✿ 𝑺𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚: "And through some happenstance, casual and cruel, shaped by the hands of the Moon goddesses, you ended up face to face with what They considered your fated mates. Of course, they didn’t know that - how could they recognize their goddess-given match if you had no scent? As long as you didn’t reach maturity, only you would feel this pull, this constant urge pooling at your lower abdomen when their scents filled your nose and sent your eyes rolling back. You knew your place and it was not amongst royalty."
OR
The one where you find your fated alphas, but they can't find you.
✿ 𝑻𝒂𝒈𝒔: Romance, Humor, Fluff, Angst, ABO, Soulmate AUs.
✿ 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: This is a 18+ work! Minors, please do not interact. Also, there will be mentions of violence and abuse.
(Fanfic masterlist)
°•. ✿ .•°
𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫 - 𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬
(<<< part three)
”Try it once more, please.’’
”I don’t want to.”
”Please, once more, then we can be done with it.”
”Once more might kill me, Sir Hoseok, and I’ve always wanted the honor of being able to kill myself.”
The knight beside you froze, shoulders tensing to a tight line. “Don’t joke about that.”
You mumbled a quiet apology, bowing your head to read the jumble of letters on the paper in front of you and avoid your mate’s terribly serious eyes.
After hours of practicing reading under the gentle but strict guidance of Hoseok, what once felt like the highest gift someone could give had turned into a curse. As it was, being literate did not come easily and your head felt like it would cave under the weight of all your new found knowledge.
Still, Hoseok remained ever patient, never once losing his temper even when you got frustrated with your own inability to put together vowels and consonants and asked to give up. Throughout the entire week after your near-heat accident, he put aside at least an hour a day - sometimes more - to sit in the corner of the palace’s humongous library with you, watching as you stumbled and whined your way through your delayed education.
After a little over a week of lessons, you could proudly spell your own name and there were no words in your vocabulary that could express the dimension of the gratitude you felt for Hoseok at the moment you finished the last stroke of the last letter of your name on the parchment before you. Your eyes immediately filled with tears, because at last there it was - your first mark on the world made entirely by your own hands and volition.
“My lady” Hoseok called, voice betraying a small amount of panic at your tears. “Is there something wrong?”
You chuckled at his reaction, thinking of another alpha that not long before had also paled before your crying. Clearly, the only reactions you could pull out of your mates were confoundment and agitation.
“Happy tears, Sir Hoseok” you clarified, smiling. “Happy tears.”
He smiled back, lips stretching beautifully into a grin. “Happy tears” he repeated.
Your reaction to your own signature seemed to spur him on, as he invested even more of his personal time into teaching you the joys of reading, going from small achievements such as the alphabet to reading entire lines all by yourself with minimal embarrassment. He pushed you forward, confident in your abilities, even as you whined and complained - an action that in itself proved how comfortable you felt around him, as you never had the privilege to complain about anything back at your own house.
Today was one of those whining and reading days, as Hoseok felt you had evolved enough to try your hand at poetry, picking a small collection of sonnets and other simpler works from the shelves and handing it to you. And you had been doing just fine, up until they started taking a turn for the romantic, the subject changing from the beauty of trees and spring to declarations of love. That had you choking on the words, fighting to read it without blushing or crying - both equally bad in front of your mate-not-mate.
“Keep going” he asked when you stopped and you felt bad enough about your joke about suicidal ideation to carry on.
“And i-if my body was may - uh, sorry - made for something” you said, fixating heavily onto the page so as to resist the temptation to look at Hoseok’s face “let it be love.”
***
“And if it was made for someone” he heard you read in a whisper, leaning in to hear you better “let it be you.”
Hoseok almost flinched when you closed the book forcefully, so hypnotized by your voice as he was. If he listened to reason, he would’ve looked away, as it was the proper thing to do when a lady was so clearly flustered, but reason and properness seemed to escape him when you were around. It had promptly fled him earlier, when out of the uncountable options of books available, he chose a poetry one, knowing well enough the psychic damage hearing proclamations of love coming from your lips would cause him.
Something seemed to grow underneath his skin with every moment he spent watching over your progress. At first, he tried to pass it off as a momentary fancy, as one could expect from spending so much time alone with an omega, but the longer it went, the more he came to the conclusion that whatever was taking root in him ran much deeper than just surface-level biology.
It was you. Soft-spoken and quiet little you, with the occasional glimpse or flash of a quick wit you allowed to escape your sky-high walls.
For now, he decided, he would let his feelings remain unnamed.
“There is one more line” he pushed, hoping to hear it from you, resigning himself to the guilt of knowing it would fuel his late night fantasies of which you had been a recent protagonist of most. He lied to himself, thinking that maybe hearing the final lines of the poem from your voice would sound off an instinctual alarm in his head, pointing out something fundamentally wrong in it and then he would finally be able to lay his daydreams to rest.
Grimacing, you opened the book once more and continued the sentence. “Such is the world I hope I was born into” you read, slowly and unsure, frowning over pronunciations that didn’t sound quite right to you and Hoseok held the table to fight the urge to smooth out the wrinkle on your forehead. “I was made half by the moon and I am made whole by only you.”
You paused and he urged “Finish it.”
“I am made whole by only you, my mate.”
Once more, you closed the book, this time truly done with it. Hoseok barely registered the soft thud of it, too focused on the absolute lack of any wrongness in hearing you say the words all alphas craved to hear - but only ever from the right person.
Something was not right and he couldn’t figure out what it was. It was something in this half reaction of his body - he was warm but not burning, attracted but not craving and it was right while hurting from not being right enough.
“You knew this poem” you pointed out, waking him from his reveries.
“Ah, yes” he answered, reaching for the book, examining its leatherbound cover. “It’s my mom’s favorite. She read it to me when I was younger.”
“That sounds nice.”
“I didn’t like it too much when I was a boy” he laughed. “Thought it lacked dragons and epic battles. But I grew to be quite fond of it.”
“Even without the dragons?” you teased.
“Even so, if you can believe it.”
You place your chin on your palms, tilting your head sideways in a way that sent your hair cascading down your shoulder. Hoseok wondered, shamefully not for the first time, if he pressed his nose to your tresses, would he be able to find anything other than the standard and alluring smell of omega.
“Tell me about your mom, Sir Hoseok”, you asked.
“She’s my favorite person,” he said simply, shrugging. “I urge you to not tell that to my father, though.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“She is exceedingly smart. I remember thinking she was the smartest person alive when I was a young boy. I still do. Humorous too. She writes weekly and her correspondence always leaves me smiling. I think she would like you, if you ever had the chance to meet”.
You seemed surprised by his affirmation and he couldn’t comprehend why. Who wouldn’t like you?
Well, Jin wouldn’t. But he had his own issues.
“Mom’s an omega too” he watched as your eyes widened in shock.
“Is she? Truly?”
“Yes. My father and her are mates,” he pointed at the book laying between them on the table. “I guess that explains why she loved that poem so much, doesn’t it?”
You looked down at the book, clearly rethinking the meaning of what you had read. “I’ve never met another omega” you admitted.
“They are very rare. I only know one more, besides you and my mother.”
“I’ve never met a mated pair either.”
“Oh, it’s disgusting” Hoseok complained in a good-natured manner, rolling his eyes at the memory of many moments shared between his sickly in love parents he wished he did not have to witness. “They are constantly holding hands and declaring their undying love for each other.”
“Oh. Disgusting, yes.”
There was something undeniably sad in your tone, but Hoseok wrote it off as longing. Certainly, as it was for alphas, omegas too dreamed about finding their mate.
“Have you found yours? Mate, I mean.”
You answered in too rushed a manner for him to find it all honest. “No.”
His next question, although he tried to sound as nonchalant as possible, seemed eager even to his own ears. “Do you want to find them?”
You didn’t answer quickly, fiddling with your sleeves in deep thought before replying. “I used to. Now…” you shrugged, still with a sorrowful countenance. “I gave up on the notion of it. I do not mean to sound sacrilegious, or to make it seem as if I am wiser than the Moon, but I have come to give more importance to other matters beyond providence or serendipity.”
“Such as?”
“Different forms of connection” you provided carefully. “Feasibility, as well.”
That seemed to surprise Hoseok “Feasibility?”
“There are many ways with which this world can separate what the Moon goddesses brought together, Sir Hoseok. What if a pair of mates lived so far from each other, they never had a chance to meet? What if one had died before their encounter? What if they came from such different lives or status that they could never be considered a respectful match?”
“Surely, some understanding could be spared if they were truly a mated pair!”
“That is a very romantic line of thinking, Sir. But in some circumstances, I would consider it naive.”
“Naive!” Hoseok cried, finding it difficult to cope with your pessimism, when he had only seen the wonders of a fated match. “Do you believe me to be naive for believing in the goddesses wisdom?”
“You misunderstand me” you refuted, calm and serious despite his indignation. “I don’t place any naivety in that argument, I simply think you fail to take into account the ways of the world and our responsibilities and prejudices in it. Do you believe, for example, that the king would be happy to be mated with a beggar?”
“I may not speak for the king. But I would be happy to be mated with anyone and it would not matter their place in this world. And there is no situation they could be in that I would not try to save them from.”
Despite the certainty in his voice, you still did not seem to believe him and that aggravated him even more. “And do you believe you would succeed in all of them?”
“Yes” he answered. “My mate’s place is beside me. Nothing will change that.”
You lowered your eyes, but did not reply, seemingly done with the discussion. Hoseok, on the other hand, could not let it go, unsure of why it was so important to him that you trusted his promises.
“You don’t believe me?”
“I believe you believe that. But so did I, at one point.”
“What changed, then?”
You raised your eyes back towards him, once more with that expression he had thought to be longing, but now with too much anguish for him to confuse with it again. But before you could answer or he could further investigate what could have possibly caused such a change of heart, you were interrupted by the arrival of none other than His Majesty.
Honestly, it had only been by pure coincidence that they had not encountered Namjoon earlier in their studies, considering how much time he spent in the library on a weekly basis.
Namjoon had just started walking to the shelves further in the back, a couple of heavy tomes under his arm, when he heard the voices of both his friend and the omega that plagued his resting hours. He wondered if his unreasonable obsession had worsened and he was now imagining the sound of your voice, but surely enough, there you both were, sitting across from each other in a tense staring match.
“Am I interrupting something?”
You stood, hurrying into a clumsy curtesy. “Your Majest- I mean, Namjoon, hello!”
Hoseok only nodded slightly to his friend, eyes still on you. Namjoon took notice of how neither of you denied his question.
“Sir Hoseok has kindly offered to teach me how to read”, you offered when both alphas said nothing. “We have been practicing for a while!”
“Have you now?”
“Yes! He has proven to be a very kind and patient teacher and I am very thankful for his lessons.”
Namjoon knew Hoseok not to be particularly kind nor patient when it came to teaching his guards. In fact, he was mostly known as a demanding and menacing terror by most recruits, but Namjoon decided not to ruin his reputation and kept quiet. After all, he too would be much gentler to a pretty omega than to sweaty, undisciplined guards.
“Patient, you say?”, he asked as Hoseok avoided his questioning eyes, feigning ignorance.
“Exceedingly so! As you know, I was not taught how to read when I was younger, but now I can even write my own name! Isn’t it wonderful?”
It was and Namjoon voiced his agreement.Just as he did, your stomach made a loud rumbling noise, sending you into a blushing fit. “Goddesses, I’m so sorry!” you apologized, covering your reddened face with your hands. “I guess this is a sign that I have taken too much of Sir Hoseok’s time. I shall take my dinner in my room and leave you be.”
“Have dinner with us” Namjoon offered, watching your face contort into poorly concealed horror and Hoseok’s into a confused expression.
“I couldn’t possibly, Your Majesty-”
“Please, I insist.”
Namjoon didn’t know why he insisted nor did he know why he invited you in the first place. Once more, something had taken over his senses and pushed him towards you despite all reason.
He could see Hoseok from his peripherals, most likely worrying over the same thing as him - Jin’s attendance of their nightly dinners. Jin, who would certainly not appreciate your presence and probably consider it a terrible disturbance and invasion.
Well, Jin would just have to make peace with it. Namjoon had decided he deserved more of your time, as it seemed it had been monopolized by his guard - a fact he unreasonably resented and would further investigate later, as he had never felt any sort of jealousy towards his best friend. As it was, you had been with them for a couple of weeks and he barely knew anything beyond the misfortunes of your life. There was certainly much more to you and he was determined to learn, if only to extend his suffering and break his own heart in a more informed manner.
“I won’t take no for an answer.”
There was a slight tremor in your left eyelid that he chose to ignore when you answered with an uneasy smile. “I guess there’s no point in saying no then.”
Namjoon grinned. “Great.”
“Great” you repeated. The tremors persisted.
°•. ✿ .•°
✿ The next chapter called "Mateless" is already available on my ko-fi to Calcifer Crew, my membership tier, and will be posted here soon! Click here if you want early access to all my updates :)
SUMMARY: It’s hard being an omega in a world where they've all but disappeared, but you're safe as long as you stay under the radar. You might be risking it a little bit by working for the Jeon Family, an alpha ruling family, but they have no idea about you. What happens when you're found and taken to your boss, CEO Jeon Jungkook?
WORD COUNT: 28.9 k
GENRE: ABO, strangers to lovers, fated lovers, smut
A.N. And here we have it! I was hush-hush about this one, with it being a gift and all! This story was written for Vanessa @hisunshiine as part of the @bangtanwritershq Exchange Event “Sweet Tricks & Wicked Treats”! ✨ She left me a very complete prompt so I did my best to flesh out every detail! @moonleeai was amazing, helping me with every little detail, which I appreciate so much!! 🥰 Let's see how Vanessa and you all like it! 💜 (I'll post on alternate days)
Masterlist | AO3 | Wattpad | Scroll my stories on Tumblr | Schedule and WIPs
"You’re just confused.”
His fingers pressed through your coat. “I’m not confused!”
“You are. You have a commitment—”
“A piece of paper! A deal I don’t care about made before I met you, before I knew about you!”
You straightened your back. “My designation shouldn’t—”
“Fuck your designation!”
Part 1 | WC: 3.7k - [here]
“They think omegas are extinct, but that doesn’t stop them from looking.”
Part 2 | WC: 2.7k - [here]
“Then please enlighten me, because I see no good reason for this.” You opened your hands to bring his attention to the fact that you were tied up.
Part 3 | WC: 8.9k - [here]
The whiff of your scent hit him so hard he had to close his eyes so no one would see them rolling back. Then he faced you, and your gaze did something to him. It was strong and encouraging, and he was set. Suddenly, he could focus. His mind was clear and everything just worked.
Part 4 | WC: 2.6k - [here]
He shook his head violently, and in a second, his strong hands were around your head, aiming to keep you still so that his lips could crash to yours.
It was sudden and brave, and you said, “Don’t.”
Part 5 | WC: 4.6k - [here]
“I think he’s hiding her,” a baritone teased, a boxy grin following suit.
“I’d hide her too.” The tallest shrugged, adjusting his shirt collar.
Part 6 | WC: 6.3k - [here]
“If you let me claim you, I'll never let you leave.”
𓄿 Chapter Two: In Sickness and in Health
Pairing: Jimin x Reader
Other tags: Werewolf!Jimin, Witch!Reader, Shifter!Reader, Shifter!Jimin, A/B/O Dynamics, Alpha!Jimin, Witch!Yoongi, Witch!Seokjin, Werewolf!Taehyung, Alpha!Taehyung, Werewolf!Namjoon, Alpha!Namjoon, Werewolf!Hoseok, Alpha!Hoseok, Werewolf!Jungkook, Omega!Jungkook
Genre: Fantasy!AU, Werewolf!AU, Witch!AU, friends to lovers, extreme slow burn, mutual pining, angst, fluff, eventual smut, 18+ only
Word Count: 23.8k+
Synopsis: Across the four realms of Lustra lies the enchanted Bangtan Forest, homeland of the southern Foxglove pack and a place whispered about as the “land of magic.” It is also the domain of the Bridd, a line of witches bound by an ancient curse and entrusted as the forest’s sacred guardians. Y/N, the newest Bridd, inherited her role far too young. Now grown, she is honored by the wolves as the most powerful witch they have ever known. Yet beneath the reverence and power lives a woman who must choose between the weight of her destiny and the longings of her heart.
Warnings: blood, witchcraft, shapeshifters, childhood memories, yearning, pining, emotional constipation, magic, talking animals, spirit guides, PTSD, negative self talk, gossiping, meddling woodland friends, unrequited love (or is it?), dreaming of him, long haired Jimin, that will be a reoccurring warning, mating system, politics, injured character, sick character, nightmares, whimsy, bickering, Shiloh is so iconic, Paganism, let me know if i missed anything...
A/N: Thanks for reading!
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Y/N was sitting at her dining table when the morning found her. The sun came first through the high black branches, then over the frosted meadow, then along the sill; only after that did they venture into the cottage, setting pale gold on the floorboards, on the backs of chairs, on the worn stones of the hearth, and finally upon the enormous round table where Y/N had taken her tea.
It was a peculiar table, and the sort of table no tidy-minded person would ever have chosen if he had begun with measurements, color schemes, or any of those sensible things by which houses are so often made dull. It was too large for the cottage, much too round to be useful in a corner, and stained a deep, stubborn teal that had resisted soap, sanding, charms, powders, moon-water, muttered threats, and one rather shameful experiment involving vinegar, a silver spoon, and a great deal of misplaced confidence. The color remained exactly as it had always been, clinging to the wood with the firm cheerfulness of an old joke that refused to stop being funny.
The surface bore all the marks of a life thoroughly lived. There were pale rings left by teacups, dark scars from knives, dents where jars had been dropped in haste, and three blackened places where candles had behaved badly during storms. Its legs, absurdly grand for so battered a thing, were carved with curling leaves and little beasts whose faces had worn down over the years until they appeared to be looking out at the world in sleepy astonishment.
It matched nothing—not the chairs, not the rug, not the cupboards, not the old blue pitcher by the stove, not the brass bell without a tongue, and certainly not the footstool embroidered with foxes by someone who had clearly never seen a fox but had loved the idea of them very much.
But Aldara had loved the table, and that was enough.
Because Aldara had loved it, Y/N kept it as faithfully as if it had been made from the wood of some tree that grew in the courts of heaven. She cleaned it, defended it, and spoke rather sharply to anyone who suggested, even kindly, that perhaps it was time for something smaller, plainer, newer, or less teal. There were many things in the cottage like that—things which had outlived usefulness, fashion, convenience, and, in some cases, good sense, but had not outlived meaning. The cottage did not look arranged so much as gathered. Every shelf, chair, jar, cracked cup, and faded curtain seemed to have come there carrying a story under one arm and no intention whatever of leaving.
The chairs around the table were no better behaved than the table itself. One had armrests carved into the heads of wolves, a gift from Hoseok after a winter hunt that had begun with boasting and ended with three people stuck in a tree until sunrise. Another had once been painted with stars and moons, though time had softened them into cloudy smudges, and one leg was shorter than the others, so that it rocked if anyone sat down too quickly or breathed with too much confidence. A third chair was blackened along one side from an alchemical mishap that Y/N still insisted had not been her fault, though nobody who had been present believed her, and nobody who had not been present believed her either. On damp evenings, if one pressed close to the charred edge, it still smelled faintly of sage, smoke, and embarrassment.
None of the chairs matched. None of them seemed to wish to. Y/N had always thought this one of their better qualities.
The windows were shut against the morning, for late January had no manners and would come straight into a person’s bones if invited too freely. Still, a narrow pane near the stove had been cracked open to let out the old hearth-smoke, and through that little opening the cold slipped in. It smelled of snow, wet bark, woodsmoke, and the hard iron sleep of frozen earth. The curtains moved only a little, lifting and falling as if the cottage itself were breathing carefully, not wanting to wake too much of the winter outside.
Beyond the glass, the meadow lay under its thin white covering. It was not one of those deep, swallowing snows that buried fences and made paths into guesses, but it had softened the world all the same. White gathered in the hollows of the field and along the low stone wall. The grasses stood through it in brittle golden tufts, bent and rimed with frost. The dead heads of foxglove rattled faintly near the fence when the wind moved through them, while the bluebells slept under the hard ground and would sleep for weeks yet. Poppies and daisies were only promises kept deep in the soil. Even the trees seemed less like trees than dark thoughts sketched in charcoal and silver, their bare branches holding small jewels of ice where the night fog had frozen.
Imbolc was only a week away.
Perhaps, Y/N thought, she ought to write to Jin today and ask him to bring extra firewood. He would laugh, of course. She could hear him already, bright as a bell and twice as troublesome.
You live in a forest, Y/N. It is rather famous for having wood.
And he would say it with that impossible sideways grin of his, the one that made rebuke feel like an invitation and foolishness feel like a holiday. He would arrive late, carrying half the forest under one arm and pretending the whole thing had been her idea, and then he would make dreadful toasts while Yoongi pretended not to enjoy them.
But perhaps this year she would surprise him. Perhaps this year she would really do it. She would host her own Imbolc fire. Nothing grand. Nothing with banners or musicians or any ceremony that required people to stand solemnly while pretending their feet were not freezing. Just a proper fire beneath the clean winter dark, a kettle of spiced cider, honey cakes if she remembered them, and enough light to honor the turning of the season.
The thought pleased her. It pleased her so much that she said it aloud, because spoken intentions had weight, and Y/N had always believed that words, once released into the air, began looking for ways to become true.
“This year,” she said into her tea, “I shall host something for Imbolc.”
The cottage listened politely.
Then, because Y/N knew herself very well and had lived with herself long enough not to be fooled by grand declarations made before breakfast, she added, “And I shall not forget.”
The cottage accepted this too, with the same quiet tact.
A moment later, she made a little face at herself and took another sip. Honeysuckle tea spread warm and sweet over her tongue. She had meant to host a gathering the year before, and the year before that, and once she had gone so far as to write down a list. The list had then vanished under a stack of pressed flowers and been rediscovered in autumn by a beetle who appeared to find it inspiring.
“No,” she said firmly, as though speaking to the future version of herself who would almost certainly be elbow-deep in poultice or frog bones when Imbolc arrived. “Not this time.”
Her favorite chair—if one could call a chair favorite without offending all the others—had been angled beside the window for so many years that the floor beneath it had faded in its shape. From there, she could see the meadow rolling away from the cottage in a white, winter hush. Frost clung to every blade of standing grass, making the field glitter as though the night had spilled a box of tiny stars and forgotten to gather them again. Near the fence, last summer’s stems stood brown and hollow, and beneath the snow the sleeping beds held their secrets.
The sight stirred something in her that was not quite happiness and not quite sorrow. She saw herself suddenly, not as she was now, but as she had been: barefoot in summer, wind-burned and wild-haired, running through that same meadow with both arms flung wide, as if she meant to catch the whole sky against her chest. The grass had been taller then, and she had been shorter. Clover had thickened the air with sweetness. Bees had moved sleepily from bloom to bloom. Her laughter had flown all the way to the tree line, where birds startled up from the branches in a flurry of indignant wings.
Yoongi had been there in those days, grumbling even as a child. He had possessed the solemn disapproval of a very small old man and the tender heart of a saint who did not wish anyone to know about it. He complained about mud while stepping directly into it to pull her out. He scolded her for climbing too high, then climbed higher himself to prove the branch was unsafe. He hid sweets in his sleeves and pretended to be baffled when they ended up in her pockets.
Then had come Jin, bright and careless and charming enough to be forgiven for nearly anything, smelling always faintly of citrus peel, sun-warmed wool, and mischief. And Wendy, with hair that carried the salt of the sea no matter how far inland she wandered, leaving damp marks on their books and turning every dull afternoon into an expedition.
