You Never Walk Alone | BTS
—pairing | werewolf!bts × you (fem!reader)
—chapter three | embracing a new dawn: wolves of bangtan and yoo ahmi
—collection | ot7!bts × reader stories
—story masterlist | you never walk alone
—previous chapter | chapter two
—genre | werewolf au × mate au × supernatural au × strangers to lovers au ( angst × romance × fluff × supernatural )
—rating | mature-rated
—wordcount | 9 k
—warnings | vampires exist. mentions of blood. consumption of blood and human remains. human body mutilation. badly written action scenes. death of loved ones. talks about insanity, cults, mass-psychosis and serial killings. the reader is found extremely hurt and almost dead. bites are a constant mention.
—author’s forenote | hi everyone! I have edited the last chapters a bit because I realised there were a few things I needed to add and remove to help better understand the flow of the chapter. So, please give that a read before reading through this. I am trash, so I am back after a year, please forgive me, and enjoy the chapter ahead!
—chapter summary | You meet Jin's brothers and we find out partly how you ended up in the cult.
“Jin, do you—” You hesitate, your fingers fidgeting with the edge of the blanket. “Do you mind staying back for a bit?”
His brow furrows in concern. “Is anything wrong, Ahmi-yah?”
“No-no,” You rush to say, shaking your head. “I just… I feel a little bored.” The admission feels small, almost selfish. You’re certain Jin has better things to do than entertain a heartbroken, injured girl who’s desperate for distraction.
Jin laughs softly, the sound warm and comforting. “Of course, I’ll stay. What do you want to do? Though,” he adds with mock seriousness, “I’m not sure screentime is advisable for you right now.”
“I mean, anything is fine.” You shrug. “You could just… talk. About yourself, about the people outside this room, about your world.”
His lips quirk into a small smile. “My world, huh? Well, I live here with my six younger brothers.” As if summoned, a loud crash echoes from somewhere down the hall, followed by a cacophony of shouts —half in agony, half in laughter. Jin rolls his eyes so exaggeratedly you can’t help but grin. “That’s them, by the way. The rascals causing the chaos.”
“Tell me about them?” you ask, your curiosity piqued. You had heard all these loud noises the past few weeks, but you knew nothing about the people causing them.
“Let’s start with Yoongi,” he begins. “He’s the second oldest.”
“Dr. Min?” you ask, eyes widening in recognition. “I didn’t know you were brothers.”
“Yep,” Jin confirms with a wink. “Though it’s hard to connect my worldwide handsome face to his old-man energy.”
You laugh, shaking your head at his antics. “He doesn’t seem like an old man to me.”
“That’s because you haven’t seen him groaning about his back after sitting at the piano for two hours,” Jin retorts. “Speaking of which, he’s incredible at playing. You should hear him sometime.”
“I’ve always wanted to learn the piano,” you admit wistfully.
Jin brightens. “Once you’re better, I’ll ask Yoongi to teach you.”
“Really? You’d do that for me?” You look at him, startled by the consistent kindness he’s shown you since you arrived.
“Of course. Anything for you.” His gaze softens, and you feel warmth bloom in your chest.
He continues. “Then there’s Hoseok. You’ve probably heard him —he’s loud, very loud.” As if on cue, another booming cheer erupts from the hallway, and you hear someone yell, “Dance-off time!”
Jin sighs dramatically. “That’s him being quiet, mind you.”
You giggle at his expression, and Jin gives you a playful grin before moving on. “Namjoon is the one recommending books to you.” He gestures toward the stack on your bedside table. He had asked you two weeks into your bed rest if you’d like reading and brought some really varied book recommendation stacks. “He says you have great taste and even invited you to his book club.”
Your eyes light up. “Oh, I’d love to join!”
“He’ll be thrilled,” Jin chuckles. “It’s just him for now, so he’s been looking for new members.”
“What about the others?” You ask, eager to hear more.
“Ah, let’s see. There’s Jimin. He’s sweet but also loves teasing everyone. If you ever need someone to cheer you up, he’s your guy. He’s great at dancing, too.”
“And?” you ask.
“Taehyung,” Jin says fondly, “Taehyung is an artist at heart. He’s a bit eccentric but in the best way. Loves photography, painting and collecting random things that somehow make sense to him.”
“Sounds like fun,” You muse.
“Definitely. And lastly, Jungkook, the youngest. He’s insanely talented but also a bit of a troublemaker. Always trying to outdo himself and everyone else.” You smile, imagining the lively household Jin is describing.
You grew up alone, with only your mother and dad to call as family, so to hear about a large group of siblings felt so interesting. You wondered how they might be, seeing as Jin was such a kind and beautiful man.
“How about this?” Jin suggests. “Join us for breakfast tomorrow. It is about time you left this room,” You still looked unsure, so he added, “I’ll make all you two types of bulgogi and at least ten side dishes.”
“You don’t have to—” You start, but Jin cuts you off with a wave of his hand.
“Nonsense. It’s settled. I’ll see you at breakfast.” He grins, “Or is it brunch?”
You woke the next morning stuck between dread and anticipation, the two emotions tangling so tightly in your chest you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
You moved slowly, deliberately, as if care itself could steady you. You brushed your teeth, washed your face, took a long shower, letting the familiar scent of soap bloom in steam. You put on the lotion Jin had gotten you, applying skincare with gentle precision. You had washed your hair, dried it, combed it through until it fell obediently over your shoulders. You redressed the wounds carefully, especially the ones at your neck which were still tender and half-healed. The fabric of the pants and sweatshirt Jin had washed and left for you yesterday felt soft in the gentlest way.
You sat in the lounge chair by the window, hands folded in your lap, staring at nothing. Minutes passed and with each one your pulse climbed a little higher. The silence wasn’t comforting at all, instead it was amplifying everything. You exhaled sharply and you stood up, smoothing your sweatshirt as if preparing for battle. One last look in the mirror, not to admire, but to check. You slipped your feet into the ridiculously soft slippers, their comfort almost comical against the storm in your stomach.
You swung the door open. The hallway was empty. And for a split second, a strange stillness washed over you, not relief, not fear. Just the hollow, echoing awareness that you were stepping into something new without anyone escorting you there. You stepped out, exhaling the breath you held.
