Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The world didn’t end when Seungmin’s aunt died.
That’s what shocked him the most.

The sun still rose. The buses still hissed down cracked streets. The kettle still clicked off in his dim little kitchen, steam curling upward like nothing had changed. The sky didn’t fall. The ground didn’t open.
And he hated that.

He wanted something to split. To scream. To burn.
But all he got was silence.

He stood by the window that morning with a chipped mug in his hands and a body that barely belonged to him. His oversized jumper sagged on his shoulders, sleeves hiding the bruises his own elbows had left when he curled too tight in bed. He hadn’t been to work in three days. Hadn’t answered any texts. Didn’t plan to.

He just… watched.
The buildings across the street. The flicker of neon signs in the bakery window. A man walking his dog.
Ordinary things. Things that had no idea she was gone.

His aunt had raised him.
She wasn’t the softest woman in the world, not the sort who sang lullabies or made fresh cookies, but she stayed. Always. When his parents left, when school got too loud, when the world got too sharp, she was there.
“You don’t have to talk,” she used to say. “But don’t disappear.”

And now she was the one who disappeared.

Seungmin hadn’t cried yet. He’d tried. He’d even screamed into the closet once, just to see if anything would come out of him. But there was only that hollow, echoing throb behind his eyes. Like something had caved in and didn’t know how to call for help.

-

The funeral was worse than he imagined.

He wore a suit that didn’t fit, he’d lost too much weight. His collar felt like a noose. The sleeves were too long, making him look even smaller than he was. He didn’t look in the mirror before leaving. He didn’t want to see the ghost behind his own eyes.

There weren’t many people there. She’d been quiet. Kept to herself. A few coworkers. One neighbour. A woman Seungmin vaguely remembered from a grocery run years ago.

They all said the same things. “She was kind.” “She was strong.” “She always brought her own bags.”
Nobody said:
“She saved a boy who didn’t know how to live.”

He stood at the edge of the crowd, back straight, hands clenched. Not from strength, but from the need to feel something. His fingertips were numb. His jaw ached from grinding.

The casket was closed. He was glad. He didn’t want to see her frozen. She was the only warmth he’d known. He wanted to remember the calluses on her hands, the way she clapped too loudly during movie nights, the way she said “eat something, Seungmin-ah,” like it was a prayer.

After the service, a man approached him with a hesitant expression and a thin folder under his arm.

“Kim Seungmin?”

“…Yes.”

The man smiled politely. Too politely. He wore glasses and a coat that didn’t match his pants.

“I’m Alan. I was your aunt’s… well, she called me her paperwork guy. I helped her with some legal stuff over the years.”

Seungmin stared at him. He didn’t nod. Didn’t speak. Alan cleared his throat and shifted the folder, pulling out a cream-coloured envelope.

“She left this for you. Said you should open it when you felt ready.”

Seungmin took it slowly. The paper felt heavy in his hands. Old. Worn at the corners. Sealed with wax.
Who even did that anymore?

“She mentioned… a house,” Alan added. “Not the apartment here. One she owned outside the city.”

“…What?”

“She didn’t say much. Just that it would make sense. Eventually.”

Eventually.
What a cruel word.

-

The letter sat on the counter for three days. He didn’t touch it. Didn’t look at it directly. Just knew it was there, pulsing like a second heartbeat in the silence of the kitchen. He kept expecting her to call. To scold him for ignoring it. But there was only the hum of the fridge.

On the fourth day, Seungmin broke.
Not dramatically. Not with sobs or screams.

Just… quietly.

He sat on the floor with the letter in his lap and opened it with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking.
The wax crumbled like dry blood. Inside was an old map, and a single sheet of paper, handwritten in her unmistakably sharp, no-nonsense handwriting.

Seungmin,

You won’t understand this yet. But I know you’ll need help.
This house will give you what I no longer can.

Love, always,
Auntie

A small brass key slipped from the fold. It landed on his lap with a soft clink. He stared at it for a long time. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. He didn’t cry.
But something inside him shifted. Not hope. Not even curiosity. Just a flicker of something that wasn’t pain.

-

He left the apartment the next morning. He brought only one bag. Just the essentials. He didn’t plan to stay. He didn’t plan to live either, but that wasn’t the sort of thing he said out loud. 

The house was five hours away, buried in a town he’d never heard of. The directions were scribbled in the corner of the letter. No address. Just a road name and a red X on an old paper map.

The train ride was quiet. Seungmin watched the trees blur past, watched the light shift across the windows. His reflection stared back at him; sunken eyes, dry lips, hoodie pulled tight.

He didn’t sleep.
Didn’t eat.
Didn’t think.

Just waited.

-

It was dusk when he arrived. The house stood at the edge of nowhere.Tall, weathered, beautiful in a way that felt out of place in this town. A Victorian-style structure with peeling paint, ivy trailing up the outer walls, a gate that screeched when he opened it. The windows were tall and narrow, the door painted a faded shade of green. The kind of house that felt like it had stories hidden in its floorboards. The gravel crunched beneath his feet as he approached.

Seungmin stood in front of the front door, staring up at it. The key in his hand trembled slightly. Or maybe it was just him. This was it. This was what she left him.

He slid the key into the lock. Turned it. The door opened with a groan like an old sigh. Dust hung in the air. The scent of aged wood and forgotten memories wrapped around him like a blanket. The house was cold. He stepped inside. The floorboards creaked. The door shut behind him.

Dust floated in the shafts of afternoon light that streamed in through half-covered windows. The floorboards creaked beneath his feet. Wallpaper curled at the edges in some rooms, the old kind with floral patterns faded by time. There was a fireplace in the front sitting room. A grand staircase just beyond the hall. An old chandelier hung above the entryway, its crystals catching the light just enough to twinkle.

Seungmin didn’t speak. He walked. Slowly. Room to room.

There was a kitchen with brass fixtures and an old gas stove. A parlour that smelled faintly of lavender and forgotten things. Upstairs there were four bedrooms. One locked. One stripped bare. One filled with books. One with an unmade bed and a worn-out chair.

He chose the last one. Not because it felt right. But because it didn’t feel like anything at all.

-

The first few nights were quiet. Too quiet. He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t eat. He wandered the halls instead, barefoot, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands. The silence was louder than the city ever was. It pressed in around him, demanding something he couldn’t give.

He started cleaning. Not because he cared, but because it gave his hands something to do. He dusted off windowsills, folded blankets, swept floors. He found old photographs tucked in drawers, some so faded he couldn’t make out the faces.

He didn’t try to open the locked room. Not yet.

He didn’t notice anything strange. Not at first. No whispering. No flickering lights. No ghostly figures at the end of hallways. Just… stillness. And the creeping sense that the house was watching him back.

Sometimes, he sat in the kitchen and stared at nothing. Sometimes, he stood outside in the garden, the overgrown weeds brushing his ankles, wondering what she meant by help.

But mostly, he did nothing. He just… was.

A boy in a house that didn’t ask anything of him. For now.

Chapter Text

The quiet had settled like dust in his lungs. Seungmin hadn’t spoken in days, but the house didn’t seem to mind. It listened anyway.

He started with the front hall. Not for any real reason, just because the broom was there. Leant against the cracked wall beneath the old coat hooks like someone had been planning to use it and then forgot. Like so much else.

The bristles were stiff. Dust bloomed in ghost-puffs as he swept, spiralling in the late morning sun that filtered through the warped glass above the door. He didn’t open any windows. Not yet. The air in the house was stale, but he wasn’t ready to let the outside in.

The first few swipes of the broom left trails through a decade’s worth of stillness. Dead leaves. Fine dirt. A spider that skittered away like it had secrets to keep. He swept slowly. Not because he wanted it clean, because he didn’t know what else to do with his hands.

The chandelier above him gave a faint, hollow rattle every time he stepped too hard. Not loud. Just enough to make him look up. It was pretty, in a way that didn’t suit him. Crystals and brass and dust like old snow. He didn’t touch it. He just swept beneath it like a shadow. And the light scattered over his shoulder anyway.

There was a kind of rhythm to cleaning. A kind of… safety in repetition. Pull back the rug. Sweep underneath. Avoid the nail sticking out of the floorboard. Return the rug. Pretend this counts as living.

By the time the front hall was done, Seungmin’s hands felt raw inside the sleeves of his hoodie, and a thin sheen of sweat clung to his neck beneath the overgrown mess of his hair. He didn’t stop.

He moved to the sitting room next. The one with the piano. It took him twenty minutes to peel back the curtains. They were old and heavy and resisted him like they didn’t want the light. When it finally streamed in, it caught the shape of the keys.

He stared at them for a long time. One was chipped. Another was faintly pink, stained by something he couldn’t name. He still didn’t touch them. Instead, he wiped down the mantle. The cloth came away black. He folded it over and kept going.

There was a vase with no flowers, but dried stems still inside it, crumbling when he lifted them, the petals turning to powder between his fingers. The fireplace hadn’t been lit in years. Maybe longer. He didn’t know how to start a fire anyway.

He found a box of matches in a drawer beneath the bookshelf. It had exactly one match left. He didn’t use it. He didn’t even know why he pocketed it. It just felt like something he shouldn’t throw away.

-

Upstairs was harder. Not because of the stairs, though his knees ached more than they should’ve. Not even because the second floor felt colder. But because it was so quiet, it made him feel like he was the thing disturbing the peace.

He paused on the landing again. The banister was still smooth under his hand, worn with time and fingers he’d never meet. The window on the landing had a crack in one corner where frost had once crept through. There was a bench under it, shoved up against the wall, a cushion slumped across it like someone had attempted comfort and given up halfway.

He opened the first room. The one with the books. Dust made his throat catch immediately. But he stepped inside anyway, dragging his sleeve over the nearest shelf, smearing it clean in uneven streaks.

There were no titles on the spines. At least not in any language he recognised. But the books smelled real. Like history and old thoughts. He didn’t open any of them. He didn’t want to wake anything up. Instead, he wiped. And stacked. And made little piles. None of it organised. Just a quiet war against the mess.

The second room was still locked. He tried the handle again. It turned slightly this time. Not enough to open, just enough to make the hairs on his neck lift. He didn’t try again.

The third room, bare and echoing, had a broken lamp in the corner. He fixed it. There wasn’t a reason. He just found the bulb on the floor, and the shade under the armchair, and the base half buried in a pile of old coats. And suddenly, it felt like something he needed to do. When he turned it on, the light was weak and yellow. But it worked. And for a moment, he felt like he did, too.

In the hallway, there was a picture on the wall he hadn’t noticed before. It was crooked. Faintly off-centre. A small oil painting of a field. Maybe wheat. Maybe just grass. There were no people in it. No buildings. Just a pale blue sky and a tiny black dot near the bottom corner. He squinted.

It didn’t look like a bird. Or a house. Or anything really. But it hadn’t been there yesterday. He was almost sure of it. He straightened the frame. It stayed crooked. He left it.

-

Upstairs, the bedroom he’d chosen still felt strange. Like he’d moved into someone else’s memory instead of a room. The curtains were too heavy, and the light always came in crooked. Seungmin stripped the bed anyway, carefully, folding back each layer like it might shatter. The sheets smelled faintly of cedar and something older, and the blanket had a pull in the fabric like someone had caught their fingernail on it during a nightmare.

He took everything to the old washing machine tucked behind the kitchen. It groaned like it hadn’t been used in years, and for a moment, he thought it might leak or explode or simply give up. But after a few minutes of wheezing and lurching, it rumbled to life. He sat beside it, legs folded beneath him, arms curled around his knees.

The machine filled the silence with something vaguely alive. He closed his eyes. When he opened them, he swore he saw movement in the corner of the hallway mirror. Just a flicker, like light bending in a place it shouldn’t, but when he turned his head, there was nothing there.

Just his own reflection. Washed-out. Hollow-eyed. Still breathing.

He finished the laundry. Hung the sheets across the banister like soft ghosts. A breeze had finally crept in through the cracked window above the stairs. He didn’t remember opening it.

-

Later that afternoon, he took a damp cloth and started wiping down the picture frames in the dining room. They were all still turned around, faced toward the wall. Some of them had string loops; a few had nails jutting from the back, rusty and bent. He didn’t turn them over. He didn’t know why.

The wallpaper peeled slightly at the corners, faded into a pale floral print that looked like it belonged to someone’s grandmother. Beneath the edge, there was another layer, older, darker. He peeled just a sliver back to look.

Beneath the surface, there were words. Scribbled, scratched, or maybe painted in a looping hand. Too smudged to read. He let the paper drop back into place. He didn’t touch it again.

-

The pantry shelves were surprisingly well-stocked. Jars of herbs he didn’t recognise. Cans with foreign labels. A dusty jar of honey sealed with wax. A glass container full of dried rose petals. No dust inside the jars, though everything around them looked untouched for years. The air was cool there. Too cool. He closed the pantry gently. Didn’t take anything. The house, it seemed, wanted him to stay. But it wasn’t ready to feed him yet.

He scrubbed the inside of the sink next. The porcelain was deeply stained, but under his hands, it began to pale in slow, uneven circles. He used vinegar and baking soda from the back of the cupboard, not because he thought it would work, but because it was there. The fizzing was oddly comforting. Like the house was exhaling with him.

His stomach growled around the time the sun dipped low enough to turn the wallpaper gold. It wasn’t a small sound. It echoed through the empty kitchen like a question he hadn’t meant to ask out loud.

He stilled.

There was nothing. Just the hush of late afternoon and the faint ticking of a clock he hadn’t noticed before. But the scent changed. It wasn’t strong, and it wasn’t immediate. But slowly, the air began to carry something warm. Not like actual food, more like the memory of it. Baked sugar. Cinnamon. Brown butter curling along the edge of a tray. It wasn’t real, he was sure of it. Just the hunger messing with his head.

Still, he checked the oven. Empty. Cold. But when he turned back, there was a small cloth napkin on the table. Folded. Slightly crumpled at the corner. He hadn’t put it there. He would’ve remembered.

Seungmin didn’t touch it. He sat in the chair instead, the only one tucked neatly beneath the table, and stared at the napkin like it might breathe. After a few minutes, the hunger passed. Or at least dulled. He sat with his hands folded tightly in his lap, unsure whether to be grateful or afraid.

Maybe both.

In the hallway again, he noticed something else: the coat rack now held a single black umbrella. He could’ve sworn it had been empty that morning. Bare hooks. Dust.

Now, the umbrella leaned slightly, its curved handle polished like someone had just left it there. There were no wet footprints. No water on the floor. No rain outside.

He stepped past it carefully.

-

His room was clean now. Not perfect. Not polished. But clean. The dust was gone from the corners. The floor had been swept and wiped down. The windows cracked slightly open to let the day’s last warmth slip in. The scent of old cedar had softened into something faintly sweet, like memory mixed with linen.

Seungmin stood in the doorway for a long time before stepping in. He’d stripped the bed earlier. Now it held fresh sheets, slightly wrinkled from being hung on the banister to dry. The blanket was mismatched, pulled from a chest at the foot of the bed. It smelled like lavender and something more faded, like time itself had once curled beneath it and fallen asleep.

He sat on the edge of the mattress. His body ached in small, stubborn ways. His arms were sore from scrubbing. His back was tight. His hands were raw in spots. But the room didn’t echo anymore. It felt… occupied. Lived in. Like he’d left a version of himself in every corner without realising it.

The house was quiet again. Not silent. Just quiet, like it was holding its breath. He glanced toward the closet. The door was slightly ajar. He hadn’t opened it.

There was nothing there. Just hanging coats and the soft scrape of a wooden hanger swinging gently on its rod, like someone had brushed past it an hour ago and the air hadn’t yet settled. He didn’t close it.

Instead, Seungmin laid down fully. Pulled the blanket up to his chest. The pillow under his head was cool, and for the first time in weeks, his jaw unclenched on its own.

The window cracked slightly wider. A soft breeze moved through the room. It kissed his cheek and stirred a page on the floor beside the bed, a torn scrap of something yellowed with age. He didn’t reach for it. He just watched it flutter until it stilled again.

He didn’t cry. Didn’t speak. But he breathed.

And the house listened.

Chapter Text

It started with the floorboard, not the loud kind, but the kind that sank silently under his heel and creaked long after he’d stepped off. It wasn’t the sound that got to him, but the way it seemed to echo back too slowly. Like the house was remembering the pressure. Like it had something to say.

Seungmin barely noticed it at first. He was too focused on the window in the kitchen, trying to fix the latch that wouldn’t quite hook, even though he could swear it had closed just fine the day before. The sun had risen warmer today, casting golden stripes across the counter where he’d cleared space yesterday. Everything looked a little more lived-in. It unsettled him. He hadn’t done anything different. He hadn’t bought groceries, and yet the fruit bowl, cracked porcelain, set at a slight tilt, held a single red apple now. Bright. Crisp. Cold to the touch when he checked it. Not plastic. Not dusty. Just… waiting.

He didn’t eat it. He didn’t throw it away, either.

Instead, he turned his attention to the sticky drawer beneath the stovetop. It was hard to open; rusted rails, swollen wood, the whole thing protesting as he yanked it free. Inside, scattered like the aftermath of a kitchen war, were old metal measuring cups, curled paper clips, a screwdriver, and a cookie cutter. In the shape of a star.

He paused, fingers brushing over the handle. There was flour caked into the edges. Like it had been used recently. Like someone had pressed it into soft dough and left it behind. A faint warmth touched the air behind him. Seungmin turned, but nothing had changed. Still, the scent that lingered now was different. Butter. Vanilla. A whisper of something golden and just out of reach.

And in the back of the kitchen, where the light didn’t quite reach, the door to the pantry was open. It hadn’t been open yesterday. He was sure of that. He would have noticed. The hinges were too stiff to open on their own, and he hadn’t touched it during his cleaning spree. The shadows inside were thick and undisturbed, but they didn’t feel empty. Not anymore.

The warmth was stronger now. It clung to the air like the oven had been on, low and steady, perfuming the room with phantom sweetness. Seungmin didn’t move. Not yet. His breath fogged faintly as if the heat wasn’t real, just a memory brushing up against him. Eventually, he stepped forward.

The floor didn’t creak this time. The air shifted around him with each step, heavier, like the house was watching. Waiting. There was no sound except for the quiet whisper of his socks against the floor and the soft hum in his ears, his own blood, his own tension.

He reached the pantry door and rested his fingers against the edge. It didn’t feel cold. If anything, it felt warm. Almost like it had been touched only moments before. The scent deepened. Not just vanilla now, but cinnamon. Brown sugar. Toasted edges and something buttery-soft that settled in his chest like a lullaby. He exhaled. Then opened the door fully.

The pantry was almost glowing. Not visibly, not with any lightbulbs or lanterns. But there was something golden in the atmosphere, like late afternoon sunlight had been bottled and left to seep into the shelves. Rows of jars lined the walls, each clean and labelled in looping handwriting he didn’t recognise. Flour. Dried lavender. Sea salt. Cocoa. There were no expiration dates. No dust.

And on the shelf, on a folded tea towel that hadn’t been there the day before, was a single brownie. It was still warm.

But it wasn’t just warm. It was perfect. The edges were crisped, but not hard. The centre, he could already tell, was still molten and dense with chocolate, rich enough to coat the roof of your mouth. It smelled like the bakery his aunt used to take him to after school when he was still small enough to get away with silence and sugar in place of conversation. That memory, unbidden and unwanted, made his throat tighten.

He didn’t pick it up. He didn’t touch anything, in fact. Not the tea towel, not the brownie, not the shelf. He just stared at it, pulse suddenly louder than before, the way it always got when something felt out of place. The brownie shouldn’t have been here. Nothing should have been here. And yet, it didn’t feel threatening. It didn’t feel dangerous. If anything, it felt safe. Like someone had known he’d be tired today. Like someone had thought, he’ll need something sweet.

His stomach growled. Loud. Embarrassing. A sharp protest against days of neglect. He flinched at the sound, heat creeping up his neck, like he’d been caught doing something wrong.

“Was wondering when you’d finally notice.”The voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It came from just behind him, casual, lilting, with a smile tucked into every syllable.

Seungmin froze. His entire body went rigid, breath stalled in his chest like the air had turned to glass. He didn’t turn immediately. Just blinked, heart now thudding too hard, too fast, like a warning and a welcome all at once. He turned slowly.

And there, leaning against the far counter like he’d been there all morning, bathed in the soft golden glow of the kitchen light, was a boy. Not a stranger. Not exactly. But not someone he knew either.

The first thing Seungmin noticed was his smile. It was wide, radiant, easy in a way that made no sense in this house, in this moment. He had soft cheeks and kind eyes, the sort of face that belonged to someone who knew the secret to the best hot chocolate and told it only to people they trusted. The second thing Seungmin noticed was the cookie in his hand. A chocolate chip one, still steaming.

“You hungry?” the boy asked, voice gentle but unbothered, like this wasn’t a haunting, more like a casual encounter between old friends. “You should eat the brownie. I made it for you.”

Seungmin didn’t respond right away. His body remained tense, frozen between instincts; fight, flight, or simply collapse. But the boy didn’t press. He took another bite of his cookie, chewed thoughtfully, then tilted his head like he was watching a bird too timid to approach the feeder.

“I get it,” he said, the words smooth and low, touched by the easy rhythm of an Australian accent. “You’re not used to company. Not in a place like this.”

He didn’t sound offended. Or urgent. Or like a hallucination, really, which was what Seungmin’s brain was beginning to offer as an explanation. He sounded normal. Real. Soft. Like he’d been designed to put people at ease.

“Name’s Felix,” he added, licking a smudge of chocolate from his thumb with all the casual sweetness of someone who didn’t realise they were glowing faintly in the kitchen light. “I’m here to help. Sort of.”

Seungmin blinked. He finally found his voice, though it emerged low and hoarse from disuse. “Help… how?”

Felix grinned. “Depends what you need, I guess. But you look like you could use a snack.” 

He gestured lightly toward the brownie still sitting in the pantry. “It’s for you, y’know. Thought you might need something warm in your stomach before you pass out trying to be the hero of your own tragic little drama.”

The teasing was gentle. Kind, even. It should’ve annoyed him, should’ve made Seungmin slam the door, walk upstairs, pretend none of this was happening. But something about Felix’s tone made it impossible to take as anything but affection. Not pity. Not mockery. Just observation, offered with care.

“I’m not hallucinating,” Seungmin said flatly. Not a question, an assertion.

Felix chuckled, the sound low and surprisingly rich. “Nah, mate. You’re just tired. Hungry. Sad as hell. But you’re not crazy.”

He stepped closer, bare feet padding silently on the floor. He didn’t move like a stranger. He moved like he belonged here. Like he had belonged here long before Seungmin ever arrived.

“Take a bite,” Felix offered gently, that lilt smoothing out the words like melted butter. “Just one. I promise it won’t fix anything. But it might remind you that you’re still alive.”

Seungmin stared at him. And then slowly he stepped back into the pantry. 

The brownie was still warm. It was ridiculous. Impossible. The house didn’t have electricity in half the rooms yet, and he certainly hadn’t used the oven. But there it was, radiating gentle heat into the pads of his fingers the moment he picked it up; solid, dense, with that unmistakable give of homemade comfort.

He looked over his shoulder. Felix was waiting. Not expectant, not impatient. Just… there. Smiling quietly, like he already knew what would happen next and didn’t need to push. Seungmin took a bite.

The effect was immediate. Not dramatic, not like the kind of rush that jolts you awake, but deep. Like something inside him that had been clenched for days finally exhaled. It was rich, soft, and just the right kind of sweet, like someone had studied all his favourite flavours without ever needing to ask. He swallowed, and realised his eyes were stinging.

Felix’s voice was gentler now. “Been a while since you let yourself have something good, huh?”

Seungmin nodded once, not trusting himself to speak. There was no pity in Felix’s gaze. Only warmth. He walked over slowly, giving Seungmin plenty of space, and leaned against the doorway of the pantry like he lived there, like this had always been his kitchen and he was just happy to share.