By the time they were half-grown, the four of them had become inseparable in the way only children can be, before the world teaches people to divide themselves into duties, homes, griefs, and silences. They had belonged to one another without ceremony. No oath had bound them. No spell had stitched them together. It had been something simpler and stronger than either: the easy gravity of shared youth. They had believed then that the world was wide because it meant to make room for them.
Y/N lowered her cup.
Of course, they had grown. Everyone did, though it was a great inconvenience and almost always happened before one was finished with being young. Life had drawn them away by degrees, gently at first and then with a firmer hand. Yoongi had his kitchen in the deep woods, where every loaf of bread seemed to come out tasting faintly of loyalty. Jin followed sunlight wherever it led, which meant he arrived late, departed early, and always left some warmth behind him. Wendy belonged to the ocean as surely as shells belonged to the tide.
And Y/N belonged here—to the cottage, to the meadow, to the forest, to the animals, to the rituals, to the old bargains and the small healings, to the invisible chains of responsibility she had learned to wear lightly, so that others might mistake them for ribbons.
They would never again be exactly what they had been. She had accepted that long ago, but acceptance, she had discovered, did not always keep a thing from hurting.
From across the room came the soft scrape of talons on wood, and Y/N smiled before she turned.
Shiloh stood on her perch beside the kitchen window, pale feathers puffed around her like a shawl. The owl’s eyes were narrowed with the weary dignity possessed only by creatures who slept in daylight and disapproved of everyone else’s schedule.
“I’m going to sleep for a while,” Shiloh announced, her voice thick with drowsiness. “Wake me if you need me.”
“You should sleep outside,” Y/N said, in the tone of someone who knew she would not be obeyed but felt morally improved by saying the thing anyway. “I’ll be using the kitchen soon, and I might wake you.”
Shiloh ruffled herself with enormous offense. “I beg your pardon.”
Owls did not beg for anything, and familiars even less so. Before Y/N could answer, Shiloh spread her wings and swept through the open window in a pale blur, vanishing into the morning with all the wounded grandeur of a queen exiled by fools.
“You are dramatic even for an owl,” Y/N called after her.
There was no answer, unless the sharp rustle of wings in the trees could be counted as one.
The cottage settled into a quieter quiet after Shiloh left. It was not empty. Y/N’s home was never empty. It held all the little sounds that made solitude bearable: a kettle ticking as it cooled, herbs shifting in their bundles above the hearth, a floorboard sighing under the memory of someone’s step, and the faint scratch of a mouse in the wall whom Y/N had been meaning to evict for three weeks but had not done because he seemed polite.
Beyond the windows, the forest breathed in its winter sleep. Branch touched branch. Ice loosened by slow degrees. Roots spoke to roots beneath the frozen ground in a language that trees remembered and people mostly forgot.
Y/N’s hearing was not so keen as Shiloh’s, nor as sharp as that of the wolves who moved through Bangtan like white shadows, but it had always been better than ordinary. She could tell the difference between a rabbit under the hedge and the spirit fox that sometimes lingered near her land. She knew the dry skitter of frozen leaves, the soft fall of snow slipping from a branch, and the careful tread of deer on crusted ground. When she was younger, she had been rather proud of it. Too proud, perhaps.
At twelve, on one hot afternoon thick with flies and golden light, she had declared before Jin that she could hear wings half a mile away and the footfall of a wolf long before it reached the clearing. He had laughed and called her a showoff.
He had not meant it cruelly. Jin rarely meant things cruelly then. His laughter had been bright and passing, like a coin tossed into water. But she remembered the small burn of embarrassment, the sudden knowledge that a person could reveal too much of herself simply by being pleased with what she was. She had smiled, because children learn very early to smile when they are stung in places no one can see, and after that, she had not boasted anymore.
Now, many years later, the memory only made her laugh softly into her cup.
“Showoff,” she whispered, tasting the word as if it belonged to another life.
The sunlight shifted. It traveled along the table, deepening the teal stain and catching in the shallow scars of the wood until the whole thing seemed lit from beneath like a lantern. Outside, winter held fast, but beneath it, spring had begun its first secret work. Buds tightened on the branches. Clouds drifted like wool torn thin. A brave and foolish bee, drunk on the mere idea of flowers, bumped itself against the window frame and wandered away again.
For the first time in weeks, Y/N did nothing.
This was rarer than it ought to have been. There were always poultices to mix, charms to mend, creatures to soothe, spirits to bargain with, letters to answer, knives to sharpen, candles to dress, and jars to label before she forgot what was in them and had to determine by smell whether something was medicine or supper. But that morning, no task had yet found her. No ritual tugged at her sleeve. No urgency curled like smoke at the edge of her mind.
She simply sat.
Her tea cooled. The meadow glittered. The cottage breathed.
By the time the second cup had gone lukewarm and the third had nearly done the same, she saw something move at the edge of the field.
At first, she took it for light. That was easily done in winter. Sunlight had a habit of putting on shapes in the forest. It flashed on ice and looked like eyes. It caught on frosted bark and pretended to be silver thread. It lay across old stones until they seemed to shift under it. Y/N narrowed her eyes and set her cup down carefully.
The pale shape stood half in the trees and half out of them, thin as a breath against the dark trunks.
Then it moved again.
Not with the easy, floating grace of mist. Not with the sway of grass.
It limped.
Y/N’s hand went at once to the windowsill.
The shape staggered from the shadow of the trees into the open meadow. Sunlight slid across its pelt and turned it briefly to silver. It was a wolf—a large one, pale-furred, long-legged, and moving with the tight, careful steps of an animal who had learned that the ground might hurt him if touched in the wrong way.
Then came the sound.
It was very small for so great a creature, a thin, broken whimper, quickly swallowed as though pride had leapt up and clamped jaws around it. But Y/N heard it, and it hooked into her chest with cruel little claws.
She leaned out the cracked window. “Are you hurt?”
Her voice had changed without her willing it to. The idle softness had gone from it. What remained was the calm, low certainty she used with frightened birds, wounded deer, children with cut knees, and once with an outraged river spirit who had caught his elbow in a fish trap.
The wolf froze. His ears lifted. The crying stopped.
Y/N did not move too quickly. One did not startle a hurt creature, especially one whose teeth were longer than one’s fingers.
“If you are hurt,” she said more gently, “I can help you. I have supplies. Enough to patch you quickly.”
The meadow seemed to hold its breath. A pale winter butterfly wandered between them, unconcerned with injury, dignity, or the delicate negotiations between witch and wolf. It drifted over a dead stem, reconsidered the entire matter, and went elsewhere.
The wolf’s eyes caught the sun. Amber. Sharp. Familiar.
Something stirred uneasily in her memory. Not certainty. Not yet. Only the tug of a thread. The pale wolf from the other night, perhaps—the one who had returned her lantern and vanished before she could decide whether to thank him, scold him, or ask why he had been carrying it in the first place.
White wolves were not strange in Bangtan. Jimin was fair-furred. So was old Ahn, whose pelt shone beneath moonlight like frost. But the thought of Jimin rose before she could stop it, stubborn and unwelcome, and Y/N grimaced faintly at herself.
The wolf limped nearer, slowly and deliberately, with far more pride than was sensible for someone leaving blood in the snow. When he reached the wall beneath her window, she could see the injury plainly. Blood streaked his hind leg, vivid against the white fur. More darkened his side, though he held himself as if nothing at all were wrong and the whole matter were a minor inconvenience caused by the weather.
“Oh,” Y/N breathed, and the sound held more sorrow than she meant it to.
The wolf looked away, as if offended by pity.
“Come around to the door,” she said. “You may need to shift to get inside.”
At that, he stiffened.
The change was subtle but unmistakable. His head lifted. His shoulders tightened. Something proud and hot flickered through him like a coal stirred under ash. Wolves could shift, yes, but they did not always do it gladly. Not when wounded. Not before someone outside their own. Not when the shifting itself might expose more than skin.
“All right,” Y/N said at once. “You do not have to. I can bring you in another way.”
His gaze returned to her.
“It feels odd the first time,” she admitted, because honesty was kinder than reassurance when magic was involved. “But it is safe. I promise.”
The wolf tilted his head. His tail gave the smallest uncertain twitch, which might have meant interest, suspicion, or that he had lost too much blood to argue properly. Then, after a long pause, it wagged once.
Y/N smiled. “Good. Hold still for me.”
She closed her eyes, and the world changed when she did. Not outwardly, not to anyone watching from the meadow, but behind her lids, the cottage bloomed in clear detail. She saw the red and white rug before the hearth, worn soft by years of feet and paws. She saw the mismatched chairs around the teal table, the sewing chair with its cushion gone thin in the middle, and the row of knives above the fireplace stones, each blade polished and named. She saw the kitchen shelves crowded with jars of herbs, roots, bones, salt, feathers, oils, seeds, and things that would have looked alarming to anyone who did not know how useful a dried beetle could be.
She saw the altar beneath the windows, the candles guttering lavender and gold, the little dish of river stones, the sprig of rosemary tied with red thread. She saw sunlight lying on the floorboards like spilled honey, and only when the shape of home was whole in her mind did she begin to murmur.
The words came easily. They always had. They belonged to a language older than Lustra and older than the courts that pretended to rule it. Older, perhaps, than the first witch who learned that air could open if spoken to properly. The chant slipped from her tongue soft and lilting, not commanding the world so much as persuading it to remember that doors were only agreements.
With two fingers, she traced an outline in the air.
The space before the wolf shimmered. Light gathered there, pale and thin at first, then thickening like a curtain woven from moonlit water. The edges trembled. The center grew transparent. Y/N parted it with a gentle push.
The wolf stared.
For one unguarded moment, all the dignity went out of him. His tail wagged faster, and fascination brightened his eyes until he looked, despite the blood and the size of him, almost young. He sniffed the glowing threshold, then stepped through with more courage than caution.
An instant later, he stood beside her hearth.
He was enormous.
Y/N blinked up at him. The wolf blinked down at her.
He took up half the room.
“Oh dear,” she said. “I may need to shrink you a little.”
His ears twitched.
“I know. I know,” she said. “Terribly rude of me.”
The wolf sat down with great care, as if to prove that he was cooperative, civilized, and only accidentally the size of a small pony.
“Very gracious of you,” Y/N said.
She lifted one hand. Blue light pulsed softly through the room, cool and bright as winter dusk. It ran over his fur, passed through the air, brushed the walls, and faded. When it was gone, the wolf remained large, but no longer impossible. He was still magnificent, still broad-chested and powerful, but now he looked less like a creature who might knock over the ceiling beams by sighing.
“There,” Y/N said. “Manageable.”
The wolf gave her a look that suggested he did not care to be called manageable.
“Lie down,” she instructed.
To her mild surprise, he obeyed at once. He lowered himself onto the floor before the hearth with a slow, tired exhale and rested his head on his paws.
The sight softened something in her.
Whatever unease she usually felt near wolves—whatever old caution lived in her bones and woke at the scent of them—was swallowed by the plain fact of his pain. There was blood on her floor now, dark little marks against the wood. There was a torn place in his side. There were wounds where no wound ought to be.
She knelt beside him and parted the fur around his hind leg. The blood was tacky beneath her fingers. The skin below was hot. Bite marks punctured deep through the muscle, and claw marks raked cruelly along the flank. These were not the scrapes of a hunt gone poorly. Not brambles. Not a fall. Not even the ordinary brutality of a scuffle. This had been done with purpose.
Her stomach tightened.
“You really are something,” she murmured, partly to him and partly to herself. “Sneaking out, getting into fights, bleeding in my meadow. What would your mother say?”
The wolf made a muffled sound into his paws. It was not quite a growl. Not quite a sigh. It sounded, impossibly, like a grumble of amusement.
Y/N looked up.
His eyes met hers: amber, watchful, intelligent, and warmer than she expected. There was a person looking out through them. Not merely a wolf with clever instincts, but someone aware and guarded and curious beneath all that pale fur. Again, the thought of Jimin flickered through her mind, and again she pushed it away, though not quite as firmly as before.
“Stay,” she said, though he had made no attempt to rise.
She crossed to the shelf beside the stove and took down a small tin. When she opened it, the cottage filled with the clean, green smell of comfrey, sage, and goldenroot. It was a humble salve by the standards of elaborate healers and proud witches who preferred their medicines to glow dramatically in crystal bowls, but Y/N trusted it more than many spells. It had soothed burns, sealed cuts, calmed bruises, eased bites, and once restored feeling to Yoongi’s thumb after an incident with a cursed pastry fork.
It had earned its place.
“Well then, little wolf,” she said, returning to his side, “let us get acquainted.”
He looked at her.
“I shall begin,” she continued, dipping her fingers into the cool cream. “And next time it will be your turn.”
The wolf’s eyes narrowed faintly, as if to ask whether there would indeed be a next time.
Y/N pretended not to notice.
She smoothed the salve carefully along the torn skin. He did not flinch. His breath changed, growing deeper, but he held himself still with astonishing discipline. The fur beneath her hand was thick and soft, warmer than it looked, and the heat of him came up through her fingers like the heat of banked coals. She worked slowly, parting the fur, cleaning the wound, pressing the salve where it needed to go.
“People call me Bridd,” she said after a while.
The wolf listened. The room listened too, in the way rooms do when secrets are spoken in them.
“But if you are going to spend time here,” she went on, “you may call me Y/N. Bridd sounds far too formal for friends.”
The wolf blinked once, slow and solemn.
It felt like an answer.
“My aunt gave me that name when I came to Lustra,” Y/N said. “No one ever really discovered how I arrived. Not properly. Aldara used to say the Gods guided me.” Her mouth softened around the memory. “She said when she saw me, she simply knew, as if she had been waiting for me all her life.”
The wolf remained still, but his gaze had changed. It was not pity. Y/N would have resented pity. It was something quieter. Attention, perhaps. Or recognition.
The salve in the tin emptied more quickly than she had hoped. She sighed, rose, and went to fetch another. Then another after that, because the wounds were longer than they had first appeared and wolves, apparently, contained an unreasonable amount of surface. When she turned back with both tins in hand, she found him staring at her with such a human expression—one brow lifted, his mouth slightly open, his eyes full of patient judgment—that she laughed.
“You look as though you are about to lecture me,” she said. “And I would remind you that I am not the one who lost a fight.”
His tail thumped once against the floor.
“I wish I knew your name,” she said, kneeling again. “Or even whether I ought to call you he or she. Calling you wolf feels horribly impolite, and little wolf is beginning to sound like an insult when you take up half my hearth.”
The sound that came from him then startled her so badly she nearly dropped the tin.
It was low and warm, rising from his chest in a rumble that shook through the floorboards.
Laughter.
Y/N froze. “You can laugh?”
The wolf’s amber eyes gleamed.
“Oh,” she said, sitting back slightly. “Well. That changes things.”
He blinked at her, visibly pleased with himself.
“All right,” she said, gathering her composure with as much dignity as possible under the circumstances. “Let us be practical. Shake your head for no. Nod for yes.”
The wolf lifted his head.
“Are you a woman?”
He shook his head.
“Fluid?” Y/N guessed. “Some wolves are.”
Another shake.
“So,” she said, smiling in spite of herself, “you are a man.”
The wolf dipped his head in a neat, deliberate nod. It was just shy of smug.
“Good,” Y/N said. “That is a start.”
She gestured for him to roll over.
His ears went back.
“Do not look at me like that,” she said. “I need to see the other side.”
The wolf let out a long, suffering breath, as though no creature in the history of the forest had ever been so greatly inconvenienced, and flopped onto his side with dramatic resignation.
Y/N stared.
“This side is worse.”
He avoided her gaze.
“You could have told me.”
The wolf rolled his eyes.
He actually rolled them.
“Oh, don’t you dare,” Y/N said, though a laugh escaped her. “You wolves and your pride. You would rather bleed through my rug than admit you need help.”
He snorted, offended.
“Yes, yes,” she said. “You are very noble and terribly mistreated. Hold still.”
The wounds along his ribs were deeper. Some had clotted poorly beneath the fur, and when she cleaned them, fresh blood welled dark and quick. Y/N’s humor faded. She leaned closer, her brows drawing together.
Bite marks. Claw marks. Cruel angles.
The attack had not been clean or honorable. Whoever had done this had not merely wished to win. They had wished to ruin.
A small anger kindled in her—not loud, for Y/N’s anger rarely was. It burned low and blue, the way certain flames burn hottest when they do not leap.
“You poor thing,” she whispered.
The wolf’s ear flicked, but he did not look away this time.
She rinsed a cloth in the basin beside her. The water clouded pink, then red, rippling with each movement of her hand. Firelight caught the surface and broke itself into trembling pieces. She cleaned one wound and then another, slow enough not to frighten him, firm enough to do good. The salve gleamed pale on her fingers, its sharp green scent mingling with iron, smoke, lavender candle-wax, and the wild musk of wolf.
He flinched once when she pressed near a deep tear below his ribs. Only once. The muscles under her hand tightened, then gradually released.
“I know,” she murmured. “I know. Nearly done.”
She worked along his side, down toward his flank, over bruises that darkened beneath the fur. When she pressed gently near his hind joint, his leg jerked. Y/N startled, then laughed, soft and bright.
“Oh. So that tickles, does it?”
His ear flicked.
“Good,” she said. “Your reflexes are working.”
The wolf made a low sound that might have been complaint.
“I am choosing to take that as gratitude.”
He huffed.
Outside, the forest continued about its morning. The thrush sang again. Leaves whispered against one another in the wind. Somewhere far off, water moved under ice and over stones. But inside the cottage, time seemed to draw close around the two of them, like a shawl pulled over chilled shoulders. There was only the fire, the basin, the smell of herbs, the warmth of the animal beside her, and the steady work of her hands.
When at last the bleeding stopped and the swelling began to ease beneath the salve’s subtle shimmer, Y/N sat back on her heels.
“There,” she said.
The word was small. Too small, perhaps, for the long quiet that had passed between them. But it was what she had.
She wiped her hands on a cloth and examined him with the stern eye of someone who expected healing to behave itself. The wounds were not gone, but they were clean. The worst of the bleeding had ceased. The salve had settled into the torn places, drawing the heat down and leaving a faint silver sheen along the edges.
“You are good to go,” she said, patting his side lightly.
The wolf did not move.
At first she thought he had not understood. Then she saw that he understood perfectly. His ears had flattened a little, and the muscles along his shoulders had gone tense in a conflicted way. He knew he ought to leave. Of course he did. Packs pulled on wolves like tides pulled on the sea. Someone would notice. Someone might already be looking.
The fire crackled softly, sending amber light up the walls and across the low beams of the ceiling. It gleamed along the knives above the hearth, shone in the teal scars of the table, and turned the wolf’s white fur to gold. Outside, the meadow rested under frost and old snow, bare and beautiful in the hard morning light.
For a little while, there was no Bridd and no stranger-wolf, no pack, no name withheld, no old fear, no hidden wound deeper than the ones she had dressed. There was only Y/N in her odd cottage, with herbs on her hands and sunlight on her floor, and a wounded creature resting his head in her lap because, against all the hard sense of the world, he had decided to trust her.
They remained that way until the fire had eaten another inch of wood and the sunlight had moved from the table to the floor, laying itself across the boards in long, pale stripes.
Y/N did not know how much time had passed. It seemed to her that time had gone soft around them, as warm and drowsy as the wolf’s breath against her knees. Her hand moved absently over his head, smoothing the fur between his ears, and every so often he made that low, contented sound again, quiet enough that she felt it more than heard it.
But at last his ears twitched.
Not from comfort this time.
He lifted his head, slow and reluctant, and looked toward the window.
Y/N’s hand stilled.
“Yes,” she said softly. “I know.”
The wolf did not move at once. He only looked back at her, amber eyes warm in the firelight, and for one foolish moment she almost told him to stay.
There was room.
There was always room, somehow, in the cottage. The mismatched chairs made room for one another. The shelves made room for one more jar, one more book, one more strange little relic with nowhere else to go. Surely there could be room for a wounded wolf by the hearth.
But wolves belonged to their own, even when they wandered. Someone, somewhere, must have been missing him.
Y/N gave his head one last careful stroke.
“Come on then, little wolf. Before I become selfish.”
He rose with some stiffness, though the salve had already done him good. His limp remained, but it no longer dragged so cruelly through his body. He followed her to the windowed side of the room, where morning still poured pale and cold through the cottage. Y/N lifted her hand and whispered the old words again.
The doorway opened like a curtain of pale water.
Beyond it waited the meadow, silvered with frost and old snow.
The wolf paused at the threshold. Then he turned and pressed his cold nose once against her wrist.
It was such a small thanks that it hurt more than any grander thing could have.
“You’re welcome,” Y/N whispered.
Then he passed through the light and stood once more in the meadow. For a breath, he looked back at her, white fur bright against the winter field, amber eyes holding hers with an almost human gravity. Then he turned toward the trees and slipped away, moving slower than he had come, but steadier.
Y/N watched until the forest took him.
Only when the last pale flicker of him vanished between the trunks did she let the doorway close.
The cottage felt strangely large afterward.
She stood there a moment with salve on her sleeves, blood drying faintly at her wrists, and the warmth of him still lingering in her lap as if he had left part of himself behind. Then the kettle gave a small, practical click from the stove, and the spell of stillness broke.
“Well,” she said to the room, because there was no one else to say it to, “that was unexpected.”
The room, being used to unexpected things, did not argue.
Y/N washed her hands in warm water scented with rosemary, watching the pink threads of blood loosen from her skin and curl away. Then she tied her hair back, rolled up her sleeves, and went to the long worktable beneath the hanging herbs.
There was medicine to make.
Comfrey first, dried from summer’s stores, then goldenroot, then a pinch of powdered pearlcap mushroom for swelling. She moved gently but with purpose, crushing leaves in the mortar until the cottage filled with green, living fragrance—a small borrowed memory of the warmth still buried beneath January’s frost.
Outside, the morning went on shining cold and bright. Inside, Y/N worked with a small, secret smile tugging at her mouth.
Every now and then, despite herself, she glanced toward the window.
The meadow remained empty.
Still, she set an extra tin of salve aside.
Just in case.
Imbolc came to the Bangtan Forest on a cold and wandering breeze.
It was the sort of breeze that had not yet made up its mind whether it belonged to winter or spring, and so it behaved a little like both. It came out of the north with cold fingers and a sharp nose, but it had a hopeful heart. It moved over the meadow around Y/N’s cottage, bending the stiff brown grasses one way and then another, as if searching beneath them for the first green blade brave enough to rise.
By midafternoon, the meadow shone beneath a thin, wintry light. It was not the rich gold of summer, which made everything look fat and sleepy and pleased with itself, nor even the gentle brightness of true spring, when the world seemed newly washed and still smelling of rain. This light was paler, strained through frost, a silvery kind of sunlight that made every stone and stem look thoughtful. Ice crystals clung to the tips of the grasses and flashed whenever the breeze troubled them, first like tiny knives and then, when the sun softened, like fallen stars. The sky was a pale, high blue, the color of breath on glass, and at the edge of the meadow the forest stood with its branches bare and listening.
The trees always seemed to listen on Imbolc.
That was the feeling of the holiday in Lustra. It was not yet warmth, but the promise of warmth. Not yet blooming, but the held breath before blooming began. It was the hour in the year when winter loosened one finger from the throat of the earth, and somewhere deep below frozen mud, black roots, and the brown lace of dead leaves, life turned over in its sleep.
The cottage knew it too.
A thin stream of incense drifted from Y/N’s open window, curling into the cold afternoon in blue-gray ribbons. Yarrow, hawthorn, and a pinch of cinnamon, because cinnamon had always seemed to Y/N like a small edible flame, and therefore suitable for any holy day that involved coaxing warmth back into the world. The smoke twisted once around the window latch, seemed to hesitate, then slipped out into the air and vanished, as if it had gone to whisper instructions to the clouds.
