genre: angst, action, drama, enemies to lovers (eventual smut! ;))
wc: 105.6k (ongoing)
|| SYNOPSIS: The Black Fever is not a gentle legend, nor a tavern song: it is a name that runs across the waves like a curse, a shadow that cuts through the mist and leaves behind the silence of those who never returned. And when you find yourself dragged away from your orderly life, from your family name, from the certainties that have always kept you fixed in the proper place, you understand that there is no longer a “before” to cling to. They are not heroes. They are not saviors. And they have no intention of making you feel safe. The problem is that when the sea chooses, it demands.
|| WARNINGS! n$fw, smut, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT eventual smut, slow burn, lots of teasing, mentions of assassination, thievery, pirate stuff, violence, alcohol, fembodied reader, polyamory, fluff, relationships, pirate of the carribbean fanfiction inspo, pirate!Hongjoong, pirate!Seonghwa, pirate!Yeosang, pirate!San, pirate!Wooyoung, pirate!Mingi, pirate!Jongho, pirate!Yunho
|| REMINDER: my works do not represent the irl members in any way, this is purely a work of FICTION.
Summary: Between exhausting finals, late nights at the atelier, and the quiet warmth of your pack waiting at home, life settles into a fragile kind of peace. Still, the world beyond your pack isn’t always as gentle. When the wrong eyes finally notice you, the fragile balance keeping everything together begins to crack and their world seems to start spinning in the wrong direction.
Warnings: difficulty with food, stalking, swearing
A pair of magpies brisked about just at the tippy top of a bare tree.
The birds jostled and shivered in the cold, dark morning. Their glassy, beady eyes reflected the world around, all big and snowy. The wind picked up and blew through their feathers in a harsh current. The birds huddled closer, the branch shaking, making the fresh snow drop to the ground below.
The area was quiet – there was little reason for it to be loud after all.
The small garden in between the expensive houses stood as a small sanctuary, guarding a fragile peace from the chaos of city life beyond it. The smaller bird spread its wings and flew away soon after, disappearing into the dark morning.
Mingi was exhausted. And stressed.
Mainly scared, though.
Terrified actually.
The tall man was used to carrying himself with loud and unashamed confidence. He was a breath of fresh air, boisterous, clumsy, but tender when need be. But over the past few days, it was as if that brightness had shrunk, tucked somewhere between his tense shoulders.
It's been difficult for everyone, he reminded himself.
A lot has happened to him in the past, that much was certain. They have gone through a lot as a completed pack - more than most. But it was as if nothing was ever of such weight as this, as you hovering on such thin ice – and he nor any of them having any option, any real way to make it safer. He could hear it crack when he closed his eyes for long enough.
It tore him apart from within, it did.
If there was one thing he had always prided himself on, it was that he was so in tune with his instincts. He felt you near before he even met you after all. He feels his chest flutter when you look at him for help. He looks up automatically without any other reason but having just felt something only to see your big eyes on him already. He is always near when you stumble on stairs leading to your school. They were there when it was too hard for you to eat, when even getting out of bed felt impossible.
So why weren’t they there when you truly needed them?
Why wasn’t he there when you hurried home in the dark, followed by that creep?
Was there a worse way to fail you as your mate?
He tore away his gaze from where it lingered on that lone bird, sat high on a tree just before the building. It took flight moments later, but he didn’t see it happen. His throat burned and the air felt too heavy for a short moment.
Mingi braced his forearms on the ice-like countertop, letting his head hang low between his shoulders.
He despised himself at that moment.
Oh, if there were only a way to fix all this without hurting you any further. Forget him, he thought. Forget them all, his mind rambled – he needed you to feel better, or he would never heal himself.
His mind spiraled, restless and unforgiving.
After all, was there a worse punishment to behold for failing you? Anything worse than watching his mate, his baby mate he swore to protect every night before he went to sleep, fall apart right before his eyes?
Oh, but it was like torture.
What was the suffering of Cassius compared to his? Like honey and lilies, must it feel-
“Mingi-ah? You good?”
His head shot up at the sudden voice cutting the quiet. The young alpha blinked a few times, trying to clear his head from that thick fog with little to no avail.
Yunho hovered uncertainly in the pristine kitchen. The older idol looked on concerned, unsure if he should step in closer and comfort his pack member or let him be and will away at his sorrows in peace.
Being an alpha was complicated.
Like slippery slope was the space between being too fragile and open, all far too treacherous.
Mingi nodded quickly, clearing his throat before he too finally spoke.
“Yeah… I’m just waiting for the water.”
His gaze strained away once again, stilling on the warming kettle next to the large sink. Yunho frowned lightly, unzipping his jacket as he stepped closer after a minute passed.
Just before the younger, a clean cup sat, the contents of one of those simple instant coffee packets covering the bottom. It felt odd, seeing the dishware they weren’t used to having around. At home it was the cups you’ve made they mostly frequented. This place felt nothing like that. It was as if they were stuck in a hotel room, everything general and impersonal without knowing when they could-
“You sure?”
He hummed absentmindedly while the older hovered on unsure feet. He ended up leaning his hip on the counter and watched on without saying anything else as Mingi poured the boiling water into the cup, the small spoon clinking against the sides as he swirled it around.
Yunho sighed softly, air leaving his lungs almost agonizingly slow as he closed his eyes for a moment, head tilted back as he stretched his neck.
Why was it so achy all the time lately? None of you had properly rested in days.
“Make sure you lock the door after the food gets here, alright? There’s that blue… thing- but I got something more normal too, just in case.”
A small pause followed.
“Don’t forget her vitamins and-“
“I won’t.”
The elder looked to the other alpha at his sudden interruption. He didn’t say anything for a moment, letting his chest deflate.
“Right.”
In the end he settled on patting Mingi’s shoulder shortly.
“I should go before Hongjoong gets on me for taking too long.” He muttered, a faint attempt at lightness that didn’t quite land.
The rapper followed after his footsteps and watched quietly as Yunho pulled on his shoes and a face mask, holding the mug in his hand, resting it against his ribs.
Both of their eyes were tired when their gazes met again.
“I’ll see you for the live later… just… take care of her until then. And if anything happens, call us. Right away. You know the deal.”
“I will, hyung. Stay safe.”
Yunho nodded before he mumbled a soft: “You too Mingi-ah,” soon slipping past the doors and abandoning his younger bandmate. When the door closed, it was all still for a moment before the young man leaned down slightly, taking a small sip of the hot coffee.
His brows scrunched up lightly at the taste, but he took another gulp soon after.
When Yeosang shook him awake that morning, Mingi’s first thought was that something had happened. That something was wrong, that you weren’t okay.
It was as if that was their natural response lately.
It made sense.
But you were still blissfully asleep, much to his immediate relief.
You looked wrecked, tumbled between multiple blankets and the heavy duvet, cheek curled up into San’s chest with your back pressed to his front. San always offered his warmth welcomingly, his eyes still closed but his arms moved soothingly up and down your side in feather like touch. You seemed worn down in a way that made his chest tighten just by looking at you. It was warm, warmer than usual, and minutes after he kicked back the heavy duvet that used to cover him, tucking it around you instead.
The pack was more than careful when they slid off the bed, not meaning to intentionally disturb you. When Hongjoong noted the way you were still curled up between San and Mingi, he whispered and asked them to stay with you for the start of the day. The rapper leaned lower to press his lips over the back of your neck in response, more than happy to spend time with you.
The packalpha seemed to forget that they were your mates as well. It was a reward to be in your company, a treat nothing else compared to.
If anything, it felt like something they didn’t deserve.
But still, what was being discussed in the meetings was crucial. Especially now. They needed to go over the public responses again, and Mingi would have to go through the live segment preparation later, needing to be briefed on any new media training in the complicated, fragile situation they found themselves in. There were also the whole police debacle and the updates the private firm has promised to bring to the table for today.
Everything felt like it was balancing on a knife’s edge.
They would hear about everything important later, promising their leader that they will keep you safe until everyone comes back again with silent nods.
And so, the alphas got ready while you stayed close to them both, sleeping in odd peace. Whenever he allowed himself to breathe in your scent, he stopped for a small moment, noting something lingering under your natural sleepy self, but he tried to shake off any worry, not meaning to disturb you by any means. He tried to calm himself down, reminding himself of the chlorine from the pool they didn’t have you wash off properly last night.
Still, it made his brows pull together.
San soon got up himself, helping the younger man hold you close so you wouldn’t wake up from the sudden chills. He slid off the mattress after he sat still for a beat or two, just watching your chest rise and fall in content.
Mingi stayed behind with you for a bit, nosing at your neck and cheek comfortably.
It was Seonghwa who popped his head in through the open doorway later, knocking softly against the frame before leaning in.
“Mingi-ah,” he called gently, his voice so low it was nothing but a whisper.
“Come here for a minute.”
The young man hesitated. His eyes flickered back to you.
“…Just a minute, it won’t take long.” Seonghwa added, a little quieter this time.
With a small sigh, Mingi nodded. The alpha reluctantly followed his elder, all gentle and unhurried as he made sure you wouldn’t wake when he also left behind the mess of sheets, scenting you for the last time.
He stretched, huffing as his joints popped, and behind him, the bedroom door clicked shut softly.
“San-ah is gonna go get some groceries soon. Stuff we didn’t bring. Do you need anything? Can you think of something for Y/N-nnie that would make her feel any better?” Seonghwa spoke softly, his warm voice a stark contrast to Mingi’s raspy hum of thought.
“We need tissues… straws for her…” He spoke his mind out loud, thinking slow. He was so tired.
The oldest walked a step before him towards the living room, the large space open. San sat on the couch, phone in hand as he typed something quickly, Wooyoung stuck to his side, looking at the screen as well.
He saw Hongjoong through the balcony door outside, speaking on the phone, posture tight. For a second his own mind blanked, and he could only think of something having happened again.
Oh, what was it now? Couldn’t the world just leave you alone for once?
“We’ve got those down already, don’t worry. I meant more the small things. Something she’d like… We thought about that candy she likes - the American one, - oh what is it called again…”
“Reese’s, I’ll look in the store, don’t worry, hyung.”
San spoke up from across the room when Seonghwa ran a hand through his hair, mumbling about his memory getting bad. Mingi gave a small nod, though his brows still pulled together slightly.
“But will they even have those?” he asked.
“Aren’t they only in those specialty shops?”
San shook his head, sparing him a short glance. Both still wore their sleepwear, loose wide pants comfortable compared to the far more put-together looks the others sported. The rapper didn’t even have his shirt on yet.
The older alpha was already pushing himself up a little straighter on the couch. He looked just as tired but there was something firm in his voice when he spoke.
“I’ll find them,” he said simply. “If they don’t have them, I’ll go somewhere else. I don’t care. She’s getting them.”
Jongho huffed a small laugh from across the room, where he sat at the dining table, shoveling breakfast down his throat far too quickly along with still-dead-looking Yunho. Mingi exhaled softly through his nose before speaking again, voice more tired now, words slightly slurred at the edges.
“…Maybe we should get something we can do here, too.”
Mingi dropped unceremoniously next to San.
His notes app was open, and after a short look, he saw the things already sorted into the stores- it was mainly groceries, paired with things like mouthwash and dish soap. The list was longer than he expected. But it made sense, the apartment was practically bare, and they only took so much stuff.
His mind drifted, uninvited, to the meeting from yesterday - the firm, serious tone of the security team as they explained, again and again, that going back home wasn’t an option. Not now. Not anytime soon.
They haven’t broken that fact to you quite yet.
Apparently, it became the greatest new Seoul sensation – their apartment.
Even when full of security, the moment sasaengs swallowed it up, it was like a death zone. Those weren’t they fans. There was no way any of them or their staff could stop by and pick up anything. He felt another pang of guilt at the thought of their previous neighbours.
“What do you mean?” Wooyoung asked, eyes searching his for a minute. Mingi’s tongue darted past his lips to wet them, clearing his throat again.
“Just… stuff to keep her busy,” he said quietly. “If she can’t go to school now, and we have to stay pretty much inside for- well, obvious reasons…there is only so much we can do- I mean she was never into TV so much, so…” He tried to get his point across, leaning all his weight back into the plushness behind him. It felt too stiff. He didn’t like this apartment. Was it because you didn’t seem to like it much?
“No, that’s a good idea,” Yunho spoke up, setting his utensils down. His voice was soft but more awake now. “Mingi’s right.”
He glanced between them, thinking.
“Maybe a game?” he suggested. “Or a book… something she can focus on for now.”
Seonghwa nodded, expression settling into something more certain.
“You guys can stop by a store after lunch,” he added gently. “Pick something out for her properly.”
“She was telling me all about this author the other day…” Woo muttered, brows furrowing as he tried to remember. “Fuck- what was his name…”
His gaze drifted somewhere else for a moment, thinking back.
He’d been driving you to your lessons, listening as you talked so softly and excitedly about some European writer he couldn’t even begin to pronounce. Wooyoung clicked his tongue quietly and crawled through the depths of his mind. He remembered telling you to write down the name of the book for him, but he also remembered that you never ended up doing so, humming that it wasn’t a bother he should carry.
“Hyung,” Jongho spoke up suddenly, voice simple but firm. “You should get her more socks. And panties. Probably clothes in general.”
Everyone looked up briskly when the maknae spoke simply. The youngest looked over the open space in slight question, shoulders lifting slightly.
“I mean- realistically, we can’t go back for her things,” he added, a bit more awkward now under their attention. “And she can’t stay here with, like… four pairs of socks.”
His cheeks warmed as he looked back down at his food, shovelling another bite into his mouth like it would save him. The oldest sighed out.
“No that’s true, good thinking, Jongho-ah.” Seonghwa spoke soon as he pinched his nose bridge.
San was already typing again, thumbs moving quickly over his phone. Somewhere further down the hallway, a door opened, and footsteps followed – but it was just Yeosang who appeared a moment after. The man took a one over the room, blinking in slight confusion.
Seonghwa glanced over.
“We’re figuring out what to buy,” he explained. “Can you think of anything? For Y/N-nnie?”
The oldest voiced, swiftly having the younger alpha nod in understanding slowly, stepping closer. He picked up a cup he must’ve left behind earlier to finish getting his stuff ready for the day, fingers curling around it as he thought.
“A hairdryer…?” He offered softly, sitting down on a free chair, angled towards the rest.
“Yeah, definitely.”
San nodded quickly. You had a habit of going to bed with your hair still damp, and it drove them insane, especially now when it was cold. It didn’t matter that they kept you bundled and safe and that the air in the room was always warm enough, they just didn’t like it – not a single bit.
“Oh- Mingi,” San added suddenly, glancing back at his phone. “Breakfast- we ordered from that French café again, okay? It’s under a fake name, so don’t worry.” He frowned slightly. “Wait, I’ll send it to you.”
A second later, Mingi’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, scanning the order details before giving a quiet nod.
“Got it.”
Not much longer after that the packalpha stepped back in the room, tucking his phone away. The air he allowed in for the few seconds was uncomfortably cold, the morning crisp and dark.
“Everyone ready?”
He took one over the place, and everyone soon hummed in agreement. The pack filed out not much longer after, detouring into the bedroom to whisper their soft-hearted goodbyes to you, scenting you one by one. You slept still, breath fanning out over the pillow tucked into your arms. Wooyoung breathed out a small laugh, barely audible.
Was this a good enough replacement for their comfort?
San was one of the first to leave, pulling on his shoes as he spoke quietly.
“I’ll go now. The mall should already be open- I won’t take long.”
Mingi only hummed in response, nodding faintly. Hongjoong lingered just a second longer near him, clicking his tongue as he closed the door of the bedroom slowly.
“Be careful with her,” he said, voice low but firm. The younger rapper met his gaze.
“I will.”
The leader gave a small nod before following the others to the entrance, sliding a face mask on as well.
Mingi stood there for a moment, exhaling slowly through his nose. He felt too awake to even try sleeping again. So, he decided on working on some music through his laptop, trying to sigh away all his dreadful thoughts as he prepped a cup of coffee.
When Yunho finally left as well, he did as he planned, carefully walking into the bedroom you slept in with tiny, careful steps before he retrieved his MacBook and headphones. He barely disturbed the air with how quietly he moved.
Still, he paused for just a second longer than necessary, eyes flicking toward you - still sleeping, still soft.
“…Good,” he whispered under his breath, more instinct than thought. A minute later, he turned and left you to rest some more.
The idol ended up choosing to settle on the kitchen table to try and get something done. The screen glowed faintly in the quiet apartment as he started working, fingers moving slower than usual.
The world didn’t stop.
Even when it really, really should have.
Mingi barely got through making the initial beat, too distracted, when his phone started to vibrate against the table, only to see an unknown number. He frowned but picked up.
“Hello?”
“Hello, um-“ the voice on the other end stumbled a little, all young and nervous.
“I’m here to deliver your order, but security stopped me at the entrance, and I-uh…”
“Oh-right,” Mingi straightened instinctively, voice evening out, calm and steady as he spoke to the worried teen.
“That’s my fault, sorry about that.”
He leaned back slightly in his chair, gaze flicking briefly toward the hallway in thought.
“Would it be alright if you handed it over to one of the security guards?” He continued, tone polite but firm, as he sat all tall and broad-shouldered, even when there was no one else in the room.
“The area’s restricted right now, so it’s a bit complicated.”
There was a small pause, and the teen’s voice cracked awkwardly.
“Ah- yes, of course, that’s fine.”
“Thank you,” Mingi said, softer now. “Could you ask them to bring it up to the apartment? It’s the third floor, they will know.”
“Okay, I will.”
Mingi let out a slow breath, phone lowering back to the table. His head turned again, almost automatically, toward the bedroom. No noise greeted him, and he felt a small relief flutter deep in his belly. His focus drifted once more, only to be awoken back in time by a curt knock.
The alpha stilled, even if he knew who it was.
He stood carefully, steps silent as he approached the entrance. Still, he didn’t open it right away - just leaned closer slightly, checking through the peephole first.
He wasn’t taking any other risks.
He moved to the set of locks only after he was very sure that it was one of the security guards of the area. Still, he only cracked the door open at first, keeping his body angled in the gap, broad shoulders blocking most of the view inside, guided by instinct.
The tall man with glasses stood there, composed, holding the large paper bag with the café label. Mingi bowed his head slightly in thanks, his voice low as he showed his gratitude once more.
He took the package, grip firm but careful, eyes flicking once over the hallway before he pulled the door closed again the moment the interaction felt complete, making sure no more scents of the outside could get in. Then he locked back up.
Checked twice.
Only then did he move further into the apartment again.
Your mate sorted the food out with sluggish movements, his hands heavy as he put the cheap, plastic cutlery to the side in the bin. He opened the clear lid on the cardboard bowl with mild interest, gazing upon the bright blue smoothie bowl – the fruits stacked above the ocean of flavor in neat, pretty rows, chopped coconut flakes all over like the snow outside.
It looked appealing enough for him to approve, and so he took just the tiniest spoon from the side, letting it sit on his tongue for a moment before he gulped it down –
Good, he thought.
There was no immediate bitterness, it wasn’t chalky or had a texture you would hate right of the bat. Nothing jumped at him that made him think you would make you frown or push it away. It was sweet and tasted like blueberries and overnight oats.
It was good.
Good enough for his mate to try for herself.
Slowly, he went through the rest of the order, shaking his head with a small smile as he looked over just how much there was – entirely too much for you and him for a single meal.
There was that bowl, but also two flaky almond croissants you loved with powdered sugar dusted on the top, to the side of the bag was a still warm sandwich with some fresh avocado, tomato, figs and leafy vegetable he couldn’t remember the correct name of – he smirked as he thought of Hongjoong eating this right up. An orange juice in a tall to-go cup, some French toast (how fitting), and another box of roasted toast with some omelettes he assumed was meant for him as you never really liked eggs too much.
Did you not like protein produce on purpose just to worry them?
He thought and shook his head with a tiny smile, putting some of the food that needed it into the bare fridge. He missed the small photos of you and them they kept back home on the surface of the doors.
Mingi ate slowly after that. The food was nice - it always was from that café - but his mind drifted far past his meal as he clicked through the news on the expensive laptop before him, glasses perched on top of his nose bridge.
And right there it was.
Smacked in the middle of the very opening page. His expression hardened almost instantly.
“…Oh for fuck‘s sake,” he muttered under his breath.
Goddamn, that creep made it to the news with this entire excuse of entertainment to the world.
His jaw tightened further as he clicked the article open, fingers pressing harder than necessary against the trackpad. And as he waited for it to load up, his rushing thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the bedroom door being hurriedly opened and quick footsteps patting over the cold floors, rushing somewhere further down the hall.
Mingi froze for half a second before he was on his feet.
His eyes were wide as he hurried to push back his chair carelessly, making it nearly topple over. He abandoned his cold, unfinished coffee and the still open article, long legs taking him to the hallway.
Something was wrong.
He could smell it.
“Baby?!”
His voice came out louder than he meant, panic already threading through it as his eyes darted to the open bedroom door where they had oh so carefully tucked you in to sleep in for as long as your heart desired left open.
He didn’t spare it much longer, eyes going even wider as he heard you choke through the ajar door leading to the huge bathroom. The alpha didn’t wait more, breath held tight with that nowadays familiar worry over you.
He moved fast, heart pounding in his ears as he pushed the door open-
And his mind was already yelling in havoc at what he saw.
You were slumped against the toilet, shaking, small and fragile as your body heaved again. Each time your tummy would let up, you would whimper a sorry song, just about the softest call for help.
He was by your site in an instant, dropping to his knees without a second thought.
“Oh, baby, okay, okay- c’mon, off the floor.”
He sensed his ribs constrict as he felt you shake like a leaf against his chest from where he slid right onto the floor behind you. He helped you move into his lap carefully in between your heaving breaths as you whimpered, his big hand fast to gather your hair away from your face while the other held you with impossible care by your middle.
“Easy, easy… I’ve got you, alpha’s here,” he repeated, softer now, grounding, even as his chest tightened painfully at how hard you were shaking. You cried in pain as another wave took over, fingers trembling over the cold porcelain.
“Shh, it’s okay- go on, let it out, baby, tummy’s just trying to get all bad stuff out, that’s okay…” he coaxed, leaning forward slightly with you, his hand smoothing over the side of your head in slow, grounding strokes.
His own heart was pounding far too fast. Could you feel it?
He tucked himself closer only for his eyes to widen once more – and it wasn’t at your soft gasping breath this time. The heat seeped through your clothes, through his own, startling in a way that made him suck in a quiet breath.
His brows knit together rapidly, worry tightening sharp in his chest as he pressed his cheek briefly against your temple.
You were burning up.
The next thing his mind finally felt like registering was your scent. It hit him properly now, slipping past the sharp tang of sickness. Milky. Warmer. Smooth and oddly sweet in a way that made something deep in his instincts spike like swords and spears.
You have dropped right into that safe embrace of omega space.
So this was the limit, it seemed.
“...Oh, princess,” he breathed, his voice dropping even further, something aching slipping into it.
His grip softened somehow, impossibly more careful as his thumb brushed slow, reassuring circles into your side. He leaned in slightly, pressing his face into your hair for just a second, scenting you - grounding you, grounding himself - before pulling back just enough to check.
His eyes flicked quickly, scanning, needing to make sure there was no blood-
Thank god.
He dipped his head, brushing his nose lightly against your hair again, scenting you once more, trying to steady the way his thoughts were starting to scatter. He needed to get some medicine in you, the moment your stomach would settle. And you needed to drink something, all dehydrated now- And San, he had to call San and Hongjoong--
You slid into his chest with more heaviness, his thumb quick to swipe against your chin to get rid of the mess, humming soothingly. You breathed slowly, eyes all far away as they bore into the wall just in front of you both, tightly huddled in the cold bathroom air.
“Does your tummy hurt, ‘mega?” he asked quietly when your body seemed to give you a break. “Feels bad?”
Mingi coaxed an answer out of you, grazing his fingers tenderly through your hair and off your hot forehead.
Oh, why did they not realise earlier?
Was this why you smelt off?
Why was it so warm this morning?
“What hurts, honeycomb?” he tried again, voice barely above a whisper. “Tell alpha, hm?”
In the end you just shook your head, a small cry leaving you as you tucked your nose under his jaw. His heart melted into smooth mush, protective instinct flaring hot and overwhelming.
“Oh, my sweet princess…”
He pressed his cheek to the side of your head, holding you closer.
“I know… I know, it feels really bad right now, huh,” he murmured, voice low and steady despite the way it threatened to break.
„Alpha will make it all better ’mega. I promise.”
Carefully, he shifted you in his hold after another minute or two passed without you throwing up, guiding you so your head rested over his collarbone more securely, tucked safe beneath his chin. Right where his scent was naturally the strongest.
Right where it was the safest for you.
One arm stayed firm around your middle while the other slid under your thighs.
“C’mon… up we go, my sweetheart…”
He lifted you slowly, giving you time to adjust, letting you cling to him as he rose to his feet, worried the motion would make your stomach disagree once more.
“Legs baby, need you safe- there you go… good girl…“
Your legs tightened weakly around his waist, arms curling into him as he steadied you, one hand coming back to support your back.
He reached back briefly to flush properly, the sound making you whine, the noise barely there. It made his mind race. You sounded really weak.
“Shh, sh-sh-sh, ‘m sorry, I’m sorry…” he murmured quickly, pressing his cheek to your head again, eyes momentarily closed. “All done now, no more noise, baby.”
His nose brushed through your hair once more, scenting you instinctively, trying to ground both of you as his mind raced ahead- what you needed, what to do first, how to make it all better-
This wasn’t the first time you’d fallen sick like this.
You were fragile - an omega through and through - and sometimes your body just decided it had its fill and that was that.
They knew how to take care of you.
He knew how to take care of you, he reminded himself.
But the circumstances were never worse. He had absolutely no clue as to where any medicine was in this place, or if there even was any to begin with.
You were warm, too warm, all melted against him, skin damp and clammy where your face nuzzled into the curve of his neck. Your breaths came uneven, little whimpers slipping out, muffled against the softness of his skin.
A thermometer? He had to check your temperature to make sure you didn’t need to go to the doctor right away.
That happened once- the heat of your body was so high during an extra bad flu you caught in school that they had swept you up and off you all went to an ER omega health specialist. It was practically midnight and was probably one of the worst nights of his life – but this week took the golden place by now for sure.
His chest tightened again, a low, aching squeeze.
“Shh…I’ve got you…” Mingi’s voice was a low hum, steady and warm, vibrating gently through his chest as he looked around the room anxiously. He moved slowly, every gesture measured, careful not to jostle you. One arm tucked under you, the other resting over your tummy, gentle pressure keeping you warm and safe with him.
“It’s okay, ‘mega… alpha’s got you. Alpha will make it all better.”
A soft whimper escaped you. You clung a little tighter, but so impossibly weak still.
“I know… I know it feels yucky, hm,” he murmured, pressing his cheek briefly into your hair.
He shifted slightly, reaching toward the cabinet behind the mirror, careful to keep his hold steady as he nudged it open.
Empty.
“…Right,” he muttered under his breath.
Of course it was. He felt your scent shift again, doing such an odd swoop that it made him unbelievably uncomfortable and protective once more. He scented you again, chin-tucking you closer.
“Baby, you tell alpha if tummy starts to feel all funny again, okay? Don’t hold it in ‘mega.”
He pressed a soft kiss into your hair before moving again, quicker now, scanning the room with growing urgency, repeating the two words like a mantra in his head.
Thermometer. Medicine.
Anything.
His eyes flicked over every surface, every shelf, every drawer. But apart from their toothbrushes, some toothpaste and the bag filled with your hygiene things, the room was practically empty.
“C’mon, goddamnit, just give me something…” He muttered, frustration sharpening his tone despite himself. The words slipped out quietly, strained, before he softened again as you shifted against him.
“Sorry, baby… ‘m sorry,” he murmured, smoothing his hand over your back. “Alpha’s here…”
He sighed in frustration, noting of the last place he had yet to check. Gritting his teeth in displeasure, he toed the dry mat left by the built-in bathtub, rubbing your back calmly.
“I just need to check one more place, yeah?” he murmured softly. “I’m gonna put you down for just a second- right here, nice and soft.”
So carefully - so impossibly carefully - he crouched low with you, guiding you onto the mat, one hand never leaving you as his mind hurriedly cried out about the possibility of you slipping back and hurting yourself by falling.
You blinked up at him slowly, shoulders quivering as your own hand reached up to hold onto the hem of his shirt.
“I’m right here, ‘mega, not going anywhere,” he promised softly, his own palm covering yours as he angled himself the other way.
“Just gonna look under here real quick, okay?”
He reached for the cabinet beneath the sink, heart hammering, every instinct screaming to hurry up- but apart from pipes, dust and a seemingly forgotten hairpin, there was nothing under the sink either.
Mingi felt despair claw over his mind. There was no way they took a thermometer with them, and he doubted they even had time to take medication apart from the usual supplements they kept for you.
Oh, but what now?
He inhaled slowly, closing his eyes for a second as he willed himself to be calm among the storms. Your mate turned back towards you, hands heedful as they gathered you right back up, his hand stroking away the fine baby hairs stuck to your face uncomfortably, noting just how glossed over your eyes were. Were you this hot when he set you down, or was he imagining things?
“Honey? Does your tummy feel bad right now? D’ you think you might be sick again baby?” He hated having to make you think when you were all dazed and slipped into that honey, mushy, vulnerable state. That, of all times, that, was the time he and your other mates were meant to be there to step in and think for you. It was practically impossible for you now, of course it was.
Even just dropped, you were truly theirs to take care of, and now you were sick on top of that.
You took a minute to understand his words, but he was patient, his lips pecking your fire-like forehead. In the end, you shook your head, all small and fragile, before cuddling closer to him.
You would be his death one day. Did you even realise that? He would skin himself of all flesh and muscle until his marrow would remain should it make you feel no pain again.
He smiled gently, pressing his lips softly to your temple.
“Thank you, baby, what a good girl, always so, so good for me…” he whispered, letting you feel the warmth of his calm, even though his heart still raced.
With painstaking care, he lifted you fully, cradling you against him as though you might shatter if he let go for even a second. His fingers brushed over your back and along the curve of your shoulders, trying to soothe away the discomfort and clinging hotness of your illness, but all to no avail, it seemed.
Step by careful step, he carried you out of the dim bathroom, moving faster now that he held you, the weight of you pressing warmth into his chest, back toward the kitchen.
He rifled through cabinet after cabinet, panic flaring a little each time he came up empty. Every passing cupboard was like a spike burrowed into his chest – should he just take you to the hospital and not risk it?
But what about anyone recognising him?
What would happen if they saw him with you, their mate whose terrified face was being plastered all over the news?
He felt as if he was going to throw up himself for a second.
“Hang on, okay? Oppa’s right here…”
He fought to remain steady, murmuring gentle reassurances against your hair as he finally grabbed his phone. Fingers shaking slightly, he dialled Hongjoong, voice soft but urgent in its low hum, standing in the middle of the kitchen, holding the phone to his ear as he tried and comfort your small whimpers.
It took agonisingly long, the nearly mocking sound of the constant hum frustrating him even further. He cradled you slightly, holding you closer. The seconds felt like hours, each one stretching painfully on and on-
And then, the call connected.
Instead of Hongjoong, it was Yeosang who answered, his voice quiet and concerned.
“Hey, uh, Hongjoong left his phone. He stepped out to talk to the police for a minute, so-”
“Hyung, she’s sick.”
Mingi cut him off without meaning to, voice tight.
There was a pause.
“…What?”
“She was just throwing up, and she’s really hot, hyung, like-” His words stumbled over each other, breath a bit uneven as he glanced down at you again.
You needing to go to the hospital was something none of them wanted to have happening. Especially now. Oh, but why was everything going wrong these past few days?
A quiet whimper left you against his shoulder, your fingers curling weakly into his shirt as you heard the faint sound of your other mate’s voice. Mingi’s breath hitched.
“…awh, baby, I know, I know,” he murmured immediately, turning his head to press his cheek briefly against yours before focusing back on the call.
“Hyung, she’s in pain-”
“Okay, okay- hold on.” Yeosang said quickly, already moving. There was the sound of a door, muffled voices in the background.
“We’re still in the meeting, I’m going to get the others. Don’t hang up.”
And so, the line didn’t disconnect, but the phone shifted, followed by rustles of movement, a few voices growing louder and the door shutting loudly.
“Mingi? What happened?”
Yunho’s voice this time breathes a little unevenly. Behind him, there was a quiet rush of low but urgent voices overlapping.
“Y/N-nnie is sick,” Mingi said again, quieter now but no less strained.
“She’s… she’s not doing too well, hyung.”
He carefully hoisted your clammy body up higher into his chest, lips pecking your flaming temple in natural movement. In the background, he heard his older packmember, his voice quick and not too loud, explaining swiftly to the rest.
There was a small shuffle, then Seonghwa’s voice came through, steadier but tight at the edges.
“Mingi-ah.”
“…hyung.”
“Does she need to see a doctor?” he asked gently, but directly.
“You need to tell me honestly- Does it look serious? You need to make sure she doesn’t need to see a doctor.”
Mingi swallowed, glancing down at you again, his hand instinctively moving back and forth over your thigh.
“I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice dropping. “I mean- she threw up a bunch, but there wasn’t any blood or nothing, I checked, it was just normal, I guess- but she’s really warm, and I can’t find a thermometer anywhere…” He breathed in consciously and slowly, trying to calm his slightly racing heart.
The oldest huffed out a strained breath, frustration slipping through.
“Fuck… Yea, I didn’t take that…” He tried to correct his language, and appear steady in the nerve wrecking situation, knowing just how worried Mingi probably was – they all were when it came down to your health.
“Alright, we’ll figure it out.”
A brief pause- then, sharper, the older alpha having turned away from the phone-
“Yunho, call San. Tell him to get a thermometer and medicine, tell him to hurry.”
Seonghwa came back on the line, voice lowering once more.
“Alright, listen to me.”
The rapper only hummed in response, cooing to you softly when your hand tightened on his collarbone. He took in your scent carefully, making sure no sharp scent of sickness would jump out at him, worried you would throw up again.
“Slow movements, okay? Don’t jostle her too much. And watch your scent, she’ll pick up on it if you panic, and that’ll only make it worse for her.”
Mingi nodded even if Seonghwa wasn’t there to see it.
He knew that. Realistically, he did know the basic steps on what to do when you got sick – keep you safe, keep you warm, keep you hydrated, get some medicine in you the moment it was possible, stay close – he knew all this.
“Did she eat anything before this? Something that might not have sat well? The pool, did she perhaps drink some of the water accidentally?”
“No, no, she woke up and went straight to the bathroom- she didn’t eat nothing yet. And definitely no pool water.”
“Alright, just making sure. Is she warmer than you?”
That was smart, he must give him that.
It made sense – omegas were naturally a bit colder than alphas and betas, a natural biological occurrence in order to maintain more of their energy when situations required it. If you had a fever, a good way to tell how serious it is was by comparing it to their body warmth. Why didn’t he think of that sooner?
Mingi shifted slightly, bringing the back of his hand to your forehead, then your cheek, then again, trying to make sure.
“…Yeah,” he murmured. “I think so.”
“By a lot, or just a little?”
He hesitated, checking again, even slower this time, shushing your whimper when he had to move you from being buried under his chin for a minute again.
“I… I think just a little, hyung. But- I’m not sure.”
“Uh-huh. Is her voice slurred at all? Even just a small bit.”
“No hyung, she dropped. I think she got overwhelmed and just was startled by the pain.”
The oldest breathed out low and slow, and he could just about picture his brows creased in anxiousness. He held you a tad more rigid at that thought.
“…Ah. Okay. Wait for a bit-“
The phone picked up some more movements before he heard the idol speak once again, a bit further, as he must have turned away from the device again: “Jongho-ah, go get Hongjoong. And Yeosang, please go talk to Director Noh.”
“Mingi-ah, it’s probably the best if you try and get her temperature to go down for now, just until San gets there. Maybe like a washcloth or even a cooler bath could help for now.”
