Summary: Y/N has a habit - her schedules are always set, always pristine, always clear. Namjoon has a habit of doing things he doesn't like - particularly dinner with colleagues. But he wants to do one thing, and that is to hunt down prey.
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hybrid
Warnings: angst, abuse (please tell me if I missed anything out!)
[looking at people younger than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at people older than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at myself] its over
Summary: Y/N is someone who never planned to adopt a hybrid—until she meets Jungkook, a withdrawn rabbit hybrid feared by everyone at the shelter. She brings him home thinking it’ll be a quiet fresh start, but strange signs soon appear: a scar on his neck, panic around cars, and someone suddenly digging into his records.
When threats begin to surface, Y/N realises Jungkook wasn’t simply abandoned—he was taken, tracked, and never meant to stay free. With no power or connections, she’s forced to fight in the only way she can: by refusing to give him back, and protecting him with everything she has.
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hybrid
Warnings: angst, abuse, smut (I'll add on more when I write more!)
Not the comfortable kind of quiet, either — the kind that felt like the world was holding its breath.
You didn’t force Jungkook out of his room. You didn’t hover by his bed, didn’t peer under blankets, didn’t talk to him like he was fragile glass. You simply… existed in the apartment the way you always did. Soft footsteps. Gentle sounds. The familiar rhythm of a home that didn’t demand performance.
But your mind would not let go of the image from the store.
The wolf hybrid.
The way his gaze had flicked to the carrier. The way Jungkook had gone so still you thought he’d stopped breathing.
It hadn’t been the fear of a stranger.
It had been the fear of a type.
Or worse — the fear of someone he recognised.
You had barely managed to get your groceries and supplies put away when your phone buzzed.
A blocked number.
You frowned. You almost ignored it.
Almost.
Then your lawyer instincts whispered: Don’t.
You answered. “Hello?”
“Ms L/N Y/N?” a female voice asked, brisk but not unkind.
“Yes.”
“This is Jung Haneul from Homes for Springs.”
Your spine straightened. “Hi. Is everything alright?”
“We have a standard post-adoption check-in,” she said. “It’s earlier than usual, so I wanted to call personally.”
Earlier.
That word dug under your skin.
“Earlier because…?” you asked carefully.
There was a pause, as if she was measuring what she could say over the phone.
Then, “Because Jungkook’s file was flagged.”
Your stomach dropped. “Flagged for what?”
“Not for you,” she corrected quickly. “For him.”
You pressed a hand to the countertop. “Okay. What does that mean?”
“It means someone in the system accessed his adoption record within the last twenty-four hours.”
Your blood chilled.
“Who?”
Haneul exhaled softly. “That’s the problem. It wasn’t one of ours.”
You stared at the wall like it might give you answers. “How is that possible?”
“We’re investigating,” she said. Then her voice lowered. “Ms L/N, I need you to listen carefully. Jungkook was classified as ‘special handling’ before he was transferred to us.”
Your grip tightened. “Transferred from where?”
Another pause.
Then, “A private facility.”
The words turned your mouth dry.
Private facility. Not shelter. Not rescue. Not rehabilitation.
The kind of place you fought against in court.
The kind of place with names buried under corporate layers and “donations” and “research grants.” Places that called hybrids specimens and assets instead of beings.
Your pulse hammered.
“What kind of private facility?” you forced out.
Haneul’s voice went even quieter. “We were told it was medical. But the paperwork was inconsistent. That’s why he ended up here instead of being adopted through the usual channels.”
Your throat tightened. “So you didn’t know what he went through.”
“No,” she admitted. “And he wouldn’t speak. Even with specialists. Even with calming support. He refused human form for weeks. He refused food from hands. He refused anyone near his ears.”
Your thoughts flashed back to yesterday — the way he had flinched at your lock clicking. The way he’d looked guilty after drinking water.
Your chest ached like something was squeezing it.
“What do you need from me?” you asked, voice steadier than you felt.
Haneul hesitated. “First, how is he? Has he eaten? Has he shown any aggression? Any biting? Excessive fear responses?”
“He’s scared,” you said honestly. “But he’s eating. He’s… learning.”
A soft exhale on the other end. Relief.
“Good,” Haneul said. “Second — and this is the important part — do not bring him outside unnecessarily for the next week.”
Your heart sank. “Because someone might—?”
“Yes,” she said bluntly. “If his record was accessed, there’s a possibility someone is looking for him.”
You closed your eyes.
The wolf hybrid at the store.
Your stomach churned.
Haneul continued, “If you see anyone unusual, any strangers lingering, any vehicles following you, you contact the shelter and the Hybrid Association hotline immediately.”
You swallowed. “I work for the Association.”
Haneul paused. “Then you know how serious this is.”
You did.
Too well.
“Send me everything you can,” you said, voice hardening. “His file, the transfer papers, everything you said was inconsistent.”
“I can’t send full documents due to confidentiality,” Haneul said carefully. “But I can send summaries and the flagged access report. Also—”
You held your breath.
“There’s something else,” she said. “The flagged access came with a search query.”
Your stomach turned. “What query?”
Haneul’s voice dropped. “It was looking for ownership tags.”
Your blood went cold.
Ownership tags were illegal in your district.
But illegal didn’t mean nonexistent. It meant hidden.
It meant someone had once marked him.
“Ms L/N,” Haneul said, firm now. “Is Jungkook wearing anything from the shelter? Collar, tag, band—?”
“No.” Your voice came out strained. “He’s not wearing anything.”
“Good,” she said, relief sharp. “Keep it that way. If he has any microtag or subdermal marker, do not attempt removal yourself. Bring him to an approved clinic.”
“I understand.”
Haneul hesitated again. “And Ms L/N… please don’t blame yourself. You did the right thing adopting him. You got him out.”
You swallowed hard. “I’ll keep him safe.”
“I know,” she said softly. “That’s why I called.”
The line clicked off.
You stood there in silence, phone still pressed to your ear, heartbeat loud in your skull.
Then you slowly lowered the phone.
And turned your head toward the hallway.
Jungkook’s door was cracked open.
A sliver.
Just enough to show one white ear peeking out.
He had heard.
Of course he had heard. Hybrids had better hearing than humans ever wanted to acknowledge.
You kept your voice gentle. “Jungkook… I’m not mad. Okay?”
The ear flicked.
You stepped closer, stopping a safe distance away. “You’re not in trouble. No one is taking you back.”
Silence.
Then the door opened a fraction more.
Two big eyes stared at you from the darkness.
Your chest tightened painfully at the way they looked.
Not just scared.
Ashamed.
As if being wanted by the wrong people was somehow his fault.
You crouched down slowly.
“I’m going to ask you something,” you whispered. “And you don’t have to answer with words. You can just… show me, okay?”
Jungkook didn’t move.
“Yesterday,” you continued, carefully, “at the store… you saw someone.”
His ears flattened.
Your heart clenched.
“That person made you scared,” you said. “Not normal scared. The kind of scared that comes from memory.”
Jungkook’s body trembled — a tiny, barely visible shake.
You kept your tone steady, as calm as you sounded in court when you were trying to keep a victim from breaking.
“Were you taken from somewhere, Jungkook?” you asked softly. “Somewhere bad?”
For a long moment, he didn’t move.
Then he did something that made your breath catch.
He lifted his paw… and tapped the floor once.
Yes.
Your stomach twisted.
You swallowed hard. “Did they hurt you?”
He froze.
Then his paw tapped again.
Yes.
Your vision blurred for a moment.
You blinked hard, forcing yourself not to cry in front of him — not because tears were bad, but because you didn’t want him to think he had to comfort you.
“Okay,” you whispered, voice rough. “Okay… thank you for telling me.”
Jungkook stared at you like he was waiting for punishment.
You shook your head immediately. “No,” you said firmly. “No. Not you. Not ever.”
His eyes widened slightly.
You took a careful breath. “Do you have something on you? Something they used to track you? A tag? A marker?”
Jungkook’s ears twitched.
Then slowly, he shifted his body.
Turned.
And with clumsy bunny movement, he lowered his head and pushed his fur aside near the base of his neck.
You froze.
Because for a second you saw it — not clearly, but enough.
A faint line.
A small scar.
Old.
He looked back at you, eyes glossy.
Your throat went tight. “Did they put something under your skin?”
Jungkook didn’t tap yes this time.
He just stared.
And that was answer enough.
You forced yourself to stay calm. “Okay. We’re going to the clinic.”
His whole body stiffened.
“No,” you said quickly. “Not like before. Not cages. Not straps. It’s a safe clinic. Approved. They help hybrids. They won’t hurt you.”
Jungkook’s breath came faster.
You reached out slowly, palm up. “Come here. Please.”
He hesitated, then hopped forward — just a little — enough for his nose to touch your fingers.
You stroked gently between his eyes, then down the base of his ears.
He trembled but didn’t retreat.
“You’re so brave,” you whispered, and the words slipped out before you could stop them.
Jungkook’s ears twitched like he didn’t understand how that could be true.
You swallowed. “I’m going to make a call, alright? You stay here. I’ll be right back.”
You stood slowly, keeping your movements gentle, and walked back to the kitchen.
Then you dialled a number you hadn’t used in months.
A clinic contact.
A favour you’d earned the hard way.
The call picked up almost immediately.
“Dr Min’s office.”
“This is L/N Y/N,” you said, voice crisp. “Hybrid Association. I need an urgent scan for possible subdermal marker removal. Prey hybrid. Rabbit.”
A beat.
Then the nurse’s voice changed. “Understood. Are they in immediate danger?”
“Yes,” you said simply.
“Come in within the hour,” she said. “Use the back entrance. Less attention.”
“Thank you.”
You ended the call, hands shaking slightly.
When you turned back toward the hallway, Jungkook was no longer in his doorway.
Your heart stopped.
“Jungkook?” you called softly, instantly scanning the apartment.
No response.
A cold dread crawled up your spine.
You moved down the hall quickly, checking your bedroom, the bathroom—
Nothing.
Then you noticed the front door.
The lock was still engaged.
He couldn’t have left.
You exhaled shakily.
Then you spotted movement in the living room.
Jungkook was under the coffee table again — but not curled in his towel nest.
He had dragged his shelter blanket and made a tight burrow.
A bunker.
Like he was preparing for a siege.
Your chest ached.
You crouched near the table, keeping space. “Hey… I’m here.”
His eyes glimmered from the shadows.
You softened your voice. “We have to go, Jungkook. Not for long. Just to check if there’s something under your skin.”
He didn’t move.
You swallowed. “I won’t let anyone touch you without your permission.”
His nose twitched.
“And if you don’t want to be in human form, you don’t have to,” you added. “You can stay rabbit. We’ll keep the blanket. You can hide.”
A pause.
Then, slowly, Jungkook nudged the blanket opening wider.
A tiny invitation.
Your throat tightened again.
You reached in gently, letting him sniff your hand first.
He pressed his head into your palm.
Permission.
So you lifted him carefully, wrapping him in his blanket like a cocoon.
He stayed tense — but he didn’t fight.
You carried him to the door, grabbed your bag, checked the peephole twice, then opened the door.
The corridor was empty.
Still, you moved fast, heart pounding, protective instincts roaring in your blood.
In the lift, Jungkook stayed pressed against you.
You whispered against his ear, voice steady. “You’re okay. I’m here.”
His tiny paws gripped your sleeve.
Hard.
By the time you reached the car park, your nerves were raw.
But you didn’t see anyone waiting.
No suspicious vehicles.
No wolf hybrid.
Still, you placed Jungkook in the passenger seat, nestled between your legs again, blanket tucked securely.
He peeked out just enough to watch.
You started the car.
And as you pulled out of the lot, your phone buzzed again.
This time it wasn’t blocked.
It was your supervisor.
You ignored it.
Your phone buzzed again.
And again.
Then a message flashed across your screen:
Association Emergency Briefing. Attendance required. Hybrid trafficking sweep. We have an ID match.
Your blood ran cold.
ID match.
You tightened your grip on the steering wheel.
Jungkook made a small sound, like he sensed your shift.
You swallowed hard, voice barely a whisper.
“Jungkook… I think the case I’ve been working on…”
You glanced at him.
His big eyes stared back at you, unblinking.
“…might be about you.”
And in that moment, you realised something with awful clarity:
You hadn’t just adopted a hybrid.
You had adopted evidence.
A target.
And maybe—
A key to bringing down the kind of facility that had ruined him.
But only if you could keep him alive long enough to testify.
Only if you could keep him safe from the people who still believed he belonged to them.
The city lights blurred past as you drove.
And in the passenger seat, Jungkook curled tighter into his blanket.
Summary: Y/N has a habit - her schedules are always set, always pristine, always clear. Namjoon has a habit of doing things he doesn't like - particularly dinner with colleagues. But he wants to do one thing, and that is to hunt down prey.
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hybrid
Warnings: angst, abuse, smut
Taglist: @lovejkmilitarywife @forevermoon1306
WC: 1630
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The apartment above the bookstore breathed with you.
It always had.
The floorboards remembered your steps even when you didn’t walk them. The walls held warmth long after the kettle downstairs had cooled. Even now, wrapped in layers of blankets, your body aching in ways that felt too intimate and too exposed, the space seemed to adjust itself around you—shadows drawn softer, light filtered thinner through the curtains Mr. Han had half-closed hours ago.
Your room smelled faintly of dried lavender and old paper. Of safety.
You shifted, a small sound slipping from your throat before you could stop it. Heat pooled uncomfortably beneath your skin, every sensation sharpened to an edge. The blankets felt too heavy and not heavy enough all at once. You kicked one aside, then pulled it back moments later when the air felt too cold.
You hated this limbo.
Not sick enough to be unconscious. Not well enough to pretend.
A chair scraped softly against the floor.
You hadn’t heard him come in.
Mr. Han sat beside your bed, glasses pushed up into his hair, sleeves rolled. He didn’t speak at first. He never rushed you when you were like this. Instead, he rested one hand on the mattress near your hip—grounding, familiar.
“You’re burning up,” he said quietly, pressing the back of his fingers to your wrist. His touch was cool. Steady. “Did you take the medicine?”
You nodded, eyes closed. “Earlier.”
He hummed, neither satisfied nor disappointed. He reached for the damp cloth resting on the tray and gently wiped your temple, the motion practiced from years of doing this without asking permission.
You leaned into it instinctively.
“I’m sorry,” you murmured.
The cloth stilled.
“For what?” he asked.
“For missing work. For worrying you. For—” Your voice caught, frustration rising hot and fast. “For being like this.”
Mr. Han sighed, long and slow, the sound heavy with patience. “You’ve been ‘like this’ since the day I met you,” he said gently. “And you’ve apologised for it every time.”
You swallowed. “I don’t mean to be difficult.”
“You aren’t,” he said firmly. “You’re human. Complicated. Exhausted. And stubborn as hell.”
A weak huff of laughter escaped you before dissolving into a cough. He waited it out, hand steady at your back, thumb pressing lightly in slow circles until your breathing evened again.
“You remember when you were twelve?” he said suddenly.
You frowned, eyes still closed. “Which time?”
“The winter you refused to rest because you didn’t want to ‘burden’ me,” he said, fondness threading through his voice. “You collapsed between the poetry shelves.”
Your lips twitched. “You carried me upstairs.”
“You were all elbows and attitude,” he replied. “Kept apologising even while half-conscious.”
You felt your throat tighten. “You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to,” he said simply. “I still do.”
Silence settled between you, thick but gentle.
Downstairs, the bookstore clock chimed the hour. The sound travelled up through the walls, familiar enough to make your chest ache.
Mr. Han reached for the mug on the tray and brought it to your lips. “Drink.”
You did, small sips at a time. The tea was warm, gingered just right, sweetened with honey the way you liked it. He always remembered.
“Someone came by,” he said quietly, not looking at you.
Your fingers twitched against the blanket. “I know.”
He glanced at you then. “You heard?”
“No,” you admitted. “But I felt it.”
That earned a pause.
“You always do,” he said.
You opened your eyes slowly, staring at the ceiling. “Was he… upset?”
Mr. Han considered the question carefully. “He was worried,” he said at last. “More than he realised.”
You turned your head slightly, the movement making the room tilt. “Did you scare him off?”
A corner of his mouth lifted. “I asked him what he wanted with my daughter.”
Your chest tightened painfully. “You didn’t have to—”
“Yes,” he interrupted gently. “I did.”