She had lit the incense before sunrise. It was part of the old custom, though Y/N had long suspected that Aldara had invented at least half the old customs she taught and merely worn a grave expression until everyone believed her. This had been one of Aldara’s great talents. She could say, “It is the old way,” while holding a broom backward, and three grown witches would at once begin sweeping in the same direction.
Still, Y/N kept the customs. One did not stop doing a thing simply because it might once have begun as someone’s mischief. Many sacred things, she thought, had probably started that way.
So she had risen in the blue dark, shivering in her nightdress while the floorboards bit cold through the soles of her feet, and burned herbs at the window to coax the day along. She had whispered thanks to the sleeping fields, poured milk into a little clay bowl for the spirits beneath the elder hedge, and swept the threshold three times: once for winter leaving, once for spring arriving, and once because Shiloh had said there was still dirt by the door.
Outside, the bonfire pit waited in the meadow. Its ring of stones sat half sunk in frost, and old snow still lingered in the shaded places between them. Y/N had cleared the pit that morning with damp boots, cold fingers, and a determination that had lasted almost as long as her patience. Frozen leaves, dead stems, gray ash, half-melted slush, and one offended beetle had all been removed. The beetle, who had apparently considered the pit a respectable winter residence, objected by turning in circles and then departing under a leaf with the air of someone betrayed by civilization.
By nightfall, if the weather was kind and if Jin did not take charge in some dreadful decorative way, those stones would hold a fire tall enough to crack open the year and let the first rumor of spring come pouring through.
Inside the cottage, however, winter had already been defeated.
The little house had bloomed into the cheerful disorder that only holy days and beloved guests can excuse. The teal table had been dragged to the center of the room, where it stood looking enormous, stubborn, and important. Its scratched surface had been scrubbed until the old stains shone beneath the candlelight like a lake under moonwater. Cushions of every shape and questionable origin had been scattered over the floor. There were round cushions, square cushions, embroidered cushions, faded cushions, one cushion with a stitched hare on it, and one Y/N was fairly sure had once belonged to Hoseok and had been left behind during a rainstorm three winters ago.
Every shelf had been dusted. Every candle had been refreshed. The altar beneath the window had been scrubbed until the wood gleamed softly, and a new braid of sweetgrass had been tied at the base of the little goddess statue. The sweetgrass filled the room with a fresh green scent that stood bravely against the cold still hidden in the cottage walls. Small bowls of milk and honey sat among sprigs of rosemary, dried violets, and polished stones. White ribbons had been tied to the window latch. A little dish of salt waited near the door. The whole cottage seemed dressed not grandly, but lovingly, which is usually better.
Shiloh watched over all of this from the rafter beam.
The owl had recovered fully from what Y/N privately thought of as the Great Puppy Incident, though Shiloh herself preferred to call it an assault, a tragedy, and proof that young animals should be licensed. Her feathers had grown sleek again. Her dignity had returned to its usual alarming size. She had resumed her proper place as tyrant of the household.
“That cushion needs angling,” Shiloh said.
Y/N, kneeling beside the hearth with soot on her nose, moved the cushion half an inch.
Ignoring Shiloh only made Shiloh more dramatic, but Y/N had long ago decided that drama was part of the bird’s digestion and must be allowed to pass naturally.
The kitchen had been awake since eight o’clock, which was earlier than any decent kitchen ought to be asked to wake in February. Yet Imbolc demanded food, and food demanded labor, and labor demanded that Y/N mutter under her breath while tracking frost across the floorboards for the fourth time that morning. Pots simmered. Butter hissed around herbs in a little iron pan. Steam rose against the windows and blurred the meadow beyond into a dream of silver, brown, and pale gold.
The table had filled by degrees with dishes, jars, bowls, bundles, and little plates of things that looked like offerings but were, for the most part, supper. Now, with the worst of the cooking finished, Y/N stood at the sink with her sleeves shoved past her elbows, rinsing the last of the bowls. Steam curled around her face and turned her cheeks pink. Her cold nose had gone shiny at the tip. Wisps of hair had escaped their pins and clung damply to her temples. Her apron, which had been clean at sunrise, now bore flour, soot, herb dust, one streak of honey, and a green smear she could not identify and had decided not to think about.
A wilted violet petal, which had somehow attached itself to her sleeve in the morning and refused to be removed by shaking, brushing, or insult, chose that moment to give up its long struggle and drop into the dishwater.
Plop.
Y/N stared at it. “Really? Now?”
From the rafters came Shiloh’s voice, smooth with satisfaction. “Darling, if I plucked every stray flower you dragged into this house, there would be nothing left for your table, your altar, your pockets, or your hair.”
Y/N muttered something uncomplimentary about owls and turned back to the dishes.
The cottage smelled like the holiday itself. There was the sharp green bite of foraged winter leaves, the warm butteriness of eggs, the deep brown comfort of mushrooms, the sweetness of rose and rice, the smoke of the hearth, and beneath it all the colder smell of the world outside waiting to thaw. Every counter had been claimed. On one side stood a great bowl of winter greens: dandelion, violet leaf, garlic mustard, chickweed, and the arugula and butter lettuce Jin had brought days before with a flourish, as though he had personally persuaded them to grow.
Beside it waited a golden frittata made with Thelma’s eggs, still warm enough to fog the plate beneath it. A platter of ramps and dame’s rocket cooled near the window, sharp and clean as the first water running under ice. Oyster mushrooms, fiddleheads, and herbs gathered in earthy little heaps, some dried from the summer before and some brought by Yoongi only yesterday, wrapped in paper and tied with twine because Yoongi made even vegetables look properly behaved.
Dessert waited apart, as dessert often does, with the quiet confidence of something certain it would be loved. There was a chèvre cheesecake pale as melting snow, its top glossed with honey and sugared thyme, and beside it a rose rice pudding for Wendy, its petals floating on the surface like little pink boats.
But Y/N’s eyes kept straying toward the pantry.
She did not want them to. There were many other things to look at: the polished plates, the newly arranged candles, the sweetgrass braid, the little goddess statue, the meadow beyond the window where the light had begun to lean toward evening. But again and again her gaze slipped to the pantry door.
Behind it, on the middle shelf, sat the hen.
It was already cleaned, already spelled, already preserved under one of Jin’s tidy little charms. A perfectly respectable hen. A plump hen. A hen that, by every ordinary measure, was no longer anyone’s problem but the cook’s.
And yet Y/N did not want to roast it.
She had stood in front of it for nearly ten minutes that morning, arms folded, looking at it with the grim suspicion one might reserve for an enemy who had arrived in disguise. Jin’s voice had repeated in her memory, cheerful and sensible and entirely unhelpful.
It is already done, Y/N. You are honoring it by cooking it. Imbolc needs meat.
Perhaps Imbolc did need meat. Perhaps the old gods liked a table with something hearty at its center. Perhaps Jin was right. He often was, which made him unbearable. But every time Y/N looked at the hen, something in her tightened. It was not disgust exactly. Nor fear. It was simply the feeling that she and the hen had reached an understanding, and the understanding was that they would not be dealing with one another today.
Roasting it herself was out of the question. That felt like challenging the holiday to burst into flames.
At last she had shut the pantry door and whispered, “Nope. Not dealing with that.”
Cordelia always brought fish anyway. Sleek winter trout, usually, silver as frost and smelling of the deep cold places under running water. The wolves would swarm it. Jin would praise it extravagantly. Hoseok, if he came, would complain about bones while eating more than anyone. Taehyung would get a bone stuck in his teeth and pretend he had not. Tradition already had meat enough.
The hen could wait.
Perhaps she would quietly give it to Cordelia later and pretend that had been the plan all along.
Y/N rinsed the last clay bowl, set it in the drying rack, and watched water slide in thin, shimmering trails down her arms. When she flicked her hands dry, droplets scattered into the winter sunlight and flashed like sparks.
“There,” she sighed. “That is the last of it.”
Shiloh hopped down from the rafter with the ceremony of a queen descending into a court she found disappointing but necessary.
For a moment, the cottage settled. Even Shiloh’s feathers flattened into something less theatrical. The fire ticked softly in the hearth. The incense curled upward in a slow blue thread. Outside, the meadow paused in the light, as if holding its breath for evening.
Y/N smoothed her palms over her apron and felt warmth lingering in the fabric. For the first time that day, she allowed herself to stand still and look at what she had made.
The cottage was ready.
Not perfect, of course. Nothing in Y/N’s cottage had ever been perfect and would probably have resented the accusation. But it was warm. It was bright. It smelled of food, herbs, smoke, and hope. It held enough cushions for sore knees, enough chairs for proud backs, enough candles for spirits, and enough food for friends who always claimed they would not eat much and then proved themselves liars.
Imbolc braided people together whether they intended it or not. Y/N often forgot, in the quiet months, where she ended and her strange patchwork of companions began. But on days like this, with the table set and the house waiting, she remembered.
The door opened without a knock.
Yoongi slipped inside the way snow falls: quietly, unassumingly, and somehow already belonging to the place where it lands. He wore soft layers the colors of dusk, river stones, and winter bark. His dark hair was tied loosely at the nape of his neck, though a few strands had escaped and lay across his cheekbones like raven feathers. In his hands he carried a woven basket, and from beneath its linen cover rose a thin curl of steam.
“You brought food,” Y/N said, wiping her hands on her apron as she crossed the room.
Yoongi looked around the cottage once, taking in the table, the cushions, the candles, the absurd number of bowls, and perhaps also the faint desperation in Y/N’s expression.
“We’re the only ones here who don’t eat meat,” he said. “I was being practical.”
“You know I made six dishes already.”
Yoongi set the basket on the teal table with a soft thump. “Arriving empty-handed felt rude.”
His voice was dry as winter wood. His expression, as always, seemed determined not to reveal anything as unruly as affection. But one corner of his mouth moved just enough to betray him.
Y/N leaned over the basket and sniffed dramatically. “Is it cabbage?”
Yoongi gave her a look so flat she nearly laughed.
“No.”
She drooped. “Tragic.”
Then he lifted the linen.
Warmth rose out in a fragrant cloud: roasted carrot, red pepper, garlic, earth, sweetness, and the deep, rich heat of gochujang. It smelled like something that had simmered all morning in a patient pot while snow thought better of falling outside.
“Gochujang and roasted carrot stew,” Yoongi said.
Y/N inhaled as if he had opened a door into paradise. “Oh. That is better.”
The ghost of a smile returned.
He nudged the basket toward her. “Don’t eat it all before everyone else arrives.”
“No promises.”
“Y/N.”
His tone sharpened in the familiar way, like a twig snapping under a boot. It was not a loud rebuke. Yoongi’s scolding was almost always quiet, which somehow made it worse.
She grinned. “Fine. Half.”
“Y/N.”
“It’s Imbolc. Rules don’t apply on Imbolc.”
“They do if you want me to keep sharing.”
She groaned with theatrical suffering, then held out her smallest finger. Yoongi hooked his through it without hesitation. Their fingers touched only briefly, but the touch was warm and ordinary and honest in a way that made Y/N’s heart do something foolish behind her ribs.
“Half,” she conceded.
“Reasonable,” he said.
Then he kicked off his boots near the door, leaving faint specks of thawed mud behind him, and wandered farther into the cottage as though he had always known exactly where to stand.
The door flew open again.
It did not simply open. It announced defeat. It struck the wall with such vigor that a hanging bundle of thyme trembled in alarm, and Jin swept into the cottage like a comet that had become convinced the whole sky existed for its entrance.
His cloak was an outrageous sweep of shimmering gold. It billowed behind him though there was not nearly enough wind indoors to justify it, which meant either he had enchanted it or the cloak had learned vanity from its owner. Even the weak February light seemed to follow him in, brightening at his shoulders and catching in his hair.
“Y/N!” he cried, striding forward with the confidence of a man certain that his arrival had improved the weather. “Tell me you missed me.”
“Moderately,” Y/N said, straightening a stack of plates without looking up.
Jin gasped.
It was not an ordinary gasp. It was the gasp of a prince betrayed, a poet wounded, and a swan informed it was merely a goose.
“You wound me.”
“You’ll live.”
“Will I?” He pressed a hand to his chest and staggered. “Will I truly?”
Before she could move out of range, he swept her into an extravagant embrace and lifted her clean off the floor.
“Jin!” she hissed, laughing despite herself. “Put me down.”
He set her down with a flourish, as though presenting her to an invisible audience.
“You’re welcome,” he said.
“For what?”
“For blessing your dreary little cottage with my extraordinary presence.”
“Jin,” she said, rubbing her temple, “it is Imbolc. Please try to behave.”
“I am behaving.” He looked offended by the suggestion otherwise. “Look.”
He swung a small wooden container from the basket on his shoulder and opened it with a flourish worthy of a stage magician producing doves.
“I brought scones.”
Inside sat a neat row of pastries, each one perfectly shaped, their tops brushed with butter and sprinkled with herb sugar. The crystals caught the winter sunlight and glittered like frost that had decided to become delicious. A warm savory scent rose from them: bread, basil, spinach, parsley, and something bright and green that did not belong in February but had somehow been persuaded to attend.
“They have basil, spinach, and parsley,” Jin said reverently, as if naming royal heirs.
Y/N leaned in. “They smell wonderful.”
He preened. Truly preened. His spine straightened. His chin lifted. One hand smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from his cloak. If he had possessed tail feathers, they would have opened.
From above, Shiloh made a dry, pointed sound.
“Absolutely a peacock.”
Jin’s head snapped upward. “I heard that.”
“You were meant to,” Shiloh replied.
He pressed his fingers to his forehead. “Even the birds disrespect me.”
“Especially the birds,” Y/N said, patting his arm.
He sighed as though his burdens were ancient and undeserved. But his mouth softened at the corners, and Y/N knew him well enough to see that he was glad to be there. His happiness showed not in quiet, like Yoongi’s, but in light. He seemed to bring it with him, trailing warmth, noise, and ridiculousness in his wake. He moved around the cottage comfortably, adjusting things she had already arranged, setting his scones beside Yoongi’s stew and nudging the container two inches to the left until it sat perfectly aligned.
A shaft of afternoon sunlight caught in his hair and made him look briefly less like a person and more like a rumor about summer.
“All right,” he declared, surveying the table. “Where is the rest of it? I came ready to be dazzled.”
“You say that every year.”
“And every year,” he said solemnly, “I am.”
She tried to hide her smile and failed.
Jin’s eyes slid toward Yoongi, who had taken it upon himself to alphabetize her spice jars, though no one had asked him and no one but Yoongi had ever believed spices needed governance.
“And Yoongi,” Jin said, “for someone who avoids people, you certainly enjoy feeding them.”
Yoongi did not turn around. He moved a jar of marjoram to the left of mint.
“I like feeding her,” he said.
The cottage went very still around Y/N.
Heat rose up her neck so quickly she wondered whether she had leaned too close to the hearth.
Jin blinked. Then he pointed at Yoongi with the solemn delight of a man witnessing history.
Yoongi shrugged. “It’s the truth.”
Jin looked between them with the expression of someone preparing to become unbearable. Y/N could practically see the speech forming behind his eyes, but something about the gentle quiet of the room, or perhaps the look Yoongi gave him without turning his head, softened the worst of it.
Jin settled for patting Y/N on the shoulder. “Someone get Y/N a chair. She’s about to faint.”
“Certainly. Your face is simply celebrating Imbolc.”
Y/N snatched a bowl and pretended to be very busy with it.
Jin, mercifully, wandered toward the porch and paused to encourage the flowers near the threshold. There were daisies there, absurdly early daisies, peering up through the cold as if they had misunderstood the calendar. Jin bent over them and whispered praise in a voice usually reserved for frightened children and dramatic horses.
Y/N reorganized a stack of bowls that did not need reorganizing and waited for her heartbeat to stop behaving like a trapped sparrow.
It did not.
Then a cool breeze drifted in from the west, tinged with brine and distance. It smelled faintly of sea foam riding beneath the first thaw, and Y/N knew at once what it meant.
Ocean witches.
The grasses beyond the gate rippled in a long shiver, brown at the tips but green at the roots, confused by the mild spell warming the day. Through them came three figures, walking with the steady grace of people who had learned from tides rather than roads.
Cordelia led. She was tall and grounded, dependable in the way a lighthouse is dependable: not soft, exactly, but built to remain when weather lost its temper. Her ginger braids were threaded with shells and opals that clicked faintly as she walked. Winter light skimmed across the pale coral woven through her hair, and the hem of her cloak moved about her ankles as though it had not quite forgotten waves.
Darya came behind her, quick-eyed and quick-moving, with dark hair glinting like stormwater beneath a pale sun. The breeze curled around her ankles as though waiting for instruction. She had the look of a person who noticed everything, trusted very little, and enjoyed herself most when both those things proved useful.
Between them walked a girl Y/N had never seen before.
She could not have been more than eleven. She carried a satchel nearly half her own size, which bulged with the mysterious confidence of bags owned by children. Her eyes were wide. Her steps were light and eager, almost skipping, though she tried very hard not to. Curiosity came off her like heat from a hearth.
Before Cordelia could reach the gate, the girl broke into a run.
“Bridd?” she called breathlessly.
Y/N stepped forward, already smiling. “You must be Belinay.”
The girl nodded so hard her braids bounced. She stopped a few feet away and looked up at Y/N with such reverent astonishment that Y/N had the sudden and uncomfortable sensation of having been mistaken for a monument.
“I wanted to see if you were real,” Belinay said. “Mama says the Bridd is as old as the forest.”
Behind Y/N, Yoongi’s voice drifted dryly from the cottage. “She’s been here longer than Northorn has been a colony.”
Y/N elbowed him sharply without looking back.
“Ow,” Yoongi said, though without surprise.
“I am not that old,” Y/N told the girl.
Belinay’s mouth fell open, as though this information had raised more questions than it answered.
Cordelia reached them then and took Y/N’s hands in both of hers. Her palms were cool and steady, smelling faintly of salt, rope, and winter wind.
“Thank you for having us, Snatcher,” she said warmly. “She’s been begging to meet you for months.”
“I haven’t!” Belinay squeaked. “Only weeks.”
Darya snorted. “You built a shrine.”
Belinay turned scarlet. “It was not a shrine.”
Y/N laughed, and the sound went up into the cold air like a little bell.
“Shrine or no shrine, I am very glad you came.”
Belinay beamed so brightly that she looked as if she had smuggled in a piece of the sun.
After that the cottage filled quickly, the way summer rain fills a dry ditch: softly at first, then all at once. Voices entered. Boots came off. Cloaks were hung. Cold hands reached toward the fire. The air thickened with laughter, movement, and the particular kind of chaos that turns a house into a home.
The mismatched chairs were claimed at once. Jin dropped into the star-painted chair with the triumph of a monarch claiming a throne he believed had been waiting for him since the dawn of time.
“This one,” he said, leaning back, “is appropriate for someone of my radiance.”
“You mean your ego,” Y/N said.
“Same thing.”
Darya examined the remaining chairs as if they were suspects in a crime. At last she chose the scorched one near the wall, the chair marked by a crescent burn from a charm that had misfired years before. She traced the blackened edge with one finger and nodded, as though the wood had confessed and she approved of its honesty.
Yoongi unpacked his basket with the quiet precision of a winter ritual. Jars lined themselves into neat rows beneath his hands. The stew pot settled into the center of the table as though it had always been meant to be there and every other dish had simply been waiting to arrange itself around it.
Cordelia moved through the cottage with a slow, tide-like curiosity. Her fingertips brushed the shelves, the jars of dried herbs, the feather charms, the polished stones, the old trinkets, the carved spoons, and the little oddities Y/N had gathered over the years because no one else wanted them and she could not bear to let them feel unwanted.
“You keep entire worlds in here,” Cordelia murmured.
Y/N glanced around, suddenly shy. “I suppose I do.”
Belinay walked through the cottage as if she had stepped into a story and feared that touching anything might wake it. She stared at charms, talismans, jars, candles, and bones with her breath held. Twice she reached out one finger and then snatched it back, looking horrified by her own boldness.
It became painful to watch.
“You may touch things,” Y/N said gently.
Belinay froze. “Really?”
“As long as you don’t drink anything that glows.”
“I won’t drink anything at all,” Belinay vowed.
Across the room, Jin tapped his chin. “I might drink something glowing.”
“Shut up, Jin,” Yoongi said, without looking up from a row of jars.
Y/N hid a smile behind her hand.
Their familiar rhythms settled into the cottage like warmth returning to chilled bones. She had not realized how quiet the winter had been until now, with laughter loosening the silence from the rafters. Someone opened a window a little wider, and a mild February breeze slipped in, carrying damp earth and cold grass. It wove through the smells of bread, mint, stew, incense, and sweet herbs until the whole cottage seemed to breathe like a living thing.
Cordelia set a small wooden crate beside the stew.
“We brought fish,” she said. “But Mel is carrying it up.”
“That sounds like Mel,” Y/N said.
Mel was always last. His timing was tidal, which meant it was dependable only in the broadest possible sense. He was never gone for good, never exactly on time, and never entirely predictable.
“Hopefully with actual fish,” Darya said. “And not another jar of sea foam.”
Jin gasped. “He’d better hurry. Imbolc waits for no one.”
“Mel waits for everyone,” Yoongi said.
Cordelia sighed. “He’s close.”
Y/N looked around the cottage and felt something inside her ease. It had been too quiet here for too long. After Aldara’s passing, silence had settled into the walls like dust. There had been days when Y/N could hear every tick of the cooling stove, every scrape of branch against window, every small absence. But now the house had filled. The chairs creaked. The fire crackled. Shiloh insulted people from above. Belinay whispered questions. Jin praised himself. Yoongi pretended not to smile. Darya argued with a spoon. Cordelia moved gently among all of it.
The cottage had a pulse again.
Hosting, once Y/N surrendered to it, came as naturally as breathing. Her apron sat crooked. Her hair had escaped almost entirely from its knot. She wielded a wooden spoon like some benevolent kitchen deity who had misplaced her crown but not her authority. Somehow, through motion and instinct and the mercy of the gods, it all worked.
She ladled Yoongi’s roasted carrot stew into clay bowls. She tucked fresh herbs onto the frittata. She slid the platter of wild greens within reach of even the laziest hands. She cut the cheesecake into careful slices and threatened Jin with a fork when he tried to steal a corner too early.
From her scorched chair, Darya lifted a forkful of salad. “What’s in this?”
“That depends,” Y/N said. “If your tongue goes numb, that’s garlic mustard. If it tastes like flowers, those are violets.”
Darya chewed thoughtfully. “I like the buzzing.”
“That is not a word I want associated with my salad.”
Jin, eating one of his own scones with the solemn concentration of a judge at a contest, nodded once.
“You’ve outdone yourself, Y/N,” he said. “I did not know ramps could shine.”
Yoongi snorted. “What are you now? A food critic?”
Y/N placed a bowl in front of Belinay, who stared down at the colorful greens and petals as though she had been handed an enchanted relic. Cordelia took her bowl last and gave Y/N a quiet, grateful look.
“We’ll help clean later,” she said. “You’ve done enough.”
Y/N waved her off, though the idea of extra hands washing dishes made her want to sink into the nearest pile of cushions and never rise again.
Then the front door burst open on a gust of salty wind.
“Bel! Darya! I come bearing gifts!”
Melvin stumbled inside like a ship docking badly. He carried an enormous fish across both arms, its silver body gleaming beneath the cottage light. A strand of seaweed clung to his sleeve. His boots were muddy. His hair looked as though the wind had tried to steal it and lost.
“Caught it myself,” he announced. “Mostly. A seal helped. That is irrelevant.”