It had been nearly two months since you’d arrived at the packhouse, and this was the first time you’d stepped beyond the safety of the room. You knew logically that you were safe here, no shackles, no locked doors, no cold stone walls, no shadows waiting to swallow you whole, and yet, something restless lived beneath your skin.
The hallway was wide and sunlit, the wooden floors warm under your feet. Built-in shelves lined the walls, holding framed photographs, small sculptures, and pieces of artwork collected over the years. It felt lived in. One particular painting caught your eye; an artwork washed in deep blues and silvers, almost lunar. You slowed, drawn to it, taking a hesitant step closer.
A door opened by you. “It’s bulgogi time, everyone!” a voice called out in an exaggerated sing-song tone. You nearly leapt out of your skin. Your shoulders hunched instinctively, breath catching as you spun around. Your face registered fear even before your mind did, not true fear but something sharp and electric. Your heart was racing, hammering against your ribs.
“Oh—shit,” the boy breathed. He approached quickly but carefully, dropping into a crouch a few feet away from you, hands raised slightly as if approaching a startled animal. “Hey, I’m sorry,” he said, voice softening instantly. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
You lifted your head. And promptly forgot how to think. He was shirtless. For a full second, your brain went completely blank. You blinked. Once. Twice. Your eyes lifted to meet his, and then, traitorously, dropped back down again.
His eyes widened. “My bad—again,” he said quickly, crossing his arms over his torso in an almost comically modest gesture. It reminded you absurdly of a vintage film heroine clutching a towel. “I’m not used to there being a lady in the house.” He gave a sheepish little giggle that died almost immediately when he saw your expression.
“Are you okay?” he asked, concern replacing embarrassment. “I really didn’t mean to scare you.”
You realized then that you hadn’t said anything. That silence had become your default again. “Yeah,” you managed finally. Your voice felt rusted from disuse. “I’m okay.”
He frowned slightly. “I must’ve really startled you,” he murmured. “Your heart’s still going a mile a minute.”
Your eyes snapped back to him. You stared. He stared back, patient, observant, waiting. You’d gone quiet again, and before panic could bloom fully in your chest, another voice drifted down the hall.
“Hobi-yah.” Yoongi stepped into view, exasperation lacing his tone. “Did we not tell you to keep your decibels under control for at least the first week Ahmi is out of her room?”
“Ah—hyung!” Hobi grimaced. “I didn’t realize she was out—”
“And,” Jin added, appearing behind Yoongi like a second wave of authority, “—clothes are not optional.”
He fixed Hoseok with a pointed look. “Respect the feminine presence in this house, Hoseok-ah. Wear a damn shirt.”
Hoseok lifted his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. I get it. I’m the villain.” He shot you one last apologetic glance. “Sorry again.” Then he retreated into his room, the door clicking shut far more gently this time.
Silence settled again but softer now. Yoongi’s eyes flicked over you briefly, assessing, before his voice dropped a few degrees. “You alright?” You nod, straightening up to your height, and looking at Jin again.
Jin, despite his scolding moments earlier, looked openly concerned. “I am okay,” you tell him, wanting to ease his worry. “Really,” You press. The hallway no longer felt quite as overwhelming, when he smiled softly at you.
“C’mon,” Jin said gently, his voice softer now. His hand settled at the base of your back, not pushing, not firm, just there. You let yourself be steered out of the hallway, down the wide staircase, your fingers brushing the smooth wooden railing as you descended. The space below opened up gradually, and when you reached the last step, it felt less like entering a room and more like stepping into air.
The living, dining, and kitchen area flowed together in one expansive sweep. There were no harsh divides, just subtle shifts in furniture and lighting that suggested purpose without confinement.
Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across the back wall, flooding the entire space with daylight. Warm golden light that spilled across wood floors and stone accents. It reflected softly off glass surfaces and metal fixtures, making everything feel alive. Your eyes squinted slightly. It was brighter than what you’d grown used to.
The living area sat slightly sunken, almost like a modern conversation pit. Two massive sectionals faced each other across a low stone table, with thick woven rugs anchoring the space. Throws were carelessly draped over armrests. A wide hearth of pale stone framed a modern fireplace, currently unlit but commanding attention nonetheless.
To the right, another seating area curved toward the windows, armchairs angled toward the view, as if meant for late-night talks or early morning coffee. A long bookshelf ran along one wall, filled with an odd mix of hardbound novels, vinyl records, framed photographs, and small sculptures that hinted at shared history. Beyond the living space stood the dining area.
The table was solid wood, long, heavy, capable of seating at least fourteen comfortably. The chairs didn’t match perfectly, but they complemented each other, as if added over time and one side held a long, solid wood bench. Above it hung three pendant lights, matte black with warm interiors that probably cast a golden glow at night. You could almost imagine it.
“Pick any seat,” Jin said warmly. “The boys aren’t territorial over the chairs.”
“I’ll sit beside you,” you replied quietly. “Tell me which one is yours.”
“I always take the bench,” he grinned. “But I’ll sit next to you even if you choose the prettiest, most comfortable throne in the middle.”
“The middle chairs are dangerously cushy,” Yoongi called on his way to the kitchen. “The boys used to fight over them. There were casualties.”
“Translated,” Jin said dryly, “the younger brats claimed the chairs, and we were exiled to the bench.” Yoongi snorted.
“But today,” Jin continued, turning to you with a soft smile, “Ahmi is the guest of honour. The brats can take the bench.”
“I don’t want to—” you began quickly.
Jin gently shushed you. “Their well-fed butts can survive one meal on hardwood.”
You nodded, though a small knot formed in your stomach. You didn’t want to disrupt their rhythm. Didn’t want to feel like an intrusion. You’d already startled Hoseok upstairs. You probably kept upsetting their balance just by existing in it. Jin pulled out one of the centre chairs for you, the very one Yoongi had called dangerously cushy and you slipped into it carefully. The seat was softer than expected. You folded your hands neatly in your lap, back straight, posture almost formal.
You felt like you were being introduced to royalty instead of family.
“Good morning, everyone~” You stiffened at the familiar, jovial voice before you saw him. Hoseok appeared at the top of the stairs, this time very much clothed, followed by a taller man with broad shoulders and thoughtful eyes. You rose instinctively to your feet.
“You’ve met Hobi, of course,” Jin said lightly. Hoseok offered you a small, apologetic grin.