“I’m not gonna rush you,” he said simply. “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. But… I’m here. When you’re ready.”

He reached into the pocket of his oversized cardigan and pulled out a second cookie, this one wrapped gently in a napkin. He placed it on the counter beside Seungmin and backed off again, giving a little wave with two fingers.

“Keep that for later,” he murmured. “You’ll need it.”

And just like that, he faded. Not all at once, not with a puff of smoke or fanfare. Just slowly, until Seungmin couldn’t tell if he was still in the room or just a warmth in the walls. But the cookie stayed. And so did the sweetness in Seungmin’s chest, lingering long after the bite was gone.

He didn’t finish the brownie all at once. After the first bite, he set it down carefully on the edge of the pantry shelf, like it was something sacred, something he wasn’t sure he deserved. His fingers lingered near it, twitching slightly, like his body couldn’t decide if it wanted more or was just overwhelmed that it existed in the first place.

He didn’t feel different, not really. He still felt like bones in a jumper. Still felt like sleep weighed more than consciousness. But for the first time in days, maybe weeks, he didn’t feel like he was fading. He had felt held. For a moment.

Seungmin pressed his hands to his face and exhaled through his fingers. This wasn’t normal. It wasn’t rational. But he’d heard him. Seen him. Felix. Smiling like he belonged here. Acting like this wasn’t unusual at all. He glanced toward the counter where the cookie sat, wrapped neatly in the napkin. The neatness of it made his chest ache in a strange, unfamiliar way.

Who was he? And why did Seungmin want him to come back?

He picked up the cookie, then put it down again, too many questions buzzing behind his ribs. No answers came, just the warmth that still clung to the kitchen, like it had been rewired while he wasn’t looking. The shadows in the corners no longer felt heavy. The air no longer felt cold. He left the kitchen without another word.

-

He didn’t have a plan. He just walked, slow and quiet, through the bones of the house. Each room was still in disrepair, but the edges didn’t feel so sharp now. The dust was still there, but not oppressive. The silence followed him, yes, but it was gentler now. Like someone was padding alongside him, just a few steps behind, careful not to scare him.

The library smelled like aged paper and cracked leather. The study was still locked, he hadn’t found the key yet. The sunroom was too bright to linger in, too soft around the edges like a painting with no frame. The basement door remained shut. He didn’t touch it.

But the living room… the living room felt like something was waiting. He stepped inside and noticed that someone had refolded the blanket on the couch. Tucked it properly into the corner. A mug sat on the coffee table now, clean, dry, but undeniably out of place. He hadn’t brought anything in here. And he hadn’t lit the candle on the mantel, either.

It flickered softly, despite the lack of flame. He turned away from it. He didn’t want to know. But the feeling of a soft presence followed him up the stairs. Into the hallway. Past the locked bedroom and the smaller rooms. Even when he collapsed onto the bare mattress in what he had decided would be his own room, it didn’t quite leave him. He pulled the blanket over himself and drifted off into a fitful sleep. 

Chapter Text

The hours bled into one another like ink into damp paper. Seungmin lay still in bed, blanket tangled around his legs, eyes wide open and fixed on the ceiling above him. The house creaked with the natural breath of old wood and winter chill, but tonight it felt louder, like it was holding its breath with him.

He hadn’t slept. Not really. Just closed his eyes and drifted in a shallow limbo between memory and ache. Every time he got close to slipping under, some part of him pulled back. Too alert, too wired, too used to danger where there should be none.

Felix hadn’t come back. Not since the brownie. Not since the cookie he abandoned on the kitchen bench, which now sat in crumpled napkin beside the bed, untouched but still faintly warm. The warmth made no sense. None of this did.

At around 5:42AM he decided to stop watching the digits change, pushed off the mattress and sat up. His body ached in strange places. Not from exertion, but from the weight of simply existing inside it. The air outside his room was cold. Early morning grey spilled through the upstairs windows like fog. The house was quieter than usual. Or maybe he’d just become attuned to its silences.

He shuffled down the stairs with the limp drag of someone whose bones hadn’t quite woken up. The kitchen lights were off. But the smell. Warm, buttery, familiar. His breath caught. A small plate sat waiting on the bench. Toast. Eggs. A mug of tea beside it, steam curling up like the morning was pretending to be kind. Seungmin didn’t even look around this time. He just moved to the stool, sat, and picked up the fork.

“You slept like shit, huh?”

The voice was low. Soft. With that same Aussie curl around the vowels that turned ‘shit’ into something almost affectionate. Seungmin blinked down at the fork in his hand, then took a bite of the toast like he didn’t want to admit how much he needed it.

Felix didn’t press. He leaned against the kitchen counter, arms folded loosely over a hoodie that looked like it had been lived in for years-faded sea foam green, sleeves pushed up over his forearms. His curls were messier today, like he hadn’t bothered taming them. His eyes, though, were wide and awake.

“I didn’t wanna wake you,” he said, watching Seungmin eat. “But I figured you’d be up anyway.”

Seungmin made a soft noise in the back of his throat. Something halfway between a grunt and an acknowledgment. It was all he could manage. Felix didn’t seem to mind. He moved around the kitchen in a gentle rhythm, pouring a second cup of tea for himself, humming something low and tuneless under his breath. It wasn’t a melody, really, more like a vibration, something to fill the silence without pressing in too hard.

“Daylight’s coming,” he murmured, sitting across from Seungmin now. “I was thinking we could tackle the back hallway next. Get those curtains down. Maybe air the place out a bit.”

Seungmin stared at him. “You live here?”

Felix blinked. Then smiled slowly, as if amused by the question. “Something like that.”

“But you weren’t here when I got here.”

“Wasn’t time yet.”

Seungmin didn’t understand, but his brain was too tired to form the follow-up. He looked down at the eggs. They were perfect. Not fancy. Just warm and seasoned and made with care. It made his throat ache in that weird, unsolvable way again.

“You’re gonna crash soon,” Felix said, almost fondly. “Your body’s running on empty. Just eat what you can, yeah?”

Seungmin nodded.

After breakfast, Seungmin didn’t even argue when Felix gently steered him out of the kitchen. He didn’t have the energy. It was like his body had finally decided the fuel was enough to stop fighting and now all it wanted was warmth. Stillness. Somewhere to melt.

Felix led him to the lounge with slow, sure hands barely touching him, just guiding with presence and proximity. The couch, with its freshly folded blanket and the soft morning light pooling across the cushions, looked more like a bed than a seat. Inviting in a way nothing had been since the funeral.

“Just for a minute,” Felix said, as if reading his mind. “Close your eyes. Let your head stop spinning.”

Seungmin didn’t answer. He just sank down, curled into himself instinctively, and pulled the blanket half-over his legs. Felix ruffled his hair just once, light and unassuming, and disappeared again, the scent of breakfast still lingering where he’d been.

And then time blurred. Seungmin wasn’t sure if he actually fell asleep. The warmth around him shifted. The light grew softer, like someone dimmed the sun. He thought he heard music. Something faint. A record player spinning lazily in a corner, out of sight. A gentle weight pressed against his side. Not heavy. Not frightening. A presence. He didn’t open his eyes.

The blanket was now fully covering him, tucked sweetly under his chin. He hadn’t done that. He knew he hadn’t. But it didn’t scare him. He breathed out. A hand brushed lightly through his hair. Callused fingers. Slower than Felix’s. Less practiced, but so, so careful. No words. Just comfort.

Seungmin, still clinging to the edge of wakefulness, whispered into the blanket, “I’m dreaming, aren’t I?”

No reply. Just warmth. And for the first time in weeks, he didn’t fight the pull of sleep.

-

The dream, if it was one, faded slowly. Not with sharp edges or the jerk of a nightmare. Just a soft unraveling, like threads loosening in his chest. When Seungmin stirred again, sunlight had shifted on the floorboards. The air smelled faintly of cinnamon now. The blanket was still tucked under his chin. The record player, if it had been real, was quiet.

He sat up slowly, bleary and blinking. No one was in the room. No footprints. No signs of movement. The teacup on the side table hadn’t been there before, but it was empty now. Still warm to the touch. He pressed his fingers to his temple and sighed.

“Dreaming,” he murmured again, less certain this time. But part of him didn’t want to know. Not yet. He stood, stretched gently, and glanced back at the couch at an indent beside where he had lay.

Somewhere in the house, a floorboard creaked softly. And Seungmin, for the first time in a very long time, let himself smile.

Chapter Text

Seungmin turned to the smell of something sweet baking and a soft creak from the kitchen. The house still hummed with stillness, but now it was quieter inside him, too. The jagged edges were duller this morning. He wasn’t fixed, not even close, but something had softened while he slept. 

In the kitchen, Felix was humming again. The sound made something flutter behind Seungmin’s ribs. Not joy, not quite, but the awareness of a thing like it. Felix didn’t look up as Seungmin padded in. He was already halfway through whisking something in a big glass bowl, forearms flexing gently with each motion. The sleeves of his cream sweater were rolled up, and flour dusted the air in motes around him.

“You snored,” Felix said casually, glancing up with a grin. “Like, real bad. Thought the couch might file a complaint.”

Seungmin blinked at him. Then frowned. “I don’t snore.”

Felix leaned against the counter and gave him a playful side-eye. “You absolutely do. It was kinda cute though. Like a baby bear dreaming about snacks.”

“…You made that up.”

“I watched it happen, mate.”

Seungmin’s cheeks flushed. He looked away quickly. But the shame didn’t feel sharp. Just embarrassing in a weirdly safe way. 

Breakfast was banana bread, still warm, still too perfect to be coincidence. Seungmin ate it with minimal argument this time, perched on a bar stool while Felix poured him a glass of water and rambled about “operation: de-cobweb the western hallway.”

“This place used to be gorgeous,” Felix said, wiping his hands on a tea towel. “Just needs a bit of love.”

“I’m not really the ‘love’ type.”

Felix snorted. “Nah, but you’ve got good bones. And a surprisingly aggressive broom technique.”

They started in the front foyer, an elegant space beneath layers of dust and faded wallpaper. Felix handed Seungmin a sponge and took the ladder for himself. The morning passed in a blur of soft music playing from someone’s phone, the sound of wood polish being worked into cabinets, and the occasional yell when Seungmin uncovered something horrifying under a loose floor tile.

“That’s not a mouse skeleton,” Felix had insisted, peering over his shoulder. “It’s… uhh. A leaf. A crispy one.”

By midday, both of them were flushed and sweaty, but the space looked transformed. Light poured through clean windows, and the scent of lemon oil clung to the air like a promise. Seungmin stood in the middle of the room, chest rising and falling with exertion, heart pounding for reasons he couldn’t name. He’d done something today. Not just survived. And he didn’t hate how that felt.

The sun was low when Seungmin finally dropped the cleaning cloth and declared, “I’m done.”

Felix looked up from where he was wiping down the doorframe, eyes full of concern. “Done for the day, or done like… existentially?”

“Both. Maybe.”

“Let’s rest before we make any rash decisions.”

They relocated to the lounge a few minutes later, twin plumes of exhaustion trailing behind them. Felix disappeared into the kitchen, emerging seconds later with two glasses of cold apple juice, then flopped into the armchair like he’d been thrown there. Seungmin took the couch, same spot as yesterday. Same blanket, too. He didn’t bother pulling it up. His limbs were jelly. His mind was quiet.

“You did good today,” Felix said, softer now. “The place looks heaps better already.”

Seungmin let out a hum that might’ve been agreement. Or sleep. Or both. Felix stood and patted Seungmin’s head before turning to head for the kitchen. He smiled. 

“Reckon you’ve earned a nap.” 

Seungmin didn’t answer. His eyes had already slipped closed. He didn’t notice the figure that wandered out from behind the hallway curtain a few minutes later. Didn’t hear the subtle yawn or the dragging shuffle of socks on polished floorboards.

Jisung, hair sticking up on one side, hoodie halfway falling off his shoulder, blinked slowly at the sleeping boy on the couch then turned to the archway connecting to the kitchen. Felix, already leaning against the frame with crossed arms, gave him a slow, knowing look.

“You could’ve helped.”

Jisung yawned again. “I did. I encouraged him. Telepathically.”

Felix arched an eyebrow.

“…Fine, I watched. A little.” He padded closer to the couch, peered down at Seungmin. His expression softened. “He looks better.”

Felix nodded. “He’ll be even better if he gets sleep like that again.”

“Maybe I’ll stick around this time.” Jisung knelt down, gently tucking the blanket up over Seungmin’s shoulder with surprising care. “Y’know. Supervise.”

Felix grinned. “I’m sure that’s what you’re doing.”

Jisung glanced up with a lazy smirk. “Wake me if he starts emotionally spiralling.”

“You’d sleep through the apocalypse.”

“I did last Thursday.”

They both looked at Seungmin, his breath even, lashes casting shadows over his cheeks.

Jisung reached over and brushed a finger through his hair. “He’s still fragile.”

Felix’s voice dropped low, steady. “We’ll keep him safe.” They shared a soft smile, hearts already opening to the fragile boy that they hoped to save. 

Chapter Text

Seungmin woke slowly, and for once, it wasn’t to dread. The light filtering through the lounge curtains was soft and golden, warming the edges of the blanket still draped over him. The room smelled faintly of wood polish and sugar, like the house had remembered Felix and decided to hold onto him for a little longer.

He didn’t move at first. Just lay there and let himself exist. The silence was thick, but not heavy. Not today. His body felt sore in a strangely satisfying way, the ache of muscles used, of effort made. He stretched a little beneath the blanket and blinked at the ceiling, letting the air shift gently around him.

Eventually, his stomach grumbled. It wasn’t the desperate, hollow ache from the first days. This was gentler. A signal. A quiet invitation. He sat up slowly and looked around. Felix was nowhere in sight. The kitchen was empty, quiet except for the faint ticking of the old clock above the archway. On the counter, however, sat a covered plate and a small folded note.

He padded over in his socks, rubbing sleep from his eyes. The plate was warm beneath the cover. Underneath, two thick slices of French toast, slightly crisp on the edges, dusted with sugar and cinnamon. The note, written in that casually crooked script, read:

“You slept so well I didn’t wanna wake you. Be back soon. Eat, yeah? —F ”

Seungmin stared at the note for a long time, then set it aside and pulled up a stool. He ate slowly. Not because he was sad, or too tired, or numb. Just because he was allowing himself to enjoy it.

The plate was empty by the time Seungmin leaned back. He hadn’t meant to finish it. But it was hard to stop once he’d started. The cinnamon clung to the roof of his mouth and warmth spread slow through his chest, like someone had lit a candle inside him and let it flicker gently. He rested his hands over his stomach, let his eyes drift around the kitchen, then looked toward the lounge again.

He should probably go back to bed. That would be the routine he’d fallen into before: wake up, feel too heavy, crawl away from the light. But the lounge wasn’t suffocating. And neither was the kitchen. Not now.

He stood slowly, rinsed his plate in the sink. The motion felt weirdly adult. Domestic. It made his palms sting a little with the heat of the water, but he didn’t mind. It was proof he was real. Proof he was here.

The house was quiet. Still no Felix. He moved through the archway back into the lounge, hesitating by the couch. The blanket he’d slept under had slipped partway to the floor, and he bent to scoop it up, only to freeze when he noticed something new.

Someone was sitting on the lounge armrest. Baggy grey hoodie. Wild brown hair. The softest little smirk curling half a mouth.

“You missed a crumb,” the figure mumbled, barely lifting a hand to gesture toward Seungmin’s collarbone.

Seungmin blinked. “What the-how long have you been sitting there?”

The stranger shrugged. “Long enough to know you made some very questionable chewing noises. No judgment.”

Seungmin narrowed his eyes. “Do you live here?”

Another shrug. “Sort of. I’m a fixture.”

“Meaning?”

The boy stifled a yawn with the back of his sleeve. “Meaning this house and I have an understanding. I stick to the comfy places, I don’t bother the plumbing, and occasionally I offer life-altering insight in the form of blanket placement.”

“…Right.” Seungmin folded his arms. “So what, I’m supposed to just accept you sitting on my couch like you belong here?”

He expected another vague, sleepy comment but instead, the boy looked at him properly, for the first time. Not just lazy observation. Not half-lidded mischief. Something gentler, clearer.

“I’m Jisung,” he said. Not a nickname. Not a title. A name. Like it mattered.

“…Seungmin.”

Jisung nodded, then smirked. “Nice to meet you, Couch Gremlin.”

“Excuse me?”

“You kicked the blanket off like three times last night. I had to re-tuck it.”

Seungmin stared at him, caught somewhere between offended and touched. “You watched me sleep?”

“I supervised.”

“You’re a menace.”

Jisung gave a half-hearted finger gun. “And yet you didn’t scream.”

He didn’t linger. After another yawn and a few minutes of curling up like a cat against the armrest, he gave a little stretch and muttered something about “too much energy in the room.” Then, without fanfare, he wandered toward the back hallway and vanished from view, bare feet silent, hoodie dragging just past his hips.

Seungmin sat still for a long moment after.

He felt not alone, exactly. But not crowded either. The house didn’t press against him like it used to. Its silence didn’t echo quite so loudly. The dust didn’t feel like a judgment. He glanced at the clock, nearly noon, and felt that strange flicker of awareness again. Not pressure. Just the sense that time was passing, and he was still here.

Still breathing. Still capable of doing something. He got up and padded down the main hallway, past tall windows glowing with pale light. The floor creaked in familiar spots now. That felt weirdly comforting. Like the house was starting to remember him too.

There was a small room he hadn’t touched yet, tucked off the dining room, narrow and square, with yellowing lace curtains and a coat rack still standing proudly by the door. He stepped inside and wrinkled his nose at the musty scent of old wool and forgotten time.

One of the coats on the rack was long and camel-coloured. Thick, with polished buttons and the kind of lapels his uncle used to joke were “good for catching wind on a walk.” He reached out and touched the fabric lightly.

It smelled like dust. But underneath, that something familiar. A ghost of aftershave. A whiff of pine. The shape of a memory, not strong enough to hold but too sharp to ignore. He closed his eyes for a moment, pressing his fingers to the sleeve. Then he pulled it gently off the rack and hung it near the door to be aired out. Not thrown away. Not yet.

There were drawers in the room too. Some full of folded linens. Others full of old receipts and curled-up film photos. He didn’t look at everything. He just straightened a few piles, cleared a bit of space, dusted the shelf tops. It wasn’t productive in the way people always talked about. But it was motion. It was intention. It was living. 

By the time the front door creaked open again, he was back in the lounge with a damp cloth in one hand and a handful of lint he’d picked off the rug in the other. Felix poked his head in, grocery bag hanging from one arm. His hair was ruffled by wind, cheeks pink with cold.

“Hey!” he chirped, surprised. “You’re up and about!”

Seungmin raised an eyebrow. “What gave it away? The rag or the lint?”

Felix laughed, stepping in and kicking his shoes off. “Sorry, I should’ve guessed from the sparkle in the air. This place feels cleaner. You did this?”

“Yeah.” No fanfare. No smile. But he didn’t look away when he said it.

Felix’s eyes softened, gaze trailing over the freshly-dusted window sills and the slight opening of the curtains that hadn’t been touched in months. He set the bag on the bench and turned back toward Seungmin.

“I brought cinnamon rolls,” he said, voice gentler. “The air felt cinnamon-y today.”

Seungmin didn’t answer right away. He just stood there with both hands full, and didn’t hate the quiet between them. Maybe he didn’t need to fill it. Maybe it was enough to just exist in it.

Chapter Text

The house always felt different at night. Not in a haunted way. Not in a horror-movie creak-of-the-floorboards way. It just exhaled. Slowed down. Let its secrets lie still for a while. Jisung liked that about it.

He had been drifting between the lounge and the corners of the house for most of the day, more of a presence than a participant. Seungmin had been steadily warming to Felix, slowly and warily, but Jisung knew better than to rush anything. His role wasn’t to push. It was to soften the sharp parts. To keep things from cracking under the weight.

And tonight, that weight came. 

It was well after midnight when he heard it. A sound, barely a breath, came curling through the floorboards above, the sharp hitch of air, a low cry strangled into silence. It was a sound Jisung had heard too many times before in too many people, and his body moved before his mind could catch up.

By the time he reached the upstairs hallway, the house felt colder. Not in temperature, but in feeling. Like something had pulled away. Jisung didn’t hesitate. He turned the brass knob and slipped into Seungmin’s room.

Seungmin was curled tight against the far edge of the bed, his sheets tangled, one arm thrown over his face. His chest was rising too fast. Jisung could see the tremble in his fingers, the way he flinched when Jisung softly stepped closer.

“Hey,” Jisung murmured, voice pitched low. “It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re okay.”

No response. Just that quiet, panicked breathing. Jisung didn’t reach out, not yet. He just sat down gently on the edge of the bed and waited. A minute passed. Then another. Eventually, Seungmin lowered his arm and blinked slowly up at him, eyes glassy, unfocused. Not crying, but close. His voice came as a whisper, hoarse and uncertain.

“You’re real?”

Jisung’s heart cracked clean down the middle.

“Always,” he said. “I don’t do dream shifts.”

Seungmin gave a breath that was almost a laugh, but it crumpled into something heavier. He turned his face toward the wall and didn’t say anything more. Jisung stayed seated beside him until the shaking slowed. Then, without a word, he stood up, dragged the old armchair from the corner of the room beside the bed, and sat.

“I’ll stay.”

“Why?”

Jisung shrugged, pulling the blanket from the back of the chair and curling it over his knees. “Because I’m too lazy to go back downstairs.”

Seungmin’s breath hitched again. This time it was a laugh. Short, bitter, but real. And that was enough.

Jisung didn’t sleep, but he rested. His body was practiced at it, drifting in the warm lull between consciousness and dreams without falling too far. He listened to Seungmin’s breathing even out over time. The boy moved only once, shifting closer to the centre of the bed, never quite facing Jisung but no longer turning away either. It was enough.

The moonlight coming in through the high windows cut soft patterns across the floor. Dust floated like quiet confessions in the air. The house had gone still again, its heartbeat hidden in the walls. He didn’t know how long he stayed like that, but at some point, the door creaked open just wide enough for a familiar silhouette to peek through.

Felix, carrying something in a mug. He didn’t speak, just raised his brows at Jisung in a question. Jisung gave the smallest nod, and Felix stepped inside, setting the mug down on the dresser. Warm milk and honey. Of course it was.

“He okay?” Felix whispered.

Jisung nodded. “Nightmare.”

Felix’s face softened. His voice dropped even lower. “Bad?”

Jisung tilted his head. “Didn’t ask. He’s still raw.”

There was a pause, quiet but full. Felix looked over at the shape curled on the bed. “He’s trying.”

“I know,” Jisung said, rubbing his hand over his face. “It’s hard to watch.”

“I don’t think he knows we’re not here to hurt him.”

Jisung huffed a half-laugh, tired and warm. “That’s what the sins do, right? Devour the weak.”

Felix side-eyed him. “Speak for yourself.”

Jisung grinned faintly. “You do keep feeding him cinnamon bread like a grandma in a Studio Ghibli film.”

Felix puffed his cheeks out in mock offence. “He eats it. That’s what matters.”

There was another pause. Longer this time. Then Jisung asked it softly.

“Do you think he’ll ever be ready?”

Felix didn’t answer right away. His gaze drifted toward the window, fingers brushing lightly over the mug he’d set down.

“He might be,” he said. “But… not for all of us. Some sins are harder to forgive.”

Jisung looked at him. “You mean him.”

Felix nodded. “He feels it. Even if he doesn’t understand it yet. That kind of want… it scares him.”

There was no need to speak Hyunjin’s name aloud. It settled in the silence between them like perfume, soft and sharp and far too personal. Jisung exhaled slowly, the chair creaking beneath him as he shifted.

“One sin at a time,” he whispered.

Felix didn’t reply. He just slipped back through the door and let it shut with the softest click. And Jisung, ever the patron of sleep, of rest, of quiet rooms and waiting hearts, settled into the hush of the early hours, and stayed.