The rapper's mind cleared at the smooth advice, thinking himself. He murmured something in soft agreement in the end, tucking you even closer for now.
He wanted to sob at this point.
By the time San finally arrived home, breathless and frazzled with anxiousness, you were being cradled within a half-full bathtub, the water just meek over tap warm, and your mate had you rest against his chest. You shook like a leaf, Mingi shushing your small whines constantly, heart broken and mind in havoc.
The minute he heard the front door locks switch out of place, he squared up, pressing you even closer to his damp chest, a tight scowl marking his expression. But the moment he heard the older singer, he let his protectiveness drop again, and he breathed in your scent to try and calm his racing heart.
Talk about trauma.
“Babygirl? Baby, honey, where are you? Mingi-ah?”
San sounded worried, no doubt having driven near the speed limit to get home as soon as possible. At the sound of your other mate, you whimpered, full of pity and sadness, glossy lips feverishly pink from how you had been nibbling on Mingi’s scent gland for the past few minutes, hoping for his scent to be more full and nice. Yet the alpha was too on edge to provide that at the moment.
He didn’t dare yell back, not wanting to disturb you since you were so sensitive to noise in omegaspace, instead cradling you closer, palms smoothing over your bare back. It didn’t take too long for San to find you both, having abandoned the many bags at the shoe rack, and hurried into the apartment further.
San’s breath caught up at the sight that opened in front of him.
You looked so small curled up against Mingi’s broad chest, trembling, making the lukewarm water form waves breaking at your skin. Your eyes were barely open, glassy and unfocused, lips parted around weak little breaths as you instinctively pressed your face against your alpha’s neck, searching for a magic balm in your pain.
“Oh, honey…” San whispered immediately, voice dropping into that careful tone all of them used whenever your omega was frightened or overwhelmed. At the sound of him near, your lashes fluttered. A faint whine left you, weak and miserable, arms twitching like you wanted to reach for him but didn’t quite know how.
“I’m here,” he soothed instantly, crouching beside the bathtub, hand finding your feverish skin. “Alpha’s right here, sweet thing. Tummy’s giving you trouble, huh?”
Mingi looked utterly exhausted already.
His damp hair stuck to his forehead, eyes slightly red-rimmed with stress as he kept one arm securely around your middle beneath the water. The moment San moved close enough, though, some of the panic melted from his face, relieved help had arrived.
“She’s burning up, hyung,” Mingi mumbled quietly. “Been shaking for like the past half an hour too…”
San’s expression softened even further somehow, hand immediately reaching to cup your cheek, crouched low on the warm tiles. The heat against his palm made his brows pinch, an uneasy sigh leaving him.
“Awh, poor baby,” he murmured. “My little omega slipped up while sick, hm?”
You made another tiny noise at that, instinctively turning your face into his hand, nosing at the scent gland lingering by his pulse point. The singer’s scent flooded a little stronger immediately in a natural response.
“It’s okay, cub,” he promised softly.
“Alphas are gonna make it all better now.”
Then he leaned down low, pressing just about the gentlest kiss to your burning forehead. Mingi sat up taller behind you, making the water move further.
“A towel, hyung…”
“Yeah, don’t worry.”
San stood quickly, immediately grabbing the fluffy peach-pink towel hanging from the drying rack - your favorite one, still carrying traces of all eight alphas’ scents from the laundry being done still back home. It was bound to disappear the moment they put it to wash in here.
“Okay, sweetheart,” he cooed as he returned, uneasy about how to approach the situation for the best outcome. “We’re gonna pick you up now, yeah? Nice and easy.”
You barely reacted beyond a weak whimper. Of course you did. There was little your mind comprehended at this time, slow as if each thought was treading through honey rivers. Even the simplest sentences proved too difficult now.
Together, the two alphas carefully shifted you upright. Water streamed down your body instantly, droplets rolling over your skin while you shivered pitifully from the temperature change, whimpering at the pain coming from all over your body. The second your balance wobbled, San tucked you securely against his chest, wary not to loose his own balance.
“There we go,” he soothed.
The towel wrapped around you immediately, cocooning your body while San lifted you fully from the tub like you weighed nothing. His cheek rested against the top of your wet hair instinctively, one large hand rubbing slow circles into your back beneath the towel.
You melted against him at once, small puffs of air brushing against his chin.
“That’s right cub,” he praised quietly. “Stay close, baby.”
Mingi climbed out after you both, drying himself off in rushed, messy motions before pulling on his sweatpants with fumbling hands.
“Hyung did you get the thermometer?” he asked quickly, still glancing over every two seconds to make sure you were still okay.
“She has a fever, no?”
“Definitely.” San adjusted his hold on you before gently undoing the top of his jacket.
“I got medicine too.”
The second the fabric parted enough to expose his scent gland, your omega reacted instinctively. A tiny needy sound left you as you buried your face closer.
Both the alphas slowed down. San nearly melted into the marble floors.
“…There’s my baby.” He hushed, closing his eyes. Your trembling eased just the slightest bit while his scent wrapped around you further. Mingi stared for a second with helplessly fond eyes before snapping himself back into motion.
“Hyung, maybe a jumper?”
“Please.”
“Okay, yeah.”
He hurried off toward the bedroom, footsteps quick against the apartment floor before returning not even a minute later with fresh clothes bundled in his arms.
“I got the hoodie Yunho-hyung wore last night,” he explained quietly. “Maybe the scent will help…”
“It will,” San nodded immediately, trying to keep them both sane.
The two of them worked together carefully after that. The younger crouched in front of you while the older alpha held you securely upright against his chest, both of them speaking softly the entire time so you wouldn’t get startled anymore.
“Baby, lift your leg for me?”
“That’s it, such a good girl…”
“So good for us, honey.”
Your brain barely processed anything beyond warmth, scent, and the familiar voices.
A tiny broken sigh escaped you as soon as Yunho’s hoodie dropped over your shoulders.
“There she is,” Mingi whispered as your face peeked out, sounding seconds away from crying. San looked down at your sleepy, pained, flushed face tucked against his chest and brushed damp hair away from your forehead gently.
“Alright,” he murmured softly after a second. “I got the stuff for her. Let’s go to the kitchen, and sort it all out.”
Mingi nodded.
The world outside served morning light by the time they carried you out, careful not to overwhelm your sensitive senses anymore. San kept you tucked against him the entire walk while Mingi hovered so close he practically walked into the older alpha twice.
Neither of them wanted to be more than an arm’s reach away from you right now.
Once in the kitchen, Mingi sat down first before San carefully settled you into his lap, only letting go when he was positive you wouldn’t somehow tumble off.
“There we go,” the rapper whispered to soothe, large palms rubbing slowly over your sides once he had you settled against his chest. One hand eventually slid beneath the hoodie to rest against your tummy, trying to warm you up when he noticed you trembling again, lips ghosting over your temple. You made a weak little sound and curled closer automatically.
“I know, princess…” he mumbled against your temple, sighing.
Meanwhile, San hurried toward the mountain of shopping bags abandoned near the doorway earlier, returning with his arms nearly full.
It looked like he had bought out half the pharmacy.
Mingi blinked, a broken teasing smile finding its way to his lips.
“…Damn, hyung.”
San ignored him completely as he started unloading items onto the counter one after another.
Two thermometers - a digital ear one and a regular one too. There was liquid fever medicine and a specific liquid nausea medicine, both for omegas only. Some cough syrup and digestive relief packets. Fizzing electrolyte tablets to put into water. Some new vitamin gummies. A heating pad with a cute pink polka dot pattern. He brought several different teas specifically for upset stomachs and fever recovery too, and more soft tissues with lotion in them because your nose got red quickly when you got sick.
“…you bought the entire place.” He huffed a fragile laugh, tucking you closer.
San huffed without shame while ripping open one of the thermometer boxes with a little too much force.
“…you would’ve done the same.”
Mingi didn’t oppose him. And so, the older alpha scanned the instructions briskly, brows furrowed in concentration while he set the thermometer up.
“Okay… under the tongue…” he muttered mostly to himself, a small frown among his eyebrows.
Soon he approached carefully, his expression softening again the second your bleary eyes never quite found him.
“Babygirl,” he cooed quietly, crouching beside Mingi’s chair, palms sliding up and down your bare tights for comfort. Your skin was already slick with sweat, and you were out of the water for barely any time.
“Alpha needs to check your temperature, okay?”
You looked miserable.
Your fever made your eyes glossy and unfocused, instincts leaving you clingy and dazed while your body clearly ached all over. Even sitting upright against Mingi seemed exhausting, making you slump over to one side.
“I know,” San soothed instantly at a small swallowed cry that left you. “Just for a second.”
He guided the thermometer gently toward your lips, hand resting against your jaw. The second the cold metal touched your tongue, though, you whimpered in distress, brows pinching while you tried weakly to turn your face away.
“Oh, baby,” San cooed immediately, free hand cradling your cheek.
“I know it’s cold, honey, oh, I know.”
Mingi tightened his hold around you instinctively, rubbing your tummy slower beneath the hoodie, scenting you over and over.
“You’re okay,” he whispered near your ear. “Just for a little bit, princess. Then all done and no more of that.”
Your eyes watered from sheer overwhelm more than anything else. Everything felt wrong and uncomfortable to you at that moment. San’s expression turned impossibly gentler somehow as he brushed his thumb beneath your eye.
“No tears,” he soothed softly. “Alpha’s right here.”
Carefully, patiently, he held the device, making sure to never knock your teeth.
Then, after an agonising while, a small beep sounded.
Both alphas looked down instantly, Mingi quick to lean over your shoulder to look closer.
“…37.3,” San read quietly.
Mingi’s arms tightened around you immediately. For a second neither of them spoke, sharing an uneasy glance. To anyone else it probably wouldn’t seem catastrophic, but omegas naturally ran colder than alphas and betas. Your normal body temperature hovered around thirty-five degrees.
Thirty-seven point three was already too high.
Thirty-eight meant hospital time.
“…Okay,” San exhaled slowly, forcing calm into his voice despite the concern flickering across his face, trying to sort his thoughts out. “Okay, we caught it early.”
The younger man looked at him anxiously. “But it’s bad, no?”
“It’s not hospital bad,” San answered honestly, already reaching for the second thermometer, ripping the flimsy plastic off.
“But we really need to keep checking often and get some medicine into her.”
You whined weakly the second you saw him lifting another device.
“Last one. I promise cub.” he soothed instantly, gently angling your head to access your ear better, tucking some hairs behind it. The ear thermometer upset you less, though you still squirmed and whimpered at the strange sensation while San shushed you gently the entire time.
“Nearly done now…”
Beep.
The singer checked it.
“…Okay, it’s the same.”
Mingi cursed softly beneath his breath.
Your stomach twisted unhappily at the tension in the room, omega instincts making you even more sensitive to their worry, a whine leaving you. Immediately San abandoned the device on the table.
“Hey,” he murmured, crouching back in front of you. “None of that, baby. Everyone’s calm, yeah? Alpha’s calm.”
He pressed a kiss to your forehead again before reaching for one of the liquid medicine bottles, reading over the instructions hastily.
“’gonna help with the fever and tummy,” he explained softly while measuring the dose carefully. “Need you to drink it up f’ me.”
You didn’t process his words. But when the syrup touched your tongue, your face scrunched up in quick response. A distressed noise escaped you as you tried weakly to push the little cup away.
“Shh, honey,” Mingi soothed, holding you closer. “Just a little bit more, not much left.”
Between the two of them, they somehow managed to get most of the medicine into you. Still, the second you swallowed the last mouthful, your stomach lurched violently and your entire body tensed in the alpha’s arms.
A hiccup escaped you as you started to cry in distress, feeling wrong again. Your breathing turned uneven a second later.
“Baby?”
But you couldn’t get the words out through the haze and panic fogging your hazed over brain. You only whimpered helplessly, eyes suddenly filling again with tears while your stomach cramped hard enough to make you curl inward.
Then you gagged. Mingi reacted instantly.
“Oh fuck- okay--”
He stood so quickly the chair nearly toppled backwards all over again, arms tightening around you while he rushed toward the sink just a few steps away. San was right behind him immediately, one hand rubbing your back the moment Mingi held you between himself and the countertop, hand lifting your hair away.
“It’s okay, princess, ‘s just the bad stuff again,” he tried to calm you.
But nothing came up even if your body dry heaved miserably.
Again.
And again.
Every retch made frightened little noises leave you while tears spilt helplessly down your cheeks from how badly it hurt.
“Oh, sweetheart, shh…” San whispered brokenly.
Mingi looked downright frantic by the fourth dry heave wave.
“Shh, shush,” San answered quietly, still rubbing your back. “I know.”
Eventually the gagging eased enough for your body to slump limply against Mingi’s chest again, exhausted and trembling, fingers tight on his wrist.
Both alphas exchanged worried looks.
“…Bed, a nest,” San decided softly. “Let’s just try and let her sleep it off for a bit.”
Mingi nodded again.
San finally paused long enough to shrug off his outdoor jacket and kick away his shoes before following the younger alpha toward the bedroom. Even then he stayed close enough that his fingers kept brushing over your arm reassuringly every few seconds.
The young rapper settled into bed first before carefully pulling you against his chest beneath the blankets even if he absolutely didn’t feel like sleeping. San joined you both moments later on your other side, immediately tucking you close between their warmth.
“There we go,” Mingi whispered, kissing the back of your head.
San reached over to smooth your hair away from your sweaty forehead.
“We should text the others about the temperature and stuff,” Mingi mumbled quietly, not looking up away from you for too long.
“Yeah,” San agreed immediately. “Good idea.”
He grabbed his phone from his pocket, shuffling a little awkwardly, before quickly updating the group chat while the other alpha kept you tucked impossibly close.
You fell asleep not even ten minutes later. If there was one positive in you being in omegaspace it was probably that.
But even asleep, you stayed curled inward, one hand weakly tangled in Mingi’s shirt like you still needed to make sure he would stay there.
Your mates were anxiously careful with you, San’s movements slow as he pulled another blanket higher over your shoulders. They were worried to speak much too loudly and wake you accidentally, sharing a few understanding glances instead.
Mingi still fought bravely the sleep away for nearly another half hour after that, eyes constantly opening again every time you shifted or whimpered. But eventually exhaustion caught up to him too.
So, when the other idol looked over at some point only to find the younger alpha slumped half against the pillows, one arm still wrapped tightly around your waist even in sleep, his brows furrowed with lingering worry.
He couldn’t help himself but to be angry at the world for letting this happen to him, to you, and to his entire pack.
Gosh, how could this have happened to them?
For a moment, the vocalist simply watched the two of you, trying to will his mind into being at peace, but it was too difficult, and he too was exhausted. And so, when he gave up on it himself, carefully, trying not to wake either of you, he pulled his phone back out and snapped a couple pictures for the others, wanting to at least attempt to soothe them. Yunho sounded very worried when he called him, rightfully so, though.
An omega’s health was no joke after all.
His heart squeezed painfully while sending the pictures.
After another hour passed of staying as awake as possible, he very carefully slipped from under the duvet. The second your brows twitched unhappily, though, he immediately soothed a hand over your hair, scratching behind your ear gently.
“Shh… alpha’s right here,” he whispered.
Only once you settled into Mingi’s chest did he move.
He returned a minute later carrying the heating pad tucked beneath one arm along with the ear thermometer and a cup of steaming coffee he sat down on the bedside table. The heating pad had been wrapped in a soft clean towel before he slid back into bed beside you.
“…There you go,” he murmured softly, resting it gently against your tummy beneath the blankets. You barely even twitched, but frankly, he took it as a good sign, if anything. So then, carefully, so, so carefully, he brushed your locks aside and checked your temperature again with the ear thermometer.
He looked at the screen the moment the digits appeared.
“…37.2,” he whispered quietly to himself.
It was still way too high, but a little lower.
'Small victories, small victories,' he chanted in his head to still his worried heart. They would take anything at this point.
San, awake between you both, finally reaching for the coffee after discarding the godforsaken device, opening the news article the younger mumbled to him about earlier, reading quietly while keeping one hand over the heating pad over your stomach the entire time.
Maybe like an hour passed that way, but he didn’t keep track of the time, brows furrowed in carefully stilled anger. It was long enough for Mingi’s alarm to eventually vibrate weakly against the mattress somewhere in his pocket.
The rapper groaned softly the second he woke, the alarm was briskly turned off as immediate panic sat across his face before his eyes landed on you still asleep against them.
“…Baby?”
“She’s okay,” San whispered immediately, not wanting you to wake up. “Still sleeping.”
Mingi visibly deflated in relief before rubbing tiredly at his eyes. He sighed, helping your other mate hold you instead as he slipped away, just sitting on the edge of the mattress for a minute or two, watching your chest rise and fall slowly.
Finally, the younger man leaned down carefully, pressing the softest kiss against your eerily warm forehead.
“I’ll come back soon, princess,” he whispered.
“Sleep lots for me, okay? Need ‘u to feel good when I come back.”
You didn’t stir, not even when San instinctively helped burrow you deeper into his chest.
He was scared about leaving you behind when feeling this way but had no choice but to hurry and get ready to go to the company. Your mates spoke in hushed whispers so they wouldn’t wake you, quietly discussing what was the best course of action now.
“You want me to order food or something?” Mingi asked softly while pulling on a clean hoodie, a mask already under his chin.
“’s better if you stay with her instead of cooking.”
San just shook his head, no hunger within sight.
“No, I don’t think she should eat anything big right now, especially if she can barely keep the medicine down.” He rubbed your tummy gently through the blankets. What a troublesome little thing.
“I picked up crackers and some light stuff at the mall. It’s still in one of the bags in my car, though. I’ll go grab it later.”
Mingi nodded reluctantly after another beat passed by.
“…Text me if anything changes.”
“I will.”
“And if she hits thirty-eight-”
“We go straight to the hospital. I parked close to the elevator, don’t worry.”
The rapper swallowed hard before looking at you one last time. Then finally, but very reluctantly, he left, making sure to click all the locks shut behind him again.
The apartment went quiet again after that. At some point, exhaustion dragged San under too, and he matched you soon enough.
But even then, when the front door finally unlocked hours later, his eyes snapped open right away.
Voices filtered quietly through the apartment. How much time has passed?
Fuck, was it the afternoon already?
He had just closed his eyes for a minute and--
“…’re asleep?”
“Probably.”
“Keep your voices down.”
San sat up almost immediately on instinct, one arm tightening protectively around you where you slept curled up into his warmth. He wanted to calm down, wanted to tell himself nothing was wrong, that there was no way anyone else knew all the correct lock combinations and the pin patterns and had the chip too, but it was raw and fragile, the space they’ve created around you.
A moment later Yunho, Jongho, Yeosang and Mingi slipped into the bedroom carefully, a sheepish smile marking the oldest’s lips when he made eye contact with dishevelled, visibly tight San.
All three visibly slowed down at the sight that greeted them.
“Oh…” Yunho breathed quietly.
“Fuck,” Mingi whispered, already looking devastated all over again. He was hoping by the time he would be back, you would be bouncing around, full of glee and happiness and no longer sick. You were just as sickly as before, though.
“She looks done…”
You were still just as flushed, hair all messy against San’s shirt. You were breathing slightly too warm against his neck while the heating pad rested over your stomach beneath the blankets, by now barely warm. San rubbed your back slowly.
“Yeah,” he admitted quietly. He had checked your temperature twice by now and was left worried each time.
“She isn’t feeling good.”
The room filled with worried silence instantly, the mates shuffling closer as if called by nature. Then Jongho carefully approached the bedside table, moving with the same slowness all of them always used around you in omegaspace, even if you were still visibly asleep.
“Lemme check,” he whispered, finding his hyung’s eyes. San nodded with no words, sitting up a little taller without disturbing you. Very gently, the maknae brushed sweaty strands of hair away from your forehead and ear before checking your temperature with the ear thermometer.
All four alphas watched him, and when his face fell slightly, theirs did the same.
“…Still 37.2.”
The tense silence was broken by a low-spoken curse, mumbled by Yunho, who ran his hands through his hair.
When you woke up, the room was dim, and you felt like you were on fire. Slowly you blinked open, a broken whimper escaping your aching throat as you clumsily sat up a little taller. For a minute or two you were left fully confused – where were you?
It made sense.
You hadn’t had time to truly accustom yourself to the new apartment yet, and especially in omegaspace unfamiliar places were tricky. Your thoughts were sluggish and frizzed around the edges, memories slippery and difficult to grasp.
But then your nose twitched weakly.
You could smell your mates close, and it was okay then, your lazy brain tried to explain as you slowly sat up among the mess of blankets and pillows spread on the couch.
When did you move here?
You didn’t remember, slow and dizzy as you whimpered and whined slowly, hoping your mates would come by to help. Why were you feeling so badly? Oh, but your mind wasn’t helpful now, circling back to your alphas – you wanted them to be here, why were they not? You felt all hot and sticky and uncomfortable beneath the blankets, and suddenly your omega couldn’t understand why no one was there holding you anymore.
And so, one of the blankets tangled around your ankle as you tried to stand, nearly making you trip before you caught yourself weakly against the couch arm.
Another whimper escaped you, louder this time.
It felt all so hot and uncomfortable, your limbs hurting as you whimpered a little louder, trying to call for your mates without words too hard to form. You swallowed when your stomach did an unnatural flip, whining, looking around for your pack – but they were not within sight, and as your body started to feel cold again, your slow head decided your mates will fix it, because your alphas make it better, and you didn’t feel too good now, all confused and weak.
You could smell your pack stronger somewhere nearby, though, and your fevered omega latched onto that instinctively.
Alphas make it better.
Step by step you walked through the empty kitchen, blinking slowly at the simmering pot on the stove in confusion, left on low heat.
But not even that cleared the fog in your mind, and like bee guided by the smell of honey, you trudged clumsily past the living room into the hallway towards where you could smell your mates.
Why did they not sleep with you?
It was so cold. Why was it so cold all of a sudden?
As the door came closer, you braced your hand on a wall, stumbling a little as your breath hitched up. But the alphas’ voices were closer now, just behind that bedroom door, and that was Jongho oppa laughing at something Yu oppa was saying, and then-
As you finally made your way to the door, you felt as bad as ever, left dizzy and bleary-eyed in the dim hallway. Whimpering loudly to call for the alphas in your discomfort, you heard their voices grow quiet immediately, and as you reached to paw at the shut door handle clumsily, you were just about to get the door open and-
"Baby, no!”
Your head turned so quickly you had to shut your eyes for a second, and the hallway tilted around you. By the time you could focus your vision again, Yeosang’s hands were on your shoulders, guiding you briskly away from the door.
“No, no, no, fuck,” he breathed out anxiously, his voice far more panicked than you’d maybe ever heard directed at you before.
“Honey, what were you thinking?”
Your face crumpled instantly. What did he mean?
Yeosang looked genuinely horrified.
“You can’t go in there right now,” he whispered quickly, crouching to your level while trying to guide you backward toward the living room. “Baby, they’re doing a live, no-”
A confused cry escaped you. What was he even saying? Your head registered his anxiousness, his terror, and you were left helpless in understanding why. Were you in danger?
But words were too foreign for you now, impossible to form and understand fully, your body rendering you useless in that for now. As the alpha guided you back towards the couch, you could tell just how wrong something was based on his scent, burnt and clearly bad. Your eyes warmed with tears in response.
He was already worrying himself sick over your fever, all of them were. Earlier he’d been resting with you and San on the couch, but eventually the older alpha had gone downstairs to grab the remaining shopping bags from the car while Yeosang took over making dinner.
He’d only stepped away to the bathroom for a minute.
Just one minute.
And somehow in that tiny gap you’d woken up alone and gone searching for your mates.
“No, baby,” he murmured again, much softer this time while guiding you carefully toward the nest, tucking you under the mountain of blankets as if that would fix the situation. “No, no… we told you to wait here for alphas, remember?”
You didn’t.
You didn’t remember anything from this afternoon, in fact, probably having been too dazed and tired to comprehend much at all.
Yeosang visibly had to compose himself before speaking again, breathing in slowly, as he turned in the direction of the hallway before looking back up at you.
“You can’t go into the room during a live, honey,” he explained gently, kneeling in front of you.
“The cameras are on. When cameras are on, you must stay put ‘mega.”
He told himself over and over in omegaspace you weren’t fully in control rationally, but this just made a messy situation catastrophic.
There was absolutely no way the viewers didn’t hear you through the door.
But he couldn’t let his mind spiral when you looked at him with teary eyes and a wobbly lip, clearly out of it.
Why wouldn’t your alphas come hold you? They always held you.
Why was Sangie so upset with you?
The alpha’s heart cracked straight down the middle at your constant whimpers.
“Oh baby…” he whispered helplessly, arms enveloping your warm torso.
Then, further down the apartment, the bedroom door finally cracked open.
Yunho stepped out smoothly, having excused himself under the guise of needing the bathroom. The alphas tried to play it off, joking even as they shared uneasy glances.
They were lucky their scents couldn’t be transferred through the live, obviously very worried. One look at his face told the other alpha immediately that everyone inside had heard you crying through the door.
And probably heard Yeosang calling for you too.
The taller singer’s eyes widened slightly the second he saw your tear-streaked face, pearls running down your cheeks.
“Oh fuck…” He whispered, just wanting to curse the entire world out at this point.
Why could they just not be left at peace with you?
With their sweetest girl, never meaning no harm. He felt his head spin at the thought of what the clips of the live would imply. And this was meant to fix everything. And it just ruined the situation completely. There was no way they could hide you at this point. His vision blurred.
Still, he approached calmly to the best of his abilities, his voice dropping into that impossibly gentle tone he always used with you after you dropped.
“Sweetheart,” he murmured while crouching beside Yeosang.
“Why’d you get up without Yeosangie, hm?”
But you just sobbed, confused at their wrong scents. Yunho closed his eyes briefly before rubbing a careful hand over your hair, tutting softly.
Your omega couldn’t handle this – them being angry about something you did, but you not understanding why.
They were never sad about you looking for them before, so why now?
Another sob escaped you before your stomach suddenly lurched violently. Both of your mates straightened up instantly.
“Oh-”
You gagged hard, your tummy cramping. Yunho reacted first, standing up at lightning speed, his gentle hand finding your arm in support.
“Sink, sink. Now.”
Yeosang scooped you up just as fast, carrying you quickly into the kitchen while you dry-heaved miserably against his shoulder. Tiny, frightened whines left you between each gag, tears soaking into his shirt. Why did this keep on happening?
“It’s okay, let it out,” he soothed frantically, not even caring about his shirt. But there was nothing but spit that left you.
“It’s okay, sweetheart. You’re okay ‘mega.”
But again, nothing came up. Only painful empty heaves left you.
Yunho rubbed your back firmly while holding your hair away from your face, trying to keep his own panic from showing. He couldn’t just leave you now if you were this bad, but he also needed to get back to the bedroom, or this would just spiral to hell.
“Breathe in,” he encouraged gently, squeezing your hand. Were they always this shaky?
“Slow, my baby. Slow.”
Eventually the retching eased enough for you to sag limply against Yeosang’s chest again, exhausted and shaking. The man hoisted you up, scenting you thoroughly to try and rid you of the sickly scent.
“Oh honey…” he whispered brokenly. “Gosh, you feel so warm…”
You only whimpered weakly, completely worn out now. You didn’t understand what was happening, small and scared. Yunho exchanged a worried glance with Yeosang over your head before forcing another soft smile onto his face for your sake.
'If you’re calm, she is calm, if you’re calm, she is calm-'
“Okay,” he murmured gently. “No more walking around by yourself, hm? Alpha’s gonna stay right here now.” The younger one nodded immediately, already carrying you back toward the couch while keeping you tucked impossibly close, shushing your pained cries.
Just then the main entrance sounded, the mates staring towards it before they visibly deflated once more when they smelled San coming in, all big with the multitude of bags in his arms.
How did he even manage to carry all of that? No wonder he took so long.
The moment he noticed the burnt scents of, like, everyone, he dropped the stuff before rushing further in, shoes kicked off somewhere behind him. His eyes were wide as he took in Yunho and Yeosang holding you on the couch, shushing your cries.
“Shit, shit, what’s wrong? Baby? My baby?”
His palm found your knee as he rubbed it furiously up and down, eyes fleeting over his band mates. When he left a few minutes ago you were still asleep on the couch and seemed fine, did your fever get worse? Shit, did he need to take you to the hospital?
“San-ah she nearly walked into the live, it was an accident, she didn’t realise…”
At Yunho’s quiet explanation, his lips were left slightly opened as his eyes widened before he schooled his expression back to being calm.
Eventually he nodded, whispering a small ‘okay’.
“…I think you can hear her in the live.” The oldest of the three mumbled weakly in the otherwise quiet room. His hand was gentle from where it was rubbing over your back repeatedly.
“And the live is still going? Hyung you should go back, it’s gonna look even worse.”
Yunho bit his lip before he got back up wordlessly, pecking your temple and going back to the bedroom.
“Okay, baby,” San said softly after a moment, his voice carefully even despite the way tension sat heavy in his shoulders. He brushed your hair back from your damp forehead before forcing a tiny smile onto his face.
“How about you watch something for a little bit, hm? “ He willed himself to stay calm in the situation, even though he too was near breaking point by now.
You blinked up at him through watery eyes, still curled halfway into Yeosang’s chest, visibly exhausted from crying and the sick spell. The confusion in your scent was still there, milky and distressed all at once, but the panic had dulled enough that you weren’t clutching on to the alpha’s hands anymore, and your breathing had slowed significantly.
“There we go,” Yeosang whispered immediately, kissing the top of your head. “That’s our good baby. Always so good for us.”
San swallowed hard at the tiny sound you made at that, something soothed and needy all at once, before he reached for the remote sitting abandoned on the coffee table. His fingers moved quickly through the menus, bypassing loud shows and complicated k-dramas before settling on some brightly coloured cartoon with soft music and simple dialogue.
He lowered the volume until it was barely above a murmur before setting the remote aside again. You only shifted closer instead, knees pulling up slightly as Yeosang adjusted the blanket around you, tucking it tight around you.
Your eyes stayed fixed on the screen after that, following the simple animation with slow concentration while San rubbed absentminded circles into your calf, already entranced by the moving pictures.
From down the hallway they could faintly hear Mingi’s muffled voice continuing the live, steady but strained around the edges. Every now and then another member spoke up, probably trying to fill space for him.
After a while your breathing started evening out again, the awful hiccuping cries tapering into occasional sniffles. Your body gradually melted heavier into the couch cushions, eyes drooping more and more each time the cartoon changed scenes.
“There she is,” San whispered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else.
Together they helped ease you down properly, arranging the blanket over you carefully so you stayed warm. You made a tiny sound of protest when Yeosang shifted away, instantly reaching after him.
“I know, angel,” he soothed immediately, catching your hand, kissing your knuckles. "We'll be right here.”
“Just by the stove,” San added softly. “We need to finish up dinner, baby, but we’re watching you the whole time. Promise, not going nowhere.”
Your sleepy eyes searched their faces for a moment before finally relaxing again once Yeosang pressed another kiss against your forehead, scenting you. They would have to check your temperature in a while, and you were just about in time for another dose of medicine too.
“Promise,” he repeated gently.
Only once you settled back down did they finally move toward the kitchen.
And the second they were out of immediate earshot, the carefully maintained calm cracked to pieces.
San dragged both hands over his face with a stifled groan, pacing once near the counter before stopping himself. His voice dropped to a low hum.
“We have to call Joong.”
Yeosang looked miserable immediately.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, wringing his hands together.
“I literally just went to the bathroom for like, two minutes, San-ah. I didn’t think she’d wake up yet, I-”
“Hey.” San cut him off instantly, softer this time. Yeosang’s eyes flickered up.
“It’s okay.” San shook his head firmly, though frustration still burnt underneath his exhausted expression. “It’s not your fault, not hers either.” His jaw tightened briefly as he looked around the apartment briefly.
“This just fucking sucks in general.”
Yeosang looked close to crying anyway. They all knew very well how bad this could get.
If viewers had truly heard you clearly, and if someone had already clipped it, this entire thing has already been blown out of proportion, and this just added a cherry on top.
San exhaled sharply through his nose, glancing toward the living room again to make sure you were still resting. Your eyes were closed by now. He thanked the universe for the Omegaspacemark-trademark-sleepiness then.
“Fuck's sake,” he muttered quietly. “This was already more than enough as it was.”
Before Yeosang could answer, San’s phone suddenly began vibrating violently against the counter.
Both of them froze before the younger quickly reached for and snatched the phone off the counter almost immediately, fingers fumbling slightly around the edges of it in his rush to silence the violent buzzing before it could carry into the living room.
His eyes darted instinctively toward the couch first, putting it on speaker if the volume was at its lowest.
You were still asleep.
Curled beneath the blanket with your cheek smushed into the cushion, breathing deep and uneven in that heavy, floaty way omegas always did whenever they slipped too far into space. The colourful light from the cartoon flickered softly across your face, muted music still playing quietly enough not to disturb you.
“Hyung-”
“San-ah, for fuck’s sake, what happened?”
Hongjoong sounded breathless.
Not angry. Not even frustrated, really. Just genuinely worried.
The sound of movement echoed through the speaker behind him- there were muffled voices, doors opening and shutting somewhere nearby, and staff talking too quickly over one another. San could practically picture him pacing already, one hand tangled in his hair while managers hovered around him trying to fix the situation all at once.
“Management is freaking out right now,” the packalpha continued before San could answer. His voice was tense in a way that immediately made Yeosang straighten beside him.
“Listen, this is bad.”
The young man holding the phone pressed a hand hard against his forehead, exhaustion crashing into him all over again, a headache crawling over his temples.
“…I don’t know,” he admitted helplessly, words coming out rough and quiet. “I was bringing the bags up from the car, and Sangie just went to the bathroom when she woke up.”
Beside him, Yeosang visibly wilted further at the mention of it.
“She was alone for like two minutes, hyung,” he added quickly, trying to ease the guilt before it could swallow the younger whole.
“She probably woke up scared from the pain ‘cause nobody was there, so she went looking for us and…” His jaw tightened briefly.
“She heard them talking in the room and just –"
A heavy silence followed. Hongjoong cursed quietly under his breath.
“Goddamnit…”
The leader’s voice sounded muffled for a second, like he’d dragged a hand over his face.
“Okay,” he said eventually, though the word sounded more like he was trying to convince himself than anyone else.
“Okay, listen to me first. They’re ending the live soon, manager Noh texted Mingi to wrap it up.”
Another pause.
“Some staff were monitoring everything when it happened, and so…”
He stopped there.
San felt his stomach sink immediately.
“…It’s bad,” Hongjoong admitted finally, quieter this time.
“I don’t- I don’t know what to do San-ah.”
The kitchen suddenly felt unbearably small. The leader cleared his throat uncomfortably. Yeosang’s hands twisted together anxiously in front of him while the older alpha stared blankly at the counter, jaw tight enough to hurt.
Because if Hongjoong was panicking, then this had already spiralled way past what they could fix quietly. There was no way this could be ironed out.
Yeosang lowered his head, guilt practically dripping off him into puddles by his feet.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered again, his voice cracking faintly around the edges. “Hyung, I swear I only left for a second. I didn’t think she’d wake up and I would have never-”
“Sang-ah.”
Hongjoong cut him off immediately. His tone softened despite the exhaustion buried inside it.
“It’s okay,” he said firmly. “I know none of you would ever do something like this on purpose. I know.”
That somehow only made Yeosang feel worse. His eyes dropped to the floor completely after that, not lifting again, shoulders curling inward while he nodded silently even if the older man wasn’t there to see it.
Hongjoong sighed quietly through the phone before speaking again, calmer now, trying to redirect himself toward the things he could actually control.
“How is she?” he asked softly. “Is her temperature any better?”
San glanced toward the medicine lined up neatly beside the stove before looking back toward the messy couch again.
“She’s been steady at 37.2 for the past few hours,” he answered.
“No higher than that. No lower either.” His voice lowered instinctively when his eyes landed on you again.