“I am really sorry, Ahmi. I genuinely didn’t hear you earlier, and I promise I wasn’t trying to give you a heart attack.” He bowed deeply.
You bowed immediately in return. “No, no, Hoseok-ssi. I’ve just been… jumpy lately. It wasn’t your fault at all.”
“Call me Hobi,” he said, laughing softly. “Hoseok-ssi makes me sound like I pay taxes and complain about back pain. I am not fifty, I swear.”
Before you could respond, Yoongi called out, “Hoseok-ah. Help me carry these to the table.”
Hobi gave you a playful salute. “Duty calls,” he declared, then bounced toward the kitchen.
The taller man stepped forward. “I’m Namjoon,” he said, offering his hand. You hesitated just a fraction before taking it. His handshake was firm but gentle.
“You have excellent taste in books,” he added, smiling in a way that felt both amused and sincere.
Your lips curved before you could stop them. “The book club president,” you teased back softly. “You have a beautiful collection.”
“But apparently my taste is questionable,” Namjoon gave a definitely uncharacteristic pout of misfortune.
You turned sharply to glare at Jin. “You told him?” You said, the accusatory tone making Namjoon laugh.
“I presented it as constructive feedback,” Jin defended, before he could continue, you turned back to Namjoon quickly. Your face warmed in embarrassment.
“I didn’t mean it like that! I just meant —your collection is very far-reaching. You read authors from everywhere. Different styles, different eras, different languages. It’s just… hard to pinpoint what is that you exactly enjoy.” You cringed inwardly. That hadn’t sounded better.
Namjoon blinked at you once and then laughed. “I was teasing you,” he said easily. “You’re right. I read anything that keeps my brain occupied. Philosophy, poetry, sci-fi, political essays, obscure Lithuanian novels—”
“That might explain the chaos he carries around,” Jin muttered, rolling his eyes.
“Exactly,” Namjoon nodded solemnly. “My shelves are organized. My taste is not.” A small laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it.
“Aww,” a new voice chimed from the staircase, warm and honeyed, “—she has a cute laugh, hyung.”
You turned to the voice. A shorter beautiful man with bright blonde hair was descending the stairs with effortless grace, sunlight catching in the soft waves of it. Behind him followed someone taller, broader, quieter, his steps heavier, more measured.
“Jimin’s a bit of a flirt, Ahmi,” Yoongi informed you flatly as he set a bowl of rice onto the table. “And Jungkook needs time to thaw before you see his true colours.”
“I am not a flirt,” Jimin shot back immediately, scandalized. He reached the bottom step and walked straight toward you like you were the only fixed point in the room. You froze. He stopped just a breath away, his eyes bright and openly curious. There was something feline about his movements that were fluid and deliberate.
Before you could prepare yourself, he gently took your hand. He bent slightly and pressed the faintest kiss against your knuckles, his lips barely grazing your skin.
“I’m Park Jimin,” he said softly, looking up at you through his lashes with exaggerated sweetness. “But since you’re so beautiful —you can call me Oppa.” Your brain short-circuited. The room seemed louder and brighter.
“Um…” You blinked at him, still very aware of the warmth of his hand around yours. “No?”
There was a split second of silence and then Jin burst into his signature, windshield-wiper laugh. “Good girl, Ahmi!”
Yoongi snorted. Hoseok clutched his chest dramatically. “Rejected on first attempt. That’s rough.”
Namjoon hid a smile behind his glass of water. Jimin, meanwhile, gasped like you’d mortally wounded him. “You didn’t even hesitate.” Jimin placed a hand over his heart. “I was being welcoming.”
“You were being shameless,” Yoongi corrected.
Jimin ignored him entirely, turning back to you with a softer expression, less theatrics and more sincerity. “I’m really glad you’re here now,” he said quietly. “We’ve all been waiting.”
That softened something in your chest. “I—” Your voice almost caught, but you steadied it. “Thank you.”
Behind Jimin, the taller man gave you a small nod. You nod back, instinctively. He didn’t step forward immediately, just gave you space. His eyes flickered over you briefly before turning them away when your eyes met.
“He’s shy at first,” Jimin stage-whispered very loudly, making Jungkook shoot him a look. “I’m not shy.”
“You didn’t even say hello.” Jungkook hesitated. “…Hi,” he said, directing it to you properly this time. But his eyes flickered away right as they met yours once again. You now could see the blush creeping up his face.
You offered him a small, polite smile. “Hello.”
Jimin leaned slightly toward you again, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Don’t let them bully you. If anyone gives you trouble, you can sit next to me.”
“But You are the trouble,” Jungkook deadpanned.
“I am charm,” Jimin corrected, flipping his hair.
“You are delusion,” Yoongi added dryly. Jimin clicked his tongue but finally released your hand, though not before giving it one last, deliberate squeeze.
“Where’s Tae?” Jimin asked, glancing around. “He had a full identity crisis last night trying to pick a suit for the occasion.”
“A-a suit?” you repeated, suddenly hyper-aware of the oversized sweatshirt and soft lounge pants you’d borrowed. Your fingers instinctively smoothed the hem. You hadn’t even brushed your hair properly.
“Ahmi-yah,” Jin said gently, sensing the shift in your demeanour. “Relax. This is completely informal—” He looked up toward the staircase and froze. “Tae—” Jin’s voice rose a full octave. “What the hell are you wearing?!”
All heads turned. You turned too and your brain momentarily left your body.
Descending the stairs like he was stepping onto a red carpet was a tall man with sharp features and effortless poise. He was, in fact, wearing a suit. Not just a suit, a deep emerald velvet blazer tailored to perfection. Crisp white shirt underneath. Black slacks. Polished shoes. A silver brooch pinned at his lapel. His dark hair was styled deliberately, falling artfully across his forehead as if wind machines followed him indoors. He paused halfway down the stairs, tilted his head almost akin to a puppy.
“I dressed appropriately,” he said smoothly. “This is a special occasion.”
“This is brunch,” Yoongi muttered sighing tiredly. Tae ignored him entirely, his gaze locking onto you. He descended the rest of the stairs with slow, controlled steps. When he reached the bottom, he adjusted his cuffs and offered you a small bow, deeper than necessary, almost theatrical but not insincere.
“I’m Kim Taehyung,” he said, voice low and warm. “I wanted to make a good first impression.”
Your throat went dry. You were painfully aware of your borrowed clothes now, of your messy hair, of your heart beginning to beat a little too fast.