-

The master bedroom was still.

Hyunjin sat on the edge of the bed, one hand curled over the silk edge of the coverlet, the other resting in his lap. The fireplace had long gone out. He hadn’t bothered relighting it. The cold didn’t really bother him, not when his thoughts kept him too warm anyway. Restless. Wanting.

He could feel him.

Not like the others did. Felix with his cinnamon and sweetness, Jisung with his lulling hush. No, Hyunjin felt Seungmin through the gaps. The way longing lived in silence. The way it tightened in the chest, soft and desperate and unspoken.

Hyunjin knew what that was. He was what that was. A soft ache, a need that crawled under the skin. Something warm, terrifying, tender. He had felt Seungmin’s breath catch downstairs. He had felt the way his footsteps paused outside the bedroom door last night before skittering away. He didn’t chase. He wouldn’t.

Not yet.

Hyunjin leaned back on the bed, hair spilling across the velvet pillows. The ceiling above him was high and ornate, carved with roses and curling vines. He’d memorised every detail. He’d had the time. His fingers drifted to the spot beside him, as if someone could be there.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he whispered.

There was no answer. Just the groan of the house settling in its bones. The hush of dawn still too far away. He smiled to himself, small and aching. He could wait.

Chapter Text

It was the suffocating kind of dark, the kind that pressed down on Seungmin’s lungs like smoke. He couldn’t scream. Couldn’t move. His legs were frozen, and the room was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Someone was calling his name from far away. No, they weren’t calling it. They were blaming it.

“You weren’t enough.”

The words carved into the air like frostbite. And then he was falling. And then—

“Seungmin.”

He woke with a ragged breath that caught hard in his throat. His eyes snapped open, heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. The room was dim, lit only by the soft silver of early dawn leaking through the half-open curtains. His chest ached. His fists were clenched in the sheets, and his body felt soaked in cold sweat. A hand, gentle and steady, rested against his arm.

“Hey,” Jisung murmured, voice soft and quiet, like he’d been whispering to him for a while. “You’re alright. It’s just me.”

Seungmin blinked slowly. The last threads of the dream still clung to his skin like cobwebs. He turned his head slightly and found Jisung sitting by the bed, legs pulled up into the chair, blanket draped loosely around his shoulders. His hair was messy, sleep-puffed, but his eyes were wide awake, warm with worry.

“You were making sounds again,” he added, softer now. “Didn’t want to scare you.”

For a moment, Seungmin just stared at him. His throat was dry. The silence stretched, heavy but not uncomfortable. Jisung didn’t press. He just watched, thumb brushing soothing circles where his hand still touched Seungmin’s arm.

“…You stayed the whole night?” Seungmin asked eventually, voice hoarse.

Jisung gave a sheepish smile. “Yeah. I figured you might need someone nearby. You didn’t snore, by the way. Congrats.”

A beat passed. Then, unexpectedly, Seungmin huffed out a quiet laugh. Just a small one. Barely there. But Jisung’s eyes lit up like sunrise.

“Wanna go downstairs?” he offered after a moment. “Felix is probably already making something absurdly sweet. And I bet he left you tea steeping just in case.”

Seungmin didn’t answer right away. He sat up slowly, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. His limbs felt heavy, like they weren’t quite his. But the idea of sitting in that room alone again made his chest pull tight. He didn’t want to be alone. 

Jisung stood and took a step back, blanket still draped around him like a cape. Then, almost shyly, he held out his hand. No words. No push. Just an open palm. And Seungmin took it. His fingers slipped into Jisung’s like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like his skin had been waiting for another’s warmth. Jisung’s smile stretched wider, though he tried to hide it. It didn’t work.

“You’re gonna break the poor guy’s heart,” came a lazy voice as they padded into the kitchen together.

Felix stood barefoot in front of the stove, a cloud of sugar and cinnamon dancing in the air around him. He was wearing a soft pink hoodie that hung off one shoulder, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His hair was tied half up, strands curling around his face, and the smell of browned butter filled the room.

Jisung rolled his eyes. “He held my hand, not proposed marriage.”

“I mean,” Felix said with a smirk, “feels close enough.”

Seungmin’s heart fluttered. 

The kitchen felt warmer than usual that morning. Maybe it was the scent of cinnamon rolls baking. Maybe it was the quiet hum of the kettle. Or maybe it was simply because, for the first time in a long while, Seungmin didn’t feel like he had to fill the silence with anything.

He settled into one of the cushioned chairs by the little round table tucked near the window. Jisung sat beside him, still loosely wrapped in the blanket. Felix was still pottering around the stovetop, utterly in his element. He moved with that casual grace of someone who thrived in a kitchen. Every motion had rhythm. Every flick of his wrist sent spice and sweetness into the air like a spell.

“So,” Jisung said, breaking the silence while adjusting his blanket dramatically, “now that you’ve officially survived the haunted house of sadness, I feel like we should celebrate. Felix, do we have celebratory jam?”

Felix blinked, then grinned. “We have strawberry, raspberry, and something suspiciously labeled ‘mystery berry’ that I didn’t put there.”

“Perfect,” Jisung declared. “Give the mystery one to me. If I die, let it be known I went down with flavour.”

Seungmin blinked, a slow sort of confusion knitting into his features. “Why… would you eat mystery jam?”

“Because life is short,” Jisung said solemnly, grabbing a fork like a sword. “And sometimes you just have to flirt with death before breakfast.”

Felix placed a plate of hot rolls on the table and ruffled Jisung’s hair affectionately on his way back to the counter. “You’re such a menace. Honestly.”

“I prefer the term ‘local legend,’ thanks.”

It was all so absurd. Soft voices, soft lighting, soft smells. Felix hummed under his breath as he plated something else. Jisung dramatically recoiled from the mystery jam before deciding it tasted like blackcurrant. The world didn’t feel like it was ending. Not in that moment.

And for the first time in what felt like a century… Seungmin smiled.

It wasn’t a hesitant twitch. It wasn’t a tired exhale. It was small, yes, but it was real. His eyes curved, his lips softened, and something bright and honest broke through the mist that had clung to his face for far too long. He didn’t even notice he’d done it until both of the others froze.

Jisung audibly gasped, hand flying to his chest like he’d been struck. “DID YOU—did he just—Felix, did you see that?!”

Felix turned from the stove with wide eyes, a spatula still in his hand. “Oh my god. He smiled. He smiled. It wasn’t even sarcastic!”

“Quick, someone write it down. Get it in the sacred texts.”

“Don’t ruin it,” Seungmin muttered, but his voice held no bite, only the gentlest curl of amusement.

“Oh no, no,” Jisung said dramatically. “This is a historic event. We’re framing this moment. You’ll never be allowed to frown again.”

“Maybe we should bake a cake,” Felix offered.

“A statue,” Jisung countered. “A shrine.”

“Get out of my kitchen.”

Seungmin shook his head slowly, biting back the chuckle that tried to escape. He didn’t know when the ache in his chest had eased. Didn’t know when the shadows in his head had taken a step back. But here, between the cinnamon-sugar scent, Jisung’s theatrical rambling, and Felix’s warm eyes, he didn’t feel like he was drowning. And even if it was just for one morning, even if the heaviness would creep back in later, this felt like peace.

“Hey,” Felix said gently, placing a steaming mug in front of Seungmin and nudging it toward him with a smile, “we’re really glad you’re here.”

Seungmin didn’t know how to answer that. So he just nodded, hands wrapped around the warmth of the mug, and let the comfort linger.

Chapter Text

Later that day, the house was quiet again. Felix and Jisung had drifted off into their own corners. Felix was prepping dough for something that required an obscene amount of rising time, and Jisung had disappeared with a dramatic yawn and the blanket still around his shoulders, mumbling something about “essential post-breakfast recovery.”

Seungmin, meanwhile, found himself alone on the second floor. The halls were long and a little drafty, light pooling through narrow windows and painting soft rectangles across the worn carpet. He wandered slowly, one hand trailing along the cracked wallpaper, fingers ghosting over dents in the wood.

He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, maybe a way to feel useful again. Maybe just silence. But eventually, his wandering brought him to a narrow room at the end of the hall. The door creaked when he opened it, hinges stiff from disuse.

Inside was what might’ve once been a guest bedroom, or maybe a small study. Dust had settled over everything like a veil. Stacks of boxes lined the wall, old furniture covered in yellowing sheets. The air smelled of mothballs and age. Something about it pulled at him. 

Without quite knowing why, Seungmin stepped inside. He moved carefully, lifting the sheet off a nearby chair and folding it with surprising gentleness. His hands knew what to do. Wipe the surfaces. Gather what could be salvaged. He opened a few of the boxes, mostly filled with old linens and miscellaneous junk, until one of them caught his eye.

A small wooden box, worn smooth at the corners. Something about the shape of it made his heart stutter. Slowly, with fingers that suddenly felt far too heavy, he lifted it out and pried open the lid. Inside was a photograph. It was faded, the corners curled and the ink slightly blurred with time, but he’d know that face anywhere.

His aunt was smiling, standing in front of a garden full of sunflowers. Her hand was held out to the camera, like she was beckoning him forward. Like she’d just said something funny and wanted to pull him into the moment. Her eyes were crinkled at the corners. Her hair was tied back the way she always wore it when she was tending to her flowers.

Seungmin stared at it. His breath caught. The tears didn’t come right away. At first, it was just a tightness in his throat, a pressure behind his eyes. He blinked a few times, shook his head, tried to breathe. But it was useless. The dam cracked.

A sound escaped him, half gasp, half sob, and he crumpled where he stood. His knees hit the floor hard, but he didn’t notice. The photo was still clutched in one trembling hand as the first tear slipped free. Then another. And another.

And then it all broke loose.

His body shook with the weight of it. Ragged sobs tore from his chest, curling him in on himself like he was trying to become smaller, trying to disappear into the floor. The photo dropped beside him, face-up on the wooden floorboards, as he pressed his hands over his eyes, as if that could somehow stop the flood.

His shoulders convulsed. His breathing turned shallow and panicked. The sound that came from him was the kind of grief no one ever prepared you for: deep, childlike, aching.

He didn’t know how long he stayed like that. He didn’t hear the footsteps. Didn’t realise anyone had come until a warm hand rested lightly on his back.

It was Felix.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t try to pull him upright or hush the sobs. He just knelt down beside him, one hand firm and grounding on the small of Seungmin’s back, the other slowly smoothing over his hunched shoulder in soft, steady circles. 

A moment later, Jisung appeared too, sleep-mussed and blinking, clearly drawn in by the sound. His expression fell when he saw Seungmin, eyes instantly shining with sympathy. Without a word, he dropped to his knees on the other side, placing a careful hand on Seungmin’s knee, squeezing gently.

They didn’t try to fix it. They didn’t offer hollow reassurances. They just stayed. They held space. They let him break. And in the quiet aftermath, when the sobs had dulled to hiccups and trembling breaths, when Seungmin finally leaned sideways into Felix’s chest and let himself be held, Jisung reached over and retrieved the photo. He didn’t comment. Just gave it a soft look, brushed the edge clean with his sleeve, and set it carefully on the nearby shelf.

The sun dipped low through the window behind them, casting the room in amber. Seungmin exhaled. Slow, shattered, and real. And still, they stayed.

-

It was quiet now. Not the aching, heavy kind of silence that used to haunt this house, but something lighter. Warmer. The kind of hush that settles only when someone has cried themselves empty and been held through it.

Felix sat on the lounge room floor, his legs folded and slightly numb beneath Seungmin’s weight. The boy had finally fallen asleep, cheek pressed to Felix’s shoulder, breath soft and damp against the worn fabric of his hoodie. His fingers had slowly relaxed, loosening their trembling grip, until one now rested against Felix’s chest, small and delicate, like he hadn’t quite grown into his own bones yet.

He was so light. Too light. Felix didn’t move. Just breathed. Just stayed.

Across from them, Jisung was perched with his back to the couch, head tilted, watching Seungmin with that crinkled look he got when he was trying not to cry. His hand still rested lightly on Seungmin’s ankle, thumb stroking slowly, almost like a metronome. Steadying.

“He’s out,” Jisung whispered eventually, voice rough with emotion. Felix nodded.

Neither moved to get up, not at first. The quiet held them there, three mismatched souls in a dusty room, bound together by grief and quiet hope. Eventually, Felix shifted carefully. 

“We should get him to bed.”

Jisung rose first, stretching a little and offering a hand down. Together, they manoeuvred Seungmin between them, lifting gently, trying not to jostle him too much. His head lolled briefly against Felix’s collarbone, a tiny sound catching in his throat before he stilled again. They carried him up the creaky stairs with slow steps, the weight of the house pressing in around them, but not unkindly.

The door to Seungmin’s room squeaked open, and they moved in as if they’d done it a hundred times before. Jisung pulled back the blanket; Felix laid him down with practiced ease. They worked around each other in sync, adjusting his pillow, tucking the comforter up to his chin, brushing a lock of hair gently from his eyes.

Felix barely breathed as he adjusted the covers over Seungmin’s chest, careful not to disturb him. His hands were steady now, he’d already wiped away the last of the tears that had stained the boy’s cheeks. Seungmin’s lashes fluttered faintly, lips parted in soft, exhausted sleep. He looked small in the bed. Fragile.

But he was here. And for now… that was enough.

Jisung had gone ahead, padding softly down the hallway, muttering something about making tea for them both before Felix passed out beside Seungmin again. Felix lingered for a moment longer, his fingertips brushing the edge of the quilt, eyes tracing the gentle rise and fall of Seungmin’s breath.

He still wasn’t sure how much of a difference they were making. But he hoped it was enough to keep Seungmin waking up. Felix finally turned to leave, pulling the door to a close with a quiet click.

The hallway outside was dim. The lights were low, but not ominous, just soft, quiet, like the house was holding its own breath. And then, just before he could take another step, a door opened behind him. The old study door creaked, just slightly ajar now, leaking golden warmth from within. Candlelight flickered against the walls, gentle and constant, like it had been burning for a long time. A presence stepped into the threshold, broad-shouldered, composed, with sleeves rolled casually to the forearms and a knowing glint in his gaze.

“Looks like he’s finally beginning,” Chan said quietly.

Felix turned toward him, unsurprised but still caught in that breathless way Chan always seemed to inspire. A weight. A gravity. Like someone who’d spent centuries watching people make the same mistakes and still holding out hope they wouldn’t.

Felix gave a small nod. “He let us hold him today. He… cried. Like, really cried.”

Chan’s jaw tightened just faintly, nothing cold, just thoughtful. “He asked for nothing for so long. Even pain is a kind of want.”

The words hung heavy in the space between them. Jisung stepped out from the kitchen, holding two mugs in his hands. He blinked once when he saw Chan. “Well, well. Look what the cat dragged out of his golden cage.”

Chan smiled, amused. “You always were dramatic.”

“And you always show up the moment something stirs.” Jisung handed one of the mugs to Felix, then leaned against the wall beside him. “He didn’t even say anything, Channie. He just let himself be touched. That’s all it took?”

Chan didn’t answer at first. He simply glanced toward the closed bedroom door.

“He let himself need something,” he murmured. “Even if he doesn’t know it yet. That’s enough.”

Felix sipped his tea slowly, warmth spreading through his chest.

“You knew him before, didn’t you?” he asked.

Chan nodded. “I knew his aunt. I was the first one she saw. She asked for time, wanted more of it. For him.”

Jisung’s gaze softened. “She was a good one.”

“She sent him here for a reason,” Chan said, finally stepping back toward the study door. “And now that he’s reaching, we reach back.”

He didn’t disappear so much as dissolve into the golden glow, the door closing silently behind him. Jisung stared at the wood for a long moment, lips pursed.

“You ever wonder how he always manages to be the most dramatic and the calmest?” he asked.

Felix snorted softly. “Greed’s a tricky thing.”

They stood in silence for a few moments more, sipping their drinks, letting the quiet settle around them like a familiar blanket. The house wasn’t still anymore. It breathed with them.

“He smiled today,” Felix said, out of nowhere. 

Jisung looked over.

“It’ll happen again,” he said.

And in the hush between them, hope stirred.

Chapter Text

The scream broke through the silence like a jagged crack of lightning across a sleeping sky.

Felix shot upright first, heart stammering, eyes searching the shadows of Seungmin’s room before the boy even registered where he was. Then the retching sound came, sick and sharp, echoing down the hallway, and Jisung was already moving, bare feet slapping the floor as he ran for the bathroom. Felix wasn’t far behind.

They found him on his knees in front of the toilet, trembling like a leaf in the wind, sweat clinging to the nape of his neck. The harsh white light above flickered slightly, casting long shadows under his eyes. Seungmin’s hands clutched the porcelain rim as if letting go would unmoor him completely.

“Seungmin, hey, you’re okay—breathe, baby, just breathe,” Jisung murmured, crouching beside him, rubbing circles into his back.

Felix dropped down to the tiles too, pulling a damp washcloth from the sink and gently brushing it against Seungmin’s clammy forehead. “You’re alright. We’ve got you.”

But Seungmin wasn’t responding. He was crying, silent at first, shoulders hitching with the effort of keeping it in. Then it started to spill over. Raw, ugly sobs tore from his throat like they’d been waiting days to be let out. He tried to wipe his face, but his hands were shaking too badly. Tried to sit up, but folded in on himself instead, forehead resting against his arm.

“I miss her,” he choked. “I miss—fuck—I miss her. And I miss—me.”

Felix’s breath caught.

“I miss who I was before it all broke.”

Jisung’s hand stilled on his back, frozen in place by the weight of that whisper. Felix wanted to gather him up, wanted to fix it, wanted to patch the cracks, but some things couldn’t be taped over with soft words and cookies. Some things had to hurt. And it hurt. God, it hurt.

Seungmin didn’t notice the warm golden glow seeping into the room, didn’t see the third pair of feet step quietly into the doorway. But Jisung did. And when he looked up, his eyes softened even further.

Chan stood in the frame of the bathroom door, leaning gently against it. He didn’t speak at first. Just watched. Not coldly—never cold—but with a calm that came from seeing too much, knowing too much. When he finally spoke, his voice was a soft rumble. Steady. Familiar in its cadence, even though it had never been directed at Seungmin before.

“You don’t have to remember who you were,” Chan said. “You’re allowed to become something else. Something new. That doesn’t mean you lost him. It just means you’re changing.”

Seungmin blinked, startled by the sound. His head slowly lifted from his arm, gaze wet and dazed, locking onto the source of that voice. Chan stepped in quietly, crouching just far enough away not to overwhelm. “You were never meant to stay the same. None of us are.”

Felix opened his mouth to say something—maybe to warn him not to crowd Seungmin—but then Seungmin moved. He moved forward. Unsteady. Quiet. But deliberate. One breath, and then another, and then Seungmin pushed into Chan’s chest, arms clutching weakly around his ribs. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t even fully conscious. But it was instinct. Like something in his soul had recognized the offer before his brain had caught up.

Felix’s eyes widened.

Jisung nearly dropped the washcloth.

Chan looked stunned for half a second, as if the gesture had pulled the breath straight from his lungs, but then his arms wrapped around Seungmin with practiced certainty. Strong. Warm. Protective. He held him like he’d been waiting to for years.

Like this boy mattered. Like he wasn’t broken. Seungmin let out one last, hitching sob into his chest. And Chan just held him through it.

⸻

The bathroom light had been dimmed. The ache in Seungmin’s chest remained, raw and tremulous, but the worst of the storm had passed. What was left behind was the kind of exhaustion that clung to the bones—a fatigue that no amount of sleep could ever quite mend.

Still, when Felix crouched down beside him again, brushing back a sweat-dampened lock of hair from Seungmin’s forehead, the boy didn’t flinch. That in itself felt monumental.

“We should move him,” Felix murmured gently, his hand resting lightly on Seungmin’s shoulder. “He’ll be more comfortable on the couch.”

Seungmin didn’t protest. He let them guide him on shaky legs, his weight feather-light and far too easy to carry. Jisung hovered close, every step matched with Seungmin’s own, like a shadow cast in soft candlelight.

When they reached the lounge, Felix knelt again and arranged a cluster of cushions at one end of the couch. Chan swept in with a throw blanket still warm from the dryer, one he’d snagged when no one was looking, always thinking one step ahead. Jisung gently lowered himself into the middle cushion and opened his arms, an unspoken offer.

Seungmin didn’t even hesitate.

With the barest of movements, he reached for Jisung’s hand, fingers curling like he was trying not to ask too much, but the moment Jisung gripped him back, strong and sure, something in Seungmin unknotted. His body folded in carefully, almost like a child, head resting on Jisung’s lap. His legs tucked in tightly as he curled into himself, as though the world could no longer touch him there.

Jisung’s other hand smoothed over his back, tender and rhythmic. Without speaking, he reached for the blanket and draped it over Seungmin’s fragile frame with reverence, like he was swaddling a sacred thing. The weight of the fabric seemed to ease the boy further into safety. His breathing, though shaky, began to even out.

Felix sat cross-legged on the floor beside them, one arm perched on the couch cushion near Seungmin’s side. He kept close, radiating warmth like the kitchen hearth he called home, gaze soft and eyes damp from holding back tears of his own. His fingertips hovered but didn’t quite touch, respecting the invisible barriers still in place. But his presence was steady, anchoring.

Chan, ever watchful, sank onto the other end of the couch by Seungmin’s feet. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His silence was not absence but assurance, like the thrum of a heartbeat in the stillness. Every now and then, his gaze flickered from Seungmin to the others, checking, assessing, quietly approving.

The room settled around them. A silence bloomed, not empty, but full. Full of held breath and unspoken promises. Full of the quiet understanding that came from sitting vigil over someone who’d finally let themselves break.

Jisung continued stroking Seungmin’s back with the lightest of touches, humming something under his breath, just barely audible. A lullaby, maybe. A melody not for sleep but for staying. For saying I’m here in a thousand wordless ways.

And Seungmin, somewhere in the space between tears and dreams, let go of the tension in his body. His breathing deepened. His fingers stopped clutching. His shoulders, at last, sank into rest.

He slept.

Not the restless half-sleep of trauma, not the survival mode nap of necessity—but the deep, enveloping kind of sleep that could only come from feeling, finally, that he was safe.

And around him, the sins stayed. Watching. Guarding. Loving, quietly.

⸻

The morning broke gently. Sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains, pooling across the lounge room in gold-tinted puddles. The warmth of it crept across the cushions and up Seungmin’s curled frame, tracing the outline of the blanket still loosely draped over him. He stirred slowly, blinking as he emerged from a sleep that, while broken and hard-won, had cradled him like he hadn’t been cradled in months.

He didn’t speak when his eyes finally opened. He didn’t need to. The silence of the room was gentle, weighted, and filled with the lingering hum of presence. Someone had tucked the blanket tighter around his shoulders in the early hours. Someone had brushed his fringe away from his eyes.

And someone, no doubt, was already awake and in the kitchen.

The scent of something warm and sweet began wafting through the archway. Seungmin blinked again and slowly sat up, the blanket slipping off one shoulder. From the kitchen came a voice—soft, cheerful, and unmistakably Australian.

“Morning, sleepy,” Felix called out, a faint clatter of dishes accompanying the greeting. “Hope you’re hungry. I’ve made enough to feed a small kingdom.”

Seungmin blinked again and rubbed at his eyes. Then another voice piped in—brighter, more teasing. “Or at least enough to feed Felix.”

“Oi,” came Felix’s scandalised gasp. “That’s rude, even for you.”

Seungmin’s lips twitched at the banter, a flicker of something small and real tugging at the corner of his mouth. It wasn’t quite a smile, not yet, but it was close. He shifted the blanket off fully and swung his legs down, body still heavy but no longer trembling. When he stepped into the kitchen, the sunlight hit him full-on, and for a moment, it felt like walking into something softer than memory.