“She just fell asleep. We’re gonna give her the next dose soon.”
“And the nausea?” Hongjoong asked immediately. “Did she throw up again?”
“No,” Yeosang answered this time, still quiet.
“Not really. She starts dry-heaving sometimes, but she hasn’t actually thrown up again since earlier.”
“And the doctor?” The packalpha asked after another second passed. “Should we take her in?”
That made both of them hesitate. Neither of them knew anymore.
San rubbed tiredly at his eyes.
“I think…” He exhaled slowly. “I think we should wait a little longer first. She might get better on her own once she settles down properly, gets some more sleep, drinks more…”
Another silence stretched between them, it was long enough that the cartoon music drifting from the living room suddenly felt unbearably loud despite barely being audible at all.
When Hongjoong finally spoke again, his voice sounded thinner somehow. More uncertain.
“Okay,” he murmured. Then quieter, he continued: “Listen… tell Yunho to call me as soon as they finish.”
San frowned slightly.
“Why?”
Hongjoong inhaled sharply on the other end. And suddenly neither San nor Yeosang could breathe in fully and properly either.
“I think…” The leader faltered.
“I think we might have to address it.”
The words landed like a physical blow.
The guilt-ridden alpha’s head snapped up finally. The singer just stared ahead blankly for a second, genuine horror slowly settling across his face.
“Hyung,” he said instantly, voice dropping into a harsh whisper. “She’s in omegaspace right now. We can’t do that without telling her first. How are we even going to explain that to her after she gets better? Hyung-”
“The clip is already all over Twitter, I saw it myself,” he admitted quietly. “People shared it almost immediately, and I don’t think…” He stopped speaking for a second, audibly struggling to force the words out.
“I don’t think we can pretend it didn’t happen.”
The kitchen fell silent again. It dawned on them all then.
You never wanted to be public, definitely not yet. And now it wasn’t even something you got to choose.
You were sick.
Confused and slipped up. Half out of your mind with omegaspace and fever.
And somehow, they had still failed to protect you from the world again.
San squeezed his eyes shut briefly, his chest aching at the thought.
Before anybody could say anything else, the bedroom door suddenly clicked open down the hallway. Yeosang turned first. San’s head snapped toward the sound a second later, panic immediately replacing whatever else he’d been feeling.
“Hyung, they just finished up,” he whispered quickly into the phone. “We’ll talk later.”
The leader exhaled shakily.
“Okay,” he murmured. “Tell Yunho to call me soon, please.”
“We will.”
The call ended quietly after that, leaving the apartment swallowed by an awful kind of silence that neither of them quite knew how to break. That was solved for them within a few seconds, though, as visibly pale Mingi hurried over with the rest in tow.
“The hell happened? Is she okay? We were so worried...” The alpha was breathless, cooing when he hurried over to you, leaving the rest by the kitchen counter. Yet, the man was more than careful, hesitating before letting his hand simply rest over your covered shoulder, biting his lip.
“There’s no way people didn’t hear that, right?” Jongho asked under his breath, already sounding like he knew the answer himself.
“Like… there’s actually no way.”
No one spoke words of comfort towards the maknae, averting their eyes.
San leaned back against the counter tiredly, putting his phone away before turning to the rest once more.
“Hongjoong called.”
That got everyone’s attention, Mingi scurrying back to hear better. Yunho’s eyes found San‘s first.
“What did he say?”
The younger exchanged a quick glance with Yeosang before answering slowly, voice measured.
“He said management’s freaking out.” His jaw tightened.
“Apparently it’s really bad.”
The room fell silent again. Mingi blinked slowly, shoulder slumped against the fridge.
“What does that even mean?”
“Someone clipped it already,” Yeosang said quietly, guilt still heavy in his voice. “Apparently it’s all over Twitter by now.”
Jongho muttered a curse under his breath immediately. Even when careful, their scents turned bitter naturally at the reality they were forced to face. San just nodded weakly, taking his time to find the right words.
“…Hyung thinks we might have to address it.” He finally spoke low, bracing himself on his forearms.
“What?” Mingi whisper-hissed so loudly that Jongho instantly motioned for him to quiet down before all five of them reflexively glanced toward the couch to make sure you hadn’t woken up. By some miracle you were still curled up.
„Dude, she’s still in omegaspace,” he whispered harshly, frowning. “What the fuck you mean, address it?”
“I know,” San said immediately, sounding just as stressed, arms raising slightly. “I know that, okay? Just- management’s losing their minds, and the public aren't much better.”
“But we can’t just do that without even talking to her first,” Jongho added quietly, though his expression looked just as conflicted. “She doesn’t even know what happened properly yet.”
“She barely understands what’s going on right now,” Yunho whispered miserably. “How the fuck would we even explain this to her after she feels better? Just be like, 'Hey baby, I know you didn’t want to go public just yet, but hey, shit happens, right…!‘ Are you actually fucking with us right now?“
San and Yeosang just shook their heads miserably, with no words of defence to share. The guilt that settled over the room after Yunho’s outburst was crushing.
After a few minutes of long silence San whispered into the air, his voice nearly breaking: “Yu, hyung asked for you to call him when you can.”
The older just nodded, sighing before making his way to the balcony, nearly shutting the glass door behind him. No words were shared, the most noise was the shuffling of Mingi as he dropped tiredly onto the couch edge close to you, both hands clasped around the back of his neck.
After a minute or two he turned off the tv, and it was radio silence just like that.
Eventually, the singer stepped back inside slowly, expression somehow even more tense than before. That alone made all of their stomachs drop.
“What?” Yeosang called softly, too scared to hear any more bad news. Yunho closed the balcony door fully behind himself before looking between all of them, an uncertain expression marking his face.
“We have to head back in.”
Jongho frowned first. “Right now?”
Yunho nodded once.
“…Yeah, right now," he said quietly, hand absentmindedly rubbing over your temples.
“We’re gonna have to do a response.” He added after a strangled second, pocketing the device as if that would push all the issues away for once.
The words landed like a blow to the gut.
Mingi looked up immediately from where he’d been sitting, just bewildered at this point. “What?”
The oldest of the bunch swallowed once before continuing with the explanation.
“It’s already been decided.” He rubbed tiredly at the back of his neck. “Manager Noh agreed with the rest of the management that 'it's the best course of action,' and apparently…” He let out a humourless breath. “Apparently we don’t really have much of a say in it anymore. Hongjoong has tried, it’s- it‘s pointless.”
“What the fuck?” Mingi whisper-hissed, trying not to raise his voice and failing anyway. “Already? They can’t just do that. I mean-”
“That’s just bullshit,” Jongho muttered under his breath, brows knitting together immediately, standing taller, ever protective. “She doesn’t even know what happened yet.”
“Yeah,” Yunho agreed quietly, swallowing the lump in his throat before he went on to the counter, gathering the most important medication into the centre.
San leaned heavily back against the kitchen counter, one hand dragging over his face while exhaustion settled deeper into his features.
“Okay, fine, let’s say we go,” he said finally, voice rough around the edges. “How are we supposed to do that while she’s like this? Does the management not understand she is sick or…” He laughed bitterly, the anger raw and pure.
Yeosang’s eyes drifted immediately toward you then, softening almost painfully. You were so vulnerable in their care, and they-
“Hongjoong said we should bring her.” Yunho’s eyes dropped briefly to the floor, tongue clicking in dissatisfaction.
“We’ll do the response and then come straight back home after, I guess-- I don’t know, I really...-”
The uncertainty in his tone made it obvious he hated this just as much as everybody else did, just leaving his words unfinished with an uncertain wave of hand.
And so, your mates were left uncertain and huffy, eventually moving to gather the essentials for you to be able to nest and some of the medicine, uncomfortable with the thought of you leaving this place for now.
Soon enough San has gathered you into his arms once more, apologising to you profusely with the softest voice imaginable. You looked impossibly sleepy still, blinking slowly against the dimmed light while San kept you tucked against his chest.
One of his hands rested protectively at the back of your head while the other rubbed slow circles over your spine beneath your shirt, trying to make this sudden change as comfortable as possible.
“There’s my baby,” he whispered softly the second your eyes fluttered open, pecking the tip of your nose.
“Hi, sweetheart.”
A tiny distressed sound left your throat immediately, moving to turn and go back to sleep, but his gentle palm moved you back. Your brows furrowed together as you looked around blearily, clearly confused why everyone was standing around dressed and tense and watching you so carefully.
Yeosang had to look away for a second, fist tight around the plush pants he brought for you to change into.
“I know, angel,” he whispered quietly while crouching beside the couch finally. “I know you’re sleepy.”
“We just gotta go somewhere really quick, 's just gonna be in and out," Yunho added gently from nearby, your medicine now gathered in a clear plastic bag.
But when your face crumpled almost instantly instead, small tears immediately gathering in your lashes as your fingers curled weakly into San’s hoodie, their carefully gathered composure shattered to pieces.
He rocked you carefully where he sat, palm sliding slowly up and down your back while you sniffled against his neck, his scent drowning you.
“You’re okay,” Mingi whispered gently while handing a fresh shirt and the pants over. “Can we put these on for me, pretty?”
You only whined quietly in response, too exhausted to fight properly. You were done, and there was nothing they wished for more than to just be able to let you sleep the sickness away.
Still, after a few more minutes of soft reassurances and exhausted cuddling, they somehow managed to get you downstairs without upsetting you too badly again – that is badly enough for you to throw up more.
By the time San moved from the elevator towards the car, you were already half asleep again, fretful and scared. The second the van door shut, sealing out the cold afternoon air, you sighed softly and burrowed deeper into his heat on instinct.
You drifted in and out the entire way there, barely conscious enough to understand you were moving. Every few minutes you’d stir weakly against San’s chest with a distressed little whine, only calming once someone’s scent imprinted onto your skin in a fresh mark.
Sometimes Yeosang would smooth your hair back from your sweaty forehead from the seat beside you, tutting at how warm you still were.
Once, when the van hit a pothole too hard and startled you awake enough to cry softly, Jongho leaned over immediately just to squeeze your shoulder reassuringly while Yunho murmured hurt apologies from the front seat.
You fell asleep after a few minutes, tiring yourself out. When the oldest went to park the van in the underground garage, the sun was setting outside already.
The fever and omegaspace had you floating somewhere way too far away, consciousness slipping in and out so easily that by the time they reached the conference room upstairs, you hardly seemed aware of where you even were. Hongjoong, Seonghwa and Wooyoung fretted over your weak form, smooth hands gentle on your firey cheeks.
They couldn’t believe this.
The second San had tried setting you down briefly near the couch lining the wall to stretch, you’d started whining in panic almost immediately, weak hands grabbing desperately for his hoodie while tears welled up all over again, sliding down your skin like waterfalls.
“No no no,” Wooyoung had immediately soothed, moving beside you without hesitation and pulling you into his side. “Okay, okay, nobody’s leaving, petal shh.”
Soon after, when everyone was seated and the meeting was about to start, you found yourself in his arms, slumped against his chest while breathing uneasily, wrapped up in one of your blankets.
The alpha pressed his cheek against the top of your head and kept rocking you slowly whenever the room got too loud after that, and you were left dazed.
You never woke fully, catching small fragments of what was happening around you- there, that was San’s scent, angry and sitting just next to you both, looking like he might actually lose his mind.
“This is insane,” he said gruffly, staring down at some paper without touching it. “She doesn’t even know this is happening.”
A cold response followed from across the table, but you didn’t lift your eyes to look at the one speaking, hearing that: “The response still needs to be made,” before you became weightless again.
Time must have passed, as when your eyes blinked open again, it was because of how wrong Seonghwa’s scent was.
You tucked yourself closer to Woo, hoping his would mask the other alphas, but it was to little avail.
“So that’s it?” Seonghwa asked then, his voice dangerously calm. “You’re just deciding all of this for her?”
The oldest alpha laughed softly then, but there wasn’t anything amused about the sound. You didn’t like it.
“No,” Seonghwa cut in sharply, anger finally breaking through.
“No, I don’t think you do.”
The room went silent, and Wooyoung tightened his hold around you slightly when you stirred further from the palpable tension.
“She’s sick,” he said, each word clipped now.
“She’s been in omegaspace all fucking day, she can barely stay awake, drink or eat, she’s terrified and confused, and you’re all sitting here talking about her like she’s a fucking scandal instead of a person.”
“Seonghwa.” Hongjoong warned quietly, his own scent burnt.
"No, Joong, because what the fuck is this?” Seonghwa snapped again. “You’re handing us scripts about her life while she’s literally asleep five feet away because she’s too sick to even comprehend what’s happening. Do you even realise what this will do to her?”
“Our priority right now is protecting the group.”
From the corner of your eye you noticed San staring at the manager.
“…Excuse me?”
“The situation is already damaging public image,” the man continued evenly after he sighed faintly, as if the conversation were becoming inconvenient.
“We’re trying to minimise the impact before things escalate further. She signed the agreement months ago,” he said flatly.
“Legally, KQ Entertainment is not obligated to prioritise her privacy in any way over the group’s reputation. It’s always been this way. You all know this, so does she.”
You heard some chairs scrape briskly, and you tucked your nose right under Woo’s chin then, the alpha responding by shielding the back of your head to hold you closer. As if that would keep you away from all of this.
“What did you just say?” Yunho hissed eerily quietly.
„Sit down,” another manager warned immediately.
“No, you don’t get to talk about her like that,” Mingi snapped, fury bleeding through his voice despite how carefully he was still trying not to wake you.
“You don’t get to act like she’s disposable, like she is a ‚situation‘, just because we’re under a contract.”
Before anything else could be said, Wooyoung picked you up, your small tears glistening in the sharp light, holding you closer as he glared at the management. “Nobody’s upset with you. You’re okay.” he whispered to your ear, voice softening on instinct, before addressing the rest that you two will in fact 'take a small breather and will be back soon.‘
He cradled you in his arms in a random dance studio after that while you cried, scared and confused why your mates were so angry.
By the time they gathered into the recording room, you had lost all sense of time entirely.
You barely even cried out in distress when Wooyoung sat you down again. Just to your right you noticed a plain white backdrop stretched behind eight neatly lined black chairs while staff hurried around adjusting cameras and microphones with rushed efficiency.
You stayed quiet then, allowing Yeosang to tuck more hoodies under your head.
“We just gotta sit here for one tiny second, okay?” The alpha had said, making your lips pop open in an unspoken question. He pecked your cheek sweetly, cooing as he looked you over again.
“No crying,” Yeosang whispered quickly, heart visibly breaking at the sight. “Baby, please don’t cry…” You didn’t even notice your eyes have welled up again.
“Alphas will be right there the whole time,” Jongho added quietly while adjusting the blanket around your shoulders over and over. “Look, honey.” He pointed gently toward the chairs only a few feet away. “See? Right there.”
You stared at them helplessly. None of this made sense.
Why were they all dressed suddenly?
Why were there cameras?
Why were Jongho and Yeosang wearing makeup?
One by one the members moved toward the chairs in front of the backdrop, every single one of them glancing back toward you constantly as they sat down. Your cheek rested against a scented fabric, lips trembling as you tried to think clearly.
The minute the camera operator finally raised a hand, the room went fully quiet.
Hongjoong inhaled slowly before bowing his head politely toward the camera, the rest of your mates following suit.
“Hello,” he began quietly. “This is ATEEZ.”
“First, we want to sincerely thank everyone who has continued supporting us over the years.” His hands tightened together slightly in his lap. “And we also want to apologise for not being fully open about certain parts of our personal lives until now. The truth is that over time, we formed a full pack relationship, and we are very grateful for the stability and love we’ve found together.”
“Part of our pack includes someone who has not been introduced publicly,” Yunho continued next after a small pause, voice slightly strained. “Someone who wished to remain private despite our careers being public.”
Their words were like buzzing in your head, left misunderstood and odd. What were they even talking about?
“Recently there was a serious breach of privacy involving our living environment. This situation has affected not only us, but also our pack, nearby residents, and staff.” Mingi spoke clearly, but it aided you in no way.
“We kindly ask everyone to refrain from sharing private information, visiting the area, or spreading unauthorised clips and discussions related to this situation.”
Seonghwa looked directly into the camera when he spoke next.
“This has been extremely difficult for all involved, and we ask for understanding and privacy moving forward.”
You completely zoned out for whatever else it was that they'd said, only registering a spark of anger in their scents again.
After a while chairs scraped back harshly. It was the leader who crossed the room the soonest before crouching beside the couch and carefully gathering you into his arms again, looking at you longingly.
He pressed a kiss into your hairline gently.
He loved you.
So much.
Did you even realise that?
That was love coursing through his veins, love for you.
It was bound to never run out, and he would never bleed out.
“All done, love, no more now,” he whispered gently.
This time, in collaboration with MCM and FIX ON, I'm holding a photo exhibition.
Thank you so much for coming.
I took these film photos myself, integrated them with everyday objects, and expressed them through an analog technique called cyanotype. Combining the analog elements and legacy that I love, I worked with MCM to bring the gaze and sensibilities I've been quietly collecting into this single space. I think you'll be able to truly feel those sensibilities right here.
As many of my fans probably know, I put a lot of thought into showing my most authentic self through this work. You've seen a lot of the curated version of me, but I wanted to capture the moments and everyday objects I usually record, and share them with you in the most natural way.
Rather than just the finished product, I wanted to showcase the organic flow and the process itself, which is why I prepared this exciting project. Not only can you see the film photos I took and the cyanotype artworks, but more importantly, there's also a listening zone where you can listen to my recently released solo EPs. As you slowly walk through the space, relaxing and enjoying yourself, it will serve as a visual and creative element where you can feel what thoughts I have, and what kind of music and perspective I want to share.
I don't think 'FIX ON' represents a fixed, rigid identity. Change is natural, but what truly matters is holding onto ourselves - not losing who we are - as we change.
As you stroll through, I hope you take in our direction, the music, and everything else here, and just experience it in your own way. However, the core meaning that MCM and I want to convey is exactly this: "Let's not lose ourselves, and let's keep finding our way back to who we are - one step at a time."
I hope this exhibition can be of some help to you in doing that.
ATEEZ as Boyfriends — Period Scenarios just my thoughts
And if someone else could write something similar I would love to see how you think they would do 😅
Also first post plz go easy on me
————————————————
Park Seonghwa
Seonghwa was waiting for your second and third sneeze just so he could dramatically say “bless you” again, but before he even got the chance, your hand ripped from his and you bolted down the hallway toward the bathrooms.
“Baby?” he called, startled, immediately following after you.
The door to the family restroom slammed shut behind you.
Inside, your heart dropped.
The warm gush you’d felt wasn’t your imagination. Blood stained your skirt, your thighs, even your hands from trying to stop the panic spiraling through you. Your period wasn’t supposed to come for another two weeks. You had nothing with you. No pads, no tampons, no spare clothes—nothing.
Outside the door, Seonghwa knocked softly at first.
“Hey… you okay in there?”
You squeezed your eyes shut, mortified.
You tried cleaning yourself up with damp paper towels, but it only made the mess smear more. The stain on your skirt was obvious now, and every second made you want to cry harder.
Another knock.
“Baby?” His voice lowered with concern. “You’re scaring me a little.”
You still didn’t answer.
A few more minutes passed before his knocking became more urgent.
“Please talk to me. Are you hurt?”
Your lip trembled. Finally, you unlocked the door just enough to peek out.
“I—I started my period,” you whispered, already tearing up. “It’s everywhere…”
The worry on Seonghwa’s face instantly melted into pure softness.
“Oh, sweetheart…”
Before you could apologize again, he gently pushed inside the bathroom and locked the door behind him. Thankfully it was a private family restroom.
His eyes scanned you quickly—
“Aww, my poor baby.” His hands cupped your face carefully. “Hey, hey, it’s okay.”
You shook your head in embarrassment. “It’s not okay, I made such a mess—”
“So what?” he interrupted gently, brushing his thumb under your eye. “Periods happen. You don’t need to be embarrassed with me.”
He kissed the tip of your nose, making you let out the tiniest shaky laugh.
“There’s my girl.”
After making sure you were okay physically, he pinched your cheek lightly. “Stay here for me, okay? I’ll be right back.”
You blinked at him. “Wait, where are you—”
But he was already gone.
Not even ten minutes later, there was another knock on the door.
“Open up, baby.”
When you cracked it open, Seonghwa stood there holding a small shopping bag triumphantly.
Inside were your favorite pads, wet wipes, pain medicine, a bottled drink… and somehow, a pair of your own leggings and panties you’d been missing for weeks.
You stared at him. “Those are mine.”
He grinned unapologetically. “I borrowed them for emergency boyfriend purposes.”
You couldn’t help laughing through your tears.
He handed you the bag carefully. “Get changed. I’ll wait right outside, and then I’m taking you home, making you tea, and putting on whatever comfort movie you want.”
“…Even if it’s the same one we watched three times already?”
“Especially then.” He smiled warmly. “Now go take care of yourself, pretty girl.”
—————
Kim Hongjoong
Hongjoong was mid-sentence when you suddenly ripped your hand from his and took off down the hallway.
“Wait—baby?”
He blinked in confusion, trying to process what had just happened. One second you were walking beside him holding his hand, the next you looked horrified and practically sprinted away.
It took him a few seconds to react.
“Y/n?!”
By the time he hurried after you, you’d already disappeared around the corner. He looked around frantically, trying to figure out which direction you’d gone before finally pulling out his phone and calling you.
Inside the bathroom, your own phone buzzing in your bag only made you want to cry harder.
You were trying desperately to clean yourself up with rough paper towels and water, but it barely helped. Your skirt was stained badly, and you could still feel blood trickling down your thighs.
Your phone buzzed again.
And again.
“God…” you muttered miserably, knowing Hongjoong was probably panicking by now.
Finally, after cleaning yourself up as best you could, you answered.
Hongjoong didn’t even wait for a greeting.
“Where are you?! What’s wrong? Are you okay??”
The words tumbled out so fast and full of worry that guilt instantly hit you.
“I’m sorry, Joonie…” Your voice came out small and embarrassed. “I—I started my cycle… I’m in the bathroom.”
There was a brief pause.
“Oh thank God,” he breathed. “I thought something happened to you.”
You leaned against the sink, eyes watering again. “It kinda did…”
“Aww, baby…”
You could practically picture the pout on his face through the phone.
“Okay, don’t worry,” he said immediately, voice switching into problem-solving mode. “I’ll take care of it.”
You frowned. “What?”
But before you could question him further, he cut in quickly.
“Stay right there. Don’t move, okay? I’ll be back soon.”
Then he hung up.
About fifteen minutes later, there was a knock at the bathroom door.
“Baby? It’s me.”
You slowly cracked the door open, only for Hongjoong to immediately stick two grocery bags through the gap without even trying to peek inside.
You took the bags and stared down in disbelief.
Pads. Tampons. A menstrual cup. Wet wipes. Painkillers. Snacks. A heating patch. New underwear. Sweatpants. Even a hoodie.
It genuinely looked like he’d walked into the store and panic-bought the entire feminine hygiene aisle.
You could vividly imagine him speed-walking through the store muttering, “What if she needs this too?” while throwing random products into the cart.
Your chest tightened painfully in the sweetest way.
“Joonie…”
From outside the door, you heard him answer softly, “Did I get the right stuff?”
“You got… literally everything.”
“Good.” You could hear the smile in his voice now. “Take your time cleaning up. I’ll stay right here.”
A few seconds later—
“And baby?”
“Yeah?”
“No more running away from me when you’re hurting, okay?” His voice gentled. “I’d rather help than have you panic alone.”
———————
Jeong Yunho
The date had been perfect up until now.
You and Yunho had been walking through the park hand in hand, teasing each other while sharing snacks and pointing out dogs you wanted to pet. You’d mentioned your stomach hurting a little earlier, but neither of you thought much of it.
Then you sneezed.
And immediately felt the awful warm gush spread between your legs.
Your soul practically left your body.
Yunho opened his mouth, ready to make some joke about pollen season—
—but before he could even speak, you yanked your hand away and bolted.
“Baby??”
Even with his delayed reaction, Yunho’s long legs caught up to you quickly before you even reached the bathroom stalls.
“Baby, why did you run??” he asked, completely panicked.
“Yunho, out of the way please!!” you whisper-yelled frantically, trying to get around him. “I think I just started my period or peed myself!”
His entire brain visibly short-circuited.
“Oh.”
You shoved past him into the stall and locked the door behind you, groaning in embarrassment as you checked the damage.
Of course it wasn’t pee.
Of course your period had decided to show up two weeks early in the middle of a park date.
Outside the stall, Yunho blinked several times before stepping closer and knocking carefully.
“Ummm… baby?” he asked hesitantly. “What can I do? Do you need my jacket?”
You sighed in defeat. “Yes please, baby. Thank you… just give me a few minutes to figure something out.”
A second later his hoodie was handed over the top of the stall.
Meanwhile Yunho stood outside guarding the bathroom area like it was a military assignment.
Then his eyes landed on two women nearby pushing strollers with toddlers.
His face lit up like he’d just solved world hunger.
Without hesitation, he jogged over.
“Excuse me!” he called politely.
The women looked up curiously as the tall, visibly stressed young man approached them.
“Do either of you happen to have a diaper?”
“…A diaper?” one repeated slowly.
Yunho nodded rapidly. “My girlfriend had an emergency and I thought maybe—well—I don’t know—I panicked—”
The more he explained, the more the women started laughing.
“Oh honey,” one of them said between giggles. “You mean she started her period?”
Yunho looked relieved someone understood him.
“Yes! Exactly!”
The women exchanged amused looks before one dug through her purse and handed him two tampons.
“There you go, sweetheart. And maybe don’t ask strangers for diapers next time,” she teased gently. “Your girlfriend might get embarrassed… or dump you.”
Yunho gasped dramatically. “No, please don’t say that.”
The women laughed harder.
“But you’ve got good intentions,” the other reassured him.
Yunho bowed repeatedly. “Thank you! Thank you so much!”
Then he sprinted back toward the bathroom like a man on a mission.
A knock sounded on your stall door again.
“Baby?”
You cracked the door slightly, and Yunho immediately handed back his hoodie along with two tampons held proudly in his palm like trophies.
You stared at them in confusion.
“…Where did you get those?”
There was a pause.
“…Two moms.”
You blinked.
“What?”
Through the crack in the door, Yunho sheepishly explained the entire diaper incident.
Your jaw dropped.
“You—you asked them for diapers??”
“I thought it might help?!”
At that point you almost burst out laughing despite your embarrassment.
You pressed your forehead against the stall door. “Oh my God…”
“Was it wrong??”
“…Never mind, baby,” you laughed weakly. “Thank you.”
As you shut the stall door again, you could hear Yunho sigh dramatically outside.
“Okay good,” he muttered to himself. “I thought I ruined my chances of being husband material.”
———————————
Kang Yeosang
You and Yeosang had been having a surprisingly fun grocery shopping date.
The cart was already half full with snacks you definitely didn’t need, ingredients for dinner, and random things Yeosang kept insisting looked “interesting enough to try once.”
You’d mentioned some stomach pain earlier, but you figured it was nothing serious.
Then you sneezed.
And immediately felt the unmistakable warm gush between your legs.
Your eyes widened in horror.
Without a single word, you abandoned the cart and speed-walked—quickly turning into a full sprint—toward the bathrooms on the other side of the store.
“???”
Yeosang blinked in confusion before quickly following after you, leaving the completely full cart sitting in the middle of an aisle.
He assumed it must’ve been a serious bathroom emergency and waited patiently outside the restroom door.
One minute passed.
Then another.
Then another.
Finally he knocked gently.
“Y/n? Is everything okay?”
Inside the stall, you wanted to disappear forever.
“It’s my period…” you admitted quietly. “It came early.”
There was a pause.
Then simply—
“Oh.”
You waited for awkwardness. Panic. Anything.
Instead Yeosang just nodded to himself calmly outside the door.
“Okay.”
You took a shaky breath. At least you were already in a store.
“Can you maybe buy me pads?” you asked weakly.
“Okay.”
And with that, he turned and walked away immediately.
At first, Yeosang felt confident.
How hard could buying pads possibly be?
Then he reached the aisle.
His confidence vanished instantly.
There were dozens of boxes.
Different sizes. Different colors. Wings? No wings? Overnight? Ultra thin? Super plus?? Why did some look like they belonged in a tech store?
Yeosang stood frozen in front of the shelf for several long minutes, staring with the intensity of someone trying to decode ancient scripture.
Eventually, an older woman noticed him visibly struggling and approached with an amused smile.
“Honey, do you need help?”
Yeosang immediately nodded.
“Yes. Very much.”
The woman chuckled softly. “Girlfriend emergency?”
“Yes,” he answered seriously. “Very emergency.”
That only made her laugh harder.
After Yeosang awkwardly explained the situation in detail, the woman kindly grabbed a variety pack box from the shelf and handed it to him.
“This one should help. Now hurry up and bring these to your poor girlfriend.”
Then she pointed at him accusingly.
“And apologize for taking so long. Tell her the checkout line was long.”
Yeosang blinked.
“But I was standing there confused for a long time.”
The woman laughed loudly. “Don’t tell her that part!”
Still, Yeosang thanked her politely and hurried off.
Back at the bathroom, there was finally a knock.
“Y/n?”
You opened the door slightly, and Yeosang handed you the bag.
“Sorry it took so long,” he said honestly. “There were too many options and I got overwhelmed.”
You stared at him for a second before laughing despite your embarrassment.
“You’re cute.”
“I also got help from a grandmother,” he admitted immediately.
“…Yeosang.”
“She said not to tell you that.”
You laughed harder from inside the stall while he smiled proudly at himself for succeeding in the mission.
Once you cleaned up, Yeosang wrapped an arm around your shoulders and carefully walked you out of the store, carrying the small bag like he’d just completed an important quest.
It wasn’t until the two of you got home that silence suddenly filled the room.
You slowly looked at him.
“…The groceries.”
Yeosang froze.
The two of you had completely abandoned an entire cart full of groceries in the middle of the store.
————————
Choi San
You and San had spent the entire afternoon wandering through little shops, laughing together, completely wrapped up in your date.
You’d noticed some stomach cramps here and there, but you brushed them off. Nothing unusual.
At least, you thought so.
Then you sneezed.
And in an instant, that warm, awful feeling hit you. Your entire body went rigid.
“Oh no.”
San barely had time to react before you pulled your hand out of his and practically speed-walked away.
“Baby??”
The panic in your face immediately set him on edge.
“I— I need the bathroom,” you blurted, already moving faster.
“Wait—what happened?” he called, following right behind you.
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You were too mortified, weaving through people until you spotted a family restroom and rushed inside, slamming the door shut.
“Y/n!” San knocked immediately. “Hey—open the door. Are you okay? Did you get sick?”
Inside, you leaned against the sink, eyes stinging.
Of course. Of course it was your period.
Two weeks early.
And of course you had nothing with you.
“Baby!” he called again, more worried now. “Talk to me.”
“I’m fine!” you called back quickly, though your voice wavered.
“That did not sound fine!”
You let out a frustrated, shaky breath.
After a moment of him pacing outside, you finally cracked the door open just enough to look at him.
The second San saw your face—watery eyes, embarrassed expression—his whole posture softened.
“What happened?” he asked gently.
You looked away. “I started my period…”
There was a beat of silence.
Then he visibly relaxed. “Oh. Thank God.”
You blinked. “What do you mean ‘thank God’?”
“I thought something was really wrong,” he admitted, exhaling. His eyes then dropped briefly, taking in the situation, and his expression shifted instantly into something softer. “Oh… baby.”
Your cheeks burned. “It’s embarrassing.”
“No.” His voice turned firm, but gentle. “Don’t say that.”
Before you could protest, he pushed the door open wider and stepped inside with you like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“It’s just your period,” he said quietly, gently cupping your face. “You don’t have to be embarrassed with me.”
That was all it took for your eyes to well up again.
He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then both cheeks—slow, grounding, reassuring. Then he crouched down slightly, hands gentle as he checked on you, like he was making sure you were okay more than anything else.
“It’s a bit of a mess…” you admitted quietly.
“Then we handle it,” he said simply, like there was nothing complicated about it at all.
He met your eyes again. “Look at me.”
You did, still teary and embarrassed.
San stood, grabbed some paper towels, and wet them at the sink. Without hesitation, he started helping you clean up gently, carefully, working slowly and patiently while you tried half-heartedly to stop him.
“San, I can—”
“I know,” he interrupted softly. “But I’ve got you.”
He didn’t rush. He didn’t make it awkward. When he was satisfied, he helped you sit down and stepped back slightly.
“Stay here for a minute,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
“San—where are you going?”
“Car,” he answered simply. “I keep a bag there.”
You blinked. “A bag?”
He gave a small shrug through the door before heading out. “Emergency stuff. Pads, pain meds, spare clothes… your hair ties, too.”
And just like that, he was gone A few minutes later, he came back knocking gently.
“It’s me.”
You let him in again.
“I keep it in the car,” he explained, holding up the bag. “Just in case. I’ve got everything you might need.”
Your chest tightened at how casually prepared he was.
He helped you clean up properly, gave you fresh clothes, and made sure you were comfortable before handing you a soft hoodie.
“Better?” he asked.
“…Yeah,” you admitted quietly.
“Good,” he said with a small smile.
Then, softer, he added, “Come on. Let’s get you home.”
He kept a steady hand on your back as you walked out, slow and careful, never rushing you. All the way to the car, his thumb gently rubbed calming circles into your skin.
And when you got home, he didn’t stop there.
He ran you a bath, got you something warm to drink, and stayed with you just taking care of you
——————————-
Mingi
The realization hit you so fast your face went pale. Without thinking, you let go of Mingi’s hand and rushed toward the nearest bathroom, panic setting in with every step.
“Hey—baby?!” Mingi called, immediately following you, concern sharpening his voice. “What happened?”
You couldn’t even answer. You were too mortified, too overwhelmed, already pushing into the restroom area and shutting yourself in.
Inside, reality sank in.
Two weeks early.
Nothing with you.
Not even a backup.
“Oh God…” you whispered, leaning against the counter as your mind raced.
Outside, you heard him.
“Y/n? Talk to me. Are you hurt?”
You swallowed hard, voice barely steady. “I’m… I’m okay.”
But it didn’t sound convincing—not even to you.
There was a pause, then you heard him shift closer.
“Open the door a little,” Mingi said gently. “Just let me see you.”
When you finally cracked it open, his expression softened immediately—but there was still worry in his eyes. Until he understood.
Then his face changed completely.
“Oh…” he breathed. “Baby…”
The embarrassment hit you all over again. “It’s really bad. I don’t have anything with me.”
For a second, he just looked at you—processing, thinking fast. Then he nodded once, decisive.
“Okay. Don’t worry,” he said firmly. “I’ve got you.”
Before you could even respond, he shrugged off his jacket and carefully tied it around your waist, shielding you gently without hesitation.
“Hey,” he added softly, meeting your eyes. “I’m gonna take care of you. Alright?”
You nodded weakly, still overwhelmed.
Then, without warning, he scooped you up bridal style like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Mi—Mingi!” you gasped.
“Just relax,” he said, already walking. “I’ve got you.”
He carried you straight to the car, careful and steady the whole way, like you weighed nothing at all but still mattered completely.
Once inside, he immediately turned the heated seat on and started the engine.
“We’re going to the store first,” he said calmly. “Okay? We’ll grab whatever you need.”
You nodded, still trying to process everything.
At the convenience store, he was quick and focused—pads, pain relief, snacks, drinks—moving like he already knew exactly what would help.
Then he drove you both home.
The moment you got inside, everything shifted into comfort mode.
“I’ll set everything up,” he said, already moving with purpose. “Go take care of what you need. I’ll be right here.”
When you came out, the living room was transformed—soft lighting, blankets everywhere, a heating pad already warmed and waiting on the couch. Your favorite movie was on, low and comforting in the background.
Mingi patted the spot beside him.
“Come here,” he said gently.
Mingi stayed beside you on the couch, the movie playing quietly in the background, but his focus was completely on you.