“I— you look…” Your brain scrambled for vocabulary. “—very prepared.” Behind you, Hoseok snorted.
“He tried on four different jackets,” Jimin stage-whispered. “He asked if charcoal made him look emotionally unavailable.”
“It does,” Yoongi replied without missing a beat. Taehyung shot them a lazy glare before returning his attention to you.
“You don’t need to feel underdressed,” he said quietly, as if reading your thoughts. “You look comfortable. That matters more.” The comment wasn’t teasing. It was grounding. Something in your shoulders eased.
Jin let out a dramatic sigh. “Fashion week is over. Sit down, Taehyung.” Taehyung gave one last small smile in your direction before moving to the table. “Alright, enough theatrics everyone,” Jin announced, clapping once again. “Sit and eat, before the meal gets cold.”
“I made everything I promised, Ahmi,” Jin said, as he pulled out your chair, “Beef bulgogi, spicy pork bulgogi, beef and radish soup,” He pointed at each dish, and went on to list over fifteen side dishes, making you wonder since when he was cooking and a little guilty, he had to cook so much.
“Thank you, Jin,” You smile, awestruck but grateful, “Everything looks and smells delicious,” Jin smiles bashfully at your compliment, moving to pull the chair next to you. Jimin made another bold attempt toward the chair beside you. Jin cleared his throat pointedly. Jimin froze mid-step, slowly, dramatically. He pivoted toward the bench instead.
“You wound me daily, hyung,” He muttered, pouting.
“You’ll survive,” Jin replied calmly, taking the seat beside you as promised. Yoongi took the other seat on your side, giving you a small smile when you looked at him. The rest of the five naturally had took on the bench. The seat directly across from you on the bench side, remained empty. Three pairs of eyes noticed at once. A silent understanding passed between the youngest three.
Jimin straightened first. “I think,” he said smoothly, “I should sit there. For balance.”
“For balance?” Jungkook repeated.
“Yes. Aesthetic balance.”
Taehyung leaned back slightly, unimpressed. “You just want direct eye contact.”
Jimin didn’t deny it. Jungkook crossed his arms. “We’re not arguing over a seat.”
“We are,” Jimin said calmly.
“Settle it quickly,” Yoongi muttered, already taking a bite of the seafood pancake.
Jimin perked up instantly. “Rock, paper, scissors!”
Hoseok and Namjoon took to the end seats on the bench, leaving enough space for the three in the middle. You blinked. They were absolutely serious. The three of them stood shoulder-to-shoulder at the end of the table like warriors preparing for battle.
“One round,” Jungkook said.
“Best of three,” Jimin countered.
“Only chickens need three rounds to decide,” Taehyung replied coolly.
“Fine,” Jimin agreed.
“Rock—paper—scissors!” They crouched slightly. Hands shot forward. Jimin put out scissors.
Jungkook put out scissors as well and Taehyung put out a rock.
Jungkook blinked. “No.” Jimin wailed dramatically.
Hoseok burst into laughter. “Clean sweep!” Taehyung didn’t celebrate but looked smug enough to annoy the other two. He simply adjusted his blazer sleeve like this had always been the inevitable outcome.
Jungkook stared at his defeated scissors. “I demand a recount.”
“There is no recount in rock-paper-scissors,” Namjoon said wisely.
Taehyung exhaled through his nose but couldn’t suppress the small smile tugging at his lips. Taehyung slipped on the bench seat directly across from you back and sat down with unhurried grace. Jimin and Jungkook sulked dramatically; Jimin dropping to Taehyung’s left with exaggerated despair, Jungkook taking the right side with dignified resignation.
“You cheated spiritually,” Jimin accused.
“I simply won,” Taehyung replied, folding his hands neatly on the table.
From your seat, you could feel your confusion fighting with something lighter. This was ridiculous, loud, unnecessary and completely harmless. Taehyung glanced up at you, just briefly with victory in his eyes.
You looked down quickly, pretending to focus very hard on your soup. Across from you, the three youngest continued muttering about ‘rematches’ and ‘strategic errors,’ while Namjoon and Hoseok settled onto the bench, and Jin quietly added another slice of bulgogi to your bowl like none of this was out of the ordinary. The absurdity of grown men battling over seating arrangements made something loosen inside your chest.
“We lost the visual advantage,” Jimin muttered.
“You’re acting like this is combat,” Namjoon sighed as he moved to grab some more pork.
“It is,” Jungkook agreed solemnly, sliding onto the bench beside him. Jin ignored all of them and focused entirely on you. He placed a bowl gently in front of you first —rice, fluffy and steaming. Then a bigger bowl of soup. He added portions of beef bulgogi with careful attention, and even pieces of pork before asking quietly, “Too much?”
You shook your head lightly at the extra portion.
Jin studied your face for a second longer, then nodded once, satisfied. He’d been quietly tracking things; how much you ate, how often you finished your meals, how your appetite had grown since that first fragile week when even a few bites had exhausted you. He had noticed you loved eating a lot, so he always brought you different dishes to try and enjoy. Only after your bowl was filled did he finally serve himself.
The table settled into a rhythm. Chopsticks lifted. Ceramic clicked softly. Someone reached for water. Low conversation threaded through the space, overlapping but not overwhelming. The food was amazing like always. You let the noise blur into the background and, for the first time without panic clawing at your ribs, really looked at them. Now that the rapid introductions were over, now that your pulse had steadied. They were all distractingly good-looking. Not in the same way. Not identical. Each carried something distinct.
Jin, beside you, felt almost unreal up close. Broad shoulders beneath a simple shirt, posture relaxed but assured. His face was striking in that balanced way, sharp lines softened by warm eyes. He looked like someone who could command a room without raising his voice, yet would kneel to fix a loose shoelace if you asked. There was authority in him, yes but never intimidation. Sitting next to him felt like leaning against something steady and solid. A calm you hadn’t known you were missing.
Yoongi, on your other side, was the opposite kind of presence. Quieter, denser and composed in a way that felt carved rather than grown. Dark hair falling just enough over sharp eyes that seemed to register everything without announcing it. He spoke rarely, but when he did, it was precise and efficient. There was something undeniably feline about him; pale skin, delicate features, a brooding gaze that softened unexpectedly when he smiled. And that smile, small, gummy, and disarming, was startling against his otherwise controlled demeanour.