You closed your eyes again. “What did he say?”
“That he wanted to respect you,” Mr. Han replied. “Even if that meant waiting.”
Something fragile cracked open inside your chest.
“And you?” you asked softly. “Do you believe him?”
Mr. Han reached out, brushing your hair back from your damp forehead. His touch was slow, deliberate, weighted with years of choosing you every day.
“I believe people tell the truth in moments they don’t benefit from,” he said. “He gained nothing by standing there and answering me.”
You breathed out shakily.
“You don’t owe him anything,” he continued. “Not explanations. Not access. Not pieces of yourself you’re still holding together.”
“I know,” you whispered.
“But,” he added gently, “you don’t owe yourself isolation either.”
The words settled deep.
You turned onto your side, facing him, eyes heavy but intent. “What if knowing me… changes how he sees the world?”
Mr. Han didn’t answer immediately. He squeezed your hand instead.
“Then that’s his work to do,” he said. “Not yours.”
Your vision blurred. “What if he leaves?”
He met your gaze steadily. “Then you will survive,” he said. “You always do. But you won’t break just because someone else couldn’t stay.”
Tears slipped free before you could stop them, hot and silent. Mr. Han leaned forward and pulled you gently into his chest, careful of your overheated skin. His arms wrapped around you, solid and sure.
You breathed him in—old paper, soap, home.
“I’m tired,” you murmured into his sweater.
“I know,” he replied, kissing the crown of your head. “Rest.”
When he finally eased you back against the pillows, the room felt warmer—not suffocating, but held.
As he stood to leave, you reached out weakly. “Mr. Han?”
He turned back immediately. “Yes, love?”
“Thank you,” you said. “For choosing me.”
He smiled, eyes soft behind his glasses. “I never had a choice.”
After he left, you lay there listening to the quiet hum of the building, the steady rhythm of the city beyond the walls. Your phone sat untouched on the bedside table, screen dark.
For now, you let yourself rest in the space between knowing and saying, held together by the quiet certainty that whatever came next, you would not face it alone.
Sleep was the kind that pulled you under and kept you there, but the kind that drifted in and out, carrying fragments of sound and memory with it. The radiator clicked softly. Somewhere below, Mr. Han moved through the shop, the muted scrape of a chair, the thud of a book being set down too firmly. Familiar noises. Anchors.
Your body burned and cooled in turns, caught between opposing sensations that never quite balanced out. You shifted again, sheets tangling around your legs, frustration pooling low in your chest.
Too aware.
Too awake.
You cracked your eyes open to the dim room. The light outside had changed—afternoon bleeding slowly into evening, the grey softened by the first hint of dusk. Shadows stretched longer across the walls, bending around the furniture like they belonged there.
A soft knock.
Not downstairs.
Here.
“Y/N?” Mr. Han’s voice came through the door, lower now. Careful. “May I?”
“You don’t have to ask,” you murmured.
The door opened quietly. He stepped in carrying a fresh blanket and a small bowl balanced in one hand. Steam curled faintly from it.
“Soup,” he said. “Just a few spoonfuls. Don’t argue.”
You huffed weakly. “I wasn’t going to.”
He raised an eyebrow. He helped you sit up, moving with the ease of someone who had done this countless times. The pillows were adjusted just right. The blanket tucked carefully around your shoulders. He lifted the spoon and waited.
You took a sip.
It was warm. Salty. Comforting in a way that had nothing to do with taste. He set the bowl aside and reached for your wrist again, fingers warm this time. He frowned slightly—not alarmed, but attentive.
“You’re riding it out,” he said. “That’s good.”
You stared at the blanket, fingers picking at a loose thread. “I hate that you always know.”
“I raised you,” he said gently. “Of course I know.”
The word settled into you—raised—heavy and grounding all at once.
“Did you ever regret it?” you asked suddenly, the question slipping out before you could catch it.
Mr. Han stilled. “Regret what?”
“Taking me in,” you whispered. “Everything that came after.”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he set the bowl down and pulled a chair closer, sitting so his knees brushed the edge of the bed. He took your hand fully this time, his grip firm and warm.
“Listen to me,” he said quietly. “I didn’t save you. I didn’t rescue you. I chose you. Every day. And I would make that choice again without hesitation.”
Your throat tightened painfully.
“You didn’t make my life harder,” he continued. “You made it fuller.”
Tears burned behind your eyes. You turned your face away, embarrassed by the sudden intensity of it all.
He didn’t let go. “You don’t have to be strong in this house,” he added softly. “You never did.”
The words sank deep, loosening something you’d been holding taut for far too long.
Your breathing stuttered once, twice—then evened out as exhaustion finally crept back in, heavier now, more insistent. Mr. Han squeezed your hand gently.
“Sleep,” he said. “I’ll be downstairs.”
“You always are,” you murmured, eyes fluttering closed.
He smiled faintly. “Exactly.”
As he stood to leave, your phone buzzed softly on the bedside table.
Once.
You didn’t open your eyes.
The sound faded into the quiet, leaving only the steady hum of the building and the faint murmur of Mr. Han moving below. Somewhere between waking and sleep, the image of Namjoon surfaced unbidden—not sharp, not painful, just… present.
You didn’t reach for the phone. But you didn’t turn it face-down either.
Summary: Y/N is someone who never planned to adopt a hybrid—until she meets Jungkook, a withdrawn rabbit hybrid feared by everyone at the shelter. She brings him home thinking it’ll be a quiet fresh start, but strange signs soon appear: a scar on his neck, panic around cars, and someone suddenly digging into his records.
When threats begin to surface, Y/N realises Jungkook wasn’t simply abandoned—he was taken, tracked, and never meant to stay free. With no power or connections, she’s forced to fight in the only way she can: by refusing to give him back, and protecting him with everything she has.
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hybrid
Warnings: angst, abuse, smut (I'll add on more when I write more!)
You woke up to the sound of tiny claws skittering across hardwood.
Your eyes snapped open instantly — the kind of reflex you built from years of reading alarming case files and expecting the worst.
Then you saw it.
A white blur darting across your bedroom floor, blanket trailing behind it like a dramatic train.
You stared.
Jungkook stopped mid-run, turned to face you, and thumped his back foot on the floor as if you were the one being disruptive.
You blinked again. “Good morning to you too.”
He huffed — a tiny, offended sound — and hopped over to your bedside table.
Then he stared at your phone.
Then he stared at you.
Then he nudged the phone with his nose.
Your brows furrowed. “What— you want me to… check my phone?”
Jungkook nudged it again, harder.
You stared, then slowly picked it up.
No notifications. No alarms. No messages from Luna.
You looked back down. “What do you want?”
Jungkook stared for a long moment.
Then he hopped off the table and went straight to your door, pushing it open wider with his head.
He paused in the doorway and looked back at you with a very clear expression that translated to:
Move.
You stared, half amused, half bewildered. “Are you… telling me to get up?”
Jungkook thumped his foot again.
You laughed, rubbing your eyes. “Bossy rabbit.”
But you got up anyway.
When you stepped into the hallway, you found your living room had been… rearranged.
Not massively.
But enough that you stood there, processing it like you had walked into a crime scene.
Your carefully placed towel nest had been dragged closer to the balcony window. The water bowl had been nudged two inches to the left. The apple slice you left overnight had vanished.
And on your couch—
Jungkook’s shelter blanket had been spread out neatly, like he’d claimed it.
You stared. “So you live on the couch now.”
Jungkook hopped onto the couch cushion with effort, then flopped dramatically onto the blanket like a royal being presented to his throne.
You sighed, smiling despite yourself. “Alright, Your Highness.”
That earned you another huff.
You padded into the kitchen, grabbed a glass of water for yourself, then carefully prepped breakfast for him — small portions again, safe and simple. Greens, a little fruit, and you made a mental note to research proper nutrition for rabbit hybrids.
You placed the dish near the couch.
Jungkook sniffed it, then grabbed a piece and ate it while staring at you like you were being evaluated.
You raised your hands. “Okay, okay. I’ll do better next time.”
He chewed slowly.
Then, when you turned toward the hallway, he followed you — hopping at your heels like a shadow.
That was when it hit you.
He wasn’t just exploring.
He was… tracking you.
Not in a threatening way.
In a “where you go, I go” way.
Your throat tightened unexpectedly.
Hybrids often formed attachments quickly when they finally had stability — but this was day one. Barely.
You crouched down gently. “Hey, Jungkook… you don’t have to follow me everywhere.”
He stared.
Then he hopped forward and pressed his head into your shin.
A soft, deliberate push.
Your breath caught.
“Okay,” you whispered. “Okay. If that’s what you need.”
You took your phone back out and sent an email to your supervisor.
Taking leave for personal reasons. Three days.
You hesitated, then added:
Will be contactable for emergencies only.
Then you sent it before you could change your mind.
When you looked down again, Jungkook was sitting by your feet like a loyal guard, ears upright, eyes half-lidded.
He looked… calmer today.
Still cautious.
But calmer.
“Alright,” you murmured. “Today we do things properly.”
You started with the spare bedroom.
You opened the door and stepped aside, offering him first entry.
Jungkook peered in from behind your leg, then hopped forward a few steps, nose twitching.
He sniffed the boxes. The treadmill. The corner shelves.
His ears flattened as he reached the closet — as if the dark space bothered him.
He backed away instantly, body tense.
You immediately stepped between him and the closet. “Okay. Not that. We don’t go there yet.”
He watched you warily.
You softened your voice. “This room is yours. But it doesn’t have to be this room yet. We can change it. We can make it safe.”
Jungkook stared at you for a long time.
Then he hopped into the middle of the room and thumped his foot once.
Not angry this time.
Almost like a… decision.
You blinked. “You’re claiming it?”
He huffed, then hopped onto the bed with a clumsy little jump that barely succeeded. He ended up half on, half off, kicking his feet until he flopped onto the mattress.
You stared, then laughed quietly. “Okay. Bed rabbit.”
You spent the next hour clearing the room carefully, moving slowly so you wouldn’t overwhelm him. You stacked boxes into a corner, folded the treadmill away completely, and opened the curtains to let in soft light. You placed his blankets on the bed, then added one of your softest throws.
Jungkook watched every movement.
Every time you lifted something, his ears flicked.
Every time something scraped the floor, his body tensed.
You kept talking to him — not because you thought he needed conversation, but because you wanted him to know your voice meant normal.
“This box is just old books.”
“That’s the treadmill. It’s boring, I promise.”
“These are spare bedsheets. You can choose later.”
When you finally finished, the room looked less like storage and more like a space someone could breathe in.
You crouched by the bed. “What do you think?”
Jungkook hopped onto the blanket pile and turned in a circle. Then he shoved his face into the blankets and dug like he was making a burrow.
You smiled. “That’s a yes.”
You weren’t sure if taking him out on day two was too much — but you also knew you needed supplies, and waiting too long might make the first trip even harder.
So you compromised.
You chose a quiet pet-and-hybrid supply store that opened early, before crowds. You took your time preparing: a carrier lined with his blanket, a second blanket to cover the top so he could hide, and a small pouch of food just in case he needed comfort.
When you brought the carrier out, Jungkook immediately went rigid.
He stared at it like it was an enemy.
You knelt down. “Hey. This isn’t a cage. This is… a safe box. Just for the trip.”
Jungkook didn’t move.
So you didn’t force him.
You sat on the floor, placed the carrier beside you, and waited.
After a long minute, Jungkook crept forward and sniffed it.
Then he sniffed you.
Then he nudged the carrier again, like he was measuring its honesty.
You held your breath.
Slowly, he hopped inside on his own — but not before turning around to glare at you like he was doing you a huge favour.
You exhaled shakily, relief hitting you so hard it almost made you dizzy.
“Thank you,” you whispered.
Jungkook huffed.
The drive was easier than the day before.
He still trembled when the engine started, but when you placed your hand on the carrier through the blanket, he pressed closer to the warmth, breathing faster but not panicking.
When you arrived, you carried the box carefully, keeping your body between him and strangers.
The store was quiet, bright, clean.
Still — new smells made him restless. You could feel the carrier shift as he moved inside.
You kept your voice soft. “We’re just getting things for your room. Then we go home.”
Jungkook made a faint sound — not quite agreeing, but listening.
You started with essentials: bedding materials, chew-safe toys, a softer water dish that wouldn’t tip easily, a small hideaway tunnel. You paused often, checking on him.
At one point, you felt the carrier shake harder.
You stopped immediately, stepping into a quieter aisle.
“Too much?” you whispered.
No response — but the shaking slowed when you lowered your voice and covered the carrier fully with the blanket.
You swallowed. “Okay. We’ll go home soon.”
You turned toward the checkout—
And froze.
A man stood near the front entrance, talking to an employee. Tall. Broad. Black coat. Gloved hands.
He looked like someone who didn’t belong in a peaceful little supply store.
Your instincts flared — lawyer instincts, the kind that recognised trouble before it arrived.
The man turned his head slightly.
And your breath caught because his eyes weren’t normal.
Not fully.
Not human.
A hybrid.
A wolf hybrid, judging by the faint outline of ears under his hood and the way he held himself like he could break a room in half if he wanted.
His gaze flicked to your carrier.
Then to you.
Then away, like he didn’t care.
But you knew better.
Because Jungkook’s carrier suddenly went still.
Utterly.
Like every molecule in him had gone silent.
Your grip tightened.
You didn’t look away from the stranger until you were safely outside and walking toward your car.
Only then did Jungkook move again — frantic, shifting inside the carrier like he was trying to burrow through the fabric.
You opened the door quickly and set him on the passenger seat, covering him fully.
“It’s okay,” you murmured urgently. “It’s okay, we’re leaving.”
Jungkook’s breathing was fast.
Too fast.
You started the car and drove.
Only when you were several blocks away did the shaking ease.
Your hands trembled on the steering wheel.
That wolf hybrid…
Why had Jungkook reacted like that?
Hybrids were sensitive to scent, to presence, to threat.
But that reaction hadn’t been just fear.
It had been… recognition.
The moment you stepped into your apartment, Jungkook practically launched out of the carrier and sprinted to his room, blanket trailing behind him like a lifeline.
You followed slowly, heart aching.
He hopped onto the bed and dug into the blankets until only his ears were visible.
You sat on the floor by the doorway, keeping distance.
“I won’t come in,” you whispered. “I’m just here.”
Silence.
Then, slowly, Jungkook’s head emerged.
His eyes looked glossy — not quite tears, but something close.
You swallowed hard.
“I don’t know what happened to you before,” you said softly, voice rougher than you intended. “I don’t know why cars scare you. I don’t know why strangers make you freeze. I don’t know why you look like you’re waiting to be punished for breathing.”
Your throat tightened.
“But you’re not in that place anymore.”
Jungkook stared at you.
“And if anyone ever tries to take you back,” you continued, voice steady now, “they’ll have to go through me first.”
You didn’t expect him to understand the words.
But you watched his ears slowly relax.
Watched his shoulders lower.
Watched him inch forward, just a little.
Then he hopped down from the bed.
Crossed the room.
And pressed his head gently against your knee.
A quiet, trembling little thank you.
Your eyes stung.
You lifted a hand slowly. “May I?”
Jungkook nudged your knee again.
Yes.
So you stroked between his ears, gentle and steady.
Summary: Y/N has a habit - her schedules are always set, always pristine, always clear. Namjoon has a habit of doing things he doesn't like - particularly dinner with colleagues. But he wants to do one thing, and that is to hunt down prey.
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hybrid
Warnings: angst, abuse, smut
Taglist: @lovejkmilitarywife @forevermoon1306
WC: 3133
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Namjoon did not go to the bookstore on Thursday.
The decision happened quietly, which somehow made it worse.
There was no dramatic moment where he stood outside the café with a coffee growing cold in his hands. No pause at the corner where the street curved just enough for the bookstore’s windows to come into view. He woke up that morning, checked his calendar, and simply decided not to rearrange anything.
Work came first.
That was reasonable.
That was safe.
The office was already awake when he arrived—lights humming, printers coughing out documents, the low murmur of voices carrying down the corridor. He slipped into his role easily, like muscle memory taking over. Emails answered. Calls returned. Arguments drafted with precision and restraint.
It should have been enough.
By mid-morning, his head ached with the effort of focus. He caught himself staring at a paragraph on his screen without reading it, eyes tracking the same sentence again and again like it might change if he waited long enough.