Cordelia groaned. “Melvin. You tracked sand into the house.”
“Sand,” Mel said proudly, marching toward the kitchen, “is the seasoning of the sea.”
Y/N hurried after him, half laughing and half horrified. “Just don’t blow anything up.”
“Explosions are for Yule,” Mel said breezily, already rolling up his sleeves. “This is Imbolc. It would be out of season.”
The fish landed on her counter with a heavy, reverent thud, rattling a row of jars and sending a puff of dried herb dust into the air. Mel stood over it as solemnly as a priest before an altar. Before Y/N could object, he had taken command of her kitchen.
This was what Mel did. Some people asked permission. Mel entered, declared himself useful, and somehow became so before anyone could stop him. He seized knives, spoons, herbs, bowls of spices, oil, salt, and one little jar Y/N was nearly certain he had no business touching. The pan went onto the stove. Oil hissed the instant it touched iron, snapping and spitting like applause. The fish followed with a slap of skin against heat, and at once the cottage filled with the smell of brine, crisping flesh, herbs, and sea-magic.
It smelled like Imbolc turning its face toward spring. Like cold water running free under ice. Like February forgetting itself for one glorious hour.
Y/N leaned in the doorway, arms folded.
“Should I help?” she asked, though her voice already regretted it.
“No,” Mel said grandly. “But you may admire me if moved.”
“Please clean everything afterward. Thoroughly. I don’t like animals leaving anything behind on my dishes. If I taste even a hint of something leftover, I’ll hex you into next year.”
Mel froze with the solemnity of a knight receiving sacred law.
“You have my word, Bridd.”
The pan answered with a loud sizzle. Mel tossed in rosemary, and the leaves snapped like tiny sparks. Then he splashed in a pale green liquid from a bottle so strange-looking that Y/N straightened at once.
“What is that?”
“Ocean wine,” Mel said.
“That is not a thing.”
From the table, Cordelia called, “Of course it is.”
Y/N looked at her.
Cordelia was completely serious.
“We lower bottles into the sea and let them ferment underwater,” she explained. “Look at the barnacles.”
Y/N stared at the bottle. It was crusted with barnacles, salt, and a clump of seaweed that seemed deeply committed to remaining attached.
“So,” Y/N said slowly, “it is normal wine soaked in salt water, mold, and ocean debris.”
Darya nodded. “For at least a year.”
Yoongi, still arranging a few of her spice jars into some private system of justice, asked, “Does it taste different?”
“Not at all,” Cordelia said. “But it looks pretty.”
For a heartbeat, no one spoke. Then laughter rolled through the cottage.
It rose and spread, warm and bright, catching one person and then another. Jin began reenacting an old battle with a goose, complete with flapping arms and deeply offensive honking. Darya tormented Yoongi about his need to organize everything within reach. Belinay tugged on Cordelia’s sleeve and asked whether she could grow up to be both a witch and a fisher. Yoongi pretended not to listen, which meant he was listening to every word.
Y/N stood in the kitchen doorway and let herself watch.
Her home was loud. Her home was full. Her home smelled of herbs and smoke and fish and bread and the faint wild promise of thaw. For months after Aldara died, the cottage had seemed to hold its breath. Tonight, it breathed again.
Mel lifted the fish from the pan at last and set it on a platter with dramatic reverence.
“Feast,” he declared.
The reaction was immediate. Cheers burst through the cottage like sparks catching dry tinder. Belinay squealed. Jin applauded with the lavish elegance of a nobleman attending an opera. Yoongi gave one decisive nod, which from him was practically a standing ovation. Darya simply armed herself with a fork and prepared for battle.
They crowded around the teal table in a happy scatter of elbows, bowls, chairs, cushions, and passing hands. Plates scraped. Bread traveled in the wrong direction and caused a minor crisis. Someone spilled wine. Someone else knocked over a bowl of violets, and Belinay somehow managed to paint a streak of gochujang across her nose without noticing. Y/N’s frittata disappeared almost as soon as it was cut. Yoongi’s stew was scraped clean with alarming speed. Mel’s fish drew murmurs so reverent that Jin accused everyone of worshiping dinner, then immediately took another bite and joined them.
Outside, the sun dipped low over the meadow. The brittle winter grasses turned bronze. The first smoke from the bonfire pit began to drift upward, thin and blue against the dimming sky. The air was still cool enough to belong to February, but beneath it ran something softer. Something waiting. Something alive.
Imbolc pressed close around the cottage, not grandly, not with trumpets or signs, but with the quiet blessing of a year beginning to turn.
Y/N sat among her friends, her strange beloved patchwork of people, and listened to them laugh over her table.
It was not perfect. The floor was dirty. The kitchen was a disaster. Jin was still talking about the goose. Shiloh had stolen a corner of scone and was pretending she had not. The hen remained uncooked in the pantry, and Y/N would have to decide what to do with it eventually.
But not yet.
For now, the fire was warm. The table was full. The cottage was alive.
And it was a good day.
A very good day.
Dawn had sent only one thin messenger before it: a pale seam of gold trembling low in the east, where the black edge of the world was beginning, very unwillingly, to loosen. All Bangtan Forest lay under that deep winter hush which belongs only to evergreen woods after snow. The pines and firs stood tall and dark against the paling sky, their boughs bent beneath white burdens, while the spruce needles glittered with frost as if some patient hand had threaded them with splinters of glass. The earth below was neither green nor brown nor even properly earth at all, but a hidden thing, tucked beneath old drifts and crusted silver-blue wherever the night wind had hardened the snow.
Mist lingered low between the trees. It was not the kind mist of spring, rising from warm ground and making the world seem secret and forgiving, but a colder, thinner thing: winter’s breath caught among roots and hollows, curling along fallen logs like pale smoke. Spiderwebs abandoned in the elbows of bark and bramble had gone stiff with rime. Somewhere out of sight the river whispered under a skin of ice, its voice small and muffled, like a song sung through clenched teeth. In the darkest places, where morning had not yet dared to enter, faint rings of blue-green mushrooms shone beneath the fallen timber, their ghostly light made stranger by the snow around them.
It was the hour Y/N loved best.
She loved the forest before it woke. Bangtan seemed most itself then, before the pack stirred in Foxglove, before cottage chimneys began to smoke in earnest, before squirrels resumed their noisy arguments and the thin winter birds lifted their brave, sharp songs into the cold. The world seemed balanced between sleeping and waking, as though one soft word might tip it either way. Trees remembered old things then. Snow listened. Even the air appeared to hold still.
Her wings should have cut through that blue-gray silence as easily as ink drawn across parchment.
On any other morning, flying would have been as natural to her as breathing. She would have felt the wind gather beneath her, a living hand under each wing, and she would have risen over the snow-laden pines with frost catching at her feathers, and some secret joy brightening in her breast. The cold could be cruel, certainly, but from above it was also beautiful. The world became simple from that height: white fields, dark woods, silver water, smoke unwinding from chimneys, everything lying under winter’s spell.
But this morning the air did not hold her.
This morning something had gone wrong.
She knew it before she could name it.
It had begun behind her eyes, a deep, throbbing ache that beat steadily against the inside of her skull. It was not ordinary pain. Ordinary pain had borders. This seemed to have none. It pressed outward as if her very thoughts had turned to stone and were now too heavy for her head to carry. After that came weariness: not the honest tiredness that followed work well done, not the pleasant heaviness after a long walk and a warm meal, but something strange and stealing, seeping into her bones like meltwater through cracked stone.
Her wings beat unevenly.
They trembled at the end of each stroke, and the air, instead of lifting her, resisted her.
Y/N blinked hard.
The forest blurred.
Below her, the treetops tilted, swung wide, and then righted themselves again. A blade of new sunlight struck ice on the branches and shattered into a hundred cruel sparks. Pain flashed through her head so fiercely that, for one terrible instant, she forgot the very shape of flying.
Her left wing dipped.
She caught herself, but only just.
Get home.
The words did not leave her beak. In this shape, speech lived mostly in thought, and even thought had gone thin and frayed, like cloth worn nearly through. She forced her wings to spread, caught a cold current, and rode it with the desperate care of someone clinging to a rope above a ravine.
Too soon, she thought.
The shift was coming.
It should not have been. She knew the rhythms of her own magic as a sailor knows the tide. Shape-changing was not always painless, but it had its laws. There were warnings, intervals, the inward gathering of the body before it remembered another form. There should have been time to land. Time to draw breath and make herself ready.
Her feathers prickled along her skin. Her bones ached with a deep and unnatural heat. Warmth crawled up through her veins in sudden pulses, and then came cold so sharp and swift that her whole body shuddered. The magic holding her owl-shape together sparked and split. It no longer moved through her as a clean, living thread, but snagged and tore like yarn dragged through a broken needle.
The forest pitched beneath her. Pines became dark spears. Snow became glare. The pale dawn widened, narrowed, widened again, as if the whole world were struggling for breath.
Then, between the trees, she saw the cottage.
At first it seemed only another pale shape among the drifts, a trick of snow and longing. Then the roof appeared beneath its thick cap of white, and the crooked chimney rose against the brightening sky, breathing one frail ribbon of smoke into the cold. The meadow opened before it, smooth and untouched except where the wind had carved shallow blue shadows. The garden lay buried beyond the little gate, only the woody tops of rosemary and thyme showing through the snow in stiff, frozen sprigs.
Relief came to her, though weakly, like a candle nearly burned to nothing.
Almost there.
She angled downward.
The descent should have been graceful. Y/N had landed in storms, between branches, upon narrow stones, and once, long ago, on the shoulder of a startled giant who had been too courteous to mention the inconvenience. But now the clearing rushed toward her too quickly. The snow glittered and shifted below her, every point of ice too bright, too sharp. The cottage roof seemed to lurch. The garden wall slid strangely sideways. The world had become unreliable.
Her claws struck earth and skidded over frozen grass hidden under powder. She stumbled, wings flung wide, and half-collapsed among the buried garden beds, scattering loose snow from the rosemary stems. Pain pulsed through her head in great black waves. Her vision narrowed, the edges of it darkening, while gold streaks flickered before her like sparks from a dying fire.
She had seconds.
Perhaps fewer.
Y/N dragged herself toward the cottage door.
Feathers came loose behind her. They did not fall prettily. They shed in a ragged trail across the snow, dark and damp and wrong against all that white. Each step sent a tremor up her legs. The garden path had never been long before, but now it stretched before her like a road into another country. The door, which she had opened a thousand times without thought, stood at the end of it like the gate of a besieged castle.
Her talons scraped the threshold.
Then the shift seized her.
There was no grace in it. It struck like lightning through water.
Her body convulsed. Wings folded inward too fast, and bones twisted with a terrible, intimate certainty, remembering the wrong shape before finding the right one. Feathers dissolved into skin. Heat roared along her veins. Her spine arched. Her claws became hands, shaking and pale against the floorboards. The cottage air filled with the faint smell of singed magic, wild feathers, cold rain, and snow.
She fell forward through the doorway.
Her knees struck the wooden floor with a crack that made her gasp. One hand caught the doorframe, the other curled helplessly against the boards. For a moment, her sight broke into pieces: black, gold, pinewood, snowlight, shadow. Then the pain loosened all at once, leaving her hollowed, human, and shaking.
When it was over, Y/N lay naked just inside the cottage door, drenched in cold sweat.
The air touched her skin like winter water. Her breath came in ragged pulls, each one scraping her throat raw. She tried to rise, because some stubborn part of her believed that standing upright would prove she was well, but her legs betrayed her. They buckled beneath her, useless as wet cloth.
“Not good,” she muttered.
Her voice was thin and rough, scarcely more than a breath.
“Not…”
Her hand slipped. She caught herself again, cheek nearly pressed to the floorboards. The pine beneath her smelled faintly of smoke, lavender, and old spilled tea. Ordinarily that smell would have comforted her. Now even comfort seemed to be standing on the far side of a river she could not cross.
She tried to crawl.
It was absurdly difficult. Her limbs felt separate from her, heavy and disobedient, as though someone had tied stones to them while she slept. Her magic, usually bright and living beneath her skin, had dimmed to ragged threads. Each movement seemed to drag those threads across broken glass.
“Y/N?”
The voice came from above.
A flutter of wings followed, then a clumsy thud as Shiloh landed on the back of a chair with none of her usual dignity. The little owl’s amber eyes were wide and bright with alarm.
“What happened?”
Y/N squinted up at her. The room swayed. Shiloh, the chair, the table, and the window all drifted apart from one another and then came together again.
“Shifted,” Y/N croaked. “Too early.”
Shiloh hopped down from the chair, her feathers puffing with distress. “Too early? What do you mean, too early?”
Y/N tried to laugh, but it came out as a dry, miserable rasp.
“Felt… strange.”
“Strange how?”
There was sharpness in the question, but no cruelty. Fear threaded every word. Y/N could hear it even through the feverish fog pressing at her skull. Shiloh could be grand, theatrical, and impossible when it suited her, but she did not turn truly sharp unless something had frightened her badly.
Y/N pressed a shaking hand to her forehead. Her skin burned beneath her fingers.
“Headache,” she managed. “Heavy. Air felt wrong. Couldn’t breathe right.”
Shiloh’s face changed. The irritation did not leave exactly, but it folded itself around something far more tender.
“I told you not to go far,” she said, and her voice was lower now. “There was sleet yesterday, and the frost came in hard before dawn. You know what that does to you.”
“Didn’t want,” Y/N whispered, “to fall out of the sky.”
Shiloh opened her beak, then closed it again.
For once, no scolding came.
The little owl only looked at her, and in that look were all the winter illnesses they had survived together: every fever that had taken too long to break, every cough that had settled in Y/N’s chest like an unwanted guest, every chill that had slipped into her bones and refused to leave. Shiloh knew better than anyone that Y/N did not get sick the way others did. A damp sleeve, a drafty window, one foolish night flight through sleet—any little thing that would have inconvenienced another witch could put Y/N in bed for days.
Y/N had a great deal of magic. That was the part people saw first. They saw the shifting, the old words, the healing hands, the green fire in her charms, the way wild creatures came to her door as if the trees themselves had whispered that she was safe. They saw the Bridd, and forgot there was a body beneath the title.
A body that chilled too quickly.
A body that burned too fast with fever.
A body that had always seemed a little too frail for the fierce spirit housed inside it.
At last Shiloh said, more softly, “You’re impossible.”
Y/N’s mouth twitched. “Only just noticing?”
“Don’t joke.” Shiloh hopped closer, trying very hard to sound stern and only half succeeding. “Not when you’re shaking like that.”
“I’ll be fine.”
The lie was so thin that even the cottage seemed embarrassed by it.
Y/N clawed herself forward another few inches. The bedroom was not far. It had never seemed far before. It was only across the cottage, through the little doorway beyond the hearth. Now it appeared as distant as another kingdom.
“Don’t you dare pass out here,” Shiloh warned, hopping after her. “You’ll freeze before I can get a blanket over you.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Y/N muttered.
“That is not comforting.”
Shiloh fluttered ahead into the bedroom, then back again, unable to decide whether she ought to lead, push, scold, or scream for help. Y/N reached the bed by sheer stubbornness and nothing more. She caught the rumpled blankets in both hands, dragged herself upward, and collapsed into the sheets.
The linen was cool, chamomile-scented, and soft as mercy.
She turned her face into the pillow and shivered.
“Gods,” Shiloh breathed, landing at the foot of the bed. Her voice had gone quiet. “You really do look terrible.”
“Thank you,” Y/N whispered.
“Should I get someone? Yoongi? Jin?”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly. She shook her head, and the room tipped so violently that she regretted it at once.
“No. They’ll worry.”
“They should worry.” Shiloh’s talons gripped the blanket. “That is rather the point of friends.”
“It’s just fatigue.”
“Fatigue doesn’t make your lips go pale.”
“It’ll pass.”
Shiloh stared at her. Y/N could feel the stare without opening her eyes.
“It will,” Y/N insisted, though the words were already blurring at the edges. “Just need to rest.”
Shiloh did not answer.
That silence was worse than any scolding.
The room tilted gently around Y/N. The walls softened. The faint embers in the hearth beyond the bedroom doorway cast a weak orange glow, flickering over the cottage walls like tired fireflies. Shiloh remained at the foot of the bed, feathers fluffed, talons curled into the blanket, caught between obedience and fear.
Y/N wanted to reassure her. She meant to say something sensible, something kind, something that would make the owl stop looking as if the world had cracked open beneath her feet.
But the words sank before she could catch them.
Her breathing thinned.
The light dissolved.
Sleep took her not like a blanket, but like water closing overhead.
Outside, morning finally arrived.
The first true sunlight crept over the snow and laid fragile gold across the bedroom floor. The forest did not burst into song. It woke thinly and reluctantly, as winter forests do. A few brave birds called from the pines. Ice ticked along the eaves. Snow slid softly from one evergreen branch to another. Somewhere beneath the white crust of the meadow, the buried grasses waited for a spring still many weeks away.
The world went on.
Inside, the Bridd lay still, her magic dimmed to a dull ember, waiting for some careful hand to coax it back to flame.
Shiloh did not wait long.
She had known fear before. Familiars always did. They lived tied to another soul, and love made every danger enormous. It made drafts seem like knives, coughs sound like omens, and foolish decisions feel like betrayals. But this was not a small danger casting a large shadow. The air in the cottage had changed. It had grown dense and strange, heavy in the way the world becomes just before a storm breaks. Y/N’s scent was sharp and fever-bright. Her pulse, when Shiloh pressed close enough to hear it, sounded too faint, too far away, too unlike itself.
Wrongness moved through the room in a way no sensible creature could ignore.
Shiloh watched her for another breath, then another, talons curled tight into the blanket at the foot of the bed. Y/N lay too still beneath the covers, her skin pale under the fever burning in her cheeks, her breaths shallow and uneven. It did not matter that she had said she only needed rest. It did not matter that she had forbidden Shiloh from fetching anyone. Y/N was terribly brave when she ought to be sensible, and terribly stubborn when she ought to be afraid, and Shiloh had long ago learned that loving her meant knowing when not to obey her.
“No,” the little owl murmured at last. “I am not letting you sleep this off.”
With a hard snap of her wings, she launched herself through the open window.
Cold morning air rushed to meet her. The meadow below lay buried in snow, smooth and pale except where the wind had carved blue hollows around the roots of trees. The sun had barely lifted over the treetops, but already its light stretched long across the clearing, turning frost to glass and icicles to thin knives of fire. Shiloh climbed higher, beating her wings hard through the bitter air.
From above, the world spread wide beneath her. There lay the dark sweep of Bangtan Forest, old and watchful, its evergreens bowing beneath their white burdens. There curled the river, half-hidden under ice and bright only where running water still broke through. Farther off, the rooftops of Bangtan village huddled beneath snow. Beyond them rose the soft shimmer of the solar coven’s hill, where Jin lived among warmth, bees, flowers under glass, and far too much self-satisfaction.
It was not a long flight.
That did not make Shiloh like it.
She hated leaving Y/N alone. She hated the weight of the decision, the memory of that shallow breathing behind her, the knowledge that Y/N’s body could fall badly ill from things other people shrugged off. Worst of all, she hated that she was flying to Jin while frightened enough to need him.
Of all the witches in the forest, she thought bitterly, it would have to be the one who will never let me forget this.
Jin’s cottage appeared with the first full spill of sunlight, and even in midwinter, even beneath snow, it could belong to no one else. Golden wards shimmered around it in a soft halo, humming with warmth and light. They had melted the snow from the path and roof, leaving the cottage tucked inside a strange little pocket of false spring. The garden itself was mostly asleep, but not wholly. Glass cloches, charm-warmed frames, and low domes of golden light covered the beds, and beneath them early blossoms nodded drowsily, coaxed open by solar magic rather than season. Vines that were bare and brown outside the wards curled green along the window nearest his workroom.
Then she saw the bees.
Not the wild abundance of summer, thank the gods, but enough to make her sigh with deep personal fatigue. A few dozen drifted lazily through the warmth beneath the eaves, slow and drowsy, their hum softer than it would be in warmer months. Jin’s wards had tempted them from sleep. They moved like living flecks of sunlight, utterly unconcerned by the fact that February still owned the rest of the forest.
Shiloh’s feathers puffed.
The bees ignored her, which was both polite and suspicious. The last time she had visited, one had landed on her beak and refused to leave until Jin bribed it with honey, which Shiloh still considered a betrayal from both parties.
She landed on the doorknob, breathless, and hammered her talons against the wood.
“Jin!” she shouted. “Wake up. It’s urgent.”
Nothing.
She knocked harder.
“Seokjin! Open the door before I do something we shall both regret.”
A faint rustling came from inside. Then a groan followed, long and lazy and so offended by morning that Shiloh might have laughed if fear had not lodged so tightly in her chest.
“It is dawn,” Jin’s voice complained from somewhere within. “The day has not even properly begun. Go home.”
“Y/N is sick.”
Silence.
One heartbeat.
Two.
Then something crashed.
The door flew open.
Jin stood there in a half-tied robe, his hair loose around his shoulders in a tangle of sleep-warmed gold. Even bleary-eyed and barefoot, he had the indecency to look radiant. Sunlight clung to him through the doorway as if it had waited all night for the privilege.
He blinked at her.
“Shiloh?”
“She’s sick,” Shiloh said again, and this time the words came quieter. “Very sick. She collapsed after shifting. She can’t stand, and her breathing is wrong.”
All sleep vanished from his face.
There were some people who only seemed frivolous because joy sat close to the surface of them. Beneath Jin’s ridiculousness there was a steady thing, and it showed itself at once. His eyes sharpened. His shoulders squared. The sleepy, golden foolishness fell away from him like a cloak dropped on the floor.
“How bad?”
“Bad enough. She’s already beginning to sweat.”
Her voice hitched on the last word despite all her efforts, and she hated it. Hated him hearing it. Not because he would mock her. He would not. They had known each other too long for that. He had been a golden, loud, impossible boy once, tripping over his own feet in the solar gardens, and she had been the owl who scolded him from the fence post while secretly making sure he did not fall into the lily pond. She disliked him often. She loved him, in her irritated way, nearly as often.
And because he knew that, he did not tease her now.
Jin swore softly and ran a hand through his hair.
“All right. Give me a moment.”
He disappeared into the cottage.
At once, the house seemed to wake with him. Candles sparked to life. Shelves glimmered gold. Jars chimed and hummed as his magic stirred among them. Shiloh hopped anxiously on the threshold, listening to the clatter of vials, the snap of satchel buckles, and the low murmur of sunlight being drawn into ready hands.
Then came a sound she dreaded.
A deep, throaty woof.
From around the corner barreled Mannix. Jin’s beloved St. Bernard came bounding toward Shiloh in a glorious avalanche of fur, drool, affection, and terrible intentions. His tail wagged with such force that it seemed capable of rearranging the furniture.
Shiloh lifted off the doorknob with a startled flap.
“Mannix, no. Not today.”
Mannix barked once, delighted that she had addressed him personally.
“Sit!” Jin called from inside. “Mannix, sit.”
The dog skidded to a halt so abruptly his paws slid on the floor. He sat, tail thumping, gazing at Shiloh with adoring confusion.
“He’s too big,” Shiloh muttered, more out of habit than genuine complaint. “You know he is too big.”
“He only wants to say hello,” Jin said, striding back with a healer’s satchel over his shoulder. His robe was now tied, though still crooked.
“Can’t believe you let Wendy talk you into getting that beast,” Shiloh huffed.
Jin scratched Mannix behind one ear. “Guard the house. I’ll be back soon.”
Mannix gave a solemn, slobbery huff and settled by the doorway as if he had just been entrusted with the fate of kingdoms.