Namjoon, seated across on the bench, was larger than you’d first registered. Taller, broader, carrying himself with quiet intellectual weight. His features were strong, handsome in a thoughtful way rather than flashy. When he spoke, even casually, there was intention behind his words. His hands were big, movements occasionally awkward as if he forgot his own size but you could see the care in the way he adjusted his strength around objects and around people. He looked like someone constantly balancing ideas in his head, philosophy and curiosity layered beneath muscle.
Hoseok seemed to emit light. Even sitting still, there was a current to him; expressive face, high cheekbones, skin clear and luminous. His smile came easily, full and bright, but when his eyes flickered to you, that brightness softened instantly. It dimmed into something protective, almost tender. He’d startled you earlier, but he looked more troubled by that fact than you ever had been. His warmth was so immediate that it almost disguised how handsome he truly was at first glance.
Jimin, currently sulking in exaggerated defeat beside Taehyung, was compact but magnetic. There was easy-going beauty in him. The way he tilted his head. The way he folded his hands. The way he pouted just enough to be dramatic but not enough to be childish. His jawline was sharp, but his cheeks still held softness. His lips were a natural pink that made you briefly and traitorously wonder if they’d always looked that way. When he smiled fully, his eyes curved into crescents, and you could absolutely imagine how easily he made people blush. Flirtatious, yes. But observant. Calculating in a gentle way.
Jungkook was quieter than the others but not smaller for it. If anything, the silence made him more noticeable. He was broader through the shoulders, his build solid in a way that felt earned rather than decorative. The fabric of his t-shirt pulled naturally across his chest and arms when he reached for something, muscle shifting beneath like it was simply part of him, not something he displayed, just something that existed. His face was unfairly handsome. Large, dark eyes framed by thick lashes, soft at first glance, almost doe-like but sharpened by the way they focused.
A few piercings glinted when he turned his head, small flashes of silver against warm skin. They suited him. Not flashy, not rebellious for attention’s sake. Just a quiet edge that contrasted with the softness of his eyes. There was youth in him, but not immaturity.
And then Taehyung, seated directly across from you.
Taehyung didn’t need to try to be noticed. He simply was noticed. Even seated casually across from you, even with his brooch removed and his blazer slightly loosened, there was something composed about him. Intentional. Like every line of his body had been arranged with unconscious elegance. The emerald of his jacket caught the light when he shifted, rich against his skin tone, dramatic without being gaudy.
Strong brows. Straight nose. A mouth that seemed sculpted rather than grown. His features weren’t soft like Jimin’s or sharp like Hoseok’s, they were balanced in a way that felt almost classical. And yet there was something playful hidden underneath, something that flickered in his eyes when he thought no one noticed. He looked every bit of the art you had heard he adored.
“So, Ahmi,” Jimin began smoothly, resting his chin in his palm as he cast an exaggeratedly sharp look at his older brother, “do tell us about yourself.”
His eyes flicked toward Jin again, playful but accusing. “Jin-hyung only ever sings praises about your manners and beauty.” He rolled his eyes dramatically. “I’m certain you’re far more accomplished than that. Surely a lady like you deserves to be known for more than just her looks.”
Your brain stalled again. You swallowed. “Um…” The word came out smaller than intended. “I—I don’t really have any remarkable achievements, I’m afraid.” Other than getting kidnapped by monsters, your mind supplied unhelpfully.
Hoseok barked out a soft laugh. “Ignore whatever theatrical nonsense he’s performing, Ahmi.” Jimin gasped in mock offense. “Just tell us about yourself,” Hoseok urged gently. Then, seeing the way your fingers tightened slightly around your chopsticks, he softened further. “Or… actually how about we start? And you can follow in a similar way?” You nodded quickly, grateful for the lifeline.
“I’ll go first,” Hoseok declared, grabbing his spoon and holding it like a microphone. He cleared his throat theatrically. “I am Jung Hoseok but you can call me Hobi. I am twenty-four. Born on February eighteenth. I help with the family business,” He tilted his head proudly. “But what I truly enjoy is dancing. I’m a part-time instructor at the Seoul Dance Academy.” There was warmth in the way he said it, like dancing wasn’t just work.
You tilted your head slightly. “Where did ‘Hobi’ come from?”
“It’s from J-Hope,” Jimin chimed in immediately, barely suppressing a giggle behind his palm. “He’s the Jung Hope of Seoul Dance Academy. Jung Hope. Hope. Hope-ie. Hobi.”
Understanding lit up your face. “Oh! Hope because you’re bright and happy?” You clapped softly to yourself, pleased with the connection. “That’s adorable. It’s such a cute nickname.”
Hoseok froze, then dramatically turned toward Jin in pride. “Did you hear that, hyung? I’m cute.”
Jin didn’t even look up from his plate. “Don’t let it get to your head.” The table laughed, including you.
“I’ll go next,” Jimin announced, snatching the spoon-microphone from Hoseok with unnecessary flair. He sat up straighter, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from his shirt. “Park Jimin. October 13th. Twenty-three years old. I also assist in the family business which let me tell you, is tragically dull but I am, in contrast, an exceptionally talented dancer.” He paused for effect. “I teach at Seoul Dance Academy as well. With Hobi-hyung.” There was satisfaction —but it wasn’t arrogant. It was earned.
“Are you trained in any particular style?” you asked, leaning forward slightly. The second mention of dance had sparked genuine curiosity.
Jimin’s eyes brightened at your interest. “Contemporary and modern.”
You turned back to Hoseok. “What about you?”
“Street dance,” he grinned. “Hip-hop, locking, popping. Anything that lets me move.”
“Do you dance, Ahmi?” he asked, tilting his head curiously. The attention shifted again, but this time it felt lighter. You felt a little bashful under their interested gaze.
“I trained in ballet when I was younger,” you admitted. “But my parents moved around a lot, so I couldn’t stay anywhere long enough to continue properly. I did contemporary and modern for a while too.” You gave a small, almost embarrassed shrug. “Once I started university, I couldn’t keep up with that as well.”
“You did ballet?” Jimin’s posture changed instantly. Gone was the teasing flirt; in his place was a dancer, alert and interested. “For how long?”
“A few years,” you said softly. “Nothing professional.”
“That’s still training,” Hoseok said quickly. “Ballet foundation is no joke.”