He pushed back from his desk and stood, pacing the length of his office. The carpet muffled his steps. The glass walls reflected him faintly—tie straight, sleeves rolled just so, expression composed.
A man who had everything under control.
He sat again. Picked up his pen. Set it down.
At lunch, he realised he hadn’t eaten. The thought of food felt abstract, distant. He drank water instead and returned to work.
By the time evening settled in, the city outside his window had shifted into shadow and light—buildings outlined in gold, streets pulsing faintly below. He stayed long past when he needed to, hands moving through tasks that no longer required his attention.
At eight, the office emptied.
At nine, the cleaning staff arrived.
At ten, he packed his bag with the same careful precision he used every night, even though there was no one left to see it.
Routine, he reminded himself.
This was what stability looked like.
The walk home was colder than he expected. The wind cut sharply between buildings, carrying the distant scent of rain that hadn’t fallen yet. His coat felt too thin. Or maybe he’d just forgotten how much the cold could seep in when he wasn’t paying attention.
He passed the café.
Didn’t slow.
Didn’t look down the street that branched off to the right.
At home, the door closed behind him with a soft, final click.
The silence hit immediately.
His apartment was neat in a way that bordered on sterile. No clutter. No abandoned mugs. No signs of anyone else having ever existed here for more than a few hours at a time. He set his keys down in their designated place, slipped off his shoes, loosened his tie.
The quiet stretched.
He turned on a lamp. Then another. The light filled the space but didn’t warm it.
He sat on the couch, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely together. His body felt heavy, like gravity had increased without warning.
He tried to tell himself this was for the best.
Distance was necessary. Distance prevented misunderstandings. Distance kept old wounds from reopening in ways he couldn’t control.
He had learned that lesson young.
The memory came without permission.
Rain on asphalt.
Sirens too loud.
Yuna’s face pale against white hospital sheets, eyes wide and unfocused.
Her voice—small, frightened, calling his name.
He squeezed his eyes shut, breath sharp in his chest.
He had been a child too. That fact still felt irrelevant. Someone had needed to be steady, and he had stepped into that role without being asked.
Anger had come later. Quiet, enduring, wrapped in logic and justification.
He stood abruptly and crossed the room, pacing now, steps uneven. His reflection in the darkened window looked unfamiliar—jaw tight, shoulders drawn inward like he was bracing against something invisible.
He thought of the bookstore.
The way it smelled like paper and warmth. The way time slowed there without asking permission. The way Y/N listened—really listened—without trying to shape his words into something more manageable.
That was the problem.
She made space.
And space invited collapse.
He skipped the bookstore the following Thursday too.
This time, the decision carried weight.
He noticed it everywhere—in the way his eyes kept drifting to the clock, in the way his chest tightened around noon, in the way he found himself restless by late afternoon with no clear reason why.
At six, he caught himself calculating how long it would take to walk there.
At six-thirty, he shut his laptop too hard and immediately opened it again, as if he might have forgotten something important.
At seven, he left the office and went to the gym instead.
He pushed himself harder than usual, muscles burning, lungs screaming for air. Sweat soaked through his shirt, dripped down his spine, stung his eyes. The physical strain grounded him in a way nothing else had all week.
For an hour, he didn’t think.
Then it ended.
Back home, showered and exhausted, he stood in the steam-filled bathroom longer than necessary, forehead resting briefly against the tile. His hands shook faintly when he turned off the water.
That night, sleep came in fragments.
He dreamed of standing outside a glass door he couldn’t open, his reflection staring back at him instead of what lay inside.
He woke with his heart racing and the unsettling sense that he had missed something important.
By the third skipped Thursday, the tension was no longer subtle.
It followed him like a shadow—through meetings, through meals he forgot to finish, through conversations that required more effort than they should have. He snapped once at a colleague for a minor mistake and immediately apologised, the words leaving his mouth too quickly, too rehearsed.
“You alright?” they asked, concern flickering briefly across their face.
“Yes,” he said. “Just tired.”
The lie tasted stale.
That evening, he stood at his desk staring at his phone, thumb hovering over a message he hadn’t written yet. He imagined explanations that felt inadequate before they were even formed.
Sorry I disappeared.I needed time.I didn’t know how to talk without saying the wrong thing.
He deleted the blank message and set the phone down.
Avoidance, he told himself, was restraint.
But restraint had never felt like this.
On the fourth Thursday, the sky hung low and heavy, threatening rain. He left the office earlier than usual, not because he planned to go anywhere, but because the walls felt too close.
He stopped at the edge of the street near the café.
This time, he looked.
The bookstore’s windows glowed softly in the dusk, light spilling out onto the wet pavement. Shelves stood in familiar rows. Shapes moved inside—blurred by glass and distance, but alive.
He didn’t know if she was there.
He didn’t need to.
The sight alone sent something sharp and aching through his chest.
He stood there longer than was reasonable, hands buried in his pockets, breath fogging faintly in the cold air. The city rushed around him—cars passing, voices rising and fading—but he felt strangely removed from it all.
He had wanted safety.
He had chosen distance.
And now, standing there with everything inside him pulled tight, he understood the cost of that choice.
He wasn’t steady.
He was breaking—slowly, quietly, under the weight of things he refused to face.
Namjoon turned away at last, footsteps heavy as he walked back into the city’s noise.
Behind him, the bookstore remained exactly where it had always been.
Waiting.
Yuna showed up on a Saturday morning.
Not announced. Not scheduled. Just the sound of his doorbell cutting through the quiet like it had every right to be there.
Namjoon had been awake for hours already, though the apartment still felt half-asleep. The curtains were only partially drawn, light bleeding in unevenly, catching dust in the air. He sat at the small kitchen table with a mug of coffee that had long since gone cold, suit jacket discarded over the back of a chair like an afterthought.
He stared at the door when the bell rang again.
Didn’t move.
The third ring was followed by a knock—sharp, impatient, unmistakably Yuna.
“Namjoon,” her voice carried through the wood, muffled but firm. “I know you’re in there.”
He closed his eyes.
“Open the door,” she added. “Or I’m calling the building manager and embarrassing you in front of your neighbours.”
That did it.
He stood slowly, joints stiff like he’d aged a decade overnight, and crossed the apartment. When he opened the door, Yuna stepped inside without waiting for permission, rain-damp coat swinging around her legs.
She took one look at him and stopped short.
“Oh,” she said.
Not accusing. Not gentle either.
Just… seeing.
“You look like hell,” she added, toeing the door shut behind her.
“Good morning to you too,” Namjoon muttered.
Yuna dropped her bag on the counter and turned fully toward him, arms crossing. She looked healthier than she had any right to—cheeks flushed from the cold, hair tied back neatly, posture strong. The scar at her collarbone was hidden beneath fabric, but he could feel its presence anyway. He always could.
“When was the last time you slept?” she asked.
“I sleep,” he replied automatically.
“That wasn’t the question.”
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know.”
She nodded once, like that was confirmation of something she’d already suspected. “When was the last time you ate a full meal?”
“I had coffee.”
Her jaw tightened. “You’re unbelievable.”
She walked past him, further into the apartment, eyes scanning the space with the kind of familiarity that came from growing up together. She opened the fridge without asking.
Empty. Or close enough.
She shut it harder than necessary.
“You’re doing it again,” she said.
He leaned against the wall, arms folding loosely. “Doing what?”
“Disappearing into yourself like that’s a solution.” She turned, eyes sharp. “You think I don’t notice when you start spiraling?”
“I’m fine,” he insisted, even as the words felt brittle.
Yuna scoffed. “You’re skipping meals, skipping sleep, and—” She paused, then softened just a fraction. “You’re skipping the one place you’ve been talking about for months.”
His breath caught.
“That bookstore,” she continued. “The one you light up about and then immediately pretend doesn’t matter.”
He looked away.
“Don’t,” she warned quietly. “Don’t shut down on me.”
Silence stretched between them, thick and familiar.
“You don’t get to martyr yourself for me,” Yuna said finally. “I didn’t almost die so you could punish yourself for the rest of your life.”
He flinched.
“That’s not what I’m doing,” he said, voice low.
“Then what is it?” she pressed.
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
His shoulders sagged, the fight draining out of him all at once. “I don’t know how to hold two truths at the same time,” he admitted. “That something hurt you. And that… not everything connected to it is dangerous.”
Yuna studied him carefully, expression unreadable.
“You’re scared,” she said.
He didn’t deny it.
She stepped closer and, without warning, smacked him upside the arm.
Not hard. Just enough.
“Get a grip,” she snapped. “You were a kid. So was I. What happened was an accident, not a curse you need to keep paying for.”
He stared at her, stunned.
“You think I don’t see what you’re doing?” she continued, voice rising now. “You’re avoiding something good because you’re afraid it’ll make you question the walls you built. And instead of talking to anyone about it, you’re just… rotting.”
“That’s dramatic,” he muttered.
She smacked his arm again. “I’m dramatic. You’re self-destructive.”
He let out a shaky laugh before he could stop himself. It broke something open in his chest.
“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” he said quietly.
Yuna’s expression softened fully this time. “Then stop hurting yourself.”
She reached out, grabbed his face between her hands, and forced him to look at her.
“You don’t owe me your loneliness,” she said. “You don’t owe me your anger. And you definitely don’t owe me your happiness.”
His eyes burned.
“You deserve good things,” she added firmly. “Even if they scare you.”
Yuna finally dropped her hands and sighed. “Now. You’re going to eat something. You’re going to take a shower. And then—” she raised an eyebrow “—you’re going to stop pretending avoidance is a virtue.”
He huffed. “You always were bossy.”
“And you always needed it.”
She grabbed her bag and headed toward the kitchen. “I’m making eggs. Sit.”
Sunday carried a different weight.
It wasn’t the kind of day that rushed anyone forward. The city moved as if wrapped in cotton—cars slower, footsteps softer, voices muted by the low ceiling of clouds pressing down from above. The air smelled damp, not quite rain, not quite dry either. A quiet anticipation lingered in it, like the world was holding its breath.
Namjoon walked beside Yuna with his hands buried deep in his coat pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold. The pavement beneath his shoes was uneven here, cracked in places, patched over in others. He noticed everything too sharply—the rust on the lampposts, the flicker of a faulty traffic light, the way his breath fogged faintly with each exhale.
The bookstore appeared at the end of the street, just as it always had.
It didn’t announce itself loudly. It never did. It simply existed—tucked between taller buildings that cast long shadows over its modest frontage. The wooden sign above the door swayed gently, its paint faded but lovingly retouched in places. The windows were fogged from within, shelves of books visible like quiet sentinels lining the walls.
Namjoon slowed without meaning to.
His chest tightened in a way that surprised him.
This place had begun to feel like a point of reference—something steady he hadn’t realised he was leaning on until he stepped too close to it.
Yuna noticed immediately.
“You don’t have to,” she said softly, her voice barely louder than the wind brushing past them.
“I want to,” he replied, though the words felt heavier than they should have.
They stepped inside.
The bell above the door chimed, its clear sound cutting through the hush like a ripple on still water. Warmth wrapped around them instantly, a sharp contrast to the chill outside. The smell hit him next—aged paper, polished wood, something faintly herbal and grounding. It was the kind of scent that sank into your clothes and lingered long after you left.
But something was wrong.
The counter stood empty.
No quiet hum of movement between the shelves. No soft sounds of a ladder shifting, a book sliding into place. The space felt… paused. As if the room itself had noticed an absence.
Namjoon’s gaze flicked instinctively toward the corner where she usually stood.
Nothing.
Footsteps sounded from the back room.
An older man emerged, wiping his hands on a cloth. He was taller than Namjoon expected, shoulders broad despite the years evident in the silver threading through his hair. His glasses sat low on his nose, eyes sharp and observant in a way that suggested very little escaped him.
The moment his gaze landed on Namjoon, he stopped.
Not startled.
Assessing.
“Yes?” the man said. His tone was calm, but there was an edge beneath it—like a door only half-open.
Namjoon swallowed. “Good morning. I—” He paused, suddenly aware of how fragile this moment was. “I was hoping to see Y/N.”
The shift was immediate.
The man straightened fully, spine stiffening, shoulders squaring. His eyes narrowed just enough to signal a boundary being drawn.
“She’s not here,” he said.
“Oh.” Namjoon nodded, heart sinking. “I didn’t mean to intrude. She hasn’t answered my messages and I just wanted to make sure she was okay.”
Silence stretched.
The kind that made Namjoon acutely aware of the ticking clock somewhere deeper in the shop, of Yuna’s quiet breathing beside him, of his own pulse beating too loudly in his ears.
The man stepped closer to the counter, resting both hands against the worn wood. “And who are you,” he asked evenly, “to be looking for her?”
The question wasn’t hostile.
It was worse.
Protective.
Namjoon took a breath. “Kim Namjoon.”
The man repeated the name slowly, tasting it. “And what do you want with my daughter?”
The word struck like a sudden weight.
Daughter.
Not guardian.
Not caretaker.
Daughter.
Yuna stiffened beside him, her posture shifting subtly—ready.
“I—” Namjoon began, then stopped. This wasn’t a moment for rehearsed answers or careful deflection. “I care about her.”
The man’s eyes sharpened. “That’s not an answer.”
Namjoon met his gaze, throat tight. “I’m not here to take anything from her. I came because I was worried.”
The shopkeeper studied him carefully now—his hands, the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw set when he spoke. Then his gaze flicked to Yuna.
“And you?” he asked.
“His sister,” Yuna replied calmly. “We’re not here to push. Just to check in.”
The man’s expression softened for a fraction of a second before hardening again. “She’s sick.”
The word carried more weight than it should have.
“She called me yesterday,” he continued. “Could barely speak. Apologised like being unwell was something to be ashamed of.” His jaw tightened. “I told her to rest. The shop can wait.”
Namjoon’s chest constricted painfully.
“I should have noticed,” he said quietly.
The shopkeeper’s gaze snapped back to him. “You don’t get to decide that.”
Namjoon flinched, but nodded. “You’re right.”
“I raised her,” the man said, voice lower now. “Not because she was broken. Because she deserved safety. She’s lived her life being careful—too careful. I won’t have that undone by someone who doesn’t understand what it cost her.”
Namjoon swallowed hard. “I don’t want to hurt her.”
“What do you want to do with my daughter?” the man asked again.
The repetition was deliberate.
Namjoon didn’t rush this time.
“I want to respect her,” he said. “Even if that means waiting. Even if it means walking away.”
The silence that followed felt different—still tense, but no longer sharp enough to cut.
The man straightened, folding the cloth in his hands. “If she wants to see you, she will reach out. Until then, you don’t come looking for answers she hasn’t given.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And if you hurt her,” the shopkeeper added quietly, eyes unwavering, “you won’t be dealing with lawyers.”
Namjoon met his gaze without flinching. “I wouldn’t.”
The man nodded once. “Good.”
As they turned toward the door, Namjoon hesitated. The bell above it was still.
“Please tell her,” he said softly, “that I hope she rests well.”
I think we, as a general community, need to start taking this little moment more seriously.
This, right here? This is asking for consent. It’s a legal necessity, yes, but it is also you, the reader, actively consenting to see adult content; and in doing so, saying that you are of an age to see it, and that you’re emotionally capable of handling it.
You find the content you find behind this warning disgusting, horrifying, upsetting, triggering? You consented. You said you could handle it, and you were able to back out at any time. You take responsibility for yourself when you click through this, and so long as the creator used warnings and tags correctly, you bear full responsibility for its impact on you.
“Children are going to lie about their age” is probably true, but that’s the problem of them and the people who are responsible for them, not the people that they lie to.
If you’re not prepared to see adult content, created by and for adults, don’t fucking click through this. And if you do, for all that’s holy, don’t blame anyone else for it.
Except this is the last line of consent before the actual work. So if you’re at this button you have already done the following:
1) chosen to go onto AO3 in the first place
2) chosen the fandom you wish to read about
3) had the chance to filter for the things you do want to see like a specific pairing or a specific AU
4) had the chance to specifically filter out any tags you don’t want to see like, oh I don’t know, incest and non-con and dub-con and paedophilia
5) had the chance to set the rating level if you wish to remove any explicit content at all
6) have read the summary of the story, which aren’t always great but are the only indicator of what the story will be like writing wise so something about it was good enough for you to click on it.