You were curled up under a blanket, the heating pad resting against your stomach, slowly easing the cramps. When he noticed you still looked tense, he gently pulled your legs into his lap.
“Relax,” he said softly.
His hands were big—large enough to wrap easily around your calves. When he started massaging your ankles, his fingers circled slowly, applying steady, even pressure. Not too hard, not too light—just enough to feel grounding.
“Let me know if it hurts,” he murmured.
“It’s okay,” you whispered.
So he kept going.
His thumbs worked up your calves in slow, careful motions. When he found tight spots, he paused and pressed a little deeper, then eased off again, repeating the motion until the tension softened.
You could feel how strong he was, even though he was gentle with every movement. His grip stayed steady and controlled, like he was making sure you felt safe the entire time.
“You’ve been on your feet a lot today,” he said quietly, more to himself.
His hands moved higher, smoothing over your legs in slow strokes, easing out the remaining tightness around your knees. Every so often, his thumb would trace small calming circles, almost absentminded but comforting.
“You okay?” he asked again, glancing up at you.
You nodded.
“Good,” he said simply.
He kept massaging slowly, patiently, like he wasn’t in any rush at all—just focused on making sure you felt better.
—————————
Wooyoung
You and your boyfriend WooYoung had been out together all afternoon—just a casual date, walking around, grabbing snacks, enjoying the day.
Panic hit instantly. Without a word, you let go of his hand and rushed toward the nearest bathroom, your heart racing. It was two weeks early—and you had nothing with you.
“Baby?!” Wooyoung called, startled, immediately following you. “Hey—what’s wrong?”
You didn’t answer, too mortified, already slipping into the restroom and shutting the door.
Outside, he started knocking lightly.
“Hey, honey… are you okay in there?”
Then, softer, more concerned: “Talk to me.”
Inside, you leaned against the sink, trying to breathe.
Of course it was your period. Of course it was unexpected.
You finally spoke, voice small. “Woo… I started early.”
There was a pause.
“…Oh,” he said, then immediately softened. “Okay. Okay, baby, I’ve got you.”
The door cracked open slightly, and he gently stepped inside before you could even protest.
“Aww,” he murmured, seeing your face. “Come here.”
Before you could respond, he pulled you into a soft hug, one hand immediately moving to your hair, smoothing it down in slow, calming strokes.
“You’re okay,” he said quietly. “Are you cramping?
“Yeah… a little.”
He nodded like he already expected that. His hand moved down your back gently, then rested carefully over your lower stomach, rubbing slow circles.
“I should’ve noticed earlier,” he said, half to himself. “You were crampy, hungrier… a little extra bratty too.”
You let out a small wine, he can’t be the one to talk about someone else being a brat…
He smiled. “Hey, it’s okay. I know you.”
From his jacket pocket, he already pulled out a couple of pads—like he had been prepared for this exact possibility—and set them aside for you, then quickly slipped his jacket off and handed it to you.
“Wear this baby” he said softly. Helping you put his long coat on.
Once you were done, he was immediately there again, guiding you out with a warm hand on your back.
“You good?” he asked gently.
You nodded.
“Okay. We’re going home.”
The ride back was quiet, comfortable. He kept one hand on your thigh, squeezing gently now and then, grounding you without saying much.
At home, he didn’t hesitate—he ran you a bath, got your favorite comfort food ready, and made the couch into a nest of blankets and warmth.
And when you finally came out, he pulled you straight into his arms.
“Stay here,” he said softly. “I’ve got you for the rest of the night.”
And he did—movies, cuddles, soft teasing comments, and all the care in the world, like it was the easiest thing for him to do.
—————————-
Jungho
Without saying a word, you let go of Jongho’s hand and quickly walked away, heading straight for the nearest restroom.
“Hey—wait,” Jongho called, immediately alert. His voice wasn’t loud, but it had that sharp concern in it as he followed you. “What’s wrong?”
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You were already pushing into the bathroom area, mortified, heart racing.
Inside, you leaned against the sink, breathing fast. Two weeks early. Nothing with you. Of course.
Outside, you heard a knock—firm but careful.
“Are you hurt?” Jongho asked.
You hesitated. Then, quietly: “I’m okay… I just… started my period.”
There was a pause.
Then his voice softened immediately. “Oh.”
A beat.
“Okay. Don’t panic. I’m here.”
The door opened just slightly, and Jongho stepped in only far enough to see you—not rushing, not crowding you.
His expression softened when he saw your face.
“It’s okay,” he said simply. “You don’t need to be embarrassed.”
Your eyes dropped. “It’s annoying… I didn’t expect it.”
He nodded once, like that was all he needed to hear.
“I know,” he said. Then, more practically, “Do you have anything with you?”
You shook your head.
“Alright,” he said, already thinking. Calm. Focused. “Stay here a second.”
Before you could argue, he stepped out—but didn’t go far. You could hear him on his phone, short and efficient, like he was handling a mission. Then a few minutes later, he was back.
He held out his jacket first.
“Wrap this around your waist,” he said. “We’re going to get what you need.”
No teasing. No awkwardness. Just steady certainty.
He stayed close as you moved, walking slightly behind you like a shield so you didn’t feel exposed. Every so often, he’d check in quietly.
“You okay?”
You’d nod.
“Good.”
At the store, he didn’t hesitate—pads, pain relief, snacks, drinks. He grabbed everything quickly, like he wanted to get you out of there as fast and comfortably as possible.
On the way home, the car was warm and quiet. Jongho kept one hand resting lightly near yours, not overly touchy, just present.
When you got home, his whole demeanor shifted into quiet care.
“I’ll set things up,” he said. “Go change.”
When you came out, the living room was already prepared—blankets neatly spread out, your favorite show ready, a warm drink waiting on the table.
Jongho looked up at you and nodded slightly.
“Come here,” he said.
You sat beside him, still a little embarrassed, and he adjusted the blanket around you without making it a big deal.
“You don’t have to deal with it alone,” he said quietly.
Then, after a pause, a faint hint of softness in his voice:
“Next time, just tell me you’re cramping earlier. I’ll make it easier.”
And he meant it—not dramatic, just Jongho being Jongho: steady, practical, and completely on your side.
San always felt conflicted whenever he got sick. On one hand, he became needier, clingier, and wanted nothing more than to curl up in your arms. On the other hand, the thought of getting you sick too made him want to lock himself away until he was completely better.
It had been three days since he got sick.
The first day wasn’t too bad. Just a low-grade fever and a little cough—or at least that’s what he told you. Of course, you wanted to take care of him.
“No! I don’t want you catching anything,” he told you firmly.
“I’ll be fine!” you argued back. God, San could be so frustrating.
Instead, he banished himself to the guest room in an attempt to keep his distance. He only came out when absolutely necessary and even wore a mask.
“San! You are being too much! Really? A mask?!” you asked the first time he stepped out of the room.
“I’m not taking any chances,” he replied before retreating right back inside.
Ugh. This man. When lunchtime came around, you made soup and rice, gathered some medicine and water onto a tray, and carried everything into the guest room.
San was sleeping softly. His face was slightly flushed, his hair messy, and his lips parted just enough to reveal the soft snores escaping through what was clearly a stuffy nose.
Setting the tray on the nightstand, you sat carefully beside him. You brushed the hair from his face and gently scratched his scalp.
“Sannie, baby, I made lunch. Do you want to wake up and eat?”
Still half asleep, he leaned into your touch. “Hmm… feels good.” His words slurred together sleepily.
You continued rubbing his head while he let out tiny content groans. “San, I have medicine for your headache. Can you sit up for me?”
As his eyes slowly opened, he became more aware of his surroundings. And immediately pulled away.
Putting distance between the two of you, he scooted toward the opposite side of the bed. “I can take it myself. Thank you for the food and medicine.”
“You are so stubborn,” you huffed. “Okay, okay. I’ll leave. And don’t even think about putting that mask on right now.”
His eyes kept making quick glances to it. Walking toward the door, you sighed. “Let me know if you need anything, okay?”
“I will.” He lied.
You shut the door behind you and went to eat your own lunch. The entire time, you debated hiding every mask in the house.
Later, San emerged only long enough to bring his dishes to the kitchen.
…Wearing that damn mask.
“San, baby, if you don’t put those dishes down and go back to bed, I swear I’ll rip that mask off and kiss you until I know I’m sick.” You crossed your arms and glared at him.
At that point, you honestly didn’t care if you got sick. At least then you could be miserable together instead of him locking himself away.
And if you were struggling with the separation, you knew he had to be feeling it too.
San stared at you. He was clearly debating whether you were bluffing.
You weren’t.
God, he wanted to kiss you. Wanted to hold you. Wanted to touch you.
Then he felt another wave of fever hit him.
Nope. Definitely not. Without another word, he abandoned the dishes and practically fled back to the guest room.
You groaned.
Dinner went much the same. You brought him food, water, medicine, and this time a small chocolate pudding topped with strawberries.
“Thank you!”
He looked genuinely excited about the dessert. You simply hummed and walked away. After dinner, you cleaned up and found yourself staring at the couch.
Normally, this was when the two of you would be curled up together. Guess not tonight.
You briefly considered watching a movie without him and turning the volume up so he’d hear it from the guest room.
But you decided against it. Yes, he was being stubborn. Yes, he was being annoying. But it was coming from a place of love. Even if you hated being separated.
“San, you took your medicine, right? Can I do anything for you?” you called through the door later that night.
“Yep. Took my medicine. I’m fine. Thank you, baby.” His voice sounded strained.
You frowned. “Okay… goodnight.” You hadn’t meant to sound so sad.
Without waiting for a response, you walked back to your room. “Goodnight, asshole. Love you, stupidhead,” you muttered to yourself.
Day two was worse. San looked noticeably weaker.
You got up early and made breakfast before gathering his medicine. When you entered the guest room, he was still asleep.
His chest was bare, a sheet draped loosely over his hips, and a dried-out washcloth rested across his forehead.
His fever must have spiked overnight. You set the tray down before carefully removing the cloth, rewetting it with cool water, and placing it back against his skin.
He flinched in his sleep.
You were careful not to wake him. Then quietly left the room.
Lunch was the same. Dinner too.
You’d spent the entire day frustrated and worried. You wanted to help him. Hold him. Comfort him. Tell him everything would be okay. It had only been two days, but you missed him so much it physically hurt.
Later that evening, unable to help yourself, you made him another dessert. When you entered the room, he was curled tightly around a pillow.
You knew he wished it was you.
Your chest hurt. San loved physical affection. Honestly, it wasn’t just something he liked. It was something he needed.
He drifted somewhere between sleep and wakefulness while you sat carefully behind him on the bed.
Your cool hands gently rubbed his arms and back.
The effect was immediate. Even asleep, his body relaxed beneath your touch.
You stayed longer than intended. Watching him breathe. Watching his face scrunch whenever he shifted. Watching the tension leave his muscles beneath your hands.
Eventually, you decided to leave before he woke up and had a dramatic breakdown over being this close to you without a mask.
You rolled your eyes. Dramatic.
You carefully started getting off the bed.
“Don’t leave.” The words were barely more than a whisper.
Soft. Broken.
Your heart shattered.
“Oh, baby.”
Immediately, you sat back down. You leaned against the headboard and gently guided him toward you.
His head settled against your stomach while your legs surrounded him.
His arms wrapped around your waist immediately.
His grip felt weak, but he still held onto you like you were his anchor.
Then he rubbed his face against you.
Like a cat. Desperate for affection.
Your fingers slid through his hair. Across his face. Down his neck. His shoulders. Then back up again.
“I missed you,” he mumbled.
“I know.”
“I wanted to talk to you.”
“I know.”
“Wanted to hold you.”
“I know.”
“Wanted to kiss you.”
You smiled sadly.
“Me too, baby.”
As your hands moved back to cup his face, you felt tears.
Warm tears. Flowing freely.
“San? Baby, why are you crying?”
You tried lifting his head. Instead, he buried himself deeper against you.
“I don’t know…”
Your heart broke all over again. You wrapped your arms tighter around him.
“It’s okay, Sannie. Just let it out. I’ve got you.”
His hands wandered everywhere. Your waist. Your hips. Your thighs. Your arms. Like he was trying to make up for every touch he’d missed. You held him close and whispered everything you’d been holding back.
How much you loved him. How much you missed him. How much you wanted to take care of him. How empty your bed felt without him. And eventually, he fell asleep in your arms.
On day three, he finally gave in completely.
When you woke up the next morning, you’d somehow shifted positions. Now San was cocooned against your chest. Your arms wrapped around him while his legs tangled with yours.
You pressed a kiss against his forehead. Still warm. But much better. His fever was definitely coming down. This time, you did everything you’d wanted to do from the beginning.
Everything you promised him the night before.
And this time? He let you.
Unfortunately, on day four, your throat started feeling sore.
Immediately, you panicked. Absolutely not. After all that, there was no way you were getting sick. You took every supplement, vitamin, and medicine you could find. By the end of the day, San noticed.
Of course he did. Your symptoms were starting to look suspiciously familiar.
He asked. You denied it. Repeatedly.
Day five. You woke up with a fever. San knew. You knew.
“Drink.”
“I’m not thirsty.”
“Interesting. I don’t remember that being one of the options.”
“San.”
“Baby.”
“You’re annoying.”
“That’s funny. I seem to remember you saying something similar three days ago.” he said smugly.
“YN,” he said slowly. “Do you want to do this the easy way or the hard way?” You immediately crossed your arms.
“I’m not sick.”
San stared. You stared back. One eyebrow slowly lifted.
“Baby.”
“I’m not.”
San let out a long sigh. This was karma. For both of you.
He gently cupped your face in his hands. “Let me recommend the easy way. It’s a lot nicer.”
You could tell he was trying not to smile. God, he wasn’t happy you were sick. But now it was his turn. His turn to take care of you. His thumb brushed your cheek.
“Now it’s my turn to take care of you,” he said softly. “And trust me, baby…” His smile finally appeared. “I plan on doing it properly.”
You wanted to argue. You really did. But the way he was holding your face and looking at you made your entire body flush for a completely different reason.
“…Okay, Sannie.” You leaned into his touch. “Let’s see how good you take care of me.”
Mingi 1.4k words
You didn’t even have time to process what was happening before you woke up with bile rushing up your throat. You barely made it to the bathroom before getting sick. Unfortunately, you didn’t quite make it to the toilet.
The sound of vomit hitting the bathroom floor was unmistakable.
Your throat burned as you gagged on what little remained in your stomach. The sudden sickness left you shaky, weak, and absolutely disgusted. Taking a few deep breaths, you tried to calm yourself down.
Obviously, you hadn’t made it in time to reach the toilet, which also meant you hadn’t had time to shut the bathroom door behind you. So when Mingi appeared, still half asleep, drawn by the very unmistakable sound of someone getting sick, you immediately scrambled to slam the door shut.
“Babe, you okay—”
The door shut right in his face.
“I’m fine. Go back to bed.”
Ugh.
The bathroom was disgusting. You wanted to bleach every surface, scrub the floor raw, and somehow erase the smell from existence. You also desperately needed a shower. You were about ninety-nine percent sure there was vomit in your hair. The thought nearly made you gag again.
A second later, the bathroom door opened. Mingi looked much more awake now.
“Why did you slam the door on me?”
The confusion written all over his face would’ve been funny under different circumstances.
“Mingi, get out!”
You immediately regretted not locking the door.
“I need to clean up and take a shower. It’s gross in here. Get out.”
Instead of listening, he casually stepped over the mess and walked toward the shower.
“MINGI! What are you doing?!”
He ignored you completely.
After adjusting the water temperature, he turned around.
“You said you needed a shower. I’m helping.”
Then he walked over. His fingers hooked beneath the hem of your shirt.
“Arms up.”
Slowly, he pulled it over your head before tossing it into the corner.
Honestly… You were a little grateful. There was definitely vomit on it. His hands moved to your hips next, tugging at your shorts and underwear.
“Wait, wait! Stop!”
His hands immediately stilled. Resting against your thighs, he looked up at you. Confused.
“I still need to clean first. I know you’d rather not see it, but I also know you’re not going to magically forget about the puddle of vomit on the floor.”
“Obviously not. It’s kind of hard to miss.”
You groaned.
“I was going to clean it while you were showering.”
Then he resumed removing your remaining clothes. Once again, you were horrified.
“Mingi, you are not cleaning up my throw up!”
You tried stepping away. He simply caught your wrist and gently pulled you back.
“Do you really think a little vomit is going to scare me?”
The amusement in his voice only made your embarrassment worse. Without waiting for an answer, he guided you into the shower and shut the door behind you.
The water temperature was perfect, by the way.
“Take your time. Let me know if you need any help.”
Ugh.
If there had been anything left in your stomach, your embarrassment would’ve brought it back up.
Though honestly… Mingi wasn’t exactly squeamish when it came to bodily fluids.
Still.
You took his advice and stood beneath the warm water for several minutes. The heat soaked into your aching muscles.
You felt exhausted. Weak. Heavy. Eventually, you started washing your hair. You quickly realized just how drained you were. Your arms felt like they weighed a hundred pounds as you tried to work shampoo through your scalp.
Your legs weren’t much better. You honestly felt like you might collapse. The shower door suddenly opened. You jumped. Mingi’s eyes immediately swept over you.
“I told you to let me know if you needed help.”
He reached inside and shut off the water.
“Mingi, I still have shampoo—”
He ignored your protest completely. Taking your hand, he carefully guided you out. You felt like some slimy fish he’d just caught.
“MINGI!”
Without a word, he carried you across the bathroom. The large soaking tub was already filled. Conveniently. He lowered you into the water like you weighed nothing.
“Sit.”
You sank into the warm water. It reached nearly to your neck. The custom tub Mingi had insisted on getting was large enough for both of you, but right now it felt like heaven.
“I was fine,” you muttered.
He simply knelt behind the tub. Sure. You were fine. Then he started massaging shampoo into your scalp.
The fight instantly left your body.
“Thank you, Min.”
He smiled. His fingers worked carefully through your hair, scratching and massaging your scalp. You couldn’t help the soft groans that escaped you.
Every ache in your head seemed to melt beneath his touch. After rinsing out the shampoo, he worked conditioner through your hair and clipped it up.
Then he drained some of the water until it sat around your waist. Immediately, you shivered.
“Min, it’s cold.”
“I know. I’ll be done soon.”
He grabbed your body wash and washcloth. Starting at your neck, he carefully washed your skin.
Your shoulders. Your arms. Your back. Your chest.
That part required significantly more self-control than he’d like to admit.
In Mingi’s head, the same thought repeated over and over:
She’s sick.Now is not the time.
She’s sick. Now is not the time.
Mingi had excellent self-control when he wanted to.
Once your upper body was finished, he helped you stand for a few moments while he washed the rest of you.
He was gentle. Thorough. Attentive.
When he finally finished, he rinsed away the soap and conditioner before draining the tub completely. Then he wrapped you in a fluffy towel and lifted you right back into his arms.
The bathroom was spotless. He really had cleaned everything while you’d been standing in the shower.
You felt another wave of embarrassment. And affection.
Back in the bedroom, Mingi helped dry you off and found a fresh pair of pajamas. Then he carefully blow-dried your hair until it was no longer dripping wet.
By the time he finished, you felt warm. Comfortable. Sleepy. His hands had been gentle and warm showering you with love through every touch.
You leaned back against his chest.
“Thank you.”
His arms wrapped around you immediately.
“Of course.”
His chin rested on your shoulder. Then his lips brushed the skin beneath your ear.
“Feeling any better?”
His deep voice sent shivers through your body.
“A little.”
You sighed.
“My body hurts. I feel really weak.”
He nodded. Then immediately got to work. Mingi tucked you into bed before returning with medicine and water. Once you’d taken everything, he guided you onto your stomach.
“What are you doing?”
“Helping.”
You laughed softly.
Then his hands settled against your feet.
For the next hour, Mingi gave you a full-body massage.
He started at your feet and slowly worked upward. Ankles. Calves. Thighs. Hips. Lower back. Shoulders. Neck. Arms.
He paid special attention to every sore muscle he found. Whenever you whimpered or flinched, he’d linger there until the tension eased.
The entire time, he kept talking to you.
Checking in. Making sure he wasn’t hurting you. Asking if it felt good or if he should ease up. By the time he finished, your body felt completely relaxed. His touch lingered long after his hands left your skin. You fell asleep almost immediately.
The next morning, you woke feeling significantly better. Honestly, part of you wondered if the entire night had been some strange fever dream. But no. Mingi was already awake. Carefully making breakfast. A little while later, he appeared carrying a tray. A bowl of porridge. Medicine. Water. Everything you’d need.
“It’s bland,” he admitted, setting the tray down. “But I thought it’d be easier on your stomach.”
You smiled.
“Thank you.”
He sat beside you and immediately picked up the spoon.
You blinked.
“Mingi…”
“What?”
“I can feed myself.”
His eyebrow lifted.
“Last night you couldn’t even wash your own hair because your arms were too tired.”
You opened your mouth. Then closed it. Fair.
“Let me take care of you.”
Honestly, you didn’t have the energy to argue. So you let him.
Mingi looked entirely too pleased with himself. Every thank you and every bit of praise made his chest puff up with pride.
You made sure to tell him often how much you appreciated him. How much better he made you feel. How loved he made you feel.
“I’ll always take good care of you, Princess,” he said confidently.
You leaned fully against him.
“I know you will, Min.”
A soft smile crossed your face.
“I love you, baby.”
His arms tightened around you immediately.
“ me too “
Wooyoung 1.8k words
Recently, your cousin went back to work after her maternity leave and asked if you and Wooyoung could babysit her kids on Fridays. Since the two of you absolutely adored your little cousins, you agreed immediately.
It had been about a month since you started watching them every Friday. You always knew Wooyoung loved kids, but something about having them in your home every week seemed to short-circuit his brain.
The very first Friday they came over, he emptied the spare bedroom.
“What are you doing?” you asked, watching him carry out boxes.
“Making the kids a room.”
You blinked.
Wooyoung paused before giving you an innocent smile.
“ for the little ones, I was thinking maybe they can come over more often or you know it’s just good to have.. “
That should have been your first warning sign.
The next week he came home with a crib. Then a stroller. Then baby clothes. Then bottles. Then diapers. Then more baby clothes. When you questioned him, he always had an excuse.
“It was on sale. It’s good to have around. You never know when you’ll need it.”
Apparently, according to Wooyoung, you never knew when you might suddenly need enough baby supplies to stock a small daycare.
Every Friday became his favorite day of the week.
Your cousin would drop the kids off early in the morning and pick them up late that night. From the moment they arrived, Wooyoung had an entire schedule planned.
He made breakfast. Changed diapers. Read books. Sang nursery songs. Took them on walks. Played bubbles and sidewalk chalk. Made sure they had snacks every few hours.
Not once had you changed a diaper yourself. Wooyoung practically sprinted to every diaper emergency before you could even stand up.
Watching him with them was honestly adorable.
The kids adored him. You adored him. And unfortunately, all of this seemed to trigger an extreme case of baby fever.
Nap time quickly became your most dangerous time of day. Once both kids were asleep and tucked into bed for their afternoon naps, Wooyoung immediately turned his attention to you.
It was like a switch flipped.
The second he had free time, he was attached to your side. Kissing you. Holding you. Touching you. And talking. Constantly talking.
“Baby, you’d be such a good mom.”
“You know that, right?”
“You look really good holding babies.”
“Wooyoung.”
“I’m serious.”
“You say that every day.”
“Because it’s true.”
It only got worse as the weeks passed. Every weekend seemed to consist of Wooyoung wrapped around you, cuddling you, kissing you, and occasionally begging you to let him put a baby in you.
You loved him. You really did. But you were starting to suspect he had forgotten one very important detail.
You were still on birth control. The two of you had already agreed on a timeline. Eventually. Not now.
Unfortunately, baby-fever Wooyoung seemed convinced his determination and magic sperm alone could override modern medicine.
You couldn’t help but indulge him a little during his more sub space deep moments. Mostly because watching him get so excited was cute. Ridiculous. But cute.
After about a month of this, however, the constant affection, lack of personal space, and Wooyoung’s seemingly endless energy had started taking a toll on you.
Which was why Monday morning hit you like a truck.
You woke up to soft kisses being pressed against your forehead and cheeks. Wooyoung’s hands gently traced over your arms and waist.
“Morning, baby.”
You smiled sleepily. Then suddenly froze. A wave of nausea slammed into you.
“Oh no.”
You practically launched yourself out of bed and sprinted for the bathroom.
Thankfully, you made it in time. Barely.
By the time Wooyoung caught up, you were kneeling in front of the toilet, miserably throwing up. Immediately, he gathered your hair back and rubbed soothing circles over your back.
“It’s okay, baby. It’s okay.” You felt awful. Your throat burned. Your stomach hurt. Your entire body ached.
Afterward, he helped you wash up and tucked you back into bed before calling out of work for both of you.
The next two days weren’t much better. You were nauseous. Exhausted. Moody. Everything hurt. Certain smells made you sick.
The first time Wooyoung tried cooking, you ended up running to the bathroom halfway through. After that, he became much more careful. Seaweed soup seemed to settle your stomach the best. He also made soft porridge, warm broth, fruit, crackers, and anything else you thought you could keep down.
Whenever your back hurt, he rubbed it. Whenever your legs ached, he massaged them. Whenever you wanted ice cream, somehow there was already ice cream waiting for you. Through all of it, he never once complained. He simply took care of you.
By the third day, you were finally starting to feel better. Your nausea had mostly settled, and while you were still tired, you no longer felt like death every time you sat up. Which was why you were very confused when Wooyoung walked into the bedroom that morning and announced:
“Get dressed.”
You looked up from your phone.
“What?”
“Get dressed.”
“Why?”
He looked at you like the answer was obvious.
“We have a doctor’s appointment.”
You immediately groaned.
“Woo, I’m fine. I feel so much better.”
He crossed his arms.
“You’ve been throwing up for two days.”
“I had the flu.”
“You’ve been nauseous.”
“I was sick.”
“You’ve been moody.”
“I always get moody when I’m sick.”
“You’ve had cravings.”
“I wanted seaweed soup!”
Wooyoung simply stared at you. You stared back. Neither of you moved. Eventually, he pointed toward the closet.
“Get dressed.”
You sighed dramatically. Unfortunately, he refused to back down. So an hour later, you found yourself sitting in the passenger seat of his car. You didn’t think much of it until he pulled into the parking lot.
Then your eyes widened. No. Absolutely not. There was no way.
“Wooyoung.”
He smiled.
“Yes, baby?”
“What are we doing at an OBGYN?”
His smile somehow grew even brighter. You were horrified.
“It’s important to start checkups early.”
You just stared at him. Completely speechless. He genuinely thought you were pregnant.
The man had lost his mind.
Still in shock, you allowed him to lead you inside. The receptionist checked you in without issue, and before you knew it, you were sitting in an exam room waiting for the doctor. When she finally entered, she greeted both of you warmly.
“So, what brings you in today?”
Before you could answer, Wooyoung sat up straighter.
“We’re here for her first checkup.”
You closed your eyes. The doctor smiled.
“Oh, congratulations! How far along do you think you are?”
You opened your eyes.
Wooyoung looked at you expectantly. You looked at Wooyoung. Then back at the doctor.
“I’m so sorry,” you said immediately. “I’m not pregnant.”
The doctor blinked. Wooyoung blinked.
“I’m on birth control,” you continued. “I’ve never taken a pregnancy test. I didn’t even know we were coming here today.”
The room fell silent.
“What are you talking about?” Wooyoung asked.
You turned toward him.
“What am I talking about?”
“Baby, you’ve had morning sickness.”
“I’ve been sick.”
“You’ve been nauseous.”
“I had the flu.”
“You’ve had cravings.”
“I wanted soup!”
The doctor looked between the two of you before quickly stepping in.
“Okay,” she said carefully. “How about we cover all our bases?” You immediately nodded. She continued.
“We’ll run a flu test, a pregnancy test, and do a general wellness check. That way we’ll know exactly what’s going on.”
“Perfect,” you said.
“Perfect,” Wooyoung agreed.
The doctor handed you a sample cup.
“We’ll start with this.”
You stood up and headed toward the bathroom. Unfortunately, footsteps followed behind you. You turned. Wooyoung was right there.
“What are you doing?”
“I can help.”
“Help with what?”
“I can hold the cup.”
You stared at him. He stared back. Completely serious.
“Hold the cup?”
“Yeah.”
“Wooyoung.”
“Baby?”
“If you don’t walk away right now, I’m going to bite you.”
He finally seemed to realize this was not the correct answer. Slowly, he backed away. You shut the bathroom door before he could say anything else. When you returned, the doctor collected the sample and began the rest of the examination.
Then came the waiting.
Thirty long minutes. Thirty minutes of Wooyoung holding your hand. Thirty minutes of him rubbing your thigh. Thirty minutes of him talking excitedly about baby names. Thirty minutes of him showing you strollers. Thirty minutes of him adding maternity clothes, baby furniture, and enough newborn supplies to fill an entire nursery into online shopping carts. You had managed to stop him from actually purchasing anything. Barely.
The entire time, your heart ached a little. You knew how badly he wanted this someday. You knew how amazing he would be as a father. But someday wasn’t today. Eventually, the doctor returned.
You squeezed Wooyoung’s hand tightly.
“The pregnancy test came back negative.”
You felt his shoulders drop immediately. For a moment, neither of you said anything. Then the doctor continued.
“However, your flu test came back positive.” You slowly turned your head toward Wooyoung.
Told you. The doctor went over treatment recommendations, encouraged rest, fluids, and vitamins, and reassured you that Wooyoung had been doing an excellent job taking care of you.
After wishing you a speedy recovery, she left. The drive home was quiet. The moment the car doors shut, Wooyoung cracked. Tears filled his eyes as he wrapped his arms around you.
“I’m sorry, baby.”
You immediately hugged him back.
“I know.”
“I can’t believe I did that.”
You laughed.
“I can.”
He groaned.
“I was so sure.”
“You took me to an OBGYN.”
“I know.”
“You tried to hold the cup.” His face immediately disappeared into your shoulder.
“Oh my God.” You laughed harder.
By the time you got home, he had you tucked into bed, wrapped in blankets, and pulled securely against his chest. The conversation about future babies could wait. Tonight, you just wanted cuddles. A little while later, you called your cousin to let her know the kids probably shouldn’t come over Friday since you had the flu.
“Oh no,” she said immediately. “I forgot to tell you! We took them to the doctor Monday. Both of them tested positive for the flu.”
You froze. Slowly, you turned your head. Wooyoung looked back at you. His face turned bright red. Silence. More silence.
Finally, he buried his face into a pillow. “Oh my God.”
You couldn’t help it. You laughed until your stomach hurt. The kids had the flu. You had the flu.
And Wooyoung had somehow managed to convince himself he’d beaten birth control.Honestly?You were never letting him live this down.
Jongho 1.2k words
“Y’know, you’ve been extra annoying lately.”
Jongho looked at you with a bewildered expression.
“Don’t look at me like that. You know exactly what I’m talking about. You’ve been nagging me nonstop lately.” You told him.
“I have not been nagging you,” he said immediately.
“Yes, you have.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Yes, you have.” You argued.
Jongho stared at you for a moment before letting out a sigh.
“Why are you starting a fight? First of all, I haven’t been nagging you. Second, I asked if you were feeling okay because you’ve been coughing a lot, and you argued that you weren’t. Then later I asked if you’d taken any medicine for your cough, and you said no because you don’t have a cough. Even though I literally heard you coughing. Explain that to me.”
You couldn’t help smiling. You loved when he got worked up.
Not that you were trying to do it intentionally this time. You genuinely didn’t know what he was talking about. You felt fine.
“I’m not starting a fight because there’s nothing to fight about,” you argued.
“You’re unbelievable.”
You grinned.
“Thank you.”
The look he gave you made it seem like he wanted to strangle you a little. And unfortunately, not in the way you liked :(
“Seriously though,” you continued, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I feel fine. I haven’t even noticed myself coughing. You’d think I’d know if I was coughing.”
“You would think,” he muttered.
You huffed and crossed your arms.
“You know what? Fine. If you say you’re fine, then you’re fine.”
The tone of his voice told you he absolutely did not believe that. As the day went on, you continued coughing and clearing your throat without even realizing it. Every single time. And every single time, Jongho noticed. You somehow didn’t.
That night was even worse.
Jongho understood not noticing during the day, but once you started coughing in your sleep, it became impossible to ignore. The sound kept waking him up throughout the night.
By three in the morning, he was already predicting exactly how the next day would go. Sore throat. Runny nose. Complaining. And, most importantly, refusing to admit he had been right.
Sure enough, the next morning your throat felt awful. Your nose was somehow stuffy and runny at the same time, and your entire body felt sluggish.
What the hell? How had he known?
Unfortunately, there was absolutely no way you were admitting that after making such a big deal yesterday. Maybe you could sneak some medicine before he noticed. Because if he caught you, you’d never hear the end of it. You felt him move beside you.
“Good morning. Sleep well?”
His voice was still rough with sleep, but there was a very noticeable hint of smugness underneath it.
Dammit. You cleared your throat quickly.
“Uh… yeah. I slept fine. How about you?”
“Hm.”
The sound alone was suspicious. You studied him more carefully.
“You look tired.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“Do I? Hm. I wonder why.”
You groaned. Immediately regretting it as the vibration made your throat hurt even more. Obnoxiously enough, he had been right. Again.
“How are your plans looking today?” he asked.
You had errands to run. At least, you had planned to. Now? You didn’t really want to leave the bed.
“Maybe…” You turned toward him and wrapped your arms around his waist. “Maybe we could just stay in bed today?”
His fingers slipped into your hair.
“Is that what you think will make you feel better?”
Ugh. He was never letting this go.
“I always feel better when I’m with you,” you answered sweetly, avoiding the question entirely. His hand moved slowly down your back.
“Is that right?”
“Mmhm.”
“I have an idea that might make you feel even better.”
His hand drifted lower. You stiffened. Your eyes lifted to meet his. He was watching you carefully. Like he could see straight through you.
“What’s that?” you asked quietly.
Your fingers tightened around his shirt. Jongho leaned down, his lips brushing the top of your head before moving closer to your ear.
“Medicine.”
You immediately buried your face in his chest. He sat back up looking entirely too pleased with himself. He knew he’d won.
“So annoying,” you mumbled.
His laugh rumbled through his chest.
A few minutes later, he returned with medicine and a glass of water. After making sure you took it, he asked what you wanted for breakfast. You weren’t very hungry, but you figured something light would probably help. You offered to help cook.
Jongho reached out, brushing his thumb over your temple before tracing the dry drool running from the corner of your mouth down your cheek.
“I don’t mind cooking,” he said. “But maybe you should take care of this first.”
Your face immediately burned. He laughed. Actually laughed at you.
Then walked into the kitchen while you hurried off to the bathroom.
By the time you came out, breakfast was ready. Tofu soup and rolled eggs. Simple. Comforting. Exactly what you needed.
After eating, the two of you ended up back in bed. Jongho tried very hard not to look smug. He mostly failed.
Still, he spent the day doing whatever you wanted. Watching movies. Cuddling. Letting you steal all the blankets.
At some point during the movie, he fell asleep. The quiet eventually pulled you under too.
You woke up hours later. Medicine. Lunch. More water. More medicine. Then the couch.
You curled up in his lap while he scrolled through his phone, his fingers absentmindedly running through your hair. Apparently that was enough to put you to sleep again.
When you woke up this time, it was dark. And you were back in bed. Confused, you sat up. You didn’t remember walking here. Which probably meant Jongho had carried you. You shuffled out to the living room and found him sitting at his computer.
“You have a nice nap, sleepyhead?”
“Did I seriously sleep that long?”
“You seriously did.”
You groaned and stretched. Every muscle in your body felt stiff.
You immediately walked over and dropped onto the couch beside him, resting your head against his shoulder. A small wave of guilt hit you. You’d spent most of the weekend sleeping. And the rest of it complaining.
Not exactly fun for him. As if sensing what you were thinking, Jongho reached over and squeezed your hand.