Shiloh fluttered onto Jin’s shoulder, gripping his robe with her talons. Beneath the fabric and skin, she could feel the hum of solar magic gathering itself, warm and steady and alive. It pulsed in him like a heartbeat made of sunlight.
“You’re flying us there?”
“It’s faster.”
“Try not to singe me.”
“Try not to dig holes in my shoulder.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” she snapped.
His mouth softened.
Then he stepped into the morning, lifted one hand, and spoke a word in the old tongue.
The air thickened with gold.
Light wrapped around them, bright but gentle, weightless as breath. The garden, the drowsy bees, the cottage, and the snow-bright hill all blurred into streaks of color. Wind rushed past in a warm roar. For a moment, Shiloh could see nothing but radiance.
Then the world snapped back into shape.
They landed in Y/N’s meadow, soft-footed in the snow. Powder scattered around Jin’s boots in bright crystals. The air smelled of frozen mint, woodsmoke, pine resin, and the cold iron scent of deep winter. Ahead of them stood Y/N’s cottage, crouched between the trees beneath its snow-heavy roof, a thin curl of smoke rising from the chimney like a breath held too long and finally released.
“Inside,” Shiloh said.
Jin was moving before Shiloh had finished speaking.
There are some moments in life when all the little vanities and habits of a person fall away from him as leaves fall from a tree in a sudden frost, and what remains is the true shape of the thing beneath. Jin, who could be vain over the tilt of his hair, ridiculous over the cut of a sleeve, and insufferably pleased when sunlight touched his face at just the right angle, lost all of that in the space between one breath and the next. His expression sharpened. His shoulders squared. The laughter that usually lived so near his mouth disappeared, not because he had become cold, but because something steadier and older had risen in its place.
He went through Y/N’s cottage door without ceremony, bringing with him the faint scent of winter air, solar herbs, and the clean golden warmth that always seemed to cling to him, even on the grayest mornings. Shiloh followed in a flurry of anxious feathers, darting ahead and then circling back again, as though she could hurry him by sheer force of panic.
“In here,” she said, though Jin already knew. “She’s in here. She tried to pretend it was nothing, of course. She always does. As if pretending not to be dying has ever cured anyone.”
“She isn’t dying,” Jin said, but he said it in the careful voice of a healer who has not yet looked closely enough to promise anything.
Y/N’s bedroom was dim and close, warm near the hearth and cold near the window where the winter light pressed pale fingers against the glass. The curtains had not been drawn properly. One corner of them hung loose, allowing a narrow blade of morning to fall across the floorboards and touch the leg of the bed. Beyond the window, the forest stood white and blue and silent beneath its burden of snow. Inside, everything smelled of fever: hot skin, damp hair, herbs, old smoke, and the faint bitter edge of magic strained too thin.
Y/N lay half-hidden under the blankets, small in a way that felt wrong.
She was not, ordinarily, a person anyone thought of as small. There was too much wildness in her for that. Too much old power in her hands. Too much knowing in her gaze. Even when she was quiet, even when she sat with her knees tucked beneath her and a cup of tea cooling forgotten beside her, there was always the sense that she belonged partly to the forest and partly to something older than the forest. People looked at her and saw the Bridd. They saw the witch who mended wing-bones and spoke to stubborn roots, who could take feathers upon herself and ride the dawn winds over Bangtan as if she had been born from them.
But fever had a way of making even the mighty look young.
Her dark hair clung damply to her forehead and temples. Her skin was too pale in the dim room, save where fever had painted two hard spots of color high in her cheeks. Her lips had lost their warmth. Her breathing came shallow and uneven, each breath catching faintly in her chest before the next could find its way out. One hand lay above the blanket, fingers loosely curled, the nails faintly bluish from the cold she had carried home with her.
Concern flickered over Jin’s face. It was there and gone quickly, like the shadow of a bird crossing snow. His hands, however, remained calm.
That, more than anything, steadied Shiloh.
He knelt beside the bed and touched the back of his hand to Y/N’s forehead. The heat there made his mouth tighten.
“Fever,” he murmured. “High, but manageable.”
Shiloh clung to the bedpost. Her talons tapped an anxious little rhythm into the wood before she realized she was doing it and forced herself to stop. “How high is high?”
“High enough that I’m glad you came.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It’s the answer I have until I examine her properly.” His voice was gentle, but firm enough to keep her from snapping at him again. “How long has she been like this?”
“Since sunrise. Maybe before.” Shiloh’s feathers ruffled and then settled again in quick, worried waves. “She came home from flying and collapsed inside the door. She said she felt strange.”
Jin opened his satchel. He did it with the swift competence of someone who had packed such bags in the dark, in storms, in kitchens crowded with weeping relatives, in barns, beside wells, and once or twice under circumstances no sensible person would have called safe. Little glass bottles clinked against one another. Dried herbs rustled in folded paper. A spoon, a roll of soft cloth, a stoppered vial of golden oil, and a small copper cup appeared on the bedside table one after another.
“Strange how?” he asked.
“Headache. Trouble breathing. Heavy, she said.” Shiloh paused, trying to remember every word, as though one misplaced syllable might be the thing that mattered. “She said the air felt wrong.”
Jin glanced toward the window, then back to Y/N. “She flew through sleet?”
“Last night, yes. And frost before dawn.” Shiloh’s voice tightened, thin with guilt and irritation tangled together. “I told her not to go far.”
“You did right coming for me.”
It was a simple thing to say. It should not have mattered as much as it did. Yet Shiloh’s feathers settled a little, and the hard knot in her chest loosened by the smallest measure. She had expected questions, perhaps reproach, perhaps one of Jin’s soft sighs that meant he thought everyone in the room was being foolish except him. She had not expected approval.
“I should have come sooner,” she muttered.
“You came when you knew she needed more than rest.”
“She needed more than rest the moment she crawled through the door looking like a plucked ghost.”
“Then you came soon enough.”
Shiloh looked away, but not before Jin saw the fear in her eyes.
He took out a small tin and opened it with his thumb. At once, the room filled with the soft scent of lemon balm and starflower, bright and tender against the feverish air. Beneath it was something else, something warmer and sunlit, like summer honey kept in a cupboard through winter.
Jin leaned closer and listened to Y/N’s breathing. Then he touched two fingers to the pulse below her jaw. His face did not change much, but Shiloh, who had known him since childhood and distrusted most of his expressions on principle, saw enough.
“What?” she demanded.
“It looks like a cold.”
“A cold?” Shiloh repeated, offended by the smallness of the word. “She nearly fell out of the sky.”
“A cold can be a very serious thing in the wrong body.”
“So it isn’t just fatigue.”
“No.” He looked at her then, and his voice was not frightening because he did not dress the truth up in false comfort. “It will likely take a few days to a week before she is properly herself again, but she should be fine.”
“Should be?”
“Will be, if she rests and takes what I give her.”
“You say that as though she has ever willingly done either.”
Jin gave the faintest smile, not enough to be cheerful, only enough to be familiar. “That is why you and I are here.”
He set to work mixing the tonic. He measured partly by sight, partly by scent, and partly by that old healer’s instinct which looks mysterious to everyone watching and perfectly ordinary to the person doing it. Into the copper cup went a pinch of pale dried petals, two drops of golden oil, a spoonful of dark syrup, and a thread of light drawn from his own fingertip. The light did not blaze. It sank into the mixture like dawn entering milk, turning it warm and faintly luminous.
The cottage seemed to hold its breath while he stirred.
“She’s always been like this,” Shiloh said suddenly.
Jin did not look up, but his hands slowed a fraction.
“People forget,” the little owl went on, the words gathering force as if she had carried them too long. “They see her working, and fixing things, and putting on that brave face of hers, and they think she must be well because she is useful. But she hasn’t been properly well since that wolf boy’s ceremony, and already she’s preparing for the Luna’s birthday at the end of March. Orders, charms, garlands, blessings, gods know what else. She’ll run herself into the ground because everyone asks and she hates saying no.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” Jin said quietly.
“No,” Shiloh admitted after a moment. “You usually don’t.”
Then he slid one arm behind Y/N’s shoulders and lifted her gently. She stirred, barely. Her head lolled against him, her lashes trembling without opening, as if even that small journey from pillow to arm required more strength than she could spare.
“There now,” Jin murmured. “Just a little. You don’t have to wake.”
Y/N made a faint sound, too weak to be protest and too miserable to be speech.
“I know,” he said softly, as though she had spoken plainly. “I know. But you must swallow this.”
He tipped the tonic carefully to her lips.
For one dreadful heartbeat, nothing happened.
Shiloh’s claws dug into the bedpost.
Then Y/N swallowed by instinct. Once. Twice. A third time, weaker than the others, but enough.
Jin lowered her back against the pillow, and the tight line of his mouth eased by a little. He wiped a stray drop of tonic from the corner of her mouth with the edge of his sleeve and brushed damp hair away from her forehead.
“Aldara was similar, or so my mother always said,” he murmured. “A simple fever could keep her in bed for days.”
At the sound of that name, the room changed.
Not greatly. No candle flickered. No wind stirred. But memory is its own sort of ghost, and when Aldara entered a room, even by name alone, one felt the old floorboards remember her feet.
“Their magic lives close to the skin,” Jin continued. “That makes them powerful, but it wears the body thin. It is like keeping a bright lamp in a paper house.”
“I’m aware,” Shiloh sighed. “It is not unusual in her line. Aldara’s own familiar, Ragnarok, was always fretting after her before his trials. Of course, I got an even sicker girl. Just my luck. At this rate, I shall return as a cow in my next life and spend the whole of it standing in a field, chewing grass, swatting flies, and minding no one’s business but my own.”
His smile softened and faded as he turned back to Y/N. He laid two fingers near her temple, and a small glow gathered there: gold, quiet, and warm. It sank beneath her skin slowly, as sunlight sinks through thin curtains.
“Y/N’s immune system is weaker than Aldara’s was,” he said. “Winter has always been harder on her.”
Shiloh’s talons flexed around the bedpost. Outside, snow slid from the cottage roof with a soft, heavy sigh. The sound made both of them glance toward the window, though nothing else moved. The morning beyond the glass was brightening by degrees, pale and pitiless, beautiful in the way very cold things often are.
“All of us worry about her,” Jin said at last. “But we have to trust that the gods have some sort of plan.”
Shiloh looked at him for a long moment.
There had always been irritation between them, but it was the sort of irritation that had been polished smooth by years. Jin had been too bright as a child, too loud as a boy, and too pleased with his own reflection at every age. Shiloh had pecked him once for calling her adorable, twice for placing ribbons near her nest, and once, memorably, for singing outside Aldara’s window before breakfast. He had never fully forgiven her for that last one, though he had deserved it.
Still, he had brought medicine when Aldara died. He had sat outside Y/N’s cottage for hours during the first terrible fever after the funeral, not demanding to be let in, not making a performance of his concern, simply keeping the lamps warm and the snow melted from the path. He had never treated Y/N’s frailty as weakness. He had never mistaken her suffering for inconvenience.
That counted for something.
Shiloh released the bedpost and hopped onto the nightstand, where she began to pace in small, tight turns. Her claws clicked against the wood. Click, click, click. A tiny sound, but in that quiet room it seemed enormous.
“She can’t die,” Shiloh said.
Jin’s brow softened. “Because of your trial?”
She stopped at once and looked at him sharply.
“I’m not saying it as an accusation,” he said. “I know being human again is your great hope.”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t care.” Her feathers lifted, making her seem larger than she was. “Her happiness and well-being are my priority. Keeping her safe may help my judgment, yes, but that is not why I do it. I know I am not always the easiest familiar. I know I am sharp, and proud, and occasionally unkind when frightened.”
Shiloh swallowed, and when she spoke again, the bite had gone out of her voice.
“I try very hard to keep my Bridd all right,” she said. “I love her very much.”
The words hung there, small and fierce.
Then, as though a door inside her had opened too far and could not be closed quickly enough, more words came after them.
“If she dies before judgment is cast, I’ll be stuck between worlds again.”
It began sharply, all beak and claw, as if she meant to make the confession unpleasant before anyone else could. But something broke in the middle of it. She turned her head away, feathers bristling, trying to hide the shake in her voice by making herself look larger.
“She is home,” Shiloh said, softer now. “My home. We have been together longer than you can imagine. In this life and in others before it.”
She looked toward Y/N.
There was something ancient in the little owl’s face then, something no mortal bird had any right to possess. For a moment, Jin could almost see the shadow of all she had once been and all she had lost: not merely a familiar, not merely a scolding owl with sharp opinions and sharper talons, but a soul stretched thin across judgments, lives, punishments, hopes, and love that refused to die properly.
“She is not allowed to simply…”
Her voice cracked.
“…die.”
Jin looked at her for a long moment. The jesting answer he might once have offered did not come. His expression gentled, and for once, the brightness of him did not irritate her. It warmed the room without asking to be admired.
“She won’t die, Shiloh,” he said. “I promise. This is serious, but it is treatable.”
“It doesn’t feel treatable.” Her wings flicked, restless and agitated. “It feels like the world has gone wrong.”
He lowered his gaze briefly to Y/N and checked her pulse again. “Her breathing is a little steadier.”
Shiloh paced to the edge of the nightstand and back again. Then she stopped, as though a thought had struck her with physical force.
“Bring Yoongi.”
Jin blinked. “Yoongi doesn’t heal anymore.”
“I know that.”
“Then why—”
“Because she loves him more than anyone else.” Shiloh looked toward Y/N, and all her sharpness softened into plain fear. “If he is here, she will rest easier. You and I both know it.”
Jin’s jaw shifted slightly.
It was a very small movement. Most people would have missed it. Shiloh did not.
Jin sighed. “Would you like me to fetch Cordelia while I am at it?”
“If she is near enough, I suppose. Sea magic might help balance the fever.” Shiloh considered this with visible reluctance, then made a sour little noise. “Can’t you get Wendy instead? Cordelia is a great deal at the best of times, and I am in no mood for her mouth.”
“Wendy is in Clarcton,” Jin said. “Her sister’s doing that whole suitor parade, remember? Half the coven went with them. They won’t be back for days.”
“Then just Yoongi.”
Jin exhaled slowly and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You are impossible.”
“Only when I’m right.”
The cottage stood quiet around them. Y/N breathed shallowly on the bed. Sunlight crept farther across the floor, thin and winter-pale, touching the woven rug, the leg of the nightstand, the scattered hem of the blanket. Shiloh, puffed and frightened and holding herself together by will alone, stared at the solar witch she had known since he was a vain golden child with scraped knees and too much confidence.
At last, Jin’s shoulders loosened.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll fetch him.”
“And don’t be rude to him.”
Jin gave her a tired look. “Shiloh.”
“No, I mean it.” Sternness returned to her at once, partly because she had won and partly because fear needed somewhere to go. “This whole business between you two is immature. You ought not let a girl get between you, especially when we both know he has no interest in her.”
Jin busied himself with closing the tin of herbs. “That is hardly the point.”
“It is entirely the point. If there were ever a girl that boy would marry, it would be the one in that bed, and even then I suspect she would have to propose with a sword pressed to his throat.”
“Shiloh.”
“And you truly think he and that pretty blond boy from Syrena were only friends?”
Jin said nothing.
It was not, for once, because he had no answer. It was because he had several, and none of them would improve the morning. So he chose instead to tighten the buckle on his satchel and let Shiloh’s words pass over him like sleet against a window.
If Yoongi had an interest in men, Jin thought, he would have said so himself.
And yet the thought did not settle cleanly.
For years, Jin had been very careful not to look too closely at certain things. That was one of the many talents pride gave a person. Pride could turn a memory aside before it stung. Pride could make loneliness seem dignified. Pride could convince a man that he was injured when he was only embarrassed, abandoned when he had merely walked away first.
The truth was that Jin knew his old jealousy over Wendy’s crush on Yoongi had been foolish. Worse than foolish, perhaps. Small. He had known it even while nursing it. He had let it sit in him like a thorn and had then blamed everyone else for the pain. He had pushed Yoongi away over a girl Yoongi had never wanted and Wendy had long since stopped mooning over.
It was ridiculous.
It was lonely.
Yoongi had been his only true male friend, and Jin had adored him in those quiet, ordinary ways men sometimes do not know how to confess without wrapping the confession in a joke. He missed their lunches. He missed Yoongi’s bluntness, which was sometimes rude and often exactly what Jin needed. He missed sitting across from someone who did not require him to shine every moment of the day.
With Wendy gone, and Y/N always burdened with orders and work, and his own pride proving poor company, the solar cottage had lately felt much larger than it was.
Shiloh was right about one thing.
It was long past time to let it go.
Jin’s mouth twitched despite himself. “I’ll tell him it’s urgent.”
“Tell him…” Shiloh’s voice faltered.
The sternness fell from her all at once, and beneath it was only a frightened soul in feathers.
“Tell him it’s Y/N.”
Jin’s face softened again. “That will be enough.”
He turned back to the bed before leaving. For a moment, he simply looked at Y/N. Not as a healer looks at a patient, nor as a friend looks at someone beloved, but as a person looks at a light he has always expected to be burning and has suddenly realized could go out.
Then he brushed his fingers once more over her forehead.
A faint golden warmth sank beneath her skin. Her breathing steadied, barely, but enough that the room itself seemed to unclench. Shiloh felt it. So did Jin. Even the cottage seemed to settle around her, the old beams creaking softly as if relieved.
Shiloh watched him cross to the door, wings half-open, ready to chase him if he hesitated.
“Hurry,” she whispered.
He gave one nod.
Light gathered around him, warm and bright, humming with intention. It did not burst or flare. It folded itself about him like a cloak woven from morning. For an instant his outline blurred, gold at the edges, as though the sun had decided to take human shape and then thought better of it.
Then the light folded inward.
Jin was gone.
The cottage became terribly quiet.
There is a quiet that comforts and a quiet that watches. This was the second sort. It settled over the room and under the doorways and among the rafters. It lay in the hearth where embers glowed low beneath a skin of ash. It gathered around the little bottles Jin had left on the bedside table. It seemed to listen to every breath Y/N took and count the space before the next.
Outside, the forest continued as though nothing had happened. Snow slid from the pines. A single winter bird called from somewhere beyond the window. Sunlight brightened the frozen meadow by degrees, pale and pitiless. The river muttered under ice. The world, which had no manners at all, went on being beautiful while Shiloh’s own small world lay feverish and still beneath the blankets.
She heard almost none of it.
She hopped from the nightstand to the pillow, careful not to jostle Y/N. Then she bowed her head close enough to feel each fragile breath stir the feathers of her breast.
Y/N did not wake. Her lashes lay dark against her cheeks. The fever still burned in her, though the hard edge of it had softened under Jin’s tonic. Her hand twitched once above the blanket, fingers curling faintly as if reaching through some dream.
Shiloh pressed closer.
“I know you can’t hear me,” she whispered. Then, after a pause, “Or perhaps you can, and you’re only pretending not to so I won’t scold you. That would be very like you.”
The room gave no answer. Shiloh’s eyes stung, which she found deeply inconvenient.
“You’re going to wake up,” she continued. “You’re going to wake up, and you’re going to be insufferable about this. You’ll say you are fine, and I’ll call you a liar, and then you’ll ask for tea.”
Her voice thinned.
“And I’ll make it for you.”
She tucked one foot beneath herself, then the other, settling beside Y/N’s pillow like a sentry carved from feathers and fear. Every now and then, she glanced toward the door, willing Jin to return with Yoongi, willing the forest to deliver him quickly, willing the gods, who were so often maddeningly quiet, to make themselves useful for once.
Y/N breathed in.
Y/N breathed out.
Shiloh lowered her head until her beak nearly touched Y/N’s hair.
“Don’t you dare leave me,” she whispered. “Not like this.”
The hours crawled.
Or perhaps they were not hours at all. Fear keeps its own clock, and every tick of it is cruel. It can stretch a minute until it is long enough to walk across, and then snap an hour short so that one finds oneself startled by the light changing in the window. Shiloh, who knew the ordinary measurements of mornings very well—the first stir of the fire, the second settling of frost, the third call of the winter birds—lost all sense of them now.
She stood vigil on the bedpost with her claws curled around the wood and her feathers dulled to a muted gray-brown, as if worry had taken the shine out of her. The cottage, usually so full of little homely sounds, seemed unnervingly still. There should have been the tick and hum of charms in the cupboards, the soft creak of old beams warming themselves, the whisper of herbs drying in their bundles above the hearth, and perhaps the small, pleasing complaint of the kettle as it settled on its hook. But now there was only the faint pop of the dying fire, the needle-thin ticking of ice at the window, and Y/N’s breathing.
Too shallow.
Too quiet.
Too unlike her.
Jin’s magic lingered in the room, tinting the shadows faintly gold. It lay across the blanket in soft threads and glowed dimly at Y/N’s temples, and any sensible creature would have taken comfort in it. Jin was not careless with healing, whatever else Shiloh might accuse him of being. His magic was warm, clean, and capable. It had steadied Y/N’s breath. It had drawn some of the hard, cruel heat down from her face. It had made the room feel less like a place where death might enter unnoticed.
But Shiloh did not trust quiet.
Quiet had deceived her before.
Twice she fluttered down from the bedpost and pressed the soft edge of one wing against Y/N’s cheek. The first time, she did it with the stern little air of someone inspecting a foolish child who had only scraped her knee.
“You’re fine,” she murmured. “You’ve always been fine.”
That, of course, was not true. Y/N had been ill many times. Y/N had frightened her many times. But there are lies the heart tells not because it believes them, but because it needs to hear a friendly voice in the dark.
The second time Shiloh touched her, Y/N’s skin still burned, and her breath shivered faintly against the owl’s feathers.
“You’re fine,” Shiloh tried again.
Her voice cracked before she reached the end of it.
She hated that. She hated fear most when it made her small. Fear ought to sharpen a creature. It ought to give one claws and teeth and a good loud voice. Instead, it had made a trembling thing of her. A little gray-brown bird on a bedpost, watching the person she loved lie pale and feverish beneath blankets.
She did not know how much time had passed when she finally heard voices outside.
At first she thought she had imagined them. The cottage had been so full of listening that any sound seemed possible, even invented ones. But then there came the muffled crunch of boots in snow, the low murmur of someone speaking in the meadow, and a colder gust of air pressing around the doorframe as shadows moved beyond the frosted window.
Shiloh’s head snapped up.
She flew to the sill and peered through the glass, blinking against the pale winter glare. The snow outside was bright enough now to hurt the eyes, blue in the hollows and gold where the morning had touched it. Figures stood near the path, dark against the white meadow. One of them moved with Jin’s unmistakable grace, which would have been irritating under almost any other circumstance.
The other—
“Finally,” Shiloh breathed, and the word came out half relief, half accusation.
Yoongi stepped inside first.
He looked as though he had been dragged from the far side of a long night and had not yet forgiven morning for existing. His dark hair was tied loosely back, though several strands had escaped and fallen near his face. Shadows sat beneath his eyes. A faint roughness clung to him, not untidiness exactly, but the mark of someone who had been awake too long over work that would not hurry itself for anyone. His cloak was dusted with snow at the shoulders, and one of his sleeves had been rolled and forgotten, exposing the pale line of his wrist.
But his presence changed the room at once.
It did not brighten it as Jin’s did. It did not fill the corners with warmth, or set the glass jars glowing, or make the shadows look as though they were considering repentance.
It grounded it.
The cottage seemed to settle more firmly upon its foundations simply because Yoongi had entered. The air grew quieter, but no longer in the dreadful way. It was the quiet of a stone placed at the bottom of a rushing stream. Solid. Certain. Unmoved.
He was not alone.