7) have read the tags of the story which will tell you what is actually in the story. If you have used filters to remove stories with things you don’t want then there shouldn’t be anything in here that’s a shock to you but maybe there is. That’s why the tags are there for you to check for yourself.
8) Then you have to actually click on the story. You cannot see anything other than the summary or the tags without personally deciding that you are going to open and read this story.
9) Only here, at step number nine, do you get to the adult content warning pictured above. You have been through eight different steps, the last six of which have also been opportunities for you to see that this has adult content. And AO3 has *STILL* stopped you to ask one last time “are you sure you want to read this because it has things that only adults should see in it”.
If after this point you are reading incest and paedophilia then it’s probably because you specifically went looking for it.
hey! i have one imagine idea i just saw an instagram reel regarding wife drawing eyebrows with brow pencils on their toddlers and their husbands reaction to it i don't know why when i saw that my mind just went to jungkook x reader and yoongi x reader i like your detail writting style and thought you would write it in the best way a comedy mix with fluff P.s. it's my first time requesting something so i dont know how to give details hehe so plase make it long.
Oooooooo point point. Okay, im not very active on social media so I shall go and find that but I believe I've seen it in passing.
I do think that this is a funny imagine to do cause im seeing utter horrors in my brain HAHAHAA
Summary: Y/N is someone who never planned to adopt a hybrid—until she meets Jungkook, a withdrawn rabbit hybrid feared by everyone at the shelter. She brings him home thinking it’ll be a quiet fresh start, but strange signs soon appear: a scar on his neck, panic around cars, and someone suddenly digging into his records.
When threats begin to surface, Y/N realises Jungkook wasn’t simply abandoned—he was taken, tracked, and never meant to stay free. With no power or connections, she’s forced to fight in the only way she can: by refusing to give him back, and protecting him with everything she has.
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hybrid
Warnings: angst, abuse, smut (I'll add on more when I write more!)
Getting Jungkook in the car caused a similar situation to getting Byeol into the car. Jungkook had started vigorously shaking in your hold as you approached your car. Working in your line as a lawyer for the Hybrid Association, you knew that hybrids were often - if not all the time - transported around in trucks and cars in their tiny cages.
So their reactions to cars did not alert you too much. But the strength that Jungkook was essentially vibrating at made you scared. It was so strong that for a second, you were afraid his fur was going to fall off. You cooed and shushed him, gliding a knuckle between his eyes and snout.
“It’s okay, it’s okay.” You tried to reassure him. The method you used on Byeol didn’t seem to work much on him, leaving you to try other methods. As his breathing slowed down, you carefully placed him on the front car seat, wrapped in a fluffy blanket you brought from home and his blanket from the shelter, stashing the cage in the trunk. However, Jungkook’s breathing started to pick up again, leaving you back to square one.
Sighing, you closed the passenger door and brought him to the driver’s seat. As you start your car, you place him snugly between your legs. You ensured that the edges of the blanket were tucked nicely under your legs so that he wouldn’t suddenly go flying onto the mat if the car jerked.
Slowly, he peered his head out of the blankets, ears standing straight, and doe eyes looking at you in curiosity. You raised an eyebrow at him, quickly looking back at the roads. The drive back home wasn’t long - just about fifteen minutes or so. As you entered your neighbourhood, Jungkook gained some courage to climb out of his blankets. You carefully held him up to see the view as you drove.
Chirps and squeals emitted from him as his small body wiggled around in your hold. You quickly brought him down as you were losing control of your grip. He whined as you placed him in your lap.
“Just a minute.” You cooed. You were glad that he currently seemed to be enjoying the view of your neighbourhood. You chose a place on the quieter side of the city, not considering the suburbs but the looming trees and parks surrounding your apartment building might as well say so.
You carefully brought Jungkook up onto your shoulder, wincing when he found purchase in your hair and pulled a little too hard while trying to gain balance. You did not want to push him into doing something he wouldn’t feel comfortable with. But it seems that he was more adventurous than you gave him credit for.
A soft thump sounded against your shoulder.
You stiffened immediately, fingers tightening on your seatbelt as Jungkook’s tiny paws dug into your sweater to balance himself. His ears twitched like radar dishes, swivelling at every sound the car made — the faint hum of the engine, the click of your signal light, the distant shriek of a bus braking somewhere two streets away.
He was alert in a way that didn’t feel natural for something so small.
It didn’t feel like curiosity.
It felt like survival.
“Okay,” you murmured, voice gentle. “We’re almost home. No one’s going to touch you. No one’s going to take you anywhere.”
Jungkook’s nose worked furiously against the collar of your sweater, sniffing you like he was trying to memorise you by scent alone. When your car slowed at the security gantry, he went rigid again — body trembling so hard you felt it in your bones.
Your heart tugged painfully.
You had handled distressed hybrids before. You had sat through interviews, read case files, argued in courtrooms until your throat went raw, all so hybrids could be treated like beings instead of goods. But those were always other people's stories, other hybrids’ pain filtered through documents and hearings.
This was different.
This was warm fur against your skin.
This was frantic breathing tucked into your shoulder like he expected someone to drag him back any second.
You pulled your car into the parking lot with slow, careful movements, as if any sudden shift might shatter him.
The moment you cut the engine, Jungkook’s ears snapped straight.
Silence filled the car.
Not comforting silence. The kind that made your skin prickle.
He stayed frozen, eyes wide and glossy, body coiled like a spring. A prey animal on the edge of flight.
“It’s okay,” you whispered again, reaching up to stroke between his eyes and snout.
He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t relax either.
You swallowed. “We’ll do it your way, alright? We don’t have to go fast.”
Jungkook blinked once. Then twice.
And slowly his trembling eased, like he was forcing his body to listen even if his instincts were screaming otherwise.
You exhaled a breath you didn’t realise you were holding.
Carefully, you opened your door, stepping out into the cool evening air. You made sure your movements stayed smooth, predictable. Then you turned back and lifted Jungkook into your arms properly, wrapping him in both blankets — yours and the shelter’s — until only his nose and ears peeked out.
He made a tiny sound, almost a grunt of disapproval, then burrowed deeper anyway.
“Alright,” you said, half amused despite yourself. “Bossy already.”
You locked the car, slung your bag over your shoulder, and started toward the lift lobby.
Jungkook’s head popped out again as you approached the building entrance. His nose twitched, testing the air. New smells. New echoes. New people.
A passerby stepped out of the lift — a middle-aged man with grocery bags — and Jungkook immediately shrank into your chest like he’d been shot.
You pivoted instinctively, putting your body between them, one hand flattening over the blanket like a shield.
The man barely spared you a glance before continuing on.
Still, Jungkook stayed pressed into you, breathing fast.
“You’re okay,” you murmured. “He’s gone.”
You felt something soft nudge your wrist under the blanket.
Not a bite.
Not a scratch.
A careful nudge. As if asking: Are you sure?
Your throat tightened.
“Yes,” you promised quietly. “I’m sure.”
You took the lift up, the quiet kind that played soft music meant to be “relaxing” but only made the silence feel stranger. Jungkook stared at the mirrored walls with suspicion, ears flattening every time the lift shuddered.
When you reached your floor, you walked faster — not rushing him, but wanting to get him out of the open corridor, away from unfamiliar space.
You slid your key into the lock.
The door clicked open.
Jungkook immediately went still.
Your apartment wasn’t fancy — clean, warm, lived-in. A small entryway, a shoe rack, a faint scent of citrus cleaner and the lavender candle you always forgot to light. Past the entry was your living room: couch, coffee table, bookshelf stuffed with case binders, legal texts, and the occasional impulsive romance novel you refused to acknowledge. The kitchen was open-concept, neat from habit, because you couldn’t stand clutter.
And down the hall…
The spare bedroom you had once called storage.
Now it would be his.
You closed the door gently, locking it out of reflex. The sound made Jungkook flinch.
“Oh,” you realised quickly. “Sorry— I just… habit. It’s safe here, I promise. This is your home now.”
You walked into the living room and crouched down slowly, bringing him to the carpet. You didn’t let go immediately — you waited, keeping your hands steady under the blanket, giving him the choice to leave or stay.
For a long moment, he didn’t move.
Then a tiny paw pushed out, testing the carpet.
Another.
His head emerged.
Those big eyes swept the room, drinking it in. His nose twitched at the couch, the bookshelf, the kitchen, the hallway shadows. He looked like he was mapping exits, threats, hiding spots.
Then he hopped forward two careful steps…
And immediately bolted under your coffee table.
You froze.
For a second you worried you’d done something wrong — moved too fast, brought him into too bright a space, made a sound that reminded him of cages.
But then you saw it: the way his ears perked slightly, the way his body settled into the shadow.
He wasn’t panicking.
He was choosing safety.
Your chest softened.
“Okay,” you said quietly, sitting back on your heels. “Under the table it is.”
Jungkook stared at you from the shadows, only his eyes and a bit of white fur visible.
You turned your palms upward, showing you weren’t reaching.
“We can just… exist for a bit. No touching. No rules. Just you and me.”
Silence.
Then, very slowly, Jungkook edged forward again, still under the table.
He didn’t come out fully — but he crept close enough that his nose could touch your fingertips.
A soft sniff.
Another.
You held still.
He nudged your finger, harder this time, like he was testing whether you’d flinch.
You didn’t.
He made a little sound — not quite a purr, not quite a grunt — and retreated again.
But the retreat wasn’t frantic.
It was controlled.
Like he was learning.
And for the first time since the car, your shoulders relaxed.
“Right,” you murmured. “Let’s get you settled.”
You stood carefully and walked down the hall to the spare room. It still looked like a room that hadn’t been lived in — a bed with plain sheets, a stack of boxes by the wall, your old treadmill folded in the corner, some storage bins you’d been too lazy to organise.
You grimaced. “We’re fixing that. Sorry.”
You returned to the living room, crouching again near the table.
“Jungkook,” you called softly. “I’m going to show you your room. You can come if you want.”
He didn’t move.
You nodded. “Okay. I’ll just… bring the room to you then.”
You went to your closet and pulled out the softest spare blanket you owned, plus a thick towel, and a shallow bowl. In the kitchen, you grabbed a small dish of water and the emergency bag of vegetables you kept because you were always too tired to cook properly. You chose leafy greens and a slice of apple — cautious, small portions.
Back in the living room, you placed the towel and blanket in the corner near the table, like a makeshift nest. You set the water nearby, food a little farther so he wouldn’t feel crowded.
Then you sat down on the couch with your phone and did the hardest thing you could do for someone like you:
Nothing.
No hovering.
No coaxing.
No forcing.
Minutes passed.
Jungkook’s nose appeared.
Then his head.
He scanned the new setup, eyes narrowing. Suspicion, then consideration.
He hopped forward, sniffed the towel nest, and immediately turned around to glare at you like you’d personally offended him.
You blinked. “What?”
He made a small huffing sound and shoved his face into the towel, pawing at it until it bunched the way he wanted. Then he dragged the edge of the blanket into the towel, creating a thicker layered burrow.
You stared, impressed.
“So you’re an interior designer,” you murmured. “Noted.”
Jungkook ignored you.
He tested the water next — a quick lap, then he froze, ears flicking, like he expected someone to punish him for drinking.
When nothing happened, his tiny shoulders - eased.
Then he approached the food.
He sniffed it.
Paused, looked at you again.
This time his stare wasn’t angry.
It was… uncertain.
You softened your voice. “It’s yours. I won’t take it away. No one will.”
Jungkook stared for a long moment.
Then he took the apple slice in his mouth and dragged it back into his burrow like a thief.
You pressed your lips together to stop yourself from laughing.
A small victory, but it felt like a mountain.
You spent the rest of the evening doing quiet things — washing dishes you hadn’t used, folding laundry you didn’t need to fold, moving slowly around your apartment like you were sharing space with a fragile bird.
Every time you passed the coffee table, Jungkook watched you.
Every time you lowered your voice, he listened.
And when night fell and the city lights glowed through your windows, you finally sat on the floor near his burrow again, hugging your knees.
“Hey,” you said softly. “I’m going to sleep soon. You can stay there. Or… you can come to your room later. I won’t lock any doors inside the apartment. You’re not trapped.”
Jungkook didn’t respond, but his ears flicked.
You stood up and walked to your bedroom, leaving the hall light on low.
In your room, you changed into comfortable clothes and sat on the edge of the bed, staring at your phone. Your work email already had new notifications — case updates, meeting reminders, messages from colleagues who had no concept of boundaries.
You sighed.
Then you whispered into the quiet, not sure if Jungkook could hear you through the hall.
“I took the next few days off.”
You laughed weakly at yourself. “I don’t know why I’m telling you that. You don’t care.”
A pause.
Then, faintly, a soft thump in the hallway.
Your breath caught.
You didn’t move. Didn’t call out. Didn’t rush.
You waited.
A few seconds later, something small padded into your doorway.
Jungkook stood there, wrapped in his blanket like a cape, only his face peeking out. He stared at you with those big eyes, ears twitching uncertainly.
You swallowed.
“Hi,” you whispered.
He stared.
Then, slowly, he took one hop forward.
Then another.
He stopped at the edge of your carpet and looked around your room like he expected it to bite him.
You patted the bed lightly. “You can’t jump up yet, can you?”
Jungkook’s eyes narrowed as if offended.
He hopped onto a chair by your desk instead, then sat there like a tiny king, blanket pooled around him, ears upright.
You blinked.
He blinked back.
And for the first time today, you felt something warm settle in your chest that wasn’t worry.
It was… companionship.
“Okay,” you whispered, voice thick. “You can stay there.”
Jungkook made a soft sound — almost satisfied.
And when you finally lay down and turned off the lights, you could still feel his eyes on you, steady in the dark.
Summary: Y/N has a habit - her schedules are always set, always pristine, always clear. Namjoon has a habit of doing things he doesn't like - particularly dinner with colleagues. But he wants to do one thing, and that is to hunt down prey.
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hybrid
Warnings: angst, abuse, smut
Taglist: @lovejkmilitarywife @forevermoon1306
WC: 1984
< Prev. Series mstr. Next >
Y/N heard the rain before she saw him.
It hit the roof in heavy sheets, relentless, the kind that swallowed sound instead of sharpening it. From her apartment upstairs, the city felt far away—reduced to blurred headlights and the distant hush of water rushing along the gutters. She had the window cracked open just enough to let the air in, the smell of wet concrete and leaves curling into the room.
She was halfway through reheating leftovers when something tugged at her attention.
Not a sound.
A feeling.
She crossed the room slowly, bare feet quiet against the floor, and looked down through the narrow window that faced the street.
The bookstore’s front door was dark.
And on the step, soaked through and unmoving, sat Namjoon.
Her breath caught.
For a moment, she just stood there, hand braced against the window frame, watching the rain slick his hair flat against his forehead, watching the water drip from the sleeves of his coat and pool at his feet. He wasn’t hunched or frantic. Just still. Like he had run out of places to put whatever he was carrying and had set it down here instead.
He didn’t look up.
Y/N didn’t think.
She grabbed a cardigan, shoved her feet into shoes without socks, and was down the stairs before the kettle had finished clicking off in her mind.
The rain soaked her instantly, cold seeping through fabric, but she barely noticed. She unlocked the shop door quickly, quietly, then pushed it open.
The bell chimed.
Namjoon flinched.
He looked up, startled, eyes unfocused for half a second before recognition settled in. Rain dripped from his lashes. His expression was carefully blank—but there was exhaustion underneath it, the kind that came from holding something in too tightly for too long.
“Y/N,” he said, voice hoarse. “I—sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Come inside,” she said gently.
Not a question.
He hesitated, glancing at the door, at the rain, at her—like he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly.
“It’s late,” he said. “I can go.”
“You don’t need to,” she replied. “You’re freezing.”
That did it.
He nodded once and stood, movements stiff, like the cold had settled into his joints. She stepped back to give him space, holding the door open until he crossed the threshold.
The warmth hit him immediately.
The bookstore after hours felt different—quieter, softer. The lights were dim, only a few left on, casting long shadows across the shelves. The familiar smell of paper and wood wrapped around them, grounding.
Y/N locked the door behind him.
“You can sit,” she said, gesturing toward the small table near the back. “I’ll make tea.”
He shrugged off his coat, water splattering softly onto the floor. “I’m sorry about the mess.”
“I’ll survive,” she said lightly.
She moved behind the counter, hands steady as she filled the kettle, set it on the burner. The routine helped. Gave her something to do while she listened to the quiet settle between them.