“I’m glad you’re sleeping.”
You looked up at him.
“You need the rest,” he said. “If it was up to your brain, you’d probably be dead by now.”
You gasped. “Wow. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Very funny.”
“I thought so.” he bickered with you.
You narrowed your eyes. He smiled. That same smug smile. The one he’d been wearing since yesterday.
“God, you’re annoying.”
His grin widened.
“That’s funny.”
“What is?”
“I seem to remember you saying ‘thank you’ when I called you unbelievable yesterday.”
You groaned and buried your face in his shoulder. Jongho’s laughter filled the room as he wrapped an arm around you and pulled you closer. Unfortunately, he was still right. And somehow that made him even more annoying.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction created for entertainment purposes only. The portrayals of the members are fictionalized and do not reflect the real personalities, actions, beliefs, or relationships of the members of ATEEZ. This story is not intended to represent reality in any way.
A/N | i started writing this at the end of january, and i finally got around to finishing it. i can't believe neteyam is the one who brings me out of my stump lmfao. anyways i hope u guys can tell how much love i put into this... ohh neteyam...
SYNOPSIS | grief and survival collide when you, a displaced sätareym warrior, find refuge among the omatikaya and the son of the great dreamwalker oloeyktan. confusing feelings for neteyam grow despite your refusal to believe eywa had any hand in your path.
CONTENT WARNINGS | canon divergence, neteyam is so down bad, heavy grief, cultural displacement, religious trauma, avoidance, panic attack, romantic tension, kissing, emotional overload, self doubt, running away from feelings
WORD COUNT: 18.4k
Sätareym — from na’vi roots inspired by säta (hunt) and reym (dry land). the name translates loosely to hunters of the dry land.
You stopped believing in Eywa long before the fires reached the horizon.
Most children of the plains grew up beneath a sky so vast it seemed to cradle their hope, told again and again by elders that the wind carried Eywa’s breath and the glowing lines of your clan’s rosette-patterned tanhi mirrored her watchful eyes. Yet hope had slipped from you early, falling away like ash shaken from a dying ember. The stories never matched the world you saw. The stories never saved anyone. You remembered your tsahìk kneeling beneath the rising sun, his palms pressed to the scorched earth as he whispered prayers meant to steady the clan’s heartbeat. His low voice, soothing like wind in tall grass, had once filled you with comfort, but eventually you learned to hear its hollowness. His words carried reverence, but they were swallowed without answer. Each time he called upon Eywa to guide the herds or bring water or protect the young, the sky stretched above without stirring, brilliant, indifferent, vaster than grief. The Sätareym believed Eywa moved in wind currents, in far horizons, in the breath of distance itself , yet no wind shifted when your parents fell. No horizon opened to spare them. No presence rose from the plains to shield them from metal and flame.
Your people had always been a clan of endurance; tall, long-limbed riders with midnight skin built for the sun, rosette-marked like the great plains cats . You had grown up in motion, in migrations that carried the clan across gold-streaked grasslands and cracked riverbeds following rainfall and grazing patterns. The Sätareym taught that falling from a Pa’li (direhorse) was a lesson in humility, yet nothing prepared you for falling out of your own life. Loss struck with the speed of a hunter-cat hidden in the reeds. One moment you had a mother who tied beadwork at your collar and laughed with her whole face, eyes shining like dawn over savanna dust. One moment you had a father who taught you to lean with the Pa’li’s stride, to trust the ground’s rhythm beneath hooves. The next, smoke choked the plains, metal birds shrieked through the clouds, and fire touched everything you loved.
The First War had taken your shared songs with the Olangi long ago, leaving your people standing alone beneath the horizon. The Second Pandoran War took far more. Step by step, season by season, your clan’s numbers withered like dry grass under relentless sun. For years you crossed the plains seeking water, fertile ground, respite, yet human machines hunted the land as if trying to erase the very memory of nomadic life. Sätareym kelku shelters collapsed again and again under sudden evacuations, dismantled in frantic breaths instead of practiced rhythm. Painted tassels once meant for ceremony were torn away to make bindings for wounded limbs. Direhorses trembled beneath their riders, ears pinned to the crack of distant gunfire. Each time you settled, destruction rose behind you. Each time your tsahìk prayed, the sky answered with silence.
Your disbelief did not come from anger. It grew quietly, settling into your bones. You carried it through migrations, through every desperate search for safe ground, through every burial sung beneath an open sky too wide to hold your grief. You listened to the elders say, “The grass bends where it must,” yet you wondered how many times grass could bend before it snapped. You watched Olo’eyktan Tsawra ride at the front of each flight, her presence solid, unbroken, the mantle of beadwork across her chest shining like a rising sun. Even she, the indomitable rider whose endurance shaped the clan, could not shield you from the shrinking world. Her jaw tightened more each season. Her voice held weight but no longer warmth. A leader cannot weep openly, yet you saw the tremor in her hands when she thought no one watched.
Sickness crept among those left. Thirst hollowed even the strongest riders. The youngest—those meant to attempt the sun-chase for the first time—never received the chance to prove themselves. The clan’s bones thinned. Your people, once proud and fierce in their solitude, found themselves held together by a thread stretched near breaking.
Seeking uturu had been unthinkable once. The Sätareym did not cling to land, but they clung fiercely to autonomy, to the belief that survival was found in the bond between clan and plains. Yet the plains themselves burned. The wind carried the reek of fuel and smoldering herds. The horizon no longer promised freedom. It promised death.
You remembered the moment your tsahìk, Makto, finally spoke the words your people feared.
“Oe'm ngaytxoa ma ’evi (I'm sorry, my children)… we must bend or be broken.”
His voice had not wavered. He turned his face toward the forest far beyond the savanna’s dying edge, toward the territory of the Omatikaya, the Na’vi who had absorbed the Olangi while leaving your people to face the plains alone. Old sorrow clung to that direction like dust.
Yet choices had narrowed until none remained.
Now you rode beside the last survivors of the Sätareym toward those towering trees, toward a people who moved through shadow and vine instead of horizon and wind. Your direhorse breathed beneath you, ribs rising against your calves. Its scent, warm and familiar, was a tether to a life crumbling behind you. Your skin, deep indigo and patterned in rosettes that once rippled like shadow through tall grass , felt foreign in the humid air creeping from the forest edge.
You did not whisper to Eywa as the forest canopy came into view. Your heart carried no prayers. You held only memory now. Bright ones that hurt to touch, dark ones that shaped the hollow inside you, and the steady ache that had lived in your chest since childhood. The ache that told you gods did not listen.
You rode in silence, eyes fixed on the unfamiliar shadowed world ahead. The Omatikaya would grant you refuge or they would not. Eywa would intervene or she would not. Belief had no part in survival.
Your clan survived because it ran. Your clan survived because it endured. Your clan survived because it bent where it must.
Yet a quiet part of you wondered. While the forest opened to receive the last of your people… what future remained for a heart that no longer trusted the sky?
The jungle swallowed the last breath of open sky before you were ready for it. Moist air clung to your skin where wind once lived, and the quiet murmur of insects replaced the long-distance hum of plains currents. Your pa’li shifted beneath you uneasily, its ears flicking forward and back, uncomfortable with the dense weight of life pressing from every direction. You understood its unrest. Your people were shaped by distance, by horizons that held no walls, not towering shapes blotting out the sun.
Your clan moved in a careful line, mirroring the same traveling formation you had kept through countless migrations. The older riders flanked the young, while Tsawra rode at the front, her shoulders squared, her braids lifted slightly by the moist breath of the forest. Makto followed not far behind her, his kuru wrapped loosely in white-beaded strands that gleamed like stars against the shadowed green . Neither spoke, but both radiated a tension your people rarely showed. Plains clans feared little. Yet this place could swallow a rider whole without leaving even dust behind.
Your pa’li tossed its head, and your grip tightened on the reins just as a sharp hiss cut through the foliage.
“Ftang tsenga nga lu (Stop where you are)!”
The shout snapped across the path like a whip. In an instant, Omatikaya riders broke from the undergrowth, emerging with bows drawn, pa’li stamping the earth with fierce precision. Blue bodies—lighter than yours, sleeker with the strength of tree-leapers—circled your column like shadows peeled from the forest floor. Their arrows gleamed with wicked tips, pulled taut against strings that had taken lives before.
Your breath lodged painfully in your throat. You had seen warriors aim weapons before; the RDA made it impossible not to. Yet this was different. These Na’vi did not shout in hatred. They held their bows with the cold steadiness of those who had protected their home for generations.
Tsawra lifted one hand high, palm outward, her voice cutting clean through the rising panic.
“Rutxe yemstokx't tìsraw seyki ayoe (Please don’t hurt us)! We come in peace.”
Makto’s deep voice followed, unshaken even as bows stayed locked on your riders. “Ma leNa'vi (My people), hold. Lower your reins. Do not provoke them.”
The Sätareym obeyed, though unease rippled down the line. Your clan rarely showed fear, but the forest pressed close, and arrows aimed at your chest forced honesty into your heartbeat. Your palms dampened against your pa’li’s hide. Its muscles trembled with the desire to flee, yet escape was already cut off. Riders perched in the branches above, silhouettes blending with leaves, arrows pointed downward like judgment.
One Omatikaya warrior stepped forward, his posture rigid with authority. His braids were adorned with bright feathers and forest beads, his tail lashing. His eyes swept your people, lingering on the rosette patterns across your skin; a clear sign you were not forest-born. You watched Tsawra meet his stare head-on, her chin raised in the steady way plains leaders held themselves.
“Kaltxì, ma tsmukan (Hello, my brother),” she said evenly. “I am Tsawra, olo’eyktan of the Sätareym clan. We seek uturu.”
“You bring many,” he replied, voice clipped, wary. “We were not told to expect riders of the open grass here.”
Makto guided his pa’li forward with slow movements. His expression remained calm, though sorrow hung in the lines framing his mouth. “War follows us. The dry lands burn. We ask only to speak to your olo’eyktan.”
The warrior flicked his gaze over your people again. The sight of the exhausted riders, the gaunt children, the ash-darkened leather harnesses seemed to settle heavily over him. His bow eased a fraction. A breath later, he signaled with two sharp gestures. One by one, the Omatikaya lowered their weapons.
Relief shuddered quietly through the clan, though no one dared speak.
Your shoulders loosened, though not completely. You had grown too used to danger appearing the moment safety seemed near.
The warrior stepped closer to Tsawra, though he remained mounted. “Jakesully will decide. Follow our lead. Do not stray.”
The Omatikaya shifted around your clan with smooth discipline, forming a protective, yet clearly controlling formation. Their riders flanked your sides, some moving ahead to scout the path, others weaving through trees with agile grace. The forest seemed to open for them, branches bending under their familiarity, roots avoided with instinctive precision.
Your people rode in silence deeper into the jungle’s pulse.
You felt the air grow thicker, heavy with scents of damp soil, thick leaves, and unfamiliar blossoms. Your pa’li snorted irritably, clearly disliking the uneven terrain. You leaned forward, whispering reassurance, but your eyes remained fixed ahead, tracing the path these forest warriors carved for you.
Jake Sully. His name carved itself into your mind like a spear’s edge.
You had never seen him, yet you knew enough to feel your stomach twist with resentment. A dreamwalker. A human who walked in a stolen body, shaped by a people he was not born into. Eywa had answered him, the stories said. Eywa had chosen him. Eywa had saved him.
Your breath caught painfully.
Why not your clan? Why not your parents, whose laughter still lived in the cracks of your heart? Why not the countless riders who painted their skin in palulukan (thanator) rosettes during the first rains, who leapt beneath open stars during rituals meant to praise the Mother? Why had Eywa turned her gaze toward a human—an outsider—while your people burned? Why did the one touched by poisonous metals, who fought with weapons the land itself rejected, receive her blessing?
Stories spoke of Jake Sully living in comfort now, with a mate and children of his own. A full kelku, warm arms around him, laughter echoing in Hometree’s halls. He fought still, of course, but he fought with purpose, with a clan behind him, with Eywa’s hand once upon his shoulder.
You clenched your jaw until it ached.
He got to keep his family.
Your people lost theirs.
A single hot tear gathered at the corner of your eye before you could stop it. You blinked it away quickly, refusing to let it fall where the Omatikaya might see. The forest made no room for weakness. Neither did you.
The path ahead brightened, and towering shapes rose through filtered light; massive, ancient, the kind of trees you once heard described in stories sung by Sätareym elders who had never touched them. Hometree stood like a living mountain, its roots curling into the earth with quiet authority.
The escort slowed.
Your heart hammered with a violent, bitter rhythm. You lifted your chin as you approached the massive roots of Hometree, roots that rose from the earth like the coiled limbs of an ancient titan. The forest floor hummed faintly beneath your pa’li’s hooves, as if the great tree breathed through the soil itself.
This place felt alive in ways the plains never were. You had spent your entire life beneath an unobstructed sky, the wind carving open paths before every migration. Now the canopy pressed low like a heavy hand, thick with humidity and the scent of sap. Your people rode silently, shoulders tightened, posture steady but wary. None of you belonged here, and everyone knew it.
An Omatikaya rider at the front raised his arm, halting the line. “Rutxe (Please)… dismount your pa’li here.” His voice held politeness, yet there was no softness in it. The request was an instruction wrapped in courtesy, leaving no room for refusal.
Tsawra’s head tilted in acknowledgment. “Tsal’s tam (it’s okay). Do as they ask,” she called back, offering a small gesture meant to soothe the unease rippling through the Sätareym. Her voice carried reassurance only a leader could offer, yet her jaw remained tight. She dismounted fluidly, landing with the grace of a plains rider whose body was made for ground and speed, not branches.
Your feet touched the earth a moment later, and your pa’li pressed its muzzle briefly to your shoulder before being guided away by Omatikaya handlers. Its warm breath ghosted over your skin in a silent plea not to leave its side, and your chest tightened at the separation. Direhorses were central to your clan’s heartwearing identity, and losing its presence, even briefly, felt like stepping into a place without your own shadow.
The forest shifted above you with sudden motion. Figures emerged from Hometree, descending ring-like platforms circling its colossal trunk. They moved with controlled ease, their bodies used to vertical terrain. Eyes widened as they spotted your people; spotted your height, your darker indigo skin, the rosette tanhi that marked your clan as unmistakably foreign to the forest. Murmurs spread like wind through tall grass, except the sound felt sharper, tinged with wariness and confusion rather than admiration.
Ikran swooped down from nearby perches, wings carving the air with startling power. Their screeches echoed through the clearing as they circled above, scanning your clan with predatory focus. You felt their attention like heat against your scalp, and your shoulders curled subtly inward. Being prey in another’s home lodged an unpleasant weight beneath your ribs.
Your gaze dropped to the ground, your steps falling into sync with your people as you followed Tsawra and Makto toward the heart of the clearing. The whispers followed like an invisible tide. You caught fragments—“plains riders”—“look at their skin”—“why do they come here”—spoken without malice but with unmistakable unease. Each word scraped at the raw edge of your exhaustion.
Tsawra moved at a steady pace, her expression composed despite the dozens of eyes tracking her every breath. Makto walked at her side, offering polite bows and gentle, respectful greetings.
“Oel ngati kameie (I see you),” Makto murmured to a group of elders, dipping his head with genuine grace despite receiving no reply in return.
“We see you, ma frapo (everyone),” Tsawra said softly to another cluster of Omatikaya, her voice carrying the warmth of tradition.
The silence that met her words pressed like a stone against your sternum. Your leaders kept offering peace even when none was returned, because that was the Sätareym way: strength was measured in endurance, no dominance. Yet the ache of being met with empty air dug into you.
You kept your eyes down until the ground leveled out into a vast open space beneath Hometree’s shadow. When you finally lifted your gaze, the sight struck like a blow.
A crowd had gathered—nearly the entire Omatikaya, by the look of it—standing in a semicircle with expressions ranging from fascination to distrust. The forest glow caught their beaded harnesses and paint markings, scattering reflected light across the clearing. You felt stripped bare under their scrutiny. A frown carved itself onto your face before you could stop it, the weight of being watched pressing harder than any arrow ever had.
The crowd shifted suddenly, creating a path through its center. Your breath stilled.
A man stepped forward.
His body was marked with beads and ceremonial animal skin, his hair braided with feathers that shimmered subtly as he moved. He carried the confidence of one accustomed to command, though his stance lacked the arrogance you expected. His eyes, a yellow human shade shaped into a Na’vi face, swept over your people with measured calm.
Tsawra and Makto bowed deeply, sinking into the Sätareym gesture of respect: palms placed over the heart, shoulders lowered in dignified acknowledgment.
“Oel ngati kameie, Great Toruk Makto,” they said in unison.
Your spine stiffened.
So this was him.
Jake Sully.
Closer inspection revealed the traits whispered about: the human eyebrows, the four-fingered hands, the subtle tension in his shoulders that hinted at a man who carried two worlds inside him. You felt heat ignite beneath your skin.
Jake lifted a hand gently. “Please… stand. There is no need to bow,” he said, voice softer than you anticipated. His words carried sincerity, though you felt no ease from them.
Tsawra straightened with the composed dignity of a leader who refused to shrink in another’s home. “We thank you for receiving us,” she said, her tone steady. “I am Tsawra, olo’eyktan of the Sätareym. This is our tsahìk, Makto te Tsamsiyu. We come seeking uturu. Our plains burn. Our people diminish. We ask for safety, for time to heal.”
As they spoke, movement stirred behind Jake. A Na’vi woman stepped into view, tall and fierce,but her eyes were wide. Her presence radiated strength so palpable it felt etched into the air around her. Beside her stood four children; two boys and two girls, each with expressions reflecting varying degrees of curiosity and caution.
Your gaze narrowed.
Two of the boys stared directly at you.
The older boy beside him bore far more resemblance to the Na’vi woman; dark braids framing a face expressive enough to betray every flicker of emotion. His eyes remained wide as if he were memorizing each shape of your face. His posture wavered between pride and curious shifting.
The younger one had the familiar eyebrows, the same human-like details as Jake, though softened by youth. His cheeks warmed visibly when your eyes met his, a flush blooming across his skin in a way both earnest and unguarded. He nudged the older boy subtly, whispering something under his breath, yet he couldn’t tear his gaze away.
The older one blinked several times, startled as though realizing he had been staring too openly. His expression tightened with embarrassed awareness. He raised his hand in a careful gesture, touching his forehead before extending his palm in the traditional sign of greeting.
Oel ngati kameie, he signaled, his face composed yet still touched by wonder.
The younger boy scrambled to mimic him, repeating the gesture.
Your brows pulled together, confusion knitting across your features. The unexpected kindness caught you off guard, leaving your mouth parting slightly before any words rose. A flush crept up your neck before you could stop it, and the sensation rattled you more than the stares of an entire forest clan. You turned away sharply, grounding your gaze on the woven roots beneath your feet. Distraction was a luxury neither exhaustion nor grief allowed. You would not let the wide-eyed wonder of two forest-born boys make you forget the purpose of your presence here.
Tsawra had already shifted her attention back to Jake Sully, her voice clear and firm as she continued the explanation of your clan’s dire circumstances. “Our previous olo’eyktan and tsahìk fell during the First Pandoran War,” she said, her tone unwavering despite the old weight behind those words. “They answered your call, Toruk Makto. They rode to join the many clans who fought beneath your command.”
A visible discomfort tightened Jake’s posture. His shoulders drew inward almost imperceptibly, and his gaze dropped briefly to the earth before rising again with a muted heaviness beneath his expression. “I remember them,” he said quietly. The words carried sincerity, yet they could not soften the truth that your people had paid dearly for that memory. You watched him closely, searching his face for any sign of regret deep enough to match the ache carved into the Sätareym over the years. You found only guilt and a strain of helplessness, neither of which satisfied the bitterness simmering inside you.
Makto stepped forward with the dignified calm that had sustained your clan through its harshest days. The wooden beads woven into his braids glimmered faintly in the filtered light, each one a symbol of sky-watching rituals carried out beneath open horizons . “Toruk Makto,” he began gently, “the Omatikaya absorbed the Olangi after the First War, when their plains were no longer safe. The Sätareym will be no different. We can learn the ways of the forest. Our people are strong. Our riders adapt quickly. We will fight with you against the tawtute (sky people), as we did before.”
The idea struck you like a dull blow. The notion of adapting to this place felt as implausible as converting wind into stone. Yet Makto’s voice carried conviction, and if he believed in your clan’s ability to survive here, many would follow without question. You only wished Eywa had shown your tsahìk such confidence years ago, before your clan faded to a fraction of itself.
Jake inhaled, preparing to respond, though the words seemed to catch in his throat. He lifted his hands uselessly for a moment, as if trying to gather language that would satisfy both duty and compassion. The hesitation irritated you more than anything else he had said. Leadership should not waver, especially not from the so-called Toruk Makto.
An approaching presence disrupted the moment.
A woman stepped from the crowd, her bearing commanding enough to shift the air itself. She moved with the authority of someone born to guide and to judge. Her eyes held the depth of a story longer than the forest roots spiraling beneath Hometree. Recognition whispered through the Omatikaya like wind. You realized at once that she must be the tsahìk of this clan.
Tsawra and Makto bowed deeply with reverence seldom seen outside sacred Sätareym rituals. “Oel ngati kameie, Tsahìk Mo’at,” they greeted, their voices imbued with genuine respect for her role. Even those among your clan unaccustomed to forest traditions straightened subtly, sensing the immense spiritual gravity of this woman.
Mo’at regarded your people with an expression impossible to decipher. Her gaze swept over the Sätareym. Her eyes lingered on the frail, the wounded, the children who clung to their parents’ hands with tightened fingers. The forest hummed around her, as if waiting for her verdict.
Her voice finally rose, steady and firm. “You have crossed many trials, ma Sätareym. You have lost much. Eywa sees your suffering.”
A quiet exhale rippled through your clan, though you remained still. You did not believe the words, no matter how softly they fell.
Mo’at continued, “You will be granted uturu among the Omatikaya. You may stay within our lands.”
Relief surged from your people like a single breath released after years held tight. Shoulders eased. Eyes brightened with hope fragile yet unmistakable. Even the air seemed to shift as your clan absorbed the meaning of her decree.
Your heart, however, clenched.
Uturu meant survival, yes. But it also meant dependency on a people you did not trust, under the authority of a leader you could not forgive.
Mo’at’s gaze crossed yours briefly, lingering with a depth that unsettled you. Her eyes held no judgment. She saw defiance in you, or sorrow, or the fracture left by disbelief. You looked away, refusing to let her see more.
The Omatikaya moved with a natural fluidity as they guided the Sätareym through the enormous opening carved into Hometree’s trunk. Warm light filtered down through woven branches overhead, creating drifting patterns that danced across the packed earth. Every step deeper inside revealed layers of artistry your clan had never known. Vast tapestries hung from the interior walls, some dyed in hues you had only seen on the backs of distant birds, others woven with intricate whorls depicting hunts, bonding rituals, and clan histories. The work was delicate yet powerful which was a stark contrast to the sturdy, travel-worn hide structures your people had used for generations across the plains. For a moment, you wondered how a life shaped by movement could coexist within a place built to stay.
Your people murmured in quiet fascination as they were shown their new kelku. Hammocks layered like constellations stretched across multiple levels, small ones cradling children who swayed gently as they laughed together. Brightly colored beads hung in clusters like hanging fruit, chiming softly whenever a breeze passed. A group of young Omatikaya carved toys from smooth wood, passing pieces to one another while telling stories that echoed faintly through the chambers. Their joy hummed through the air, unburdened and open. Some Sätareym children stared with bright-eyed wonder, their earlier fear loosening into fragile excitement.
Omatikaya adults approached your clan with warm smiles, touching hands to hearts in greeting. They offered woven bracelets, small trinkets, and even pieces of fruit from their harvest baskets. The wary atmosphere from earlier dissolved into genuine hospitality as if the tension had been merely a thin surface the clan had now stepped through. Voices rose in gentle welcome, and your people answered with tentative smiles. Relief softened the lines etched into Makto’s face, while Tsawra observed every detail with an evaluating gaze of a leader cataloguing a safer world for her riders.
The Omatikaya escorts reassembled and gestured for your clan to follow once more. Music drifted faintly in the distance, a slow, rhythmic vibration that tugged at the ribs. The Keeper of Songs awaited at the Tree of Souls, ready to weave the Sätareym into the narrative of the forest people. You understood the gesture was sacred; you also understood it was final. Once sung into a clan’s memory, your identity would be tied to theirs.
Your people seemed lighter than they had in years. Some walked with lifted chins, some whispered excitedly about the glowing flora, and a few even touched the hanging vines with reverent fingers. You wished their joy could seep into you. It only deepened the ache in your chest, because you could not feel what they felt. Beauty was a distant thing, like starlight seen through smoke.
Footsteps fell into rhythm beside yours, light and confident. A presence hovered close enough to brush your awareness, though not close enough to intrude. You turned, expecting some curious child or another well-meaning Omatikaya.
Your breath stalled when you saw him.
The older boy from earlier—taller than you remembered, shoulders strong, features shaped in the likeness of his mother more than his father—walked easily beside you. His braids shifted with every step, brushing the curve of his chest. He offered you a smile warm enough to soften stone.
“I am Neteyam te Suli Tsyeyk’itan,” he said, voice steady and sincere. The way he carried himself confirmed what the name already meant: the son of Jake Sully, future leader by bloodline, one of the forest’s own. His presence was composed yet attentive, as though your reaction mattered more than it should.
You stared at him. Initially out of surprise, eventually out of irritation that he expected anything from you.
He seemed unbothered by your silence. If anything, amusement flickered in the corner of his eyes. “Are you doing well, ma tstkxe (stone faced)?” he asked lightly, the nickname slipping out before you could process it. A playful challenge glimmered beneath his tone.
Heat rushed to your cheeks. The forest’s humidity had nothing to do with it.
His smile widened at the sight of your fluster, and that only stoked the spark of annoyance lighting your chest. “Why do you ask?” you snapped, sharper than intended. “What do you want?”
Neteyam lifted his hands in a small gesture of surrender, though the teasing curve of his mouth betrayed how entertained he was. “I wanted to make sure the jungle has not swallowed you whole yet,” he said with a laugh threaded beneath his words. “Your face looked lost in thought. Or lost in fear. I was not sure which.”
Your lips parted in a quiet scoff, torn between offense and another unwanted flush warming your skin. The boy who carried the blood of Toruk Makto stood beside you with only curiosity bright enough to disarm. His stride matched yours effortlessly, as if he had walked beside you all his life instead of merely minutes. The ease in his presence unsettled you more than open stares or whispered judgments ever could.
Neteyam did not shrink beneath your guarded silence. His head tipped slightly toward you, braids grazing his shoulder as he studied your face with an earnest interest that made your pulse stutter. “May I know your name, ma tstkxe?” he asked. His tone was gentle, but a spark of playfulness danced beneath it.
A sharp breath filled your lungs before you turned your gaze on him. “Why are you speaking to me?” The question escaped more bluntly than you intended, driven by the tension coiled in your ribs. “You have no reason. I did not ask for your company.”
A laugh escaped him, disbelief at your directness. “Forest manners must be strange to you,” he teased lightly, touching a hand to his chest as though struck by your tone. “But even you cannot expect me to walk beside you in silence when you glare at every glowing syulang (flower) as if it wishes to bite.”
Heat flared through your face again, unwelcome and uncontrollable. “Leave me alone,” you muttered, your voice clipped at the edges. “I do not need the attention of the olo’eyktan’s son.”
Neteyam’s smile steadied rather than faltered. “That will be difficult,” he replied with a shrug of his shoulder. “I have been told to help guide the younger warriors of your clan. I cannot leave you alone even if you wish it.”
Your steps halted so suddenly that the leaves beneath your feet rustled in protest. The escorting line of Omatikaya drifted ahead without noticing, the glow of bioluminescent vines lighting their path. You stood unmoving, staring at him with disbelief carved across your features.
“I am the only young warrior of the Sätareym,” you said quietly. The words tasted strange spoken aloud.
Pity dawned across Neteyam’s face, and you didn’t like it one bit.
Your eyes narrowed. “How do you know I am a warrior at all? You have never seen the plains. You know nothing of my people.”
Neteyam lifted a hand and pointed to the tassels around your ankle; sun-dyed strips that snapped subtly when you walked, woven with the precise pattern your warriors used to signal readiness for mounted combat . “Only your warriors wear those,” he said simply. “The sound alone tells your story. I heard it when you entered the clearing.”
Your stomach tightened. The tassels had always been part of you, a mark of skill and survival earned through the Sun Chase. To have them recognized so quickly, so effortlessly, by someone who lived in an entirely different world unsettled you in a way nothing else had.
“I do not need your help,” you snapped softly, stepping forward and brushing past him. The swirl of your stride caught the faint glow of nearby plants, scattering light across the forest path. Your breath felt tight, sharp, unwilling to soften no matter how unfamiliar kindness reached toward you.
Footsteps followed behind you without hesitation.
Neteyam’s presence settled at your shoulder again, this time quieter, with a small frown that pulled gently at the corners of his mouth. His earlier teasing had dimmed, replaced by concern flickering like a small flame trying to stay alive against wind. His gaze stayed lowered for a few steps, as though searching for the right words, though the noise of both clans rising into excited chatter seemed to lift him gradually back into warmth. The distant glow ahead cast shimmers across his face as the path widened.
The Omatikaya grew livelier with each step toward the sacred place. Their voices carried above the forest floor, joined by the deeper, rolling tones of your own people. Even the quietest Sätareym child seemed to brighten beneath the soft light.
Neteyam’s smile returned fully at the sight. “You will like this ritual,” he said, leaning close enough that you caught the warmth of his breath. “We bring out the Blue Flute for this. And Ninat sings tonight. She is our Keeper of Songs. Her voice carries through the forest like an Ikran soaring through the skies.”
You responded with a soft hum that held no commitment, a sound more out of politeness than interest. He did not seem bothered by your lack of enthusiasm. His stride remained relaxed, his eyes taking in every detail of your reaction with a curiosity that had not dimmed since the moment he greeted you.
The crowd formed a wide crescent before the radiant heart of the Tree of Souls. Bioluminescent tendrils swayed gently, lighting the scene in waves of violet and silver. As the Sätareym filtered in, the Omatikaya shifted to make room without hesitation, extending hands in greeting, touching shoulders, offering smiles warm enough to thaw frost. The joy in the clearing felt almost tangible, wrapping around both clans like a woven mantle of welcome.
You stayed near the edge of the gathering, Neteyam’s presence anchoring itself beside you without asking permission. The ritual began slowly, with Mo’at stepping forward, her expression serene and powerful under the shimmering branches. She lifted her arms, and the entire forest seemed to pause along with the clans.
“Eywa receives all who walk in hardship,” Mo’at proclaimed. “Tonight, we weave the Sätareym into the memory of the forest. May our branches meet. May balance return.”
Her voice carried across the clearing like a stone dropped into still water.
Once she stepped back, instruments rose around her: seed rattles, stringed harps, carved horns, and at last the rare Blue Flute, gleaming with etched patterns that caught the light. The first notes lifted softly, weaving through the branches in tranquil spirals.
Ninat stepped forward. When she opened her mouth, her voice poured into the air with a clarity that startled even you. It resonated like wind across a grass sea, pure and unwavering. She sang of Eywa’s breath moving through every living thing, of loss, of rebirth, of clans merging not in desperation but in strength.
The beauty of it seeped unexpectedly beneath your ribs.
You were surprised to find Neteyam still beside you when you turned your head slightly. He had not drifted toward his siblings, nor toward the other warriors. He stood as if tethered to your side, shoulders squared with a protective ease that unsettled you.
His eyes met yours immediately, warmed by the song’s glow. A smile softened his features, lifting his lips gently.
Ninat’s voice soared higher, singing Eywa’s name with absolute devotion.
Neteyam leaned closer, his voice low so only you could hear. “I am grateful Eywa brought your clan to us,” he whispered. “It feels right that you are here.”
Your heart lurched violently.
Grateful.
Eywa brought you here.Eywa guided your steps.Eywa, who had never answered your people.Eywa, who had saved Jake Sully.Eywa, who had watched your clan burn and remained silent.
A sickening heat rose up your throat, twisting the melody around you into something suffocating. Ninat’s beautiful voice became distant, buried beneath the pounding in your ears.
Without a word, without a single backward glance, you stepped away from the crowd. Your departure was swift, practiced in the way of someone used to escaping emotion before it could betray their strength. The tendrils of the Tree of Souls brushed lightly against your shoulders as you passed, glowing petals bending as though calling you back.
You ignored them.
Behind you, confused footsteps halted. A soft breath of confusion escaped someone’s lips—a sound that belonged only to Neteyam.
You hated to admit it, but training with Neteyam was not the worst fate that could have been hurled into your path. The first few days had been stiff, filled with tension so heavy it clung to your movements. You carried resentment in your shoulders like a second quiver, and every time he corrected your stance or touched your elbow to adjust your center of gravity, your muscles coiled as if preparing for battle. Yet Neteyam never met your rigidity with irritation. His patience startled you. His teaching reminded you of Makto guiding young Sätareym riders; gentle enough not to break a spirit, firm enough not to let one get lazy. Neteyam’s hands always steadied rather than forced, and his voice held calm confidence that seemed to seep into your bones despite your best efforts to resist it.
It became clear quickly that he was good with the little ones. You had seen him in passing with Omatikaya children. Teaching them how to climb, showing them how to tie knots with nimble hands, steadying them when they stumbled during games of balance across low branches. You recognized the practiced cadence of a teacher in the way he spoke to you. He must have trained the younger warriors too, perhaps even his siblings, if their movements were any indication. The realization softened the edges of your annoyance, though you refused to let that show. It was easier to pretend he grated on your nerves than admit you admired the patience behind his instruction.
His gentleness toward you surprised you more than anything. He never mocked your missteps on the unfamiliar forest ground. He never scoffed when your foot caught a root or when your forest jumps lacked lift. Yet he was not lenient. He pushed you but it wasn’t cruel. He pushed you with a steady insistence that forced you to feel the power in your legs, to sense the bend of each branch you stepped on. He seemed able to tell exactly when you were holding back. His eyes saw every hesitation, every moment you failed to give your full strength. You expected disappointment, or frustration, or even cold dismissal.
You never found it.
Whenever he caught your restraint, his gaze only deepened with a kind of understanding. A warmth lived behind that understanding, as though your resistance drew him closer instead of driving him away. You could not understand why your closed-off nature did not repel him. Your people were known for reserve, for caution around outsiders, for slow trust that grew only in the solitude of plains winds. Yet he did not seem deterred by any of it. The more you tried to push him away, the more present he became, steady as a guiding star when the horizon faded.
Your days slowly shaped themselves around him. You woke with the sun and found Neteyam already waiting, arms crossed loosely as he leaned against a low-hanging branch. He offered greetings in that soft, warm tone that made your chest tighten with a feeling you refused to name. Training lasted long past midday on most days, leaving your limbs sore and your breath heavy. His laughter began to blend with birdsong, a sound you caught yourself anticipating even when irritated by it. You would walk away after lessons, pretending you needed space, but your mind often replayed the way he corrected your footing or how his gaze lingered when you finally executed a movement correctly.
You were certain he would tire of you quickly. You had been abrasive, distant, evasive, unwilling to fully participate in his world. You had made him chase you through the forest like a hunter tracking elusive prey. You had met every kindness with suspicion. Yet he continued to show up for you, every single day. His presence carried no weariness, no shadow of regret, no sign that he was tired of your company. His persistence confused you more than anything else in the forest.
Assimilating into Omatikaya life still felt foreign, but you no longer stumbled through it. Your steps felt less heavy, your understanding of the terrain no longer held solely by fear. You learned which branches were strongest for climbing, which flowers were harmless to touch and which could sting, which vines were safe to swing from. You learned the pathways through Hometree, the communal rhythms of morning meals, the way songs rose at dusk like soft embers drifting upward.