Felix turned first. He was dressed in his usual cozy fit, loose knit sweater, apron smeared faintly with batter, curls fluffed and golden in the morning light. His face split into a grin the moment he spotted Seungmin.

“There you are,” he said, already sliding a plate across the counter. “Pancakes. With berries. And cinnamon sugar.”

Seungmin stared down at the plate. The warmth from it reached his fingertips.

Jisung leaned over the back of the chair with a grin. “He made five batches before settling on the perfect one. Said the pan was ‘offensively non-stick.’”

Felix flushed but didn’t deny it.

Seungmin took the seat Felix had clearly set for him, pillow on the chair, utensils neatly placed, glass of water already full. As he sat, a small flutter of something unfurled inside him. Something frightening. Something warm.

Is this what it’s like? he wondered. To be cared for so quietly?

They ate together with soft conversation threading between bites. Jisung chattered about an old book he found in the lounge and insisted the main character reminded him of Seungmin (“all broody with hidden charm—like, hello?”). Felix rolled his eyes fondly and refilled Seungmin’s plate every time it dipped below halfway. And Seungmin let them. He let them care.

Halfway through the meal, footsteps sounded behind them, measured and steady. Chan appeared in the archway, hair slightly rumpled, eyes still heavy with sleep. He didn’t speak immediately, just leaned against the doorframe and observed the scene before him.

“You’re up early,” he said gently, eyes meeting Seungmin’s.

Seungmin nodded once. “Couldn’t sleep any longer.”

Chan nodded, like he understood more than he let on. “That’s okay. You don’t have to, yet.”

It wasn’t an offer. It wasn’t a push. Just… space. Soft and patient. Seungmin didn’t say anything, but the weight in his chest loosened another inch.

Chan crossed the room and ruffled Felix’s hair as he passed, then rested a hand on Jisung’s shoulder briefly before turning back toward the study. “I’ll be in my room if you need anything.”

And then, he was gone.

Felix looked toward Seungmin, eyes gleaming. “He only says that when he means it,” he murmured, sliding the last pancake onto Seungmin’s plate. Seungmin didn’t speak. But he nodded. Once. Slowly.

And for the rest of the morning, they sat there. Not in silence—but in comfort. The kind that doesn’t demand words. The kind that holds space for grief and the long road out of it.

⸻

The hallway felt longer this time. Not because of distance, but because Seungmin chose to walk it. No coaxing hands, no warm voices urging him forward, just a quiet afternoon stillness and the echo of his own cautious footsteps on aging wooden floors. The sunlight was gentler here, filtered through timeworn curtains and brushing softly along the walls like a memory.

He paused outside the study. The door was slightly ajar, the warm scent of tea and paper trailing out like an invitation. Seungmin didn’t knock, he wasn’t sure if he could. But something in him lingered, just at the edge. It was the same something that had reached for Jisung’s hand. The same something that had curled on the couch and allowed himself to stay.

Chan’s voice drifted out, low and warm. “You can come in, if you want.”

Seungmin startled. Not because he was caught, but because he’d been expected. He hesitated. Then, slowly, gently, pushed the door open a little wider.

The study was soaked in golden light, aged bookshelves lining every wall, scattered trinkets catching the sunlight like secrets. Chan sat behind a heavy old desk, sleeves pushed up, fingers curled around a mug of something herbal. His expression was calm, welcoming, but not pressing. There was another mug on the corner of the desk.

“For you,” Chan said simply.

Seungmin moved toward it, slow and unsure. His hand curled around the cup. Warm. Real. He didn’t speak, but Chan didn’t seem to mind. They sat in silence for a while. Seungmin on the armchair across from him, Chan flipping through a leather-bound journal without really reading it. The quiet wasn’t awkward, it felt intentional. Like both of them needed to just exist in the same room, without expectation. Finally, Seungmin found his voice. “Did you… know her? My aunt?”

Chan looked up slowly. There was something ancient and understanding in his eyes, like he’d been waiting for the question.

“Yes,” he said softly. “She was the kind of woman who saw people long before they saw themselves.”

Seungmin blinked down at the tea. “She saw me.”

Chan nodded. “She knew you’d need this place. Not just the house. Us.”

There was a lump in Seungmin’s throat, but it wasn’t painful this time. It was full. Heavy with unshed things he couldn’t name just yet.

“She said the house would help.”

“And it will,” Chan said gently. “As slowly and quietly as you need it to.”

They didn’t say anything else for a while. The light shifted. The tea cooled. But Seungmin didn’t move to leave. Not yet. Eventually, Chan leaned back in his chair, studying Seungmin for a long moment. Then, almost offhandedly, he asked, “You like music?”

Seungmin blinked. “I… guess.”

Chan smiled softly. “I’ve got a few old records. You can come back later and listen. If you want.”

The tiniest flicker of warmth stirred in Seungmin’s chest. He nodded once, just barely. And Chan returned to his journal like it was nothing at all. But to Seungmin, it was everything. They sat together while time passed. 

⸻

The hallway felt softer on the way back. Not physically, his feet still creaked on every old board, the air still carried a faint chill, but something in him was different now. Lighter. Not healed, not fixed. But less alone. He thought of Chan’s quiet steadiness, the way Jisung watched over him, Felix’s gentle warmth always right there when it mattered.

He reached his room and paused with his fingers curled loosely around the doorknob. There was still so much broken inside him. So much grief curled into the corners of his ribs. But for the first time since the funeral, maybe even before that, he didn’t dread waking up tomorrow.

He opened the door and stepped inside. The room was quiet, but not in a lonely way. The bed, still rumpled from his nightmare, looked more welcoming now. He didn’t bother fixing it. Just climbed in, blanket tugged up to his chin, limbs curling into himself out of habit rather than need.

His eyes fluttered shut. He thought of his aunt. The way she smiled when he let his guard down. The way she used to say, “You don’t have to be okay to be loved, Min.”

Maybe this house remembered her better than he did. Maybe that’s why it felt like it knew him already. He exhaled. And for once, the darkness wasn’t heavy, it was just quiet.

Chapter Text

The house smelled like rain and something almost sweet. Not sugar, but something on the cusp of becoming it. A promise. Seungmin stood at the edge of the kitchen archway, arms folded tightly across his chest, gaze resting on the blonde crouched in front of the oven. Felix didn’t turn, but his voice chimed out light and warm. “Thought I felt eyes.”

Seungmin blinked. “You didn’t.”

“I did,” Felix said smugly, rising with a little spin of a wooden spoon. His cheeks were dusted in flour, a light smear across his jaw like war paint in the gentlest battle. “I was just about to rope you into helping, actually.”

“You don’t need help.”

“That’s not what I said.”

Seungmin hesitated. Then stepped in. Felix was all gentle guidance, nudging bowls closer, handing him a whisk, tapping his arm lightly when he stirred too fast or too slow. He never corrected, only guided, voice low and kind, that subtle Aussie lilt turning even flour into something melodic.

The bowl in front of Seungmin smelled like vanilla and safety. His hands moved without thought, muscle memory pulled from some buried part of him, watching baking shows with someone long gone. He hadn’t felt this grounded in weeks. Felix hummed as he moved about the space, tidying here, cracking eggs there, soft like sunlight filtered through gauze curtains. When he laughed at one of Seungmin’s muttered grumbles, it was with his whole chest, golden and alive. It filled the room like warmth.

“I’m making both cookies and brownies,” he announced suddenly.

“That’s excessive.”

“That’s comfort,” Felix countered with a wink.

And Seungmin didn’t argue. When they slid the trays into the oven, Felix leaned back on the counter beside him, shoulder bumping gently into his. The silence between them wasn’t awkward. It just… was.

Seungmin spoke first. “Thanks. For letting me help.”

Felix didn’t look at him, just gave a small, knowing smile as he reached for the timer. “You helped more than you know, Min.”

And with that, the scent of baking rose slowly through the old Victorian house, curling into corners and filling spaces untouched by joy in far too long.

⸻

It started with good intentions.

Jisung had discovered the laundry room while poking around the far end of the hall, humming tunelessly to himself and dragging a basket full of towels with the air of someone setting off on a grand quest. The door creaked open like something out of a haunted house movie, revealing a small but charming room bathed in soft afternoon light. White tiles, floral frosted-glass panel on the door, a washer and dryer nestled neatly side by side, and a stack of folded linen on a bench. Very innocent. Very normal.

“I’m gonna do laundry,” he announced to no one in particular, shoulders back like he was declaring something heroic.

Behind him, Felix appeared with a brownie between his fingers, chewing lazily. “You?”

“Yes, me,” Jisung huffed, dragging the laundry basket in. “Just because I’m Sloth doesn’t mean I don’t do things. I just… do them later. Today is later.”

Felix raised a skeptical eyebrow but leaned against the doorframe, amused. “Alright, housewife era. Show me what you got.”

Jisung dramatically opened the cabinet above the washer and started pulling down bottles like he was choosing ingredients for a potion. “Detergent, fabric softener… what’s this?” He grabbed a box with vague curiosity. “Boosting powder? Sounds like a good vibe.”

“Jisung—” Felix warned, straightening up slightly.

But the powder had already been dumped in. Far too much of it. The machine made an ominous gurgle. Then came the froth. It started as a slow, gentle foam, spilling politely from the rim of the washer door. And then, as if the machine had taken it personally, it exploded into a cascade of bubbles that rapidly overtook the tiled floor.

“OH MY GOD,” Jisung yelped, stumbling backward. “Felix! FELIX!”

“You weaponised the washing machine!” Felix shouted, trying to reach the power button without slipping.

“I was just trying to make it smell nice!”

Bubbles kept coming. Soapy clouds puffed up toward their knees, creeping like a tide. Jisung grabbed the nearest broom and began waving it like a sword, yelling something about defending the homestead. Felix gave up on staying dry and climbed onto the dryer with both feet, surveying the room like a captain watching his ship sink beneath him.

That was the scene Seungmin walked in on.

The doorway framed him in shadow as he blinked, silent, taking in the mayhem. Jisung was mid-swing with the broom. Felix had a trail of foam on his hoodie and a stunned expression on his face. The entire floor was buried in bubbles.

Seungmin stared for three long seconds.

Then, like something deep inside him cracked open—he laughed.

It wasn’t sharp or sarcastic or small. It was full-bodied and involuntary, a rich, warm sound that spilled from his mouth before he could stop it. His shoulders shook, his head bowed, and the sound filled the air between the three of them like sunlight breaking through clouds.

Felix and Jisung went still. Their eyes met in awe.

“He laughed,” Felix whispered, voice reverent.

“Holy shit,” Jisung breathed. “He actually laughed.”

They grinned like idiots, soap clinging to their knees, and for a moment, the chaos didn’t matter. The mess, the bubbles, the absurdity, it was all perfect. Because Seungmin was smiling, and not the polite kind. This one was real. Bright-eyed, cheeks flushed, mouth open with the ghost of his joy still lingering.

“I’m glad we flooded the laundry,” Jisung said earnestly, eyes still on him.

“Don’t get used to it,” Seungmin replied, rolling his eyes, but not denying the warmth that still shimmered behind them.

⸻

Seungmin stepped gingerly onto the hallway rug, the cotton of his towel trailing behind him as he held it loosely around his neck. His hair was still damp, droplets collecting at the ends before slipping down his temple. For once, he wasn’t heavy with the weight of himself, just light in that moment, like the bubbles still clinging to his pyjama sleeves.

Behind him, Felix was giggling as he wrung out the hem of his shirt. “That was a disaster, Jisung. You’ll be banned from all laundry activities until further notice.”

Jisung, not one to take accusations quietly, whipped around to protest with a theatrical flair that could rival any stage actor. “Excuse me, I—whoa—”

His heel slipped on one of the still-damp tiles. There was a terrible moment of flailing limbs, a cartoonish windmill of arms, and then—thud. The sound echoed off the walls, followed by a tragic, winded groan. Felix gasped, lunging forward. “Oh my god—Jisung!”

Jisung lay flat on his back, blinking at the ceiling like he’d just seen the face of god. “Tell my story,” he whispered hoarsely, one arm flopped over his chest like he was clutching invisible pearls. “Tell it beautifully.”

Felix snorted, even as concern tugged at his brows. “You slipped on your own joke. That’s the story.”

“I’m dying,” Jisung croaked. “The floor betrayed me. The soap plotted this.”

From down the hall came the soft thud of approaching footsteps. Seungmin paused, just barely turning his head as Chan appeared at the doorway, arms crossed and jaw tight with what looked like well-practiced restraint.

He stared at the scene: water-streaked tiles, Felix kneeling dramatically over Jisung, and Seungmin half-wrapped in a towel with damp socks clinging to his ankles.

Chan sighed. Loudly.

“What,” he said slowly, eyes flicking between them all, “is going on?”

“Laundry,” Jisung whimpered from the floor.

Felix raised a hand like a child caught mid-crime. “To be fair, he slipped after Seungmin left. That should count for something.”

Chan blinked. Then he turned on his heel and walked away without another word. A beat of silence passed. Then Seungmin, still standing just beyond the threshold, still dripping, let out the tiniest snort.

Jisung’s head popped up immediately, triumphant. “He laughed! Did anyone hear that? Seungmin laughed again! My injuries were worth it!”

Felix pressed a palm to his forehead. “You’re unbelievable.”

But he was grinning. And Seungmin was, too. Maybe only for a moment, maybe just the faintest upward curve of his lips before he slipped away down the hall, but it was enough. Enough to leave Jisung staring after him like he’d just been handed a trophy.

Felix reached down and gave his shoulder a firm pat. “Come on, drama queen. Let’s get you off the floor before Chan sends us all to our rooms.”

Jisung groaned as he sat up. “Joke’s on him. I like my room.”

And somewhere, down the hall, Seungmin’s soft laughter drifted through the quiet, a fragile thing—but real.

Chapter Text

It was late afternoon when the hallway finally fell still. The light that trickled through the tall, dust-fogged windows had begun to fade into something pallid and distant, more memory than warmth. Seungmin stood just outside the archway leading to the lounge, still barefoot, a cup of lukewarm tea in hand. He’d been meaning to go upstairs. To clean something, maybe. Fold a few things. But the quiet tug in his chest wasn’t guiding him toward any room he knew.

He found himself wandering again. Not in the absent-minded, aching way he had those first few days, when every hallway bled into another and his steps held no destination and no point. Now, it was more like something was waiting. Like the house had curled its finger, beckoning gently, whispering not with sound but with weight. A subtle shift in pressure, in warmth. In pull.

It took him to the end of the corridor, the far wing of the house where the floorboards creaked deeper, more thoughtfully, as if they too were weighing his presence. He hadn’t come this far before. There was no reason to. Nothing but a few closed doors and forgotten furniture under sheets.

Except one of the doors wasn’t closed. The library. It was the kind of room that made the air shift the moment you crossed the threshold. Not colder, just older. Thicker. Like every breath had to pass through the ghosts of a thousand others. The scent of parchment and varnished wood curled in Seungmin’s nose, familiar and foreign all at once. He’d grown up with no books, not really. But this room, this room breathed them.

Shelves stretched from floor to ceiling in dark mahogany waves, their spines packed tightly like teeth in a wise old grin. Dust filtered lazily through a single shaft of sunlight from the domed skylight above. The room was beautiful. Not in the polished, pretty way Felix’s kitchen was, but in a reverent, intimidating way, like a cathedral made of thoughts.

Seungmin walked in slowly, his fingers grazing the back of a cracked leather armchair, its frame still solid despite time. Everything in here was solid. Heavy. Important. And yet, he could feel something soft threading through it. A presence. Not sharp like Chan’s, not gentle like Felix’s. This one watched.

He didn’t hear anything at first. Just his breath. Then—

“…You’re not who I expected.”

Seungmin spun so fast he nearly dropped the mug. His eyes darted around the shelves, behind furniture, toward the corners. Nothing.

Silence.

The voice hadn’t sounded threatening. If anything, it had been curious. Gentle, but… edged. Like someone trying to hide how long they’d waited to speak. He took a tentative step deeper into the room. “Who’s there?”

No answer. Just the dust shifting in the light. Seungmin didn’t know why he whispered, but he did. “Are you… one of them?”

Still nothing. But something in his gut twisted—not in fear, but in knowing. He wasn’t alone. Not in this room. Maybe not in this house, ever. The voice came again, lower now, from deeper between the shelves.

“You touched my books.”

Seungmin blinked. He looked down. His hand had rested unconsciously on a shelf, where an old volume had slid forward, just a hair.

“I didn’t mean to,” he said softly. A beat passed.

“That one was hers.”

Something in Seungmin’s throat closed up. The book? His aunt’s? He hadn’t touched it on purpose. It had simply called to him. Just like the hallway. Just like this room.

“Do you miss her?” the voice asked quietly.

Seungmin’s breath caught, and he felt something shift deep in his chest, some hidden drawer that hadn’t been opened in days. Weeks. He nodded. The room didn’t laugh at him. Didn’t pity him. The voice was just… still.

“I do too,” it finally said.

That broke him a little. Before Seungmin could form a response, a figure stepped slowly out from between the farthest shelves. Slender, quiet, and unmistakably young. Hair soft around his face, eyes fox-like and strange in the dim light. No smile. No introduction.

“You shouldn’t be here yet.”

And then, just as quietly, he stepped back into the darkened row of books and was gone. Seungmin didn’t follow. He just stood there, heart fluttering, hands trembling slightly around the cup of forgotten tea.

Who was that? He hadn’t given a name. And yet, Seungmin would remember those eyes. Would remember that sentence.

He shouldn’t be here yet. Then why did it feel like he’d needed to be?

⸻

The house had gone quiet again.

It always did, after something odd. After something soft and strange and whispering just under the skin. Seungmin hadn’t even meant to wander this far, not really. His feet carried him, socked and slow, down the hall like they knew a path he hadn’t chosen. Past the lounge, past the kitchen with its comforting pull, and toward the study at the very end of the hall.

He stood outside the door for a long while, hand hovering near the frame. The lights were low, golden. He could smell old paper, leather, and something deeper—clean wood polish and cologne that reminded him of warmth in winter.

“You can come in,” came Chan’s voice from within—low, warm, unreadable.

Seungmin stepped in cautiously. “Didn’t wanna interrupt.”

“You’re not.” Chan didn’t look up from the papers he was sorting on the large oak desk. He wore a dark sweater today, sleeves pushed to the elbows, fingers stained faintly with ink. The room itself felt timeless, high bookshelves lining the walls, a velvet armchair in one corner, an old globe slightly scuffed at the edges.

Seungmin drifted in, slow and hesitant. “Something… happened in the library earlier.”

At that, Chan looked up. His eyes were soft, but not surprised. He said nothing, simply waited.

“I saw someone,” Seungmin said, voice small. “He didn’t say his name. Just kind of watched me. Said I didn’t belong there. Then disappeared.”

Chan exhaled gently, folding his hands. “I see.”

“That’s it? I see?”

Chan gave the smallest smile. “I’m not going to lie to you. But I’m also not going to tell you everything before you’re ready to hear it.”

“That’s infuriating,” Seungmin muttered.

“Probably.” Chan gestured to the seat across from him. “Sit, if you want. You look like you need to.”

Seungmin did, curling into the armchair with his legs pulled up underneath him, sweater sleeves bunched around his fingers. The warmth of the study felt different than the lounge—it was more thoughtful here, more still.

“You’re thinking about him,” Chan said gently.

Seungmin nodded.

“He watches,” Chan added. “That’s part of his nature. Don’t take it as rejection. Just caution.”

“Caution?” Seungmin echoed, eyebrows knitting.

Chan considered his words carefully. “He’s not unkind. He just sees through people. And sometimes, when you’re not sure who you are anymore, being seen that clearly can feel cruel.”

There was a long silence. Then Seungmin whispered, “It didn’t feel cruel. It felt like he knew me better than I do.”

“That sounds like him,” Chan murmured, a note of respect in his tone. “He’ll come to you again. Or maybe you’ll find him. But either way, don’t rush it.”

Seungmin looked over at him, and for the first time, truly noticed the quiet strength in Chan’s eyes. “Why are you all so calm about this? About me?”

Chan’s gaze softened. “Because we’ve been waiting for you longer than you know.”

That knocked the breath from Seungmin’s chest for a moment. He didn’t respond. Just sat in that warmth, letting it wrap around him. Eventually, he leaned his head back against the chair, eyes fluttering shut, not quite asleep, but close.

Chan didn’t speak again. He simply returned to his work, the scratch of his pen steady and grounding. And for the first time since the library, Seungmin didn’t feel watched. He felt held.

⸻

The house was quiet when Seungmin padded downstairs, the sound of his socks brushing the floor barely audible over the faint ticking of a clock somewhere deeper in the house. He hadn’t meant to get out of bed, but sleep had eluded him again, replaced by a soft restlessness that hummed in his chest. He made his way into the kitchen, intending only to grab a snack, maybe some of those cookies Felix had made yesterday. But the gentle stillness of the house, the way it seemed to breathe with him, tugged something else out of him.

A movie.

The thought slipped into his mind unprompted, strange and sudden. It had been months, longer really, since he’d watched anything at all. Since before the funeral. Before the house. Before he’d stopped letting himself enjoy things. Felix appeared before he could even reach for the cupboard, his head tilted with a sleepy smile and his voice laced with that low, soothing lilt. “Midnight snack run?”

“I was gonna watch something,” Seungmin mumbled, his voice still hoarse from sleep and silence. “Maybe.”

Felix’s smile softened. “Movie night it is.”

Before Seungmin could second-guess himself, Felix was already gathering popcorn kernels and heating butter, his movements calm and practiced. The smell began to fill the kitchen almost immediately, rich and warm, like memories that didn’t hurt quite so much anymore. Jisung stumbled in moments later, hair messy and eyes blinking against the kitchen light like a gremlin. “Why are you two alive at this hour?” he asked through a yawn, then lit up when he heard the word “movie.” “Okay, wait. Blanket. Gimme five.”

He returned five minutes later dragging a comically oversized blanket behind him, pale yellow with soft pink strawberries stitched across it like confetti. “This is the fluffiest one. It’s basically a hug,” he announced proudly, throwing it across the lounge.

Seungmin settled onto the couch almost cautiously, like he didn’t quite believe he was allowed this peace. Felix handed him a small bowl of popcorn, their fingers brushing briefly. Jisung clicked through the options on their modest movie shelf before grinning at him.

“Howl’s Moving Castle,” he said. “You’ll like it. It’s my favourite.”

The opening notes of the film filled the room, quiet and whimsical. Felix curled up on Seungmin’s left, legs tucked under himself. Jisung draped the rest of the blanket over them all and took the right side, lounging like a sleepy cat. At some point, halfway through the movie, Seungmin reached out, tentative, almost hesitant, and slipped his hand into Felix’s. It was small, soft, and warm. Felix stilled for half a second, then gently squeezed, like it was the most natural thing in the world. On his other side, Seungmin leaned gently into Jisung’s shoulder, letting his weight rest there, safe and steady.

Neither of them said a word. But in that stillness, their smiles bloomed like flowers after a drought. The moment felt fragile. Not sad, not heavy. Just… full. His chest ached, but not from grief. From something else. Something light and new and terrifyingly beautiful. A single tear slipped down his cheek, not because he missed someone, but because for the first time in ages, he didn’t feel so alone.

By the time the credits rolled, Jisung’s head had tilted against the back of the couch, mouth open slightly. Felix’s hand remained loosely tangled with Seungmin’s, their popcorn forgotten on the floor. All three of them were asleep.

From the hallway, Chan stood watching for a moment, leaning lightly against the wall with his arms crossed. He didn’t move, didn’t interrupt. His eyes softened as he took in the sight—Seungmin curled up between the two, peace finally etching itself into the corners of his face.

“You were right,” a quiet voice said behind him.

Chan turned his head just slightly, not startled. Jeongin stood in the shadow of the hallway arch, eyes fixed on the couch. His presence was almost eerie, the way he blended into the dark like he belonged to it. But his voice was steady, calm. Watching, always.

