for a moment before finally taking a sip.

Seonghwa watched for any reaction, but Jongho’s expression didn’t change much. Still, he didn’t set the cup down right away.

Yeosang made a small sound. “Guess you’ll find out.”

The conversation lapsed into a comfortable quiet after that.

Seonghwa glanced out the window, watching people pass by. The city felt different from here—not as intense or fast. The café was a pause in the middle of everything.

Jongho’s gaze followed a group walking past, mostly humans, with one hybrid among them. He didn’t say anything about it, but Seonghwa noticed the way his fingers curled slightly against the cup.

Before he could think too much about it, their food arrived.

Jongho received the soup first, then a bowl of hot rice followed. The aroma of the broth and herbs wafted through the air, warm and comforting.

Jongho’s gaze dropped to the food, his fingers tightening slightly on his spoon.

Seonghwa picked up his own spoon and started eating, keeping his movements casual and familiar.

Jongho followed a second later, carefully lifting his spoon. He took a slow sip of the broth, swallowed it, and then took another.

Seonghwa watched the way his grip on the spoon eased.

Yeosang stirred his own food absently. “See? I told you the food was good.”

Jongho didn’t answer right away, but he didn’t disagree.

Seonghwa smiled into his tea.

They let the silence settle, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just the quiet sound of soup being stirred, rice being picked up in careful bites.

Jongho ate steadily, pausing occasionally to glance toward the window as if still adjusting to his surroundings.

At one point, Seonghwa caught the way Jongho’s gaze flicked toward Yeosang’s food, subtle but observant.

“You want to try?” Yeosang asked, catching on immediately.

Jongho hesitated like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed. Then, finally, he nodded.

Yeosang pushed his bowl forward slightly, and Jongho took a cautious bite.

He sat with it for a moment, then gave the smallest nod. “It’s good.”

Yeosang huffed a quiet laugh. “Told you.”

Seonghwa watched as Jongho took another sip of his tea, his fingers curling around the warm ceramic.

It wasn’t much.

But it was something.

Seonghwa wiped his hands with a napkin and reached for his phone, tapping out a quick message.

To: Hongjoong

We’re done eating. Have things calmed down there?

He set his phone down, waiting for a reply, but his gut told him they wouldn’t be heading back just yet.

Across from him, Jongho had finished his meal at a steady pace, but now he sat still, fingers resting loosely around his cup, his tea cooling as he stared at it. Yeosang had leaned back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, his gaze flickering toward the café window, watching people pass by outside.

The moment was quiet. Settled.

Until it wasn’t.

A shadow passed over the table, stopping beside them.

“Excuse me,” a voice said.

Seonghwa looked up, immediately uneasy.

The man standing beside their table was tall, dressed casually in a fitted jacket and jeans, but something about the way he carried himself—too familiar, too entitled—set Seonghwa on edge. His gaze locked onto Jongho almost instantly, eyes dragging over him in a way that made the skin on the back of Seonghwa’s neck prickle.

Jongho hadn’t looked up. His fingers curled slightly around his cup, but he didn’t move.

The man tilted his head. “Didn’t expect to see a bear hybrid in a place like this.”

Seonghwa’s stomach twisted.

Yeosang exhaled sharply through his nose, his body shifting forward just slightly. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

The man lifted a hand, almost as if he was placating them, but his expression remained unreadable. Too measured. “Just making an observation.”

His attention flickered back to Jongho, lingering too long. “You must get a lot of stares, huh?”

Jongho’s shoulders were tight, his jaw locked. He still didn’t speak.

The man hummed. “Guess it makes sense. People don’t really know what to think about your kind.”

The words were casual like he wasn’t saying something vile, like it wasn’t pressing down into the air around them like a weight.

Seonghwa clenched his teeth. “Leave.”

The man didn’t move. “Relax, I’m just curious. Never met a bear hybrid before. I heard they don’t do well in places like this.” He gestured vaguely. “You must feel out of place, right?”

Jongho’s breathing had changed.

It was almost unnoticeable, but Seonghwa could hear it—slightly more shallow, slightly less steady.

Yeosang stood.

Not fast, not aggressive, just smooth and purposeful. Cold.

“That’s enough.” His voice was calm, but the weight behind it was solid. Dangerous.

The man smirked slightly as if he thought it was funny that they were reacting at all. But when Yeosang took a single step forward—into his space, cutting off his view of Jongho entirely—his expression flickered, just for a second.

Yeosang tilted his head, voice dropping lower. “Walk away.”

A pause.

A flicker of something in the man’s face.

Then, a scoff.

He lifted his hands, taking a step back. “Didn’t mean to offend.” His eyes flickered toward Jongho one last time, unreadable. “Guess some things never change.”

Then, finally, he turned, walking off toward the door.

Seonghwa immediately turned to Jongho.

His hands were trembling. Not visible at first, but there—small, barely noticeable twitches against the ceramic of his cup.

Seonghwa reached for his phone, but he wasn’t waiting for a reply anymore. They needed to leave.

“Come on,” he said softly. “Let’s go.”

Jongho nodded, but it was stiff like he was just following instructions.

Yeosang’s expression was unreadable as he pushed his chair in. He stayed close as they made their way outside, not blocking Jongho in but hovering just enough to be a presence.

As soon as they stepped outside, Jongho let out a breath—not quite steady, but controlled.

Seonghwa watched him carefully, noting the way his fingers twitched slightly at his sides before curling into the fabric of his jacket. Holding something in.

Yeosang sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “That guy was a freak.” His tone was sharp, but there was no real heat in it—just frustration.

Jongho barely reacted. His gaze stayed fixed on the sidewalk, posture tense like he was waiting for something else to happen.

Seonghwa exchanged a look with Yeosang before pulling out his phone.

1 New Message – Hongjoong.

We’re done eating. Have things calmed down there?

The reply was already sitting there, waiting for him.

It’d be better if you stayed out longer.

Seonghwa exhaled slowly, tapping his screen off before tilting it slightly toward Yeosang.

Yeosang’s expression didn’t shift, but his eyes flickered as he read the message. His jaw tensed slightly like he understood just how bad things were back home.

Jongho, still standing stiff beside them, hadn’t noticed.

Seonghwa slipped his phone back into his pocket and forced his voice to stay light. “We’re not heading back yet.”

He saw the barest flicker of something in Jongho’s posture—confusion, hesitation—but not protest.

Seonghwa offered a small shrug. “We need to shake off what just happened.” His tone was casual like it wasn’t a big deal. “No point carrying that guy’s bullshit around with us.”

Yeosang hummed in agreement. “I’d rather focus on literally anything else.”

Jongho didn’t respond, but some of the stiffness in his shoulders eased.

Yeosang tilted his head. “Where to, then?”

Seonghwa hesitated.

He wasn’t sure what would be best.

They needed something easy. Something that didn’t feel like a forced distraction but still pulled them forward.

“Let’s just walk,” he said finally.

Yeosang nodded, not questioning him.

Jongho still didn’t say much, but he followed.

They moved quietly, the city stretching out around them—streetlights flickering on, the evening chill settling in. The noise of the café and the stranger’s unsettling questions faded behind them.

But Seonghwa still caught the small ways it lingered.

Jongho’s shoulders weren’t quite relaxed.

His hands stayed tucked in his pockets.

He was still breathing a little too carefully.

Seonghwa let them walk. Didn’t fill the space with empty words.

He wasn’t sure how much time passed before Jongho’s steps hesitated.

Not stopping—just slowing.

His gaze flickered to the side, drawn toward something ahead.

Seonghwa followed his line of sight.

An arcade.

It wasn’t big—not one of those bright, overcrowded chains with deafening music and walls packed with people. This one was smaller, tucked between storefronts, its neon sign flickering gently against the sidewalk.

Not overwhelming.

Just there.

Jongho didn’t step toward it. Didn’t say anything.

But he was looking.

Seonghwa exchanged a glance with Yeosang, then spoke up.

“We can go in.”

Jongho’s gaze flickered to him, then away. “You don’t have to.”

Yeosang scoffed. “Like we’re here for you. I have things to win.”

That wasn’t entirely true. But it gave Jongho an out.

And this time, he took it.

Jongho hesitated only a second longer. Then, finally—he stepped inside.

〜〜Seonghwa’s POV〜〜

The arcade was quiet but not empty. The hum of machines and the occasional burst of electronic music filled the air.

Jongho’s steps were careful, his eyes scanning the rows of flashing screens and claw machines without lingering.

Seonghwa let him take it in, giving him space to decide what felt comfortable.

Yeosang, on the other hand, headed straight for one of the racing games like he had been personally invited.

Seonghwa raised a brow. “Didn’t realize we were here for a tournament.”

Yeosang slid into the seat, adjusting the wheel like he was about to take off down an actual highway. “There’s always time for a tournament.”

Seonghwa huffed a quiet laugh, glancing toward Jongho. “Wanna play?”

Jongho hesitated, fingers curling slightly into his jacket. “I’ve never played before.”

Yeosang turned briefly, his hands still on the wheel. “It’s not hard. Just press the pedal and steer. You can try after me.”

Jongho didn’t respond, but he didn’t immediately say no either.

Seonghwa took that as a small win.

The game screen counted down.

Three.

Two.

One—

The car lurched forward, the screen blurring as Yeosang took off at full speed—and immediately slammed into a wall.

Seonghwa blinked.

Jongho’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close.

Yeosang exhaled sharply, gripping the wheel tighter. “Okay. That was a warm-up.”

Seonghwa crossed his arms. “Sure.”

Jongho glanced toward the screen, watching as Yeosang tried to recover, only to swerve too hard and spin out.

Seonghwa leaned toward Jongho, lowering his voice. “You’d probably be better than him already.”

Jongho’s shoulders lifted slightly like he was holding back another almost-smile. “I doubt that.”

Yeosang clicked his tongue as his car crashed again. “I’d like to remind you both that you’re standing here watching me instead of playing yourselves.”

Seonghwa let it go, watching the game for a few more moments before his eyes flickered to the other side of the arcade.

Jongho had turned his head slightly, gaze drifting over the machines—not lingering, but scanning.

And then he stopped.

Not abruptly—just a slight pause in his steps, his head tilting toward one of the machines.

Seonghwa followed his gaze.

A claw machine—rows of stuffed animals stacked neatly inside.

Not just any stuffed animals.

A German Shepherd. A fox. A cat.

Seonghwa blinked.

His gaze flickered toward Jongho, who wasn’t looking at him.

His expression was carefully neutral, but his eyes kept returning to the prizes.

Seonghwa didn’t say anything. He just caught Yeosang’s sleeve, nodding toward the machine.

Yeosang followed his gaze, then exhaled through his nose. “Alright.”

Jongho turned his head, brows furrowing slightly. “You don’t have to—”

“Obviously, we do,” Yeosang interrupted. “It’s about honor now.”

Jongho looked between them, expression unreadable. “It’s a claw machine.”

Yeosang’s eyes narrowed. “A claw machine I will defeat.”

Seonghwa bit back a smile as Yeosang cracked his knuckles and shoved in the first token.

The claw lurched to life, jerking slightly as Yeosang maneuvered it over the German Shepherd plush.

“Too far left,” Seonghwa muttered.

“I know what I’m doing,” Yeosang shot back.

The claw dropped.

Gripped the plush—or tried to.

It slipped through immediately.

Yeosang’s expression didn’t change, but he slid another token in without hesitation.

Jongho watched them, arms loosely crossed, his weight shifting slightly. “You really don’t have to—”

“Shhh,” Seonghwa said, already focusing.

This time, he took over.

The claw machine whirred, the claw hovering over the plush.

He dropped it.

It grabbed the dog plush, lifted it—

—and dropped it at the last second.

Yeosang exhaled sharply. “This thing is rigged.”

Seonghwa nodded solemnly. “Obviously.”

Jongho let out a small breath, something close to a laugh, but quickly masked it. “Seriously. It’s fine.”

Seonghwa glanced at Yeosang.

Yeosang sighed, rolled his shoulders, and put in another token. “No, it’s personal now.”

It took a few more tries. The claw missed, fumbled, and grabbed, only to let go again.

But then—finally—the plush dropped into the prize chute.

Jongho blinked, his posture going still as Yeosang reached in and pulled out the German Shepherd.

Without hesitation, Yeosang shoved it into Jongho’s hands.

Jongho didn’t move for a moment.

Then, slowly, his fingers curled around it.

Seonghwa and Yeosang exchanged a look.

They kept going.

It took longer than it should have.

The claw missed. Missed again.

Seonghwa had to hold Yeosang back from kicking the machine.

But eventually—after way too many tries—the fox and the cat joined the dog in Jongho’s arms.

Jongho didn’t let go.

He held all three close, pressing them tightly against him. The quietness of his embrace spoke volumes, an unconscious act of fierce affection.

Seonghwa felt something deep in his chest pull tight.

Yeosang didn’t comment.

He just huffed, stretching his arms behind his head. “Took too long.”

Seonghwa smirked. “You were the worst at it.”

Yeosang clicked his tongue but didn’t argue.

Jongho didn’t say anything at first.

But then—softer than before, but certain—he mumbled, “Thank you.”

Seonghwa smiled.

Yeosang just shrugged. “What else were we gonna do? Leave them there?”

Jongho didn’t respond, but he held the plushies tighter.

They let him keep them in his arms as they wandered toward the next game

〜〜Yeosang’s POV〜〜 

Outside, the cool evening air settled over them as they stepped onto the sidewalk. The city hadn’t fully dimmed yet—streetlights flickered on, headlights carved paths through the streets, and storefronts glowed with neon signs that bled color onto the pavement.

Jongho held the three stuffed animals close to his chest. He hadn’t said anything about them since they left the arcade, but his grip on them hadn’t loosened either.

Seonghwa pulled out his phone. “I’ll text Hongjoong and let him know we’re heading back.”

Yeosang kept his gaze on Jongho, watching for any flicker of reaction. Nothing. Not quite withdrawn, but not fully present either.

That wasn’t surprising.

Today had been… a lot.

Yeosang let out a slow breath as they made their way back to the car. His mind replayed the events of the day—not just the difficult moments but the ones that had felt right.

Jongho playing in the park. Running. Laughing, even if only under his breath.

The arcade. The way Jongho had pretended he wasn’t interested in the plushies, only to hold them so carefully when they won them for him.

The thought made Yeosang’s lips twitch slightly. He really was kind of endearing.

It wasn’t just about seeing Jongho relax—though that was part of it.

Yeosang liked spending time with him.

It was… easy. Even in the quiet moments, even when Jongho didn’t say much. There was something about him that made Yeosang want to keep nudging at the edges of his guarded walls, just to see if he’d let them in a little more each time.

And maybe, just maybe, Jongho had made a friend today.

The bunny hybrid had been ridiculously persistent—Yeosang had never met someone so unafraid of a predator hybrid. But they’d wanted Jongho to play with them and had invited him in without hesitation.

And Jongho had said he wanted to play again.

It wasn’t much. It wasn’t some huge, life-changing moment.

But it was something.

Still, even with those good moments, Yeosang couldn’t ignore the weight of everything else.

The man at the café. The invasive questions. The way Jongho had frozen, shoulders tight, gaze distant. How he’d shrunk into himself like he was trying to disappear.

The way Seonghwa had spoken up, his voice firm but steady, drew the man’s attention. The way Yeosang had stepped forward instead, placing himself between them, anger coiling hot and sharp beneath his skin. How his posture alone had made the man falter, his easy arrogance flickering into something closer to uncertainty.

And before that—Hongjoong’s text. The reason they’d stayed out longer in the first place.

Yunho’s rut. The fact that Yunho had lost control.

Yeosang didn’t blame him. He doubted anyone in the pack did. But the aftermath lingered, rippling through all of them in different ways.

Jongho wasn’t the only one affected.

Seonghwa’s phone buzzed with a response. He glanced at the screen, then slipped it back into his pocket.

“Hongjoong says Yunho just fell asleep again. The others are with him.”

Yeosang hummed, unlocking the car. “So things aren’t worse, at least.”

Seonghwa didn’t reply, but the flicker of relief in his eyes was enough of an answer.

Jongho climbed into the backseat without a word. His movements weren’t hesitant, but they weren’t thoughtless either—like he was still processing, still bracing for something.

Yeosang slid into the driver’s seat, gripping the wheel as he pulled out of the parking lot.

The drive home was quiet.

Not the comfortable quiet they’d had this morning when things had felt open-ended and uncertain but not heavy.