Namjoon sat where she indicated, shoulders slumped now that he was no longer bracing against the rain. He stared at his hands, fingers red from the cold.
She returned with two mugs a few minutes later, steam curling into the air.
“Chamomile,” she said, placing one in front of him. “It’s… gentle.”
“Thank you,” he murmured, wrapping his hands around the mug immediately, like he’d been waiting for the warmth.
They sat in silence.
Not awkward. Not strained.
Just quiet.
Outside, the rain continued to fall, drumming against the windows, muffling the city until it felt like they were the only two people awake. Inside, the bookstore breathed softly around them.
After a while, Namjoon spoke.
“I didn’t plan to come here,” he said. “I was just walking.”
Y/N nodded. “Sometimes walking brings you where you need to be.”
He huffed a faint, humourless laugh. “I sat there for a long time.”
“I know,” she said.
He glanced up, surprised.
“I live upstairs,” she added simply.
“Oh.” He looked toward the ceiling, then back at her. “That makes sense.”
She didn’t ask why he’d been there. Didn’t ask about the dinner, the rain, or the weight that still clung to him like a second coat. She just sat across from him, hands wrapped around her own mug, presence steady.
“You don’t have to explain anything,” she said quietly. “I’m just glad you didn’t stay out there.”
Something in his expression cracked—not dramatically, not all at once. Just enough.
“Thank you,” he said again, softer this time.
They drank their tea slowly.
At one point, Y/N rose to grab a towel, setting it gently beside him without comment. He took it, nodded, dried his hair and hands with careful motions.
The minutes passed.
Eventually, his breathing evened out. His shoulders lifted and fell less tensely. The storm outside began to ease, the rain softening into something quieter.
“You don’t have to leave right away,” she said. “When you’re ready.”
He looked at her, really looked.
“You’re very good at this,” he said.
“At what?”
“At letting people exist,” he replied.
She smiled faintly. “I’ve had practice.”
They didn’t say anything else.
They didn’t need to.
For now, warmth and quiet were enough.
And when Namjoon finally stood, steadier than when he’d arrived, the bookstore didn’t feel like just a place anymore.
It felt like shelter.
The windows were still streaked, thin trails of water drying unevenly in the cold air, distorting the view outside. Morning light crept in slowly, pale and hesitant, settling into the shelves instead of flooding them. The floorboards smelled faintly damp, wood swelling just enough to creak more than usual beneath her steps.
Y/N liked mornings like this.
They made everything quieter. Slower.
She wiped down the counter with careful strokes, pausing now and then to straighten a stack of bookmarks or smooth a folded recommendation card. The events of the night before lingered in her body—not as memory, exactly, but as a sensation. Like warmth that hadn’t fully faded yet.
Namjoon had left quietly.
No awkwardness. No promises. Just a thank you, soft and sincere, and a glance back at the door like he was memorising the shape of it. She hadn’t watched him go from the window. She didn’t need to.
Still, the space he’d occupied remained.
She found herself replaying small things as the morning wore on. The way he’d wrapped his hands around the mug. The way his shoulders had lowered once he realised she wasn’t going to ask anything of him. The sound of his breath when it finally evened out.
It unsettled her.
Not because it was unpleasant.
Because it mattered.
The bell chimed shortly after noon.
Her heart reacted before her mind did—a subtle, traitorous lift that she ignored as she looked up.
It wasn’t him.
Just a regular. Middle-aged man, friendly enough, always bought gardening magazines and complained about the city. She greeted him politely, rang up his purchase, returned to her quiet.
The afternoon passed in fragments. A student searching for reference material. A couple arguing in whispers near fiction. Someone lingering too long in the poetry aisle like they were waiting for permission to feel something.
Y/N observed it all the way she always did—present but slightly removed.
Around three, her phone buzzed in her pocket.
She didn’t need to check the screen to know.
The bell chimed again not long after.
Namjoon stepped inside, dry this time, coat neatly folded over his arm. The light caught in his hair, softer than it had been the night before. He paused when he saw her, something unreadable flickering across his face before settling into a small, careful smile.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” she replied.
The word felt different today. Less sheltered. More exposed.
He moved toward the back as usual, but slower. Like he was aware of the space between them now, measuring it instead of crossing it automatically. She followed him with her eyes as she finished shelving a return, noting the way his gaze flicked briefly to the window before returning to the shelves.
“You okay?” she asked, when he stopped near the table.
“Yes,” he said quickly. Then, after a beat, “Better. Thank you. For last night.”
She nodded. “You don’t need to thank me.”
“I know,” he said. “But I want to.”
They stood there for a moment, the air between them thicker than it had been before. Not uncomfortable. Just charged with something unnamed.
A customer wandered past them, phone in hand, news playing softly through the speaker before she muted it.
Y/N didn’t catch the full headline. Just enough.
“…hybrid-related incident…”
“…public safety concerns…”
“…advocacy groups respond…”
She felt it immediately.
The way Namjoon’s posture changed.
Not dramatically. Just a subtle tightening through his shoulders, jaw setting like he’d braced without meaning to. His gaze flicked toward the phone, then away, like he’d touched something hot.
“People really don’t let things rest,” the customer muttered before moving on.
Namjoon exhaled slowly. “No. They don’t.”
The words themselves were neutral.
The way he said them wasn’t.
Y/N leaned against the counter, watching him carefully now. “Do you want to sit?”
He nodded, pulling out a chair. “If that’s okay.”
She poured them both tea without asking. Set the mugs down gently, the ceramic clink louder than usual in the quiet.
Namjoon stared into his cup for a moment before speaking again.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “If I seem… off.”
“You’re allowed to be,” she replied.
He glanced up at her. “Do you ever feel like some things get discussed like abstract problems instead of lived ones?”
Her fingers curled around her mug. “All the time.”
He hesitated. “I don’t like how easily people talk about risk when they’re not the ones affected.”
There it was.
Not accusation. Not anger.
Distance.
She nodded slowly. “It’s easier when it stays theoretical.”
“Yes,” he said. “Exactly.”
The word echoed too cleanly.
She felt something inside her shift—not panic, not fear. Awareness. A line being drawn that she hadn’t known was there until now.
Namjoon didn’t hate.
He compartmentalised.
And that was more dangerous.
“You don’t have to stay,” she said gently, though she wasn’t sure why the words left her mouth.
He shook his head. “No. I want to.”
The answer should have reassured her.
Instead, it made her chest ache in a way she didn’t have a name for yet.
They talked about safer things after that. Books. Weather. The city’s strange ability to forget storms as soon as the sun returned. Namjoon laughed once, quietly, and the sound settled into her like something warm and heavy.
She noticed how easily she tracked his expressions now. How attuned she was to his silences. How much she wanted to reach out and steady him the way she had the night before.
She didn’t.
Restraint tightened its hold—not out of fear, but out of understanding.
She knew now.
Not everything. Not fully.
But enough.
When Namjoon finally stood to leave, he hesitated, hand resting on the back of the chair.
“Same time next Thursday?” he asked.
Her answer came easily. Too easily.
“Yes.”
After he left, the bookstore felt larger.
Too open.
Y/N turned the sign to Closed that evening with more care than usual, her reflection staring back at her from the glass. She looked thoughtful. Quietly undone.
She pressed her palm against the counter, grounding herself.
She liked him.
That much was clear now.
And she knew—just as clearly—that if he found out who she was before he was ready, it wouldn’t just hurt.
It would break something delicate they hadn’t even named yet.
So she decided, quietly and alone in the fading light, to hold onto her truth a little longer.
Not to deceive.
But to protect whatever fragile thing was beginning to grow in the space between them.
Summary: Y/N is someone who never planned to adopt a hybrid—until she meets Jungkook, a withdrawn rabbit hybrid feared by everyone at the shelter. She brings him home thinking it’ll be a quiet fresh start, but strange signs soon appear: a scar on his neck, panic around cars, and someone suddenly digging into his records.
When threats begin to surface, Y/N realises Jungkook wasn’t simply abandoned—he was taken, tracked, and never meant to stay free. With no power or connections, she’s forced to fight in the only way she can: by refusing to give him back, and protecting him with everything she has.
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hybrid
Warnings: angst, abuse, smut (I'll add on more when I write more!)
You were not sure how you ended up here. ‘Here’ as in outside a worn down shelter for hybrids with your best friend bouncing up and down for joy. Luna has been your best friend since your diaper days thanks to your mom’s being best friends. Luna’s family is considered on the scale of ‘well-off’ while yours was… Well, you weren’t struggling, but you weren’t exactly through to her extent either. But friendship was never about money but the connection that brings you together.
Now, you really wanted to just hide away in the corner of your room, never to come out. You didn’t know why you had decided to follow her on your day off, letting her drag you out of your bed.
“Come on, come on!” Luna nearly shrieked with excitement. She would’ve been a bunny if she wasn’t human.
You sighed, tilting your head up to the sky and breathing out a deep sigh. May the Lord bless you with enough patience today. You let her pull you into the shelter as she told the receptionist, “Kim Luna. I have an appointment today.”
You could see the eyes of the receptionist bulging out of her sockets as she looked between the both of you. The receptionist frantically searched for the appointment schedule before bowing. “Ah, Ms Kim.” Sweat was visibly beading down her neck. “A specialist will come for you soon. Please, take a seat!”
The both of you sat down as Luna gushed. “I actually can’t believe they finally - finally - let me come. Mom was always pushing for better, well-bred hybrids while Dad always was fine with anything - as usual. But when he heard I chose this shelter he was angry. He didn’t want ‘scum coming home’ was what he said.” She sighed. “Told him to piss off.”
You snorted. You could never see her telling her Dad to ‘piss off’. The sentiment, probably, but she was too much of her father’s daughter to say that directly in his face.
The both of you went silent as you heard hurried footsteps coming in your direction. A petite lady walked over to the both of you, nervous but stern. “There will be no overstimulation on the hybrids, grabbing, and harsh treatment towards the hybrids. No food will be allowed in the hybrid areas either. As we move on from different types of hybrids, please remember to stay thoroughly sanitised.”
The both of you nodded at her instructions. “Ms Kim, this is your plus one today?” She pointed to you.
“Yes.” Luna nodded. “Her name is in the appointment form I filled in.”
It was?
The lady in white referred back to the papers she had in her arms. “Ah, yes. Ms L/N Y/N.” You nodded and the lady took a note down. “Alright ladies, my name is Jung Haneul, one of the main specialists in the facility. The brief has been gone through so we can proceed.”
You were definitely going to question her later.
She led both of you through a sanitation process while asking, “The form stated that you are interested in seeing domesticated hybrids, more specifically dogs, cats, and their smaller partners?” Luna nodded. “Do you have specific breeds in mind or any preference?”
“No.” She replied and the lady - Haneul - nodded.
“Through here would be the smaller hybrids, for example, hamsters, bunnies, guinea pigs, and more. As they are smaller and under the prey category, these hybrids tend to have frisky, scared characteristics. It takes a while for some of them to warm up.”
As the both of you walked into the room, it was obvious which group of hybrids were silent and which group was more energetic. A good half of the hybrids came bounding in your direction, grasping at your clothes to get a latch and pull themselves up. You kneeled down, giving them more access to you. The hybrids started to crowd you as you passed Luna a few of them.
As the hybrids started losing attention towards you and went to Luna, figuring out that she was the one adopting, a pair of rabbit ears caught your eye. You turned to Haneul, asking, “What breed is he?”
Haneul looked at the rabbit you were pointing at. “Ah, that’s Jungkook. He is a white mini rex rabbit.” You nodded. “But I recommend you to not approach him. He can be quite aggressive when approached.”
Well, duly noted.
Once Luna figured out that these little ones weren’t what she would bring home, she got up, sticking out a hand for you. “Let’s go. I wanna see the rest of the hybrids before I make a decision and I know,” She stared you down with a look, “That your ass wants to go home.”
You shrugged. Honestly, she was right. Your social battery had been at an all-time low after the company dinner a few days ago. You do not usually join those parties but your boss had phrased it in a very demanding way this year and therefore, you were all forced to go.
You took her hand and the both of you proceeded. The system was the same from going to new rooms to meeting new hybrids and different breeds. They easily latched themselves onto the both of you, some more aggressive than the rest but living with animals, you were pretty used to their teeth and claws by now.
You were a family of 6 and being the youngest child of four, you were very much doted on. However, your family loves pets. Whether they were stray or domestic, they were always taken in as a part of your little family.
You were petting one of the sleeping hybrids in their animal counterpart forms when Luna bounced over to you, effectively waking up the sleeping dog. It whined and snuggled deeper between your legs. Your hands returned to stoke its ears.
“Y/N, I think I found her.”
Your brows raised. Her?
“Her?” You questioned.
Luna nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, yes. My hybrid.”
You looked around, trying to detect the one your friend was talking about. You would like to meet this hybrid before she adopts it.
You found your friend’s new little buddy huddled up in a ball at the edge of the room, under the pile of blankets and climbing wall. Its wiggly form peeked its head out of the blankets but upon seeing you, shot back in.
Disappointed you were, but you understood. Luna carefully approached the hybrid and coxed her out of her shell. “Come on now, she’s my friend. She won’t hurt you. In fact, she works to save your kind and does a hella’ good job at it.” You kicked her side as she boasted to her soon-to-be-hybrid.
“Shut up.” You grumbled.
As much as it was a bit over the top, Luna managed to grab her out of the blankets, shoving her in your face. Your hands instinctively held the small Rottweiler puppy. She was very much full-grown by the looks of her human form but small for her breed.
Haneul popped over saying, “Ah, you found Byeol!” She gave her a scratch behind her ears. “Due to certain mutations done in the laboratory, she is much smaller than her peers. She may be jumpy at first but after getting to know her, she is a very playful one.” Haneul patted the dog - Byeol’s head.
“I’ll take her,” Luna said, suddenly getting up from the position she was sitting a few minutes ago.
The puppy - Byeol - started barking in excitement and somehow, it aches your heart knowing that a simple thing such as giving them a home can make them so happy when simple things like shelter should be a given.
As Haneul took the pup from your arms, the receptionist gave Luna some adoption papers to sign off. That left you with some free time on your hands. You walked back to the prey room, instantly locating the white rabbit. You gave him a little wave but he buried himself deeper under the blankets.
You sighed and turned away, not wanting to agitate the bunny any further. By the time you went back to the living hall, Luna was holding the hand of an unknown hybrid. Oh, it’s Byeol. You took a good look at the hybrid.
Just like Haneul had said, she sure is a lot smaller than the Rottweilers that you have encountered. Skinny, slightly malnourished, and very scared at this point in time. It was obvious that it had been a while since the poor hybrid had felt comfortable enough to shift into her human counterpart form.
“You sure you don’t want one?” Luna asked as the both of you left the shelter with her hybrid in tow. It walked a few steps behind the both of you before Luna held her hand and pulled her between the both of you.
You nodded. “Right now, I don’t think I have the capacity to take care of one.” Although, the white rabbit in the shelter kept coming to your mind. It had looked so sad when you were leaving as if it was hoping that you would give him a pet before leaving. It pulled at your heartstrings to see such sorrowful eyes from such a tiny hybrid.
You shook your head. No, you truly have no time for this now. You weren’t even sure if you could properly take care of yourself, lest to take care of another life.
“Okay…” Luna looked at you funny. “If you change your mind, we can always come back.”
You nodded, thanking her for the sentiment. As the three of you settled into the car, Byeol suddenly whined, vigorously shaking her head at the offending vehicle. The two of you looked at her.
“Byeol, please?” Luna begged her hybrid. “It’ll just be a short ride, I promise.”
Byeol whined even louder, suddenly shifting into her animal counterpart and scurrying away. You were quick to grab her before she went too far. Like a baby, you cooed and carefully rocked her, walking in circles around the car. The act significantly calmed her down. You placed her in the front seat, tucked between mountains of blankets.
She started shaking a little but did not seem as frantic as she did. Luna looked at you with grateful eyes. “I’ll have to learn that from you.”
You laughed softly. “It comes with living with pets.”
The ride back home was silent, your brain constantly going back to the rabbit hybrid. Jungkook was his name. You sighed heavily. Getting out of the car, you gave Byeol a scratch behind her ears and thanked Luna for the ride.
“Get home safe.” You nodded and waved at the retreating vehicle. You really didn’t know what to do.