Chan gave a faint nod. “It’s working.”

Jeongin didn’t reply. He just watched, something unreadable flickering behind his gaze, and then, just as silently as he came, he slipped away.

Chapter Text

The house had learned how to breathe again.

Seungmin lay still on the couch, arms folded loosely over his stomach, eyes half-open in the dark. The blanket rested where Jisung had left it earlier, tucked around him with uneven corners, one edge slipping toward the floor. A clock ticked faintly from the hallway. Somewhere upstairs, a board creaked, but not ominously. Just… living.

He could hear the house now. Not in the way he had during the first few days when it loomed, oppressive and hollow, whispering through walls that didn’t want him. This was different. The air no longer pressed in from all sides. Instead, it curled softly through the rooms like breath warming cold hands.

He shifted, the cushion sighing beneath him, and sat up slowly. The room was dim, just enough moonlight sneaking through the window to paint a quiet shimmer on the wooden floorboards. He didn’t know what he was looking for as he stood. He just knew he wasn’t ready to sleep.

The hallway welcomed him with familiar creaks. The dust was less heavy now, less of a blanket, more of a memory. Seungmin brushed his fingertips across the banister, noticing where someone, probably Felix, had wiped the rail clean all the way up to the curve in the staircase. He didn’t follow it. Instead, he turned toward the front sitting room.

The fireplace sat cold and empty, but the hearth had been swept. A few logs rested neatly beside it, stacked like a promise. A thin layer of ash told him it had been used recently. Maybe Jisung had tried to light it. Maybe Chan. He imagined Felix fussing over the sparks, waving a dish towel like it was a fire spell. A soft smile touched the corner of his mouth.

He wandered next into the narrow parlour. It smelled faintly of lavender and old cloth—familiar, but no longer sour. The lace curtains had been pinned open with small pieces of string, letting the breeze move more freely. On the windowsill, a small dish sat with two smooth stones and a broken seashell resting inside. He hadn’t noticed it before. It felt important somehow, even if he didn’t know why. There was life here. Quiet, undemanding life. He could feel it.

As he moved back through the archway toward the heart of the house, he hesitated again. His feet knew where they wanted to go before he consciously did. The study. Seungmin approached slowly, heart beating a little faster for reasons he couldn’t name.

He raised his hand, then paused. No knock. Just a gentle push. The door swung inward on silent hinges. Chan looked up from the desk. A single lamp glowed behind him, casting amber shadows across the green blotter and stacks of aged parchment. His sleeves were pushed up, veins prominent on his forearms where his hands cradled a steaming mug. He looked older, somehow. Not in a tired way. In a knowing way.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked softly.

Seungmin shook his head. “Wasn’t really trying to.”

Chan hummed in understanding, then tilted his chin toward the armchair across from him. “Sit. If you want.”

He did. Slowly. The leather creaked beneath him, familiar now, the sound of Chan’s room claiming space in his routine. The cushion was cold for only a moment before his weight warmed it. Seungmin didn’t speak. Just watched the steam curl from Chan’s mug, watched the quiet settle like dust around them.

“I’ve been thinking about the house,” he said eventually, voice barely louder than the floorboards. “It feels… different.”

Chan glanced at him. “Different how?”

“I don’t know.” Seungmin rubbed his palms together. “Brighter. Lighter. Like it’s breathing again.”

A soft smile pulled at Chan’s mouth. “You’ve noticed.”

“It’s real, then?”

“Very real.” Chan leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming once against the wood. “This house is old. Older than anyone really knows. But it’s not just age that gives it weight. It’s memory. Emotion. Connection.”

Seungmin frowned. “That sounds… poetic.”

“It’s a poetic house.” Chan didn’t flinch at the joke. Just looked at Seungmin with that steady calm that somehow made everything sound truer. “It responds to people. It always has. And it needs someone to anchor it. To care for it, in a way.”

“Like a guardian?”

“More like a tether.” He paused. “When someone really lives here, not just exists here, but really connects, the house changes. Reflects them. Their moods, their energy, their healing.”

Seungmin didn’t answer right away. He looked at the lamp, the way the light made the corners feel softer than usual. He thought of the kitchen, how it didn’t smell like dust anymore. The lounge, where the couch no longer creaked with complaint when he sank into it. The yellowing lace curtains that didn’t feel quite so grim.

“So it’s responding to me,” he said, slowly. “Because I’m… getting better?”

Chan’s expression gentled. “I think it always knew you would.” The quiet returned, but this time, it didn’t feel expectant. Just soft.

“Is that why it felt so awful when I got here?” Seungmin asked. “Because it was… grieving?”

Chan tilted his head. “I think grief lingers in the places we love. The house holds onto those echoes until someone’s ready to create new ones.”

Seungmin nodded once, slowly. “So I’m not replacing her. Just… continuing.”

“Exactly.” Chan’s voice dropped, thick with something that felt like reverence. “You’re giving it a reason to breathe again.”

Seungmin let that sit. Let it settle into the cracks he still didn’t know how to fill. He didn’t say thank you. Chan didn’t need it. But he met his eyes, steady and dark across the desk, and let his guard drop for just a second.

“I don’t know if I can keep it up,” he said quietly. “Some days I feel like I’m just pretending.”

“That’s okay.” Chan didn’t hesitate. “Pretending still counts as trying. Trying still counts as living.”

Seungmin closed his eyes for a moment. Breathed. The room didn’t feel so heavy anymore.

“Do you mind if I stay here for a bit?” he asked, opening them again.

“Not at all,” Chan said, lifting his mug. “It’s a good night for quiet company.”

Seungmin’s gaze drifted to the corner of the desk, where a fountain pen rested beside an open notebook. The writing inside wasn’t in English. Not entirely. Symbols curled around words, elegant and strange, like music notes caught in a storm. He didn’t ask about it. Not yet.

Instead, he said softly, “You told me you were waiting for me.”

Chan looked up slowly. His expression didn’t shift, but something in his eyes changed like a lantern flickering in sudden wind. He didn’t answer right away, and Seungmin didn’t rush him.

“I remember,” Chan said finally, voice quiet. “We’ve all been waiting. In our own ways.”

Seungmin frowned. “What does that mean?”

Chan studied him for a moment—his pale hands, his tired eyes, the subtle strength blooming beneath all that stillness. Then he leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. “There are some things that can’t be explained until the right moment. Not because I don’t want to. Because you wouldn’t believe me yet.”

“That’s not a no,” Seungmin said carefully.

Chan smiled, just a little. “It’s also not a yes.”

Seungmin tilted his head. “You said the boy in the library was real.”

“He is.”

“And like you?”

“In some ways. But not all of us show the same way.” Chan’s tone shifted just slightly, like he was choosing his words with care. “Some of us wait longer. Some stay hidden until the moment’s right.”

Seungmin was quiet, but his gaze didn’t waver. “You’re still not telling me everything.”

“I’m telling you what you’re ready to hear.”

“That sounds like a line.”

Chan’s grin softened. “It is. But it’s also true.”

The silence settled again, not quite heavy. More like something sacred. Seungmin’s fingers curled around the edge of his sleeve, thumb brushing the seam.

“You said I could stay,” he said eventually, voice low. “That this place wants me here.”

“It does.”

“Why?”

Chan didn’t answer right away. He looked at the bookshelf instead. At the worn spines and tucked letters. At the weight of memory resting on each shelf. Seungmin’s voice broke gently through the stillness. “Why me? Why not someone better? Stronger? Why did she send me?”

Chan didn’t speak right away. His gaze drifted to the edges of the study like he was remembering something that lived in the walls, in the dust, in the breath between moments. When he finally looked at Seungmin again, his expression was soft in a way that made Seungmin’s chest ache.

“Because you were already part of this place,” Chan said quietly. “Long before you understood what it meant.”

Seungmin blinked.

“You came here as a child,” Chan continued. “When your parents left. You wandered the halls. Hid under tables. Sat on the stairs with scraped knees and refused soup unless it had stars in it. The house remembers. We remember.”

Something pulled tight behind Seungmin’s ribs. He didn’t recall much from that time, just fragments, blurry and dreamlike. A soft hallway. A low voice humming. Laughter that made him feel safe.

“You were small,” Chan said, almost to himself now. “But you were bright. And so lonely. You didn’t even know you were making space for us. But you did.”

The silence that followed wasn’t sharp. It was reverent. Seungmin looked down at his hands, flexed them slowly. His voice, when it came, was barely more than a whisper.

“Then why didn’t I remember?”

Chan’s smile was gentle, touched with something wistful. “Because sometimes the heart hides what it can’t hold. You didn’t need us then. Not really. But the connection was already there. Waiting.”

“…So you’re saying this place chose me?”

“I’m saying,” Chan said, leaning forward slightly, “that you chose it. Years ago. In ways your mind couldn’t keep, but your soul never let go of.”

Seungmin exhaled, long and shaky. Something deep in his chest cracked open, not in pain, but in recognition. Like a song he used to know by heart returning, one note at a time. Chan leaned back, folding his hands loosely in his lap. “You don’t need to understand all of it yet. Just know you’re not here by accident.”

And this time, Seungmin didn’t argue.

⸻

The house had long since quieted. Somewhere upstairs, a soft door creaked closed. Chan remained where Seungmin had left him, elbow perched on the armrest of the velvet chair, thumb tracing absent circles along the edge of a worn page. He hadn’t read a word in the last twenty minutes. Something pulsed in the air now. A ripple. A shift.

He felt it before he saw it, the faintest disturbance in the hallway shadows. When he turned, Jeongin was already leaning in the doorway, one hand curled loosely around the frame, the other clenched at his side like it didn’t trust itself.

“I felt him,” Jeongin murmured. His voice was soft, but not small. “Just for a second. That ache. The one he used to carry.”

Chan closed the book without marking the page. “He’s been carrying it a long time.”

Jeongin stepped into the study like the walls themselves might buckle under the weight of what he was holding. “What did you tell him?”

“That this place has tethered itself to him now. That it’s been waiting for him to come back to life so it could too.”

A pause. Jeongin’s throat worked around a soundless breath. “You told him we were waiting for him.”

“I did.”

Jeongin stands still for a long time after Chan’s voice fades. The air settles around him, quiet but not empty. It presses soft against his ribs like something trying to be remembered.

“He was so small back then,” Jeongin murmurs eventually, eyes fixed on nothing. “God. Maybe six? Seven? He didn’t say much. But when he did…”

Chan turns to look at him, waiting.

“He asked me if I thought parents knew when they’d made a mistake,” Jeongin continues. His voice is barely a whisper now. “If maybe they regretted it, but just didn’t know how to come back.” 

Chan’s mouth forms a thin line.

“He wasn’t even crying,” Jeongin adds, and there’s something painful in the way he laughs, like it still gets him. “Just looking out the window. Watching all the neighborhood kids play with their mums and dads. And I remember thinking, he wasn’t angry. He was just trying so hard to understand.” He pauses. A breath shivers out of him.

“He said it looked like everyone else was part of something. Like they all got given pieces of a puzzle, and his must’ve gone missing. He asked if mine ever felt like it didn’t fit either.” Jeongin swallows hard. “And I told him yeah. I told him sometimes my piece felt too sharp, or too green, or too much.”

Chan’s gaze softens. “You were always honest with him.”

Jeongin nods. “He liked that. I remember… he said I made him feel less broken.” His throat closes around the memory. He lets the silence stretch.

“He used to sneak out of bed just to find me in the library,” Jeongin finally adds, eyes glassy. “Even if I didn’t speak, he’d just sit beside me. We didn’t need words. He just needed someone who wouldn’t look at him like he was missing something.”

There’s a long pause, and then he says it:

“He wasn’t envious of things he didn’t have. He was envious of what he thought he couldn’t ever be. And I think… maybe that’s why I woke up tonight. Why I felt him again.” His voice trembles. “Because I knew what he needed back then. And I should’ve been there.”

Chan stood slowly, moving to join him near the window. “Why didn’t you come to him sooner? He’s been here for days.”

“I wasn’t sure it was him,” Jeongin confessed, voice low. “Not really. I—I thought I imagined it when he walked into the library. He looked different. Sadder. Tired in a way I didn’t recognise.”

Chan tilted his head. “But it was him.”

Jeongin nodded. “It was. And then tonight, when he let something out, something heavy, I felt it again. The same pulse from when he was little. And I knew.” Jeongin looked out into the darkness longingly. 

“She stopped bringing him here. His aunt. Said it wasn’t good for him to be around ‘things he didn’t understand.’ But I understood him. Even when he didn’t.”

Chan’s voice was gentler than usual when it came. “You missed him.”

“I mourned him,” Jeongin said, staring at the floor. “Like he’d died. Because he never came back.”

Neither of them spoke for a long while. Just the ticking of the grandfather clock filled the space, slow and steady. Finally, Jeongin looked up. “What do we do now?”

Chan folded his arms loosely. “We wait. Like we always have. But maybe not as long this time.”

Jeongin exhaled through his nose. He didn’t smile. But his hands unclenched. “Do you think he’ll remember me?”

Chan’s reply was quiet but certain. “He already has.”

Chapter Text

The sunroom looked different today.

Seungmin didn’t know what had changed. The curtains hadn’t been touched. The furniture was the same, delicate iron frames and faded cushions with vine-like embroidery. A cluster of green life still stretched toward the windows from their scattered pots, curling and climbing as if they remembered how to reach. But the room itself felt less forgotten. Less suspended in time. Like it had taken a long, quiet breath and finally exhaled. Maybe it was him.

He stepped into the light, unsure of what he was even looking for. The warmth hit his skin and he tilted his face up instinctively, eyes fluttering shut. It was golden here. Alive. Dust floated lazily through the beams of sunlight, not heavy like in the rest of the house, but soft. Serene.

The far wall was all windows, and tucked beside them stood a full-length mirror, its edges gilded and curling with delicate floral motifs. Seungmin hadn’t noticed it before. Maybe he’d just never looked into it properly. But now, with the sun painting him in colour and shadow, he found his reflection. He looked pale. Hollow-eyed. But not empty. There was a dullness to his expression that tugged at him. A reminder of everything he hadn’t said. Everything he hadn’t done. The kind of silence that made you wonder who you’d be if someone had just loved you right, all along. He tilted his head. Ran a hand through his hair.

“Maybe I should care more about how I look,” he murmured, not meaning to say it aloud. A voice answered anyway.

“For the love of god, please get a haircut.”

Seungmin startled so hard he nearly tripped into a monstera. He spun around, and there he was. A man, tall and composed, leaned against the opposite wall with his arms crossed, one brow raised. His charcoal-grey suit was impossibly well-fitted, collar crisp, shoes polished to a soft gleam. Hair dark, artfully tousled, just long enough to curl at the nape.

“I—” Seungmin stammered. “What—how long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough,” the man replied smoothly. His voice was velvety with the kind of sharp edge that hinted at a warning rather than warmth. “You should really stop monologuing in front of reflective surfaces. That’s how you summon things.”

Seungmin blinked. “Do you live here?”

A slight arch of that annoyingly perfect brow. “I reside here. Please don’t downgrade it to ‘live.’”

“…Right.” Seungmin blinked. “Who are you?”

“I’m Minho,” the man said simply, like that should explain everything. His tone was clipped, precise. Not unfriendly. Just unwilling to waste syllables on things he assumed were obvious.

“I… didn’t know anyone was in here.”

Minho gave a faint shrug, pushing off the wall to cross the room in unhurried steps. “You wouldn’t. You haven’t earned the right to see everything yet.” He stopped near the nearest ficus and began adjusting its leaves one by one, like a man who couldn’t bear chaos even from foliage.

Seungmin frowned. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” Minho said, turning slightly, “that you’re still deciding if you want to live, and this house doesn’t unfold for people halfway out the door.”

The words hit with more weight than they should’ve. Seungmin looked away, eyes drifting toward the mirror again. He didn’t know what answer he had. If he had one at all.

Minho glanced back over his shoulder. “If you’re going to be the new tether,” he added, “the least you could do is look like someone worth anchoring to.”

“Tether?” Seungmin remembered the word from his conversation with Chan. 

Minho didn’t elaborate. Instead, he moved to the bench beneath the windows, brushing imaginary dust from the cushion before sitting down, crossing one leg over the other with lazy elegance. “This house,” he said, “responds to its heart. If it starts to shine again, it’s only because you’re allowing yourself to.”

“I never agreed to be anything’s heart,” Seungmin mumbled.

“No,” Minho replied. “But you haven’t refused, either. And that’s something.”

Silence fell. Not uncomfortable. Not exactly. Just full of things unspoken. Seungmin moved closer, drawn more by the warmth than the answers. Minho stepped past him, hand briefly ghosting over his shoulder—not a comfort, exactly, but a reassurance. 

“Don’t let that haircut distract you from what matters,” Minho murmured as he passed. “But seriously. Book an appointment.”

And then he was gone, footsteps vanishing down the hallway like sunlight slipping beneath the door.

⸻

Seungmin stood in the sunroom long after Minho vanished, the light golden and warm against the walls. His reflection had blurred into shadow on the glass, but the words still clung to him.

Get a haircut.

He had muttered it back to himself at least six times since, unsure whether he was offended or weirdly inspired. And now, somehow, he was halfway down the hall looking for two people who were definitely not going to let that idea stay hypothetical.

He found them in the kitchen. Jisung was crouched under the sink, swearing at a dripping pipe and holding what looked like a pair of salad tongs, while Felix leaned over the bench flipping through a fashion magazine that looked suspiciously like it had come from the attic.

“I have a dumb question,” Seungmin announced. Jisung immediately bonked his head on the cupboard. “Jesus—warn a guy.”

Felix perked up, eyes glittering. “Dumb questions are my specialty. What’s up, buttercup?”

Seungmin hesitated. He tugged a hand through his overgrown hair and mumbled, “Do you think I should… cut it?”

The room went still. Slowly, Felix closed the magazine. Jisung rose to his feet like a Victorian ghost, eyes wide and unblinking. Then they turned to each other and exchanged the most chaotic silent conversation Seungmin had ever witnessed—something between oh my god, do you think he’s serious, and THIS IS NOT A DRILL.

Felix was the first to break. He clapped his hands with a squeal of delight, the sound so unfiltered that Seungmin nearly backpedaled.

“Makeover time,” he declared, already grabbing a towel.

Seungmin groaned, face in his hands. “I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”

Jisung, now holding a spray bottle with no clear origin, grinned like the cat who stole the salon. “Absolutely. But in a hot way.”

It was chaos from the start. Felix insisted on wrapping a towel around Seungmin’s shoulders “for the aesthetic,” and Jisung wheeled in an old vanity mirror from who-knows-where only to immediately cover it with a tea towel so Seungmin couldn’t peek.

“No spoilers,” he sang.

Felix set up shop with a small pair of professional shears and a comb he claimed had been ‘spiritually blessed by a hair god.’ Seungmin suspected it was just very clean. The snipping began gently, almost reverently, and the room filled with soft music and low chatter.

They worked around him like artists, bickering over layers and bangs, fluffing pieces of hair with comically serious expressions. Every now and then, one of them would make a pleased noise or coo like proud parents. Seungmin sat frozen, resigned and pink-eared.

“I think he has nice cheekbones,” Felix said at one point, brushing a stray curl off Seungmin’s temple.

Jisung nodded solemnly. “He has resting brooding poet face. I dig it.”

“Does that mean I look depressed?”

“I mean… yeah, but, like, hot depressed.”

“Stop talking.”

The final step was styling. Felix carefully fluffed and tousled and trimmed until the soft waves fell perfectly across Seungmin’s forehead, the look effortlessly gentle but striking. Jisung adjusted the collar of his hoodie and muttered about “editorial contrast.” And then, finally, they stepped back.

“You ready?” Felix asked.

“No.”

“Too bad.” Jisung whipped the towel off the mirror with a flourish. Seungmin stared.

The boy looking back at him had soft, feathered hair that curved just right at the edges. His skin looked clearer somehow, like the light had shifted in his favor. He looked… present. Like someone you’d notice. Like someone worth noticing. His lip trembled.

Felix stepped forward in panic. “Wait, are you okay? Was it too much? We can undo it. Or I can shave it all off, I swear—”

Seungmin didn’t speak. Just surged forward, arms wrapping around both of them in a sudden, tight hug.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Felix melted. Jisung let out a surprised sound that turned into something watery. They both hugged him back, arms curling protectively around the boy who had finally let them in. No one moved for a long time.

From the far end of the hall, just past the kitchen archway, a shadow shifted. Minho leaned against the doorway, one brow raised, arms folded over his tailored vest. He didn’t speak at first, just watched the trio wrapped up in each other, Seungmin’s face buried against Felix’s shoulder, Jisung whispering something too soft to carry. After a beat, he cleared his throat.

Felix startled. “Minho—!”

“You’re welcome,” Minho said dryly.

Seungmin lifted his head, blinking. “For what?”

Minho tilted his head slightly, eyes skimming over the new haircut. A small, approving hum escaped him. “For the push. Someone had to save you from your tragic mop phase.”

Jisung gasped. “It was endearing!”

“It was abysmal,” he said, as if it were fact, not opinion. Then, directly looking into Seungmin’s eyes as he spoke—

“This look… finally matches the person you’re starting to become.”

Jisung made a tiny squeak. Felix slapped a hand over his mouth. Seungmin blinked, too stunned to reply. Minho turned and walked away like he hadn’t just dropped emotional dynamite in the middle of the room. There was a beat of silence.

“…Did he just—” Jisung blinked. Felix kept his hand over his mouth, trying not to giggle.

“I think,” Seungmin murmured, eyes wide, “that was a compliment.”

“Oh babe,” Felix wheezed, “from him? That was a love confession.”

Seungmin groaned and sank into the couch like he was trying to vanish into the cushions. “Don’t say things like that.”

Jisung flopped beside him with the kind of graceless sprawl only he could get away with. “I dunno, I think you’ve got him all flustered. He fixed a ficus while talking to you. That’s peak Minho vulnerability.”

Felix chuckled and perched on the other side, gently nudging Seungmin’s knee with his own. “You do look good, though.”

Seungmin didn’t answer right away. His fingers fidgeted with the edge of the throw pillow in his lap, the silence stretching just a bit longer than casual.

“I feel…” He exhaled. “Like someone else.”

Felix tilted his head. “A bad someone?”

“No.” His voice was quiet. “Just… someone I almost remember being. From a long time ago. Before everything felt so… stuck.”

Jisung went still beside him, his usual energy softening to something quieter. “That sounds like progress.”

Seungmin nodded, still absently brushing his thumb along the couch seam. “I don’t know what I’m doing. But it doesn’t feel awful. Being here. With you two.”

Felix reached for his hand, twining their fingers together gently. “That’s all we ask.”

Jisung stretched an arm behind Seungmin’s shoulders, not pulling him in, just… being there. Offering warmth. “We’re not trying to fix you, y’know,” he said. “We’re just here to sit with you while you figure out your shape again.”

That did it. Seungmin let out a breath that shook slightly. He didn’t cry, not really. Just let himself sink between them, body leaning into Jisung’s side while his hand stayed curled in Felix’s.

“You’re both ridiculous,” he muttered.

Felix grinned. “And yet.”

Jisung kissed the top of Seungmin’s head and promptly said, “Shotgun picking the movie.”

“No,” Seungmin said, deadpan. “Absolutely not. Last time you picked something that gave me an existential crisis and a headache.”

Felix laughed. “It was the claymation with the sentient socks, wasn’t it?”

“Those socks were cursed!”

“I stand by my art,” Jisung declared, dramatically throwing a throw pillow at Seungmin’s chest. He caught it, barely, and for the first time in what felt like days, laughed. Not a scoff. Not a breath through the nose. An honest-to-god laugh, raw and rusty but real. Felix squeezed his hand tighter.

And Jisung, watching them both with that quiet storm behind his grin, smiled like maybe, just maybe, the spark was catching.