Yet no part of you wanted to abandon the Sätareym in your blood. Your clothing remained unchanged—leather wraps fitted for riding, beadwork patterned in the sun, tassels that snapped lightly when you walked, marking you unmistakably as a plains warrior . Forest textiles were offered to you many times, dyed in blues and greens, beautifully woven, comfortable against the skin. You turned them down each time. The leather at your hips held memories of long rides across shimmering grass. The beads across your chest carried lineage. The tassels marked years of endurance your clan had fought to keep. You refused to shed them simply because the world had changed.
Your weapons stayed close. The Sätareym spear was balanced for mounted throws, far too heavy for most Omatikaya who trained in the trees, but it had saved your life more times than you could count. You carried it during every lesson, even when Neteyam insisted you leave it behind for climbing practice. He eventually stopped arguing. He must have understood the weight of memory carved into its haft.
Your rituals remained yours alone. Each dawn you slipped away to practice them in private, kneeling beneath the open sky where it broke through the canopy, small patches of horizon that let you breathe like a child of the plains. You ran fingers over the earth in circles meant to honor the herds and traced faint rosettes over your heart in silent remembrance. You whispered the names of those who walked the wind before you. You bowed your head not to Eywa, but to the memory of your people’s long endurance.
Neteyam never intruded on those moments. You wondered if he sensed them or simply respected the aura around you when you returned. Either way, he never asked questions. He only met you with a steady gaze that held no judgment, as if waiting for the day you trusted him enough to let him see beyond the walls you kept wrapped around your heart.
That frightened you most of all.
Now Neteyam stood beside you, guiding your hands as you held a bow for the first time, a weapon that felt foreign and unbalanced in your grip. Your discomfort showed in the tension of your fingers, the stiffness in your shoulders, the slight downturn of your mouth as you tried to imitate the forest-born posture.
Neteyam noticed every detail. “Loosen your grip,” he murmured, his voice steady. “The bow is not a rival. If you fight it, it will fight you back.”
You huffed softly, pressing your lips into a thin line. “Your weapons require too much waiting.”
“That is why you find them difficult,” he teased, leaning in just enough to tilt your elbow upward with two fingers. “Patience is a strength, not a punishment.”
Neteyam’s patience, however, was being tested in more ways than your training. The two of you were not alone today. His siblings had insisted loudly that they wished to visit a place they called the “Old Battlefield.” Kiri had spoken with a quiet aweness, Lo’ak with reckless excitement, and Tuk with the unshakeable certainty that wherever her siblings went, she must go too. Neteyam had agreed with a resigned sigh, clearly accustomed to their demands, and you had found yourself trailing after him simply because he moved and you refused to let him think you were avoiding him again.
The path had led you to a clearing where rusted metal skeletons rose from moss and vines. The old link shack crouched at the center like a wounded creature swallowed by the forest, its shattered windows reflecting sun in faint, broken shards. Kiri explored the area with gentle steps, touching vines growing over old machinery. Lo’ak poked around the ruined frames with more enthusiasm than sense, announcing discoveries that were mostly old pipes and abandoned crates. Tuk bounced from object to object, her laughter weaving through the clearing.
Meanwhile, Neteyam attempted to teach you how to shoot.
The contrast felt absurd.
He positioned himself behind you, close enough that the warmth of his chest grazed your shoulder. You stiffened slightly, but his hands were respectful, adjusting your grip without forcing control. His braids brushed your cheek as he leaned over your arm to align your aim toward a moss-covered log.
“Pull smoothly,” he instructed, guiding your fingers slowly across the string. “Do not jerk it. The bow responds to calm.”
“I am calm,” you lied, your voice strained.
His tail flicked once in amused disbelief. “You are about as calm as Lo’ak is obedient.”
You shot him a glare over your shoulder, though you felt heat rising beneath your cheeks. “Do you ever grow tired of hearing your own voice?”
He smiled with unshakable ease. “Not when I know you are listening.”
A flustered noise escaped the back of your throat before you could swallow it. You jerked your gaze away, focusing solely on the target ahead. The bowstring trembled beneath your fingers, betraying the tight coil in your muscles.
Kiri glanced over from the link shack, studying the two of you with amusement. Lo’ak spotted her look and snickered openly, earning a sharp shh! from Tuk, who seemed to believe she was the group’s unofficial keeper of secrets. Their whispers only made your grip tighten, though Neteyam pretended not to notice the chorus of siblings watching.
“You hold strength in your arms,” he murmured, his voice softening just enough to slip past your defenses. “You could bend the bow without trying. But strength is not the lesson today. Balance is.”
You released the arrow too quickly—it thudded into the dirt several paces short of the target.
Your face tightened with embarrassment. “This is foolish,” you muttered. “My clan does not fight this way.”
Neteyam circled to face you fully, the laughter fading from his expression as he met your eyes. “No, your clan fights with the wind at their backs and the ground racing beneath them. You chase the sun across the plains. You strike with distance and momentum.” His gaze softened with something like admiration. “But you are here now, ma Sätareym. You walk where branches hold the sky instead of open air. Different ground demands different skill.”
His sincerity struck deeper than his teasing ever could.
You looked away, blinking twice to push down the sting in your throat.
Neteyam stepped closer again, lowering his voice. “We learn each other’s ways if we wish to live as one clan. My people learn your riders’ strength. You learn our balance. That is all.”
Your fingers loosened around the bow without meaning to. His siblings continued their exploration behind you, oblivious to the quiet shift occurring between you and their eldest brother. The forest seemed to hold its breath, the glow of the fungi brightening faintly as though the trees themselves were listening. You lowered your gaze to the ground, watching how your shadow curved against the moss, the shape of your stance imperfect and hesitant.
A quiet breath left you before you could swallow it. “Neteyam…” you murmured, eyes unfocused. “I do not want you to stop teaching me.” For a heartbeat you paused, unsure if the words would betray too much. “I do not mind learning your ways.”
The confession slipped from you like a fragile offering, light as dust carried on wind. It was the closest you had come to trusting him.
Neteyam’s reaction was immediate and radiant. His smile bloomed across his face, warm enough to soften even your guarded expression. His ears lifted in delight, tail swaying once behind him, unable to hide how deeply your words struck. His joy felt honest, untouched by mischief, bright in a way that nudged at the edges of your ribs.
You tilted your head slightly, studying the play of emotion across his features. He looked younger when he smiled like that.
Neteyam stepped closer again and gently wrapped his hand around yours where it rested on the bow. “One last time,” he said softly. “Let me help you.”
You nodded, this time without reluctance, and shifted into the stance he had been trying to teach you for days. Your shoulders squared, your feet rooted deeply in the forest floor, your breath steadied. Neteyam moved behind you with care, brushing no part of you by accident.
He set his hands on your ribcage first, his thumbs pressing gently just beneath your sternum. “Lift here,” he murmured. “Your breath must stay low and quiet. If your chest rises too high, the shot will falter.”
His touch was steady, warm, grounding in a way you were not prepared to acknowledge. Your breath hitched despite your efforts at control.
Neteyam guided your ribs into alignment, his hands lingering only long enough to ensure your posture held. He moved with a patience that spoke of countless hours spent teaching younger siblings how to balance on branches or string a bow.
When he stepped closer, you felt the heat of his body nearly aligning with yours. His chest brushed lightly against your back as he reached forward, placing his hands over yours on the bowstring. His fingers slid along yours, firm and steady, molding your grip into precision.
You turned your head, startled by how close he was. His face was right there, barely a breath away. The forestlight traced the curve of his cheekbone, the edge of his jaw, the soft fullness of his mouth. His eyes were already on you, half-lidded, deep and intense, the kind of gaze that made the world feel suddenly small and unbearably intimate.
He glanced at your lips for the briefest moment.
Your stomach twisted with startling force.
“You may shoot whenever you wish,” he whispered, breath brushing the shell of your ear.
You swallowed hard, forcing your focus toward the target. The bowstring was taut beneath your fingers, the tension humming like a living thing. You inhaled slowly, aligning your shot—
A burst of laughter shattered the fragile stillness.
“Bro!” Lo’ak shouted across the clearing, voice full of teasing glee. “Look at you two! Should we leave you alone to mate or—”
You jolted violently. The arrow snapped free of the bow with a harsh twang and shot uselessly into the canopy above. Your heart lurched into your throat, heat flooding your face with a force that made your ears burn.
Neteyam’s hands flew off you immediately as he spun around, tail lashing with outrage. “Lo’ak, you skxawng (idiot)!” he barked. “Do you wish to lose your tongue today?”
Lo’ak cackled from atop the metal beams of the ruined shack, clearly pleased with himself. Tuk hid behind her hands, giggling uncontrollably, while Kiri gave Lo’ak a glare sharp enough to make vines recoil.
You were laughing too.
It slipped out of you before you could catch it; soft at first, then fuller, richer, bright in a way that startled even you. Your laughter filled the clearing, mingling with Tuk’s and Kiri’s, swirling upward like warm wind lifting dry grass.
Neteyam froze.
He turned back toward you slowly, anger dissolving from his features, replaced with astonishment. His eyes softened as if he were witnessing sunrise crest over the Hallelujah mountains. His lips parted as the sound of your laughter washed over him.
He could not be angry anymore.
It was the first time he had ever heard your laughter.
“Tsatseng tsal lu (there it is),” he murmured softly under his breath, eyes fixed on you as though afraid to blink. “That is the sound I have been waiting for.”
Even though you were not anywhere near ready to attempt the Omatikaya Iknimaya (rite of passage), Neteyam had decided you should at least meet an ikran. Your protests were immediate and varied. You claimed you were tired, that you needed to train with your bow, that Makto requested your help, that the forest air bothered your lungs, that Lo’ak had insulted you so deeply you required solitude to heal. None of the excuses held when Neteyam tilted his head with that maddening mix of patience and amusement. You refused to admit the truth: flying terrified you. The sky had always belonged to great predators, not riders. Your clan was born to the earth, to the power of hooves and horizons, not the emptiness between clouds.
Neteyam listened to all your excuses as if they were drifting leaves, light and inconsequential. Eventually your resistance cracked, not because you were ready, but because his determination pressed against your guard like a fly too constant to ignore.
Now you stood atop Hometree with him, the vast forest stretching below in shimmering bands of green and deep violet. Height never bothered him; he moved across open branches with the natural ease of a forest cat, tail steady behind him for balance. You, on the other hand, remained partially hidden behind his shoulder. The wind tugged your braids back, but your feet refused to come any closer to the edge.
Neteyam wore his flying gear—flying visor, leg guards etched with his family’s stories, and a cumberband that wrapped across his waist in elegant, interwoven loops. He looked every bit the warrior his people claimed he was. The way the sunlight cut across his cheekbones, the confidence in the slope of his shoulders, the steadiness in his movements, all of it made him look like he belonged to the sky itself. You pressed your lips together, refusing to voice the thought that his beauty unsettled you more than the height.
Neteyam lifted his head and released a series of calls. His tone shifted between chirps, trills, and drawn-out notes that vibrated across the open air. The sound stirred the wind, awakening a distant answer. You braced instinctively, feeling the tremor of approaching wings before you heard them.
The beat of powerful wings echoed across the breadth of the forest canopy. A shadow passed over you, sweeping large and decisive. Neteyam stepped forward with practiced readiness, and his ikran descended in a tight spiral before landing directly in front of him. The creature’s wings folded with precision, talons gripping the branch with controlled strength. Iridescent scales shifted across its body, catching light in hues of blues and yellows.
Neteyam’s face softened instantly. “Ma yawne tsaheyl si (my bonded beloved),” he murmured to his ikran, his voice lowering to an affectionate hush. He pressed his forehead briefly to the creature’s, his queue brushing the rough texture of the ikran’s neck. His hand traveled along the creature’s jawline with gentle familiarity. The ikran leaned into the touch, wings relaxing slightly, its chest expanding with a pleased rumble.
You watched in awe, pulled into the moment despite yourself. Your breath slowed, your earlier fear loosening, replaced by a warm, unfamiliar pull in your chest. The bond between them felt profound, like watching two spirits greet after a long journey apart. You had seen direhorse riders connect deeply, but this was different.
Neteyam’s eyes flicked toward you. He noticed the awe on your face immediately, and a teasing smile curled onto his lips. “Do not hide,” he said in a tone that carried quiet mischief. “I see how you look at her.”
You pressed your jaw shut, feeling heat creep up your neck. Words refused to form in your throat. The ikran turned its head toward you, one bright eye studying you with predatory intelligence. Your pulse stumbled.
Neteyam’s smile widened slightly at your speechlessness. He reached back without hesitation, taking your hand in his. He guided your hand toward the ikran’s snout, slow enough not to startle you or the creature.
“Seze,” Neteyam murmured softly, “this is… my student. She trains with me.”
You nearly protested at the possessive phrasing, but your breath hitched as your fingertips brushed smooth scales warmed by sunlight. The ikran lowered its head slightly, allowing you better access. The creature’s warmth seeped into your hand, and you felt a gentle exhale brush your palm.
Neteyam’s hand remained over yours, guiding the slow motion of your touch. His proximity, his warmth, it all pressed against your chest with a steady force. You stole a glance at him, only to find his gaze already locked on you.
Your breath wavered, but you did not pull away. The warmth of Seze’s scales lingered on your fingertips, anchoring you in a moment you never imagined experiencing.
“Ma Neteyam… what is her name?”
His smile brightened instantly, pride softening his features. “She is Seze,” he replied, stroking the ikran’s jaw with reverent fingers. “Named after my mother’s first ikran.”
Your eyes widened before you could stop them. The honor of carrying such a name struck you deeply. Naming an ikran after one so legendary, after a bond forged through war and triumph was no casual choice. The significance left you momentarily stunned, mouth parting with a quiet breath you could not shape into words.
Neteyam noticed the shock painted across your face and a laugh slipped from him, warm and delighted. You snapped out of your daze long enough to glare at him, though the light heat coloring your cheeks made the expression softer than you intended.
Seze tilted her head, observing your reaction with a low rumbling click as if she too found your surprise amusing.
“Seze is… she is powerful,” you admitted at last, your voice carrying reluctant admiration. “But I am ready to go down now.”
Neteyam’s grin returned at full strength. “Kehe. Not happening.” His tone brimmed with mischief. “You are flying with me.”
Your shoulders tensed instantly. “What? No. Absolutely not.”
“You have no choice, ma tstkxe,” he said, leaning one elbow on Seze’s saddle as though settling into a casual conversation. “You are too frightened to climb down Hometree by yourself. You shook all the way up here.”
“I did not shake,” you protested, even though you both knew you had clung to every secure surface on the way up.
Neteyam raised a non-existent brow and the expression told you he saw through your lie effortlessly.
“You are the biggest skxawng I have ever met,” you muttered, crossing your arms tight across your chest.
He hummed in acknowledgment, not even attempting to argue. With a smooth motion he swung himself onto Seze’s saddle, hands moving instinctively to secure his gear. The harness creaked softly as he adjusted the straps. His posture relaxed into a confident lean, but his gaze stayed fixed on you with unspoken expectation.
You glared back at him. “Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?” he asked, knowing full well what you meant.
“Like you already won.”
His smile turned unbearably smug. “I did.”
A frustrated breath hissed through your teeth, but you moved toward him anyway. Your hands gripped the saddle with trembling reluctance, and you climbed behind him, settling into place with stiff, cautious motions. The saddle felt too narrow, too precarious, too close to open sky. The height pressed against your nerves from every direction.
Neteyam reached to double-check every strap and tether, fingers moving with practiced efficiency. You watched nervously, your heart thudding against your ribs. Each tightening of a strap sent your mind spiraling with new questions.
“Is this secure? What if it breaks? What if Seze does not like me on her back? What if she flips in the air? What if—Neteyam, answer me—Neteyam?”
He stayed entirely silent.
Your anxiety spiked. “Why are you not answering? I asked you a question—Netey—”
Seze launched into the air with a powerful beat of her wings.
Your scream tore from your throat before you could stop it.
Neteyam burst into laughter, loud and bright, even as he leaned back to steady you with an arm braced across your legs. The wind rushed past, pulling your braids behind you in wild streams. The forest fell away beneath your feet, the canopy dissolving into a wash of color.
Your nails dug into his shoulders. “NETEYAM! YOU DID THIS ON PURPOSE!”
His laughter only grew fuller, shaking his shoulders beneath your grip. “I told you, ma Sätareym,” he shouted over the wind, joy radiating from him like sunlight. “Flying is easier when you do not think too hard!”
“You could have warned me!”
“You asked too many questions!”
“I HATE YOU!”
“Your arms say differently!”
Your scream rose another octave, ripped from somewhere deep in your lungs. Your hands flew from his shoulders to wrap around his waist, holding him with a desperation that surprised even you. Your forehead pressed into the space between his shoulder blades, your breath shaking against his back. His heartbeat, steady beneath your cheek, felt too calm for what he had just unleashed.
Neteyam whooped in exhilaration above the wind. “Hold tight!” he called, already shifting his weight.
You barely had time to register the warning before Seze rolled through a spiraling arc, wings slicing through the sky.
“I swear by the plains,” you shouted into his shoulder, voice cracking, “I will impale you with my spear when we land!”
Neteyam didn’t answer. His laughter drowned beneath the roar of the wind as he guided Seze through another sweeping turn, savoring every second of your outrage and terror. He looked like he had been carved from the sky itself, untamed and alive.
Time blurred into wind and motion until he finally allowed Seze to slow. Her wings extended into a long, steady glide, each beat softer than before. The frantic rush eased into a gentle cradle of air. You remained pressed against him, your breath still uneven, your arms refusing to loosen their hold.
Neteyam glanced down at your head tucked firmly into his shoulder. For a moment his expression shifted into something warm enough to rival the sun—a tenderness you had no chance of seeing. He reached one arm behind him without turning, fingers searching until they found your thigh. His palm settled there gently, squeezing once in reassurance, thumb tracing a slow, grounding arc into your skin.
“Ma tstkxe,” he murmured over his shoulder, voice softer now, “look up. You will like this.”
You shook your head violently, refusing to pry your face from the safety of his back. “No. I am not looking. Ever.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “Please. Truly, you must see.”
“No.”
“Pretty please?”
“Still no.”
A beat of silence passed, filled only by the sound of wind gliding over stretched wings.
“If you look up,” Neteyam said, sly amusement slipping back into his tone, “I will cancel training tomorrow.”
Your head snapped up instantly.
The sight stole the breath straight from your lungs.
Below you, the forest stretched in endless waves of green, each tree shimmering with veins of soft blue light. Tendrils of bioluminescence curled between branches like floating starlight. Vines coursed down the sides of enormous trunks, glowing faintly in the dimming afternoon. The Hometree stood in the distance, grand even from this height, its roots towering like ancient guardians.
Your mouth parted in awe. Words refused to form.
The fear gripping your stomach melted as the sheer beauty of the world beneath you settled into your bones. The height no longer felt like danger, it felt more like freedom now. The plains you had grown up in were far away, but here, above the canopy, the sky belonged to no rider. It belonged only to the wind.
Neteyam watched you with a smile gentle enough to quiet storms. “Not so terrible, right?”
You nodded slowly, breath still caught somewhere in your throat, gaze fixed on the breathtaking sprawl of Pandora beneath you. Your lips remained parted, the expression on your face unguarded, struck open by the vastness of the world around you.
Neteyam laughed softly in amazement.. He turned forward again, adjusting Seze’s glide to keep the moment unbroken. The sky held the both of you in a quiet expanse that felt larger than anything you had ever known.
The further you flew, the more the scenery shifted. The thick, towering forest peeled away, its luminous vines and layered branches giving way to open light. Golden grasses stretched outward across the plains, bending in long, rippling waves beneath the breath of the wind. The boundary between forest and savanna cut across the land like a painted line; one side wild with twisting roots and light-filled leaves, the other wide and endless, open enough for a rider to disappear into a horizon that never arrived. It looked like the meeting place of two hearts, two histories pressed side by side: yours shaped by sun and distance, and his shaped by shadow and branches.
You knew you and Neteyam could not land. The plains near the border still hid dangers. Stray metal remnants, wandering sky machines, and powerful fauna. Yet seeing your home from above, even from afar, cracked something inside you. The rosette markings on your skin seemed to warm, remembering what it felt like to race across tall grass, to breathe without roots tangling your path, to feel the sun blaze against your shoulders without a canopy breaking its strength. The savanna shimmered beneath Seze’s flight, an illusion of movement even from this height, as if the land itself reached upward to greet you.
Your throat tightened without warning. Tears gathered, blurring the edges of the horizon. You blinked fast, refusing to let them fall, but the ache inside your chest swelled as memories collided with the present. You had lost so much here—family, safety, every piece of a life you once knew. Yet the plains still looked beautiful. They still looked like home.
Neteyam had not turned his head, his gaze fixed forward as he guided Seze in a steady, respectful circle over the border. Even without looking at you, he sensed the shift in your breathing. The tension in your arms softening. The wind carried the faint sound of a breath caught in sorrow rather than fear. Neteyam’s shoulders lowered slightly, as though the emotion in your silence pressed gently against him.
“Ma—” he began quietly, voice tempered with caution, unsure how to soothe you without intruding on a wound too personal to touch.
You cut him off without words. Your forehead pressed against the side of his neck, your braids brushing his shoulder as you leaned into him. The contact was small, barely more than a breath against his skin, but it held everything you could not say. Your voice came out as a murmur, soft and trembling, carried by the rush of air around you.
“Irayo… ma Neteyam.”
Neteyam inhaled sharply, a quiet breath drawn through parted lips. His eyes softened with an expression you did not see, warm and protective and aching. His hand slipped back along Seze’s saddle until his fingers brushed your thigh again.
“Srane,” he answered softly, voice thick with emotion he attempted to hide. “Of course.”
Seze banked smoothly, wings carving a wide arc as Neteyam guided her back toward the forest. The plains faded slowly behind you, becoming a soft glow of gold at the edge of your vision. The forest welcomed you again with its layered greens and pulses of blue, its canopy folding around you like a sheltering hand.
Neither of you spoke during the return flight. Words would have felt too small for the moment, too clumsy beside the quiet rhythm of wingbeats and the lingering warmth of your forehead resting against his skin. Neteyam’s posture stayed steady, but the occasional flick of his tail betrayed the quiet storm of emotion swirling in him.
You did not move away until Hometree rose beneath you once more, its mighty structure waiting like a beacon carved from living memory. The sky draped itself in soft amber as the sun dipped lower, and the final traces of the savanna’s scent clung to the wind, reminding you of the place your heart once lived. Seze’s wings beat in a steady rhythm as she descended, her shadow stretching across the upper branches like a silent guardian returning home. When she landed atop the great tree, her talons sunk into the bark with a resonant thud that vibrated through your feet.
Neteyam slid down first, one hand stroking Seze’s neck in a gesture filled with affection and familiarity. His touch followed the grooves of her scales as though he knew every ridge by memory. “Good girl,” he murmured, voice dropping into a soft rumble. “Irayo nìtxan (thank you very much) for carrying us.”
He turned toward you and lifted a hand, offering help without a trace of hesitation. You placed your hand in his, allowing him to guide you down from the saddle. His grasp was firm, steadying you even before your feet touched the bark. Your body remained tense from the flight, and he seemed to sense every tremor that still lingered in your limbs.
You turned to Seze once your footing steadied. “Irayo, ma Seze,” you said quietly, resting a hand against her warm snout. “You fly with a brave heart.” The ikran released a low, pleased rumble and nudged your palm gently before stepping back. With one powerful thrust of her wings, she lifted herself into the air, spiraling upward until she disappeared beyond the glowing canopy.
When you faced Neteyam again, he was already watching you. His expression lacked its usual teasing curve; instead, it held a careful warmth, like he was studying the way the wind shaped your hair, or the way the lingering sunset painted your skin in muted gold. He stepped toward you slowly, allowing you to feel each narrowing inch of space between you.
“Tell me truthfully,” he said, voice low enough that it barely carried over the sighing leaves. “Did you enjoy it?”
You rolled your eyes with exaggerated effort, though your heartbeat had not yet calmed from the flight. “Kehe,” you said in your most dismissive tone. “I did not.”
Neteyam clicked his tongue, tilting his head as if wounded. His lower lip curled into a theatrical pout so dramatic you almost laughed outright. “I see. Since you had no fun, we should return to bow drills. All day tomorrow. Maybe the next day also. Your posture still bends like a reed in rain.”
A horrified gasp tore out of you before you could restrain it. Your reaction sent him into a grin so radiant it nearly broke your attempt at composure. You shoved his shoulder with both hands—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make your point. A giggle escaped you, light and quick, startling in its honesty.
Neteyam caught your wrist before you could fully pull away. His fingers wrapped around you gently, holding just enough pressure to stop your retreat. The smile remained on his face, but it softened as he looked at you. Your breath caught the instant you realized how close the two of you stood.
You eased your smile, the sound of your earlier laughter fading into the quiet. The pads of his fingers rested against the sensitive skin inside your wrist carefully, as though he feared breaking the moment by holding too tightly.
Your voice lowered without meaning to. “Neteyam… is there… something troubling you?”
His breath hitched, almost imperceptibly, before he shook his head with slow deliberation. “Kehe,” he whispered. “Nothing is wrong.”
His denial did not match the intensity in his eyes. He lifted his hand, releasing your wrist only to bring his palm to your face. His touch cupped your cheek, the roughness of his callouses grounding you in a way that made your knees weaken. The gesture was gentle enough to unravel a part of you you’d kept sealed since the plains burned. His thumb traced the line of your cheekbone, brushing softly across your skin as though memorizing you through touch alone.
Your eyelids lowered on instinct. Your cheek pressed into his palm, a small, instinctive nuzzle you couldn’t stop. Warmth bloomed across your chest—unexpected, frightening, and strangely peaceful. The world around you dulled until only his breathing filled your ears.
Neteyam leaned forward.
His lips brushed yours with the caution of someone touching fire for the first time. The kiss began as a hesitant meeting of breath and warmth, a question rather than a claim. His hand cradled your cheek more fully, fingers curling into your hair as if anchoring himself to the moment.
You answered him slowly, unsure yet drawn in by the tenderness he poured into the space between you. Your lips pressed back with slight hesitation, the motion guided by instinct rather than confidence. The kiss deepened only by a thread, enough for you to feel his breath tremble against your mouth. His other hand rose to your waist, settling with cautious reverence, as though asking permission simply through the steadiness of his hold.
The forest hushed around you. Even the wind paused, letting the warmth between you settle uninterrupted.
Neteyam exhaled into the kiss like someone receiving a long-awaited truth. His lips moved against yours with a softness that unraveled every line of resistance you had built since coming to the forest. He kissed as if afraid to break you, as if aware of the fragile, glowing bond forming between you that neither of you dared put into words.
When he finally pulled away—only the smallest distance—you felt the absence of his mouth like a sudden cold. His forehead rested against yours, your breaths mingling, your heartbeats struggling to find rhythm again.
It had been a few days since the kiss, and you had done everything in your power to bury it deep enough that even Eywa couldn’t dig it back up. You repeated to yourself over and over that it had been a mistake, a moment stolen by adrenaline and gratitude and the afterglow of flying. You insisted that Neteyam could not truly see you in any way beyond duty or curiosity. You reminded yourself that your clans were shaped by different winds, raised under different skies, carved by different trials. He belonged to roots and canopy. You belonged to horizon and open air. It was easier to cling to that truth than to risk believing the emotion in his eyes had been real.
It helped your denial that Neteyam had been busy. The clan had been preparing for the Hunt Festival, a celebration grand enough to consume several days. Tasks had been scattered across every family; setting up drums, painting bodies, crafting elaborate masks and headdresses. Neteyam had been swallowed into the commotion, helping the hunters prepare offerings, guiding young dancers through their steps, and occasionally dragging Lo’ak away before he somehow got in trouble. Training between you had been canceled without a word, giving you the time you thought you needed to steady your breathing and convince your heart that nothing had happened between you.
The Hunt Festival roared through Hometree now, voices rising in waves of laughter and song. The Sätareym had embraced the festivities with surprising enthusiasm. You watched from your hiding place near one of the upper walkways, pressing your back against the woven bark wall as your people ran past, dressed in animal costumes—painted snouts, woven tails, feathered headdresses—chasing Omatikaya children with spears tipped in bright dye. Someone beat a drum that echoed like galloping hooves. Another blew a carved horn that mimicked the cry of a plains cat. Sätareym elder women laughed until they cried as they taught Omatikaya dancers the long, bounding steps of the sun-chase ritual. Even the babies, painted with tiny paw prints across their bellies, were cooing in delight.
A bitter sweetness crept into your chest as you watched. The Hunt Festival reminded you painfully of the First Rain ceremonies back home, where your clan painted rosettes over their bodies and leapt skyward in grueling endurance dances. You could almost smell the wet clay, feel the cool rain streaking your cheeks, hear the distant thunder rolling across the savanna. For a moment, you let yourself imagine that you were back among the plains, the world stretching outward in every direction, your people whole and unbroken.
The ache in your throat grew too heavy. Happiness around you felt like salt pressed into a wound. You turned your eyes away, determined not to let tears rise.
A sudden rustle of movement drew your attention.
Neteyam appeared in front of you with no warning at all.
He wore a banshee costume, complete with painted wings and a crest of feathered spikes bound into his braids. He looked entirely too pleased with himself. The moment you registered his presence, a strangled noise escaped your throat—half gasp, half pathetic squeak.
His laughter erupted instantly, rich and loud. “You should have seen your face. You nearly leapt from the walkway.”
“You skxawng!” you shouted, shoving at his chest. “You frightened me! Why are you here dressed like that?”
Neteyam’s grin only widened. “I have been looking everywhere for you,” he said, stepping close enough that you could see the glittering flecks of violet paint along his nose. “I knew you would skip the festival. I told Lo’ak, ‘She will run like a startled pa’li into the shadows,’ and look—here you are, hiding as always.”
You kept your gaze fixed on the space behind him, refusing to meet his eyes. Your heart was beating far too hard again, and you cursed how easily he could draw emotion from you simply by existing. He noticed your avoidance immediately. His expression softened as he shifted closer, lowering his voice so the noise of the festival dimmed behind it.
“Ma Sätareym,” he murmured, “walk with me.”
You shook your head. “Kehe. I do not want to be part of this chaos.”
“We will not join the chaos,” he assured, reaching for your hand with gentle certainty.
You hesitated for a moment. Yet Neteyam’s mood was bright, his smile unguarded, his spirit raised by the celebrations around him. It was rare to see him so light-hearted; you did not have the heart to refuse him when he looked at you that way. You sighed and nodded once, offering a small, reluctant gesture of agreement.
His smile turned incandescent, the kind that cracked your ribs open in ways you could not describe.
He led you away from the noise of Hometree, guiding you down the spiraling walkways and into the cool hush of the forest floor. The moonlight filtered through the canopy in soft streaks, illuminating patches of glowing moss and drifting pollen. Neteyam’s banshee costume rustled with each step, wings fluttering lightly behind him.
“The festival was becoming dull anyway,” he said, glancing at you with mischief dancing in his eyes. “I swear, if Tuk danced any harder, she would have set her mask on fire.” He shook his head dramatically. “And my parents are unbearable. Dancing together like two mated yerik who forget the entire clan can see them. So embarrassing.”
A small laugh escaped you before you could stop it. The sound made him glance back at you with delight blooming across his features.
The forest embraced you both, each step taking you farther from the crowd, farther from the noise, closer to a stillness that made your heart erratic. The memory of your kiss hovered between your bodies. It remained unspoken, yet it lived in every glance, in every shared breath, in every time your hands brushed as you walked. The silence pushed against your ribs until you forced yourself to break it.
“Where are you taking me?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady. You focused on your tone, making it flat, not inviting, not soft enough to invite questions. You did not want him drifting toward that night atop Hometree. You were still not ready for that.
Neteyam’s mouth curved into a mischievous grin before he even answered. “It is a surprise.”
A groan tore from your chest. “I despise your surprises.”
His grin only widened. “Would you rather be back at the festival?”
Your mouth snapped shut so fast it was almost comical.
Neteyam snickered, the sound rolling through the forest like warm wind. The tension dissolved, the awkwardness falling away the moment he heard your stubborn silence. His steps became lighter, more playful, his tail flicking behind him in amused rhythm.
Conversation resumed easily, though he steered it toward dangerous territory without realizing it.
“I have been thinking about your training,” he said, voice thoughtful as he stepped over a glowing root. “It is time I take you on a hunt for your first clean kill. You will need it for your Iknimaya soon. When that day comes, you will walk among us fully as one of the Omatikaya.”
You hummed softly, the sound more evasive than affirming. You did not want to ruin his bright mood, but words like one of us pressed too close to wounds you were not ready to touch. Whether you wanted to be Omatikaya was a question that clawed at your thoughts every night. You were Sätareym to your bones—your dark skin marked with rosettes, your breath shaped by open plains, your rituals woven through your spirit. Becoming Omatikaya felt like turning away from the people you lost.
He continued without noticing your turmoil. “I must also teach you weaving. It is essential. Every warrior should know how to shape their own gear, how to repair their own harness. Your hands are strong enough for bowwork, but weaving demands patience. I suspect you will struggle.”
Your eyes wandered toward a patch of glowing flowers rising along the path. Their soft blue pulses drew your attention in a way his weaving lecture did not. You hummed again, hoping he would keep walking and focus on his own rambling.
Neteyam stopped.
You nearly collided with his back, catching yourself with one hand against his shoulder. “Ma Neteyam, what—?”
Your words died in your throat as your gaze lifted past him.
The Tree of Souls stood before you.
Its tendrils draped like waterfalls of shimmering threads, each one pulsing with violet light. The air around it hummed with quiet energy—gentle, expansive, as though the ground itself breathed beneath your feet. Luminescent spores drifted like tiny spirits, carried on a breeze you could not feel. The forest’s colors deepened around the sacred place, every shadow tinged with purple glow.
Your chest tightened, breath stumbling.
Neteyam turned slightly, watching your reaction as if it were the very thing he had come to witness. “I wanted to show you this place properly,” he said, voice subdued beneath the tree’s glow. “Without the noise of the clans. Without ceremony.”
Your throat felt tight, words stuck. The sacred energy of the place pressed against you and you felt so suffocated. The Sätareym worshiped beneath open sky, beneath stars with no branches to break them. Their rituals honored wind and horizon, not glowing roots whispering ancient memories. You had grown up hearing that Eywa moved in distance, in what could not be held. Yet here, Eywa felt near—too near—like a presence brushing against your skin.
Neteyam took a slow step forward, his expression open and vulnerable in a way you had not seen since the flight above the plains.
“Walk with me,” he said, this time softer, almost hesitant.
Your eyes drifted to his outstretched hand. His skin glowed faintly in the violet light, a lighter shade of blue than yours, three fingers reaching toward you in invitation. The familiarity of that shape—so like your own hands, so unlike his four-fingered siblings—made a strange ache pulse through your temples. A tightness gathered behind your eyes, as if your skull could no longer hold the conflict swirling inside you.
Your heart stumbled. You felt lost in a way that mirrored the night your clan first fled the plains; directionless, surrounded by shadows, unsure of which path led to safety. Words tangled in your throat like vines wrapped too tightly around a branch. You feared opening your mouth and sounding like a fool, or worse, revealing the depth of the hurt you carried. But you knew one truth clearly: you could not walk toward the Tree of Souls.
You lifted your gaze timidly, the motion small, like prey assessing danger. “Ma Neteyam…” you whispered. Your head shook once, barely more than a tremble. “I cannot.”
Neteyam tilted his head, ears angling toward you, curiosity and concern threading together across his features. “Why not?” he asked quietly, no judgment in the question. Only genuine confusion, and beneath that, worry.
Your chest tightened painfully. The hum of the sacred place pressed against you like a memory trying to force itself forward. You did not want to explain that coming near the Omatikaya’s most revered place made grief coil in your stomach like serpents. You did not want to admit that the sight of glowing tendrils and living roots reminded you of every unanswered prayer, every night your tsahìk whispered for protection that never came, every body buried beneath the plains when Eywa stayed silent.