“You should come by the academy sometime.” Jimin leaned forward, elbows on the table now. “We host workshops all the time. Contemporary, fusion, even ballet crossover sometimes.”
“You’d like it,” Hoseok added, his grin gentler now. “No pressure. Just fun.”
There was no mockery or teasing, just genuine enthusiasm at sharing the same passion. Across from you, Taehyung had gone still again, watching the exchange with thoughtful eyes. Jungkook’s gaze lingered a second longer when you mentioned ballet, as if picturing it. Jin placed another small portion of food onto your plate without interrupting the conversation. Yoongi filled your glass with warm water.
“I’d like to, someday,” you said.
The words sounded agreeable enough, but even to your own ears they lacked certainty. The idea of dancing again felt distant, like something belonging to a version of you that existed before fear carved hollows into your days. Lately, even joy felt exhausting. Reading was easier. Reading was safe. It wasn’t happiness —it was escape. And with how wildly different Namjoon’s book recommendations were, you could disappear completely. Exist between pages instead of inside your own life.
“I’ll go next,” Taehyung announced, lifting the spoon-microphone with dramatic reverence. He sat up straighter, shoulders squaring as though preparing for a performance.
“I am Kim Taehyung. Also, twenty-three. December thirtieth.” He tilted his head slightly, a playful glint in his eyes. “I like dancing. I like taking pictures. I like art. I like jazz. I like doing a lot of things.” The enthusiasm in his voice made you laugh before you could stop yourself.
“I heard you paint as well,” you said, warmth returning to your tone. “Have you been working on anything? Can I see some?” For the first time, his energy quieted.
“I haven’t completed the recent piece, it is the closest to my heart,” he admitted, fingers absently tracing the edge of the spoon. “Not with everything that’s happened recently.” You stiffened faintly. The shift in his tone was subtle, but real. The ‘recent happenings’ hung between you like an unspoken understanding. He noticed your reaction and softened immediately. “I’ll finish it soon,” he said, voice low and certain now. His eyes held yours steadily. “You’ll be the first to see it. I promise.”
“Ooh,” Jimin sing-songed. “That’s a privilege.” Taehyung didn’t deny it. He simply smiled.
“Guess it’s my turn,” Namjoon said, taking the spoon with far less flair.
“I’m Kim Namjoon. Twenty-four. September twelfth.” He adjusted his shirt unconsciously as he spoke. “I handle most of the strategic side of the family business. I read a lot. Probably too much.” He smiled faintly. “I enjoy museums, poetry, philosophy.”
“And breaking things.” Jin added helpfully, making the rest chuckle including Namjoon.
He sighed. “It’s not intentional though, only accidental.”
“You recommend books like a literature scholar,” you said softly before you could stop yourself. His eyes flicked to yours, surprised.
“Do I?”
“They’re all very different.” You say, “But immersive.”
Something in his expression shifted, pleased, but contained. “I’m glad.”
Yoongi didn’t reach for the spoon.
“I’m Min Yoongi,” he said simply. “Twenty-five. March ninth.” He leaned back slightly, arms crossing loosely. “I am a doctor. I prefer quiet.” His gaze lifted briefly to you. “Noise gets exhausting.”
“You live with six brothers.” The corner of your mouth twitched. “I can’t imagine you getting much quiet,”
“I said I prefer quiet,” he corrected dryly and you giggle at his correction. You turned to Jungkook, finding absolutely no other way to ignore Jimin who had been pretending to reintroduce himself again, with his spoon-microphone near his face, that Taehyung nearly wrestled out of him and held out to Jungkook. He hesitated a second before taking the spoon from Taehyung.
“I’m Jeon Jungkook. Twenty-one. September first.” His voice was steady, sweeter than expected. “I box and do martial arts.” He shrugs, “I like working out and cooking.” That made sense and you could see it in him, the alertness, the way he tracked movement without appearing to.
He added after a second. “And eat. Sometimes.”
“Sometimes?” Jin scoffed lightly. “You devour the kitchen.”
Jungkook’s ears flushed slightly pink. “Hyung—” You smiled softly at that; it was endearing to see the relationship the brothers seemed to share. Jungkook finished, a little stiff at the attention, and gently set the spoon back in the centre of the table like he was returning something ceremonial. There was a beat of silence.
“Ahem.” Jin reached forward and claimed the spoon with exaggerated dignity. “How rude,” he said lightly, arching a brow at the rest of them. “The eldest nearly forgotten.”
“You were too busy feeding her,” Yoongi muttered and your cheeks heated up. Jin ignored him completely. He straightened in his seat, shoulders rolling back effortlessly. “Kim Seokjin. Twenty-six. December fourth.” His voice carried natural authority, warm, but unmistakably firm. “I oversee the primary operations of our family business.”
“That’s a very vague description,” Namjoon commented mildly.
Jin shot him a look. “It’s intentionally vague.” A ripple of amusement passed around the table. “I also cook,” Jin continued, gesturing lightly toward the spread before you. “Clearly better than some people appreciate.”
“I appreciated it,” you said quietly, gesturing to your empty bowls and plates. His gaze softened.
“Good,” he replied, and there was no teasing in it. “Then my work is done.” He tapped the spoon thoughtfully against his palm. “I enjoy fishing. Traveling when time allows. Collecting recipes from places I visit.” A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “And making sure everyone eats properly.”
“Especially you,” Hoseok sing-songed, wiggling his eyebrows at you and your blood rushing up to your cheeks again. Jin didn’t deny it. He simply reached over and adjusted your bowl a fraction closer to you, as if the motion alone proved the point. There was something about the way he spoke; less flashy, less bright, less deliberate than the rest. Jin didn’t try to impress. He stated facts. He existed solidly within them. When he finished, he didn’t toss the spoon back dramatically. He placed it gently in your hand.
“Now,” he said quietly, turning slightly toward you, “—continue.” His tone wasn’t pressing. It was steady and supportive, like he was anchoring you before you stepped back into deeper water and so you did.
Seven faces looked at yours, not expectant in a demanding way; just open and curious. You swallowed.
“I am Yoo Ahmi, twenty-one years old.” you began quietly. “I was born in China, but my parents moved around a lot due to my father’s job. He was a Diplomat. So, we barely spent a year in one place. I was homeschooled till university. I’ve lived in China, Japan, Vietnam, Taiwan, Hong Kong, Canada, the UK, Switzerland, France…” You let out a small, almost breathless laugh. “It’s easier to list where I haven’t been.”