This was different.

Jongho stared out the window, observing the world rush by. Seonghwa glanced at his phone a few times but didn’t send any messages.

Yeosang focused on the road, but his thoughts kept circling back.

The good parts of today—the park, the arcade, Jongho laughing under his breath—still mattered. They meant something.

But the bad moments weren’t easily shaken.

It wasn’t that the good wasn’t real. It was just… the bad had weight.

And Jongho was carrying all of it.

Yeosang exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking off the thought. Dwelling on it now wouldn’t help.

He turned onto their street, the familiar shape of the house coming into view. The lights were on inside—not just the warm glow of the living room but soft, scattered pockets of light from the other rooms.

It didn’t look tense from the outside.

But Yeosang wasn’t naive enough to assume that meant things were fine.

He pulled into the driveway, easing the car into park.

Seonghwa unbuckled his seatbelt and exhaled.

Jongho sat still for a moment, plushies still pressed close, before reaching for the door handle.

Yeosang watched the house for a second longer before stepping out.

Whatever waited for them inside, they’d deal with it.

As soon as they stepped inside, the shift in atmosphere was immediate. The house was quiet—not in an empty way, but in a way that made the air feel thick with something unspoken. The usual sounds of the pack weren’t there. No distant chatter, no footsteps moving between rooms, no Wooyoung’s voice filling the silence with dramatic complaints.

Just the soft hum of the heater, the faint creak of the floor beneath their steps, and two sets of eyes already waiting for them.

San and Hongjoong were in the living room, both looking up the second the door opened. San was on his feet before Yeosang had even shut the door behind them, his eyes scanning Jongho with a sharpness that softened into something unbearably fond as he reached him.

"Can I hug you?" San's voice was low, careful, unwavering.

Jongho blinked, momentarily caught off guard. His hands twitched slightly at his sides, fingers curling around the plushies still held tight against his chest.

But then, after a brief hesitation, he nodded.

San didn’t waste a second. He stepped forward, wrapping his arms around Jongho in a firm but careful hold, pressing close in a way that left no space between them. He didn’t squeeze too tightly, didn’t overwhelm—just held him steady, his warmth grounding.

Jongho didn’t move at first, but then, gradually, his posture eased. His grip on the plushies remained tight, his fingers still curled around the soft fabric, but he didn’t pull away.

Yeosang exhaled quietly, the tension in his own shoulders loosening just slightly at the sight.

Hongjoong, still sitting on the couch, let out a small breath of his own. “Yunho just fell asleep again,” he said, his voice quieter than usual. “The others are still with him.”

Seonghwa nodded, his gaze flickering toward the pack room.

They stood there for a moment, letting the silence settle.

Then, Hongjoong shifted forward, resting his forearms on his knees as he looked up at Jongho. “You must be tired. Why don’t you go wash up and get ready for bed?”

San immediately let out a whine, holding onto Jongho a little tighter. “But he just got home.”

Hongjoong sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “San.”

San grumbled but didn’t let go right away. He turned his head, pressing his nose lightly against Jongho’s shoulder before finally loosening his grip.

Jongho hesitated as soon as he stepped back.

Yeosang noticed it right away—the way Jongho’s gaze flickered between him and San, his fingers twitching slightly against the plushies he still held close. He wasn’t just hesitating.

He didn’t want to go alone.

Yeosang glanced at San, who was already watching Jongho with a knowing expression, and then spoke before Jongho could force himself to move.

“We’ll come with you,” Yeosang said simply.

Jongho’s fingers tightened around the plushies again, but the tension in his shoulders eased just slightly.

San perked up immediately. “Yeah! We can keep you company while you get ready.”

Jongho’s throat bobbed in a swallow, but he nodded.

Hongjoong didn’t comment on it. He just leaned back against the couch, stretching his arms with a small sigh. “Alright. Try to get some rest after.”

Jongho didn’t respond, but he glanced at Hongjoong briefly before turning toward the hallway.

San fell into step beside him easily, his shoulder brushing lightly against Jongho’s.

Yeosang followed just a step behind, his own exhaustion sitting heavy in his limbs. It had been a long day—long and complicated in ways he hadn’t fully sorted through yet.

But as he watched Jongho walk ahead of him, still holding onto those plushies like they were the most important thing in the world, he thought maybe—just maybe—it hadn’t been all bad.

Even as they made their way down the hall, his grip wasn’t tight, but his arms remained curled around them, the soft fabric pressing into his chest like he was afraid they might disappear if he let them go.

Yeosang noticed the way he hesitated at his bedroom door, glancing between him and San as if unsure whether he was supposed to step inside alone.

Before Jongho could decide, Yeosang made it for him.

“We’ll come in for a bit,” he said simply, brushing past him into the room. He didn’t miss the way Jongho’s shoulders eased—just barely—but he didn’t point it out either.

San followed without hesitation, flopping onto Jongho’s bed like it was his own. “You have the comfiest bed in the house,” he announced, stretching dramatically. “I think I should just sleep here from now on.”

Jongho stopped near the edge of the bed, watching him for a moment before sitting down carefully.

San grinned, clearly pleased with himself.

Yeosang leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. “You’re making yourself at home.”

San just hummed, wiggling further into the blankets.

Jongho didn’t say anything, but he didn’t tell him to move either. If anything, he looked more at ease than he had since stepping into the house.

He hesitated for a moment before standing again, glancing toward the bathroom. “I should—wash up,” he mumbled.

Hongjoong had already told him to, but it felt like Jongho needed to say it himself to make sure it was allowed.

“Go ahead,” Yeosang said, tilting his head toward the door. “We’re not going anywhere.”

San made a small, satisfied sound and burrowed further into Jongho’s blanket.

Jongho exhaled, then nodded before disappearing into the bathroom.

Waiting in Jongho’s Room

The room fell quiet after the bathroom door clicked shut.

San lay sprawled on the bed, idly fidgeting with the edge of a pillow; his usual energy dimmed but not gone. Yeosang remained standing, eyes drifting toward the plushies sitting neatly beside Jongho’s pillow.

A German Shepherd, a red fox, and a Siamese cat.

Yeosang studied them for a moment before glancing at San, who had also noticed.

“He picked them.”

San’s gaze softened slightly, his fingers stilling against the pillow. 

Yeosang didn’t need to ask what he meant. The connection was obvious.

Hongjoong. Yunho. San.

Jongho hadn’t said a word about it, hadn’t asked for them outright, but he had looked at them long enough for Seonghwa and Yeosang to understand. And now they sat on his bed, unchallenged, untouched.

San nudged one of them lightly before resting his hand beside it.

Yeosang wondered if Jongho realized what he had done.

The bathroom door opened, and Jongho stepped out, dressed in a clean shirt and sweatpants. His hair was damp, the edges curling slightly from the water.

He glanced at the bed, at San still lounging across it, and let out a small sigh before walking over.

San grinned. “Miss me?”

Jongho huffed but didn’t respond, sitting down on the edge of the bed. His fingers twitched slightly before he reached for the plushies again, pulling them into his lap. He rested his hands lightly over them like it was just a coincidence.

It wasn’t.

San stretched his arms above his head, then let them flop back down. “So, how long do we get to stay before you kick us out?”

Jongho didn’t answer right away. He looked at the plushies in his lap, his fingers smoothing over the fabric, before mumbling, “I don’t care.”

San perked up. “So we can stay all night?”

Yeosang half expected Jongho to roll his eyes or tell San to leave, but instead, he just sighed again and leaned back against the headboard.

San took that as a yes and immediately made himself comfortable.

Yeosang shifted, stretching out his legs and settling into the space near the foot of the bed. It wasn’t the most comfortable position, but he wasn’t planning on moving anytime soon.

Jongho hesitated again. His grip on the plushies tightened, and his gaze flickered toward the door before dropping back down.

“…You don’t have to stay,” he murmured. “If you need to go help Yunho.”

Yeosang noticed how his shoulders tensed after he said it, as if he were already bracing for them to agree.

San’s ears flicked, and he shifted, propping himself up on his elbows. “Jongho.” His voice was softer now, less teasing. “We want to be here.”

Yeosang nodded. “They’ll tell us if they need anything. Right now, we’re here.”

Jongho didn’t respond right away, his fingers curling slightly against the plushies’ fabric.

But he didn’t argue either.

He just leaned his head back against the headboard, eyes dropping shut.

San’s tail flicked, and he let himself relax, too, settling in like he had no intention of moving.

Yeosang exhaled, watching them for a moment before shifting into a more comfortable position.

Jongho didn’t tell them to leave.

And that was enough.

Chapter Text

*Pack Room – Morning After Incident*

〜〜 Mingi’s POV〜〜

Stillness clung to the pack room, a deceptive quiet. Yunho's labored breaths, thick with exhaustion, were the only defiant sound.

The night had been long. Its weight lingered in the dim light seeping through the curtains, casting soft shadows across tangled blankets and restless bodies.

San hadn’t moved from Yunho’s side. He was still curled up close, one hand resting lightly on Yunho’s chest, his nose pressed just above Yunho’s collarbone, clinging even in sleep.

Mingi sat on the edge of the bed, arms braced against his knees, trying to push through the exhaustion pressing at his skull. He hadn’t slept—not when Yunho had been shifting all night, tangled in something too deep to wake from but too restless to find peace in.

Yeosang and Seonghwa sat across from him, leaning against the bed frame. They looked just as worn down as he felt.

And Hongjoong—

Hongjoong was the only one still thinking ahead.

“You two should take Jongho out today,” he said, voice quiet but firm.

Mingi’s head lifted slightly.

Seonghwa frowned. Yeosang didn’t react, but Mingi could tell from the slight shift in his posture that he was already considering it.

“Out?” Seonghwa asked carefully.

“Away from the house,” Hongjoong clarified. “For as long as possible.”

Mingi swallowed.

Right.

Yunho’s rut had fully settled.

And Jongho—Jongho couldn’t be here for that.

Not because they didn’t trust Yunho. Not because he wasn’t safe.

But because Jongho had already been through enough.

Because last night, when Yunho had lost control—had backed Jongho into the wall, had gripped too tight, had pushed too far—

Jongho had flinched.

Mingi hadn’t seen all of it, but he’d seen enough.

The way San had dragged Yunho back, voice sharp with something close to panic.

The way Jongho had frozen, his whole body locking up—breath caught, shoulders stiff, hands trembling just slightly at his sides.

And then—the way he ran.

Didn’t speak. Didn’t look at them. Just bolted.

And Yunho—Yunho had broken.

Had collapsed into San, shaking, guilt and instinct warring beneath his skin.

Mingi had seen the devastation on his face—the remorse. The awful, lingering want.

But more than that—he had seen Jongho’s face.

The way he had looked right before he fled—like he had been transported somewhere else entirely.

Somewhere, he had learned to expect the worst.

Mingi swallowed. Hongjoong was right.

Even if Jongho didn’t realize it, even if he fought it—it was better for him to be away from this today.

He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “He’s right,” Mingi muttered. “It’s better for Jongho.”

Seonghwa exhaled, rubbing at his own face. “He’s not gonna like it if he figures it out.”

Hongjoong nodded. “That’s why you’re not gonna tell him.”

Seonghwa gave him a sharp look, but Yeosang just hummed in quiet understanding.

“You want us to make it feel like a choice.”

“Something casual,” Hongjoong confirmed. “Something he can step into without realizing it.”

Seonghwa sighed but didn’t argue. Instead, he stretched his arms over his head, rolling out his shoulders.

“Okay,” he muttered. “We’ll get moving.”

Yeosang nodded once, pushing himself up from where he had been sitting.

Mingi didn’t move, just watching them as they left the room.

They were doing the right thing.

But the room still felt too heavy.

The door clicked shut behind them, and the silence stretched.

Mingi shifted, exhaling slowly. He rubbed a hand over his face, glancing back at the bed.

Yunho was still asleep.

San hadn’t moved, but his eyes were open now, staring at the ceiling.

“You heard all that, right?” Mingi murmured.

San didn’t answer for a second.

Then, quietly—“Yeah.”

Mingi pressed his lips together. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“He’s gonna be mad.”

San hummed low in his throat, voice tired. “Yeah.”

The silence stretched again.

Then Hongjoong moved.

Mingi barely had time to glance up before Hongjoong sat beside him, close enough that their arms brushed.

And then—without a word—he leaned his head lightly against Mingi’s shoulder.

Mingi stiffened just slightly.

Hongjoong didn’t do things like this often. He touched when necessary when words wouldn’t work, when presence was the only thing left to give.

And Mingi—Mingi had never been good at handling it.

But Hongjoong just stayed there, barely shifting, barely moving. 

Like he wasn’t asking for anything.

Like he just needed a second.

Mingi swallowed, then exhaled through his nose. He didn’t move away.

“We’ll handle it,” Hongjoong finally said.

His voice was quieter now, almost like he was saying it more for himself than for them.

San let out a soft exhale, eyes flickering shut.

Mingi didn’t move. Didn’t answer.

The room felt too still, too heavy.

No one spoke after that. No one needed to.

San’s breathing was slow and measured, his fingers resting lightly over Yunho’s heartbeat.

Hongjoong stayed where he was, head still lightly pressed against Mingi’s shoulder, his weight warm but not heavy.

Mingi let out a slow breath, his exhaustion pressing deep, then shifted just enough to rest a hand on Hongjoong’s thigh. A small gesture. Steady. Reassuring.

Hongjoong didn’t react at first; he just stayed there, leaning into him. But after a moment, his fingers curled over Mingi’s—not gripping, not holding, just there.

They sat like that—breathing in the quiet, letting the weight of the morning settle.

Then, after a while, the door creaked open.

Mingi lifted his head just as Wooyoung slipped inside.

His hair was still messy from sleep—or maybe from running his hands through it too many times. His clothes were wrinkled like he had been curled up somewhere uncomfortable for too long.

But it was his expression that made Mingi’s stomach tighten.

Wooyoung didn’t say anything. He hovered in the doorway for a second, gaze sweeping over San curled around Yunho, Hongjoong leaning against Mingi, Yeosang, and Seonghwa gone.

Then, slowly, he crossed the room and climbed onto the bed.

San barely stirred when Wooyoung pressed in next to him, one arm slipping over his waist, forehead resting lightly against his back.

Wooyoung sighed. Deep, exhausted.

“We should eat,” he muttered, voice muffled against San’s shirt.

Hongjoong let out a slow breath but didn’t move away from Mingi.

“After they leave, we’ll figure it out,” he murmured.

Wooyoung made a noise—something between a hum and a scoff. “Since when do you cook?”

Hongjoong nudged him in the ribs, but the teasing was light. Familiar.

San shifted just enough to tuck his nose against Wooyoung’s hair, inhaling slowly and deeply. His tail flicked once, then stilled.

Hongjoong finally pushed himself upright. “I’ll help,” he said, voice quieter than before.

Mingi exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. The weight in his chest hadn’t eased, not really.

Mingi heard it in the shift of Yunho’s breath before anything else.

A low, frustrated whine, muffled against the sheets.

San stirred beside him, ears twitching at the sound, but he didn’t lift his head. Wooyoung tensed where he was curled against San’s back, fingers clenching slightly in the fabric of his shirt.

They had all been waiting for this.

Yunho had been tense for hours, caught in the restless pull of his rut, shifting, scenting, and clinging without relief. But now, it was different. He was reacting to something else.

Something missing.

Mingi barely had time to process it before Yunho let out another sound—higher, aching—his fingers twitching against the blankets, grasping at nothing.

Hongjoong lifted his head slightly from where he had been resting against Mingi’s shoulder, blinking the exhaustion from his eyes.

Yunho’s breath came in short, uneven bursts. His scent thickened—not just with heat, but with something deeper, something heavier.

And then, he spoke.

“He’s gone.”

The words landed sharp, heavy. Not a question. Not a realization.

Just acceptance.

Mingi’s stomach twisted. “Yunho—”

Yunho pushed himself up, weak but determined, as if his body were still trying to follow an instinct that had already been denied.

San moved then, lifting his head, his ears slightly flattening as he took in the tension in Yunho’s frame. Wooyoung sat up fully, his eyes darting between them, already bracing.

Yunho wasn’t just waking up. He was unraveling.

“Jongho,” Yunho rasped as if saying his name might somehow summon him. His fingers curled into the sheets where Jongho had been, pressing, searching—

But Jongho wasn’t there.

And Yunho felt it.