⸻

Upstairs, the light in the master bedroom filtered through gauzy curtains, turning the air golden. Hyunjin sat on the edge of the bed, fingers curled gently around the fabric of his own sleeve, eyes unfocused. His breathing was steady, but something inside him had stirred.

It wasn’t loud. Not like the surges that made him gasp and clutch at his chest. This one was softer. A flicker. The kind of warmth that didn’t burn, just… bloomed. He closed his eyes and let his head tilt back.

There. A shift in the house’s pulse. Lust wasn’t always about chaos. About hunger or want. Sometimes it whispered from the quietest corners, curled fingertips, stolen glances, the hush of skin brushing skin without intent. That’s what this was. A new connection. Delicate. Unsure. But alive. Hyunjin exhaled slowly and pressed a hand to his chest.

Seungmin.

He didn’t see it, but he felt it the way he always did, like the house told him in its own language. Like it hummed with the subtle tremor of a spark just starting to take root. It wasn’t lust in the human way, not yet. But it was something close. Something that could become.

And it was coming from him.

A smile ghosted across Hyunjin’s lips. Not smug. Not playful. Just… wistful.

“You’re waking up,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “I wonder if you’ll let yourself feel it.”

He stood, slowly, and wandered toward the window. The garden outside danced faintly in the wind, green and quiet and alive. Hyunjin didn’t leave the room. He rarely did. It was too much, being around all of them sometimes—too loud, too bright, too open. But when moments like this came, he didn’t need to go anywhere to feel close. The stirrings of love. Of longing. Of something deeper than grief. He leaned his forehead gently to the cool glass.

“Don’t be scared of it,” he whispered. “It’s yours, if you want it.”

Chapter Text

The house didn’t look the way it should. It shimmered. Edges soft, melting slightly like old paper left too long in the rain. Seungmin wandered barefoot through its halls, though he couldn’t remember when he stood up, or where he’d started. His hands brushed along the walls and came back damp with memory.

He wasn’t afraid. Just… aware.

The wallpaper breathed. The stairs curved impossibly high. Every window led to a different season. Spring sunlight in one, snow falling behind another. He didn’t question it. That’s how dreams worked, logic dissolving into sensation.

He turned a corner and found a door he’d never seen before. It was cracked open, light spilling out in the colour of sea-glass and faded leaves. Green. Not glowing. Just present. Like a thought he hadn’t had in years. He pushed it open with trembling fingers.

The room beyond was quiet, but not still. Ivy curled along the corners. Pages fluttered on unseen drafts. A chair sat in the middle, draped in a knitted throw that looked so familiar it made his breath catch. There was a mug beside it, half full, steam barely rising. Someone was here.

He stepped inside. The scent hit him first—dusty books, worn fabric, and something greener underneath, like crushed pine or tears on linen. It didn’t hurt. But it did ache. Seungmin sat. He didn’t know why. He curled into the chair like his body remembered it better than his mind did. The blanket still held warmth. It wrapped around his shoulders without his doing.

His hand drifted toward the book in his lap. He hadn’t noticed it before. The cover was blank. The pages inside shimmered faintly as he turned them, but the words refused to settle. They wriggled and blurred, as if trying to be read and forgotten at the same time.

He wasn’t alone. Someone exhaled behind him. Not loud. Not sudden. Just enough to tighten something deep in his ribs. A soft, familiar breath. A shape in the corner of his eye. But when he turned—nothing. The room was still.

And yet.

His hair moved. Just slightly. Like fingers had passed through it. Gentle. Hesitant. Reverent. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. A hand, warm, callused, known, touched his shoulder. And just as quickly, gone.

“Wait,” he whispered, though his voice didn’t sound like his. “Please.”

There was no reply. Only the creak of the floorboard behind him. The sense of someone lingering just out of reach. A presence stitched into the fabric of the chair. A weight beside him that left no shadow. He tried to speak again. The words dissolved on his tongue. What would he even say? I know you. I don’t know why. I think I miss you. I think I loved you. I think I broke something I don’t remember having.

Silence answered. Then a voice, impossibly close, whispered in his ear, low and trembling:

“You forgot me.”

Seungmin jolted awake, heart hammering. His breath caught in his throat, ragged and uneven. The lounge ceiling blinked back at him, unmoved. Afternoon light spilled through the curtains, too bright. His chest ached like something had been carved out of it in his sleep.

The blanket was still wrapped around him. But his fingers were curled tight into the hem like they’d been holding on for dear life. He didn’t speak. He didn’t move. Just sat there, the ghost of that voice pressed against his skin.

—

Somewhere deep in the house, tucked in the hush between shelves and shadow, Jeongin felt it. It wasn’t a sound. Not exactly. More like a shift in pressure, like the moment before rain, or the weight of a gaze from someone who hasn’t looked at you in a long time. His fingers froze mid-page. The old book in his hands quivered once and stilled.

His breath caught. That ache again. That unbearable echo that had been thrumming under his ribs for days. Weeks. Years, maybe. Time didn’t move the same here. He set the book down. Quietly. Carefully. As if it mattered. As if the walls might notice.

His hands curled into fists at his sides. He stared at the floor, at nothing, and waited. The feeling wasn’t complete. It didn’t surge through him like it used to, like it had the first time they touched, or the last time they spoke, or the in-between moment that still haunted the corners of Jeongin’s memory like an unfinished sentence.

But it was something. A flicker. A crack in the frost. Somewhere in the house, Seungmin had remembered him.

Not his face. Not his name. Just the shape he’d once left in Seungmin’s chest. The hollow space carved by laughter and closeness and a promise that was never said aloud. Jeongin pressed his hand to his sternum. His palm trembled slightly.

“Finally,” he whispered.

The room didn’t answer. But for the first time in a long time, it felt like it was listening.

—

Seungmin didn’t move for a long time. He just sat there, curled on the lounge with the blanket tangled around his legs and the ghost of a voice echoing in his chest.

You forgot me.

His hands were cold. He pressed them to his knees, trying to feel present again, trying to remind himself that this room was real. That the tea-stained rug beneath his feet was real. That the sound of soft breathing—

Oh.

Jisung was sprawled on the far end of the couch, one arm flung over his face like he’d passed out mid-dramatic faint. His hoodie had ridden up just enough to expose a sliver of honeyed skin above the waistband of his sleep pants. The blanket he’d clearly stolen for himself was half on the floor, half wrapped around one leg, as if it had given up the fight hours ago.

Seungmin blinked slowly. Then let out the softest breath. Footsteps padded in from the hall. Felix appeared in the archway, a tray balanced neatly in both hands. It held two mismatched plates, a little bowl of something peach-coloured, and two steaming mugs. He paused when he saw Seungmin awake, stiff-backed and quiet-eyed.

“Morning,” Felix said gently, as if the word might break if spoken too loud.

Seungmin hummed a greeting. Barely. Felix’s gaze flicked between him and the still-sleeping Jisung. He moved silently to the low table and set the tray down, nudging the mismatched mug toward Seungmin. The smell of cinnamon and warm toast curled upward.

“Did you sleep okay?” Felix asked, too casual to be careless.

Seungmin didn’t answer at first. He looked down at his lap. Picked at the blanket. Then said, softly, “I think… I had a dream.”

Felix stilled. Behind him, Jisung let out a garbled sigh and rolled onto his side, mumbling something incoherent about jam and betrayal.

“A bad one?” Felix asked.

“I don’t know.” Seungmin shook his head. “It didn’t feel like mine.”

Felix knelt to straighten the tray. “You looked a little far away when I came in.”

“It just…” Seungmin swallowed. “It felt like someone I used to know.”

At that, Jisung cracked an eye open. “Sounds familiar,” he mumbled.

Felix passed Seungmin the plate. “Eat something. You’ll feel steadier.”

The plate held slices of toasted bread topped with something soft and peach-coloured, cream cheese, maybe, or ricotta. Warm fruit pooled across the top, sweet-smelling and sticky, like it had been stewed just for him. Seungmin took a bite, slow. His throat worked around it like the food had to bypass something heavier inside him.

They ate in silence for a while. Jisung eventually sat up, dragging the blanket with him like a cape. Felix handed him a mug wordlessly, and he cradled it with both hands like it was made of gold. But Seungmin was still quiet. Still too still. Felix didn’t ignore it. He set down his mug and tilted his head slightly. “You’re thinking again.”

Seungmin hesitated. Then, quietly:

“…What are you?”

Jisung blinked. Felix’s smile faded into something more solemn.

“I mean,” Seungmin added quickly, “you’re here. You talk. You cook. You touch things. You have blankets and tea and… faces. You’re not ghosts. But you’re not just people, either. I know that much.”

Felix leaned back on his hands. “That’s not a small question.”

“I don’t want small answers.”

Jisung rubbed sleep from his eyes with the heel of one hand. “He’s getting bold,” he mumbled.

Felix glanced at him, then back at Seungmin. “We’re not pretending. We’re not figments. But the house doesn’t make things obvious.”

“So what are you?”

“We’re part of the house,” Felix said carefully. “But not built into it. More like, kept by it. Called to it. Because you’re here.”

Seungmin frowned. “Me?”

“The house responds to you, Seungmin,” Felix said softly. “It listens. It opens. And sometimes, it introduces you to what you need.”

Seungmin’s shoulders tensed. He looked down at his hands. “How many of you are there?”

Felix paused. “Seven.”

Seungmin nodded, slowly. He didn’t list them, didn’t need to. The memories pulsed behind his ribs, peach-sweet breakfasts, sleepless conversations, sunlit reflections, the echo of a dream he couldn’t name.

“I don’t even remember when it started,” he murmured. “You just kept showing up.”

Jisung shifted, the blanket rustling. “We don’t all show up at once,” he said, voice softer now. “The house won’t let us.”

“Some of us wait longer,” Felix added. “Some… need to.”

Seungmin glanced up at them. “Why?”

Felix gave a small smile. “Because you’re not just meeting us. You’re remembering yourself.”

—

The house was still. Not empty, never that, but holding its breath in the soft hush between footsteps. The kind of silence that followed you when no one else did. Seungmin sat on the hallway bench beside the entrance to the sunroom, arms folded over the book in his lap, eyes unfocused. He hadn’t meant to end up here, but his feet had stopped moving and the light was warm and gentle, and for once, his thoughts were quiet enough to notice how tired he was.

He was starting to want to stay. And that scared him more than anything else. He didn’t know what the house wanted from him. What they wanted. The strange boys who weren’t really boys, who lived in the walls like secrets, whose names stuck in his throat like splinters. He’d met so many now, and yet there was always another. Another face. Another room. Another feeling he didn’t understand until it had already changed him. He didn’t speak. But the thought was there. Right on the edge of his breath.

Why did the house choose me?  As if summoned by the thought alone, a voice floated down the hallway:

“A simple question, but not a simple answer.”

Seungmin flinched, not from the sound, but from the person behind it. Minho leaned against the wall near the sunroom doorway, arms folded, dressed in charcoal and elegance as usual. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were sharp, steady.

Seungmin exhaled. “Were you listening to me?”

“I was listening to the silence,” Minho said, stepping forward. “It’s louder when someone’s thinking too hard.”

He came to stand across from Seungmin, gaze never leaving his face. Seungmin met it. Didn’t blink. And then, quietly, almost like testing a bruise, he asked:

“Are you only here because I’m broken?”

Minho’s poise faltered. Not much. Not enough to call it a reaction. But the pause in his breath was real. So was the glance that darted, almost imperceptibly, to the window before returning.

“No,” he said finally. His voice had softened. “We’re not here because you’re broken.”

He paused, then added:

“We’re here because you stopped pretending you weren’t.”

That hit harder than any answer Seungmin had expected. He blinked, lowering his gaze. The book in his lap felt heavier now. Minho stepped closer, folding his arms again, this time more gently.

“We’re not illusions,” he said. “Not figments. Not dreams.”

He tilted his head slightly. “We’re real in the ways that matter. We stay for as long as you let us.”

Seungmin swallowed, his voice smaller now.

“Do you disappear if I don’t need you anymore?”

Minho flinched again, but slower this time. Not because it was a surprise, but because it hurt. He didn’t look away. But the sharpness in his gaze dulled, just for a moment. And when he spoke, it came with something unexpected. A flicker of kindness.

“We don’t vanish just because you’re not hurting,” he said.

“You matter more than the ache that brought you here.”

Seungmin stared at him. That was not what he’d expected. Not from Minho. Not from anyone. He didn’t know how to answer. So he didn’t. Minho let the silence stretch a moment longer, then broke it with a shrug.

“There’s a book in the library,” he said, already stepping back. “You should read it.”

“Why?”

Minho paused, one hand resting lightly on the wall.

“Because you’re not the first person the house has tried to save.”

He turned, footsteps soft on the floorboards. But before he rounded the corner, he spoke gently once more. 

“We don’t disappear, Seungmin. But if you stop looking, we might fade.”

And just like that, he was gone. The silence returned. But it didn’t feel empty anymore. Seungmin let out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding, then stood. The book in the library was waiting. And maybe, this time, he’d be ready to open it.

Chapter Text

Seungmin sat cross-legged on the floor of his bedroom, blanket wrapped loosely around his shoulders like armour he’d forgotten how to wear. The room was quiet in a way that didn’t feel empty. The air shifted gently, like it was listening.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he whispered.

His voice barely made a dent in the hush, but he knew the house heard him. He stared at the floor, hands resting in his lap, fingers twitching with thoughts he hadn’t spoken aloud. The house didn’t reply, not with words, but the light from the window seemed to warm just slightly, just enough to say I’m here.

“I came here because I didn’t want to live anymore,” he said, the words so plain it startled him. “Not in the dramatic way. Just… quietly. The kind of not-wanting that sits in your bones.”

He let the silence carry it. Let the truth settle in the walls like dust.

“But now I don’t know. I don’t know what’s changed. I don’t know if it’s me that’s changed, or if you’re changing me. Or if I’m just clinging to anything that feels soft enough to hold me.”

He swallowed, dragging the blanket closer to his chest.

“They’re not just strangers anymore,” he murmured. “I’m starting to care. That’s the problem, isn’t it? I’m starting to want to stay.”

His throat tightened. He blinked, hard.

“I don’t know if that’s what you want. I don’t know what the tether is supposed to mean. If I’m meant to need them this much. But I don’t know what else would make me want to stay. It’s not some beautiful revelation. It’s just… them.”

The first tear slipped down his cheek without permission. He didn’t wipe it away. Another followed, slower. Seungmin exhaled shakily and leaned back against the edge of his bed. His voice broke around the next words.

“Is that enough? If the only thing keeping me here is how they make me feel?”

The air shifted. Gently. Like the house was brushing against him.

“You’re not saying anything,” he whispered. “Maybe you can’t.”

He curled forward slightly, hiding his face in his knees.

“I just… I want to know why I feel like I’ve known them forever. Why it hurts so much when I think about losing them. Why I’m afraid of getting better because I think they’ll go away.”

His chest trembled. He sucked in a breath, small and broken.

“And why I feel like someone’s missing.”

That’s when it changed. The room didn’t move, not exactly, but the light seemed to fold inward. The air shifted like it was holding its breath. Seungmin looked up, and it hit him all at once. The way dreams crash into memory. The way something forgotten suddenly remembers you. It wasn’t a vision. It wasn’t a dream. It was him.

Flashes. Fractures. A boy with sharp features and soft eyes. The scent of old books. A hand pressed between Seungmin’s shoulder blades. The warmth of a lap he didn’t remember curling into. A voice, gentle and low, humming under the ache of loneliness. He’d been here before. He’d been in this house. He’d been held. Seen. He gasped. His whole body jolted like he’d just touched something electric.

“Jeongin,” he whispered. The name tore itself out of him, raw and certain. And suddenly, nothing else mattered. He threw the blanket off. Staggered to his feet, legs trembling. He had to find him. Now. He didn’t stop to think. His chest felt too full. His heart was thudding like it couldn’t hold back another second. He flung open the door, adrenaline pounding through his veins.

The library. He’s in the library. He ran. The hallway blurred past him. Seungmin barely registered the familiar wallpaper or the golden trim of picture frames he hadn’t looked at twice before. The house didn’t try to slow him, if anything, the floorboards guided him. Like they’d been waiting for this moment just as long.

He took the stairs too fast. His bare foot slipped on the second step, and the world tipped sharply sideways. He crashed down the last few with a thud and a yelp, landing hard on his side at the base. The pain flared bright in his ankle, a twisting, hot sting that made him wince, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t. He pushed himself upright, breathless, heart pounding harder than ever.

The ache in his leg pulsed angrily, but his chest ached worse. He limped toward the library, one hand on the wall for balance, dragging air into his lungs. The door stood ajar like it had been waiting for him all along. Seungmin didn’t knock. Didn’t pause. He pushed it open and stepped inside.

The air hit him like a memory. Worn parchment. Dust motes. That soft greenish light, the exact shade of dried lavender leaves and old dreams. The scent of ink and linen, like someone had pressed a memory between the pages and let it age with time.

And there, tucked between the shelves near the window, stood Jeongin. His back was to the door, hunched slightly over a thick book, fingers curled delicately around the edge of the page. He didn’t look up at first. Maybe the house hadn’t let him hear the stumble. Maybe it was waiting for Seungmin to speak.

But Seungmin couldn’t. Not yet. He took a shaky step forward. The movement caught Jeongin’s eye. He turned, and when he saw Seungmin, flushed, panting, glowing with some grief-born clarity, and his eyes widened.

“Seungmin?” His voice was soft, but alert. “Are you—?”

But Seungmin was already moving. There was no plan. No hesitation. Just instinct. The floodgate had opened, and every part of him screamed to be near the boy he’d almost remembered for far too long.

He reached him in a heartbeat and flung his arms around Jeongin’s neck, pulling him in like he might vanish again if he hesitated. His grip was trembling, desperate, full of years he couldn’t name.

“I remember you,” Seungmin whispered, voice cracking. “Jeongin, I remember you.”

Jeongin stood frozen. For a breath. Then his arms snapped around Seungmin’s waist and held him like something sacred. Like a prayer answered. His hand slid up to the back of Seungmin’s head, curling into his hair, fingers shaking.

“You do?” he breathed, disbelieving. “You really remember?”

Seungmin nodded into his shoulder. “Not everything. Just… I remember how it felt to be here. With you. And I wasn’t alone. I wasn’t so broken.”

Jeongin’s throat worked around a sound, half gasp, half sob. He clung tighter, burying his face in the curve of Seungmin’s neck like the contact could ground him. His eyes welled over, silent tears slipping down his cheeks. For a long moment, neither spoke. Just breathing. Just holding. Something in the house seemed to sigh. Like the echo of a lock clicking open. And then Jeongin shifted, just enough to look at him—really look. His gaze dropped, and his breath hitched again.

“You’re hurt.”

Seungmin blinked, dazed. “What?”

“Your ankle,” Jeongin said gently, already kneeling. “You’re limping. You fell, didn’t you?”

Seungmin opened his mouth to deny it, but the moment he shifted his weight, pain lanced up his leg. He winced, hard. “Oh. Yeah. I—I didn’t notice.”

“You were too busy remembering me,” Jeongin said with a smile so sad and sweet it could’ve been stitched from poetry.

He looked up at Seungmin like he’d been waiting years to be seen like this. And now that he had, he wasn’t going to let him slip away again.

—

The sound of the fall had echoed. Seungmin hadn’t even realised how loud it was until he was cradled in Jeongin’s arms, and the house suddenly came alive. Footsteps. Sharp, fast, multiple. The library door burst open just as Jeongin was helping Seungmin lower himself gently into one of the armchairs. Felix appeared first, chest rising like he’d sprinted the whole way. His eyes found Seungmin immediately and widened.

“Min,” he breathed, rushing to his side. “Are you hurt? What happened?”

Before Seungmin could answer, Chan was already in the room, gaze scanning the floor, the bookshelf, the doorway, calculating threat before concern, and then locking onto Seungmin with a low breath. “Did something push you?”

“No, no, I just—” Seungmin tried to sit up straighter, then winced, sharp and involuntary. Jeongin’s hand didn’t leave his arm. Jisung tumbled in a beat later, hair wild and hoodie sleeves half over his hands. “What the hell? I thought something exploded—oh my god, are you okay?!”

Felix was already on the floor, checking Seungmin’s ankle with practiced, gentle fingers. “It’s swelling. Sprain, probably. You shouldn’t have walked on it, sweetheart.”

“I didn’t care,” Seungmin muttered. “I had to find him.”

That made all of them pause. Their eyes flicked between him and Jeongin, who hadn’t moved an inch from Seungmin’s side. His expression was unreadable. But his fingers were still curled around Seungmin’s sleeve like letting go wasn’t an option. Felix blinked, then smiled softly. “You remembered?”

Seungmin nodded. Something about the answer made Felix’s eyes glisten, though he said nothing more. He just brushed Seungmin’s hair from his face and murmured, “You’re safe. Okay? Just stay still for now.”

Chan crouched nearby, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his expression unreadable, but his knuckles were pale. “You should’ve called for one of us.”

“I didn’t have time,” Seungmin said. “I had to—”

“You don’t have to explain,” Jisung said, crouching on the other side, visibly trying to calm his breathing. “You’re here. That’s enough.”

Behind them, the library door creaked open again. Minho leaned in. He didn’t rush. Didn’t even raise an eyebrow. He just glanced over the room, at Seungmin, surrounded by chaos and caretakers, and smirked faintly.

“Well,” he drawled. “Still alive, I see.”

Jeongin turned to glare at him, but Minho had already strolled inside, hands in his pockets like he was just passing through a particularly uninteresting art gallery.

“Didn’t know we were holding a meeting,” he added. “Should I bring wine?”

Chan didn’t dignify that with a reply. But Seungmin let out the tiniest breath of amusement, and Minho caught it. His gaze softened, barely, briefly, and then he turned and disappeared back into the shelves like he’d never really been there.

The others returned to fussing—Felix was wrapping Seungmin’s ankle now, muttering gently, Jisung offering a water bottle that appeared from somewhere, but Jeongin didn’t move. He stood silent, unreadable, still half-crouched beside the chair like he didn’t know if he should stay. His gaze had gone distant.

Seungmin could feel it. The flicker. The sudden quieting of his breath. The stiffness in his spine. That ache in his eyes. The others didn’t notice, but Seungmin did. It was a flash of something deep and green. Not bitter. Not cruel. Just aching. Because they were all touching him. Helping him. Surrounding him like he was something to protect. And Jeongin, who’d been there first, who had held him when the memory broke open, was now on the outside of the crowd. It wasn’t fair.

Seungmin touched Felix’s wrist softly, drawing his attention. “Can I—” he hesitated, then looked toward Jeongin. “Can I talk to him alone?”

The room stilled. Felix blinked, then nodded. “Of course. We’ll give you some space.”

Jisung stood and grabbed Chan’s sleeve, tugging him toward the door without a word. Chan didn’t protest. Even he could read the moment. Felix gave one last squeeze to Seungmin’s shoulder before following them out. “Call if you need anything,” he said gently.

Then they were gone. And it was just them again. Jeongin and Seungmin. The air shifted. Jeongin didn’t speak first. His throat moved, but he didn’t know what to say. So Seungmin did.

“You felt it too,” he whispered.

Jeongin’s eyes finally met his. “…Yes.”

“I’m sorry,” Seungmin said, softer now. “I didn’t want them. I just… I needed you.”

And that… that’s when Jeongin’s breath caught. He didn’t move for a long moment. His eyes searched Seungmin’s face like he was trying to memorise him all over again, as if the seconds might slip through his fingers if he looked away. But there was no anger in his gaze. No bitterness.

Just a quiet ache. And then… he reached forward. Carefully. Fingers trembling slightly. Seungmin didn’t flinch. Their hands met gently, like the memory of a gesture they’d done a hundred times before. Jeongin’s palm slid into his like it belonged there, like there had once been years of comfort in the space between their fingers. The contact was warm. Familiar.

And then it hit. Seungmin’s breath caught. A flash, sharp, vivid, real.