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
It wasn’t a few days later that you found yourself standing outside the same shelter but this time, you were going to adopt.
You took a deep breath and walked in, steeling your nerves.
“Hello, welcome to Homes for Springs! How can I help you?” It was a different receptionist this time, you noted.
“Hello,” You were glad your voice didn’t waver. “I have an appointment under Ms L/N.” As the receptionist handed you a set of forms, you sat down, waiting for the specialist to take you over.
“As you have been here before and went through the briefing, you are free to enter.”
You nodded, grateful that you didn’t have to awkwardly stand there listening to the specialist talk. As you entered the room, your eyes immediately scanned the surroundings for a specific breed. As your eyes locked eyes with it, it jumped back. You cautiously manoeuvred around the hyperactive hybrids and made your way to him.
The specialist realised where you were going and held out a hand. “I would suggest you don’t approach him. He can be quite aggressive.”
Right, nothing you haven’t already heard before.
When you continued in the exact direction, the specialist didn’t say anything, however, the rest of the hybrids started to wander off. It seems that there was some sort of radius territory around this little dude. So you stood still and observed. You were now at the edge of his territory, where hardly any hybrids dared to venture close to. Most of them were very skittish to be this close.
So you sat down, legs folded and palms facing up - welcoming. “Hey, heard you are one frisky one.” You smiled at him. “Hi Jungkook, I’m Y/N.”
The rabbit bounced backwards as if it was shocked that you knew its name. However, it slowly hopped over, nose hard at work, sniffing cautiously as he neared you. You didn’t move - didn’t dare to move in case you scared him away. When he was arm’s length away, your fingers itched to stroke those long bunny ears.
So soft and fluffy.
You broke out of your trance when you felt something climbing onto your legs. Well, more like trying to. You slowly moved your hands, picking him up and placing him on your lap. His little paws moved around in your sweats, pawing at them before curling up.
You almost cooed at how the oh-so-aggressive little rabbit is curling up and sleeping between your legs. The both of you sat there in silence until Jungkook got up and perched his little head onto your lap instead, nearly sliding down if he didn’t find purchase on your sweats.
He nudged your hand with his snout, looking up at you with a glare as if scolding you when you couldn’t get what he meant.
“Oh, you want pets?” You asked. You needed his approval before you touched him. Hybrid ears and tails were very sensitive and you didn’t want to overstep a boundary.
Jungkook nudged your hand harder.
“Okay, okay.” You slowly petted him between his eyes and snout, slowly progressing to the top of his head and ears. A loud purr emitted from him as you rubbed the base of his ears. Jungkook shot up, startled as he buried himself deeper into you.
You held in your laugh.
“Miss, shall we move on?” The specialist called out to you.
You looked down at the rabbit that is now looking at you with those doe eyes and it just solidifies your reason to be here. You carefully picked him up, bringing him close to your chest as he started to fuss.
“Do you wanna come home with me?” You brought him to your eye level. You knew he understood you but you asked again. “Do you wanna come?”
Jungkook had stilled in your hands, eyes looking straight into yours. The both of you stayed like that for what felt like an eternity. If this was a cartoon show, you could hear the crickets chirping in the background dramatically.
Suddenly, Jungkook fussed around in your hold, causing you to let him go as he scurried away. You sighed and got up.
Guess he doesn’t want to.
There would be nothing left for you since you came for him. Just as you were leaving the room, you felt a weight on your heels. Looking down, you found Jungkook with a long blanket trailing behind him. So you crouched back down to his level, asking, “Do you want to come home with me?”
He nodded, hopping around you.
You picked him up, wrapping him in the blanket he trailed along, going over to the specialist. “I’ll take him, please.”
The specialist looked at you like you’ve gone mad. “He is a troublesome one,” pointing to Jungkook with a look. “Are you very sure?”
You nodded.
“If he causes any trouble, feel free to bring him back.” The specialist sighed and you felt Jungkook burrow deeper into the blanket. You felt bad and started stroking his ears.
As the specialist took Jungkook from you, you signed the papers given to you by the receptionist and when Jungkook came back in a cage, you slowly took it from her, hoping that the sudden movement wouldn’t jostle him too much.
Jungkook was yours now and you were going to make sure he got the best you can provide him with. No more looking sad for that rabbit.
Summary: Y/N has a habit - her schedules are always set, always pristine, always clear. Namjoon has a habit of doing things he doesn't like - particularly dinner with colleagues. But he wants to do one thing, and that is to hunt down prey.
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hybrid
Warnings: angst, abuse, smut
Taglist: @lovejkmilitarywife @forevermoon1306
WC: 2728
< Prev. Series mstr. Next >
The courthouse smelled like disinfectant and old paper.
Namjoon had been coming here long enough that the scent no longer bothered him. It used to—early on, when everything still felt too sharp, too final. Now it was just another marker of space, another reminder that some places existed to catalogue damage after it had already been done.
He finished the hearing just after three.
The case itself was unremarkable. Procedural. A plea deal that would satisfy no one and offend fewer. He packed his files away carefully, nodding to a colleague in passing, and stepped out into the cold.
His phone buzzed before he made it down the steps.
Yuna.
He stopped walking.
Yuna didn’t call unless she had to. She preferred texts—short, precise, practical. Calls meant something was wrong. Or that she was trying very hard to pretend it wasn’t.
He answered on the third ring. “Hey.”
“Hey,” she said. Her voice was steady. Too steady. “Are you busy?”
He glanced back at the building behind him, stone and glass looming. “I can make time.”
There was a pause. He could hear traffic on her end, the distant sound of a train passing. She exhaled softly.
“I had a nightmare,” she said.
Namjoon closed his eyes.
“Okay,” he replied, gentle. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“It was stupid,” she said immediately. “I don’t even remember all of it. Just—running. And fur. And blood.”
His grip on his phone tightened.
“Yuna—”
“I know,” she cut in quickly. “I know it was a long time ago. I’m not— I’m not blaming anyone. I just thought you should know.”
He leaned against the railing, the metal cold through his coat. “You don’t have to protect me from it.”
“I’m not,” she said quietly. “I’m protecting myself.”
That hurt more than he expected.
They didn’t say the word. They never did.
They didn’t say hybrid.
They didn’t say facility.
They didn’t say accident.
They didn’t say screaming or blood on the pavement or how small she had looked on the hospital bed.
Some things didn’t need naming to exist.
“I’m okay,” Yuna continued. “Really. I just… there was a report on the news this morning. Another escape. Different district. Different circumstances.”
His jaw tightened. “And?”
“And I thought of you,” she admitted. “Because you always get this look. Like you’re bracing for something.”
He swallowed. “That’s my job.”
“No,” she said. “That’s your past.”
They sat with that for a moment, connected by silence and distance and a memory that had never quite settled.
“You don’t have to carry it like this,” she added softly.
He almost laughed. “Someone has to.”
“You were a kid too,” Yuna said. “You forget that.”
He did forget.
Often.
After they hung up, Namjoon didn’t move right away. He stayed there, watching people pass—lawyers, clerks, defendants, families. Lives intersecting briefly before splitting apart again.
He thought of the girl from the bookstore.
Y/N.
The way she held herself like she was always prepared to step back. The way her answers were careful, but never dishonest. The way she watched people without demanding anything from them.
He wondered what she would say if he told her.
Probably nothing.
Probably exactly what he needed.
That thought unsettled him.
That night, he dreamed of fur and small hands reaching out, of Yuna’s voice calling his name, of a city that didn’t care who got hurt as long as it kept moving.
When he woke, his chest was tight and his hands were clenched into the sheets.
He didn’t go back to sleep.
Thursday came anyway.
He found himself standing in front of the bookstore later than usual, the sky already dimming, streetlights flickering on one by one. He hesitated before pushing the door open, a rare thing for him.
Inside, the warmth hit him immediately. The familiar smell. Paper and dust and something calming.
Y/N was behind the counter, writing something in her notebook. She looked up when the bell chimed.
Their eyes met.
Something in her expression shifted—not concern, not alarm. Recognition.
“You’re late,” she said gently.
“Yeah,” he replied. “Sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologise.”
He stepped closer, resting his hands on the counter, grounding himself in the solid wood. “Do you ever feel like the past waits until you’re doing okay before reminding you it exists?”
She didn’t answer right away.
Then she closed her notebook and met his gaze fully. “Yes.”
That was all she said.
It was enough.
For the first time since the call with Yuna, something in his chest loosened. Just a fraction.
He didn’t know why.
He didn’t know what Y/N was holding back.
But standing there, in that quiet, imperfect space, he realised something uncomfortable and undeniable: Whatever she was restraining inside herself, it mirrored him more than he was ready to admit.
And he wasn’t sure how much of it he liked about it.
Namjoon asked her on a Tuesday.
Not impulsively. Not with rehearsed charm. He waited until the store had emptied, until the evening light flattened into gold along the spines of the books, until the city outside softened into background noise.
“Would you like to get coffee sometime?” he asked, standing on the customer side of the counter, hands folded together like he was presenting evidence instead of a question.
Y/N looked at him for a moment—really looked. Not weighing him, not dissecting his intent. Just observing.
Then she said, “Yes.”
The word landed gently, like it hadn’t been forced.
Relief loosened something in his shoulders that he hadn’t realised was tight.
“But,” she added, tilting her head slightly, “Thursdays are better.”
He smiled. “I figured.”
So Namjoon prepared, setting his calendar, clearing his schedules, and arrived early the next Thursday.
The café down the street smelled like burnt sugar and steamed milk, the line long enough that he had time to second-guess everything. He ordered two coffees—one black for himself, one lightly sweetened with oat milk after remembering how she always drank tea instead of anything heavy. He added pastries without being asked. Small ones. Nothing messy.
By the time he stepped back onto the street, the paper bag was already warm in his hands.
The bookstore’s window glowed invitingly as he approached. Inside, Y/N was rearranging a display near the front, sleeves pushed up, hair loosely tied back. She glanced up when the bell chimed, surprise flickering briefly before she noticed what he was holding.
“You didn’t have to,” she said, already moving to clear space on the counter.
“I wanted to,” he replied. “And I thought… this way, you don’t have to leave.”
She paused, then nodded slowly. “Thank you.”
He set the coffees down carefully, the pastries between them like an offering. The store smelled richer for it now—paper and sugar and something warm that softened the edges of the space.
They didn’t sit right away.
Y/N finished helping a customer, rang up a purchase, flipped the sign to Back in Five, and then joined him behind the counter, perching on a stool she rarely used.
He handed her the coffee. “I hope this is okay.”
She took a sip, eyes closing briefly. “It’s perfect.”
Something in his chest eased.
They ate in companionable silence at first, the kind that didn’t need filling. Outside, the city moved. Inside, time slowed just enough to feel intentional.
Namjoon watched the way she broke off small pieces of pastry instead of biting into it, how she kept her gaze level even when thinking, how her fingers lingered on the rim of her cup for warmth.
He cleared his throat.
“There’s something I wanted to ask you,” he said.
She looked up, attentive but not guarded. “Okay.”
He hesitated—not because he didn’t know what to say, but because he did.
“My sister,” he began. “Her name is Yuna. She was hurt a long time ago when we were younger. It was… an accident. No one was charged. No case to reopen.”
His voice stayed even. Controlled.
“She’s okay now,” he added quickly. “Physically. Mostly.”
Y/N’s fingers stilled around her cup. “And you?”
He exhaled. “I’m a lawyer because of it.”
That earned a quiet nod - not in pity, rather recognition.
“She doesn’t hold grudges,” he said. “That’s the thing. She never blamed anyone. But I…” He trailed off, jaw tightening. “I don’t know how to let go of the anger without feeling like I’m betraying her.”
Y/N leaned her elbows on the counter, chin resting lightly on her hands. “What does she want?”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Not what you think she needs,” Y/N clarified. “What she’s actually asked for.”
He thought about it - About Yuna’s voice on the phone and her careful reassurances.
“She wants me to stop holding grudges and hoping for the worst,” he admitted.
Y/N smiled faintly. “That sounds like her trusting you.”
He scoffed softly. “Or underestimating me.”
“Or knowing you well enough to believe you can learn.” Y/N took a sip of the coffee.
He looked at her then, really looked. The steadiness in her gaze wasn’t born from ignorance. It came from experience.
“How do you do it?” he asked quietly. “Carry something heavy without letting it decide everything else?”
She considered the question seriously.
“I don’t,” she said finally. “Not all the time. I just decide,” she continued, “who gets to feel it with me and who doesn’t.”
The answer settled between them, unadorned and honest.
Namjoon nodded slowly. “That sounds… difficult.”
“It is,” she said. “But it’s also freeing.”
They sat with that.
A customer knocked lightly on the glass, peering in with a hopeful look. Y/N checked the time, grimaced apologetically, and flipped the sign back to Open.
“Rain check?” she asked.
“Anytime,” he replied easily.
As he gathered the cups, she reached out and touched his wrist briefly. Not to stop him. Just to anchor.
“For what it’s worth,” she said, voice low, “you don’t sound like someone who’s betraying anyone. And you can leave the stuff around. I’ll clear up later.”
He swallowed. “Thank you.”
When he left, the bell chimed as always. But this time, the sound followed him longer.
He didn’t have answers.
But he had somewhere to bring the questions now.
And that felt like a beginning.
Company dinners always started the same way.
Too much light. Too much noise. A room arranged to encourage conversation but designed to amplify it instead—glass clinking, cutlery scraping, laughter bouncing off polished surfaces until it lost all warmth. The restaurant had floor-to-ceiling windows that reflected the city back at itself, a blur of neon and rain-streaked streets beyond the glass.
Namjoon sat where he was assigned, posture straight, jacket folded neatly behind him. His reflection stared back faintly from the window beside his seat—tie loosened just enough to look approachable, expression neutral in the way he’d perfected over years.
The food arrived in stages. Plates too wide, portions too small.
He barely tasted any of it.
Conversation flowed around him in loose arcs. A junior associate talked too loudly about a recent win. Someone complained about judges. Someone else laughed too hard at a joke that wasn’t particularly funny.
Namjoon contributed when expected. A nod here. A short reply there. Just enough to remain present without inviting attention.
That worked.
Until it didn’t.
“So,” someone across the table said, leaning back in their chair, voice casual in a way that felt practiced. “What’s this I hear about you leaving on time lately?”
A few heads turned.
Namjoon blinked. “I’ve always left on time.”
Laughter rippled through the table.
“That’s not true,” another colleague said. “You used to live in the office.”
“I still do,” Namjoon replied evenly. “Just more efficiently.”
Someone grinned. “Sounds like someone has a reason.”
The words landed heavier than intended.
“Is there a reason?” another asked. “Anyone we should know about?”
Heat crept up the back of his neck before he could stop it. He shifted slightly in his chair, suddenly aware of the way attention narrowed, focused.
“There’s nothing to announce,” he said, keeping his tone light.
“Oh, come on,” someone else chimed in. “You’re blushing.”
“I am not,” he replied automatically.
That only made it worse.
A few chuckles followed. Someone raised their glass. “To Namjoon—finally joining the rest of us in having a life.”
He forced a smile, lifted his water in return. The moment passed, but the echo of it lingered, uncomfortable and exposed.
Then—inevitably—it turned.
A different voice, quieter but sharper. “Speaking of personal things… wasn’t your sister’s case brought up again recently?”
Namjoon’s fingers tightened around his fork.
The restaurant noise dimmed, like someone had turned the volume down just enough for the words to cut cleanly.
“I thought I saw something about it,” the colleague continued, unaware or unconcerned. “An appeal request? Or some advocacy group trying to reopen it?”
Namjoon set the fork down carefully. Slowly.
“It wasn’t reopened,” he said. His voice was calm. Polite. “And it won’t be.”
“Oh,” the person said, blinking. “I just assumed—with your position now—you might want to push for closure.”
Closure.
The word sat heavy and wrong in his chest.
“My sister doesn’t want that,” Namjoon replied, a thin edge slipping into his tone despite his effort. “And it’s not a topic for speculation.”
Silence followed.
It stretched longer than was comfortable.
Someone cleared their throat. Another shifted in their seat. A server hovered awkwardly nearby, unsure whether to refill glasses or retreat.
Namjoon pushed his chair back.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he said evenly, standing. “I have an early morning.”
No one stopped him.
The moment he stepped outside, the rain hit him fully.