Behind him came Cordelia, wrapped in a heavy cloak over seafoam-colored robes that moved softly around her legs as she walked. Her long silvered hair fell over her shoulders like water under moonlight, and a faint scent of salt, rain, and crushed shells seemed to enter with her. Her presence carried the calm of deep tides: not weak, not slow, not sleepy, but steady with an old power that did not need to announce itself. There was something in her that made one think of cliffs enduring storms, of moonlit bays, of the great sleeping creatures that move far below the surface of the sea.
“Cori,” Shiloh said, startled despite herself. “You came too?”
“I was with him already,” Cordelia said.
Her voice had the rhythm of the coast in it, gentle and sure, with the faint lilt of waves drawing back over stones. She removed her gloves as she crossed the room, her eyes already moving to Y/N. “He was bartering for kelpwort and sea-mist powder when Jin arrived. I thought it wise to come along.”
“Bartering,” Shiloh repeated, aghast. “Now?”
Yoongi set his satchel on the table and began pulling out vials with the unhurried exactness of a man who had no intention of being rushed by panic, owls, or fever. “We started last night. Time slipped.”
The owl clicked her beak sharply. “While Y/N was dying?”
“She’s not dying,” Jin called from the doorway, brushing snow from his sleeve. “I told you that ten times.”
“Tell me again,” Shiloh said.
It came out quieter than she meant it to.
“Please.”
Jin’s expression changed at the word. It was not often that Shiloh gave anyone a please. She handed out insults like crumbs to sparrows, criticism like festival sweets, and commands as if she had been born wearing a crown. But please was rare from her. Please meant something had gone past pride and into the soft, unguarded country beneath it.
Jin shut the door behind them, crossed the room, and answered without even the shadow of teasing.
“She’s not dying.”
The words did not fix everything. Words seldom do. But they placed a stone beneath Shiloh’s feet, and for a moment she could stand.
Yoongi crossed to the bed. Cordelia followed, her sea-glass eyes softening when she saw Y/N beneath the blankets.
“Oh,” Cordelia murmured.
It was a small sound, and a sad one.
“She looks so much like her aunt.”
She rested a gentle hand on Y/N’s shoulder, not to examine her yet, but to greet her, as if some sleeping part of Y/N might know who had come.
Yoongi crouched beside the bed. He did not touch Y/N at first. His fingers hovered above her temple, still as winter branches, while his eyes narrowed in concentration. For a few breaths he listened, not only with his ears, but with whatever quiet sense kitchen witches have for the hidden workings of a body: heat, pulse, breath, hunger, salt, weakness, the little inward fires that keep flesh from surrendering.
Then he placed two fingers at the pulse below her jaw, waited, and exhaled.
“Strong,” he said.
Shiloh leaned forward so quickly she nearly lost her grip on the bedpost. “Strong?”
“Her pulse.” Yoongi’s voice was low, even, and plain. “Skin’s hot, but not dangerously so.”
He pressed his palm lightly against Y/N’s chest and closed his eyes.
For a moment nothing happened. Then the air stirred.
A ripple of cool silvery energy moved through the room, thin and bright as moonlight caught in water. It did not gleam like Jin’s magic. It did not warm. It soothed. It spread through the blankets, over Y/N’s shoulders, along the line of her throat, and down into the places where her breathing had hitched and struggled. The fever did not vanish, but it seemed to lose its teeth. Y/N drew in a breath, then another, and the second came more easily than the first.
It was a small change.
It was unmistakable.
“Well?” Shiloh asked. “What is it?”
Yoongi opened his eyes.
“What Jin said. Fever. Exhaustion. Cold exposure from flying through bad weather all night.” His gaze moved briefly to the scattered feathers still near the doorway, then back to Y/N. “The shift probably made it worse.”
Shiloh lowered her head.
“So I was right to worry.”
Yoongi looked at her then, really looked, and his voice gentled.
“Yes. You were right.”
Jin leaned lightly against the doorway. “No one said you weren’t.”
She ignored them all after that and brushed a damp strand of hair from Y/N’s forehead. Her touch was light, but not timid. Cordelia had the hands of someone who had tended many fevers, bound many wounds, and carried many secrets without dropping them.
“Aldara was just the same,” she said.
Memory softened her voice, and the name settled into the room like a familiar ghost finding an old chair. “Before she took on the Bridd mantle, she and I would swim in the shallows whenever the weather allowed. If she didn’t dry her hair properly afterward, she would be feverish before nightfall. I scolded her constantly.”
Shiloh let out a small, unsteady breath.
“That sounds like her.”
“She always said, ‘The sea wants to keep me longer.’” Cordelia smiled, but there was ache in it. “Stubborn as stone. Fierce as anything I had ever known. And very sure that consequences were meant for other people.”
“That also sounds like her,” Jin said.
“It sounds like all of them,” Yoongi murmured, checking Y/N’s pulse again. “Same constitution, then. Magic close to the bone. It burns hot and fast, and afterward the body pays for it. Mist, cold, exhaustion, a difficult shift—any of it could have pushed her into fever. All of it together certainly would.”
“And Y/N’s immune system is worse,” Jin added. “So we treat it seriously.”
Shiloh glanced toward him.
There was gratitude in the look, though she would sooner have swallowed a pinecone than named it aloud.
“She was restless,” Shiloh whispered. “She said she felt strange. I should have stopped her.”
Yoongi’s eyes flicked to the owl. “How?”
Shiloh said nothing.
“Truly,” he said. “How would you have stopped her?”
“I could have—”
“Scolded her?”
“That is often effective.”
“With Y/N?”
Shiloh’s feathers sank.
Yoongi’s voice gentled further. “Even if you had tried, she wouldn’t have listened.”
It was the truth, and therefore more terrible than comfort.
Cordelia tucked the blankets more securely around Y/N. She did it with an ease that turned the act into a kind of spell: blanket to shoulder, edge beneath chin, warmth held in, cold kept out. She laid one hand briefly over Y/N’s sternum and another near her brow. A faint misty glow gathered between her palms, sea-pale and quiet, and the fever in Y/N’s face softened another degree.
“She’ll recover,” Cordelia said. “Give her two days of steady warmth and proper rest. No work, no flying, no shifting unless absolutely necessary. I’ll leave a tonic to break the fever by morning.”
“You’re sure?” Shiloh asked.
Cordelia looked at her with a patient smile. “She is Aldara’s blood. Her stubbornness is thicker than iron and twice as enduring. She’ll be all right.”
Jin snorted softly. “Truest thing said all morning.”
Shiloh fluffed herself into a tired little ball. “You’re all calmer than I am.”
“Because panicking won’t help her,” Yoongi said.
His tone was even, unhurried, and infuriatingly solid. He wiped his hands on a cloth, then began arranging his vials on the bedside table in an order that made sense to him and probably no one else. “Rest will. Warmth will. Medicine will. Someone watching her breathing will. She’ll wake when her body is ready.”
Shiloh knew that tone.
It ended arguments. Not by force. Yoongi almost never needed force. It ended them by being immovable in a way that made arguing feel like throwing pebbles at fog.
Still, she flew to the headboard and looked down at Y/N’s pale face.
“You’re certain?” she whispered again.
Yoongi met her gaze.
“Yes. I’m certain.”
“Then stay,” she blurted. “Until she wakes.”
Yoongi stilled.
“Please,” Shiloh added.
That word hung strangely between them.
Jin looked away, politely enough. Cordelia lowered her eyes to the tonic she was preparing, though the corner of her mouth softened. Yoongi remained crouched beside the bed, his hand resting lightly on the edge of the blanket.
Shiloh used many words freely: fool, idiot, menace, sunflower, vain peacock, walking chandelier. Please was not one of them.
Yoongi hesitated.
His eyes flicked toward Cordelia.
“She’ll rest easier with you here,” Cordelia said. “You’ve always been her closest friend. And frankly, you have become more of a hermit than Thelma this past year.”
Jin lifted his brows. “More than Thelma? That’s a grave diagnosis.”
Yoongi ignored him and looked back at Y/N.
She lay still and fever-warmed, breathing in small, fragile pulls of air. One hand had slipped from beneath the blanket, palm half-open as though she had been reaching for something in sleep and forgotten what it was. Yoongi’s gaze rested on that hand for a moment longer than it needed to.
Something passed over his face, quiet and unreadable, like the moment before a tide turns.
“All right,” he said.
Shiloh’s shoulders sank with relief.
Jin leaned one shoulder against the doorway and rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ll send word to Wendy, though she’s still trapped in Clarcton.”
Cordelia’s mouth twitched. “I received a letter yesterday. Nessa has apparently terrified three suitors already and turned a fourth into a tree.”
Jin groaned. “That sounds about right.”
“A shrub, technically,” Cordelia added. “But a very unhappy one.”
“That family should not be allowed near courtship rituals.”
“She is growing fond of a human boy, though,” Cordelia said. “Says he finds her ditsy.”
Yoongi pulled a chair to Y/N’s bedside and sat down. The chair gave a small wooden complaint beneath him.
“Ditsy is certainly one word for it.”
He tried not to think too long about Nessa.
The ache that accompanied her name nudged at him, quiet and unwelcome. It was not a sharp pain. Those were easier, in some ways. Sharp pain announced itself honestly. This was the duller sort, the kind that had lived too long inside him to be a wound and not long enough to become memory.
Only Y/N knew the whole of it.
Only Y/N knew about the old relationship, the years hidden beneath ordinary conversation, the glances swallowed before others could see them, the meetings made to look accidental, the care taken with letters, names, and silences. Only Y/N knew how some love did not end so much as sink below the surface, where no one else could see it but where it still moved with the tide.
Ten years was a long time to keep a secret.
But he and Nessa had both feared the same thing: that truth, once spoken, would wound Wendy. Wendy, who had loved easily and brightly when they were young. Wendy, who had once looked at Yoongi as though he were a locked door she might someday find the key to. Wendy, who deserved tenderness even in disappointment.
So the secret had remained buried.
Silent as silt at the bottom of the sea.
Now Y/N lay before him, feverish and still, the keeper of that secret and so many others. She had carried it without judgment, as she carried most things: not lightly, exactly, but faithfully. She had never pressed him to speak before he was ready. She had never made his fear seem cowardly. She had only sat beside him on certain evenings, when the cottage windows were dark and the kettle had gone quiet, and let silence be a place where he could breathe.
Yoongi’s hand tightened once on the arm of the chair.
Then he let it loosen.
The cottage settled into a softer quiet.
It was no longer the dreadful silence of a house waiting for bad news. It was the quieter peace that comes after worry has done all the useful things it can and must now sit down by the bed. Cordelia hummed under her breath as she stirred herbs into Y/N’s water, a tune that sounded older than words and smelled faintly, somehow, of salt and rain. Jin stood in the doorway with his arms folded and his head bowed, sunlight still faint along his fingers. For once he did not try to fill the room with speech. His silence was awkward at first, then kind.
Shiloh finally tucked her head beneath one wing, though she did not sleep. Her vigil merely changed shape. It became stillness instead of motion, listening instead of pacing, a small feathered trust placed unwillingly in the hands of others.
Yoongi remained beside the bed.
Every so often he checked Y/N’s pulse. Once he adjusted the blanket. Once he lifted the cup Cordelia had prepared and coaxed a little water past Y/N’s lips when she stirred enough to swallow. He spoke to her each time, low and steady, not with the grand soothing phrases people use when they are frightened by their own helplessness, but as though she were merely very tired and would be annoyed later if everyone made too much of it.
“That’s it,” he murmured once. “Just a little.”
Y/N’s brow tightened faintly.
“I know,” he said. “You can be angry with me when you wake up.”
Shiloh opened one eye from beneath her wing. “She will be.”
“I’m counting on it.”
Cordelia’s mouth curved.
Jin glanced at Yoongi then, and something small and old passed between them. Not forgiveness. Not yet. Forgiveness, when it is real, does not usually come prancing in with trumpets and garlands. It arrives more like a thaw: first one drop from an icicle, then another, then the surprising sound of running water where everything had been frozen the day before.
But it was a beginning.
Outside, the forest brightened with the slow, pale unfolding of a winter morning. Sunlight slid between the snow-heavy evergreens in cold ribbons, catching on frost and ice until the world shone white and gold. The mist lifted by degrees, revealing buried paths, dark trunks, and the long stillness of a forest not yet ready for spring. Somewhere high in the pines, a bird called once and then thought better of it. The river muttered under its ice. Snow fell in soft clumps from burdened branches, leaving little puffs of white powder in the air.
Winter still held Bangtan in both hands.
But inside the cottage, winter had been pushed back from the bed.
There was warmth at the hearth. There was medicine on the table. There were herbs steeping, blankets tucked, hands ready, and three kinds of magic keeping quiet watch around a sleeping girl whose body had been asked to carry too much.
Y/N slept on.
Her fever eased by degrees.
Her breath steadied.
And though the cold pressed its pale hands against the windows and peered in with all the patience of February, it could not come any farther.
🤍Alpha!Jungkook x Omega!f.Reader
🤍A/B/O, Established Relationship/Mates | angst, smut, fluff
🤍WC: 14,064
🤍Rating: MA
🤍Summary: Jungkook is terrible at feelings. He’s possessive, reckless, and most definitely an Alphahole; you were once his sworn enemy for a reason. But, after he claimed you as his mate during your designation celebration, how do you even begin to navigate the dark waters of such a precarious relationship? Especially when there is darkness creeping over the horizon, threatening to blanket your world in permanent shadow.
⚠️ Vulgar language, semi-hate sex, fingering, knotting, creampie, discussion of violent acts, drinking, fighting/physical altercation, alpha challenge, knife violence/attack, blood, injury, bond sex, dick licking/oral, slick eating, biting/marking, blood/wound licking, surprise pregnancy
Each chapter will have specific warnings listed.
Read Make You Mine, the first installment of the series, here!
Chapter 1. Distance Makes The Heart Grow Fonder
Chapter 2. Feel It In Your Soul
This story is complete.
A/N: This story is part of the "New Year, New Me Love" @bangtanwritershq gift exchange, written for the wonderful @hisunshiine!
And as always, a special thank you to @moonleeai and @downbad4yoongi for being A+ betas!
Ω — pairing: Jungkook x reader
Ω — genre: aboverse!au, smut, dom!jk x sub!reader, alpha!jungkook, female reader, fluff, spy!reader, CEO! Jungkook
Ω — words: 1.9k
Ω — rating: +18 M
Ω — warnings: some blood, emotional manipulation within a nightmare context, grief, nightmares
Ω — notes: I am sooo behind the schedule. I fear I just ended up listening to arirang at least thrice a day... Whose country is not on the list for the tour, and who doesn't even have money even if it was?....... yeh life goes on
You Jung siblings have been working as spies for as long as you could remember. All was going well, until on your 100th mission, you accidentally encounter the path of the strongest alpha you ever met, Jeon Jungkook.
I was prepared for a scolding, hitting even... everything but this. I'd much rather have a pissed off Suga than this too calm one. If there was something I knew about him, it was the fact that he rarely got mad.
And this right here?
An Alpha.
The only Alpha I've ever placed in high respect.
Even with my eyes glued to the floor, I could feel his eyes burning through my skull, as if dissecting my every being and soul.
For as long as I can remember, Suga has been there for the two of us—especially me since I joined a bit later than my brother. He didn't talk much, but he was caring and attentive even to little details. And even when he manifested as an Alpha, my view of him didn't change. Quite the opposite, I liked knowing he was different from all those typical self-centered Alphas. The only time I've ever seen him angry and act like a real Alpha was the day I nearly died on that mission and met Jin.
The moment I appeared with all those bandages and blood on my clothes, I saw the way his posture tensed. If not for Hobi and I who stopped him, he'd have ravaged the entire basement (he nearly killed Jin, thinking he was the one who had put me in that state—and the latter who got scared of him, made sure to never be in his bad side ever since). All in all, I felt warm at his kindness. He was like a second family to me.
But now said family is standing in front of me, arms crossed and expression unreadable, making shivers go up my spine.
I'd rather have him get all full Alpha mode and destroy something. Anything.
"--you dragged an innocent in a mission that you decided yourself to take part in, infiltrated the Jeons and almost got your cover exposed." The sigh that left his lips told more than his words.
"My cover didn't get exposed... Nobody knew us..." My lips formed a small pout when I dared to look up—just to see Suga unimpressed (and probably disappointed at me).
After a long silence, he took a seat on the sofa next to me. "What's happening, SJ? This is not like you..."
I blinked in confusion, eyebrows furrowing. But then no sound escaped my mouth when I opened it. Looking at his eyes, I found them already staring at me, a worried frown marring his face. I immediately looked away, feeling his stare somewhat... intimidating.
"I know you, and I know you want to prove yourself." He said, making me swallow. "But this never happened. You never take up on getting revenge, especially V since you've been bickering for, well, forever."
That much was right, I couldn't deny. I've never taken V's antics this far.
But I couldn't just stay still. I know it was against spies' code, and if not for Suga for covering me, I'd be punished again—this time, not a light punishment. My body and mind just synched and formed an alliance.
"Don't tell me your body and mind formed an alliance." He deadpanned, making me whip my head toward him in shock. A small smile formed on his lips upon seeing my reaction. "Your face says it all."
Before I could say anything—although I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be able to utter any word—the door opened and in entered two pairs of familiar eyes. One avoiding my burning eyes, while the other enthusiastically waving his hand.
"Helloooo!" Jin grinned, approaching us but Hobi just crossed his arms, standing near the door. A slight pang of guilt formed in my chest. He's not saying anything, and he refuses to look me in the eyes. That must mean he's either angry at me or blaming me.
At least him being here means he's picking me up to go home. With a half smile thrown at Yoongi, I stood up to leave, passing by an half-confused half-offended Jin at being ignored.
The ride home was silent. Uncomfortable and heavy. It didn't help that there was no background music to help alleviate the atmosphere. And by the time the car was parked in the garage and I slipped off my shoes at the entrance, Hobi was already up the stairs. Seconds after the deafening silence, the sound of a door closing echoes in the house.
Sighing in defeat, I went upstairs to shower and changed into my pajamas. Before going into my bed, my steps led me to my brother's bedroom as if it was automatic. Knocking on the door softly, I waited with bated breath for a sound. But nothing came.
Swallowing thickly, I finally spoke. "Hoba... Are you asleep?" Silence. "I—I just... Good night..." My words were barely a whisper. Whether he heard me or not, I knew I deserved this cold treatment.
Going back to my room, I closed the lights and went into my warm covers, closing my eyes and willing my heart to not break.
That was the first time he didn't kiss me goodnight.
"Sweety, go wake up your brother."
My hands trembled, breath labored and I was sure even my eyes were betraying. However, no matter how many times I pinched myself, the scene was the same.
Soft eyes greeted me, a small smile on her face as she took my hand. I flinched.
Even her hand was warm.
"...Mom..." I couldn't blink my eyes, afraid this dream or whatever it was would vanish once I did. Only when she touched my cheeks to wipe them did I realize I was crying.
"Are... Are you real?" My hands automatically gripped hers, but she frowned.
"Did you have a bad dream again?" She sighed, making me sit on the chair. "Hobi should really stop making you watch those horror movies at night."
"What are you talking about? She's the one who wanted to watch them!"
My head whipped to the side so fast I heard a crack, but that was the least of my concern. Because walking down the stairs was Hobi, the pain in my chest dulled at the sight of his pout. He skipped the last pair of stairs to jump, then ran to ruffle my hair in greeting before sitting up next to me.
Hobi reached a hand toward the content on the table, but was harshly tapped by a hand. "Ow."
"What did I say about manners?" Mom squinted her eyes at him, making Hobi squeak a 'sorry'.
"Are those strawberry jam bread and syrup?"
This time I blinked in bewilderement, not believing when my Father reached our table to grab the bread, and then being tapped by our mom.
"Ouch." Dad retracted his hand immediately massaging it.
"Like father like son, huh." Mom huffed with a smile, while Hobi and dad giggled.
The scene looked so domestic, so... natural. In the back of my mind, I knew it was a dream, but I pushed the thought away. What if it's not a dream? What if whatever life I had never existed and this one really was my current life? What if none of them died but it was just my imagination—
"Sweety?" Mom's voice pulled me out of my trance, my eyes flicking upward to see them all wearing all kinds of worried expression on their faces.
"Are you sure you're fine?" Mom asked again when I didn't say anything. I exhaled shakily.
I would never want to wake up from this dream.
"I'm... fine." A small smile slowly lifted from my lips. "More than fine."
All of them smiled, but then when I looked down at the table, there was nothing. Blinking hard, I was sure breakfast was—
"Are you happy?"
That voice gave me chills. I snapped my eyes up in horror as I saw my mother looking at me with disdain. In place of her usual lovely smile, her face was devoid of any emotion but anger. I stood up stumbling, her eyes glaring daggers at me, her face marred with red. Blood. All her face was painted red blood, soaking the collar of her flowery dress, leaking on the table and the floor. My voice got stuck in my throat, breath unevening. Everything becomes blurry.
"Are you happy?" She repeated coldly, approaching my trembling figure. "You killed us, and you are happy?"
"I—I... No... I didn't..." It feels like there is not enough air and I'm suffocating, my lungs burning from not having enough air to breathe. This is not happening. It's not my fault.
"It is your fault." Looking up, dread filled my entire body when I saw my father looking at me in disdain, also covered in blood. "Look at us. Look at what you did to us."
I wanted to scream, anything. But it felt like I couldn't find my voice, it felt like the space was getting narrower by the second. Before I knew it, they both stood in front of me while I looked at them from the bottom. Were they always this tall and intimidating? Were this room always this dark? What were we doing earlier? Where am I?
"Look at your brother. He doesn't love you anymore."
Hobi was looking at my small figure, a few feet away. I reached out my hand to him, but his body felt impossibly far. He turned and walked away. Hobi... Is it my fault? It's my fault...
Cold hands grabbed my arms from both sides. My eyes didn't leave the place where Hobi disappeared. I didn't even realize I was getting held in the arms by someone. I could feel the liquid soaking my head, dripping down my chin to my chest. My body felt numb, the kind of numb that you get used to when you shut down any emotion.
"You will come with mom and dad, right sweetie? You brother will be so happy without you." My mom purred in my ear, cradling my head while I shut my eyes.
I'm so tired.
I just want to rest.
"You want to rest? Don't worry, we are here now. We will never leave your side anymore..." My dad's voice trailed, getting smaller and smaller until I heard and felt nothing anymore.
Everything is dark. And cold. It doesn't feel good, but it feels right
Can I really rest? I'm so tired.
I just want to disappear.
Maybe they're right. Maybe if I didn't exist, everyone will be happy.
I know it's my fault.
I shouldn't have existed—
Cold water suddenly got splashed on me, and I gasped. Opening my eyes and sitting up to cough the water, I looked around in panic, my heart beating erratically fast. Shampoo. Soap. Bath bomb... Slowly but surely, my breathing evened. I realized I was in the bathroom.
Taking deep breathes to attempt to soothe the stuffiness, I clutched my chest and choked out a sob. For a moment, I couldn't think properly, my head dizzy even after minutes—which felt like hours. My head and heart hurt it felt like needles piercing inside me. I didn't think the act of breathing would be such a difficult task for me. I never once felt it would be this challenging one day—until now.
Inhaling deep once more, my heart rate finally slowed to its normal rhythm, albeit it took me a while to slow down.
Only the droplets of the water could be heard—in my surprise, my body jumped in the bathtub and water was splashed everywhere. Exhaling slowly, I closed my eyes and swallowed the last sob that threatened to come out. Then, I slowly rose up to open the cabinet to rummage inside. Covering myself was the last of my problem.
My eyes fell on the white bottle on the far bottom, tucked as if hidden from anyone, but easily found. Grabbing it to open the lid, I stared at the three white pills. Not wasting time, I swallowed one and exhaled a sigh of relief.
I've been using these medicines all my life, for as long as I could remember.