A sharp breath, a slow drag of his palm over the blankets, his throat bobbing hard as he struggled to catch up to reality.

San was already moving, shifting forward, reaching out—but Yunho flinched before he could touch him.

San froze, his ears pinning back completely.

Mingi exhaled slowly, feeling the tension coil tighter and tighter. This wasn’t just the instinctual ache of a missing packmate.

Yunho had spent the entire night tangled in the pack’s warmth; he had been held and soothed and touched. But none of that mattered at that moment because the one person he hadn’t seen—the one he had wanted to be near—was the only one who wasn’t there.

And that was all Yunho could focus on.

His gaze flickered toward the door, which was still slightly cracked open from when they left. His lips parted, and his breath was uneven as if some of him still expected Jongho to step back through it.

But he wasn’t coming back. Not yet.

Yunho’s hands shook.

His jaw clenched like he was trying not to make a sound.

Then, finally—

“I scared him away.”

Mingi froze.

The words weren’t loud, barely above a whisper, but they split through the room like a fracture.

Hongjoong inhaled sharply, finally sitting up fully, his brows furrowing. Wooyoung’s fingers curled into the sheets beside him. San flinched.

Yunho curled inward slightly like he was bracing for the truth to hit him. His scent turned sharp, cutting through the remnants of warmth the pack had left in their wake.

This wasn’t just about instinct anymore.

Yunho wasn’t just missing Jongho.

He was convinced he had ruined something.

“No, Yunho,” Mingi said immediately, voice firm, grounding.

Yunho didn’t hear him.

“I—” His hands flexed against the blankets, his throat bobbing hard. “I couldn’t stop myself. I—I grabbed him, I—” His voice cracked on the memory, and Mingi felt something cold settle in his chest.

San’s tail curled in tight, his breath shaky, uneven.

Wooyoung looked away, lips pressing together.

“And now he’s gone.”

The words were too final.

Too raw.

Hongjoong moved first. He shifted closer, firmly but carefully pressing a steady hand to Yunho’s shoulder.

“He left with Seonghwa and Yeosang,” Mingi said, keeping his voice even. “They will come back.”

But Yunho didn’t register that.

His fingers curled and uncurled restlessly, still searching for something that wasn’t there.

Still searching for Jongho.

Mingi gritted his teeth, then gripped Yunho’s wrist, steadying him.

“He’s not gone, Yunho,” he said, firm but gentle. “He just needed air. That’s all.”

Yunho’s breathing hitched.

And still—

He wasn’t listening.

His breathing was sharp, uneven—every inhale too quick, every exhale too shaky like he was trying to hold himself together and failing.

San was still pressed against him, a steadying presence, but Yunho was lost.

Mingi saw the exact moment it hit—the realization settling in, the weight of everything crashing down all at once.

The tension in Yunho’s frame finally cracked.

And then, he broke.

A choked breath. A quiet, shaking inhale that turned into a sob before he could stop it.

Wooyoung flinched but was already moving, already pressing in closer.

Hongjoong sighed softly, shifting until he could rest a hand on the nape of Yunho’s neck, fingers threading lightly into his hair.

“You’re okay, Yunho.”

Yunho shook his head. His whole body curled in, shoulders shaking, breath coming in quick, painful stutters.

Wooyoung wrapped an arm around him, not saying anything—just there.

San was still holding his wrist.

Hongjoong exhaled slowly. “You’re okay,” he repeated. “Breathe.”

It took time.

Too long.

But eventually, the sobs faded into hiccuped breaths, then shaky exhales.

Yunho’s grip on the blankets loosened.

His scent was still heavy, still thick with need and frustration, but it wasn’t as sharp as before.

He was exhausted.

And finally, he stilled.

For the first time since waking up, he wasn’t fighting it.

Mingi let out a slow breath, leaning back against the headboard.

Hongjoong ran a careful hand over Yunho’s back one last time, then shifted. “I’ll make food,” he murmured.

Wooyoung hesitated.

Mingi saw the reluctance in his expression, the way his fingers twitched against the fabric of Yunho’s sleeve.

But after a beat, he nodded.

Hongjoong moved first, pushing himself upright. He nudged Wooyoung lightly as he stood.

Wooyoung sighed but finally unwound himself from Yunho.

San didn’t move. He was still pressed close, still keeping Yunho steady.

Hongjoong glanced at Mingi. A silent question.

Mingi shook his head. Not yet.

Hongjoong gave a small nod, then slipped out of the room with Wooyoung.

The door clicked softly behind them.

And then, it was just them.

Yunho’s breathing was still shaky. His fingers curled and uncurled weakly against the blankets.

Mingi stayed.

For another ten minutes. Fifteen.

San was quiet, murmuring something low, steadying, pressing slow circles against Yunho’s wrist with his thumb.

Eventually, San glanced at Mingi. “You can take a break.”

Mingi hesitated.

San sighed. “I’ve got him. Go eat.”

Mingi exhaled. Then, finally, he pushed himself up.

He didn’t say anything as he left.

Didn’t look back.

But he felt Yunho's weight still lingering in his chest.

The kitchen felt too quiet.

Not truly silent—the rhythmic chop of Wooyoung’s knife against the cutting board, the soft scrape of Hongjoong stirring something in a pot, the faint hum of the refrigerator—but quiet in all the ways that mattered.

Mingi leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching as Wooyoung worked.

He wasn’t cooking.

Not really.

He was moving, his hands moving with a precision that felt too sharp, too rigid. He was chomping onions into perfect, uniform pieces. His jaw was tight, his shoulders tense, and his scent laced with something brittle.

It wasn’t just the lack of Jongho’s presence that made the air feel off.

It was the weight of everything left unsaid.

Hongjoong was watching him, too. He stood at the stove, stirring a pot with slow, deliberate motions, but his eyes flickered to Wooyoung more than the food.

Mingi knew that look.

The quiet calculation. The waiting. They let Wooyoung work through it himself.

But Mingi also knew Wooyoung wasn’t working through anything.

He was keeping his hands busy so he didn’t have to sit with his thoughts.

The same way he had done the night Jongho showed up. 

Mingi rolled his shoulders, exhaustion pressing deep. San was still upstairs with Yunho.

They had spent the better part of an hour getting him settled again—calming him down, grounding him, keeping him from slipping back into that same desperate edge he had woken up with.

Mingi stayed until Yunho’s breathing evened out, and he stopped gripping the sheets as if they might anchor him.

Then, finally, he left him with San.

San had curled up close, arms firm around Yunho’s chest, murmuring something low, something soothing, as Yunho finally stopped fighting sleep.

Mingi knew Yunho wasn’t okay. Not even close.

But he wasn’t alone.

And for now, that would have to be enough.

The silence stretched too long. Too thin.

Then—the knife slammed down.

Mingi barely stopped himself from reacting.

Wooyoung stood still, his hands braced against the counter, his eyes fixed on the pile of diced onions as if they had personally offended him.

He exhaled sharply through his nose. “This is stupid.”

Hongjoong didn’t look up from the stove. “What’s stupid?”

“This. Cooking. Making food like nothing happened.” Wooyoung’s fingers twitched against the counter, restless. “Like it’s just another morning.”

Mingi glanced at Hongjoong, waiting for his response, but Hongjoong didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he turned off the stove burner.

Set the spoon down.

Wiped his hands on a towel.

Then, finally, he said—“It is just another morning.”

Wooyoung let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “Really? That’s what we’re going with?”

Hongjoong met his gaze evenly. “What do you want to do, Woo? Sit in silence until he comes back?”

Wooyoung clenched his jaw. “I want to know if he’s okay.”

Mingi exhaled through his nose. There it was.

The real problem.

Hongjoong’s expression softened just slightly. “Seonghwa won’t let him starve.”

Wooyoung shook his head. “That’s not what I—” He cut himself off, exhaling sharply. He ran a hand through his hair, gripping the strands at the back of his head. “I just—” His voice faltered.

His hands weren’t busy anymore.

And now, it was catching up to him.

Mingi sighed and finally pushed off the counter.

He picked up the knife, grabbed the half-cut onion, and started chopping.

Percise. Steady.

Wooyoung’s eyes flickered to him.

Mingi didn’t say anything at first, just kept cutting the pieces down to size, letting the silence settle, waiting until the tension between them wasn’t pulled so tight.

Then—casually, like it was just a passing thought— he said, “We’ll make enough for when he comes home.”

Wooyoung didn’t respond right away.

Then—a quiet nod.

And he picked up the pan, turning the stove back on.

Hongjoong turned back to his pot, stirring slowly, letting the moment pass.

The kitchen wasn’t any less quiet.

But at least now, the silence didn’t feel so suffocating.

〜〜San’s POV〜〜

The pack room was quiet.

Not silent—breathing, the soft rustle of fabric, the faint scrape of chopsticks against bowls. But quiet in how a room feels when the weight of the day has already settled deep into its walls.

San sat cross-legged on the bed, with a bowl balanced in one hand and chopsticks in the other. The food was warm, familiar, and grounding in a way nothing else had been today.

Across from him, Wooyoung was hunched forward, arms braced on his knees, eating in small, slow bites.

Mingi had his back against the headboard, his own bowl half-empty beside him. His focus kept shifting—eyes flicking toward the other side of the bed, where Yunho still hadn’t moved.

Yunho had curled onto his side after they finally got him calm.

He hadn’t woken up since.

Hadn’t stirred, hadn’t reached for them, hadn’t said a word.

San knew he wasn’t really sleeping. Not deeply. Not in a way that actually rested him.

His breathing was too shallow, and his muscles were still too tight.

Still, nobody had woken him yet.

For a while, they just let him be.

The food was almost gone when Wooyoung finally broke the silence.

“He needs to eat.”

San exhaled slowly, setting his chopsticks down.

Nobody needed to ask who he was.

Mingi shifted, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Give him a little longer,” Hongjoong murmured, but the words were already half-hearted. They all knew Yunho wouldn’t wake up on his own.

Not for this.

San set his bowl aside and finally shifted closer, pressing a hand lightly against Yunho’s back. Warm, steady. Not pushing, just there.

“Yunho.”

A slow inhale.

Then nothing.

San sighed. “Come on, big guy. You’ve gotta eat.”

Yunho’s breathing stuttered. His fingers twitched against the blankets, but he still didn’t move.

San hesitated, then pressed a little firmer. “Yunho.”

This time, he stirred.

A slow, dragging inhale.

A twitch of his fingers.

Then, finally—his eyes cracked open.

For a second, he didn’t focus on any of them.

His gaze flickered toward the door, the window, and then the empty space near the foot of the bed.

San saw the exact moment it registered.

Jongho wasn’t here.

Yunho’s breath hitched slightly, but he didn’t say anything.

San kept his hand against his back, rubbing slow, steady circles.

“Sit up,” he said, keeping his voice soft. “Eat something.”

Yunho didn’t move.

Wooyoung shifted forward slightly. “You haven’t had anything since last night, Yunho.”

No response.

San sighed, giving Mingi a look.

Mingi exhaled sharply and pushed himself up. “Alright, enough of that.”

He reached over, gripping Yunho’s wrist, not challenging but firm enough to ground him.

“If you don’t eat, I’m going to have to spoon-feed you, babe. And you know I’ll make it romantic.”

Wooyoung choked on his last bite of rice.

San snorted, ducking his head, and even Hongjoong huffed a quiet laugh.

Yunho blinked slowly, his brows knitting together.

San leaned in, grinning slightly. “You know he’ll do it.”

Wooyoung played along instantly. “He’ll tuck the napkin into your shirt and everything.”

“Whisper sweet nothings while he holds the spoon,” San added teasingly.

Mingi nodded solemnly. “I’ll tell you how beautiful your eyes are after every bite.”

Yunho sighed heavily.

Then—finally, slowly—he pushed himself up.

San pulled the blanket off his shoulders. Mingi grabbed one of the bowls they had set aside.

Yunho still looked wrecked.

But at least he was calm.

And at least he was listening.

Yunho had eaten—not much, but enough. Enough that Wooyoung had stopped side-eyeing him every few minutes, enough that Mingi had finally stopped looking like he was two seconds from force-feeding him.

But Yunho still wasn’t right.

San saw it in the way his shoulders stayed tense, and his fingers curled and uncurled against the blanket like he was still searching for something that wasn’t there.

Like he was still waiting for the moment when he could do something about it.

But there was nothing to do.

Jongho wasn’t here.

And for now, that wasn’t going to change.

San exhaled through his nose and nudged Yunho’s knee. “Come on.”

Yunho blinked at him, slow, hazy.

San tilted his head toward the door. “You should shower.”

Yunho didn’t answer immediately. His gaze flickered toward the door, then back to San, brows furrowing slightly—like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to move yet.

San didn’t push. Didn’t say anything else. Just waited.

Then, after a long moment, Yunho sighed.

“Yeah.” His voice was hoarse, thick with exhaustion, but he was already shifting the blanket off his legs.

San stood first, stretching out his arms, then glanced over his shoulder. “You good to go on your own?”

Yunho didn’t answer right away. His hand pressed lightly against his thigh like he was testing his own strength.

Then, with a slow inhale, he nodded.

San didn’t move.

Didn’t step away.

Because Yunho had nodded.

But he also hadn’t stood up.

San watched him for another beat, then tilted his head slightly.

“Come on,” he repeated, a little softer this time.

And then, before Yunho could protest—San grabbed his wrist and pulled him up.

Yunho stumbled forward slightly, off-balance for a second, but San steadied him, keeping a firm grip.

Yunho sighed again but didn’t pull away.

San let him go once he was sure Yunho wasn’t about to fall over.

“Let’s go.”

Yunho didn’t argue

The second San turned the shower on, Yunho froze.

San had already grabbed a towel and tested the water temperature—it was warm but not too hot. He had done everything he could to make this as easy as possible.

But Yunho was still standing there, staring at the stream of water like it was some impossible task.

San exhaled softly. “It’ll help.”

Yunho’s fingers twitched at his sides.

San could feel his exhaustion weighing heavily on him. The raw edge of his instincts was still not settled. His body wasn’t entirely his own yet, still caught between the pull of his rut and the wreckage of everything that had happened.

Yunho was too tired to fight it.

Too drained to argue.

But still—he didn’t move.

San hesitated.

Then, carefully—“Do you want me to stay?”

Yunho’s gaze flickered toward him. Something flickered in his expression—something hesitant.

San kept his tone even, casual. “I can help. If you want.”

A pause.

A long inhale.

Then, finally—Yunho nodded.

The warm, steady water cascaded down Yunho’s back in slow, soothing streams.

San was careful. Gentle.

Not rushing.

Just taking his time.

He worked his fingers into Yunho’s hair, massaging the shampoo through the thick strands, watching as the tension started to melt from Yunho’s shoulders.

“Tilt your head.”

Yunho obeyed without a word, letting San carefully rinse the suds away, ensuring none of the soap stung his eyes.

The steam was thick, curling around them, wrapping the moment in something quiet, something softer.

San reached for the conditioner, rubbing it between his palms before threading his fingers back through Yunho’s hair—slow, steady strokes.

Yunho’s ears twitched slightly at the contact.

San huffed a small smile. “Relax, I got you.”

He worked the conditioner down to the tips, then shifted his focus to Yunho’s ears.

They were flat against his head—heavy, damp, and tense.

San scrubbed gently, massaging behind them, letting his fingers press in slow, comforting circles.

“That okay?”

Yunho made a sound—not quite a hum or a sigh.

But he didn’t pull away.

San took that as permission to keep going.

Once Yunho’s ears were clean, San rinsed the conditioner from his hair, fingers smoothing through the strands one last time before moving lower.

His tail.

It was dragging slightly, heavy from the water, still stiff with tension.

San crouched slightly, gathering the suds in his hands before running them along Yunho’s tail, rubbing the soap in carefully.

“Let me know if I pull too hard,” he murmured.

Yunho’s breathing was, even now, slow and steady, like the warmth of the water was finally sinking into him.

San worked through the fur gently, mindful of the base where it was most sensitive.

Yunho’s tail tensed slightly at first, but it loosened slowly and carefully.

Relaxed.

San smiled. “See? Not so bad.”

Yunho made a soft, quiet noise.

Something between acknowledgment and reluctant agreement.

San didn’t tease him for it.

He rinsed the last of the soap from his tail, ensuring no residue clung to the fur.

Then, finally—he turned off the water.

The absence of sound made the room feel heavier as if the moment had somehow solidified into something more than just a simple shower.