Hoseok’s eyes widened. “That’s incredible.”
“It sounds exciting,” you admitted softly. “But it was mostly temporary. I never stayed long enough to call anywhere home or make any real friends.” Jin’s posture shifted beside you, so slight most wouldn’t notice. But you did. “This is my first time in Korea. Even though I’m Korean.” You gave a small, almost self-conscious smile. “I wanted to finish university in one place. Just once. So, we stayed in—” You named the city quietly. “The plan was always that I’d graduate there and then move to Korea.”
You rolled your eyes faintly, fondness threading through it. “But Appa said we’d spent far too much time away from home. That it was time to return to our roots.” A few of the boys exchanged subtle glances. “I didn’t want to,” you admitted. “But he bribed me. Said we’d build a house that looked exactly like my Pinterest dreams.” A tiny, broken laugh escaped you. “He knew that would work.” You drifted somewhere else for a moment, back to that version of life where the future still felt solid.
“He promised it would finally be ours. So, we packed everything again and moved to Seoul.” Your voice thinned. “We stayed in an apartment while searching for property. And then, we found one.” Your fingers curled into themselves. “It was near the woods. There was a wide stream nearby. The backyard was huge. Omma said we could host summer dinners there. We’d already started unpacking and decorating, pulling things out of boxes.” You swallowed.
“But I never got to actually live in it.” The table had gone completely still. No one touched their food. No one interrupted. “Omma and I went out to buy ingredients to make tteok,” you continued, your throat tightening. “She said if we shared it with the neighbours, it would help us integrate, make a good first impression. It was supposed to be the last move after all, the last beginning.”
Your breathing grew uneven. “We were on our way back when we-we got kidnapped by—” The word wouldn’t come. Your pulse roared in your ears. “By—” Monsters sounded childish. Creatures sounded fictional. Men sounded too human. Your breathing hitched sharply.
Around you, every trace of playfulness vanished. Jin’s hand moved closer to yours, not touching yet. Just there. Yoongi’s jaw set hard. Jungkook’s shoulders squared almost imperceptibly. Hoseok’s brightness extinguished completely. Namjoon’s gaze sharpened with focus. Taehyung and Jimin looked almost unreal in their seriousness, like masks had been stripped away.
“You don’t have to tell us more,” Jin said gently, he put an arm around you, “Not right now.” The silence that followed wasn’t suffocating. It was shielding. And somehow, that made it easier to force the truth out.
“I don’t know what they were,” you breathed, tears spilling despite your effort to stop them. “They were monsters, fangs and sharp nails. They had eyes that weren’t right, it was inhuman.” Your voice trembled violently now. Jin held your hand his, stroking with his thumb, “They bit Omma, drank her blood.” Your hands shook. “They were cruel. There wasn’t just one. There were many. He kept touching me—” Your breath stuttered. “I begged them—him to let us go. I begged them—him to let my mum go.” No one moved.
“They fed on us, over and over.” A sob tore from your chest before you could contain it. “She kept telling me Appa would come, that he’d find us.” Your vision blurred. “He did find us,” you whispered. Jin’s hand finally closed around yours. “But they killed him too.” The words dropped like stones. “They hurt him first. And then they killed him.” Your voice fractured completely now. “The feeding didn’t stop. It just kept happening and happening. And one day… Omma didn’t wake up.” Tears slid off your chin and you sobbed.
“There were many like me,” you continued hollowly. “So many. Some of them died. I kept wondering when it would be my turn.” The room felt smaller, tighter but not because of judgment, but because of fury.
“After Omma—” You blinked hard, as if forcing yourself back into your own body. “I don’t remember much. I remember being bitten. Feeling tired. Dizzy. Restless. Like I wasn’t inside myself anymore.” Your breath trembled on the way out. “And then I woke up here.”
You smiled. It wasn’t hopeful. It wasn’t grateful. It was simply the only expression you could manage when there were no more tears left to fall. The silence that followed was deafening but not fragile, not uncertain.
Jin’s hand remained wrapped around yours, firm and immovable, like the foundation of a house that refused to crack. His thumb pressed once against your knuckles, steady and grounding. Across the table, Yoongi had gone utterly still. Not the relaxed stillness of someone at ease, but the kind that preceded violence. His eyes were dark, flat, calculating. A storm held behind glass. Jungkook’s knuckles had blanched white against the edge of the table. The wood creaked faintly beneath his grip. His jaw was clenched so tightly a muscle ticked near his ear. He hadn’t blinked in several seconds.
Hoseok’s brightness, the laughter, the warmth had vanished entirely. His eyes shone, not with pity, but with something sharper; protective and furious. As though joy itself had been insulted. Namjoon inhaled slowly before speaking, like he was containing something vast and dangerous inside his chest.
“They won’t touch you again,” he said, each word was measured and precise. “We will protect you. At all costs.” It wasn’t a reassurance. It was a vow for them. Across from you, Taehyung’s usual softness had burned away. What remained was something ancient and resolute. His gaze held yours without wavering, emerald jacket catching the light as if nothing about him had changed, yet everything had.
Jimin’s lips had parted slightly, his usual pout and theatrics replaced by something painfully quiet. His eyes shimmered, but he did not look away from you. His softness had hardened, not into coldness, but into promise. Almost all of them were holding back tears, not because they pitied you. But because something in them had shifted irrevocably.
It was one thing to look at victims from a distance; to feel anger at monsters, regret at arriving too late, frustration at the limits of power. It was another thing entirely to watch someone at your own table recount the moment their world was torn apart. To imagine their pack member, because that was what you were, waiting in the dark for death while her parents were slaughtered.
The wolves felt it like a blade through their own ribs. Their hearts, creatures built for battle, for dominance, for protection, softened in a way that startled even them. You had spoken the worst parts aloud. And instead of shattering the room, you had changed it. The air felt different now, heavier but steadier. The grief you had carried alone for weeks, months, perhaps longer than that, no longer echoed into nothingness. It landed here, on the table, in their chests, shared among the seven sets of shoulders that bore it without hesitation.
For the first time since that night, you were not the only one holding the memory of parents’ last breaths. Your grief had witnesses. It had warriors.