"It's bitter, right? But it alleviates the pain. You will feel better."
I used to think mom was right, but now I don't know anymore.
Because even though I'm not in pain anymore... I feel numb.
Jungkook can feel the excitement in the air. The pack is bustling with activity.
Jin and Hobi have been out shopping on multiple little trips every day busy buying things for you. They think they're hiding it well but their constant giggling and taking approval from either Yoongi or Taehyung cannot possibly go unnoticed, even though Junkook among all of them is the best at being oblivious.
Last night he overheard Yoongi and Joon discuss or rather argue..it wasn't an actual fight but they both did get worked up enough that Hobi had to intervene. The two of them were quite passionate about converting one of the store rooms into your room and possibly redo the basement to optimise storage. Even Taehyung who Jungkook didn't think was very interested in having you as part of the pack had already informed his family about you. Jungkook had been gaming with Taehyung when his family pack called. And Taehyung had quite happily chirped about Junkook's mate.
It made Jungkook think about you.. which frankly he had been avoiding. He had said yes to the pack but at the same time he was nervous about how things would actually go. He knew the pack would be disappointed if you said no and he didn't think he could handle that in addition to loosing you. Nobody knew the fact that he had watched you from the first day you entered. Your bright smiles were infectious. You were a reserved person and he was shy and to be honest it wasn't the best combination.
Many a times when you sat in Yoongi's studio doing your work Jungkook stood and watched from the slight opening of the door. He had come out to eat icecream and he picked up the tub decided to go visit yoongi and there you were. Its like you belonged with the pack already. He only moved when you started packing your books to leave. Rushing to hide in his room. Heart pounding. It must have been from the running because surely it couldn't be you. His icecream melted but he felt like he had bigger concerns. But he wasn't sad for long because Jin had made him a milkshake out of the melted icecream
Another thing to note was that Jungkook loves your scent. It's addicting, it's like having his favourite candy times hundred for the first time. If he could turn your scent into perfume he would and he would also spray it everywhere so he can always smell it.
Jungkook was more proactive in the action department of his brain than the thinking. He had always his hyungs to do the thinking for him. It wasn't like he couldn't but he liked living not having to do the heavy lifting and being cared for,he would move mountains for them in return if that's what made them happy. And he was always going to have the pack and now maybe possibly even you.
How did he even get so lucky.. he had told this to Yoongi who'd gently replied. Whatever he did he must have been good.
And you're pretty. In all the ways he likes. If Jungkook wasn't busy being jealous of you when you were first introduced to him he would have followed you to the ends of the earth just to get a glimpse of you. He'd often watch the windows of your room sleeping only after you turned off the lights. Some times he wanted to scold you for staying up late. Or for being careless as a lone omega. He knew he'd get an earful if he ever confessed such thoughts to anyone but he couldn't help but worry. He wanted to be the one who protects you. Except he'd only caused you hurt. Maybe he wasn't good enough to be your mate maybe that's why the bond was one way instead of two. He must have been oblivious to not realise how much he cared for you.
Jungkook has always been a hopeless romantic. He knows it. Every one knows it. He remembers the one time that play fighting with Jin had gone too far and Jin had to leave for an offsite buisness trip and when Jin opened the trunk to get his luggage, he found Jungkook eating his emergency jellies... which made Jin both endeared and even more mad. Jungkook had followed Jin to his hotel and even had the audacity to order mint chocolate icecream.
Jin was extremely irritated having to deal with Jungkook but also secretly happy Jungkook had followed him even though Jin wouldn't be caught admitting it. He even made Hoseok lecture Jungkook later.
But being around you is so confusing for Jungkook. He wants to protect you but also hide from you. He wants to listen to you but also talking to you is so intimidating. He wants to hide you from the world but also show you off to everyone. He wants to never say the words out loud and scream from the rooftops. That yes yes he's in love with you.
Thats not the only thing on Jungkook's mind though.
As he eats instant noodles with Jimin, a random movie playing in the background. He can't help but be a little concerned.
The only one not into the recent change is Jimin and Jungkook thinks he might have something to do with it.
The truth is Jimin felt a little betrayed by Jungkook's change of stance. Jimin liked you, he did. He loved hanging out with you and the omega sleepovers and laughing silly with you ,but you were the newest friend he had made in a while and things would change once you were pack. And there wasn't any guarantee it'd change for the better.
He also felt a little threatened by you, he was used to being Jungkook's omega and the packs omega uncontested because Taehyung always folded even when Jimin knew he was being unreasonable or doing something just because he could and not to mention how it would inevitably change the pack dynamics. Namjoon and Yoongi had taken a great learning curve to respect each other, but because of you, they were already arguing again. While Jimin wouldn't say it our loud, he was grateful Yoongi was a beta because otherwise, it would have been a total disaster.
Also the pack was already accommodating you. When Jimin had introduced Jungkook there was a lot of adjustments and maybe its unfair on you for Jimin to compare but it's the truth. Jimin was furious when he glanced upon Hobi's idea notebook where he was already considering doing videos with you.
Everything felt too sudden. And thats not to mention having the responsibility of looking after the wellbeing of another omega. Jimin wasn't sure he could do it.
The pack sat together for dinner. Since Jungkook was going to be away from home Seokjin and Yoongi had gone the extra mile to make Junkook's favourite dishes. The mood across the table was cheery.
They all ate happily talking over each other. Jin was showing off by flexing his arm muscles because he had recently started going to the gym again. Tae too flexed his muscles. Hobi laughed. Jimin couldn't help but smile fondly at his pack.
"Jungkook. Do well." Yoongi said quietly as they were picking up dishes.
Before Jungkook could reply. Jimin spoke. "Its not necessary that Y/n will agree."
Yoongi was a little shocked by the bite present in Jimin's words.
"What do you mean?"
Shrugging he said." I mean she's a solo omega who hasn't lived in a pack for most of her life. It's hard to live with us. Besides she may just not want to. I think you guys are building it up too much. I mean she didn't even say anything about the gifts we gave her before so who knows maybe she was playing us. I mean you guys saw her with another alpha."
Yoongi felt angry. "Are you hearing yourself right now?"
"Ofcourse I'm just being realistic." Jimin replied defensively.
Yoongi lost his temper. "That's rich coming from you."
"What do you mean?" Jimin said even though he knew exactly what Yoongi was implying. He had introduced Jungkook to the pack when Jungkook was still a minor.
"What's going on?" Taehyung asked coming from the kitchen soap suds in his hand. "You guys smell angry."
Yoongi scoffs. "Nothing." Yoongi walks away leaving a Jimin who is both hurt and angry.
Finally the day of the trip arrives. Jungkook can feel the pressure.
Namjoon spots the tremble in Jungkook's hand. So he waits for everyone to say their goodbyes. Then he hugs Jungkook.
"Have fun. OK? And no matter what happens I won't be Dissappointed in you. You're still pack. Our Baby alpha."
And Jungkook feels himself relax. It's exactly what he needed to hear.
"Our kid is going camping alone. Jungkookie is all grown up. Come on everyone it's picture time " Hobi says ushering everyone close to take a picture.
"1 2 3, Say cheese" Hobi clicks the picture. The Polaroid film comes out blank and slowly but surely the colors start filling in.
"Why's his bag so heavy? It's like you're carrying rocks." Taehyung comments.
And his bag was quite a sight. An army style bag and luggage with extra sleeping bag containing snacks and a safety kit and a Swiss knife.
"Ok ok. He'll be late." Jin says ushering them along.
They all say goodbye and leave for work.
Jungkook takes a deep breath and picks his luggage. Here goes nothing. .
The first order of buisness is that Jungkook is responsible for taking attendance. He can't help but notice your cheery mood. It puts him in a good mood too.
Soon it's time to board the bus. He directs the students along with the other volunteers to keep their bags in the bus. He's about to help you when Yeonjun that brat keeps your luggage.
"Your luggage is cute like you" the alpha says.
You giggle.
And Jungkook decides he hates this Yeonjun character. His hate only intensifies. When you sit next to each other. He breaks the pencil he was holding when he sees you share earphones.
He wants to stop you but he remembers he has no right to. He spends the rest of the ride plotting Yeonjun's demise.
He watches you fall asleep. Its early morning so it's only natural a lot of people are sleeping. The bus makes a stop he watches Yeonjun and others who are awake go to the bus stop. He covers you up with the shawl so you don't catch a cold. Then he goes back to his seat satisfied.
The bus resumes its journey. Finally the destination arrives. People start to get up. You look groggy and half asleep. So adorable.
"I'll take out our bags" Yeonjun tells you. You nod in response hugging the shawl closely. It smells nice. You stretch and stand up. Jungkook comes closer to you the apology ready on his lips but instead he changes his mind the last minute.
"Y/n.. I... the shawl please."
"Oh yeah sure." You're a little disappointed. Aren't you supposed to be mates. Isn't this supposed to be easy. You wait for him to say something else. Anything. But before he can say something one of the other volunteers asks Jungkook to hurry. And so once again he leaves you hanging.
You are alloted rooms luckily you and Sooyeon are sharing the room. You both quickly change into your hiking outfit.
You start at the base of the mountain excited but it isn't soon that you're already regretting it. The surroundings forest makes the air humid. And soon you're sweating. As the path goes on, it becomes more steep. Jungkook stays near you and though you loathe to admit it. It does make you feel more safe.
Despite grumbling the entire journey. The top view is spectacular. Though the weather is windy. You take pictures. You even have a group picture taken.
And then it's going down, which, though easier than climbing is still fueling your exhaustion. By the end your legs feel like jelly.
Soon it's time for dinner after eating and taking a shower you pass out on your bed.
The next morning after breakfast, your bus takes you to the camping site. The scenery is nice. A clearing at the base of the mountain surrounded by forests.
On reaching camps you are handed tents. Your first task is building tents. You start to read the information booklet with Suyeon.
"Don't worry Y/n. I'll help you out. I used to go camping with my dad. I've helped make tents."
You smile at her grateful, but before you can say more. A loud clap attracts your attention.
It's Jungkook.
"Gather round. I'll make one tent to show you how it's done. Play close attention."
He then picks up your tent and starts setting it up carefully going over the steps. And you wanna roll your eyes at his audacity but you're also secretly impressed.
Suyeon nudges you, a mischievous smile on her lips.
"Shut it." You say warning evident in your tone.
She only giggles thoroughly, enjoying the turn of events.
Jungkook knows he's probably trying to hard. But at this point it's all or nothing. It's best to finish this before he looses his nerve. Except all his plans seem to be backfiring. Anytime he tries to offer help. Show he can provide as an alpha. Its end up in a way where you offer to help others and do more work.
He then instructed people to chop wood for the barbecue. Assigning yeonjun to it. To you he put on the food preparation duty. So that you both wouldn't stick to each other. His satisfaction lasted only a little while.
After a while, every time Yeonjun transported the wood, he'd drop by the kitchen area. And you'd feed him a little something after he cutely whined for it. Even helping him drink water!!! Jungkook had to busy him in the actual grilling. Pretending to teach him to barbecue so that the two of you would stay separated.
You sat huddled together as a group when Yeonjun produced smores like he was smuggling alcohol.
As if that wasn't enough. Yeonjun fed you the fresh grilled pieces of the barbecue. And Jungkook was forced to handover the smores he bought for himself to Yeonjun because he wanted you to eat them. And he had to smile and pretend to be magnanimous to Yeonjun who thought Jungkook was favouring him.
Ha! As if he would favor his mortal enemy.
He just couldn't risk making you more angry then you were and have Jin hyung scold him that's it. And Yeonjun was a nice kid. But he wouldn't be caught dead admitting it.
"Wow where did you get these" Suyeon asked him taking a bite.
"Jungkook sunbaenim gave them to me. I think he likes me." Yeonjun replied confidently.
Suyeon choked back laughter. You handed her water with a pointed look.
"Ofcourse such a nice senior." Suyeon agrees patting your back.
And one might call him biased against Yeonjun. But whenever he tries to give him jobs you end up volunteering to help him out. Like he made Yeonjun do the dishes. And he had been away for a moment only to come back and find you sitting next to Yeonjun scrubbing away. And playing with the bubbles. He stromed away in barely concealed rage which stemmed out of jealousy and ended up scrubbing the rest of the pots. Which Yeonjun saw and felt even more respect for his senior.
Suyeon took a video of the incident and emailed it to you. Fulfilling her duty as your bestfriend. (Much later it would make rounds on the the boys phones.. Taehyung even gotted a screenshot of jungkooks face printed on a shirt for Christmas)
Still Jungkook left a hand cream on your bed for you. And just like that the second day ended with Jungkook grumbling to himself as he finished checking up on everything that needed to be done for the night. Complaining to the cactus pen he'd borrowed from Namjoon.
Authur's note: happy namkook month every one. I hope you're doing well. I finally finished this. I finally got to writing after watching Run Jin. Him coming back has like healed me. So I thought it would be nice to post this. Anyway please let me know your thoughts as always. I love hearing them. And remember to like and repost.
Synopsis: in a world where alphas, betas, and omegas live along side modern humans as second class citizens, you've fallen through the cracks of a society that wants to take everything wonderful from you. Luckily a timely encounter with the boys just might save your life.
Chapter summary: getting closer with the pack means you'll have to learn to live with Kim Namjoon.
After both your heats, you and Hoseok were nearly inseparable. When you were home, you followed him around like a little puppy, and he absolutely adored it. He appreciated how well you had taken care of his home and everyone in it while he was off his feet. When he told you as much, you assured him that it was your pleasure, and you would gladly do any chores he needed from you.
But your housework wasn't the only thing Hoseok had come to love.
You had become his new favorite cuddle buddy, much to your tiny pack's annoyance. Any time he could get his arms around you, he'd have you settled right against him with a proud smile on his face. And you certainly weren't complaining. You'd never known that omegas' cuddles were the best. Soft and warm and sweet smelling. Being held by Hobi was bliss. You wouldn't admit it to anyone, but you felt a bit of jealousy every time you scented Jin's sweet, nutty smell on Hoseok's skin, knowing that he had gotten to hold your omega all night long.
It wasn't until you came home from work one afternoon a few weeks after your heat and Hobi pulled you onto the couch, insisting you take a nap, that you realized something was different. You could still smell the light fragrance of Hoseok's body wash, so you knew he'd showered a few hours ago. But he smelled like praline pecans. Nutty like Seokjin, and different from Hoseok normal brown sugar. A new blend of the two.
"I'm going to stop working," you said suddenly.
He pulled back so he could look down at your face. "That would be great, but why so sudden?"
You shrugged and nestled back into his chest. "I just want to help you here more. It seems kind of silly to be cleaning for other people when I should be here cleaning with you."
He couldn't argue with that. Yoongi had told him about how you had called their house your home after your last heat, and it made his heart soar. He certainly wasn't going to deny you the domestic bliss he had always wanted to share.
"I like the sound of that," he murmured into your hair. "I would love to keep you here."
You were anxious to tell Yoongi about your decision, but when he got home he looked stressed and dejected. His shoulders hunched in a way you hadn't ever seen before. Seeing him look so weary made your heart ache. You approached him quietly as he took off his shoes in the entryway.
When you took his hand, one look into your sympathetic doe eyes was all it took to bring a genuine, lighthearted smile to his face. Somehow, one look from you and your tiny hands around his large one manifested energy from thin air. He pulled you closer and cradled you against his chest. Silent, except for a soft happy rumble in his chest, he held you like that for several minutes, but you wouldn't move for all the world, content to gently sway in his arms.
"Was it a bad day?" You asked softly. He hummed. "Come sit down, and I'll get you something to eat," you told him as you pulled away, ready to take his hand and guide him down the hall to the kitchen. But he pulled you back, unready to allow so much space between you. He picked you up by the backs of your thighs and hoisted you up, leaving you no choice but to wrap your arms and legs around him.
"In a minute," he mumbled into your neck, where he took deep breaths of your scent, allowing it to fill his lungs and soothe his nerves.
You complied and let him carry you to the couch as if you were no more than a child. Even if he was tired, holding you was nothing, not compared to the benefits.
"What happened?" you pressed gently after a moment.
"Nothing, really." He didn't need to burden you with the DOA he'd had today. Car crashes could cause such carnage, and he didn't need you to think of that. "I asked my supervisor if I could switch to a permanent day shift, but he denied me," he said after a moment of toying with your hair between his fingers.
"Oh. Why did you want to change?"
"I was hoping it would allow me to spend more time with you," he admitted. "I hate that I'm not able to see you. One of us is always working."
"Oh." A smile tugged at your lips and you cleared your throat. "Well, actually, I was thinking…" He lifted your chin gently with his fingers to see your eyes and waited for you to go on. "I want to quit my job. I-if that's okay."
"Really?" He asked excitedly as he pushed you away to look at your face better.
"Yeah, if it's not a problem," you answered quietly.
Yoongi pulled your hips tighter against him. "Of course it's not a problem! I was never going to tell you to quit, but I was always hoping you would. But why now? Did something happen at work?" His expression turned serious in an instant.
You shook your head. "No. Work is fine. I just feel like it's time to help Hobi out. And I can take care of you and Jimin. You're my pack after all."
"We don't expect you to cook and clean for us, princess," he said, tucking your hair behind your ear. Even though he meant it, he felt his heart flutter knowing you might want to.
"But it's my job."
"It isn't. That's not why we want you here. It's not why we're keeping you around. It never will be." His tone was serious. His eyes looked intently into yours. Heat flushed all over your body, and you tried to backtrack.
"I know that, Yoongi. I actually wasn't thinking that way, which is kind of funny because normally I would. This isn't a-take-care-of-alpha-before-he-throws-you-out thing. I just care about you and I think about taking care of you a lot. Want to know if you're eating well and sleeping well."
Yoongi's smile returned, and he pulled you closer, resting his forehead against your cheek. "Good. That makes me more happy than you'll ever know."
"Aish. I'm not really doing it for you," you teased. "I want to stay home and help Hobi."
"Ah, yes, you're new BFF," he teased back. "That's fine. I'm sure he'll be happy."
You nodded. "I'll put my two weeks notice in tomorrow."
"Why bother? Just quit. You're never gonna need another job again." He grasped the back of your head and pulled you into a passionate kiss, leaving you breathless.
"Aren't you gonna eat something?" You asked hazily, a long moment later.
"Yeah," he grinned. "I'll eat you,"
"No!" You screamed amid your giggles as he playfully tried to bite your neck, tickling your sides at the same time. When you were gasping for breath, he scooped you up in his arms again and carried you into the kitchen. He set you down to sit on top of the kitchen counter.
"I'll fix something for you," you told him as he walked toward the refrigerator.
"You stay," he ordered as he looked inside. "Did you cook this?" he asked, showing you a container of the leftovers from the evening's dinner. You nodded. "Then your work here is done," he said before placing the meal in the microwave.
"I heard the sound of a happy pup," Jimin said as he entered the kitchen. You blushed when he stood beside you. He had been sitting in the pack's nest with Namjoon and Jungkook when they heard your screams and laughter. He wasn't the only one curious, but he was the only one who ventured out to see what was going on.
Yoongi beamed. "Y/N has decided to quit her job and stay home."
"Oh, good thing you made that choice before Taehyung started courting you," Jimin responded slyly.
"What do you mean? Court me?" You stared at him in confusion.
Yoongi nodded. "It's true. He asked me for my blessing already. I told him I don't mind. He said he's going to take it slow, not jump into anything. But now you'll have plenty of time to get to know each other." Yoongi wriggled his eyebrows.
Your voice caught in the back of your throat. Too many feelings swirled deep in your stomach, and you couldn't parse them out. "You don't mind?" you finally asked.
Yoongi gave you a soft smile and lifted your face to meet his eyes. "As much as I love our little pack, I've always known it wouldn't always be the three of us. I mean, I hoped. There's no rush, but I think some day it will probably be all eight of us. And that will be great, too."
You tried not to think about that possibility too often. It made your head spin. Seven packmates. Four alphas. You weren't sure you could handle it. "But I only want you to be my alpha. If Jin–" you cut yourself off abruptly.
"If Jin what, princess?"
"If Jin wants to claim me, won't he be my pack alpha? But I only want you to be my pack alpha!"
Yoongi couldn't bear how childlike you sounded. It made his heart hurt to hear you so anxious and confused. He smoothed a hand over your hair and pulled your head to his shoulder.
"It's okay, baby. Jin will never be your pack alpha. I'll always be your number one. You really think I'd let anyone take my place in your heart?" he cooed.
"What are you so worried for?" Jimin chided. "Who's talking about Jin? It's just Taehyung right now. He's a great alpha. You'll see."
You sniffed and pulled away from Yoongi when the microwave beeped. "Why did you say it was good I'm quitting my job because of him?"
Jimin smirked. "Taehyung could never allow his omega to work outside the home."
"Why not?"
"One, it's too dangerous. It would drive his anxiety crazy. Best to keep omegas safe in the den. Two, it would hurt his pride. He makes more than enough money to support you and Hobi all on his own. And three, Taehyung may have the disposition of a golden retriever, but even the sweetest dogs don't like strange dogs looking at their bones." Jimin grinned deviously.
You pushed his shoulder. "I'm not a bone!"
"Oh, yeah? Just wait until he starts gnawing on you!" Jimin picked up your arm and pretended to bite it much like Yoongi had before, and again, you thrilled them both with your shrieks and giggles.
While the days got longer and hotter with more sunlight, it seemed that each workday dragged on slower than they ever had before. You were diligently waiting your two weeks, but by the time you were nearly there, you wished you'd taken Yoongi's advice to just quit. You were aching to be at home every minute you were gone, and that was a feeling you had never known before.
When Yoongi brought you home on your next to last day of work, you walked into something you'd never seen at the house before. It was something of a party atmosphere, and they were all celebrating the end of the school year alongside Namjoon. Jin and Jimin had yet to return home, but Jungkook and Namjoon had beers in hand, chatting cheerfully at the kitchen table while Taehyung put out snacks on the counter. You walked carefully past them to wash your hands before you sidled up beside Hoseok where he was forming beef patties between his delicate hands.
"Hamburgers for dinner?" You asked.
Hoseok smiled down at you and gestured to the side with his head. "You can slice those onions and tomatoes," he told you before you could ask to help.
When the rest of the pack came home, you all accompanied Hobi outside on the patio while he grilled the burgers. Yoongi anxiously held you back from getting too close to the flames, nervous you might hurt yourself. The afternoon was lovely, and you all decided on eating outside to enjoy the spring weather. You spent most of the time clinging to Yoongi, either in his lap or next to him, holding his hand. He didn't mind in the slightest, nor did he mind the jealous looks he received from Taehyung, who tried to make the both of you jealous by fawning over Jimin. All of them were oblivious to the true reason for your clinginess.
Namjoon tended to stand quietly on the fringes of Seokjin's pack. His status was never in question, and he didn't shy away from sharing his thoughts and feelings, but whenever you were all together, he simply allowed others to take center stage. But tonight was different. Tonight was his celebration for another completed school year, and he felt no need to stay to the side and listen to others. For once, he dominated the majority of the conversation, discussing funny memories from the school year and a few complaints he usually tried to swallow. As the night grew longer and he drank more, his voice boomed louder across the large backyard and you pressed yourself closer to Yoongi.
When it got dark and the air turned chilly, everyone moved back into the kitchen. You were exhausted, but decided to help clean up before you tried to excuse yourself to go to bed. Everyone was having a good time, all of them drinking a little even though you didn't, and you didn't want to bring the mood down, but you were growing tired. When you finished washing the dishes you went to stand by Yoongi, who was laughing heartily to the story that Namjoon was telling. You could wait a few more minutes, but you didn't really want to go to bed alone, and you didn't want to miss out, listening to all their laughter from your room while you sat alone. As Namjoon continued his story, he gestured wildly with his hands. The condensation on the beer bottle made it slick, and the brown glass suddenly flew out of his hand, whizzing past your head in a blur. You were hiding under the counter by the time the glass hit the wall, shattering to pieces and dumping its liquid all over the floor. Shards of class popped around the room as you buried your head in your knees and covered yourself with your arms. A scream built in your throat, but you knew better than to let it out.