San grabbed a towel, tossed one to Yunho, and started rubbing his own hair dry.

When he looked up, Yunho was still standing there.

Dripping.

Blinking slowly, like he had just now realized where they were.

San exhaled softly and stepped forward. “Here.”

He pulled the towel over Yunho’s head, rubbing gently at his hair, making sure to dry around his ears, careful not to rub too hard.

Yunho let him.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t move away.

San smiled a little.

“Better?”

A pause.

Then—a slow, small nod.

San ruffled his hair once more. “Good.”

Then he tossed his towel at Yunho’s chest.

Yunho huffed, finally rolling his eyes.

For the first time all morning, something in his expression almost looked normal.

San grinned. “Come on, puppy. Let’s go.

〜〜Mingi’s POV〜〜

The moment San led Yunho into the bathroom, Mingi rolled his shoulders, feeling the stale warmth of the room settle against his skin.

It wasn’t bad—just lived-in.

Yunho’s scent was everywhere, woven deep into the blankets, the pillows, the clothes he had discarded last night. It was familiar but too concentrated like the room had been steeped in stress for too long.

Hongjoong exhaled, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Mingi side-eyed him. “That bad?”

Hongjoong shook his head. “Just… a lot.”

Right. He was the only one who could really smell it right now.

Wooyoung dropped onto the bed with a sigh. “Alright, so what’s the plan? Are we actually doing something or just standing around and complaining?”

Mingi shot him a look. “You haven’t done anything yet.”

Wooyoung smirked. “Exactly.”

Hongjoong nudged his shoulder on the way to the laundry basket. “Start by stripping the bed.”

Wooyoung groaned but got up and grabbed the edge of the comforter.

Mingi helped him yank it off while Hongjoong collected the empty bowls and cups from the nightstand and stacked them neatly.

The more they moved and refreshed the space, the more it started to feel balanced again.

Wooyoung tossed the pillows onto the floor with a huff. “Even with clean sheets, he’s just gonna roll around in them again.”

Mingi shrugged. “Yeah, but at least they won’t be sweaty.”

Wooyoung wrinkled his nose. “Yeah, that’s fair.”

He rubbed at his chin, expression shifting slightly.

Mingi caught the look immediately. “What?”

Wooyoung sat up straighter. “You know what might help?”

Mingi narrowed his eyes. “You thinking again?”

Hongjoong sighed. “Why do I feel like I’m not gonna like this?”

Wooyoung grinned. “Because I’m a genius.”

Mingi groaned. “That’s never a good sign.”

“Just hear me out.” Wooyoung sat up fully. “What if we grab something from Jongho’s room?”

Hongjoong paused.

Mingi frowned. “Like what?”

“Like a hoodie,” Wooyoung said like it was obvious. “Or a blanket. Something that smells like him.”

Hongjoong’s expression shifted slightly.

Mingi raised a brow. “Would that even help?”

Hongjoong was quiet for a moment.

Then—he nodded. “Yeah. If Yunho’s struggling with scent memory, giving him something familiar—something comforting—might settle him faster.”

Wooyoung clapped his hands together. “See? Genius.”

Mingi sighed. “Fine. But if Jongho finds out we raided his room, you’re explaining it.”

Wooyoung waved a dismissive hand. “Relax, I’ll be subtle.”

Mingi rolled his eyes but didn’t stop him when Wooyoung slipped out the door.

When Wooyoung returned, the pack room was nearly back in order.

The old sheets had been stripped, and fresh ones were tucked neatly into place. Hongjoong had wiped down the nightstands, and Mingi had grabbed a fabric refresher and spritzed it lightly over the comforter.

The scent was still there—still Yunho, still familiar—but it felt cleaner. Less stale.

Mingi adjusted the pillows, pressing a hand against the mattress. “This’ll do.”

Then—Wooyoung strolled back in, holding something in his hands.

Mingi did a double take.

A scarf.

Not just any scarf—Jongho’s scarf.

Mingi frowned immediately. “No.”

Wooyoung blinked. “What do you mean, no?”

“I mean, put it back,” Mingi said, crossing his arms.

Wooyoung scoffed. “Why? This is perfect.”

Mingi shot him a look. “Because it’s his. And not just something random—he actually cares about that.”

Wooyoung waved a dismissive hand. “It was just sitting on his chair.”

“That doesn’t mean you can take it,” Mingi said, brows furrowing.

Hongjoong, who had been watching the exchange quietly, finally spoke. “Mingi’s right.”

Wooyoung frowned. “Okay, but—”

Hongjoong sighed. “We don’t know how Jongho would feel about this. The last thing we need is him realizing it’s gone and thinking—” He stopped, exhaling slowly. “Just put it back, Woo.”

Wooyoung hesitated, his grip tightening slightly around the fabric.

Mingi knew what he was thinking.

That it was stupid. That Jongho wouldn’t even notice.

That Yunho needed it more.

But Wooyoung also knew this wasn’t his decision to make.

After a long moment, he exhaled sharply and turned on his heel, heading toward the door.

But before he could take a single step—the bathroom door opened.

San walked out first, towel-drying his hair, ears twitching slightly as he stretched.

And Yunho—

Yunho followed, barefoot, still wearing his damp hoodie, hair dripping slightly over his forehead.

Mingi barely had a second to process it before Yunho stopped short.

His eyes landed on Wooyoung.

More specifically, on what Wooyoung was holding.

Wooyoung stiffened, fingers tightening around the scarf. “Uh—”

Yunho made a sound.

Not a growl. Not a whine. Something lower, something instinctive, something final.

And then, before Wooyoung could react—

Yunho ran toward him and took it right out of his hands.

Wooyoung made a soft, startled noise, but Yunho didn’t even glance at him.

Didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t even think.

He just brought the scarf to his face and inhaled.

The second Jongho’s scent hit him, his whole body relaxed.

His shoulders dropped, ears flicking forward slightly, tail loosening from where it had been curled too tight.

And then—he whined.

Soft, breathy, content.

The sound settled deep in Mingi’s chest; it was something instinctual, something vulnerable.

Yunho rubbed the fabric over his face, slow and deliberate, as if he were absorbing it. It was grounding him in a way nothing else had.

No one spoke. No one dared.

Wooyoung shifted his weight, awkward now that the scarf was entirely out of his control.

Mingi sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Well. That’s settled.”

Hongjoong exhaled slowly, voice unreadable. “Yeah.”

Yunho didn’t even look up.

Didn’t acknowledge them.

Didn’t need to.

Because for the first time in hours, maybe even days—

He finally looked at peace.

The pack room was quiet.

Not tense—not anymore. But weighted.

Yunho still hadn’t said a word.

Still hadn’t let go of the scarf.

Mingi watched as Yunho curled his fingers around the fabric, his grip firm but not tight, like he was grounding himself with it. Like if he let go, the last thread of connection would slip through his fingers.

San nudged him lightly, guiding him toward the bed. “Come on, big guy. Lay down.”

Yunho hesitated—only for a second.

Then, slowly, he moved.

The pack followed his lead without speaking.

Hongjoong sat first, pressing a hand lightly against Yunho’s back as he lowered himself onto the mattress. Wooyoung and San shifted in next, their movements easy, practiced.

Mingi settled near the foot of the bed, watching as Yunho tucked the scarf against his chest and inhaled softly.

No one commented on it.

Because no one needed to.

It was enough that his shoulders finally eased, his body no longer coiled too tight.

San reached for the remote.

“Let’s put something on.”

It wasn’t really a suggestion.

Wooyoung made a vague noise of agreement, shifting to grab the closest blanket and tugging it over himself and San.

Hongjoong leaned against the headboard, his phone still in his lap, thumb tapping against the screen absently.

Mingi stretched his legs out, watching the screen without really seeing it.

Ten minutes in, no one was actually watching.

Wooyoung’s eyes were locked on the screen but unfocused.

San blinked slowly, body slack but not genuinely relaxed.

Hongjoong glanced at his phone every few minutes as if expecting something.

Mingi shifted, rolling his shoulders.

Something about the movie felt off.

It wasn’t bad. It wasn’t unwatchable.

But—

Yunho sighed, voice hoarse.

“Jongho wouldn’t like this movie.”

The words landed in the quiet.

San’s ears flicked slightly.

Mingi glanced over and watched Yunho press his nose into the scarf again, his grip tightening just a little.

Wooyoung didn’t look away from the screen. “Yeah.”

No one turned it off.

No one said anything else.

But none of them were watching, either.

〜〜Wooyoung’s POV〜〜

Yunho was settled.

Not okay. Not fine. But settled.

His breathing had evened out, and his body was slack against the mattress, but his fingers were still curled around Jongho’s scarf, his knuckles white as he gripped the fabric.

The movie droned on in the background.

San’s head rested against Wooyoung’s shoulder, his ears twitching slightly every time Yunho shifted. Hongjoong had stopped glancing at his phone, but his thumb still tapped against its side—restless, waiting.

Mingi had his arms crossed, head tipped back against the headboard, too still.

The air felt stagnant.

Wooyoung exhaled slowly, stretched his arms over his head, and let his spine crack. “I’m gonna grab some water.”

Mingi lifted his head slightly, eyeing him.

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t an invitation. But he got up anyway.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I’ll come with you.”

San made a soft noise, barely awake, shifting slightly like he wanted to follow—then thought better of it.

But Yunho—

Yunho whined.

It was soft, breathy—barely anything at all.

But Wooyoung felt it in his chest.

Yunho shifted under the blanket, gripping the scarf a little tighter like the sound had escaped before he could stop it.

Wooyoung hesitated.

Mingi did, too.

Then Hongjoong spoke, voice quiet but firm. “They will be back soon.”

Yunho’s ears twitched, tail flicking slightly against the sheets, but he didn’t argue.

Didn’t stop them.

Didn’t reach out.

Just buried his face against the scarf, exhaling slowly, and measured.

Wooyoung sighed.

And then, he and Mingi stepped out, closing the door softly behind them.

The hallway was dim, and the house was still wrapped in a quiet that felt too fragile to break. They moved downstairs, neither rushing nor speaking, letting the weight of everything settle between them.

The living room still looked like last night.

The fort was still standing.

They hadn’t come in here earlier. Not when they first came down, not when the others were moving around the kitchen, not when they were trying to pretend the weight of the night hadn’t settled into the walls. It had been easier to avoid it—to stay in the quieter corners of the house, to not look too closely at what had been left behind.

Mingi sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “We should clean this up.”

Wooyoung didn’t answer immediately.

He just stared at it.

At the remnants of a night that had started hopeful and ended in ruin.

A night where Yunho had sat inside the fort like a kid again, laughing at Wooyoung’s dumb jokes, letting Jongho sit beside him without hesitation.

Before everything fell apart.

Before Yunho lost control.

Before Jongho ran.

Before this morning, when Yunho had woken up reaching for something that wasn’t there.

The fort felt mocking now.

Wooyoung inhaled sharply through his nose. “Yeah.”

Neither of them moved.

Then, finally—Mingi grabbed one of the heavier blankets and ripped it down.

The whole thing collapsed.

Wooyoung flinched.

Mingi kept moving, yanking down another blanket and tossing it onto the couch without hesitation.

Wooyoung followed, gathering the pillows and stacking them neatly, undoing the space they had built.

It should have felt better.

Lighter.

Less like a reminder.

But it didn’t.

Wooyoung pressed his lips together. “Feels like we’re just undoing things lately.”

Mingi stilled for half a second, then looked over at him.

Wooyoung didn’t meet his gaze. Just kept folding the blanket in his hands.

Mingi exhaled slowly. “Yeah.”

Because it was true.

Everything felt like backtracking.

Yunho is breaking down. Jongho might pull away.

The pack trying to put things back together—without knowing where to start.

Wooyoung sighed, tossing the blanket over the couch. “I hate this.”

Mingi didn’t need to ask what “this” meant.

He just kept cleaning.

Because at least it was something to do.

〜〜Hongjoong’s POV〜〜

The room was quiet.

Yunho was sitting up now, legs stretched out, back pressed against the headboard. San was next to him, one knee tucked up, tail curled loosely at his side. He wasn’t clinging anymore, but his presence was still close, steady.

Hongjoong sat on Yunho’s other side, his phone balanced in his palm, thumb tapping absently against the screen.

The movie was still playing, but no one was watching.

Yunho had barely spoken since they settled in. Had barely moved.

His fingers were still curled around Jongho’s scarf.

Still holding on.

Hongjoong sighed, shifting slightly, bracing his arms against his legs. “How’s your head?”

Yunho inhaled slowly.

Then, after a moment—“Did he say anything before he left?”

Hongjoong blinked.

He?

It didn’t take much to figure out who Yunho meant.

His stomach tightened.

He hadn’t seen Jongho before he left. Hadn’t spoken to him.

But Seonghwa had. Yeosang had.

And neither of them had said anything about Jongho asking for Yunho.

Still, Hongjoong didn’t answer right away.

Yunho’s ears tipped back slightly, waiting.

Hongjoong exhaled slowly. “Not really.”

Yunho’s grip tightened on the scarf.

Not enough to wrinkle the fabric. But enough.

San’s tail flicked against the sheets. “That doesn’t mean he wasn’t thinking about you.”

Yunho’s jaw tensed.

A long, slow exhale through his nose.

Then—softer this time—“Did he seem… okay?”

Hongjoong hesitated.

He could lie. Could say yes.

But Yunho would know.

He sighed, shifting slightly, phone rolling between his fingers. “Seonghwa would’ve told us if something was wrong.”

It wasn’t a direct answer. But it was still the truth.

Yunho didn’t respond.

Didn’t fight it.

Didn’t agree, either.

Just pressed his thumb against the edge of the scarf, rubbing small, restless circles into the fabric.

San watched him for a second longer, then leaned forward slightly, pressing his palm against Yunho’s knee. “He’s okay, Yunho.”

Yunho swallowed hard, eyes flicking toward the ceiling.

Then—a small nod.

For a moment, the room settled again.

Then—

Hongjoong’s phone buzzed.

He glanced down.

Seonghwa.

A short message.

Should we come back soon?

Hongjoong sighed.

His thumb hovered over the keyboard.

If Jongho came home now if he walked through the door while Yunho was still like this—

His hand clenched slightly around his phone.

Then, deliberately—

He typed back.

Stay out longer.

San lifted his head slightly. “What is it?”

Hongjoong hesitated, then exhaled through his nose, slipping his phone into his pocket.

“They’re staying out a little longer.”

Yunho’s fingers twitched.

San’s ears flicked slightly. “That’s a good thing.”

But Hongjoong was already watching Yunho closely.

The way his scent shifted.

The way his shoulders pulled tight, fingers curling harder around the scarf.

His tail gave a single, sharp flick.

San felt it immediately.

Hongjoong did, too.

The way Yunho’s breathing changed.

The way his instincts were winding up again.

Hongjoong sat up straighter. “Yunho.”

Yunho’s chest rose too fast.

His muscles tensed.

San reached for him, steady, careful.

〜〜Yunho’s POV〜〜

At first, Yunho stayed still.

His fingers curled around the scarf, pressing it harder against his chest like Jongho wouldn’t feel so far away if he held on tight enough.

He inhaled—deep, searching.

But it wasn’t enough.

Jongho was gone.

And he wasn’t coming back.

Hongjoong’s words rang in his ears.

They’re staying out a little longer.

Longer.

Why?

Yunho’s breathing hitched. His pulse kicked up.

Something cold twisted in his stomach, creeping into his chest.

They don’t want him to come back.

They told him to stay away.

The thought was so sudden, so sharp, that it made his skin prickle.

Yunho’s grip on the scarf tightened.

He glanced at San—still close to him, tail flicking lightly against the sheets.

Then Hongjoong—watching him carefully, his phone still in his lap, as if he was waiting for something else.

Yunho’s throat felt too tight.

They told him to stay away.

Jongho hadn’t asked about him, hadn’t wanted to.

And now, the pack was making sure he didn’t have to.

The realization hit like a punch to the ribs.

Yunho moved before he could think.

He shoved the blankets away and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

San sat up immediately. “Yunho—”

Hongjoong was already shifting, ready to stop him. “Where are you going?”

Yunho’s jaw clenched. His ears tipped back, tail flicking sharply as he stood.

“I need to go.”

Hongjoong exhaled, rubbing his fingers over his brow. “Yunho, sit down.”

Yunho ignored him.