It wasn’t a gentle drizzle. It was heavy, cold, relentless—sheets of water pouring down, blurring streetlights into streaks of colour. The pavement gleamed underfoot, slick and reflective, every surface shining like it had been scrubbed raw.
He didn’t open his umbrella.
Didn’t call for a car.
He walked.
Each step splashed water up the hems of his trousers, soaked through his shoes. His coat darkened almost immediately, fabric clinging uncomfortably to his shoulders. The cold crept in slowly, deliberate, biting through layers until it settled into his bones.
It helped.
The anger had somewhere to go now—down his spine, into his legs, out into the rain.
The city stretched around him, familiar but distant. Traffic hissed past. Neon signs buzzed. Strangers hurried under umbrellas, heads down, lives intersecting only briefly before moving on.
His thoughts spiraled anyway.
Yuna’s voice. Too calm. Too careful.
The way people spoke about her like her pain was something that could be revisited at convenience. Like it belonged to anyone but her.
By the time he realised where he was headed, he was already there.
The bookstore stood dark against the street, its windows streaked with rain. The sign hung slightly crooked, flipped firmly to Closed. Only one light glowed faintly inside—near the back, where the shelves grew taller and the air always felt warmer.
Namjoon stopped short.
He stood there for a moment, rain dripping from his hair, breath fogging the glass.
Then he sank down onto the small step by the door, back pressing against the cool surface. The glass vibrated faintly with passing traffic. Water pooled around the curb, rushing toward the drain in a constant, rushing stream.
He watched it fall.
Watched the rain blur the outlines of the shelves behind the window, turning the familiar shapes into softened silhouettes.
His shoulders sagged.
Here, alone in the rain, he let the anger surface fully. Not explosive. Just heavy. Dense. The kind that sat in his chest and refused to move.
He pressed his palms together, elbows resting on his knees, head tipping back against the door.
The bell inside didn’t ring.
The store stayed closed.
Still, something about being here eased the pressure. Like the building remembered him, even if the person inside it wasn’t there to see him now.
He thought of Y/N.
The way she listened. The way she didn’t rush him. The way she answered questions without demanding explanations in return.
He wondered what she would say if she saw him like this—soaked, tired, sitting on the ground like a man who’d finally run out of ways to hold himself together.
Summary: Y/N has a habit - her schedules are always set, always pristine, always clear. Namjoon has a habit of doing things he doesn't like - particularly dinner with colleagues. But he wants to do one thing, and that is to hunt down prey.
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hybrid
Warnings: angst, abuse, smut
WC: 2907
Taglist: @lovejkmilitarywife @forevermoon1306
Series mstr. Next >
The bookstore sat between a closed tailor and a florist that never threw anything away.
Even in winter, dried stems crowded the florist’s window—lavender gone pale, baby’s breath yellowed with age, wildflowers pressed flat like memories someone couldn’t part with. Namjoon always noticed them when he passed, though he never stopped.
The bookstore’s front sign flickered once before settling, the glass fogged faintly from the difference between the cold outside and the warmth within. When he pushed the door open, the bell chimed softly—low, restrained, nothing like the shrill ones in convenience stores.
The air inside was warm in a tired way. Old paper. Dust. Something sweet underneath it all—tea, maybe, or wood polish that had been used for decades without question. The kind where the floorboards creaked under weight, where the shelves leaned just a little too close together, and the lighting never quite reached the corners.
Namjoon exhaled without realising he’d been holding his breath.
This place didn’t ask anything of him.
He shrugged off his coat and draped it over his arm, the weight of the day still clinging to him in the crease of his shoulders. Court ran long. It always did when he was handling older cases—ones where the facts had gone cold but the consequences hadn’t.
The front section was bright and organised, new releases stacked in clean piles. He walked past it without slowing. Past the self-help aisle, where optimism sat in glossy covers and large fonts.
He didn’t come here for answers.
The back half of the store was narrower. The shelves rose higher, close enough that the space felt slightly compressed, like the building itself leaned inward. The lighting changed here too—warmer, dimmer, bulbs softened by age.
This was where he always ended up.
Essays. Nature writing. Things no one assigned.
He stopped in front of a shelf labelled Ecology & Land, fingers brushing spines absently as his thoughts wandered. Outside, somewhere in his mind, the image surfaced again—hospital lights too bright, his sister’s hand small and still on his own.
He frowned faintly, reaching for the nearest book just to anchor himself.
Only when the weight settled wrong in his hands did he notice.
Upside down.
“You’re holding that the wrong way.”
The voice came from close by—not loud, not sharp. Just enough to interrupt his spiral.
Namjoon glanced up.
She stood on the other side of the shelf, partially obscured, a book tucked under her arm. The light above cast soft shadows across her face, catching in the loose strands of hair near her cheeks. There was something fox-like about her posture—not in any obvious way, just the alert stillness, like she was always listening for something beneath the noise.
He looked back down at the book. “I was—” He stopped, then huffed quietly. “Checking the binding.”
Then a soft sound—something between a breath and a laugh. “You don’t need an excuse,” she said. “Most people do that when they’re thinking about something else.”
He looked at her properly then.
She stood with one hand resting on the shelf, fingers lightly touching the wood as if grounding herself. Her cardigan was a muted color—something between cream and faded green—and it looked well-worn, stretched slightly at the cuffs. Her hair was pulled back loosely, not styled so much as gathered, with strands escaping near her face.
There was nothing striking in the obvious sense.
And yet.
She met his gaze steadily, eyes sharp but not unkind, as if she had already decided he wasn’t a problem.
“I’m Namjoon,” he said after a beat, correcting the book’s orientation. “I was just browsing.”
“Mhm.” She nodded once. “You’re in the wrong section if you’re looking for legal theory.”
His brows knit together. “How did you—”
She tilted her head, studying him openly now. “You have the posture. And the bag. And the expression people get when their brain refuses to clock out.”
That earned a huff of laughter from him. “That obvious?”
“I work here,” she said, as if that explained everything.
It did, actually.
She moved past him then, stepping into the narrow space between shelves with practiced ease, pulling out a book and sliding another into its place. The space felt smaller with her there. Not cramped—just occupied.
He followed her motion without meaning to.
“Have you read this one?” he asked, holding up the book he’d taken.
She glanced at it. “Yes. It’s better than it looks.”
“That’s not very reassuring.”
She smiled faintly. “It talks about control. About cities trying to tame nature instead of learning how to exist alongside it.”
Namjoon considered that. “Sounds… idealistic.”
“Or necessary,” she said lightly.
There was a brief silence after that—not awkward, but attentive. The kind where both people were aware of the space between them.
She shifted her weight, shoulders drawing in just slightly, and Namjoon noticed the way her breath changed. Subtle. Controlled.
“You okay?” he asked before he could stop himself.
Her eyes flicked to his face, surprised. Then she waved a hand dismissively. “Yeah. Just one of those days.”
“Sick?” he offered, immediately regretting how blunt it sounded.
She didn’t take offense. “I get run down easily.”
He nodded. That made sense. Some people did.
He placed the book back onto the shelf. “Do you have any recommendations?”
She studied him again, longer this time as if deciding something.
“For distraction,” she said slowly, “or reflection?”
“Reflection,” he answered without hesitation.
She turned, walked two shelves down, and returned with a slim volume. The cover was simple—pressed wildflowers arranged carefully, deliberately imperfect.
“This one,” she said, handing it to him. “It doesn’t shout. But it lingers.”
Their fingers brushed.
Her skin was warm.
He felt it all the way up his arm.
“Thanks,” he said, clearing his throat. “I’m—”
“Namjoon,” she interrupted gently. “You already told me.”
Right.
He smiled, small and genuine. “Right. And you are…?”
“Y/N.”
The name settled in his chest in an unexpected way.
He paid for the book at the counter, slipping it into his bag, and told himself that was that.
A pleasant interaction. A good recommendation. That’s it and it’s enough.
As he headed toward the door, he felt the pull—quiet, insistent so he listened and turned. Y/N was already shelving again, movements smooth, practiced. She fit into the space like she had always been part of it. The bookstore felt different with her in it. Less empty.
He left.
But the thought followed him home.
And when he found himself back the next Thursday, standing in the same aisle with a different book in his hands, he didn’t question it.
The bookstore always felt different in the mornings.
Quieter, yes—but not empty. The silence here had shape. It settled into the shelves, curled in the corners between stacked paperbacks and old hardcovers that hadn’t been touched in months. Dust motes floated lazily when sunlight slipped through the front windows, catching in the air like suspended breath.
Y/N liked opening shifts for that reason.
She unlocked the door at exactly nine, the bell chiming softly as it always did. Same sound, same pitch. Predictable. Comforting. She stepped inside, flicked on the lights one by one instead of all at once. The front section brightened first. The back took its time.
She shrugged off her coat, hung it behind the counter, and tied her hair back with practiced fingers. The mirror behind the register reflected someone she recognised—cardigan slightly oversized, eyes alert, posture careful.
She brewed tea before doing anything else.
Chamomile today. The kind that smelled faintly of apples if you let it steep long enough.
Routine mattered. Especially here.
She moved through the aisles, checking for misplaced books, smoothing dog-eared recommendation cards taped to the shelves. Someone had left a novel face-down on a chair the night before. She picked it up, dusted off the seat, returned the book to its place.
Her fingers paused.
Ecology & Land.
She didn’t know why that shelf caught her attention today. She hadn’t planned to linger there—but her steps slowed anyway, eyes scanning the spines.
And then she noticed the absence.
The book was gone.
Not unusual. Books were meant to leave, after all. But she remembered that one. The pressed wildflowers. The way he had held it, upside down, brows furrowed like he was wrestling with a thought that refused to cooperate.
Namjoon.
She exhaled slowly, then frowned at herself.
She shouldn’t remember customers like that.
Still, Thursdays had a way of bringing back familiar faces. People with habits. People who thought bookstores were safe places to pause.
She returned to the counter and sat, pulling out a notebook from beneath the register. Scribbled notes filled its pages—inventory reminders, quotes she liked, half-finished thoughts she never planned to share.
At ten twenty-three, the door chimed again.
She didn’t look up right away.
She didn’t need to.
She felt it first—the subtle shift in the air, the weight of someone tall stepping into the space, moving with measured certainty instead of hesitation. The bell rang once, settled.
Her fingers tightened around her pen.
She lifted her gaze.
Namjoon stood just inside the doorway, coat draped over his arm, suit jacket still on despite the warmth. His hair was slightly damp, like he’d walked fast or forgotten his umbrella. His eyes swept the room instinctively, cataloguing.
Then they found her.
Something in his expression softened—not a smile exactly, but recognition.
“Oh,” he said, quieter than necessary. “You’re here.”
She raised a brow. “I do work here.”
He huffed a laugh, stepping closer. “Right. Of course.”
She watched him as he moved through the store, noted how he avoided the front displays again, how his path curved naturally toward the back. He walked like someone who knew where he wanted to end up, even if he couldn’t articulate why.
“You finished it?” she asked when he reached her.
He tapped the side of his bag. “Last night.”
“And?”
“It didn’t shout,” he said, echoing her words back to her. “But it did linger.”
Her lips curved, just slightly. “Good.”
He hesitated, then pulled the book out and placed it on the counter gently, like it was something fragile. “I wanted to return it properly.”
She took it from him, fingers brushing the cover. “Most people just leave them wherever.”
“I don’t like leaving things unfinished.”
She believed him.
There was a pause—comfortable, but aware.
“You come here often,” she said. Not a question.
“Thursdays,” he admitted. “Usually.”
She nodded. “Patterns are good.”
“For you too?”
“For the store,” she corrected lightly. “It gets restless when people stop coming back.”
He smiled at that. Not wide. Thoughtful.
She rang up a customer behind him, then returned her attention to him once the bell chimed again and the door closed.
“You ever think about leaving?” he asked suddenly.
She blinked. “The store?”
“Or… here,” he clarified, gesturing vaguely. The city. The space. The routine.
She considered the question seriously. “Sometimes.”
“But you don’t.”
“No.”
“Why?”
She glanced around—the shelves, the worn chairs, the little imperfections that made the place feel lived-in instead of curated. “Some places don’t ask you to be more than you are.”
Namjoon’s gaze lingered on her face longer this time. Studying. Searching.
“And that’s enough?”
“For now,” she said honestly.
A flicker crossed his expression—something like understanding, edged with something heavier.
He checked his watch. “I should let you work.”
“You’re not in the way.”
“I tend to be,” he replied, half-joking.
She shook her head. “Not today.”
He nodded once, then turned toward the shelves, hands slipping into his pockets. He didn’t browse immediately. Just stood there for a moment, taking in the space like he was memorising it.
Like he wanted to remember how it felt.
She watched him from behind the counter, aware of a quiet pull she didn’t name. She didn’t need to. Naming things had a way of making them heavier than they needed to be.
When he finally left, the bell chimed again, soft and familiar.
The store settled.
But the space he’d occupied stayed warm long after the door closed.
Y/N returned the wildflower book to its shelf, smoothing the spine with her thumb.
She told herself it was just another Thursday and ignored the way she found herself glancing at the door anyway.
Restraint was layered. Something that is built on slowly, like muscle memory. The kind that settles into the body without conscious effort—the way she kept her back straight when standing too long, the way she measured her breathing when rooms felt too small, the way she always knew where the exits were.
It wasn’t fear.
It was caution, refined into habit.
The bookstore helped with that. It asked for very little and gave her structure in return. Shelves stayed where they were. Books followed rules. People came and went on schedules that could be learned, predicted. Even the difficult ones rarely stayed long.
She liked that.
She liked knowing how much of herself she could give without overextending.
Namjoon disrupted that in small ways.
Not loudly. Not rudely. Just enough to be noticeable.
By the third Thursday, she found herself anticipating the sound of the bell around ten. By the fourth, she noticed the way her shoulders loosened when she saw him step inside, coat always draped over his arm, tie loosened just enough to signal the day had been long.
She didn’t smile wider. She didn’t move faster.
But she noticed.
And that was dangerous.
Y/N had learned early that closeness invited questions. Questions led to assumptions. Assumptions had consequences. Even now—especially now—there were things about her that didn’t fit neatly into casual conversation.
So she stayed measured.
She talked about books, about the weather, about how the city felt heavier in the evenings, like it was holding onto something it didn’t want to name. She didn’t talk about herself unless asked, and even then, she chose her words carefully.
Namjoon noticed.
She could tell by the way his questions shifted—never pressing, but circling gently, like he was mapping the edges of something invisible.
“Do you live nearby?” he asked once, leaning against the counter while she rang up another customer.
“Close enough,” she replied.
“Family?”
“Not here.”
“Work before this?”
She shrugged. “A little of everything.”
He accepted those answers without complaint. That almost made it worse.
People who pushed were easy. She knew how to handle them. People who respected boundaries without demanding explanations left her unmoored.
One afternoon, she caught him watching her hands as she shelved returns.
Not staring. Observing.
“You’re careful,” he said.
She paused. “With books?”
“With everything.”
Her fingers tightened briefly around the spine she was holding. She slid the book into place before turning to face him.
“Some things don’t like being handled roughly.”
His gaze didn’t waver. “You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”
She met his eyes, steady. “Doesn’t everyone?”
He nodded slowly. But she could tell—he was thinking of something specific.
Something that wasn’t a book.
The restraint came from knowing when to pull back.
That night, after closing, Y/N stood alone in the dim light of the store, the city’s glow filtering through the windows. She wiped down the counter, straightened chairs, checked the locks twice even though she knew they were fine.
Her reflection in the glass looked tired. Not worn. Just… alert. Always alert.
At home, her apartment was quiet. Small. Carefully arranged. Plants by the window. A blanket folded on the couch just so. Nothing excessive. Nothing that invited questions.
She kicked off her shoes and leaned her forehead briefly against the door.
She thought of Namjoon’s hands—how they moved with intention, how he treated objects like they mattered. She thought of his pauses, the way he listened without filling silence just to hear himself speak.
She didn’t let herself imagine more than that.
Imagination had a way of loosening the careful lines she’d drawn.
The next week, he arrived later than usual.
She noticed immediately.
The bell chimed closer to noon. His posture was different—shoulders tense, jaw tight. He didn’t go straight to the back this time. He stood near the entrance for a moment, like he’d forgotten why he came.
“You okay?” she asked quietly.
He hesitated. “Do you ever get the feeling that something you buried a long time ago suddenly decides it wants attention?”