Don't scream. Don't scream. It'll only be worse if you scream.
The whole room went silent and motionless for two seconds as they registered what happened. Then at once everything was in motion. Yoongi got out of his chair to check if you were alright, but Taehyung was quicker. He didn't take a moment to ask how you were or assess the damage. He simply gathered you into his arms and lifted you off the ground, careful not to bang your head on the granite countertop. He carried you directly up the stairs and to your room, with Yoongi behind him and Jimin bringing up the rear.
In the kitchen, the remaining two alphas stood, frozen in shock, but Hoseok didn't waste any time putting on shoes and grabbing the broom.
"Hobi, let me," Namjoon tried to say, reaching for the broom when he finally came out of his stupor.
The omega pulled away. "I got it. You stay over there until I get this all cleaned up. There's lots of glass."
The flat, subdued tone of his voice hurt Namjoon as much as the way Hobi wouldn't look at him. "It was an accident," he whispered.
"We know that, Joonie," Jungkook assured him with a light smile. "It's not like it's the first time you've broken something around here. It's just…" His eyes drifted toward the stairs.
"I would never throw something at her," Namjoon defended.
"I know, babe, I know. But she doesn't. It's natural for her to be scared. Don't take it too personally. She's just skittish," Jungkook tried to convince him.
Hoseok felt a tug of war within himself. He was usually always the first one to comfort Namjoon when he accidentally broke something or made a mess. But now he really wanted to check on you, to make sure you weren't hurt or scared. He wanted to hold you in his arms, but he knew if he ran off with the others it would hurt Namjoon, and he knew that it wasn't really his fault. Namjoon was just clumsy, some might say cursed. He never meant to cause chaos, but he did anyway. You would get used to it, eventually, but right now the omega could understand perfectly why you were afraid Namjoon might hurt you without even intending to. His head swirled with competing worries as he swept up the glass and dumped it into the trash can.
"Are you hurt?" Yoongi asked as Taehyung set you down at the edge of your nest. He shouldered the younger alpha out of the way to examine you. You were still too stunned to answer, but it didn't really matter; Yoongi was going to look over every available inch of you regardless. He gently tilted your face this way and that to make sure it was unscathed before he moved onto your arms, lifting and twisting each in turn to ensure your skin was unharmed. There was a small cut on your forearm and he frowned. It wasn't even from the incident that had unfolded moments before. It was from work earlier today, and the blood was already dry—you hadn't even felt it at the time.
"Jimin, go get the first aid kit from the bathroom," he instructed, holding your arms carefully.
Feeling Yoongi's steady hands on you helped to ground you and bring you back to your body, out of your shock and panic. You took in a deep breath and breathed out, "I'm okay."
Jimin shuffled back into the room carrying the first aid kit and handed it to Yoongi. The alpha plucked out an alcohol pad and ripped open the packet with his teeth, spitting out the torn piece.
"It's gonna sting," he whispered, but you didn't react as he swiped it over your skin. "It's dry." You looked down to the very minor wound he was tending to.
"That was from work. It's fine," you told him, but he didn't seem to hear you. He had already taken a bandage from the kit—neon pink—and gently but firmly pressed it over your cut. "Yoongi?" He looked up into your eyes and you could see his own were full of worry. He shrugged.
"It makes me feel better."
You cracked a genuine smile and it lifted some of the weight off his chest.
"Are you sure you're okay, sweet little?" Taehyung asked. His hands were still shaking from the course of adrenaline when he thought you were in danger.
You nodded. "I'm okay. I was just scared. I'm not hurt."
"You shouldn't be scared at home," he replied.
"Come sit with me," you said softly, patting the spot next to you. Your heart ached to see how distressed he was over you. Taehyung lowered his head and came to sit near you, not quite in your nest, but just outside of it. When he got close you realized something the rest of them hadn't. They'd been too worried about you to assess their own well-being.
"Tae, you're covered in beer."
He had been standing closest to where the bottle had hit the wall and, as a result, had gotten sprayed with the contents as well as some glass.
"You're bleeding," you added. "Yoongi, your patient is right here."
Your alpha smiled weakly at how brave you were trying to be. He could tell by the way you were still shaking that you weren't as calm as you pretended to be, but he would talk to you about it in a little while when things settled. For now he turned to Taehyung. Without a word, he began to clean the man's wound, and you held his hand while he winced through the burn on the alcohol. You pulled a neon pink bandage from the box beside you and handed it to Yoongi to apply.
"Now we match," you told him, and it brought a bright, boxy smile to Taehyung's face.
"Why are you the one comforting me?" He asked, bumping your shoulder.
"Why don't you go clean up and get changed? Then maybe you can come cuddle me in the nest?" You offered. "If you want to," you added quickly.
Taehyung nodded enthusiastically. "Be right back," he said before scurrying out of the room.
"Yoongi, you need to go downstairs and see if everyone is okay down there," you told him.
He growled softly, mumbling, "They can take care of themselves."
"Alpha," you cooed, reaching out to touch his cheek, "don't be like that." He pouted for a moment, but nodded and gathered the pieces of trash from his work before he took the first aid kit downstairs.
"What about me?" Jimin stood proudly in front of you, fists in his hips, waiting for his instructions.
"You come cuddle me until the others come back." He didn't waste a second, shucking off his pants and shirt. You'd gotten used to the fact that Jimin preferred to sleep only in boxers. Who were you to force clothes on him if he slept better without? After your heat, it had ceased to make you the slightest bit uncomfortable. He quickly climbed onto the bed, wrestling you into the nest and underneath his body, where he could get the upper hand on you and make the last of our distressed scent disappear as quickly as it had come.
When Yoongi reached the bottom of the steps, Namjoon turned anxiously to look at him. He was cleaning the last of the beer off the wall, looking rather like a pup with his tail between his legs. This was hardly a rare scenario for him, cleaning up his own mess no matter how Hobi tried to tell him to leave it. It wasn't the first glass he'd broken nor the first drink spilled. Namjoon was a walking disaster. He knew that. It couldn't be helped, and everyone knew that, too. But normally, everyone would stick around to help and cheer him up and comfort him when he made a silly mistake like this. This time, half his pack had disappeared up the stairs with you, and he couldn't help feeling a bit hurt about it. He regretted it. He always did, but he couldn't take it back, and he just couldn't change. He opened his mouth to explain to Yoongi, but nothing came out.
"Is she hurt?" Hoseok asked from the sink, after Yoongi and Namjoon had stared at each other for several tense seconds. Yoongi's face was a cold mask of stone, revealing nothing but disdain. Namjoon looked utterly crestfallen.
"She's not hurt. Just scared," Yoongi answered, shaking his head when he finally broke eye contact with Joon.
"That's a relief," Namjoon sighed, and his face showed his relief was real.
"Taehyung got cut up a little bit," Yoongi said sharply. It was petty, but he didn't want the younger alpha to feel as if there was no harm done, and he didn't expect Namjoon to care that you'd been shaken up.
"Is it bad?" Jin asked, looking concerned.
Yoongi shook his head again. "I patched him up. Y/N invited him into her nest to make him feel better, I think." He paused for a second, thinking about your behavior. "She sent me down here to see if anyone was hurt."
"We're all fine, Yoongi. Come have a seat," Jungkook replied, pulling out the chair beside him.
"I should go back to her."
"Yoongi." Jin's voice wasn't raised, but it was loud and firm enough to have Yoongi freezing as he turned away. He hugged the first aid kit to his stomach and dropped his chin. "I'm sure Jimin and Tae are taking perfectly good care of her. Come sit for a minute."
Yoongi hated the way it felt like he was in trouble, when he knew he had no reason to be. He hadn't gone and ruined a perfectly nice evening, or spooked his very nervous omega. But he turned and walked slowly to the table to sit anyway.
"You know it was an accident," Jin said calmly.
"I know," Yoongi answered curtly.
"Just let him apologize." Jin's voice was the slightest bit pleading, as if he were desperate to avoid more conflict between his alphas.
"I really am sorry, Yoongi. I would never–"
"You don't need to apologize to me," Yoongi interjected. "I'm not angry. Maybe if she'd been hurt…but I know you can't control your body. You've never been able to. I get that. But she doesn't know. She's terrified you will hurt her, just by accident. And with you accidents are bound to happen."
"I–" Namjoon began, but the other alpha didn't let him finish.
"Do you know how it hurts me to see her afraid? After all the horrors in her life, I only want to keep her from feeling afraid. I don't just want her to be safe. I want her to feel safe. And if she can't then we…If she can't feel safe with you…" The look of pure devastation on Yoongi's features hurt Namjoon more than any other thing could have.
"What can I do, Yoongi? Tell me. I'll make it right," he begged.
Yoongi sighed, desperate to keep himself together. "If you and her are going to live in the same house…if you're going to spend the whole summer together, you have to try to be gentler. Please try."
Namjoon reached across the table to lay his hand over Yoongi's where he clutched the kit still.
"I will try. I promise. I'll be more careful," Namjoon assured him. Yoongi merely nodded silently, unsure if that would be enough to settle all your nerves about the pack's largest alpha. As if he could read Yoongi's mind, Jin cleared his throat.
"I think, maybe, Y/N might feel a little more comfortable with us if she could see that you're comfortable with us," he suggested quietly. Yoongi's eyes flickered to the pack alpha's and then back to his hands.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean," Jin sighed, "you're still holding us at arms length. I get maybe you still want to punish us for what we've done. I don't want to tell you how to feel or to get over it. But how could she ever trust us if she knows you don't?"
"She'll come to her own conclusions,"Yoongi mumbled.
"So you admit that you still don't trust us? You're still angry with me?" Jin sounded frustrated, but Yoongi could hear that really he was just heartbroken. It wasn't a pleasant feeling, knowing that his distance was hurting Jin. He wasn't really angry anymore. He hadn't found the time or energy to be angry. Any spare thought he had went directly to you. Maybe it was unfair, because he knew clearly in this moment that he still carried plenty of love in his heart for Jin and Namjoon.
"I'm not angry," he answered. "I just don't know what you want me to do. I've stayed. I've brought her here—sometimes against my better judgment—I don't know what I'm meant to do to fix things. They just have to heal in their own time." He shrugged.
"But how can they when this is the longest conversation we've had in weeks?"
"I don't know, Jin. It's just not my priority right now!" Yoongi snapped.
"Okay!" Hoseok interjected, coming closer to the men seated at the table for the first time. He'd been hesitant to interfere in the alphas' problems, but he knew both men well enough to see they were on the verge of saying things they didn't mean and would regret later. As soon as he approached, Jungkook's linen scent fluffed through the room, easing away the alphas' tension. "It's all okay. We don't have to solve it all tonight. It's late, and I think we should all just go to bed. Hm?" Hoseok put his hands on Jin's shoulders and gave a squeeze, satisfied when his shoulders relaxed.
"Yeah, fine," Yoongi answered. He stood quickly, scraping the box along the table before he picked it up and moved toward the stairs. He didn't want more conflict. He wasn't trying to prolong their distance. But it was impossible not to want to keep them away when he wanted so badly to be close to you, and to keep you safe.
Yoongi stopped in the bathroom, relieved to hear the giggles of you, Jimin and Taehyung coming through your door. After tucking the first aid kit back into its spot under the sink, he brushed his teeth. Hoseok met his eyes in the bathroom mirror when he stopped outside your door, but neither said a word before the omega slipped into your room to see for himself that you were unharmed. Yoongi remained quiet when he joined the four of you. Jimin had managed to get you into a pair of pajamas and your hair was an adorable disaster from being rolled around in your nest. You'd settled now between Jimin's legs with your back to his bare chest, your attention on Hoseok until Yoongi walked in, but you only spared him a glance. He wondered if even Jimin could tell how hard you were forcing your smile and your happy scent. Had he noticed that your eyes lacked the shine they usually got when the beta scented you silly?
"Come to bed so these kids can get to sleep," Hoseok said to Taehyung while Yoongi changed into his pajamas.
Taehyung whined softly. He'd only just been invited into your nest, and he wasn't ready to leave it already.
"Go on, Tae. Joon needs to know you're not upset with him," Yoongi encouraged quietly.
"Maybe I am," Taehyung mumbled. Hoseok reached for his hand and took it into his lap.
"You know he can't help himself, Tae. Give him a break, okay?"
The alpha grumbled wordlessly, but you nudged him with your foot.
"Go on, Tae Tae. I will be okay. My alpha is here." Taehyung's low rumble turned into a real growl, but you knew it was playful.
"Two alphas are better than one."
"Three are better than two!" Hoseok added. He stood from the edge of the bed and tugged on the youngest alpha's hand to come along. Tae allowed himself to be dragged off the bed, but pulled back to give you one kiss on the top of your head.
"See you tomorrow, sweet little. Sleep tight," he murmured, and then he was gone.
Closing the door, Yoongi turned off the lights before crawling into bed beside you.
"Goodnight," Jimin said, leaning over you to kiss Yoongi, making sure you got properly squished in the process.
"Goodnight," you whispered with a giggle when you received your own kiss.
You said nothing to Yoongi as the two of you cuddled together. Your head laid on his chest, listening to his slow, steady heartbeat as the house slowly went silent. You laid there, but didn't close your eyes, and Yoongi watched you without saying a word. You let the minutes stretch on until you'd been there for almost half an hour.
"How come you aren't sleeping?" you asked softly.
"You aren't sleeping either," he replied. You shifted slightly without moving away and traced his stomach with your fingertips.
"It's hard for me to sleep without your snoring." You felt his chest rise and fall with a huff and looked up to see his gummy smile for just a moment. Then he looked down at you seriously.
"You don't have to pretend for me. You don't have to pretend for anyone, but especially not me." You shifted again, but this time he could tell you were putting space between you.
"I don't know what you mean."
Yoongi grasped your wrist gently before you could move away from him. There wasn't far to go before you would run into Jimin, but he could only bare for you to move as far as it would take for you to look at him eye to eye. He rolled over and scooched down so his gaze was level to yours.
"You don't need to act as if Namjoon didn't scare you. You're still scared now. I don't think I can convince you that you're safe right now, but you are. I'm right here."
Your chest tightened at his words. You whispered, "I know," but it didn't stop your eyes from watering. Yoongi gathered you close, pressing you into his chest.
"I'm so angry."
"It was an–"
"I'm angry with myself. I shouldn't have brought you here." He felt you try to pull away, ready to argue, but he held you tight. "I should have taken you somewhere else. The three of us could have gotten an apartment. Shouldn't have kept you here with such clumsy, stupid alphas." At this point he sounded as though he was talking to himself, mumbling out the thoughts he'd been repeating in his head for the last hour.
"It's okay, Yoongi. I didn't get hurt," you tried to tell him.
"But you got scared, and that's just as bad in my eyes." You managed to pull away from him enough to look up at his face and touch his cheek. "You're still shaking. Do you think I can't feel that? Jimin and Tae scented you, but you didn't feel safe enough to let yourself get all dopey. Do you even realize? I can't stand this, and I hate that you're pretending just so we don't feel bad."
"Yoongi," you frowned and stroked your thumb over his cheekbone. "I'm not pretending because of that. I'm trying to be brave because I want to stay. Namjoon terrifies me, but I like it here. I like living with Hobi and Tae…and you and Jimin here. I'm still scared, but not enough to leave. So let me pretend, okay?" Yoongi sighed, a sign he wasn't accepting this yet. "I may not feel completely safe, but I feel happy. I'm like a stray dog. I may never feel safe, not completely. I might always be a little jumpy. But that doesn't mean I don't love my new home, or that it's not a good home."
Yoongi laughed almost silently and buried his head in your neck. "Don't call yourself a stray dog."
"That's what I am," you replied, combing your fingers through his hair. "I came up to you with big puppy eyes and asked you to stay."
"That's definitely not how it happened," he mumbled. But when he pulled you closer and inhaled your scent, you couldn't help smiling.
"I won't let anything happen to you," he breathed as he relaxed against the nest at last.
"I know," you replied. "So I think we can sleep now."
"Go ahead. I'll watch over you."
Your last shift ended fairly well. The library staff even brought donuts to wish you well. A couple of them who were betas even confessed that they were glad to hear you had settled in with a pack and would be staying home, because they often worried about you. You waited outside the library at your usual spot, pacing and checking your phone as minutes ticked by and terrible thoughts began to creep in.
What if they got into some kind of accident?
What if they dont want you, after all?
Just as you began to spiral into your worst thoughts, a familiar vehicle pulled up abruptly in front of you. Although you'd never ridden inside of it, you could still recognize Namjoon's blue volvo without looking at him, which you only did for the briefest of glances, just to be sure it was really him.
"Sorry to keep you waiting," he said, sounding out of breath as if he'd run instead of driven here.
I wasn't waiting for you, is what you wanted to say, but you merely stood still and stared at him with eyes as wide as saucers.
"Um," he began awkwardly as he got out of the car without killing the engine and walked toward you until he was only a couple yards away. He scratched nervously behind his ear as he tried to start again. "I know you were expecting Taehyung, but he cut his foot on a piece of glass that wasn't cleaned up from last night, and Hobi took him to the emergency room about twenty minutes ago. Didn't they text you?"
You shook your head, remaining silent.
"Yeah…so I was the only other person home so…here I am." He looked anxiously at the car, like he wished you'd just get in and save him the embarrassment of standing here in front of you. "I promise, I'm a good driver. And we don't have to talk or anything, if you don't want to."
You stared at him for a moment longer before your tongue unglued itself from the roof of your mouth.
"Does Yoongi know about this?"
Namjoons throat felt like sandpaper, and he seemed to shrink an inch. He shook his head. "I tried to call him but he didn't answer. He must be busy."
You hadn't moved an inch since he arrived, and he couldn't help wondering if he was really that terrifying.
"I promise, Y/N, I'm not going to hurt you." The idea that you ever thought he would hurt him in a way he couldn't account for. He knew he wouldn't, but the idea that you couldn't believe that cut him deep. What would he do if you never learned to trust him? If you never let him close to you? It wasn't something he ever gave himself permission to want, so why did not having it wound him so? He shook his head clear of the questions. "You can sit in the back and pretend I'm just the chauffeur."
You lifted your chin in his direction and narrowed your eyes. "I think I'll just take the bus."
Namjoons eyebrows raised. You can't possibly think he's that scary, could you? But instead he used what he knew was the only way to convince you.
"Do you really think Yoongi would approve of that?"
Your jaw tightened. You knew he was right. Looking down at your phone, you hoped for a notification from Yoongi, but there was one from Hoseok instead. You swallowed thickly when you read it.
Sorry, pup! There was an emergency. Namjoon should be there to pick you up. I promise it will be okay.
"How do you know you'll take me home and not somewhere else?" You finally asked. Namjoon's eyes grew wide and he actually took a step back. He rubbed his hand over his hair as he tried to process your question.
"What makes you think I would do something like that? What did Yoongi say to you?" Your brow furrowed at the strange question.
"Yoongi didn't have to say anything for me to know you don't want me around," you answered, an edge of bitterness lacing your words. Namjoon nearly choked.
"Y/n, that isn't true."
"If it isn't then why didn't you ever tell yoongi where I was when you knew I worked here? You and Jin didn't want him to know. You don't want me in your pack. I get it. It's fine. But you should know that Yoongi does want me, and if I don't come home there's no telling what he'll do." You were surprised by the firmness of your own voice as well as how sure you felt of your own words. Yoongi did want you, and you knew that was as fierce an attachment for him as it was for you.
Namjoon took several full breaths before he responded. "Y/N, I promise you, all I'm trying to do right now is take you home. I won't lie to you. I didn't want you to become a part of our pack at first but things have…changed. You're a part of our lives now either way. And I wouldn't risk losing Yoongi over you. I never would. So please. Just come home with me," he begged. While the two of you maintained eye contact—for longer than you had ever done before—he fought the instinct to grab you and put you in the car if you continued to protest, but he knew that would only hurt his cause. Just when he was about to lose this staring contest to you, your phone began to ring with Yoongi's ringtone.
"Hello?" You answered, only dropping your gaze from the alpha in front of you for a moment.
"Princess, are you okay?" He asked, sounding out of breath from the way his heart was pounding.
"I think so," you mumbled.
"I got a message from Joon that he was going to pick you up." You narrowed your eyes on the man in question.
"Yeah, he's here." Yoongi sighed in relief. "What should I do? I can take the bus."
"No, princess. Just go home with him, okay? I promise everything will be fine."
"I'm scared," you said so softly that Namjoon couldn't hear it.
"I know, and I'm sorry, but you don't need to be. You'll be safe with him, and I'll feel better if you go with him than on your own. I've got your location on. If anything happens to you I'll be there as soon as possible. But you're going to be okay. Trust me?" It was that simple, really. If Yoongi was asking you to trust him, then you would. As long as Yoongi promised you'd be safe, you'd make yourself believe him. He wouldn't let you down.
"Fine."
"Good girl. I'll be home in a few hours and I'll give you a reward for being so brave." Your cheeks heated at his words, but you couldn't deny loving it when Yoongi sometimes treated you like a child. No one had ever treated you with such gentle care before, and it felt like real love.
"I'll be waiting." You hung up and looked at Namjoon again. He looked back expectantly. "Yoongi said to go home with you. So I guess that's that."
You walked around the vehicle to sit in the back passenger seat, as far from him as possible. Namjoon didn't say a word as you got inside his car and buckled yourself in. As he pulled away from the library, you kept your eyes out the window even though you could feel his gaze on you through the rear view mirror. He chewed nervously on his lip as he glanced back and forth between the road and the mirror, but he kept silent until he was on the main road between the library and the house.
"We should try to be civil, at least," he said at last, speaking as if you'd been privy to the conversation in his head instead of coming into the middle. You didn't respond, so he went on. "We're going to be home together a lot this summer, and it would be easier on everyone if we tried to ease the tension." He finished softly, perhaps knowing he sounded ridiculous to you.
"I'll do my best to keep out from under foot, if you try not to throw anything at me again."
Namjoon deflated with a sigh. "I swear it was an accident."
"That's why I said try."
"I'm just clumsy. I never meant to hurt you."
"Do you honestly think I haven't heard every excuse in the book?" You rolled your eyes. "It just slipped. You ran into my fist. You really should be more careful where you're going."
"Y/N," Namjoon interrupted, trying hard not to become distressed as he drove, but honestly, your words were tearing him apart. Did you really have no idea the effect you had on him? "I'm sorry. I realize I haven't apologized to you directly for last night. I'm sorry for being so careless. I really will try to be more cautious. But I'm also sorry that other people have given you reasons not to trust them, or alphas, or me." He pulled to a stop at a red light and turned in his seat to look at you. "I get that you have no reason to trust me, and that I have to work for it. That's okay. I don't mind. But can you give me the benefit of the doubt and trust that Yoongi wouldn't have me in his life at all if you couldn't trust me?"
At last, you turned your head to look at him. "Why does everyone always pull the Yoongi card on me?"
"Because it always works," he smirked.
"Fuck," you muttered, because he was right. For whatever reason, you trusted Yoongi implicitly. And Namjoon had a point. Your alpha wouldn't have a dangerous person in his life, let alone trust them to be around you. So you merely nodded to his request, and the man turned forward just in time to see the light turn green before he drove you the rest of the way home.
A/n: I don't feel like this has been my best chapter, but I would love to hear your thoughts on it! Thanks for reading!