He moved toward the door, instincts pulling him forward, urging him to find Jongho himself.

If they weren’t going to bring him home, he would.

San blocked him before he could get far.

“Puppy,” San said, voice low, careful. “You need to breathe.”

Yunho shook his head.

“You need to sit down,” Hongjoong said again, firmer now.

But Yunho wasn’t listening.

Because the more he thought about it, the more it made sense.

They don’t trust me with him.

They think I’ll hurt him again.

Yunho inhaled sharply, tail going rigid.

His fists clenched at his sides. “You told him to stay away, didn’t you?”

Hongjoong’s brows pulled together. “What?”

Yunho’s breath came faster now, heartbeat hammering in his chest.

“You told him not to come back.” His voice was rough, shaking at the edges. “You think I’m gonna mess it up again.”

San’s expression shifted. “Yunho, no—”

“You don’t have to lie,” Yunho snapped, something desperate rising inside him.

He wasn’t stupid.

He had seen the way Jongho flinched under his touch.

The way he ran.

He had just now seen the way Hongjoong had texted Seonghwa.

Telling them to stay away.

Yunho’s stomach curled in on itself.

He gritted his teeth.

Hongjoong exhaled, calm, steady. “That’s not what this is.”

“Then what is it?” Yunho snapped.

Hongjoong just looked at him, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

Yunho hated that look.

That careful, patient leader look.

Like he was being handled.

Like his feelings were something to tiptoe around.

Yunho’s chest heaved. His body felt too hot again like the shower had done nothing.

Like he was spiraling all over again.

San stepped closer, voice softer now. “Jongho just needed space. That’s all.”

But Yunho couldn’t believe that.

He had pushed too far.

He had scared him away.

And now—

Yunho’s hands flexed. His vision blurred for a second.

He needed something.

He needed—

His fingers curled tighter around the scarf.

He needed Jongho.

But he wasn’t here.

And he wasn’t coming back.

Yunho’s breath hitched.

San’s tail flicked, ears pinning back slightly, watching him closely.

Then—

Yunho ripped the scarf away from himself and threw it across the bed.

San flinched.

Hongjoong stilled.

The fabric landed in a crumpled heap against the pillows.

And for a long moment—Yunho just stood there, breathing too hard, fists clenched, chest tight.

Then—his body caved in on itself.

His shoulders slumped, his arms wrapped around his stomach, and he sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, elbows braced against his knees.

His breath came in shaky exhales, the fight leaving him all at once.

San sat down beside him immediately, their legs pressing together.

Hongjoong sighed, rubbing at his temple.

Then—quietly—he grabbed the scarf and returned it to Yunho’s lap.

Yunho swallowed hard, fingers twitching slightly against the fabric.

San leaned in a little. “We’re not keeping him from you, Yunho.” His voice was softer this time, steady. “We just… we want you to be okay when he returns.”

Yunho inhaled sharply.

Then exhaled.

His tail curled in tighter.

His ears twitched.

His fingers curled loosely around the scarf again.

His chest still felt tight and uncomfortable.

But at least, this time, he wasn’t fighting them anymore.

〜〜Wooyoung’s POV〜〜

Wooyoung nudged the door open with his foot, balancing the water bottles against his chest. “We weren’t even gone that long. You didn’t fall apart without us, did you?”

No response.

His grin faltered.

The room was too still.

Yunho was curled against San; shoulders locked, grip unrelenting on Jongho’s scarf. His breathing was too even, too forced—like he was holding it together through sheer will.

Hongjoong sat on the other side of the bed, tense and unreadable. His phone was untouched beside him.

Something had happened.

Mingi pushed past Wooyoung without hesitation, stepping further inside, his gaze locked on Yunho.

San sighed. “It’s fine.”

It wasn’t.

Yunho had been tense before, sure, but not like this.

Now, he looked like he was bracing for something. Like he was waiting—for what, Wooyoung didn’t know.

Mingi crouched beside him, voice low. “Yunho?”

No response.

Wooyoung set the bottles down, watching the way Yunho’s grip tightened on the scarf and the way his fingers curled slightly against the fabric as if they were the only thing anchoring him.

His stomach twisted. “What happened?”

Hongjoong sighed. “Nothing.”

Wooyoung shot him a look. “Try again.”

Hongjoong didn’t answer immediately. Just rubbed his fingers against his temple, exhaling slowly.

That was worse.

Mingi ignored them both, shifting closer. His hand found Yunho’s back, rubbing slow, steady circles. “Hey,” he murmured, voice firm but soft. “You’re doing good, okay?”

A slow inhale.

Then—finally—a small nod.

Not much.

But something.

Wooyoung exhaled, finally stepping further inside, but before he could say anything else, Mingi spoke again.

“Come here.”

It wasn’t directed at Yunho.

It was for them.

Wooyoung hesitated, exchanging a glance with San.

Mingi wasn’t asking.

San swallowed, then curled in closer, wrapping an arm more securely around Yunho. Wooyoung hesitated, then climbed onto the bed beside them, fitting himself against Yunho’s back.

Hongjoong lingered for a moment longer, then sighed and shifted forward, resting a hand against Yunho’s arm.

Yunho didn’t react.

Not much, at least.

But he didn’t pull away.

Wooyoung exhaled, closing his eyes.

They could stay like this.

Just for a little while.

Let Yunho breathe.

Let all of them breathe.

Eventually, Mingi sighed.

“Alright.” His voice was soft, but there was something heavier beneath it. “You guys can step out for a bit.”

Wooyoung blinked. “What?”

Mingi didn’t stop the slow, grounding circles he rubbed into Yunho’s back. “Go outside. Get some air.”

Wooyoung frowned. “Why?”

Mingi finally looked up. His expression wasn’t sharp, wasn’t irritated—just tired.

And then it clicked.

He wanted to be alone with Yunho.

Not to talk. Not to push.

Just to be.

Just the two of them.

San hesitated, his tail flicking once against Yunho’s leg.

Hongjoong sat up straighter, watching Yunho carefully.

Then, finally, he nodded. “Come on.”

Wooyoung clenched his jaw.

He didn’t want to leave.

But Yunho’s breathing was steady now.

Mingi was still there.

San lingered for another second, pressing his forehead lightly against Yunho’s temple before finally pulling away.

Hongjoong waited by the door.

Wooyoung swallowed, gave Yunho one last look—

Then, reluctantly, followed them out.

 〜〜San’s POV 〜〜

The driveway was quiet.

Not in a bad way.

San sat on the curb, legs stretched out, one knee bent loosely. His tail flicked occasionally, brushing against the concrete, but otherwise, he was still.

Wooyoung sat beside him, his shoulder warm where it pressed lightly against San’s. He had his hood up, arms wrapped around his legs, and fingers fidgeting with the loose threads at the edge of his sleeve.

Hongjoong was on San’s other side, legs crossed at the ankles, leaning back on his palms. His eyes were on the sky, watching the slow shift from deep blue to black, the first stars blinking into view.

They had been sitting like this for a while.

Not really talking.

Not really needing to.

San’s ears twitched at the sound of a car in the distance. His tail curled tighter against his side, listening—waiting.

But it wasn’t them.

San exhaled through his nose.

Then—softly: “It’s weird without him.”

Wooyoung let out a quiet huff. “It’s been one day.”

San shook his head. “Still weird.”

And it was.

Jongho had only been gone a few hours—barely a full day—but already, the house felt off, like something had shifted without them realizing it.

The space he usually took up—the quiet way he lingered, the weight of his presence in a room—was very noticeable now that it was missing.

Even without saying much, Jongho had become part of the rhythm.

San knew the others felt it, too.

Even Hongjoong—who was usually the one keeping them grounded, keeping things moving—hadn’t said much since they sat down.

San nudged his shoulder. “You feel it too, don’t you?”

Hongjoong let out a slow breath, tilting his head back. “Yeah.”

Wooyoung was quiet for a moment. Then, voice softer than before, he mumbled, “I want him home.”

San swallowed.

He understood.

Even with everything, even knowing why they had to take him out today, he still felt the ache of Jongho’s absence.

He wanted him home, too.

Hongjoong shifted, stretching his arms above his head, before relaxing again. “He will be soon.”

San hummed.

They sat in silence a little longer.

The wind stirred against the trees. The air smelled like the start of autumn—cool and crisp, carrying the scent of the earth.

San’s ears twitched at the faintest buzz of a phone.

He felt Hongjoong shift beside him as he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. The soft glow of the screen reflected against his face.

San peeked over, watching as Hongjoong’s brows lifted slightly.

He didn’t tense.

Didn’t frown.

Just read.

Then—a quiet sigh.

Wooyoung tilted his head. “What now?”

Hongjoong’s thumb hovered over the screen before he spoke.

“Mingi says Yunho’s asleep,” he said evenly. “But he wants someone to switch with him so he can shower.”

San glanced at Wooyoung.

Wooyoung exhaled through his nose, dropping his hood before stretching his arms over his head. “I’ll go.”

Hongjoong just nodded, pocketing his phone again.

San pushed himself up, dusting off his jeans. The night air was comfortable, but it was time to go back inside.

Without another word, they headed for the door.

The warm air of the house wrapped around them the second they stepped in.

San paused, ears twitching.

The house wasn’t silent.

But it was waiting.

He could feel it. Not just Yunho.

Not just Wooyoung heading for the pack room.

But Jongho’s absence. San exhaled through his nose.

Then, without a word—he stepped into the living room.

Hongjoong followed.

And they waited.

The front door opened, and the house shifted.

San felt it before he saw them.

The weight of absence settling into presence.

Yeosang stepped in first, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable. Jongho followed—a step behind, slightly hesitant, arms still curled around the plushies he’d carried all day.

Seonghwa was last. His gaze flickered over the room quickly, scanning, assessing, making sure everything was as it should be.

Hongjoong stood as soon as they stepped inside.

San pushed off the couch's armrest, ears twitching at the way Jongho hesitated just inside the doorway.

Like he was waiting for something.

San didn’t make him wait.

He was already moving before Jongho could figure out what to do.

“Can I hug you?”

It was soft. Careful. An offering, not an expectation.

Jongho blinked, caught off guard.

His fingers curled slightly around the plushies.

But then—a small, barely-there nod.

San didn’t waste a second.

He stepped forward, wrapping his arms around Jongho—firm but not overwhelming. Solid, grounding. He didn’t squeeze too tight, didn’t rush the moment. Just held.

Jongho didn’t move at first.

Then, gradually, his posture eased.

His grip on the plushies remained tight, but he didn’t pull away.

San took a slow breath in, pressing his nose lightly against Jongho’s shoulder.

He was here.

Yeosang stood just behind them, watching quietly.

Hongjoong sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Yunho just fell asleep again.” His voice was quieter than usual. “The others are still with him.”

San felt Jongho’s fingers twitch.

Seonghwa nodded, his gaze flickering toward the pack room.

They stood there for a moment, letting the silence settle.

Then, Hongjoong shifted forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “You must be tired. Why don’t you go wash up and get ready for bed?”

San let out a quiet whine, holding onto Jongho a little tighter. “But he just got home.”

Hongjoong sighed. “San.”

San grumbled but didn’t let go right away.

Didn’t want to.

Instead, he turned his head, pressing his nose a little more firmly against Jongho’s shoulder before finally loosening his grip.

Jongho hesitated as soon as he stepped back.

San felt it.

The way Jongho’s gaze flickered between him and Yeosang. The way his fingers twitched slightly against the plushies, he still held close.

He wasn’t just hesitating.

He didn’t want to go alone.

Yeosang must have noticed, too.

Because before Jongho could decide, Yeosang made it for him.

“We’ll come with you,” Yeosang said simply.

Jongho’s fingers tightened around the plushies again, but the tension in his shoulders eased. Just slightly.

San perked up immediately. “Yeah! We can keep you company while you get ready.”

Jongho’s throat bobbed in a swallow, but he nodded.

Hongjoong didn’t comment on it. Didn’t push.

Just leaned back against the couch with a small sigh. “Alright. Try to get some rest after.”

Jongho didn’t respond.

But as he turned toward the hallway, he didn’t look as hesitant as before.

San quickly stepped beside him, his shoulder brushing lightly against Jongho’s.

Yeosang followed just a step behind.

The day had been long—long and complicated in ways that weren’t fully sorted yet.

But as Jongho walked ahead of him, still holding onto those plushies like they were the most essential thing in the world, San thought maybe—just maybe—it hadn’t been all bad

 〜〜Seonghwa’s POV〜〜

The house was warm. Softly lit, quiet in a way that felt different now. Not empty, not uncertain—just waiting.

Seonghwa let himself sink into the couch, stretching his legs. Now that the day was finally slowing down, his exhaustion was pressing deeper.

Across from him, Hongjoong was sitting forward, elbows braced against his knees, thumb tapping against the seam of his jeans. He wasn’t as tense as before, but the weight of everything still clung to him.

Seonghwa exhaled. “Long day.”

Hongjoong huffed softly. “Yeah.”

A beat of silence. Then—

“How was it?” Hongjoong asked, voice quieter. “Being out with him?”

Seonghwa let his head tip back slightly. “Good. Mostly.”

Hongjoong’s fingers stilled against his knee.

Seonghwa took a breath, sorting through the day's memories, trying to put them into words.

“He started off quiet,” he admitted. “But he wasn’t closed off. Just… taking things in.”

Hongjoong nodded slightly, waiting.

“The park was good,” Seonghwa continued. “Better than I expected.” He hesitated, then smiled. “A bunny hybrid ran up to him. Wanted to play.”

Hongjoong blinked. “Did he?”

Seonghwa huffed a small laugh. “Yeah. After a while.” His expression softened. “For a few minutes, it was like he wasn’t overthinking—just moving, reacting. I think he liked it.”

Hongjoong’s jaw shifted slightly, his grip flexing where his hands rested on his thighs. “That’s good.”

Seonghwa nodded. “Yeosang’s office, too. He was paying attention, even if he didn’t say much. I think seeing the hybrid-friendly designs meant something to him. Like… proof that there’s a space for him out here.”

Hongjoong exhaled slowly, his gaze dropping for a moment.

Then— “The café?”

Seonghwa’s fingers twitched slightly against his knee.

“That was bad.”

Hongjoong closed his eyes briefly. “Tell me.” 

Seonghwa sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.

“There was a guy.” Hongjoong stiffened.

Seonghwa continued. “He acted like Jongho wasn’t even there. Just started talking to us about him, like he was some kind of… spectacle.” Hongjoong’s jaw clenched.

“Yeosang shut it down,” Seonghwa assured him. “I told Jongho he didn’t have to say anything.” He hesitated. “But it shook him.”

Hongjoong inhaled through his nose, shoulders going tight.

Seonghwa’s voice softened. “He froze up, Joong.”

That was what lingered. Not the words. Not the stranger’s tone.

But the way Jongho had gone still. Like he was bracing for something worse.

Hongjoong’s hands curled into fists.

Seonghwa reached over, pressing a hand over his wrist. “He was okay after. We didn’t let it get to him for long.”

Hongjoong exhaled sharply, but he didn’t pull away.

Seonghwa squeezed lightly, grounding.

“The arcade helped,” he continued. “It got competitive. I don’t think Yeosang’s ever focused so hard on anything in his life.”

That, at least, earned a quiet huff of amusement.

Seonghwa smiled. “It felt good, seeing him that way.”

Hongjoong was quiet for a moment.

Then, finally, he murmured, “I wish I could’ve seen it.”

Seonghwa’s chest ached.

“You did the best you could today,” he said simply.

Hongjoong swallowed. “So did you.”

Seonghwa released a slow breath, shifting his grip until his fingers curled lightly around Hongjoong’s hand.

The warmth between them settled something deeper.

Seonghwa glanced toward the stairs.

“I missed Yunho today.” His voice was soft, steady. “I want to see him.”

Hongjoong met his gaze.

Then—Seonghwa squeezed his hand. “Come on.”

Hongjoong huffed a small laugh. “What?”

Seonghwa tugged him up gently. “He’s gonna want to see you when he wakes up.”

Hongjoong rolled his eyes, but he didn’t let go.

They walked upstairs together, fingers still loosely intertwined.

The door clicked softly as Seonghwa and Hongjoong stepped inside.

The room was dim, only the soft glow from the hallway slipping through the cracked door. Mingi and Wooyoung were already inside—Mingi sitting against the headboard, his arm draped loosely over Yunho’s back, while Wooyoung lay curled up beside him, legs tucked beneath the blankets.