You became aware of your own tears only when one slid off your chin and onto your hand. Heat rushed to your face. “I’m sorry,” you murmured automatically, voice small. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t.” Jin’s tone wasn’t sharp, but it was absolute. “Don’t ever apologize for surviving.” The words settled around you like something solid, protective and final. His arm remained around your shoulders, drawing you slightly closer; not enough to trap you, just enough to steady you. Hoseok silently passed him a napkin, and Jin used it carefully, gently wiping the tears from your cheeks as though you were something precious and breakable.
“We’re grateful you shared this with us,” Jin said softly.
Yoongi nudged a glass of water toward you. “Take a sip.” You did. Your hands trembled less than before. The air began to loosen. Not because what you’d said mattered less, but because they had accepted it and held it.
“You know,” Hoseok said after a moment, clearing his throat lightly, “We were going to get dessert anyway. But now we definitely are.” Jimin’s head snapped toward him.
“Hyung, don’t pretend this isn’t your excuse to empty the hundred-box melona stash you impulse-bought when it went on sale.”
Hoseok gasped. “It was a strategic investment.”
“Can you believe it?” Yoongi deadpanned. “We still have over fifty left.”
“It would’ve been a sin to pass it up!” Hoseok defended, pointing his spoon accusingly. “Do you know how rare that discount was?”
“Maybe Jin-hyung should make a proper dessert,” Jimin mused dramatically. “Like tiramisu. Something fancy.”
“We just ate,” Namjoon pointed out mildly.
“This is clearly an emergency,” Jimin countered without missing a beat. He turned to you, eyes bright again but softer than before. “How do you feel about being tortured with melona, our guest of honour?”
Despite everything, you giggled. It surprised you more than them.
“What do you want, Ahmi-yah?” Jin asked, brushing a stray hair from your face with his thumb.
“I… I don’t know.” You hesitated.
“What’s your favourite dessert? Would you enjoy a Tiramisu?” Jin leaned back slightly, considering. “Proper tiramisu takes time. A few hours to chill and all. Ideally a day.”
“A whole day,” Jungkook repeated, eyebrows lifting slightly. “That’s 24 hours!”
“Hyung,” Jimin protested, “that is forever for an emergency.”
“I like tiramisu too,” you admitted quietly. “But I can make do with ice cream.”
The corner of Jin’s mouth curved faintly. “I’ll make Tiramisu for you anyway.” He gave you a squeeze, his arm around you still in an embrace.
“Actually…” Namjoon interjected gently, glancing between you and the others. “While we wait for dessert, maybe someone should show Ahmi around properly.”
“The house is big,” Hoseok added. “She hasn’t seen it yet.”
Jimin shot up slightly in his seat. “I volunteer.”
Taehyung casually adjusted his blazer sleeves, as though this were a diplomatic assignment and said, “I can escort her around as well,”
Jungkook looked at you, and nodded to himself, but didn’t speak, and he didn’t look away either. Yoongi raised a brow at the three of them. Jin studied you carefully, watching your breathing, the way your shoulders had finally relaxed a fraction and then he decided.
“Maknae line.” All three youngest straightened instinctively. “Show her around,” Jin said. His voice was calm, but deliberate. “Slowly, and don’t overwhelm her with your chatter and clutter.”
“Yes, sir!” They saluted, like in military and turned to you.
Jimin grinned softly at you. “Come on. We’ll start with the front door, like any property tour.”
Taehyung stood, offering his hand in an almost courtly gesture. “The scenic route.”
Jungkook moved to your other side without comment, close enough that you’d feel it if you stumbled but not touching. Behind you, the older four remained seated. You hesitated only a second before standing. Jin’s arm slipped from around your shoulders, but his warmth lingered. He gave you one last assessing look, as if confirming you were steady enough on your feet before nodding once.
“Don’t run,” he warned the three youngest calmly.
“We never run,” Jimin replied with immediate offense.
“You absolutely run,” Yoongi muttered.
Taehyung ignored them both, already reaching into the freezer drawer nearby and pulling it open with quiet confidence.
Hoseok gasped. “Don’t take more than four!”
“Hyung,” Jimin scoffed, grabbing one green-wrapped bar and tossing another to Jungkook. “This is an at least a two melona per head event.” Jungkook caught it easily with one hand. He peeled the wrapper halfway down, then paused, waiting for you.
Taehyung selected one carefully and stepped closer, offering it to you with a small flourish. “For the guest of honour.” You chuckled but accepted it, fingers brushing the cold plastic.
Jimin already had his open, dramatically biting into it. “If we disappear for too long, assume we got distracted by the movie room.”
“Or the art room,” Taehyung added lightly.
“Or Jungkook’s obsession with reorganizing the gym,” Jimin whispered loudly.
Jungkook gave him a look. “You’re the one who keeps arranging them wrong.”
“It is aesthetic.” Jimin offered.
“It is stupid.” Jungkook snapped back, pointing his melona at Jimin.
Behind you, Jin shook his head, though there was the faintest curve to his mouth now. “Slowly,” he repeated. “Go,” Jin ordered, though there was no real heat behind it.
Taehyung offered you his arm, to link it, still playing a gentleman. You laughed again, looping your arm with his, as he led you out of the kitchen area. You took a tentative bite of the melona. It was sweet, cold and unexpectedly comforting. The three youngest adjusted their pace without speaking about it, falling into step around you naturally. Jimin slightly ahead, walking backward as he narrated. Taehyung beside you, with his arm linked with yours, matching your stride. Jungkook just half a step behind and to the side, a quiet presence.
As you moved away from the dining area, the hum of the older members’ low voices resumed behind you. But ahead of you was space and light, the open stretch of the living area. Jimin gestured grandly with his half-eaten ice cream. “Welcome to the main living hall. Floor-to-ceiling windows, strong wood beams. Excessive but tasteful.”
Taehyung shot him a look. “You sound like a brochure.”
“I could be,” Jimin replied smoothly. “I also could be a real estate tycoon.”
And just like that, the heaviness in your chest didn’t disappear, but it shifted.
Thus, the Bangtan Packhouse tour began, with the four of you holding melting melonas in your hands.
—next chapter | chapter four
—author's endnote | feedback and thoughts are really appreciated! It keeps me motivated to write more and definitely makes me happy! I hope all of you are doing well, lots of love and take care, aksh 💕
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04 March, 2026.