A younger version of himself, no older than six, curled in the library chair, knees tucked to his chest, eyes red and raw from crying. The room had been cold, not from temperature but from silence. That particular quiet that came after yelling. After disappointment. After a door slammed in your face and the world stopped listening. But then, a presence. A boy. Sharp features, dark lashes, and that same quiet ache in his eyes.

“Are you hiding?” the boy had asked softly, kneeling in front of him. Seungmin had nodded, barely.

“I do that too,” the boy whispered. “This is a good place for it.”

He hadn’t said anything else. Just sat beside him. Silent. Present. A hand resting close, but not touching, until Seungmin reached for it. And when he did, the boy had held it so gently, like Seungmin might break if squeezed too tight. They’d stayed that way for hours.

Seungmin blinked, breath shuddering as the memory faded. His fingers tightened around Jeongin’s hand on instinct, like that same scared little boy still lived under his ribs.

Jeongin inhaled sharply. “You remember?”

“I do,” Seungmin whispered, eyes shining. “You… you didn’t say much. You just sat with me.”

“You needed quiet,” Jeongin murmured. “But not alone.”

Seungmin let out a shaky laugh, the sound catching somewhere in his chest. “You were the first person who made me feel like… like I wasn’t broken just for feeling too much.”

Jeongin’s eyes filled again, but this time with warmth. He brought Seungmin’s hand up between them, cradling it like something precious. “You made me feel seen, too. Even back then.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. It was full. Of all the things they didn’t need to say. The air in the library seemed to soften around them, the walls sighing with relief. As if the room had been waiting for this moment to happen again. As if it remembered, too. Seungmin shifted slightly in his chair, wincing at the pull in his ankle. Jeongin moved immediately, slipping off his jacket to roll it and tuck it beneath Seungmin’s foot without needing to ask.

“You don’t have to—” Seungmin started.

“I want to,” Jeongin said, voice low but firm. “I’ve waited so long for you to remember. Let me be here for you now.”

Seungmin looked down at their still-joined hands. His voice, when it came, was barely a whisper.

“Don’t fade, okay?”

Jeongin leaned in. Forehead gently resting against Seungmin’s.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered.

And for the first time in a long, long while, Seungmin believed it.

—

The library had grown still again. Seungmin sat nestled into the armchair, his ankle propped up on Jeongin’s jacket. The quiet between them wasn’t tense—it was soft, like mist hanging low in a field. The kind of quiet that follows a storm, when the air is still trying to remember how to breathe. Jeongin hadn’t moved far. He sat on the edge of the rug, knees drawn up, one hand resting lightly on the arm of Seungmin’s chair. Not holding. Not demanding. Just… there. 

It felt right.

But the silence had started to hum. Seungmin shifted slightly, watching the boy beside him. The boy who had waited in the shadows. The boy who had known him before he even knew himself.

“You knew me,” Seungmin said softly. “All this time.”

Jeongin’s lashes fluttered, but he didn’t look up.

“How long have you been watching me?”

A pause. Then, quietly: “Since the day you arrived.”

“No,” Seungmin said, more firmly now. “Not just in this house. Before.”

Jeongin’s breath caught, barely audible. Seungmin didn’t press, but he didn’t retreat either.

“I remember the library,” he whispered. “I think I was about six. I don’t remember why I was alone. Just that I was… lonely. And you were there.”

Finally, Jeongin looked up. There was something so young in his expression, despite the years, despite the knowledge behind his eyes. A fragile sort of hope. A wound that never stopped bleeding.

“You were crying,” Jeongin said softly. “I wasn’t supposed to show myself. But I couldn’t leave you like that.”

Seungmin’s brow furrowed. “Weren’t supposed to?”

“The house has rules,” Jeongin said. “Tethers aren’t supposed to see us until the time is right.”

“But I did.”

Jeongin nodded once. “Because the house let you.”

Seungmin blinked.

“It bent the rules,” Jeongin said, voice soft with wonder. “It knew you would come back. That you’d be the one to follow your aunt. It… it felt her time was nearing its end, and it had already chosen you.”

“Chosen me?” Seungmin echoed, stunned.

“You were always meant to return,” Jeongin whispered. “The house knew that even before you did.”

Seungmin stared at him, heart thudding.

“How long have you remembered me?”

Another pause. Jeongin stared at the floor. “I never forgot.”

Seungmin’s breath stuttered.

“I came back here after you left,” Jeongin murmured, voice smaller now. “I stayed in the library. Every day. Hoping you’d return. And then, years later… you did.”

“But I didn’t remember you.”

“No,” Jeongin said. “You didn’t.”

The silence twisted. Not cruelly, but with the soft sadness of something almost lost. Seungmin reached forward slowly, his fingers brushing Jeongin’s. “Why didn’t you tell me who you were?”

“I wanted to,” Jeongin admitted. “Every time I saw you walk past this room. Every time I heard your voice in the hallway. I wanted to throw the door open and beg you to remember me.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

Jeongin looked up again, and this time there were tears gathering in his eyes. “Because I was afraid that if I told you before you were ready… you’d reject me. Not because you’re cruel. But because it would hurt too much to know something your heart wasn’t ready to carry.”

A beat passed. Then another.

“I couldn’t survive you choosing to forget me twice.”

The words hit like a whisper-shaped blade. Soft. Deep. True. Seungmin let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. His hand tightened around Jeongin’s.

“You waited,” he whispered.

“I waited,” Jeongin echoed. “I always would’ve waited.”

Seungmin’s chest cracked open a little more. Not from pain. But from recognition. The kind that feels like finding a favourite book on a forgotten shelf and realising you still know every word.

“Jeongin,” he said, voice thick with something warm and raw, “I don’t remember everything yet. But I remember how you made me feel.”

Jeongin blinked up at him, breath caught.

“Safe,” Seungmin whispered. “Wanted. Seen.”

Their fingers interlocked completely now. Not as a comfort. But as a vow.

“You’re not losing me again,” Seungmin said. “Not this time.”

And Jeongin, lips trembling into the softest smile, finally let himself believe it.

Chapter Text

The couch had never been this full before. Or maybe it just felt that way because every blanket in the house seemed to have migrated there. Some had been folded neatly; others were half-draped, half-thrown, like someone had started tucking and then got distracted by cooing over Seungmin’s ankle.

He’d protested, at first.

Said he could walk on it fine. Said it wasn’t that bad. But the moment he’d tried to stand without support and winced ever so slightly, Felix had gasped, Jisung had flung himself dramatically across the floor like it was a death scene, and Chan had crossed the room so fast Seungmin thought he might’ve unlocked a new law of physics.

Now, he was nestled between pillows, a fluffy blanket swaddling him like some kind of sad burrito, ankle propped up on a cushion tower that looked suspiciously like it had been stolen from three different bedrooms. He didn’t hate it.

“I could have carried you,” Jisung whined from the armrest, where he’d perched upside down like a bat. “It would’ve been more efficient. Way more dramatic. I could’ve dropped a single tear. Whispered ‘I’ll never let go.’”

“You weren’t even in the room when he fell,” Minho deadpanned from the other side, flipping through a magazine like he was above all this. Jisung glared at him. 

Chan, kneeling beside the couch, adjusted Seungmin’s ankle brace with delicate fingers. “How’s the pain? You good?”

“It’s fine,” Seungmin murmured, and meant it. Not because the sprain didn’t hurt, it did, a dull throb he couldn’t quite ignore, but because the attention softened it. The way they circled around him like gravity. The way no one left. Felix re-entered the room carrying a tray of drinks and a stack of snacks so impressive it could’ve been a centrepiece. “Emergency hydration!” he chirped. “I brought peach soda and iced tea, no caffeine. And there’s sliced strawberries in the little bowl.”

He placed the tray on the coffee table, then knelt beside Seungmin with that sunshine-wrapped gentleness only Felix could pull off. “Are you comfy enough, petal?”

Seungmin blinked. “Petal?”

Jisung snorted. “He’s testing nicknames again. You should’ve heard him call me ‘sweetpea’ earlier. I haven’t recovered.”

“I liked sweetpea.”

“You would.”

Seungmin exhaled a soft laugh, then glanced at the screen. It was paused on the Studio Ghibli logo, glowing gently. “So… what are we watching?”

“Spirited Away,” Felix said instantly. “It’s magic and mystery and healing.”

Minho looked up from his magazine. “You said that like it’s a personality quiz.”

“It is.”

Seungmin smiled faintly. “I’ve seen it before. A long time ago.”

There was a pause. Then Jeongin, quiet beside the couch’s other end, spoke. “It’s one of my favourites.”

Everyone looked at him. Jeongin didn’t flinch. He was seated near Seungmin’s feet, close enough to reach but not quite touching, like he was still figuring out how much space to take up again. His gaze was soft, a little cautious. He hadn’t left Seungmin’s side all morning.

“I’d like to see it again,” Seungmin said, glancing his way. Jeongin gave the smallest nod.

“Alright,” Chan said, grabbing the remote. “One dreamlike coming-of-age journey into the spiritual underworld, coming right up.”

The lights dimmed. The couch fell into a hush. Somewhere beneath the layers of blankets and laughter and lemon-scented tea, Seungmin let himself melt just a little more. He was safe here. Even if he didn’t understand everything yet. Even if the questions still pressed at the back of his mind. They were here. And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel alone.

—

The opening scene played quietly, soft music wrapping the room in something nostalgic. Seungmin had seen Spirited Away before, but not like this. Not tucked beneath three blankets, not flanked by souls who weren’t quite human, not feeling so… watched. Not in a bad way. In a way that made his skin warm.

Jisung had stopped hanging upside down and was now sprawled on the floor like a lazy cat, head tilted up to watch the screen. He was already chewing on a cookie he definitely didn’t ask permission to take. Felix was curled at the far end of the couch, legs tucked under himself, eyes wide with childlike awe. Chan sat on the floor with his back to the couch, close enough that Seungmin could feel the steady presence of him, like quiet, comforting gravity. Every so often, Chan would glance back, just to check on him. Minho lounged in the corner armchair, one ankle crossed over the other, not watching so much, more monitoring. Like the whole movie was on trial and he was the jury. He still hadn’t smiled. But he also hadn’t left. And Jeongin—

Jeongin hadn’t moved. He stayed near Seungmin’s feet, hands clasped loosely in his lap, gaze drifting between the screen and Seungmin like he was watching both stories unfold at once. When Seungmin shivered slightly beneath the blanket, Jeongin reached without thinking, tugging the edge higher over Seungmin’s shoulder.

Seungmin looked at him. Jeongin didn’t meet his eyes. But the corners of his mouth softened.

Onscreen, Chihiro clung to Haku’s hand, racing through the world. Seungmin’s chest ached in a familiar, old place. Something about the way she looked at him, desperate, believing, scared to forget. It gnawed at the edge of something he wasn’t ready to look at yet.

“I used to want to live in a world like this,” he murmured, mostly to himself.

Jeongin responded, voice so quiet it might have just been a thought: “You kind of already do.”

Seungmin didn’t answer. He didn’t know how. So much of this felt unreal. Too beautiful. Too soft. He’d come to the house ready to disappear. Now, they were passing him drinks with paper straws and arguing over which Ghibli character would win in a fist fight. He never expected it to feel like this. Like family. He continued watching. 

A strange hush fell over the room during the bathhouse scene, the one where Chihiro bowed to the spirit, utterly respectful, unflinching even as the stink rolled in. It was a turning point in the movie. Everyone in the room seemed to sense it.

Seungmin watched Chihiro scrub and drag and try, and felt something in his own chest loosen. Not because it was easy for her. But because it wasn’t. And she kept going.

“They underestimated her,” Chan said suddenly, voice low.

“They always do,” Felix added, a soft kind of pride in his tone.

“Dumb of them,” Jisung said around a mouthful of popcorn. “Little girls are scary.”

“Speak for yourself,” Minho muttered.

Seungmin smiled faintly. Not just at the movie. At them. The way they fit. The way the house made room. He glanced at Jeongin again, and this time, Jeongin was already looking.

“Thank you,” Seungmin whispered.

Jeongin blinked, startled. “For what?”

Seungmin hesitated, fingers curling in the blanket. “For being here.”

The other sins didn’t react. If they noticed, they didn’t show it. But Jeongin did. He looked like he wanted to reach for Seungmin’s hand, and then remembered himself. Instead, he simply nodded.

“You’re welcome.”

The screen shifted again. Night had fallen over the bathhouse. Magic swirled through the air. Seungmin tucked his head against the back of the couch and let it wash over him. He didn’t cry. Not yet. But it was coming. He could feel it in his throat. And he knew none of them would mind.

—

The movie’s final notes lingered in the air like the scent of something warm just pulled from the oven. The screen faded to black. None of them moved at first. It was quiet in the way that only good stories make things quiet, like the world itself had paused, just to let the ache settle. Seungmin sat very still, wrapped in his tower of blankets, one hand twisted in the edge of the throw like he didn’t trust it to stay unless he held on.

Jisung yawned, then rolled dramatically onto his side with a groan. “That’s it. I’m emotionally compromised.”

“I’m gonna be thinking about the train scene for the rest of my life,” Felix whispered reverently.

“Why am I suddenly nostalgic for a bathhouse I’ve never been to?” Chan asked no one.

Minho simply said, “Because you’re weak.”

But their voices dulled into the background, because Seungmin wasn’t laughing. Wasn’t smiling. Wasn’t even looking at the screen. His shoulders had begun to shake. The others didn’t notice at first. Jeongin did. He sat up straighter, something tightening in his jaw.

“Seungmin?”

That’s when the others turned.

“Seungmin?” Felix echoed, softer, already leaning toward him.

“Hey, what’s—”

But the moment Seungmin’s head dropped and they saw the tears streaking down his cheeks, chaos erupted.

Felix: “Oh my god is he okay—?!”

Chan: “Are you in pain? Where’s the painkillers—?!”

Jisung: “Did someone touch the ankle?! I swear I didn’t kick him—!!”

Minho: “He’s crying. It’s not complicated. People do that.”

“Shut up, Minho,” the other three said in unison.

Jeongin didn’t say anything. He just reached for Seungmin’s hand. And Seungmin squeezed back.

“I’m okay,” Seungmin said, voice small and cracked and soaked in emotion. “I promise.”

Felix hovered like a mother bird. “Then why are you—?”

“I just…”

Seungmin looked up at the darkened screen. Chihiro standing at the edge of the spirit world, changed but still herself. Brave. Whole.

“I think I found my family too.”

The words dropped into the room like a stone into still water. Jisung stopped mid-wiggle. Felix’s hands slowly lowered from where he’d been fluffing a pillow. Chan’s shoulders fell like someone had let the tension leak out of him all at once. Even Minho stilled.

They all stared at him. Not in shock. Not really. More like realisation. Like they’d been hoping, aching, for that moment, but hadn’t dared to expect it. Felix was the first to move. He leaned in, pressed a warm hand to the top of Seungmin’s head, and whispered, “You have.”

Jisung reached across the blankets and poked Seungmin’s side with a crooked little grin. “Didn’t even have to ride a dragon to get to us.”

“I mean, speak for yourself,” Chan muttered. “Minho definitely counts as a dragon.”

Minho raised an eyebrow. “Careful, I bite.”

Jeongin didn’t speak. But he shifted a little closer. His fingers brushed Seungmin’s arm where the blanket had slipped down. A touch so small, it could’ve been a coincidence. But Seungmin felt it. And he turned to look at him. Really look. Jeongin was trying not to cry too. So Seungmin smiled through his own tears, eyes still wet, nose a little red. “Guess I’m stuck with you guys now, huh.”

Jisung beamed. “Stuck like superglue, baby.”

Chan laughed, and Felix dove in for a half-hug, careful of Seungmin’s ankle.

“Movie day was a great idea,” Jisung announced, already reaching for the remote. “Can we watch Howl’s Moving Castle next? Or no, wait—Totoro—”

“Absolutely not,” Minho said, rising to his feet. “I’m not emotionally babysitting you all twice in one day.”

“You never emotionally babysit us,” Felix pointed out.

“I emotionally babysit myself. That’s enough.”

Seungmin laughed through the last of his tears, chest warm, cheeks sticky, heart unbearably full. They didn’t go anywhere. Not right away. They just stayed. Soft and warm and tangled in each other. And Seungmin knew that even when the credits rolled, the story wasn’t over.

—

Eventually, the chaos mellowed. Jisung drifted off mid-ramble, mumbling about soot sprites and snack cakes. Chan slipped away to answer something the house whispered into the walls. Felix retreated to the kitchen, promising to make something warm. Even Minho left with a sigh and a muttered “don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” which no one knew how to interpret.

That left only Seungmin and Jeongin, curled in the hush of the lounge, half-draped in the same blanket, the movie’s soft glow still lingering like a dream that didn’t quite fade upon waking. The silence wasn’t awkward. It was full. Full of things they didn’t have words for. Full of memories Seungmin couldn’t quite place, and truths Jeongin wasn’t sure he was allowed to say.

“I wasn’t lying,” Seungmin said suddenly.

Jeongin turned slightly toward him. Seungmin didn’t meet his eyes. “About the family thing. I meant it.”

Jeongin smiled faintly, but his gaze dropped. “I know.”

“I think…” Seungmin swallowed. “I think I’ve wanted to feel that way for a really long time. And I didn’t think I ever would again.”

“You always deserved to.”

The words came too easily. Like Jeongin had said them before. Maybe not aloud. But somewhere. Somewhen. Seungmin looked at him again. Jeongin’s breath hitched. There was a flicker of something in Seungmin’s expression, recognition, maybe. Or curiosity. Or the slow, creaking sound of a memory beginning to stir.

“You were in the library,” Seungmin said softly.

Jeongin froze.

“When I was little. You… held me when I cried.”

The room held its breath. Jeongin didn’t nod. Didn’t confirm. But his eyes grew glassy. His hand twitched once, like he wanted to reach out. Seungmin didn’t wait. He reached first, fingers brushing against Jeongin’s. Not gripping. Just resting. Like a question. Jeongin let his hand settle over Seungmin’s. Warm. Steady.

“I was so little,” Seungmin murmured. “You didn’t tell me your name.”

“No,” Jeongin whispered, almost a smile. “I wasn’t supposed to.”

Seungmin’s thumb brushed against his. “But you were there.”

A long pause. Then Jeongin nodded.

“The house… it knew you’d come back,” he said. “It knew before I did. That you’d be the next tether. That she was almost out of time.”

“Did you know?”

Jeongin’s voice cracked a little. “I hoped.”

Seungmin leaned his head against the couch, watching the ceiling like it might tell him what came next. “It’s so weird,” he murmured. “How I forgot. How I feel like I always knew.”

“You remembered the feeling,” Jeongin said. “That’s what matters.”

The blanket shifted slightly as Seungmin turned to him, the world quiet except for the sound of their breaths syncing.

“You waited for me,” he said.

“I’d wait again.”

Seungmin didn’t cry again. Not this time. But his eyes were soft. And his grip on Jeongin’s hand stayed firm.  Jeongin shifted, just slightly, like he might stand. But Seungmin didn’t let go.

“I don’t want you to go yet.”

It wasn’t desperate. Just honest. Jeongin looked at their hands, at the curve of Seungmin’s fingers around his own. And then, with a quiet breath, he eased closer. Not rushed. Not uncertain. Just natural. Seungmin opened the blanket without a word. A small invitation. Jeongin slid in beside him.

They didn’t say anything else. Didn’t need to. Seungmin tucked himself gently against Jeongin’s side, his head resting near his shoulder, breath evening out as the ache behind his eyes finally began to lift. Jeongin let one arm curl around his back, fingers splaying softly across the fabric of his hoodie. Protective. Present.

The house sighed quietly around them, beams and floorboards settling like they, too, could breathe easier now. Seungmin closed his eyes. For the first time in a long time, the warmth he felt didn’t come from tea or sunlight or blankets. It came from Jeongin. And it was real.

Chapter Text

It started with the mirrors. Chan’s study was always the first to sense it, sharp and analytical by design. The pen in his hand snapped mid-thought, ink bleeding onto a page that wouldn’t dry. The bookshelf behind him creaked despite no movement, and when he glanced into the corner mirror, a fixture he’d long stopped truly noticing, his own reflection was missing.

That alone wouldn’t have unnerved him. This house was not built to be logical. But the reflection came back when he frowned. And this time, it blinked a second too late. Chan set his pen down slowly. Something was wrong.

—

Felix burned the toast. It was a minor sin in any other house. But here? Where the stove never misbehaved, where Felix’s hands never fumbled, where the butter spread like silk and the jam knew just how much sugar to give, burning toast was a shout from the walls themselves.

He stared at the blackened slice. Tried again. Watched the flame sputter even though he hadn’t touched the dial. The coffee machine leaked. The honey jar cracked. The kitchen sulked.

Felix pressed his hand to the bench, grounding himself. “Seungmin,” he said softly, not as a call, but a confirmation. The house didn’t answer.

—

Jisung couldn’t sleep again. He hadn’t slept well since Seungmin got hurt, too many emotions in the walls, too many threads tugging at his chest in the middle of the night. But this time was different. His blanket had slipped off the bed entirely, and his window wouldn’t close. The wind bit at his skin in short bursts, like guilt trying to get in. He rubbed at his eyes. Reached for the headphones he usually wore when it all got too loud. But even the softest music distorted as it played.

Off.

Everything was off.

He slipped into the hallway barefoot. The walls sighed around him. Not sad. Not angry. Just tired. Dim. As though the house itself had lost its colour.

“Hey,” he whispered, pressing his palm against the nearest wall. “You okay?”

It didn’t answer. But the floor shivered under his feet.

—

Minho noticed last. Or maybe he’d noticed first and simply waited to see who else caught up. The sunroom should have been golden, but it had dimmed to ash-light and grey. The plants didn’t lean toward the windows. His favourite chair creaked when it never had before. A crack had appeared in the far tile, one that hadn’t been there yesterday. He traced it with his toe and narrowed his eyes.

“It’s him, isn’t it?” he said aloud.

No one answered. But that was the answer. He sighed. “Of course it is.”

—

They gathered in the lounge first, Felix with his apron still tied, Jisung half-dressed, Chan flipping a pen between his fingers, Minho as composed as ever. The tension was soft but unmistakable.

“It’s him,” Jisung said.

Felix nodded. “The house is reflecting him.”

“It’s shame,” Minho said. 

The silence that followed was thicker than grief.

“He thinks he’s a burden,” Felix said quietly. “That he’s weighing us down.”

“That we’d be better off without him,” Jisung added, voice small. Minho didn’t speak. He just folded his arms. Chan looked toward the hall. “So who goes?”

“Not all of us,” Minho said. “That would overwhelm him.”

They all knew that was true.

“Not me,” Jisung offered first, surprising even himself. “He trusts me, but… this isn’t a moment for comfort. It’s a moment for truth.”

Felix glanced between them. “I think… maybe Jeongin.”

Minho’s brows lifted. “Why?”

“Because Seungmin knows him now,” Felix said. “And because Jeongin knows what it means to feel unnecessary.”

Chan tilted his head. “Not a bad choice.”

“I’ll get him,” Felix said, already rising. “Seungmin doesn’t need saving. He just needs someone who gets it.”

“And maybe,” Minho added quietly, “someone who reminds him that being loved isn’t something you have to earn.”

—

Seungmin didn’t get out of bed. The morning passed without him noticing. No birdsong in the window, no shifting light on the floor. Just stillness. A silence so thick it felt like cotton in his lungs. Like he was moving underwater, except he wasn’t moving at all. He lay curled on his side, blanket tucked up to his chin, staring at the wall. The same wall he’d stared at for hours now. It hadn’t changed. But he felt like he had, like something had slipped out of him in the night and forgotten to come back.

He hadn’t meant to cry, but his pillow was damp anyway. He didn’t remember waking. He didn’t remember falling asleep. He remembered wanting to be asleep. Maybe that was the problem. His fingers curled against the sheet. He could feel the warmth of the house around him, gentle, always, but it felt dimmer today. Like the glow in the walls had dulled itself for his sake. Like it was trying not to intrude. His voice was hoarse when it came. Barely a whisper.