Yunho had been asleep when they left.

But the second the door opened, he stirred.

A low sound rumbled in his chest—not quite a whine or a growl.

Mingi’s hand immediately traced slow circles against his back, grounding. “It’s just them.”

Yunho’s breath hitched. His ears twitched slightly, tail flicking once beneath the blankets. Half-awake, disoriented, searching.

Seonghwa saw the moment he realized three members of the pack were missing.

His muscles tensed, his head lifting just enough for his heavy-lidded gaze to flicker across the room. His breath came faster for a moment like he was trying to place everything—where he was, who was here, who wasn’t.

“Where—” His voice cracked from disuse. He was still too deep in his instincts, still seeking reassurance.

“They’re with Jongho,” Hongjoong murmured before he could spiral, his voice steady but quiet. “He’s safe. He’s in his room.”

Yunho exhaled sharply, his tail twitching beneath the blankets.

Seonghwa didn’t hesitate.

He had stopped by his room before coming in, stripping off the hoodie he’d worn all day in favor of something softer, something looser. Something that wouldn’t feel heavy when Yunho inevitably clung to him.

Now, he crossed the room in a few quiet steps, nudging Mingi’s leg lightly to make space. Mingi shifted without a word, making room for both him and Hongjoong.

As soon as Seonghwa settled onto the bed, Yunho moved.

Not fully awake, but instinct-driven.

He pressed closer, burying his face into Seonghwa’s side, nose nudging at the fabric of his shirt like scent alone would be enough to settle him. His breath was warm, uneven against Seonghwa’s ribs.

Seonghwa exhaled, slow, steady.

His fingers found their way into Yunho’s hair, brushing damp strands away from his forehead before pressing lightly against the nape of his neck—a slow, grounding touch.

“You’re okay, puppy,” Seonghwa murmured, voice softer now, full of quiet fondness.

Yunho shuddered. His grip on Mingi’s hoodie loosened slightly, shifting until his arm was draped half over Seonghwa’s lap instead.

Hongjoong settled in next, not saying anything, just watching.

Then, without hesitation, he reached over and rested a hand lightly against Yunho’s back.

Wooyoung made a slight noise of protest but didn’t move when Hongjoong jostled him slightly, shifting to get more comfortable.

Mingi let out a slow breath. “They’ll come see you in the morning.” His voice was even, but it had an unmistakable weight—a promise. Seonghwa didn’t know if that was true. 

Yunho inhaled deeply—dragging in the scent of all of them, settling into the familiar warmth of the pack.

Then, finally, his body unlocked.

The tension that had held him too tight and the restless energy that had lingered even in sleep eased.

He exhaled long and slow, pressing deeper into Seonghwa’s warmth, letting himself be surrounded.

Wooyoung grumbled, shifting to tuck himself closer to Mingi’s side.

Mingi sighed but didn’t complain.

Hongjoong stretched out, letting his fingers curl loosely over the blanket's fabric. His breath synced with the quiet rhythm of the room.

And Seonghwa—Seonghwa kept rubbing slow, steady circles into Yunho’s back, feeling the day's weight finally settle.

No one spoke.

No one needed to.

Because at that moment, they had each other.

And that was enough.

Yunho let out one last breath—deep, steady.

Then—he was asleep again.

And this time, so was everyone else.

Chapter Text

〜〜Jongho’s POV〜〜

Jongho woke up wrong.

Not in the way he used to—snapping awake, breath caught in his throat, body braced for something that never came.

This was different.

Wrong because, for a moment, he forgot where he was.

The blankets were warm. The air was still. Too still. His muscles weren’t aching from a night spent curled too tightly in on himself. There was no stiffness in his shoulders, no lingering soreness in his back.

And something was pressed against his chest.

His breath hitched, and his body tensed instinctively before his brain fully caught up.

Not hands. Not weight.

Soft.

His fingers twitched slightly, brushing against the texture. Plush fabric.

The stuffed animals.

His heartbeat staggered in his chest, something tight winding in his ribs.

He hadn’t let go.

Even in sleep, he had held on.

Jongho exhaled slowly, steadying himself—but something still felt off.

Because he wasn’t alone.

The realization settled heavy, slow, curling into his awareness.

It wasn’t fear—not really. He had woken up with San and Wooyoung before.

San, who had pulled him close without hesitation that first night, pressed warmth into the spaces where Jongho had never let anyone linger before.

Wooyoung, who had curled around him so naturally that it had made Jongho’s chest ache in a way he couldn’t name.

But this felt different.

His ears caught the faint, steady sound of breathing beside him. The quiet shift of blankets. The weight of presence.

San and Yeosang.

Yeosang.

Jongho swallowed, forcing his body to stay still.

San was easy—San had always been easy. He fit himself into spaces without hesitation, as if they were always meant to be his.

But Yeosang.

Yeosang was watchful, patient, and careful in a way that made Jongho feel seen without ever being looked at too closely.

Yeosang, who never pushed but never left, either.

Jongho’s fingers curled slightly in the blankets.

They had stayed.

Why?

He hadn’t asked them to. He hadn’t expected them to.

But they had.

And the longer he stayed frozen in place, the heavier that realization became.

Then—his ears caught something else.

The faint creak of movement. The rustling of someone shifting downstairs.

The quiet murmur of voices.

The pack.

They were awake.

And suddenly, Jongho was too.

Fully.

Because yesterday wasn’t just another day.

Something had changed.

Jongho hadn’t been home for most of it. He had spent the afternoon outside with Yeosang and Seonghwa, feeling sunlight on his skin, breathing in fresh air, learning—for a brief, fleeting moment—what it felt like to exist beyond the house's walls.

But while he had been gone, the house had become something else entirely.

When they returned, he felt the heavy scent that clung to the upstairs, the others' absence, and Hongjoong and San's unreadable expressions and careful movements as they met them at the door.

He had heard it in Yeosang's question about whether they should even go back yet and in Seonghwa’s phone had buzzed with a quiet message from Hongjoong before they finally drove home.

He had seen it in San’s body language as they stood in the living room, the tension that hadn’t been there earlier, the way Yeosang had kept close, the way Jongho hesitated before walking upstairs.

He hadn’t asked what had happened.

He hadn’t needed to.

Because he wasn’t naïve.

He knew what had happened while he was gone.

And now, the house felt too still.

Like the weight of yesterday was still lingering in the walls.

Like something had shifted, and he was supposed to find his place in it.

His grip on the plushies tightened.

But he couldn’t stay here forever.

Jongho exhaled slowly, steadying himself. He needed to move.

But instead, he stayed still.

His body was awake, his mind alert, but he didn’t move.

San’s breathing was steady beside him—soft, slow exhales against the pillow. Yeosang’s was quieter, more even, like he was hovering just beneath wakefulness.

Jongho kept his eyes on the ceiling.

It would be easier to get up. To slip out of bed and shake off the thick, restless weight pressing into his chest.

But San moved first.

A soft murmur, a slow shift, the press of warmth curling in closer. His arm draped lazily over Jongho’s stomach, half-asleep, all instinct.

Jongho froze.

San was always like this—unafraid to reach out, take up space, and comfortably exist in proximity.

And Jongho should have expected it.

But the warmth of it still took him off guard.

San hummed low in his throat, barely awake, his fingers twitching lightly against Jongho’s side. He sighed, nuzzling deeper into the pillow.

Then—his body tensed.

Not much. Not sharply. But enough.

Like he had finally processed where he was—who he was touching.

San’s breath stilled for a moment. Then, slowly, he shifted back, not pulling away completely but giving Jongho space.

A hesitation.

A question without words.

Jongho didn’t answer.

But he didn’t move away, either.

San let out a quiet breath, content with the silent permission, and stayed close—but not too close.

Jongho wasn’t sure why that made his throat feel tight.

On his other side, Yeosang stirred.

Not as obvious. Not as instinctive.

Yeosang didn’t reach for him.

His breath stayed even, but Jongho felt the awareness sharpen around him; the way Yeosang’s stillness meant something different than sleep.

Waiting. Watching.

Jongho swallowed.

He didn’t have to look to know Yeosang’s eyes were open now, his gaze flicking between them, cataloging, calculating.

Yeosang wouldn’t push. Wouldn’t ask.

But he knew.

And that knowing was somehow heavier than the weight of San’s warmth beside him.

Jongho needed to move.

He exhaled slowly, shifting just enough to push himself upright.

San mumbled something unintelligible and flopped onto his stomach, rubbing his face against the pillow before blinking blearily up at him.

“Morning?” His voice was hoarse, thick with sleep.

Jongho hesitated.

Then, quietly—

“…Morning.”

Yeosang finally sat up, stretching slightly before resting his forearm on his knee, watching Jongho carefully.

“Sleep okay?”

Jongho’s fingers curled into the blankets before he caught himself.

He could lie.

Could say yes.

But Yeosang’s gaze told him it wouldn’t be believed.

“…I slept,” Jongho said instead.

San made a small, unimpressed noise, rolling onto his back. “That’s not an answer.”

Jongho didn’t respond because he didn’t have one.

And he wasn’t sure if he wanted one.

Yeosang hummed, not pushing. But Jongho still felt the weight of his attention.

Still felt San’s warmth at his side.

Still felt the lingering echoes of yesterday pressing against the morning.

And suddenly, he wasn’t sure what to do with himself.

Would they be downstairs?

Would Yunho be awake?

Would the air still be heavy with the weight of last night?

Jongho’s stomach twisted.

He needed to get up.

To move.

To do something.

He inhaled, slow and steady, and pushed himself fully upright.

“I should—wash up,” he murmured.

It wasn’t an excuse.

But it wasn’t the whole truth, either.

Yeosang didn’t comment; just gave a small nod.

San stretched again, his tail flicking lazily against the blankets. “We’ll be here.”

Jongho swallowed and nodded back.

Then, without another word, he stood.

The weight in his chest didn’t ease.

But at least, for now, he had something to do.

His fingers tightened around the plushies as he stepped toward his desk, his grip lingering before he forced himself to let go.

He set them down carefully—too carefully—adjusting them so they sat upright, their soft forms leaning into each other.

Like they belonged there.

Jongho’s throat felt tight.

His fingers twitched, resisting the urge to pick them back up.

It was silly.

It was just a stuffed animal.

But his hand still hovered too long for a second before pulling away.

Turning toward the bathroom, he walked away before he could change his mind.

The light was too bright when he flipped the switch, cutting through the quiet dimness of the morning. Jongho blinked against it, barely glancing at his reflection before reaching for the faucet.

Cold water rushed over his hands, sharp against his skin. He let it run, waiting until his fingertips started to sting before cupping the water and splashing it over his face, forcing himself to focus on the sensation.

It helped—a little.

He reached for the towel—

And winced.

A sharp pull shot through his arm, stopping him short. His breath caught, and for a second, he just stood there, staring at the towel as if it had been the thing that hurt him.

But no—that was him.

Jongho exhaled through his nose, slow and measured, before pushing up his sleeves.

His arms told the truth he tried to ignore.

Indented crescents where his nails had dug in, the skin red and irritated. Scratches traced up toward his shoulders, some barely there, others deeper, stinging when he moved too fast. Marks layered over older ones, proving how often he did this—how much he relied on it.

His fingers hovered over them, barely touching.

It’s not supposed to be like this.

He knew it. Knew this wasn’t a real solution. Knew he shouldn’t need this.

And yet, the pressure had helped.

Like always.

And that made something curdle inside him.

Jongho curled his fingers into a fist and let his arms drop.

He hated that this was his first instinct. Hated that he hadn’t stopped himself and hated that he needed it to keep himself still.

And more than anything—he hated himself for it.

His jaw locked as he rolled his sleeves back down, covering the evidence, tucking it away where no one else would see.

His hands lifted absently to his neck, fingers brushing over the skin there—searching for the dull ache that had been there for weeks. He expected it. Braced for it.

But the pain wasn’t there.

Jongho stilled.

His fingertips pressed in lightly, then harder, then harder still—

Nothing.

His breath stuttered.

His gaze flickered to the mirror, half-expecting to see the bruises still there.

But they weren’t.

Just smooth, unmarked skin, like they’d never been there at all.

Jongho’s stomach twisted.

They had lasted so long. Lingering, settling beneath his skin like they belonged there. They had been proof of what happened and what he had endured.

Now they were gone.

And yet, he still felt them.

Still felt the way Jihoon’s hands had locked around his throat, the way his body had locked up, the way his breath had caught, the way he had stayed still—because stillness was safer than fighting back.

The bruises were gone, but the feeling wasn’t.

The weight of it still pressed against his skin, even when there was nothing left to show for it.

Jongho’s hands curled into fists at his sides.

His reflection stared back at him, empty and knowing.

And then—his eyes caught something else.

A small, black shape sat near the edge of the sink.

Jongho’s stomach clenched.

The collar.

Right where he had left it last night.

His throat tightened.

Yeosang had given it to him yesterday.

A temporary collar. Just something to hold the place of a real one, Yeosang had said. Nothing permanent. Nothing that had to mean anything.

And yet, Jongho had hesitated before putting it on.

He remembered how Yeosang had adjusted the clasp for him, ensuring it wasn’t too tight. The way Seonghwa had smiled softly when Jongho finally settled it around his throat.

The way he had worn it for the rest of the day.

And the way it had sat there—a steady, constant weight, unfamiliar but not entirely unwelcome.

Not tight. Not constricting.

But present.

He hadn’t noticed it much at first. The world outside the house had been distracting enough—too many new sounds, too much space to exist in.

But later, when he had been alone in the bathroom, it had been all he could feel.

The weight of it. The way it settled against his skin, like it belonged there.

He had stood in front of the mirror for too long, fingers hovering over the buckle, staring.

It shouldn’t have mattered.

Yeosang had said it was temporary.

A placeholder.

But some irrational part of him had latched onto it, had wanted it to stay, had felt like taking it off would make it disappear entirely.

If he took it off, the pack’s offer—his place here—would disappear, too.

It was stupid.

It was just a collar.

It wasn’t real.

Jongho had forced himself to undo the clasp.

He had held it in his hands for a moment too long before setting it on the sink.

And now—there it was.

Still waiting.

Jongho swallowed hard, tearing his gaze away.

He wasn’t thinking about this.

Not now.

Not when the house was too quiet. Not when something still felt off, lingering in the air like a warning he didn’t understand.

He gripped the sink. Inhaled. Exhaled. Steadied himself.

Then, without another glance at the collar, he shut off the light and stepped out of the bathroom, letting the door click softly shut behind him. The room was quiet, still wrapped in the dim light of morning. The air felt heavier now, pressing in a way it hadn’t before.

San and Yeosang were still on the bed.

San had all but melted into the blankets, his body sprawled out, his tail flicking lazily over the sheets. Yeosang was sitting up now, watching Jongho carefully—not hovering, not pushing, just watching.

Jongho swallowed and turned toward his desk.

His fingers twitched as he walked over, brushing absently against his wrist—seeking, expecting.

But nothing was there.

A faint unease curled at the edges of his mind, creeping in slowly. His hand closed around his wrist, his thumb pressing against the bare skin where something should have been.

My scarf.

His breath hitched.

He always wore it. Always. Except yesterday. Hadn’t he?

The thought landed heavy, foggy. His memory of the night before was jumbled, with too many emotions tangled together. He had taken off the collar Yeosang had given him and had set it down in the bathroom. But the scarf—had he even put it on yesterday?

Jongho’s stomach twisted.

His hand shot out, reaching for the desk. His fingers curled around the plushies instead of fabric, pressing against the soft fur as if it could ground him.

But the scarf wasn’t on the desk.

His pulse picked up.

It should be there. It was always there.

Jongho’s breath came faster as his gaze swept over the desk again, then the chair and the floor. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, louder and louder, a sharp, rising panic clawing at his throat.

It wasn’t there.

He turned abruptly toward the bed.

San and Yeosang blinked up at him as he reached the edge—but he barely noticed them.

His hands moved on their own, yanking back the blankets.

Yeosang sat up straighter. “Jongho—?”

San’s ears twitched. “What—what are you looking for?”

Jongho barely heard them. His movements were frantic now, flipping over the pillows, pulling at the sheets, searching, searching, searching.

Yeosang shifted toward him. “Jongho.”

“My scarf.” The words fell out, breathless, unsteady. “I—I can’t find it.”

San froze.

Jongho didn’t notice.