You swallowed hard. Your voice barely rose above a breath. “I… just cannot.” You shook your head again, more frantically this time, the motion sharp with rising panic. Ngaytxoa, ke tsun oe (Sorry, I cannot…)... I am sorry. I am so sorry.”
Neteyam lifted both hands immediately, palms open in a gesture meant to soothe. “Kehe, ma tstkxe. Do not apologize,” he said softly. “We do not have to go closer. This place should bring comfort, not pain. Sit with me instead, yes?”
He moved away from the glowing roots deliberately, giving your body—and your spirit—space to breathe again. He settled onto a fallen log softened by layers of moss, his posture relaxed and inviting. He patted the spot beside him, offering a small, reassuring smile that brimmed with gentleness rather than insistence.
You walked toward him slowly, the distance between you and the Tree of Souls widening with every step until your lungs loosened enough to draw a deeper breath. You sat beside him but kept a careful gap between your bodies, the space shaped by caution and instinctive self-protection.
Neteyam either did not notice or chose not to comment. His attention shifted as he dug into the small woven pouch tied to his belt. His brow furrowed with growing frustration as he searched, muttering under his breath about misplacing things. After a moment, his expression brightened, and he let out a victorious hum as he retrieved something from the pouch.
You turned your head slightly, curious despite yourself.
He lifted the item between his fingers with pride. A beaded choker, woven in Omatikaya style. The cords were dyed deep forest brown, threaded with small beads shaped like droplets of polished amber and slender pieces of carved wood that glowed faintly under the tree’s violet light. The pattern mirrored the one he always wore, though the colors were altered subtly to complement your darker skin tone.
Neteyam’s face lit with excitement, though a shy undercurrent softened his usual confidence. “I made this,” he explained quickly, words tumbling out faster than he intended. “My mother says a warrior should learn to weave meaning into every bead. So I did. This pattern is for strength. This one—for the path of riders. These beads here are for the plains and the forest meeting.” His voice dropped slightly. “For where your steps and mine cross.”
Your breath hitched as he spoke. The meaning behind each bead wound tightly around your heart, pulling with a tenderness you were not prepared for.
His gaze flickered to your face, suddenly uncertain. “Ma… ma Sätareym,” he said more quietly now, shoulders tensing with nerves, “may I… put it on you?”
You stared at him, completely speechless, but not with joy. A heavy, complicated weight settled in your chest. You did not understand why he offered you something so intimate. You did not understand why he looked at you with such hope. You did not understand why receiving the choker, so thoughtfully made and so symbolic felt both beautiful and terrifying.
Your throat tightened. Words failed you.
All you could manage was a slow nod.
You turned around, giving him your back so he could tie the choker. Your braids shifted as you lifted your hair, exposing the line of your neck to the cool night air. Neteyam’s fingers brushed your skin as he fastened the cord. Each touch sent a quiet tremor down your spine.
He tied the final knot with precision learned from a lifetime of weaving and training. His breath warmed the top of your shoulder for half a second longer than necessary, as if he could not bring himself to step away.
When he finally released the ends of the choker, the weight of it settled against your throat
Neteyam’s breath caught. His expression froze in stunned silence, amber eyes widening as though the sight of you had momentarily stolen the world from under his feet.
He blinked once, regaining control of his voice. Lor (beautiful)… it is beautiful on you,” he murmured. His voice dropped lower, tender in a way that made your ribs tighten. “You are beautiful.”
Your lashes fluttered, surprise flooding you so fast your body forgot how to move. “Kehe,” you muttered, your voice small. “Do not jest with me, ma Neteyam.”
“I am not jesting,” he replied immediately, leaning forward with earnest intensity. “I swear it. You are the most beautiful being I have ever seen.”
Your throat constricted painfully. You opened your mouth only to close it again. No words felt safe. No reaction felt right. His next words pushed your heart into your stomach.
“The moment I first saw you,” he continued, voice filled with emotion he had carried for months, “when the Sätareym walked into Hometree asking for uturu… I had never seen a beauty like yours. Not only in your face, but in the way you held your clan together. In the way you looked at my people with defiance. In the way you refused to bow even though you were afraid.”
The air lodged inside your lungs refused to move. Memories of that day—your clan exhausted, scorched by grief, seeking shelter with strangers—flooded back with stunning force. Your heart lurched violently. Heat crept up your cheeks, turning them near-burning. You managed a quiet, shaky, “Irayo.” The word came out small, barely formed, trembling beneath the pressure of everything inside you.
He mistook your overwhelm for shyness. His smile softened even further as he reached out and took both of your hands, lifting them between you. His fingers enveloped yours completely. His amber eyes searched your face with unwavering affection.
“Ma tìyawn (My love),” he said, voice rich with meaning, “I must speak this truth to you. Eywa guides our paths in ways we do not always see. Every day I trained you, every moment you laughed, every breath we shared… my feelings grew. I feel a pull toward you as strong as tsaheylu. I believe Eywa has placed you here—to teach me, to strengthen me, to—”
Your lungs squeezed painfully. His words rushed over you like water crashing through a broken dam, each one striking deeper than the last. The kiss you had been trying so hard to forget now rose up like a specter between you, blazing into a moment you could no longer hide from.
Neteyam kept going, unaware of the way your fingers trembled in his grip. “I cannot ignore this. I feel—strongly. Deeply. I know you do not see it yet, but this forest is your home now. Eywa willed it. Eywa brought you—”
Your head snapped up so fast your braids whipped across your shoulders.
You stood abruptly, almost staggering. Your breath shuddered in your chest, panic rising like a tightening coil inside your ribs. Neteyam’s face crumpled in confusion.
“Ma Sätareym?” he asked, rising halfway. “What is wrong? Did I—?”
Your head shook violently as you tried to form words, any words, but your mind swirled with jagged memories; the plains burning, your parents falling, your tsahìk’s prayers swallowed by gunfire, the knowledge that Eywa had never answered. All your clan had ever received was silence. A silence you carried like a scar through every day you tried to survive.
Neteyam stepped closer, reaching for you. “Ma tìyawn, please—talk to me. Tell me what hurts.”
You flinched away. He reached again, this time resting a gentle hand on your shoulder and the contact shocked you into panic. You shoved him backward with more force than intended. His feet stumbled on the moss, his expression flashing with hurt before concern quickly replaced it.
“Ngaru lu fpom srak (Are you okay)? What is happening?” he asked, voice quiet, laced with fear he could not contain.
He tried again to understand, but his next sentence, obviously meant to soothe, splintered you completely.
“This is your home now. Eywa—”
The sob tore from you before he could finish.
“Ma Neteyam,” you choked, voice breaking apart, “I just want to go home. I need to go home.”
His face collapsed into raw pain. He stepped forward without hesitation, his arms circling your shoulders and pulling you into his chest. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat pressed against your cheek as you sobbed uncontrollably, each cry hitting with the weight of all the grief you had refused to feel since leaving the plains.
“I do not belong here,” you wept into his skin. “I want to go home. I want to go back. I want—” Your words dissolved into shattered breaths. “Why did Eywa bring us here? Why?”
Neteyam’s arms tightened, his voice trembling. Fra'u-ru fpom lu (It’s okay). I know, ma yawntu. I know you ache for your home. But this—this place—you are safe here. You are loved here. This is your home now.”
You stiffened instantly.
Your palms pressed against his chest, shoving him away hard enough that he stumbled. Air refused to enter your lungs. Your chest spasmed with rapid, uncontrolled breaths—too shallow, too sharp. You felt trapped inside your own body, drowning in panic that clawed up your throat.
He reached toward you again, terrified. “Ma Sätareym! Wait—please, I did not mean—”
Your feet turned before he could finish. You bolted.
Branches whipped past your face as you sprinted through the glowing underbrush, tears blurring the world into fragments of blue and violet light. Your lungs burned, your legs trembled, but you could not stop. You fled from him, from his words, from the choker on your throat, from the memory of his kiss, from the suffocating walls of a forest that would never be yours.
Behind you, Neteyam’s voice cracked through the night. “MA—!”
Your name—torn from him, desperate, breaking—echoed after you as he gave chase, his footsteps shaking the soft earth.
You did not look back. You could not.
The forest around you pulsed, alive with the presence you had never believed in. Vines glowed like reaching hands. Spores drifted as if watching. The air hummed with a spirit you did not trust.
Eywa had never answered your people. Eywa had never saved your parents. Eywa had never stopped the fire that swallowed your plains. Eywa had chosen Jake Sully, not you. Not your clan.
No forest ritual, no glowing tree, no choker woven with love could change the truth etched into your very DNA.
summary: in which your boyfriend was too tired to hide your sex tape on his laptop
warning: oral, fingering, squirting, voyeurism
genre: smut
pairing: idol yunho x afab reader x ateez watches
word count: 3.1k
masterlist
═════════ ═════════ ═════════
Tokyo was still glowing outside the hotel windows when Yunho shoved his laptop into Yeosang’s hands like a man already running late. “Hurry up,” Hongjoong called from the hallway, half dressed, hat low over his eyes while managers tried to herd everyone downstairs before traffic got worse. “If we miss check in again I’m leaving somebody in Japan.”
“Probably Wooyoung,” Jongho muttered.
“Rude.”
Yunho barely reacted, already pulling his jacket on while talking to staff. He looked exhausted. The last week in Japan had been nonstop schedules, performances, interviews, dance rehearsals. His hair was still slightly damp from a rushed shower, and there were faint shadows under his eyes as Yeosang adjusted the laptop under his arm. “You sure all the choreo files are here?”
“Everything’s labeled,” Yunho answered distractedly. “New demos, practice formations, performance references. Just connect it to the studio monitor.” Then his phone buzzed and the second he looked at it, his entire face softened and Wooyoung saw it immediately and groaned dramatically. “Ugh. He got a text from her.”
Mingi snorted from where he was dragging his suitcase. “Look at him smiling.”
“I’m not smiling.”
“You literally are.”
Yunho rolled his eyes, but his thumb was already typing back. You’d gone home three days ago to visit your family while he stayed in Japan for solo schedules, and ever since then he’d been annoyingly attached to his phone.
Hongjoong pointed toward the elevator. “Lovebirds later. Move.”
Yunho looked back once toward Yeosang. “Just don’t touch anything else on there.” That should’ve sounded more suspicious than it did. But nobody thought twice about it. Because Yunho’s laptop always looked the same. Dance folders. Music drafts. Performance videos. Gaming lives downloaded. Thousands of clips from practices he obsessively recorded and reviewed. Nothing unusual.
At least… not that anyone knew.
═════════ ═════════ ═════════
The practice room speakers blasted the new track loud enough to rattle the mirrors while everyone ran through choreography for what felt like the hundredth time. Hongjoong cut the music with an aggravated sigh. “Again. San, half a second earlier on the turn.”
“I was earlier!”
“You were spiritually earlier.”
Wooyoung collapsed dramatically onto the floor. “I’m going to die in this room.”
“You say that every comeback,” Yeosang replied calmly. Sweat clung to everyone after hours of rehearsing. Empty water bottles littered the corners. Mingi was sitting against the mirror catching his breath while Jongho stretched nearby. Yunho still wasn’t back from Japan. Which meant the center formations felt weirdly empty without him there towering over everybody.
Hongjoong rubbed his face tiredly. “Let’s check the reference recordings again. Yeosang, did you bring Yunho’s laptop?”
“Yeah.” Yeosang walked over to his bag near the wall and pulled it out. “He said everything’s organized.”
Wooyoung snorted. “That man has folders inside folders inside folders.”
“He scares me technologically,” San agreed as Yeosang connected the laptop to the big studio monitor while the others gathered around, still breathing hard from practice. The desktop appeared onscreen with folders everywhere over a background wallpaper of Yunho and you.
“See?” Wooyoung pointed. “Psychopath behavior.”
“Open the comeback demos,” Hongjoong said and Yeosang clicked through folders while everyone loosely argued over choreography changes behind him.
Dance_FINAL.
Dance_FINAL2.
Dance_ACTUALFINAL.
“Jesus Christ,” Mingi muttered.
“I told you,” Wooyoung said as Yeosang finally found the right folder and opened it, dozens of video files appearing across the screen and Hongjoong nodded toward one near the bottom. “That one.” Yeosang clicked without looking closely.
For one completely normal second, the screen stayed black before audio filled the room. A soft laugh. Your laugh. Nobody reacted at first because their brains genuinely needed a second to catch up as the video quality was dim and warm, obviously filmed late at night. Yunho was behind the camera, face briefly visible in the mirror across the room as he adjusted the angle. His hair was messy, lips caught between his teeth in that distracted little habit he had when he was focused.
Then the camera tilted lower. Toward the bed. Toward you and the entire practice room froze. You were kneeling on the mattress wearing nothing except one of Yunho’s oversized flannel shirts, the fabric hanging off one shoulder while you laughed softly at something he’d said behind the camera.
“Oh my god,” San whispered immediately as Yeosang’s hand spasmed on the trackpad and Wooyoung slapped both hands over his mouth so hard it echoed. Mingi made a strangled noise somewhere between a cough and a scream as Hongjoong stared at the screen like it had personally betrayed him.
“Nope,” Jongho said instantly, already turning away. “Nope. Turn it off.” But nobody moved. Because now Yunho’s voice filled the speakers, low and affectionate in a way none of them had ever heard before.
“Baby, look at me.”
The way he said it was the problem. Not cocky. Not joking. Completely gone for you. Onscreen, you glanced toward the camera with a shy smile while Yunho laughed softly behind it, clearly obsessed with filming every reaction you made.
Seonghwa lost it first. “No wonder he’s always tired.”
“TURN IT OFF,” Hongjoong barked, finally regaining consciousness. Yeosang, panicking now, fumbled the mouse completely wrong and somehow fullscreened the video instead and the room erupted.
“YEOSANG!”
“I’M TRYING!”
Mingi was bent over laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe while San had physically thrown himself against the mirror in dramatic distress. And right before Yeosang finally managed to pause it, Yunho’s voice came through the speakers one last time. Soft. Amused and completely whipped.
“You’re so pretty like this.”
The practice room went so quiet the speakers sounded too loud. Nobody should’ve still been watching. That was the insane part. Every single one of them knew they should’ve shut the laptop the second they realized what the video was, but now it felt like witnessing a car crash in slow motion. Horrifying. Intimate. Impossible to look away from.
Onscreen, you slid off the bed slowly, Yunho’s flannel swallowing you whole as your bare legs disappeared out of frame for a second. The camera shifted slightly when Yunho adjusted his grip on it, like even he had gotten distracted watching you move toward him. Then you literally crawled across the floor toward him and seven grown men stopped functioning simultaneously.
“Jesus Christ,” San muttered, hand over his face.
Jongho looked actively pained. “We should turn it off.”
“Yeah…” Mingi answered immediately, voice suddenly deeper somehow. “Totally.”
Nobody moved. Not one of them. Wooyoung was clutching Yeosang’s shoulder so hard Yeosang physically winced, but even he couldn’t stop staring at the screen in complete disbelief at his roommate. Because Yunho looked insane. Not lustful. Not playful. Gone. Completely gone for you.
The camera dipped slightly as you settled on your knees in front of him, and for a brief second Yunho glanced toward the lens like he remembered he was filming. That little glance alone nearly killed the room because his expression was so openly wrecked over you it felt invasive to witness. Then his eyes dropped back down to you and his entire face softened again.
Hongjoong made a noise like he was spiritually leaving his body. “I know too much about this man now.”
Onscreen, Yunho’s hand appeared briefly, brushing your hair back gently before disappearing again.
“Mine,” his voice murmured through the speakers.
Wooyoung folded in half onto the floor. “HE’S WHIPPED,” he shouted.
“He’s been whipped,” Seonghwa scoffed as Mingi was still staring at the screen with narrowed eyes like he was re evaluating everything he knew about Yunho as a human being and his best friend.
The room stayed frozen. Not one of them saying a word now. The joking had died somewhere in the last thirty seconds, replaced with the horrible realization that they were watching something way too intimate to ever erase from memory again. Onscreen, Yunho lowered the camera carefully onto his bedside table, adjusting it with practiced ease until the frame captured the entire room. The edge of the bed. The floor. You between his legs in that oversized flannel looking devastatingly soft against the darker lighting.
Then Yunho leaned back slightly while you hooked your fingers into the waistband of his sweats and Wooyoung inhaled so sharply it sounded painful. Nobody looked away. They couldn’t as the fabric dragged slowly down his thighs, and the collective silence in the practice room somehow got even heavier. Yunho was already visibly hard, muscles tense beneath the dim bedroom lighting while he watched you with that same wrecked expression that had everyone spiraling minutes ago.
San rubbed both hands down his face. “We are never recovering from this.”
“Not a single recovery,” Mingi muttered.
The worst part was how quiet the video itself was. No music. Just soft movement, breathing, occasional little laughs from you, and Yunho’s low voice every now and then like he physically couldn’t stop talking to you. Hongjoong finally tore his eyes away long enough to glare at Yeosang. “Why are you still holding the laptop like you’re presenting this to the class?”
“I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO,” Yeosang whisper yelled back as Jongho stood with his arms crossed so tightly he looked like he was trying to hold onto the last threads of his sanity. “We seriously need to turn it off,” he said again. Nobody disagreed but still nobody moved.
Because onscreen Yunho reached forward suddenly, one hand brushing along your jaw before tilting your face up toward him, his thumb lingering there for a second like he couldn’t stop touching you even while filming then he moved his hand down, wrapping firmly around the base of his dick. He gave it a slow stroke as you knelt there, mouth parting wider at the sight, tongue extending flat and eager.
Yunho tapped his tip against your tongue once, twice, the wet sound barely audible over the quiet breaths in the room. He dragged it across your lower lip, smearing a bead of precum before pulling back just enough to repeat the motion. The group stayed locked on the screen, Hongjoong's jaw tight, Mingi's fingers digging into his own thighs, Wooyoung still folded forward but peeking through his fingers now.
"Fuck," San muttered under his breath, the word barely formed as they watched you open wider, and Yunho finally let you have it. Your lips closed around the tip first, tongue swirling slow and deliberate as you took the first few inches into your mouth. The pace stayed unhurried, your head bobbing in measured movements that let every vein and ridge drag against your tongue and Yunho's free hand rested on the back of your head, not pushing yet, just resting there while his low voice filled the speakers. “That's it, baby. Nice and slow for me."
The video captured every detail, the way your cheeks hollowed slightly on each pull back, the soft glisten of spit building at the corners of your mouth, the way your eyes flicked up to meet his. Yunho's breathing grew heavier, his hips shifting forward in tiny thrusts as you worked him deeper inch by inch and Yeosang shifted in his seat, the movement loud in the silence. Nobody joked anymore. All eyes stayed glued to the footage.
Your pace built gradually. You took more of him on each descent, throat relaxing as the head nudged farther back. Yunho's fingers threaded into your hair, and then he started guiding. A gentle press at first, then firmer, pushing your head down until your nose brushed the base of his dick. He held you there for a beat before easing off, letting you catch air, only to repeat it on the next stroke. “Look at you taking it so deep already. That mouth was made for this, wasn't it?"
The group watched in stunned silence as the rhythm changed. Yunho's grip tightened. He began thrusting into your mouth in controlled rolls of his hips, using the hold on your head to set the depth. Each push sent the head sliding past your tongue and into your throat, the wet sounds growing louder as you gagged softly around him once, twice, but kept going, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes on screen. “Go on baby…. Fuck yourself," Yunho ordered through the speakers, voice rough.
Your hand moved immediately. Two fingers slipped between your thighs, parting your folds before sinking inside your pussy in one smooth motion and you moaned around him at the stretch, the sound vibrating through him visibly as his abs tensed on screen and your fingers pumped in time with his thrusts, slow at first, then matching the pace as he fucked your mouth harder.
San leaned forward, eyes wide. "Holy shit."
Yunho's praise poured out steadily. "Good girl, just like that. Taking every inch so well. This video's gonna be mine to watch later….. gonna fuck my fist to the way you choke on me." His dick twitched in your mouth on screen, the head swelling as he used your throat with deeper, shorter thrusts making your gagging grow wetter, sobs hitching around him while your fingers worked faster inside yourself.
The room stayed frozen except for the subtle shifts of the guys adjusting themselves, arousal clear in the way they couldn't look away. On screen, your body trembled. Your fingers curled inside your pussy, hitting the right spot until your thighs shook and you came hard, squirting around your own hand, the fluid glistening on your skin and the carpet as your moan broke into a choked cry around Yunho's dick.
Yunho didn't stop. He held your head steady with both hands now, thrusting deep and steady through your orgasm. His dick pulsed, and then he buried himself to the hilt, coming down your throat in thick pulses as you swallowed every drop, throat working visibly around him until he eased back, letting you breathe. A thin string of spit and cum connected your lips to his dick as the video faded on the final soft praise from his voice.
The practice room stayed silent for a long moment after, every member hard and flushed, the weight of what they'd just witnessed settling heavy.
═════════ ═════════ ═════════
The second Yunho walked back into the practice room after returning from Japan, every single member started acting like they were being hunted for sport. It had been two full days since the incident. Two days of pretending it never happened. Two days of Wooyoung randomly bursting into hysterical laughter during meals.
Two days of Hongjoong threatening violence anytime someone even mentioned laptops.
And now Yunho was finally back in Seoul completely unaware that seven people had accidentally watched the most intimate video of his life. Which somehow made it worse. Especially because he was acting normal. That was the terrifying part. Just… regular Yunho. Stretching before practice. Drinking iced coffee. Running choreography like nothing catastrophic had happened because he had no idea.
“Why are you all acting like I died?” Yunho finally asked after San nearly walked into the mirror avoiding eye contact.
“No reason,” Hongjoong answered instantly. Suspiciously fast and Yunho narrowed his eyes as the practice room door opened and immediately his entire expression changed as you walked in carrying bags of food and coffees balanced in your arms, smiling brightly. “I come bearing peace offerings because apparently none of you eat unless someone mothers you.”
Wooyoung made a sound like a dying victorian man as Mingi physically turned around and Jongho coughed into his hand so violently Seonghwa had to smack his back.
You blinked, furrowing your brows. “What’s wrong with everybody?”
“Nothing!” seven voices answered at completely different pitches and Yunho looked even more confused now, already walking toward you to help with the food. The second he reached you, one hand settled automatically at your waist while he took the bags from your arms. “Thanks, baby,” Yunho said casually, pressing a quick kiss to your temple and Hongjoong closed his eyes briefly like a man enduring psychological warfare.
You watched the members awkwardly scatter around the room avoiding you entirely and frowned. “Okay seriously, they’re acting weird.” Yunho shrugged, completely oblivious while unpacking containers onto the table. “They’ve been weird all day.”
Across the room, San accidentally made eye contact with you for half a second and immediately looked away then choked on air making you stare harder now. “Did something happen while you were gone?”
Seven men collectively looked like they were about to enter cardiac arrest as Yunho glanced up slowly. “Why does it suddenly feel like I should be concerned?”
Mingi finally cracked first. Probably because Yunho kept staring around the room like he was five seconds away from starting an interrogation. He cleared his throat, arms folded tightly across his chest. “So… hypothetically…”
Hongjoong pointed immediately. “Don’t.”
“No, because we can’t keep acting like this,” Mingi shot back.
“We absolutely can,” Jongho argued.
“We really can’t,” Wooyoung wheezed from the floor as you looked between all of them in growing confusion while Yunho narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “What happened?”
Mingi sighed like a man accepting death. “We might’ve…” He paused. “Watched something on your laptop.”
You blinked once.
Yunho blinked twice. “What?”
“You know,” Mingi continued vaguely, refusing to elaborate while Wooyoung was already shaking, trying not to laugh. “Something that maybe wasn’t choreography.”
Still confused, you looked toward Yunho. “What does that even mean?”
Then Yunho froze. Actually froze. Like someone had unplugged him from reality and the color drained from his face so fast it was almost impressive. “Oh no,” he whispered and Wooyoung immediately lost it. “A LITTLE 18+ DOCUMENTARY,” he shouted, pointing accusingly at Yunho while collapsing against the mirror.
Your entire body went still as Yunho slowly turned toward Yeosang first. “What did you open.” Though he already knew the answer. Yeosang looked seconds away from tears. “IT WASN’T LABELED!”
“It was in the choreography folder!” Hongjoong exploded.
“I WAS TIRED!”
You stared between all of them, realization dawning in horrifying slow motion as your jaw dropped. “Oh my god.”
Yunho slapped both hands over his face instantly as Mingi looked at the ceiling. Wooyoung was physically on the floor now laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe and Jongho looked ready to move countries as Seonghwa pointed at you and Yunho like a courtroom witness. “For the record, none of us wanted to see it.”
“That is such a lie,” Wooyoung yelled from the floor.
“No because why did nobody turn it off?” you demanded, face burning now.
“WE TRIED!” Yeosang defended himself.
“You fullscreened it!” Hongjoong shouted back.
Yunho still hadn’t uncovered his face. “You watched the whole thing?” he asked slowly through his hands and Mingi suddenly found the wall fascinating. San coughed and Hongjoong looked away as Seonghwa, Jongho, Yeosang and Wooyoung just stared in silence.
After another soul-draining day at her corporate HR job, Y/N stumbles into a small underground bar to escape the exhaustion swallowing her whole. There she meets Yunho, a magnetic guitarist from a famous rock band and spends one unforgettable night wandering through the city with a stranger who makes her feel alive again.
What begins as a reckless decision slowly turns into something neither of them expected: a place to breathe.
Pairing: Jeong Yunho × Reader (Y/N)
Tropes: Rockstar AU, Strangers to Lovers, Opposites Attract, Late Night City Romance, Found Family, Emotional Healing, Soft Slow Burn, Falling in Love Before Realizing It
Featuring: Ateez as Yunhos Band Mates or Friends, Y/ns Childhood friend
Main Masterlist | Yunhos Masterlist
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5
This is Part 4
For a few seconds after Y/N disappeared behind the apartment door, Yunho genuinely could not move.
Rain tapped softly against the hood of the car beside him while cold night air settled damp against his skin.
The building entrance stayed closed.
And somehow that silence felt louder than anything else.
Yunho stared at the glass door like maybe she would suddenly come back out again.
Maybe she would realize she overreacted. Maybe she would laugh awkwardly and tell him she was just overwhelmed. Maybe he should go after her.
The thought hit instantly.
Go upstairs. Knock on her door.
Tell her again that none of it mattered to him.
That he liked her exactly as she was. That he had not felt this connected to someone in years.
His body even shifted slightly toward the entrance before he stopped himself.
Because another thought followed immediately after.
Would that actually help?
Or would it just overwhelm her more?
Y/N already looked terrified standing there crying in front of him.
Not scared of him. Scared of everything surrounding him.
And Yunho understood that better than she probably realized.
People always talked about fame like it only brought good things.
Opportunities. Money. Attention.
They rarely talked about what it did to relationships.
How every interaction eventually became distorted somehow.
People projected versions onto him constantly. Some saw fantasy. Others saw status. Some only saw headlines and crowds and numbers.
Y/N had met him before any of that.
She met him sweaty behind a bar with a missing lighter and stupid jokes.
And tonight she finally saw the gap between that Yunho and the version the world recognized.
No wonder she got overwhelmed.
Still…
The image of tears in her eyes while saying I don’t know if I can manage something like this again made something ache sharply in his chest.
Again.
That word stayed with him.
Because whatever happened before him clearly hurt her deeply enough that now she expected disappointment before anything even began.
Yunho leaned heavily back against the car with a quiet curse. “Fuck.”
He dragged both hands through his damp hair before finally climbing back inside the car.
The engine stayed off.
Yunho rested his forehead briefly against the steering wheel and closed his eyes.
Everything replayed instantly anyway.
Y/N laughing earlier that afternoon with powdered sugar on her mouth. The way she relaxed when he kissed her hand outside the amusement park. Her coworkers staring at her like she did not belong beside him.
And worst of all, the way she looked at him near the end.
Like she already believed losing him would hurt too much.
Yunho exhaled slowly through his nose.
He should text her.
No.
Call her maybe.
No.
Give her space.
God.
He hated this.
Eventually he started the car again mostly because sitting outside her apartment spiraling for another hour would become deeply pathetic.
The drive back to Moonlight Room blurred together.
Rain grew heavier halfway there, streaking against the windshield while city lights reflected gold and red across wet streets.
Usually driving calmed him. Tonight his thoughts kept circling the same questions endlessly.
Should he have stopped her harder?
Should he have let her walk away so easily?
Was she already regretting everything?
The thought physically hurt.
By the time Yunho parked behind the bar, exhaustion sat heavy in his bones.
The familiar neon sign glowed dimly against the rain outside.
Tonight the bar was closed to the public. Just their people inside.
Sometimes after long schedules they gathered there anyway. Played music. Drank. Helped Wooyoung and Seonghwa clean or test new drinks.
Usually those nights relaxed Yunho.
Tonight he already wanted to leave again before even walking in.
The second he stepped inside, warmth and noise hit him immediately.
Music played softly through speakers while laughter echoed somewhere near the booths. Seonghwa polished glasses behind the counter while Wooyoung argued loudly with San over something involving tequila and “creative freedom.”
Mingi spotted Yunho first. “Oh!” He pointed dramatically. “The lover boy returns.”
Several heads immediately turned.
Yunho already knew where this was going.
Wooyoung gasped loudly. “How was the date with the woman of your dreams?”
San nearly fell sideways across the booth grinning. “Did you kiss?”
“Wait no,” Wooyoung interrupted. “Did you cry?”
“Why would he cry?” Yeosang asked flatly.
“Because he’s emotionally invested.”
“That’s fair.”
Usually Yunho would have laughed. Usually he would have shoved Wooyoung dramatically and complained while secretly enjoying the teasing.
Tonight he just forced a weak smile instead. “It was fine.”
Silence flickered briefly.
Because everyone immediately noticed the problem.
Hongjoong looked up first from his drink. “What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“You look miserable,” Jongho pointed out bluntly.
“I’m tired.”
“No.” San narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Something happened.”
Yunho shrugged out of his damp jacket and headed toward the counter instead. “Seriously, it’s fine.”
Nobody believed him.
Wooyoung appeared beside him almost instantly. “That was the saddest ‘it’s fine’ I’ve ever heard.”
Yunho rubbed tiredly at his face. “I just don’t really want to talk right now.”
“Oh no,” Mingi muttered dramatically from behind him. “It’s bad bad.”
Seonghwa quietly slid a drink toward Yunho across the counter. “You wanna sit?”
Yunho nodded once gratefully.
The others followed immediately of course. Like emotional vultures.
San practically climbed across the booth. “Did she reject you?”
“No.”
“Did you reject her?”
“No.”
“Did you accidentally tell her you loved her?”
“What? No!”
“Then what happened?”
Questions kept coming from every direction. Too fast. Too loud.
And normally Yunho would have handled it fine.
But Y/N crying kept replaying behind his eyes every few seconds.
The sound of her voice shaking. The way she looked genuinely scared.
And suddenly everyone pushing at him felt unbearable.
“Can you all just leave it alone for a second?” he snapped suddenly.
Silence crashed instantly across the booth. Yunho immediately regretted the sharpness in his voice.
Wooyoung blinked. San leaned back slightly. Even Mingi looked surprised.
Yunho exhaled harshly through his nose before rubbing a hand over his face again.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered quietly. “I just…” He shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Nobody spoke for a second afterward.
Then Hongjoong nodded once. “Okay.”
The conversation shifted awkwardly after that.
Nobody pushed again.
Still, Yunho barely heard most of it.
His thoughts stayed somewhere else entirely.
Hours passed slowly afterward.
Eventually San and Wooyoung started arguing over music again loudly enough to shake the entire room. Yeosang disappeared onto the patio with Seonghwa for cigarettes. Hongjoong answered work calls in the corner looking exhausted already.
Yunho slipped away quietly toward the small stage area near the back of the bar.
The room there stayed dimly lit except for scattered overhead lights reflecting softly across instruments.
His guitar already rested near one of the stools. Without thinking too much, Yunho picked it up. The familiar weight settled comfortably against him immediately.
Playing usually helped organize his thoughts. Or at least drown them out.
Tonight music came easier than words. Soft chords filled the empty bar while rain tapped quietly against windows outside.
Yunho stared down at the notebook resting open beside him. Lyrics already covered half the page.
Most unfinished. Most obviously about Y/N.
About girls who looked sad while laughing. About lakes under moonlight. About wanting someone enough to become terrified of losing them immediately.
Pathetic honestly.
Still, he kept writing anyway.
At some point footsteps approached quietly behind him.
Yunho didn’t look up immediately.
Only when Mingi settled beside him on the stage steps without speaking. For a while Mingi just listened quietly while Yunho played absentmindedly.
“You wanna tell me what happened?”
His voice sounded different now.
Not teasing. Not pushing.
Just… caring.
Yunho stared down at the guitar strings for a second longer before sighing softly. “She got scared.”
Mingi stayed quiet beside him.
So Yunho continued slowly. “She said she doesn’t know if she can handle…” He gestured vaguely around himself. “All of this.”
“The fame stuff?”
“Yeah.”
Rain continued softly outside while Yunho explained everything.
The coworkers. The comments. Y/N trying to pull her hand away. The way she looked smaller afterward no matter how hard he tried making her laugh again.
And finally the car ride.
Her crying. The way she kept talking like she wasn’t enough for him.
By the time he finished, his chest felt hollow again.
Mingi sat quietly processing it all.
Then eventually he leaned back against the stage step with a slow sigh. “Damn.”
“Yeah.”
For a second neither spoke.
Then Mingi rubbed lightly at his jaw thoughtfully. “I get why you’re upset,” he admitted carefully. “But honestly?” He glanced sideways toward Yunho. “I kinda get her too.”
Yunho looked over immediately.
Mingi lifted both hands slightly. “Not saying she’s right. Just…” He shrugged. “Think about it from her perspective.”
Yunho looked away again toward the guitar.
“She met you as just Yunho.”
The sentence landed quietly between them.
Not Jeong Yunho from Ateez.
Not the celebrity version everyone recognized instantly. Just him.
Mingi continued softly. “She didn’t know who you were at first. That’s probably why she relaxed around you so fast.”
Yunho remembered the first night instantly. Y/N laughing at his missing lighter. Calling him dramatic.
Looking at him without hesitation or expectation. No fame involved.
Just them.
“And then suddenly,” Mingi continued, “she sees the other side of it.”
The attention. People talking over her to get to him.
Yunho’s chest tightened again.
Mingi leaned forward resting his forearms against his knees. “You told us yourself she’s already insecure.” He glanced toward Yunho carefully. “And honestly? She sounds like someone whose trust you actually gotta earn.”
The sentence made Yunho blink slightly.
Because it felt painfully accurate.
Y/N did not open easily. Even the first night together, she kept overthinking every conversation at first.
And yet somehow she still followed him into the city anyway. Still trusted him enough to spend the night with him. Still let herself become vulnerable.
Mingi snorted softly beside him. “It still surprises me she even went with you that first night honestly.”
“That’s rude.”
“You know what I mean.”
Yunho did.
Because objectively?
Y/N should have been more cautious.
Instead she trusted him almost instinctively before even knowing who he was. And maybe that made tonight hurt worse too.
Because now she suddenly saw all the reasons not to.
Mingi nudged Yunho lightly with his shoulder. “I don’t think she pushed you away because she doesn’t like you.”
Yunho stared quietly at the notebook beside him. “She literally said she likes me.”
“There you go.”
“She still left.”
“Because she’s scared.”
Silence settled softly around them afterward.
Then Mingi smiled slightly. “You know,” he admitted, “I’m actually rooting for you.”
Yunho looked over.
Mingi shrugged. “You haven’t looked this genuinely happy in forever.”
The words hit unexpectedly hard.
Because they were true. Even Hongjoong mentioned it earlier that week.
Yunho laughed easier after meeting Y/N.
Smiled more. Seemed lighter somehow.
And all of it happened because one exhausted office worker walked into a random bar after work looking like she needed saving from adulthood.
Mingi looked toward the guitar resting against Yunho’s lap.