She considered him, then nodded. “All the time.”
“Does it stop?”
“No,” she said honestly. “But you get better at carrying it.”
He exhaled slowly, like that helped.
They didn’t talk much after that. Not because it was uncomfortable—because it wasn’t necessary. He browsed. She worked. Their presence overlapped without demanding explanation.
Later, as he paid, his hand brushed hers again. This time, she didn’t pull away immediately.
The contact was brief. Intentional.
It lingered anyway.
After he left, Y/N stood very still behind the counter, breathing carefully until the feeling settled back into something manageable.
Restraint didn’t mean absence of desire.
It meant survival.
And she had survived a long time by knowing exactly how much of herself to give—and when to stop.
But as she turned the sign to Closed that evening, she wondered—quietly, privately—what would happen if she let herself give just a little more.
Not today.
Not yet.
But the question exists now.
And that alone felt like a crack in something she had spent years piecing together.
Summary: Y/N has a habit - her schedules are always set, always pristine, always clear. Namjoon has a habit of doing things he doesn't like - particularly dinner with colleagues. But he wants to do one thing, and that is to hunt down prey.
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hybrid
Warnings: angst, abuse, smut
WC: 2907
Taglist: @lovejkmilitarywife @forevermoon1306
Series mstr. Next >
The bookstore sat between a closed tailor and a florist that never threw anything away.
Even in winter, dried stems crowded the florist’s window—lavender gone pale, baby’s breath yellowed with age, wildflowers pressed flat like memories someone couldn’t part with. Namjoon always noticed them when he passed, though he never stopped.
The bookstore’s front sign flickered once before settling, the glass fogged faintly from the difference between the cold outside and the warmth within. When he pushed the door open, the bell chimed softly—low, restrained, nothing like the shrill ones in convenience stores.
The air inside was warm in a tired way. Old paper. Dust. Something sweet underneath it all—tea, maybe, or wood polish that had been used for decades without question. The kind where the floorboards creaked under weight, where the shelves leaned just a little too close together, and the lighting never quite reached the corners.
Namjoon exhaled without realising he’d been holding his breath.
This place didn’t ask anything of him.
He shrugged off his coat and draped it over his arm, the weight of the day still clinging to him in the crease of his shoulders. Court ran long. It always did when he was handling older cases—ones where the facts had gone cold but the consequences hadn’t.
The front section was bright and organised, new releases stacked in clean piles. He walked past it without slowing. Past the self-help aisle, where optimism sat in glossy covers and large fonts.
He didn’t come here for answers.
The back half of the store was narrower. The shelves rose higher, close enough that the space felt slightly compressed, like the building itself leaned inward. The lighting changed here too—warmer, dimmer, bulbs softened by age.
This was where he always ended up.
Essays. Nature writing. Things no one assigned.
He stopped in front of a shelf labelled Ecology & Land, fingers brushing spines absently as his thoughts wandered. Outside, somewhere in his mind, the image surfaced again—hospital lights too bright, his sister’s hand small and still on his own.
He frowned faintly, reaching for the nearest book just to anchor himself.
Only when the weight settled wrong in his hands did he notice.
Upside down.
“You’re holding that the wrong way.”
The voice came from close by—not loud, not sharp. Just enough to interrupt his spiral.
Namjoon glanced up.
She stood on the other side of the shelf, partially obscured, a book tucked under her arm. The light above cast soft shadows across her face, catching in the loose strands of hair near her cheeks. There was something fox-like about her posture—not in any obvious way, just the alert stillness, like she was always listening for something beneath the noise.
He looked back down at the book. “I was—” He stopped, then huffed quietly. “Checking the binding.”
Then a soft sound—something between a breath and a laugh. “You don’t need an excuse,” she said. “Most people do that when they’re thinking about something else.”
He looked at her properly then.
She stood with one hand resting on the shelf, fingers lightly touching the wood as if grounding herself. Her cardigan was a muted color—something between cream and faded green—and it looked well-worn, stretched slightly at the cuffs. Her hair was pulled back loosely, not styled so much as gathered, with strands escaping near her face.
There was nothing striking in the obvious sense.
And yet.
She met his gaze steadily, eyes sharp but not unkind, as if she had already decided he wasn’t a problem.
“I’m Namjoon,” he said after a beat, correcting the book’s orientation. “I was just browsing.”
“Mhm.” She nodded once. “You’re in the wrong section if you’re looking for legal theory.”
His brows knit together. “How did you—”
She tilted her head, studying him openly now. “You have the posture. And the bag. And the expression people get when their brain refuses to clock out.”
That earned a huff of laughter from him. “That obvious?”
“I work here,” she said, as if that explained everything.
It did, actually.
She moved past him then, stepping into the narrow space between shelves with practiced ease, pulling out a book and sliding another into its place. The space felt smaller with her there. Not cramped—just occupied.
He followed her motion without meaning to.
“Have you read this one?” he asked, holding up the book he’d taken.
She glanced at it. “Yes. It’s better than it looks.”
“That’s not very reassuring.”
She smiled faintly. “It talks about control. About cities trying to tame nature instead of learning how to exist alongside it.”
Namjoon considered that. “Sounds… idealistic.”
“Or necessary,” she said lightly.
There was a brief silence after that—not awkward, but attentive. The kind where both people were aware of the space between them.
She shifted her weight, shoulders drawing in just slightly, and Namjoon noticed the way her breath changed. Subtle. Controlled.
“You okay?” he asked before he could stop himself.
Her eyes flicked to his face, surprised. Then she waved a hand dismissively. “Yeah. Just one of those days.”
“Sick?” he offered, immediately regretting how blunt it sounded.
She didn’t take offense. “I get run down easily.”
He nodded. That made sense. Some people did.
He placed the book back onto the shelf. “Do you have any recommendations?”
She studied him again, longer this time as if deciding something.
“For distraction,” she said slowly, “or reflection?”
“Reflection,” he answered without hesitation.
She turned, walked two shelves down, and returned with a slim volume. The cover was simple—pressed wildflowers arranged carefully, deliberately imperfect.
“This one,” she said, handing it to him. “It doesn’t shout. But it lingers.”
Their fingers brushed.
Her skin was warm.
He felt it all the way up his arm.
“Thanks,” he said, clearing his throat. “I’m—”
“Namjoon,” she interrupted gently. “You already told me.”
Right.
He smiled, small and genuine. “Right. And you are…?”
“Y/N.”
The name settled in his chest in an unexpected way.
He paid for the book at the counter, slipping it into his bag, and told himself that was that.
A pleasant interaction. A good recommendation. That’s it and it’s enough.
As he headed toward the door, he felt the pull—quiet, insistent so he listened and turned. Y/N was already shelving again, movements smooth, practiced. She fit into the space like she had always been part of it. The bookstore felt different with her in it. Less empty.
He left.
But the thought followed him home.
And when he found himself back the next Thursday, standing in the same aisle with a different book in his hands, he didn’t question it.
The bookstore always felt different in the mornings.
Quieter, yes—but not empty. The silence here had shape. It settled into the shelves, curled in the corners between stacked paperbacks and old hardcovers that hadn’t been touched in months. Dust motes floated lazily when sunlight slipped through the front windows, catching in the air like suspended breath.
Y/N liked opening shifts for that reason.
She unlocked the door at exactly nine, the bell chiming softly as it always did. Same sound, same pitch. Predictable. Comforting. She stepped inside, flicked on the lights one by one instead of all at once. The front section brightened first. The back took its time.
She shrugged off her coat, hung it behind the counter, and tied her hair back with practiced fingers. The mirror behind the register reflected someone she recognised—cardigan slightly oversized, eyes alert, posture careful.
She brewed tea before doing anything else.
Chamomile today. The kind that smelled faintly of apples if you let it steep long enough.
Routine mattered. Especially here.
She moved through the aisles, checking for misplaced books, smoothing dog-eared recommendation cards taped to the shelves. Someone had left a novel face-down on a chair the night before. She picked it up, dusted off the seat, returned the book to its place.
Her fingers paused.
Ecology & Land.
She didn’t know why that shelf caught her attention today. She hadn’t planned to linger there—but her steps slowed anyway, eyes scanning the spines.
And then she noticed the absence.
The book was gone.
Not unusual. Books were meant to leave, after all. But she remembered that one. The pressed wildflowers. The way he had held it, upside down, brows furrowed like he was wrestling with a thought that refused to cooperate.
Namjoon.
She exhaled slowly, then frowned at herself.
She shouldn’t remember customers like that.
Still, Thursdays had a way of bringing back familiar faces. People with habits. People who thought bookstores were safe places to pause.
She returned to the counter and sat, pulling out a notebook from beneath the register. Scribbled notes filled its pages—inventory reminders, quotes she liked, half-finished thoughts she never planned to share.
At ten twenty-three, the door chimed again.
She didn’t look up right away.
She didn’t need to.
She felt it first—the subtle shift in the air, the weight of someone tall stepping into the space, moving with measured certainty instead of hesitation. The bell rang once, settled.
Her fingers tightened around her pen.
She lifted her gaze.
Namjoon stood just inside the doorway, coat draped over his arm, suit jacket still on despite the warmth. His hair was slightly damp, like he’d walked fast or forgotten his umbrella. His eyes swept the room instinctively, cataloguing.
Then they found her.
Something in his expression softened—not a smile exactly, but recognition.
“Oh,” he said, quieter than necessary. “You’re here.”
She raised a brow. “I do work here.”
He huffed a laugh, stepping closer. “Right. Of course.”
She watched him as he moved through the store, noted how he avoided the front displays again, how his path curved naturally toward the back. He walked like someone who knew where he wanted to end up, even if he couldn’t articulate why.
“You finished it?” she asked when he reached her.
He tapped the side of his bag. “Last night.”
“And?”
“It didn’t shout,” he said, echoing her words back to her. “But it did linger.”
Her lips curved, just slightly. “Good.”
He hesitated, then pulled the book out and placed it on the counter gently, like it was something fragile. “I wanted to return it properly.”
She took it from him, fingers brushing the cover. “Most people just leave them wherever.”
“I don’t like leaving things unfinished.”
She believed him.
There was a pause—comfortable, but aware.
“You come here often,” she said. Not a question.
“Thursdays,” he admitted. “Usually.”
She nodded. “Patterns are good.”
“For you too?”
“For the store,” she corrected lightly. “It gets restless when people stop coming back.”
He smiled at that. Not wide. Thoughtful.
She rang up a customer behind him, then returned her attention to him once the bell chimed again and the door closed.
“You ever think about leaving?” he asked suddenly.
She blinked. “The store?”
“Or… here,” he clarified, gesturing vaguely. The city. The space. The routine.
She considered the question seriously. “Sometimes.”
“But you don’t.”
“No.”
“Why?”
She glanced around—the shelves, the worn chairs, the little imperfections that made the place feel lived-in instead of curated. “Some places don’t ask you to be more than you are.”
Namjoon’s gaze lingered on her face longer this time. Studying. Searching.
“And that’s enough?”
“For now,” she said honestly.
A flicker crossed his expression—something like understanding, edged with something heavier.
He checked his watch. “I should let you work.”
“You’re not in the way.”
“I tend to be,” he replied, half-joking.
She shook her head. “Not today.”
He nodded once, then turned toward the shelves, hands slipping into his pockets. He didn’t browse immediately. Just stood there for a moment, taking in the space like he was memorising it.
Like he wanted to remember how it felt.
She watched him from behind the counter, aware of a quiet pull she didn’t name. She didn’t need to. Naming things had a way of making them heavier than they needed to be.
When he finally left, the bell chimed again, soft and familiar.
The store settled.
But the space he’d occupied stayed warm long after the door closed.
Y/N returned the wildflower book to its shelf, smoothing the spine with her thumb.
She told herself it was just another Thursday and ignored the way she found herself glancing at the door anyway.
Restraint was layered. Something that is built on slowly, like muscle memory. The kind that settles into the body without conscious effort—the way she kept her back straight when standing too long, the way she measured her breathing when rooms felt too small, the way she always knew where the exits were.
It wasn’t fear.
It was caution, refined into habit.
The bookstore helped with that. It asked for very little and gave her structure in return. Shelves stayed where they were. Books followed rules. People came and went on schedules that could be learned, predicted. Even the difficult ones rarely stayed long.
She liked that.
She liked knowing how much of herself she could give without overextending.
Namjoon disrupted that in small ways.
Not loudly. Not rudely. Just enough to be noticeable.
By the third Thursday, she found herself anticipating the sound of the bell around ten. By the fourth, she noticed the way her shoulders loosened when she saw him step inside, coat always draped over his arm, tie loosened just enough to signal the day had been long.
She didn’t smile wider. She didn’t move faster.
But she noticed.
And that was dangerous.
Y/N had learned early that closeness invited questions. Questions led to assumptions. Assumptions had consequences. Even now—especially now—there were things about her that didn’t fit neatly into casual conversation.
So she stayed measured.
She talked about books, about the weather, about how the city felt heavier in the evenings, like it was holding onto something it didn’t want to name. She didn’t talk about herself unless asked, and even then, she chose her words carefully.
Namjoon noticed.
She could tell by the way his questions shifted—never pressing, but circling gently, like he was mapping the edges of something invisible.
“Do you live nearby?” he asked once, leaning against the counter while she rang up another customer.
“Close enough,” she replied.
“Family?”
“Not here.”
“Work before this?”
She shrugged. “A little of everything.”
He accepted those answers without complaint. That almost made it worse.
People who pushed were easy. She knew how to handle them. People who respected boundaries without demanding explanations left her unmoored.
One afternoon, she caught him watching her hands as she shelved returns.
Not staring. Observing.
“You’re careful,” he said.
She paused. “With books?”
“With everything.”
Her fingers tightened briefly around the spine she was holding. She slid the book into place before turning to face him.
“Some things don’t like being handled roughly.”
His gaze didn’t waver. “You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”
She met his eyes, steady. “Doesn’t everyone?”
He nodded slowly. But she could tell—he was thinking of something specific.
Something that wasn’t a book.
The restraint came from knowing when to pull back.
That night, after closing, Y/N stood alone in the dim light of the store, the city’s glow filtering through the windows. She wiped down the counter, straightened chairs, checked the locks twice even though she knew they were fine.
Her reflection in the glass looked tired. Not worn. Just… alert. Always alert.
At home, her apartment was quiet. Small. Carefully arranged. Plants by the window. A blanket folded on the couch just so. Nothing excessive. Nothing that invited questions.
She kicked off her shoes and leaned her forehead briefly against the door.
She thought of Namjoon’s hands—how they moved with intention, how he treated objects like they mattered. She thought of his pauses, the way he listened without filling silence just to hear himself speak.
She didn’t let herself imagine more than that.
Imagination had a way of loosening the careful lines she’d drawn.
The next week, he arrived later than usual.
She noticed immediately.
The bell chimed closer to noon. His posture was different—shoulders tense, jaw tight. He didn’t go straight to the back this time. He stood near the entrance for a moment, like he’d forgotten why he came.
“You okay?” she asked quietly.
He hesitated. “Do you ever get the feeling that something you buried a long time ago suddenly decides it wants attention?”
She considered him, then nodded. “All the time.”
“Does it stop?”
“No,” she said honestly. “But you get better at carrying it.”
He exhaled slowly, like that helped.
They didn’t talk much after that. Not because it was uncomfortable—because it wasn’t necessary. He browsed. She worked. Their presence overlapped without demanding explanation.
Later, as he paid, his hand brushed hers again. This time, she didn’t pull away immediately.
The contact was brief. Intentional.
It lingered anyway.
After he left, Y/N stood very still behind the counter, breathing carefully until the feeling settled back into something manageable.
Restraint didn’t mean absence of desire.
It meant survival.
And she had survived a long time by knowing exactly how much of herself to give—and when to stop.
But as she turned the sign to Closed that evening, she wondered—quietly, privately—what would happen if she let herself give just a little more.
Not today.
Not yet.
But the question exists now.
And that alone felt like a crack in something she had spent years piecing together.
Namjoon's Wildflower series is in the way, I hope you guys will enjoy it as much as I had toruble writing it. HAHA
I never thought that going back to descriptive writing was actually this tough but all your support has gotten me through the ultimate writer's block. So thank you very much for being patient and supporting through the fics written!
Jimin's series is now open for taglist! You guys can fill up the form with the link here or at my bio!