Because the panic was curling in tighter now, pressing against his ribs, clawing up his throat. Where is it? Had he left it somewhere? Dropped it? How could he be so careless? His hands clenched at his sides, his breath uneven.

Yeosang’s voice was calm but firm. “Are you sure it was here?”

Jongho squeezed his eyes shut, trying to remember. But the memories were wrong, hazy, missing pieces. He hadn’t worn it yesterday. He had forgotten. And now—

His hands curled into fists. “I—I must’ve lost it—”

San’s tail flicked once. His mouth opened like he wanted to say something—then shut again.

Jongho’s stomach sank.

This was his fault.

The one thing that felt safe, that Mingi had given him, something that had been his—and he had lost it. He let it go like everything else.

Yeosang’s voice softened. “Jongho—”

“I lost it.” The words tasted bitter. “I lost it.”

San shifted beside him, tail curling slightly, but he still didn’t speak.

Jongho couldn’t breathe.

It was gone.

And it was his fault.

Yeosang reacted immediately. “We’ll help you look,” he said, already standing. “Where did you last see it?”

Jongho opened his mouth—then hesitated.

Where had he last seen it?

He was sure it had been here, on his desk, folded neatly beside the plushies. But… had it?

He tried to remember.

Tried to picture it.

But the image wouldn’t come.

Had he seen it last night? Had he worn it to bed? Had he taken it off before he slept?

His mind was blank.

His stomach twisted violently.

“I—I don’t know,” Jongho admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

Yeosang’s expression didn’t change, but he stepped closer, gaze flicking over the room, scanning.

“It’s okay,” Yeosang said lightly. “It’s here somewhere.”

Jongho barely heard him.

His mind was spiraling.

This was his fault.

He had lost it.

He had been careless.

He knew this would happen. Knew he shouldn’t have let himself get attached.

It wasn’t just a scarf.

It was Mingi’s scarf.

Mingi had given it to him. Given it to him as a sign that he belonged, that he was part of something.

And now it was gone because of him.

Jongho clenched his fists, his breathing sharp. His heart was pounding too fast, too hard.

He needed to find it.

Now.

He turned and stormed past them, heading for the door without another word.

Yeosang and San exchanged a look before moving to follow.

“Jongho, wait—”

But he wasn’t listening.

Jongho moved quickly, his steps sharp and clipped as he strode into the hallway.

He replayed last night over and over in his head, desperate to latch onto a memory, any memory, of where the scarf could be.

Had he worn it downstairs? No—he wouldn’t have done that. Would he?

Had he left it in the living room?

The laundry room?

Somewhere stupid and thoughtless, like the kitchen table?

The more he tried to remember, the more the edges of his thoughts blurred into static.

He wasn’t thinking.

He wasn’t careful.

He always did this—always messed things up, always lost what was given to him.

His fingers twitched toward his wrist again, seeking the familiar weight of the scarf—

But it wasn’t there.

He bit the inside of his cheek hard.

Yeosang and San trailed behind him, watchful, careful.

They weren’t stopping him.

Not yet.

But they were there.

He went to the hall closet first.

He flung the door open, not because it made sense but because his mind was too frantic to function correctly. He rummaged through the shelves, checking under coats and folded blankets.

Nothing.

The living room was next.

He stepped into the space, his eyes darting between the furniture. He scanned the floor, the cushions, and the armrests.

He pushed aside a pillow.

Then another.

His pulse thundered in his ears.

“Jongho.” Yeosang’s voice was calm but firm now.

Jongho ignored him.

The laundry room.

He rushed past them, yanking the door open, scanning the baskets, the folded piles—

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

His stomach lurched.

He had lost it.

He had lost the one thing he was supposed to keep.

“Jongho, slow down.” Yeosang stepped forward, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder. “We’ll find it, but—”

But then—

Jongho turned.

And saw San.

San, standing by the doorway.

San, stiff, tense.

San, not searching.

San, not surprised.

Jongho’s breath caught.

San knew something.

He knew.

“San.” His own voice sounded strange—raw, unsteady. “Where is it?”

San’s ears twitched. His tail flicked, a little too tight, too rigid.

“I—”

Jongho took a step forward.

“San,” he repeated, his heart pounding. “You know where it is, don’t you?”

San hesitated.

That hesitation was all the answer Jongho needed.

He felt it in his chest.

San knew.

Yeosang knew.

They had known this whole time.

“Where is it?” Jongho demanded, the panic twisting into something sharp, something that burned.

San’s throat bobbed.

“It’s with Yunho.”

Jongho’s entire body locked up.

His mind stalled, crashing into the words like a wall.

With Yunho?

No. That— that wasn’t right.

It didn’t make sense.

His scarf had been—

His stomach twisted violently.

Where had it been?

He tried to picture it. Tried to pull up the last time he had seen it, had touched it, had wrapped it around himself, and felt the comfort of its weight against his skin.

He had worn it. He knew that much. Before everything happened. Before Yunho’s outburst, before the tension in the house, before he left yesterday—

But after that?

Jongho’s throat went dry.

He hadn’t seen it since.

Not yesterday morning. Not last night.

He hadn’t even noticed it was gone.

The realization hit hard, curling under his ribs like a punch.

How had he not noticed?

His breath came faster, sharper, like the air had turned too thin around him. His hands flexed, fingers twitching where they rested on his knees.

Had he misplaced it? Had someone taken it? Had it fallen somewhere, and he had just been too distracted—too careless—too much of a mess to realize?

His fault.

His mistake.

His own thought patterns coiled tighter, faster until he forced himself to focus.

Yunho had it.

That was the only thing he knew for sure.

Jongho swallowed hard.

“Why?”

His voice was rougher than he expected, strained around the tightness in his throat.

San’s ears twitched, his mouth parting slightly before closing again, something unreadable flickering across his face.

Yeosang was steady. Unwavering. “We’ll explain,” he said carefully. “But Jongho, you need to breathe.”

Breathe.

He wasn’t breathing.

Jongho sucked in air through his nose, but it didn’t feel like enough.

The scarf had been gone for a full day. Maybe longer.

And he hadn’t even noticed.

He had spent yesterday walking through the park, stepping into the city, standing in Yeosang’s office, eating at the café, playing at the arcade—completely unaware that something so important had been missing the entire time.

How had he let that happen?

How had he not noticed?

His nails dug into his palms.

The scarf was with Yunho now.

Not lost.

Not gone.

That should have helped.

And yet, his chest still felt too tight.

San nudged him, voice softer than before. “You okay?”

Jongho swallowed and nodded once.

A lie.

San didn’t believe him. Neither did Yeosang. But neither of them pushed.

Yeosang simply exhaled and said, “You should eat.”

Jongho hesitated.

His stomach felt too unsettled, his hands still too restless.

But Yeosang’s voice wasn’t a command. It wasn’t forceful. Just steady. A reminder.

And Jongho had learned, slowly, that sometimes it was easier to listen than to argue.

So he nodded.

“…Yeah.” His voice was quieter this time. “Okay.”

San grinned, something gentler in the expression than usual. “Good, because I’m starving.”

Jongho let out a quiet breath—something close to amusement, if only just—and let himself follow when Yeosang and San led him toward the kitchen.

Jongho wasn’t sure what he had expected when they walked into the kitchen, but it wasn’t this.

The air was thick with the smell of fresh food—something warm, something grounding—but the moment they stepped inside, movement burst from the center of the room.

“Jongho!”

Before he could react, Wooyoung was in front of him, hands reaching out like he was about to throw himself at Jongho—only for Hongjoong to snag the back of his shirt at the last second.

“Give him a second to breathe,” Hongjoong muttered, though his voice lacked any real reprimand.

Wooyoung whined dramatically but didn’t fight the grip. Instead, he practically bounced on his feet, eyes bright, scanning Jongho like he needed to check that he was real.

“You were gone forever.”

Jongho blinked. “It was a day.”

“Exactly,” Wooyoung huffed, like that somehow made his point stronger.

San snorted beside him, and Yeosang shook his head, stepping around them toward the counter where the food was laid out.

Jongho didn’t move. Something felt… off.

The kitchen was full—Wooyoung, Hongjoong, Yeosang, San—but not enough.

His ears slightly flicked as he took in the room, noting what was missing.

Mingi wasn’t here.

Seonghwa wasn’t here.

And Yunho—

Jongho clenched his jaw, ignoring the way his stomach twisted.

Of course, Yunho wasn’t here.

He was still in the pack room, still… dealing with everything.

Jongho shouldn’t care.

He didn’t care.

He had spent all morning trying not to care.

And yet, his fingers curled slightly at his sides.

“Hey,” Wooyoung’s voice softened slightly, cutting into his thoughts. “You okay?”

Jongho stiffened.

He had just gone through this with San and Yeosang. He had already pretended he was fine and already lied.

But this felt different.

Wooyoung’s energy was always too much—too fast, too reckless—but this wasn’t. 

This was careful.

Jongho wasn’t used to careful from Wooyoung.

He swallowed, glancing at the warmth of the kitchen, the smell of breakfast, the way San was already stealing food from Yeosang’s plate.

He could feel Wooyoung waiting.

So he nodded. “Yeah.”

Wooyoung didn’t believe him.

But he didn’t call him out on it either.

Instead, he grinned, like Jongho had just permitted him to lighten the moment.

“Good,” he said cheerfully, stepping back. “Because if you don’t eat, Hongjoong’s going to start worrying, and if Hongjoong starts worrying, we’ll never hear the end of it.”

“True,” San said, already halfway through his first pancake.

Hongjoong shot them both a look but didn’t deny it.

Jongho exhaled something in his chest, loosening it just a little.

Hongjoong gestured toward the table. “Eat first,” he said simply.

And this time, Jongho listened.

Jongho took a slow bite of his food, chewing carefully. He wasn’t sure if he was really hungry or if he was just eating because it gave him something to focus on—something to do with his hands, something to keep him from getting lost in the restless weight pressing into his ribs.

The kitchen was warm, and the scents of breakfast were familiar, but there was a quietness to the air—not strained, exactly, but careful. It was as if they were all still adjusting, still waiting for something to settle that hadn’t quite landed yet.

Jongho’s eyes flickered around the room.

Yeosang and San sat beside him, their presence steady and familiar. Hongjoong was across from him, methodically working through his plate, his gaze flicking up now and then, sharp but unreadable. Wooyoung, as expected, did most of the talking, gesturing with his chopsticks, keeping the conversation moving as if he were making sure the silence didn’t sink too deep.

But something was missing.

Jongho’s fingers twitched around his chopsticks.

Mingi, Seonghwa, and Yunho weren’t here.

His throat tightened slightly. He wasn’t surprised—he hadn’t expected Yunho to be here. Not yet. But the absence still sat heavy in his chest.

Yeosang must have noticed, “They’re still upstairs.”

Jongho inhaled carefully. “Is Yunho—” His voice wavered just slightly, and he pressed his lips together before trying again. “Is he okay?”

There was a pause.

Hongjoong exhaled, setting his chopsticks down. “He’s sleeping.”

Wooyoung hummed, not entirely agreeing, not quite disagreeing. “Recovering.” He glanced at Hongjoong. “He was a mess yesterday, huh?”

Hongjoong rubbed at his temple. “Yeah.”

Jongho’s fingers curled slightly.

San shifted beside him, voice softer than usual. “It was worse when he first woke up,” he admitted. “But he’s better this morning. Still exhausted, but calmer.”

Jongho nodded. That should have reassured him. It didn’t.

His mind kept circling back to last night. To the way Yunho had looked at him. The way his body had cornered him, instincts spilling over, pressing too close, gripping too tight.

Jongho swallowed against the lump in his throat. He knew it wasn’t intentional. He knew Yunho would hate himself for it.

But the memory still lingered, sharp at the edges.

Would Yunho even remember what he’d said?

Would he regret it?

Jongho had spent so long being told what he wasn’t. That he was nothing, that no alpha would ever want him. And Yunho—Yunho had looked at him like he was something worth having.

But Yunho’s mind hadn’t been his own last night. The instincts had been stronger than the logic.

Had anything he said even been real?

Did it even matter?

Jongho swallowed hard, forcing his fingers to loosen around his chopsticks.

Hongjoong’s voice cut through his thoughts. “You went out yesterday.”

Jongho blinked at the sudden shift in conversation. He hesitated, his mind stuttering to keep up.

The park. The office. The cafe. The arcade.

Breathing in air that wasn’t thick with tension. Feeling space around him that wasn’t laced with expectation.

The bunny hybrid who had wanted to play. The way Yeosang stood up for him at the cafe, the bright lights of the arcade, and the hum of music.

He had felt something close to normal for a brief, fleeting moment.

San huffed a small laugh. “Yeah? How was it?”

Jongho nodded. “Good…different.”

Yeosang gave a small, knowing smile. “You handled it well.”

Something flickered in Jongho’s chest—a warmth, hesitant but genuine.

Wooyoung grinned, leaning forward. “Did you get into a fight with Yeosang at the arcade?”

Jongho blinked. “What?”

“Yeosang gets so competitive,” Wooyoung said, waving his chopsticks in emphasis. “He probably refused to leave until he won something.”

Yeosang sighed but didn’t argue. Instead, he tilted his head toward Jongho. “He didn’t complain when I won those stuffed animals.”

Jongho’s fingers twitched slightly. He glanced at Yeosang, something unreadable catching in his throat.

Yeosang had been the one to win them. Jongho hadn’t really thought about it last night—hadn’t let himself dwell on the moment Yeosang had pressed them into his hands, quiet but unwavering.

But now—

Now, the weight of that realization settled in his chest.

Yeosang hadn’t stopped until he won them for him.

Jongho swallowed, unsure of what to say.

Wooyoung, thankfully, didn’t seem to notice his silence. He grinned, nudging Jongho’s arm. “So you got spoiled yesterday, huh?”

Jongho exhaled softly through his nose. “…I guess.”

San smirked. “We should take him out more often.”

Hongjoong, who had been listening quietly, leaned his chin into his hand. “It sounds like it was good for you.”

Jongho hesitated, glancing down at his plate.

Good.

He didn’t know if he would go that far.

But it hadn’t been bad. Hadn’t been suffocating. Hadn’t been lonely.

“…Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “It was.”

Hongjoong studied him for a moment longer, then nodded

The conversation settled for a moment, the hum of quiet filling the space between them. Jongho picked at his food, chewing without really tasting it.

His thoughts lingered on yesterday.

The fresh air. The space. The feeling of something almost normal.

But now, he was back here, sitting at this table, with the weight of something heavier pressing into his chest.

Yunho wasn’t downstairs.

Jongho glanced at his plate, pushing his food around.

Yesterday had been new and unfamiliar, but it had been safe. He hadn’t had to think too hard about what was waiting for him back home—about the things left unresolved.

But Yunho was still here. And so was the memory of last night.

The way Yunho had looked at him. His body had pressed too close, instincts thick in the air, desperate and unguarded.

Jongho swallowed, stomach twisting.

Had any of it been real?

Or had it all just been the pull of a rut, instincts speaking instead of the person underneath?

Jongho exhaled through his nose, gripping his chopsticks a little tighter.

And then—his mind flickered to something else. Something he hadn’t allowed himself to focus on in the midst of everything else.

The scarf.

His scarf.

He hesitated, voice careful when he finally spoke. “…Did anyone see it?”

Yeosang’s gaze flickered toward him. “See what?”

Jongho’s fingers twitched. “My scarf.”

There was a small beat of silence.

Then, Wooyoung shifted.

Jongho caught the movement, looking up to see Wooyoung rubbing at the back of his neck, his usual energy dimming slightly.

“Uh.” Wooyoung glanced away. “Yeah.”

Jongho frowned.

Wooyoung sighed, dropping his hand. His voice was quieter than before. “I have to tell you something.”

Something uneasy curled in Jongho’s chest. “…What?”

Wooyoung hesitated. “I… went into your room yesterday.”

Jongho’s stomach twisted.

Wooyoung held up his hands quickly. “I know—I should’ve asked; I swear I know that. I just—” He exhaled. “Yunho was—he was struggling, Jongho.”

Jongho stilled.

Wooyoung’s voice softened. “He kept asking about you, even when he wasn’t really awake. He was restless—couldn’t settle, couldn’t sleep. He was—” Wooyoung hesitated, eyes flickering to the side as if trying to find the right words. “He was reaching for something that wasn’t there.”

Jongho’s breath hitched.

Wooyoung watched him carefully. “So… I thought maybe having something of yours would help.”