“So don’t give up yet.”
Yunho exhaled quietly. “You really think there’s still a chance?”
“I think,” Mingi said slowly, “that if something feels special this quickly, it’s probably worth fighting for.”
The sentence settled deep in Yunho’s chest.
Outside, rain continued falling softly over the city.
And for the first time since Y/N closed the door in front of him earlier that night, Yunho felt something besides helplessness.
Hope maybe.
Fragile. But there.
One week. Seven entire days.
Yunho knew because he counted every single one.
At first he tried being reasonable about it.
Y/N needed space. That was fair.
The night outside her apartment had been emotional for both of them. She cried. He pushed. Everything became messy and overwhelming.
So Yunho gave her time.
One day.
Then two.
Then four.
Now an entire week had passed.
No texts. No calls. Nothing.
And slowly, against his will, the thought started sinking in deeper every day.
Maybe she really was done with him. Maybe the silence itself was the answer.
Yunho sighed heavily from the couch in the recording studio before checking his phone again.
Still nothing.
No notifications except group chats and management reminders.
The screen reflected faintly against his tired face before he dropped the phone dramatically onto his chest again.
Across the studio, San’s voice blasted through the speakers mid-recording while Hongjoong adjusted controls behind the mixing desk.
Mingi glanced over from his chair immediately. “There he goes again.”
“I heard that,” Yunho muttered without moving.
“You were sighing like a divorced father.”
“That’s because he’s heartbroken,” San announced through the studio microphone before laughing at his own joke.
“Focus on recording,” Hongjoong shouted back immediately.
“I contain multitudes.”
The studio lights felt too bright today.
Or maybe Yunho just barely slept again.
Most nights this week ended the same way. Lying awake in bed staring at old messages from Y/N.
The messages physically ruined him now.
Because afterward came silence. Total silence.
Yunho dragged a hand over his face tiredly before checking his phone again despite knowing better.
Still nothing.
Mingi watched him for another second before speaking carefully. “She still hasn’t texted?”
Yunho shook his head once against the couch cushion. “Nope.”
“Maybe she’s busy,” San offered weakly through the microphone.
“San,” Hongjoong said flatly, “nobody is too busy for one text during an entire week.”
“Let me be optimistic.”
Yunho laughed softly despite himself. Weak.
But real enough that the others visibly relaxed slightly.
Because honestly?
This week had been rough. Not dramatic movie rough. Just quietly miserable.
Everything kept reminding him of her.
Coffee shops. Train stations. Rain at night.
Even the stupid claw machine plushie sitting on the shelf beside his desk at home because apparently Y/N forgot it in his car after the amusement park.
Yunho stared at the studio ceiling blankly. “She’s ghosting me, isn’t she?”
Three immediate reactions hit him at once.
“No.”
“Probably not.”
“You’re spiraling.”
Yunho groaned quietly. “I’m serious.”
Mingi leaned back in his chair thoughtfully. “She doesn’t seem like the ghosting type.”
“She literally vanished.”
“She told you she was scared,” Hongjoong pointed out calmly without looking away from the mixing desk. “That’s different.”
Yunho knew that. Logically.
Emotionally, however, his brain kept producing worst-case scenarios every two hours.
Maybe she regretted ever meeting him. Maybe she met someone normal instead.
The last thought made something ugly twist immediately in his chest. Pathetic.
Yunho sat up slowly from the couch before grabbing his phone again. “I should text her.”
“Then do it,” San answered immediately.
“But what if that’s overstepping?”
Three heads turned toward him.
Yunho rubbed awkwardly at the back of his neck. “She asked for space.”
“She never actually said that,” Mingi pointed out.
“She kinda implied it.”
Hongjoong finally looked up from the console then. “Yunho.”
“Hm?”
“You’ve spent seven days staring at your phone like a Victorian widow.”
“That feels dramatic.”
“It’s accurate.”
San nodded immediately. “You sigh every thirty minutes.”
“Yesterday you stared at rain for like twenty minutes straight,” Mingi added helpfully.
“That was unrelated.”
“It absolutely wasn’t.”
Unfortunately true.
Yunho dropped back against the couch again with another sigh. “I just don’t wanna make things worse.”
The room quieted slightly after that.
Because underneath all the jokes, the others knew him well enough to understand what this actually meant.
Yunho rarely got attached this fast anymore. Rarely let people affect him this deeply. And now one week of silence already had him looking permanently exhausted.
Mingi leaned forward slightly. “You know what I honestly think?”
Yunho looked over tiredly.
“I think she’s probably overthinking herself into another dimension.”
The sentence startled a laugh out of him.
Mostly because it sounded painfully accurate. Y/N absolutely seemed like the type to spiral herself into emotional isolation.
That part hurt more. Because maybe she genuinely believed walking away would make his life easier.
Meanwhile Yunho had spent the entire week writing songs about her.
Actual loser behavior.
San suddenly leaned back dramatically inside the recording booth. “You know what this studio session needs?”
“No,” Hongjoong answered immediately.
“A love song.”
Silence.
Then Mingi burst into laughter. “Oh my god.”
Yunho already knew where this was going. “No.”
“Yes,” San insisted brightly. “The people yearn for emotional devastation.”
“The people need you to finish your recording first,” Hongjoong replied.
But Mingi already looked deeply entertained now.
“Oh, Yunho has like twenty of those.”
Traitor.
San gasped dramatically through the microphone. “You wrote songs about her?”
“I write songs about everything.”
“Not like this,” Mingi corrected smugly.
Hongjoong slowly turned toward Yunho now too.
Interest immediately visible. “Wait.”
Yunho groaned quietly. “No.”
“Play one.”
“Absolutely not.”
“You’re literally an artist,” San shouted. “Suffer publicly.”
“I hate all of you.”
“Play the song.”
Yunho crossed his arms stubbornly against his chest. “No.”
Unfortunately that only encouraged them.
Mingi physically got up from his chair. “Oh, now we definitely need to hear it.”
“You’re being annoying on purpose.”
“Yes.”
Hongjoong leaned back against the console thoughtfully. “Honestly? We do need something emotional for the setlist.”
Yunho stared at him in betrayal. “You too?”
“You write best when you’re miserable.”
“That’s offensive.”
“That’s accurate,” three voices answered immediately.
Yunho buried his face in his hands briefly.
Because the worst part?
They were probably right.
This entire week had poured directly into music whether he wanted it to or not.
At some point around three in the morning two days earlier, he wrote an entire chorus about wanting someone so badly that silence itself started hurting physically.
Embarrassing.
Deeply embarrassing.
Still…
Slowly, reluctantly, Yunho reached toward the notebook resting beside the couch.
Immediate chaos erupted.
“Oh my god.”
“He’s doing it.”
“Wait, I’m emotionally preparing.”
“Shut up,” Yunho muttered.
The teasing quieted almost instantly once he actually picked up the guitar resting nearby though.
Because now they knew he was serious.
The studio settled into softer silence while Yunho adjusted the instrument against himself.
For a second he hesitated. Then his fingers moved automatically across the strings.
The melody came quietly at first.
Soft. Melancholy.
The room changed almost immediately.
Even San stopped moving around inside the recording booth.
Yunho looked down at the guitar while singing softly.
Not performing. Just… feeling it.
Lyrics spilled out rougher than usual.
About neon lights reflected in lake water. About girls who apologized for existing too loudly in the wrong spaces. About wanting to chase someone even while knowing they’d run first. And somewhere halfway through the second verse, Yunho accidentally forgot everyone else sat in the room.
Because suddenly all he could see was Y/N again.
Laughing at the arcade. Crying outside her apartment. Looking at him like she wanted him too much already.
His chest tightened painfully mid-chorus anyway.
Still, he kept singing.
The final line faded softly into silence afterward.
No one spoke immediately.
Yunho stared down at the guitar awkwardly.
Then finally:
“…Holy shit,” San whispered.
Yunho looked up. All three of them stared at him.
Hongjoong leaned slowly back against the mixing desk like he needed a second to process.
Mingi blinked once. “Okay,” he said carefully. “That was insane.”
Yunho rubbed awkwardly at the back of his neck immediately. “It’s unfinished.”
Yunho groaned dramatically and dropped backward against the couch again. “I regret sharing anything with you people.”
Mingi laughed loudly. “No actually, that chorus physically hurt me.”
“That bridge was disgusting,” San added. “Like emotionally.”
Hongjoong already grabbed a notebook. “We’re keeping it.”
Yunho stared at the ceiling again while the others immediately started discussing arrangements around him.
Somewhere underneath the embarrassment, warmth flickered softly in his chest too.
Because despite everything else, singing about Y/N made her feel close again somehow. Even if she still refused to answer him.
Hours later, after finally finishing the studio session, Yunho returned home exhausted.
The apartment greeted him with familiar silence.
Usually he appreciated quiet after schedules.
Tonight it just felt empty.
He dropped his keys onto the kitchen counter before immediately pulling out his phone again.
Still nothing.
Yunho groaned softly and collapsed onto the couch.
Okay.
Enough.
He needed to text her.
Obviously.
The others were right.
Seven days without contact already bordered on ridiculous.
Still…
What the hell was he supposed to say?
Hey, are you still emotionally spiraling?
Miss me?
Sorry you think you’re not enough for me even though you absolutely are?
Yunho opened their chat anyway. The blinking cursor mocked him instantly.
He typed. Deleted.
Typed again. Deleted again.
Eventually the message box only contained:
hey
Pathetic.
Yunho dropped the phone onto his face dramatically.
“This is impossible.”
The apartment remained deeply unhelpful. After another ten minutes of suffering, he sat up again determined.
Okay.
Simple honesty.
That usually worked best with Y/N anyway.
He typed again slowly.
I know you probably need time but I miss talking to you
Yunho stared at the sentence.
Then deleted it immediately.
Too intense.
Or maybe not intense enough.
God.
He hated texting.
Another attempt.
Are you okay?
Delete.
Thinking about you.
Delete.
Eventually he threw the phone onto the couch hard enough that it bounced slightly.
“Nope.”
He stood abruptly and paced toward the kitchen instead.
Water. He needed water.
Or alcohol.
Or emotional stability.
Unfortunately the apartment seemed fresh out of all three.
Yunho leaned heavily against the kitchen counter staring toward the rain outside his windows.
Because of course it was raining again. Everything about Y/N somehow involved rain now.
Rain outside the bar. Rain after the amusement park. Rain outside her apartment while she cried.
His chest tightened immediately at the memory.
Maybe texting really wasn’t enough. Maybe this entire situation became too fragile for carefully worded messages.
Y/N overthought texts already. He knew that much about her.
If he sent the wrong thing, she would probably reread it fifty times and convince herself he secretly meant something else entirely.
Yunho sighed heavily before grabbing his phone again.
Still no message from her.
And suddenly the idea settled into place quietly but firmly.
He needed to see her.
Not text. Not call.
Actually see her.
The realization hit so clearly that his body moved before he could overthink it again.
Yunho grabbed his keys from the counter immediately.
Then froze halfway toward the door.
Was this insane? Possibly.
Would Y/N think he completely lost his mind?
Also possible.
Still…
The thought of spending another week waiting silently while she convinced herself they should stay apart felt worse.
Much worse.
Yunho shoved his phone and wallet into his jacket pockets before heading for the door again.
Rain waited outside. Cold night air rushed against him immediately as he locked the apartment behind himself.
His heart beat strangely hard while heading toward the parking garage.
Not nervous exactly. Determined maybe.
Because somewhere between a random bar conversation and a lake at four in the morning, Y/N had become important enough that silence no longer felt acceptable. And Yunho wasn’t ready to lose something that felt this special without fighting for it first.
By the time Yunho parked outside Y/N’s apartment building, rain had softened into a light drizzle.
The city looked blurred beneath wet streetlights.
Quiet. Almost sleepy.
His hands stayed resting against the steering wheel while the engine hummed softly underneath him.
And suddenly all the confidence from twenty minutes ago disappeared completely.
What the hell was he actually doing?
Yunho leaned back slowly into the driver’s seat while staring toward Y/N’s building entrance.
Most windows were dark now except for a few scattered lights higher up.
Maybe she was asleep already. Maybe she didn’t want to see him at all. Maybe showing up unannounced after a week of silence would only overwhelm her more.
The thought made him exhale heavily through his nose.
“Great,” he muttered quietly to himself. “Now I’m the creepy guy outside her apartment.”
Rain tapped softly against the windshield.
Yunho stayed where he was.
Just thinking. Or overthinking maybe.
Because honestly, part of him still felt scared too.
Not of rejection exactly. More of hearing Y/N say out loud that this really was over before it ever properly started.
His phone rested in the cupholder beside him.
Still empty. No messages.
Yunho rubbed tiredly at his face before glancing back toward the building again.
One week. One entire week without her voice.
Without her terrible nervous laughs or the way she overexplained things when anxious.
God. He missed her.
The radio played quietly in the background, mostly ignored until the station host suddenly started talking louder.
“And next up,” the host announced brightly, “one of the biggest tracks dominating charts this month…”
Yunho already knew what was coming before the instrumental even started. “Oh, come on.”
Their song flooded through the speakers immediately.
His own voice filled the car seconds later alongside San’s.
Usually hearing their music unexpectedly felt surreal in a fun way. Tonight it made his stomach twist instead. Because suddenly he saw everything through Y/N’s eyes again.
Not Yunho sitting nervously in a car debating whether to ring her doorbell.
Jeong Yunho.
The celebrity. The performer people screamed for. The version of him impossible to separate from the rest now.
Y/N’s words echoed painfully clear in his head.
Your career is part of you too. Your fans matter. They’d be disappointed.
Yunho stared down at his hands silently while the song continued playing around him.
Maybe she was right.
Not about being boring. Never that.
But about how complicated this could become.
He had lived inside fame long enough to understand the ugly parts too.
The scrutiny. The judgment. The way strangers suddenly believed they owned pieces of your personal life.
Y/N already looked overwhelmed after one interaction with coworkers.
What would happen if things became public someday?
Would she hate it? Would it crush her slowly?
The thought alone made guilt flicker uneasily in his chest.
Maybe loving him really would become exhausting eventually.
Outside, rain streaked softly down the windshield while the chorus played quietly through the car speakers.
Yunho listened to his own voice for another few seconds before suddenly laughing softly under his breath.
Because this was ridiculous. All of it.
He was sitting here convincing himself to walk away from someone he cared about because the world might become difficult.
Meanwhile Y/N already spent her entire life carrying things alone.
Work. Expectations. Insecurities people clearly fed into constantly.
And instead of standing beside her through it, he almost turned the car around because he got scared too.
“No,” Yunho muttered quietly.
The word settled something firmly inside his chest.
Because yes, he was famous. Yes, his life was messy and public and complicated. But he was also still just a man sitting in a car at midnight missing a girl.
A girl who laughed like she forgot how beautiful she sounded doing it. A girl who cried because she genuinely thought she wasn’t enough for him.
And Yunho absolutely refused to let her believe that without fighting harder first.
The realization hit cleanly. Enough that suddenly his nerves quieted slightly too.
He turned off the radio.
The sudden silence felt sharp.
Then Yunho grabbed his keys and stepped out into the rain before he could overthink himself out of it again.
Cold air hit instantly. The drizzle dampened his hoodie while he crossed toward the apartment entrance.
Each step made his heartbeat louder.
Yunho shoved his hands into his pockets while entering the building.
Warm air greeted him inside along with faint fluorescent lighting. The elevator ride felt unbearably slow.
His reflection stared back at him from the metal doors.
Tired eyes. Messy dark hair. Nervous energy practically radiating from him.
“You’ve performed in stadiums,” he muttered under his breath. “Get it together.”
Unfortunately his heart ignored that advice entirely.
By the time he reached Y/N’s floor, his pulse already hammered painfully hard against his ribs.
The hallway looked quiet.
Yunho stopped outside her apartment door for a long second.
Okay.
Last chance to leave. Last chance to pretend he never came here.
His brain immediately supplied worst-case scenarios again.
Maybe she’d be angry. Maybe she’d cry again. Maybe she’d ask him to leave.
Still…
Yunho lifted his hand anyway.
Then rang the bell.
Silence followed immediately afterward.
Heavy enough that Yunho suddenly became hyperaware of every sound in the hallway.
His own breathing. The distant elevator hum somewhere below. Rain against windows far away.
For one horrible second he genuinely thought she might not answer.
Then footsteps.
Yunho straightened instinctively.
The lock clicked. And suddenly the door opened.
Y/N stood there staring at him in complete shock.
Soft oversized sweater. Bare face. Hair slightly messy like she had been lying down before answering.
Beautiful. Painfully beautiful.
For a second neither of them spoke.
Y/N blinked slowly. “…Yunho?”
His chest tightened immediately hearing her say his name again after a week of silence.
And standing there in front of her, watching surprise and nervousness flicker across her face all at once, Yunho realized one thing with absolute certainty.
He was not leaving until he fixed this.
Y/N had been miserable for an entire week.
Not dramatic movie miserable. Just quietly, constantly miserable.
The kind that settled heavy beneath her ribs no matter what she did.
Work became worse because now every quiet moment left too much room for thinking. She caught herself staring at her phone during lunch breaks hoping for messages she simultaneously felt too guilty to answer.
At night it became unbearable.
Because every single thing reminded her of Yunho somehow.
Rain against windows. Coffee shops. Late-night train rides.
Even the stupid oversized hoodie he left at her apartment after the amusement park sat folded carefully over the back of her chair because she could not bring herself to wash away the smell of him yet.
Pathetic honestly.
Yuna thought so too.
Not in a cruel way.
More in the deeply exasperated best-friend way. “You’re spiraling again.”
Y/N groaned softly from where she laid half-dead across the couch.
The apartment smelled faintly like takeout and vanilla candles while quiet music played from the radio nearby.
Outside, rain tapped softly against windows again.
Of course it was raining. Everything involving Yunho apparently required dramatic weather now.
Yuna sat cross-legged on the floor eating fries directly from the container while watching Y/N carefully.
“You haven’t stopped sighing for like twenty minutes.”
“I’m suffering.”
“You’re self-inflicting suffering.”
“That’s even worse.”
Yuna snorted softly.
Y/N pulled the blanket higher over her face dramatically. The last week replayed endlessly in her head no matter how hard she tried distracting herself.
Especially the look on Yunho’s face when she walked away from him.
God.
That alone made guilt twist violently in her chest.
Because the truth was painfully simple.
She missed him. A lot.
More than she should after such a short time.
Y/N stared blankly toward the ceiling. “I feel stupid.”
Yuna looked up immediately.
“There she is.”
“What?”
“The emotional honesty.”
Y/N sighed heavily again before finally sitting up slightly on the couch. “I handled everything horribly.”
“You were overwhelmed.”
“I still handled it horribly.”
Yuna stayed quiet while Y/N rubbed tiredly at her face.
“Who cries in front of someone because they’re too famous?” she muttered weakly. “That’s genuinely embarrassing.”
“It’s not embarrassing.”
“It absolutely is.”
“No.” Yuna pointed a fry dramatically toward her. “It’s anxiety.”
Y/N laughed softly under her breath. Unfortunately true.
Still, shame sat ugly inside her chest anyway.
Because now that the panic settled slightly after a week, everything seemed clearer in retrospect.
Yunho never once made her feel lesser. Not once.
If anything, he spent the entire time trying to pull her closer while she kept pushing herself away first.
Y/N swallowed lightly. “I really like him.”
The confession came quietly. Still heavy enough that Yuna’s expression softened immediately.
“I know.”
“No, like…” Y/N looked down toward her hands. “I really, really like him.”
That part scared her too.
Because nothing about this felt casual anymore.
Yuna leaned back against the couch thoughtfully. “Then why are you acting like he’s impossible to love?”
Y/N blinked. “What?”
“You keep talking about him like he’s some unreachable thing.”
“Well…”
“He’s famous,” Yuna interrupted immediately. “Not a god.”
Easy for her to say.
Y/N groaned quietly again. “You didn’t see how people reacted.”
“I don’t need to.” Yuna shrugged slightly. “People are weird about celebrities.”
“It’s more than that.”
Yuna looked at her carefully for a second.
Then sighed softly. “You know you’ve always done this, right?”
Y/N frowned slightly. “Done what?”
“This.” Yuna gestured vaguely toward her entire miserable existence currently wrapped in blankets. “Thinking you’re not enough whenever someone seems better than you in some way.”
The words hit harder than expected. Y/N looked away immediately.
“Which is complete nonsense by the way,” Yuna continued firmly.
“It’s not nonsense.”
“It absolutely is.”
Y/N laughed weakly under her breath. “Easy for you to say.”
“No, listen to me.” Yuna shifted closer slightly. “You did this in university too.”
Y/N already knew where this was going. “Oh my god.”
“The teaching assistant asked you out once and you spent three weeks convinced he pitied you.”
“He wore loafers.”
“That means nothing.”
“He looked emotionally stable.”
Yuna stared at her flatly. “You hear yourself, right?”
Y/N buried part of her face back into the blanket.
Unfortunately Yuna kept going.
“And your ex?”
Immediately Y/N tensed slightly.
Yuna noticed but continued more gently. “You spent that entire relationship trying to become smaller so he wouldn’t leave.”
Silence settled heavily after that.
Because unfortunately…That was true too.
Y/N stared quietly toward the rain outside the windows.
Her ex always seemed shinier somehow.
More social. More ambitious. More certain.
Eventually Y/N started feeling like something dull beside him.
And by the end she apologized constantly just for needing reassurance at all.
Maybe that was why Yunho terrified her so much now.
Because the feelings already ran deeper than she expected.
And losing something this good later would absolutely destroy her.
Yuna nudged her sock-covered foot lightly. “You know what I think?”
Y/N hummed quietly.
“I think you met someone who actually sees you properly for once.” Yuna smiled faintly. “And that scares the hell out of you.”
Y/N looked down again without answering. Because maybe that was true too.
The radio played softly in the background while silence settled more comfortably afterward.
Then suddenly the station host spoke louder between songs.
“And next up,” the host announced brightly, “one of the biggest tracks dominating charts this month…”
Y/N immediately froze.
Yuna noticed instantly. “Oh?”
Then the music started.
Yunho’s voice filled the apartment seconds later.
Warm. Smooth.
Familiar enough now that Y/N’s chest physically tightened hearing it unexpectedly.
Yuna looked deeply entertained immediately. “There’s your man.”
“He’s not my man.”
“You cried over him.”
“That’s unrelated.”
“It’s absolutely related.”
Y/N tried glaring but failed miserably once Yunho’s verse started.
God. His voice really was unfairly beautiful.
And somehow hearing it through apartment speakers instead of headphones made the reality of who he was hit all over again.
Not just Yunho. Ateez’s Yunho.
The man millions listened to.
Yuna leaned dramatically back against the couch. “Okay no, I get it.”
Y/N frowned slightly. “What?”
“If someone sang to me sounding like that?” Yuna placed a hand dramatically over her chest. “I’d listen to them all day long too.”
Heat immediately rose into Y/N’s face. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m right.”
The song continued softly through the apartment.
And despite all the anxiety still sitting inside her chest, warmth slipped through too.
Because under everything else…
She missed him.
His laugh. The way he flicked her forehead whenever she spiraled too hard. The softness in his voice whenever he said her name.
Y/N stared blankly at the rain outside again while Yunho’s voice continued through the speakers.
Then suddenly:
Ding dong.
Both women looked toward the apartment door immediately.
Yuna blinked.
“Oh thank god. Food’s here.”
Right.
They ordered takeout earlier.
Y/N sighed softly before finally untangling herself from the couch blanket.
“I’ll get it.”
“Tell them I love them.”
“You would say that to every delivery driver.”
“Food is important.”
Y/N laughed quietly while heading toward the apartment entrance.
The radio still played softly behind her.
Yunho’s voice followed faintly through the hallway while she unlocked the door.
For some reason her stomach twisted suddenly.
Maybe because she spent the last hour thinking about him nonstop. Maybe because hearing his voice still lingering in the apartment made missing him feel sharper again.
Y/N pulled the door open distractedly.
Then froze completely.
Yunho stood there.
Dark hoodie damp from rain. Hair messy and slightly wet. Breathing faintly uneven like he came upstairs too quickly.
Y/N genuinely forgot how to function for a second.
Shock slammed through her entire body so hard she just stared. “…Yunho?”
He looked almost equally startled seeing her immediately.
Like maybe he expected more time before the confrontation actually happened.
For one painfully awkward second neither moved.
Then suddenly Yunho started talking.
Fast. Very fast.
“Okay hi,” he blurted immediately. “I know showing up here is probably insane and maybe slightly creepy but I couldn’t figure out what to text you and then I kept overthinking everything and honestly I just really needed to see you.”
Y/N blinked rapidly. Rainwater still dripped lightly from his hoodie sleeves onto the hallway floor.
Meanwhile Yunho continued rambling before she could respond.
“And I know you’re scared,” he said quickly. “I get that. I do. But I need you to understand something because I don’t think I explained it properly before.”
His chest rose unevenly beneath the hoodie like he had rehearsed this in his head the entire drive here.
Y/N stayed completely frozen in the doorway listening. Yunho ran a hand anxiously through his damp hair.
“I don’t care about any of that stuff,” he continued softly now. “The fame. The attention. What random people think.” His eyes locked onto hers intensely. “I care about you.”
The words hit her so hard she physically forgot how to breathe for a second.
Inside the apartment, Yuna suddenly made a very loud choking sound from the living room.
Neither noticed. Or maybe both ignored it.
Because Yunho kept looking directly at Y/N like the rest of the world disappeared entirely.
“I care about being with you,” he admitted quietly. “Talking to you. Making you laugh.” His mouth twitched slightly. “Watching you pretend you’re not competitive before losing games dramatically.”
Heat rushed painfully into Y/N’s face immediately.
“And I know this probably sounds insane because we haven’t known each other that long,” Yunho continued, voice rougher now, “but I genuinely feel like something about this is important.”
Y/N’s chest hurt.
Because he sounded so sincere. So open.
And somehow that made everything inside her unravel more.
Yunho swallowed once before speaking again. “I want to know you more.”
The hallway suddenly felt too small around them.
“I want more mornings with you,” he admitted softly. “More nights wandering around the city. More stupid conversations about office birthday parties and claw machines and lakes.”
Not from fear this time. From how deeply he meant every word.
Yunho stepped one tiny bit closer. Rain dampened the edges of his hair while he looked at her almost helplessly now.
“And honestly?” His voice lowered slightly. “I think I’m starting to fall in love with you.”
Silence crashed instantly through Y/N’s entire body.
The confession settled somewhere deep and terrifying inside her chest.
Because the worst part? Some part of her already felt the same.
Behind her, sudden loud movement exploded from the living room.
“Okay!” Yuna shouted dramatically while appearing around the corner holding both their takeout drinks. “I’m gonna leave you two alone before I witness something emotionally devastating.”
Y/N nearly died instantly. “Yuna!”
Yuna winked shamelessly toward her.
Then directly at Yunho too. “Don’t waste this,” she informed him seriously before grabbing her coat from the chair nearby.
Y/N stared at her in betrayal. “You’re abandoning me.”
“You’re welcome.”
Then before Y/N could physically stop her, Yuna slipped past them both through the doorway.
While leaving, she leaned briefly toward Y/N’s ear. “He literally came in the rain to confess. If you fumble this, I’ll haunt you.”
Then she disappeared down the hallway.
Silence returned immediately afterward.
Y/N slowly looked back toward Yunho.
Yunho looked equally mortified now that his emotional speech apparently had an audience.
“I forgot other people exist sometimes,” he muttered weakly.
A laugh escaped Y/N unexpectedly.
The sound visibly relaxed him slightly.
For a second they just stood there staring at each other awkwardly in the apartment doorway.
Rain continued softly outside.
The radio still played faintly somewhere behind them.
And suddenly Yunho looked nervous. Actually nervous.
The realization alone melted something inside Y/N completely.
Because this beautiful impossible person really stood outside her apartment looking terrified she might reject him again.
Y/N swallowed softly before stepping slightly aside from the doorway.
“You…” She laughed weakly again trying to steady herself. “You can come inside.”
Relief flashed visibly across Yunho’s face so quickly it almost hurt to witness.
Then quietly, carefully, he stepped into her apartment.
And somehow that single moment already felt like the beginning of something important.
The second the apartment door closed behind Yunho, Y/N suddenly became painfully aware of everything around her.
The blanket still thrown messily across the couch. The half-finished tea on the coffee table.
The stack of work folders near the kitchen counter she forgot to put away.
The tiny apartment itself.
Too small. Too cramped. Too ordinary.
Y/N’s chest tightened immediately.
Because suddenly she imagined what his world probably looked like instead.
Luxury apartments. Designer furniture. Huge windows overlooking the city.
Places that looked polished and expensive and worthy of someone like him.
Meanwhile her apartment looked lived in.
Warm maybe. But undeniably small.
Y/N rubbed awkwardly at her hands while Yunho quietly slipped off his damp shoes near the entrance.
“You can just…” She gestured vaguely toward nowhere. “Sit wherever.”
Excellent. Very normal sentence.
Yunho looked up toward her immediately, still slightly damp from the rain, dark hair falling messily over his forehead.
And somehow that only made her more nervous.
“Oh my god,” she blurted suddenly. “Do you want tea?”
Yunho blinked once. “What?”
“Or coffee. Or water.” She immediately started moving toward the kitchen. “I have ramen too if you’re hungry and there’s leftover takeout but it’s probably cold now and—”
“Y/N.”
She stopped immediately.
Yunho crossed the small apartment space in two quiet steps before gently catching her hand.
Warm fingers wrapped softly around hers.
Then his thumb caressed slowly across her knuckles once.
The tiny gesture nearly unraveled her instantly.
Y/N looked down at their hands instead of his face because suddenly breathing felt difficult again.
“I only want to talk to you,” Yunho said quietly.
The softness in his voice made her chest ache.
Y/N swallowed lightly.
“You don’t need to panic.”
“I’m not panicking.”
“You offered me ramen like you’re being held hostage.”
Heat immediately rushed into her cheeks.
Yunho smiled faintly.
There it was again. That soft expression that always made him seem more like just Yunho than the celebrity version everyone else saw.
His thumb brushed across her hand again gently.
“You’re overthinking right now,” he said quietly.
Y/N looked away instantly. “No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
Caught. Again.
Yunho tilted his head slightly trying to meet her eyes. “You’re thinking about how your apartment looks to me.”
Silence.
Because unfortunately that was exactly what she had been thinking.
Y/N laughed weakly under her breath. “You’re really annoying.”
“And I’m right.”
Unfortunately true.
Yunho stepped slightly closer then. “Y/N.”
The way he said her name so gently made her finally look up.
And immediately regret it.
Because he was looking at her so warmly that tears almost embarrassingly threatened again.
“I don’t care how big your apartment is.”
His voice stayed calm. Certain.
“And honestly?” His mouth curved softly upward. “It feels like you.”
The sentence hit somewhere deep inside her chest.
Yunho squeezed her hand lightly before guiding her toward the couch.
“Come sit.”
For once, Y/N let herself be led without arguing.
They settled beside each other on the couch quietly.
Close enough that their knees brushed lightly.
The apartment suddenly felt too small in a completely different way now.
Not embarrassing.,Intimate.
Rain continued softly outside while the radio still played faintly from the kitchen.
Y/N stared down at her hands folded nervously in her lap while Yunho looked at her for a second longer before speaking.
“This week sucked.”
The honesty startled a soft laugh out of her immediately.
Yunho smiled slightly at the sound.
“I’m serious,” he continued. “I kept checking my phone like an idiot every five minutes.”
Guilt twisted sharply inside her chest.,“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize yet.” He leaned back slightly into the couch. “I wanna explain properly first.”
Y/N nodded quietly.
Yunho rubbed his palms lightly against his jeans before continuing.
“I haven’t felt a connection this strong with someone in a really long time.”
His voice softened slightly afterward. “Honestly maybe ever.”
Y/N’s breath caught immediately.
Yunho looked down briefly before laughing softly under his breath.
“You make me nervous enough that I wrote like six love songs this week.”
“What?”
He groaned quietly. “Don’t focus on that part.”
Heat rushed into her face instantly.
Yunho smiled weakly before continuing more seriously.,“When I’m with you, things feel…” He searched briefly for words. “Easy.”
The word settled softly between them.
“Not because everything is perfect,” he clarified quickly. “You overthink. I overtalk. We’re both kinda disasters emotionally.” That made her laugh quietly again. “But being around you feels real.”
Y/N looked down quickly before he noticed how much those words affected her.
Too late probably.
Yunho shifted slightly closer on the couch.
“I need you to understand something though.”
She looked up again slowly.
“The person you met behind that bar?” His eyes stayed locked gently onto hers. “That’s me.”
Emotion tightened painfully in her throat immediately.
“Not some fake version,” he continued softly. “Not a character.”
Y/N listened silently while rain tapped softly against the windows around them.
“I know the famous part looks overwhelming,” Yunho admitted. “And sometimes honestly it is.” He smiled faintly without humor. “But it doesn’t change who I actually am.”
The conviction in his voice made something inside her slowly loosen.
“I’m still the same guy who lost his mind over a shark-cat plushie,” he continued gently. “The same guy who lied about freezing lake water.”
“You absolutely did lie.”
“I stand by it.”
Y/N laughed softly despite herself.
Yunho’s expression warmed immediately at the sound.
“There she is.”
Heat rose lightly into her cheeks again.
Yunho reached for her hand once more, intertwining their fingers carefully this time.
“And if your biggest fear is things becoming public someday…” He shrugged slightly. “I’ve had relationships before.”
Y/N blinked slightly. “You have?”
“Y/N.” He laughed quietly. “I’m twenty-seven.”
Right.
That made sense.
Still, hearing it out loud weirdly made him feel more human again.
“Some were public,” he continued calmly. “Some weren’t.” His thumb brushed slowly against her hand. “And honestly? Fans usually just want us to be happy.”
Y/N looked doubtful immediately.
Yunho noticed. “I’m serious.”
“But what about the crazy people online?”
“Oh, those exist.” He sighed dramatically. “Unfortunately.”
That startled another laugh from her.
“But there are ways to keep things private too,” he continued more gently. “Ways to protect what matters.”
What matters. The wording alone made her chest ache.
Yunho looked at her quietly afterward.
Openly.
Like he genuinely wanted her to understand every single word. “I like you,” he said softly.
“I want to keep seeing you.” His fingers tightened slightly around hers. “If you want that too.”
Silence settled softly around them afterward.
Y/N stared down at their joined hands in her lap.
And somehow that terrified her almost more than before.
Because Yunho kept giving her opportunities to run.
And she kept wanting to stay instead.
Y/N swallowed lightly.
Then quietly: “Do you really want someone like me?”
The second the words left her mouth, Yunho’s expression changed.
Not annoyed. Sad.
Like hearing her talk about herself that way physically hurt him.
Slowly, carefully, he lifted one hand toward her face.
Warm fingers brushing softly along her cheek before tilting her head upward gently.
Y/N’s breath caught immediately.
“Someone like you?” he repeated quietly.
She looked away instinctively.
Yunho guided her face back gently again.
“No,” he murmured. “Look at me.”
Y/N forced herself to.
And immediately melted slightly seeing the softness in his expression.
“When I look at you,” Yunho said quietly, “I see someone who cares deeply about people even when they don’t deserve it.”
Emotion tightened painfully in her chest.
“I see someone funny.” His mouth curved softly upward. “Someone who makes every room feel warmer once she relaxes enough to stop apologizing for existing.”
Tears already threatened again.
Yunho brushed his thumb gently beneath one eye before they could fall.
“I see someone strong enough to keep going even while exhausted all the time.”
The tenderness in his voice nearly destroyed her.
“And honestly?” He smiled faintly. “I think you’re beautiful.”
Y/N’s breath shook softly.
“Especially when you laugh,” he added quietly. “Or when you get competitive over games even though you suck at them.”
That made her laugh through the tears immediately.
“There she is,” Yunho whispered again.
His forehead rested lightly against hers afterward.
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