Jongho inhaled sharply. 

His scarf.

Wooyoung had taken it and given it to Yunho.

He should be upset. Should feel invaded, or annoyed, or—something.

But all he felt was the weight of Wooyoung’s words pressing into his chest.

Yunho had been reaching for him.

Reaching for something that wasn’t there.

His hands curled into his lap.

“…Did it help?”

Wooyoung nodded immediately. “Yeah.” His voice was steady. “A lot.”

Jongho swallowed.

“He wouldn’t let it go,” Wooyoung admitted, his tone gentler now. “He finally calmed down when I gave it to him. It was like—like it grounded him.”

Jongho wasn’t sure how to breathe.

Wooyoung hesitated before adding, “He was worried about you.”

Jongho’s heart stammered against his ribs.

The words settled deep into his chest, curling into the spaces he had spent years trying to keep empty.

 Even when his mind wasn’t his own, Yunho had been worried about him.

Jongho clenched his jaw. He didn’t know what to do with that.

Didn’t know what to do with the image of Yunho curled up, clinging onto something of his like it was the only thing keeping him steady.

Didn’t know what to do with the way it made his chest ache—too much, too deep.

Wooyoung nudged him lightly. “You want me to grab it from Yunho’s room later?”

Jongho’s reaction was immediate. “No.”

Wooyoung blinked, caught off guard. “No?”

Jongho’s fingers twitched against his lap. He forced himself to breathe.

“…Not yet.”

San and Yeosang exchanged a glance but didn’t say anything.

Wooyoung tilted his head. “You sure?”

Jongho hesitated. His chest felt too tight, his thoughts tangled.

But deep down, he already knew the answer.

“…It’s comforting him,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Wooyoung’s expression softened. “Yeah,” he said simply. “It is.”

Jongho swallowed hard.

San leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head. “You don’t have to explain yourself, you know.”

Jongho glanced down at his plate.

But that was the problem.

He wanted to.

He wanted to understand why this mattered so much. Why did the thought of Yunho holding onto his scarf make something inside him ache?

Why, even after everything, he didn’t want to take it back.

Jongho inhaled deeply, steadying himself.

“…I’ll get it later,” he murmured.

No one argued.

He wasn’t ready to take it back.

Not yet.

Silence settled between them, not heavy, but not light either. Jongho focused on the rhythmic scrape of chopsticks against plates, the quiet hum of conversation in the background.

But Wooyoung and Hongjoong were both still watching him.

Jongho could feel it.

Not in an intrusive way—not like someone trying to pull an answer out of him—but like waiting.

Hongjoong’s gaze was steady, sharper than Wooyoung’s, but not unkind. He wasn’t pushing, just observing, like he was cataloging every shift in Jongho’s expression, tucking the information away for later.

And then, finally, Wooyoung spoke.

Soft. Careful.

“You don’t have to take it back,” he said, barely above a whisper. “But you know you could, right?”

Jongho’s fingers twitched.

Could he?

The thought unsettled him. Not because it wasn’t true—he could go upstairs right now, walk into Yunho’s room, and take it back. He knew that.

But that wasn’t the point.

Because the truth was, Yunho had needed it more.

And that was why Jongho wasn’t ready.

A quiet sigh left Hongjoong’s lips, barely noticeable, as he had already expected Jongho’s answer. He set his chopsticks down carefully, fingers steepled in thought.

“…It’s alright,” Hongjoong said finally. “It’s not about the scarf.”

Jongho tensed.

Hongjoong didn’t say anything else, but the weight of his words settled deep because he was right.

It wasn’t about the scarf.

It was about what it meant.

Jongho exhaled slowly, eyes flickering up to meet Wooyoung’s momentarily.

“…I know.”

Hongjoong held his gaze for a beat longer, then gave a slight nod as if accepting an unspoken truth.

Then—just as Wooyoung reached over to steal a piece of fruit from Jongho’s plate—Hongjoong flicked him on the forehead.

“Eat your own food,” Hongjoong muttered, rolling his eyes.

Wooyoung yelped, rubbing at his forehead. “It was a bonding moment, Joong!”

Jongho scowled at both of them, nudging his plate closer to himself.

The moment broke—just enough.

But its weight still lingered, sitting somewhere beneath his ribs.

And even as Wooyoung filled the space with easy conversation, even as San leaned against his chair and Yeosang finished his tea, even as Hongjoong watched quietly over the rim of his cup, Jongho couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted.

Like he had crossed an invisible line he hadn’t even realized was there.

And there was no going back.

The warmth of the kitchen pressed in around him, the hum of conversation steady but distant. Jongho kept his gaze on his plate, his fingers loose around his chopsticks, though he wasn’t really holding them anymore.

The food had settled strangely in his stomach, heavy in a way that had nothing to do with being full.

He needed air.

Jongho exhaled quietly, setting his chopsticks down with deliberate care.

“I’m gonna get some air,” he murmured, already pushing back his chair.

The shift in the room was immediate.

San paused mid-bite. His ears twitched slightly, and his tail flicked behind him before curling in toward his side. His gaze snapped to Jongho, sharp with the kind of instinctive awareness San always had when someone was pulling away.

“You okay?” San asked, voice still thick with sleep but laced with something else—something watchful.

Jongho hesitated for half a second too long. “Yeah.”

San didn’t look convinced.

Before he could say anything else, Wooyoung leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes flickering between Jongho and the door like he was debating whether or not to follow.

“You sure?” Wooyoung pressed, his usual teasing edge noticeably absent.

Jongho met his gaze, something quieter in his own. “I just need a minute.”

Wooyoung’s brows furrowed, lips pressing into a thin line—like he wanted to argue but wasn’t sure how to without making Jongho shut down completely.

Before he could find a way to push, Hongjoong set his cup down with a soft clink.

“Let him go,” Hongjoong said simply.

It wasn’t dismissive. If anything, it was understanding.

Jongho’s eyes flicked toward him.

Hongjoong was watching him carefully, fingers still resting lightly against his mug, expression unreadable—but not in a way that felt cold. More like he had already pieced together exactly what Jongho needed and was giving it to him before he had to ask.

Jongho didn’t know how to feel about that.

 Yeosang was the one who moved first.

Not abruptly. Not loudly.

It was just a quiet, slow shift, setting his chopsticks down neatly beside his plate and giving a nod.

“Don’t stay out too long,” Yeosang said, almost absently—but Jongho could hear the intention behind it.

It wasn’t a warning. Not really.

But it was a promise.

That someone would come looking if he did.

Jongho exhaled, something flickering in his chest that he didn’t want to name.

He gave a small nod before turning toward the door.

As he reached the threshold, Wooyoung called out, tone lighter but still deliberate.

“Jongho.”

Jongho paused.

Wooyoung tilted his head, studying him, chewing on his lip like he wasn’t sure if he should say it or not.

Then, finally—

“Just… don’t think too hard, okay?”

Jongho’s fingers twitched.

He didn’t answer.

Just stepped outside.

And as the door clicked behind him, the weight in his chest didn’t feel any lighter.

The air outside was crisp, cool against his skin.

Jongho inhaled deeply, letting it settle into his lungs. The scent of damp earth and fresh leaves filled his senses, grounding him in a way he hadn’t realized he needed.

The garden stretched out before him, a familiar sight—carefully arranged, tended with quiet care.

It wasn’t just a garden.

It was something shared.

A space that had been shaped by the hands of the people who lived here.

He had seen Wooyoung kneeling in the dirt, grumbling about how gardening wasn’t his thing but still checking every bud that had started to bloom.

Had seen San stretching out on the grass, tail flicking lazily as he basked in the sunlight, entirely at ease.

Had seen Mingi pausing near the trees, running his fingers over the leaves, quietly appreciating the little things no one else stopped to notice.

Had seen Seonghwa watering the soil carefully, ensuring everything grew exactly as it should.

Even Hongjoong had been out here, brushing pollen off his sleeves, muttering about how he wasn’t meant for gardening but still standing there anyway, never rushing to go back inside.

They had made this place.

Not just with their hands but with their presence. With their love.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t some grand, planned-out design.

It was a reflection of them—of the way they cared for each other, even in the most minor ways.

Jongho swallowed something warm curling in his chest.

His eyes drifted past the garden toward the farthest edge of the yard.

The tree.

Jongho stilled.

It wasn’t the first time he’d seen it.

He had noticed it from the balcony once when Yeosang pointed it out to him. A single wooden bench swing hung beneath the thick branches, swaying gently in the wind even when no one was there to use it.

He hadn’t asked about it then.

And when Yeosang hadn’t offered an explanation, Jongho had let it go.

But now, standing here, something about it felt different.

More present. More here.

His feet moved before he could think twice.

The grass was still damp from the morning, soft beneath his boots as he crossed the yard. The closer he got, the more he noticed—the way the ropes had been knotted securely around the thickest branch, the way the wood of the bench looked smooth but not untouched.

Someone had sat here—many times.

Jongho stopped just beside the swing, hesitating.

Then, carefully, he lowered himself onto the seat.

The wood creaked slightly beneath his weight, the ropes adjusted with the shift. He curled his fingers around the edges of the seat, pressing his thumbs into the grain to test its sturdiness.

It held steady.

The swing didn’t move at first—not on its own. But when he shifted just slightly, the motion came easy, gentle.

Jongho let it happen.

He didn’t push off the ground or force the movement—just let its natural rhythm rock him slowly, with a quiet back and forth that was barely noticeable.

The air around him felt different here.

It's not heavy, but it's not empty either.

Jongho tilted his head back slightly, his eyes drifting upward. The branches stretched high above him, strong and unwavering, unmoved by the wind.

There was something familiar about it.

Something safe.

For the first time all morning, his body didn’t feel so tense.

Jongho exhaled slowly, hands loosening slightly where they gripped the wooden seat.

Maybe he’d stay here for a while.

Just until the weight in his chest felt a little easier to carry.

***

The swing rocked gently beneath him, the slow rhythm settling into his bones.

Jongho let his fingers drift over the wooden seat, tracing the grain absently.

He wasn’t thinking about much at first.

Just the quiet. Just the air. 

But then—his thoughts started to shift.

To the pack.

To what he felt for them.

It was a strange thing to let himself linger on.

He had spent so long trying not to feel, not to need. Trying to keep his place at a distance, always cautious, constantly reminding himself that he wasn’t one of them.

But that wasn’t true anymore, was it?

They had pulled him in without asking—with their care, warmth, and presence.

And he had let them.

Jongho exhaled, pressing his heel lightly against the ground, sending the swing into another slow, easy motion.

He thought about San first.

San, who had made room for him in a way that didn’t feel like an expectation—had reached for him without hesitation and pulled him close that first night like it was the most natural thing in the world. Who had stayed with him again, even when he hadn’t asked for it. Who had pulled away this morning when he realized Jongho was awake—but only just enough.

San had never pushed him, but he had never let him alone.

Then, Wooyoung.

Wooyoung, who was the most relentless of them all.

Loud, chaotic, impatient—but never when it mattered.

Wooyoung, who had thrown himself at Jongho with no regard for personal space, had decided, first before Jongho even had the chance to think about it, that they were going to be friends. Who had sat outside his door two nights ago, filling the silence with his voice, waiting for Jongho to let him in. Who had gone into his room, taken his scarf, given it to Yunho—because he had known.

Because he had thought it would help.

Jongho sighed, pressing his fingers into his temples.

He couldn’t even be upset about that, could he?

Because Wooyoung had been right.

Then, Mingi.

Mingi, who had opened his space to Jongho so easily. Who had pulled him into his studio and let him sit there for hours, surrounded by warmth and music, never making him feel like he had to talk or contribute—just exist. Who had played his tracks loud enough to fill the space but not overwhelm, letting the music settle into Jongho’s skin and bones until it became something comfortable?

Mingi, who had asked for his thoughts like they mattered. Who had looked at Jongho’s face, at his expressions, and adjusted his work based on that alone—without expecting anything in return.

Jongho had never realized how much that meant to him.

That someone had cared enough to listen to him, even when he wasn’t speaking.

Then, Seonghwa.

Seonghwa, who had never treated Jongho like he was fragile. Who had always met him where he was—never forcing him, never pulling too hard, just being there, waiting until Jongho was ready.

Jongho had always thought of kindness as something delicate. Something easily broken, something too soft to withstand the weight of real things.

But Seonghwa’s kindness wasn’t like that.

It was solid. Unshaken. Something that could be leaned on without bending.

And Jongho was starting to realize how much he needed that.

Then, Hongjoong.

Hongjoong, who had been the hardest to figure out.

A beta, like Jongho. But different. Stronger. Confident in a way that Jongho had never been.

Hongjoong moved through the world with quiet certainty—like he belonged without question. He didn’t demand attention, but when he spoke, people listened as if his words carried weight simply because they were his.

And he was the leader of this pack.

Jongho had never been around a pack like this before. He had never seen a beta in charge—not the way Hongjoong was, not with the authority he held, not with the way the others trusted him so easily.

Yet Hongjoong had looked at him and invited him into his space, his studio, his home.

Hongjoong had painted him.

Had captured his presence on a canvas like it was something worth keeping.

Had looked at him and decided he wanted him here.

Did Hongjoong think he could be part of this pack?

Did he want Jongho to be part of it?

Jongho wasn’t sure.

But the thought lodged itself in his ribs, impossible to shake.

Then, Yeosang.

Yeosang, who never demanded answers from him.Who always seemed to know without having to ask. Who had been there two nights ago—who had taken him out yesterday to breathe, to exist, to feel something other than the weight of what had happened in the house?

Yeosang had understood before Jongho could even put words to it.

Now, sitting here, beneath the tree that Yeosang had once pointed out to him, Jongho wondered if Yeosang had known he would end up here, too.

If this was one of the places, Yeosang had carved out for someone like him.

For someone who wasn’t ready to stay but wasn’t quite willing to leave either.

And finally—

Yunho.

The swing swayed, the movement easy, unhurried.

But Jongho felt anything but steady.

His thoughts curled around the memory of two nights ago—how Yunho had looked at him. 

The way he had begged.

Jongho clenched his jaw.

Yunho hadn’t been himself. That much was obvious.

But that didn’t change the way it had felt.

Jongho had spent his whole life being told what he wasn’t. That no alpha would want him; no one would ever look at him that way. 

And yet.

Yunho had looked at him like he was something worth having.

Something worth holding onto.

Jongho’s hands curled into the edges of the swing, gripping the wood too tightly.

It hadn’t been real.

Had it?

His stomach churned.

Because if it wasn’t real, then why had Yunho been reaching for him even after? Why had he needed something of Jongho’s just to sleep?

Why had the thought of taking the scarf back felt so wrong?

Jongho swallowed, closing his eyes.

Maybe it was easier not to think about it.

Maybe it was easier to just let it be.

To stay here, beneath this tree, with the quiet air, gentle swing, and illusion that nothing had changed.

But something had changed.

Jongho knew that.

The swing creaked softly beneath him, the steady motion lulling him into something close to stillness.

His mind wasn’t quiet—not really. It hadn’t been silent in days. But for a moment, beneath the tree, the weight of his thoughts didn’t feel so crushing.

He let himself breathe.

Let himself exist without trying to figure out what that meant.

Then—footsteps.

Soft, measured.

Jongho didn’t tense, but his fingers slightly curled where they rested on the edge of the swing.

Yeosang.

He knew before he even looked.

Yeosang’s footsteps were always light but certain like he was walking with purpose but never in a rush to get anywhere.

Jongho exhaled quietly. He didn’t move. Didn’t acknowledge him.

And yet, Yeosang still sat on the swing beside him, not touching but just close enough.

The air around them shifted, not uncomfortable, but aware.

Jongho waited for him to speak, to ask something, to press in the way, people always did when they thought silence meant sadness.

But Yeosang didn’t say anything. He just sat. 

Like this was normal. Like this was enough.

Jongho’s fingers twitched against the wooden seat.

He didn’t know what to do with that.

The silence stretched.

Not heavy. Not tense.

Just there.

A faint breeze passed through the garden, shifting the air with it. The tree’s leaves rustled softly, casting flickering shadows over the ground.

Jongho watched how they moved—how some stayed still while others swayed gently, pulled by something invisible but never quite breaking free.

His fingers curled against the swing.

“…Did you guys build this?” he asked quietly.

Yeosang hummed. “Not all of us.” He let a beat pass before adding, “Yunho built it.”

Jongho stilled.