“…She knew I didn’t want to stay, didn’t she?”

The house didn’t answer. But the lamp on his bedside table flickered softly. Once. Then settled.

“She brought me here anyway.” He blinked. Tears welled and didn’t fall. They just sat there. Waiting.

“I keep thinking I should be grateful,” he whispered, “because I’m still here. Because she gave me this place. Because they’re… kind to me.”

He swallowed hard.

“But I don’t think I deserve any of it.” His voice broke at the end. So soft. So honest. A crack in something he hadn’t even meant to open.

“I don’t do anything. I don’t give anything. I just sit here and take. I’m not healing. I’m just hiding. From everything.”

The room didn’t shift. The air didn’t change. But the floor creaked once, gently. Like it was listening. Like it was waiting.

“Sometimes I think…” He paused. “If I wasn’t so broken, maybe you wouldn’t need them.”

That was the heart of it. The rot in the centre of the sweetness. The thought that lingered even after the tears dried. That maybe the boys only existed for him because he was a burden. Because the house had to compensate for his damage. Like magical stitches on a wound too deep to close. And what happened when he didn’t need them anymore? Did they vanish? Did they hurt? He clutched the blanket tighter. Pressed his forehead to the pillow.

“I don’t want to be someone that hurts you all by needing you.”

And just like that, something shifted in the wall. A small breeze. A scent like old books and ink and shadow. And footsteps. Quiet. Soft. Careful. Someone was coming.

The knock on the door was so soft, Seungmin almost thought he imagined it. A pause. Then a voice, quiet, low, familiar.

“Can I come in?”

Seungmin didn’t answer right away. His body felt too heavy, like everything had melted into the mattress. But the silence stretched, patient, kind. And eventually, he managed to whisper, “Yeah.”

The door creaked open, slow and gentle. Jeongin stepped inside with the careful movements of someone who wasn’t sure if he’d be welcome, but came anyway. He didn’t speak at first. Just looked at Seungmin, blanket-wrapped, eyes tired, expression carved from something rawer than sadness. Jeongin crossed the room slowly and sat down on end of the bed, close enough to touch, but not imposing. He drew his knees up to his chest and rested his arms on them, chin tucked slightly down like he didn’t want to take up too much space.

They sat in silence for a while. Not uncomfortable. Not pressured. Just there.

After a moment, Seungmin shifted. His foot nudged against Jeongin’s. Not a kick. Not even a nudge, really. Just… contact. Jeongin didn’t flinch. He looked up slowly, eyes soft, unreadable in that strange way only Jeongin’s were, like he could see everything and still keep it safe.

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” Jeongin said.

Seungmin blinked. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.”

That cracked something. Not in a painful way, just enough to let a little air in. Seungmin turned onto his side to face him fully, the blanket dragging with him like armour. “I don’t get it,” he murmured. “Why any of you are still here. Why you care.”

Jeongin’s brows drew in gently. “Because you matter.”

“But why?” The edge in his voice wasn’t anger, it was desperation. “I came here to disappear. I didn’t want help. I didn’t ask for any of this. And now you’re all just… here. Fussing over me. Carrying me like I’m something worth holding onto.”

“You are.”

The silence after that was sharp. Seungmin dropped his gaze. “You don’t even know me.”

Jeongin shifted, resting his arm on the bed now. Their faces were closer. He didn’t reach for Seungmin, but he let the distance shrink just enough for warmth to seep in. “Maybe not everything. Not yet. But I’ve known your sadness longer than you think.”

Seungmin looked at him then, really looked. That ache from the dream flared low in his chest again, not painful, just echoing. Like an old room that still remembered a song.

“I just… I feel like I’m stealing something,” Seungmin whispered. “Like I don’t deserve all this care. Like I’m going to wake up and find none of you ever existed.”

“You’re not stealing,” Jeongin said, voice steady. “You’re receiving. You’re being loved. That’s not a crime.”

The words struck something deep and vulnerable. A tear slipped out before Seungmin could stop it. His breath hitched. He pulled the blanket up higher like it could shield him from how that made him feel.

Jeongin moved to slide in beside Seungmin and gently reached out, fingers brushing Seungmin’s sleeve. When Seungmin didn’t pull away, he threaded their hands together slowly, fingers resting lightly, like a question waiting to be answered. Seungmin squeezed. Tighter than he meant to. But Jeongin didn’t mind.

“I don’t know how to stop feeling like I’m not enough,” Seungmin said, voice shaking.

“You don’t have to stop,” Jeongin murmured. “You just have to let someone stay with you when it hurts.”

The silence that followed was thick, but soft. Shared. Held. Jeongin leaned his head against Seungmin’s shoulder, a comforting weight, with their fingers still gently laced. 

“I think,” he said after a long pause, “there’s a book in the library you should read.”

Seungmin didn’t answer right away. But he didn’t say no.

The stillness stretched between them, warm and close. And for a while, Seungmin let himself just breathe, not well, not deeply, but enough. Enough to stay grounded. Enough to not pull away. But the question came anyway, low and hesitant.

“…What’s in the book?”

Jeongin didn’t move. Seungmin turned just enough to look at him, eyes tired but searching. “Three of you have mentioned it now. Like it’s supposed to change something. Like it’ll explain what’s going on. But no one will tell me why.”

Jeongin slowly lifted his head. His gaze met Seungmin’s, steady but unreadable. “It’s not that we don’t want to tell you,” he said softly. “It’s that the book does a better job than we ever could.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the truth.”

Seungmin made a frustrated noise, too soft to be a groan, too tired to be anger. “Do you even know what’s in it?”

“I’ve read it,” Jeongin said.

That surprised him. “All of it?”

“More than once.”

Seungmin’s grip shifted, tighter for a second. “So you could tell me.”

“I could,” Jeongin said, quieter now. “But it wouldn’t mean the same thing.”

Seungmin frowned. “Why not?”

Jeongin looked down at their hands. “Because it’s written for you.”

The words hit like a shiver down Seungmin’s spine. He sat with that for a moment, letting the implications settle.

“My aunt,” he murmured. “She said the house would help me.”

Jeongin nodded faintly. “She knew her time was ending earlier than she wanted. She knew who the house had chosen.”

“And it chose me.”

A beat of silence.

Then, barely audible, “It’s always been you.”

The ache behind Seungmin’s ribs flared again, but softer this time. Like his chest was adjusting to something that had always been there. Something he’d been trying not to see.

“What if I don’t want to know?” he whispered.

Jeongin’s voice was so gentle, it felt like it floated. “Then you don’t have to read it. Not today. Not ever, if you choose not to.”

Seungmin looked at him. “But it’ll help, won’t it?”

“Yes.”

He swallowed. “Will it make everything make sense?”

Jeongin hesitated. “It won’t fix the pain. But it’ll make it less lonely.”

Seungmin closed his eyes. “I’m scared.”

Jeongin reached up with their joined hands, pressing Seungmin’s palm lightly to his own cheek. “You don’t have to do it alone.”

The warmth of that moment was so quiet, so intimate, that neither of them spoke for a long time after. The weight of the day still hung heavy, but in Jeongin’s presence, it felt carried, not crushed. Seungmin didn’t say he’d read the book. But in his silence, in the way he didn’t pull away, in the way he leaned just a little closer, the choice had already begun to bloom.

—

The hall outside his bedroom felt different when he stepped into it. Not in the way the house usually changed, no shifting walls, no trembling light. Just… warmth. Like it had been waiting. Like it had held its breath and now, finally, it could exhale.

Jeongin’s hand was still in his. Their fingers remained laced, not for balance, not out of politeness, but because Seungmin hadn’t let go. He didn’t want to. The steady weight of that connection grounded him more than his own feet ever could.

When they reached the lounge, the others were there—of course they were. Some were sitting. Some pacing. All of them waiting in the way people wait for news that matters too much to speak aloud.

Seungmin paused in the doorway. He was still in his blanket, still puffy-eyed, still holding Jeongin’s hand like it was the only thing tethering him to the moment. He meant to say something. Maybe “Sorry I worried you” or “I’m okay now.” But the second every pair of eyes lifted to meet his, something cracked. His voice caught. The breath he tried to draw in hitched in his throat. And then he was crying.

Not quiet, not hidden, just crumbling. The sound that left him was too soft to be a sob, too desperate to be anything else. His legs didn’t buckle, but they wanted to. Jeongin caught him instinctively, slipping an arm around his waist and guiding him inside like it was the most natural thing in the world. The reaction from the others was immediate.

Jisung was the first to rise, darting across the room with a blanket trailing behind him like a cape. Felix was right behind him, arms already open. Chan stood more slowly but with purpose, crossing the room as if pulled by something magnetic. Minho didn’t rush, he didn’t do rushing, but his steps were steady, his presence unwavering.

They surrounded Seungmin in a hush of limbs and warmth and soft, steady touches. Hands on his back. Foreheads pressed gently to his temple. A tangle of affection that didn’t need words.

He clung to them like they were the only solid thing left in the world. And for the first time, they let him. No teasing. No quiet jabs. Just care. Just softness. Eventually, the sobs softened into something more manageable. He didn’t pull away, just leaned heavier into the arms around him. And when he could breathe again, he moved.

One by one.

He turned first to Felix, hugging him tightly, forehead pressed to the side of his neck. “You were the first one I felt safe with,” he whispered. “You made me want to eat again. You made me want to stay.”

Felix choked on a sound that might’ve been a sob, might’ve been a laugh, and hugged him tighter.

Jisung was next. Seungmin didn’t even have to say anything—just leaned into him and let the silence speak for them. But still, he murmured, “You never asked for more than I could give. You made quiet feel okay.”

Jisung’s hands trembled a little, but he didn’t let go.

Chan. Chan was warm and steady and too good at hiding the ache in his throat. Seungmin looked up at him, eyes shining. “You never let me pretend. You gave me permission to want more.”

Chan ducked his head like the words physically undid him, and wrapped Seungmin in his arms.

Minho. Still composed. Still unreadable. Seungmin reached for him anyway. “You saw right through me,” he said softly. “And you stayed.”

Minho didn’t speak. He just pressed a hand to Seungmin’s back and held him still, just for a moment longer than necessary.

And then—Jeongin.

Still standing just off-centre. Still watching.

Seungmin turned and stepped back into him, arms wrapping around his waist without hesitation. “You remembered me,” he said, voice barely a whisper. “Even when I forgot you. Even when I didn’t deserve it.”

Jeongin’s hands trembled as they pressed flat to Seungmin’s back.

“You were always worth remembering, even when you couldn’t remember me.”

The room stayed quiet around them. No one pulled away. No one told him he was being dramatic. They just stayed close, hands still touching, breaths still syncing. Seungmin didn’t need to be fixed. He just needed to be held. To be loved. 

—

Elsewhere in the house, far enough not to intrude, close enough to feel, Hyunjin sat alone in the master bedroom, door still locked from the inside. He didn’t need to be near to know what was happening. The house pulsed with it. That subtle, quiet shift. Like breath after drowning. Like longing being answered.

His fingers curled in the fabric of his robe, knuckles pressed white. Not from frustration. From something warmer. Something fuller. He blinked once, then again, eyes stinging before he could stop them. A tear slid down without fanfare, trailing the curve of his cheek before disappearing into silence. He let it fall.

Because Seungmin had cried too. Let himself cry. Let himself be seen, be held, be comforted. He didn’t shrink from it this time. Didn’t flinch away from the love being offered. He wanted it. And that meant everything. Hyunjin exhaled slowly. His room, so often brimming with heat and shadows, felt soft now. Dimly lit, tender. Like it, too, was waiting. He smiled, just a little. Just enough.

“He’s almost ready,” he whispered. His hands rose to press over his chest. Not to still it. Just to feel it beat.

“He’ll come to me soon.”

Chapter Text

The house was quieter than usual. Not cold. Not distant. Just waiting. Seungmin walked barefoot through the hallways, wrapped in a soft cardigan Felix had draped over him earlier that morning. It still smelled faintly of cinnamon and soap and something sweeter he hadn’t yet named. His fingers brushed the walls as he passed, trailing along the woodwork like a whisper. He didn’t know what he was looking for, not really. He only knew that something was pulling at him.

“You’re not hiding from me today,” he murmured to the house, his voice barely above a breath. It didn’t answer. Not aloud. But the hallway light flickered once, warm, amber, like a nod. He smiled faintly. “Good.”

He wasn’t sure when it had started, this habit of speaking to the house like it might answer back. Maybe after that moment in bed with Jeongin, when the silence stopped feeling empty and started feeling attentive. Or maybe after he realised the house really did have moods. Warmth that shifted. Light that pulsed. Doors that sometimes opened just when he needed them to.

There were seven of them. Seven boys tied to this place. Seven pieces of something he was still trying to understand. He’d met five. One of them was locked away. His room sealed. His presence lingering only at the edges, like perfume in the air after someone has left. That left one more. His steps slowed as he passed the archway to the sitting room. The sun streamed in lazily, casting soft beams through the dust in the air. He didn’t stop there, didn’t need to. That part of the house felt quiet today. No one waiting in that room.

“I want to meet the last one,” he said quietly, almost like confessing. “If I’m supposed to meet all of you… why is he hiding?”

No reply. Just the faint creak of a distant floorboard. The silence wasn’t cold. It wasn’t refusal. It was… curiosity. Like the house was asking are you sure you’re ready?

He wasn’t. But he wanted to be.

“I don’t even know where to start,” he whispered.

And still, no map. No glowing trail. No magic door creaking open on command. Just a quiet hum beneath his feet, a soft breeze curling down the hallway, the sense that if he kept walking, something might shift. So he followed it. Not with intention. Not with certainty. Just the quiet ache of someone who wanted to know.

—

The kitchen was warm when he stepped in, humid with the smell of caramelising sugar and something toasty in the air. Light spilled through the tall windows, catching on the edges of jars and mugs. Felix was standing by the stovetop, stirring something in a pan that sizzled gently, while Jisung leaned against the counter nearby, licking a spoon like it owed him money. Jeongin perched on a stool by the counter, clutching a mug in his hands. Seungmin paused in the doorway. The moment was so gentle it almost felt borrowed. Jisung looked up first, grinning around the spoon. “Look who’s finally vertical.”

“Barely,” Seungmin muttered, stepping in.

Felix glanced back, eyes softening instantly. “You hungry?”

Seungmin shook his head. “Just wandering.”

“House letting you wander today?” Jisung asked, tilting his head.

“I think so,” he said. “Or maybe I’m just too stubborn to stop.”

Jisung snorted. “Now that’s the energy.”

Felix reached for another spoon and offered it to Seungmin. “Taste?”

He took it without thinking. Warm peach and something spiced, thick and sweet on his tongue. He closed his eyes, hummed quietly.

“It’s good,” he said.

Felix smiled, and it felt like the kind of thing that lit up a whole room. They moved around each other easily, Felix pouring tea into mismatched cups, Jisung adjusting the radio to something vaguely jazzy, Jeongin offering him a soft smile before sipping from his mug. It would have been easy to pretend it was a normal kitchen. A normal morning. Just boys being boys. But the weight never fully left Seungmin’s chest.

He leaned against the edge of the island, watching the three of them for a moment. Then he said, “Can I ask you something?”

Felix glanced up. “Of course.”

“You told me,” Seungmin said slowly, “that there were seven of you.”

They stilled. Just slightly. Jisung set the spoon down. Jeongin blinked. Felix nodded. “That’s right.”

“I’ve met five,” Seungmin said. “One of you is… locked away. Upstairs.”

Felix’s expression softened again, but it carried a different weight this time. “He’s not ready to meet you yet.”

“Or I’m not ready to meet him,” Seungmin murmured. No one corrected him. He exhaled. “So… where’s the seventh?”

There was a pause. A flicker of uncertainty across Jisung’s face. Jeongin clenched his jaw. Felix turned off the stove burner. The room was suddenly too quiet for the kettle to sound so loud.

And then: “I’M RIGHT FUCKING HERE, YOU SLOW LITTLE SHIT—”

Seungmin jumped so hard he nearly dropped the spoon. A heavy side door just off the kitchen slammed open like it had been kicked from the inside. A dark blur of motion erupted from the shadows, stomping into the kitchen with absolutely no regard for volume, decency, or timing.

A boy. Broad. Loud. Sweating. Barefoot and unbothered. Tank top tucked into track pants and a scowl carved into his face like it was permanent. 

Felix sighed, long-suffering. “Bin, language.”

“I’VE BEEN DOWN THERE FOR DAYS, FELIX.” The boy gestured wildly. “WEEKS. CENTURIES. I’M FERAL. I’M STARVING. AND YOU—” he jabbed a finger in Seungmin’s direction, “—YOU’VE BEEN WALTZING AROUND MAKING FRIENDS AND HAVING TEA PARTIES?!”

Jisung snorted behind his hand. “He’s so dramatic.”

“I AM NOT DRAMATIC,” the boy yelled. “I’M DEEPLY UNDER-APPRECIATED.”

The room burst into motion, Felix shoving a cup of tea into his hands, Jisung ducking around the island to steal back his spoon, Jeongin sliding away headed for his library to escape the noise. And Seungmin?

Seungmin just stared. Because somehow, after everything, the quiet, the softness, the shadows and whispers, this was the most chaotic, alive, obnoxiously loud person he had ever met in this house. And maybe, just maybe, exactly the one he needed.

“Why are you yelling?” Felix asked mildly, as if this were all a perfectly normal Tuesday.

“Because I’ve been LOCKED in the BASEMENT,” Changbin barked, setting down his tea like it personally offended him. “Which, by the way, is a fucking human rights violation.”

“You’re not human,” Jisung muttered under his breath, sipping his stolen tea.

“EXACTLY,” Changbin snapped, spinning on his heel like he’d just proved a point.

Seungmin blinked. Still speechless. Still frozen with the spoon in one hand and his mouth slightly open. It wasn’t the cursing. It wasn’t even the volume. It was the sheer presence of him, like the space bent a little wider just to contain him. His voice filled the room like a thunderclap, and yet somehow, he wasn’t scary. He was just… a lot.

“Don’t mind him,” Felix said softly, sliding a napkin in front of Seungmin like they were still pretending this was a polite brunch. “He gets like this when he feels ignored.”

“I’VE BEEN IGNORED FOR FOURTEEN YEARS,” Changbin declared.

“You’ve been down there for two weeks,” Jisung corrected.

“Two weeks. Fourteen years. Same thing.”

The basement door creaked as it slowly drifted shut behind him, like even it needed a break from the noise. Then, Chan appeared in the kitchen archway, brows raised, pen tucked behind his ear. “I thought I heard shouting.”

Felix didn’t look up from the fruit he was now slicing. “Binnie’s having a moment.”

“I’M HAVING A FULL SPIRITUAL CRISIS.”

Chan chuckled under his breath and crossed to the fridge, retrieving something that looked suspiciously like leftover tiramisu. “You want a spoon for that, or are you in your goblin era today?”

“Hands are a spoon,” Changbin muttered, grabbing the dish and scowling affectionately.

“Mm,” Chan mused, clearly unfazed.

Minho entered a beat later, barefoot, yawning, robe hanging loose around his frame like a Greek statue who didn’t care if the museum opened late. He paused in the doorway, took in the scene—Seungmin still blinking in stunned silence, Felix slicing fruit like this was normal, Jisung casually sipping his tea, Changbin cursing about dessert, and let out a long, slow breath.

“I see Wrath finally escaped.”

“Don’t call me that in front of the new kid!” Changbin hissed. 

Seungmin frowned. “I can hear you.”

“Oh. Shit.”

“LANGUAGE,” came the unison scolding from Felix and Chan, practically in harmony.

Changbin threw his hands up. “You know what? Fine. Sorry. Whatever. Hello, I’m—”

He stopped. Actually paused. Looked at Seungmin, for real this time. The weight shifted behind his eyes like something deeper had clicked into place.

“I’m…” he trailed off again, quieter now. “You’re smaller than I thought you’d be.”

Seungmin blinked. “Is that… good?”

“No,” Changbin said. Then, “Wait. Yes. Maybe.” He scratched the back of his neck, visibly trying to recalibrate. “Look, I don’t do the cryptic, broody thing like some of these guys. I say shit out loud. I yell. I throw things. But I don’t lie. Ever.”

“That’s… reassuring?”

“It should be.”

Minho moved to lean against the counter beside Felix, stealing a piece of fruit without asking. “He’s annoying,” he told Seungmin. “But he’s honest.”

Chan smirked. “And loyal.”

“And loud,” Jisung added helpfully.

“AND RIGHT HERE,” Changbin snapped.

“You’re also soft,” Felix said gently, smiling like it was a secret.

Changbin scoffed. “I’m not soft. I’m rage incarnate.”

“You cry at the end of every Studio Ghibli movie.”

“IT’S CALLED BEING SPIRITUALLY OVERWHELMED, FELIX.”

Seungmin let out a sound he hadn’t made in a while. A laugh. Short. Soft. Real. Everyone paused. Just for a second. Like the laugh had tilted the room. Changbin blinked, looking stunned.

“Did he just—?”

“He did,” Jisung confirmed.

“Fuck.”

“LANGUAGE.”

“Right. Sorry.”

Changbin cleared his throat, suddenly looking like he didn’t know what to do with his hands. He crossed his arms. Uncrossed them. Pointed a little too sharply at Seungmin.

“You… you don’t seem like the kind of person who needs me.”

The room quieted again. Seungmin tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

Changbin hesitated. The usual fire in him dimmed, just slightly. Enough to show the glow beneath it. “People only come to me when things get really bad,” he said. “Like rock-bottom, screaming-into-pillows bad. I’m usually last.”

Seungmin considered that. Then stepped forward. Just a little. “Maybe it’s not about needing you,” he said softly. “Maybe it’s just… time.”

The words lingered. Thicker than steam. Warmer than sugar. And this time, Changbin didn’t say anything.

They stood there in the soft aftershock, the kitchen still humming with warmth and the scent of sugar. Most of the chaos had settled, tea had been drunk, tiramisu destroyed, Felix resumed slicing fruit like he hadn’t been living in a sitcom. But Seungmin was still watching him. The boy from the basement. The loud one. The honest one. The one who’d burst in like a storm and now stood oddly quiet, as if realising he’d shaken too many walls. Seungmin tilted his head, voice soft but firm. “You never told me your name.”

The silence that followed was brief, but weighted. Changbin blinked. Then groaned dramatically, dragging a hand down his face. “Shit. I didn’t, did I?”

“Nope.”

“Ugh. I had a whole entrance planned, too. Something cool. Mysterious. Slightly terrifying.”

“That… was not what happened.”

“Devastating.”

Seungmin waited. Changbin looked at him intently. And something in his posture shifted, just enough to drop the performance, just enough to let something real peek through.

“I’m Changbin,” he said at last. No yelling. No swearing. Just a name. “And I don’t usually get let out unless the house thinks someone can handle me.”

Seungmin nodded slowly. “Guess I passed the test?”

Changbin’s mouth quirked. “More like you made the test give up.”

That pulled another soft laugh from Seungmin, quieter this time. But it stuck. Stayed in the room like the smell of baking fruit, like the warmth that never quite left the walls. They were still milling about, energy tapering back into something soft and slow, when Changbin leaned casually against the edge of the counter and said, almost like talking to himself:

“He’s quiet. Not in the way that means he doesn’t have thoughts, but in the way that means he doesn’t think they matter.”

Felix glanced up, brow twitching.

Changbin kept going. “Most people who get thrown at me come in fists swinging. Screaming. Falling apart in fire. But this one…” He nodded toward Seungmin, who was sipping tea quietly with his knees pulled up on one of the kitchen stools. “He folds in. Swallows everything until he disappears.”

There was a pause. He tapped a finger absently on the counter, voice thoughtful now, softer than usual. “People think you have to be angry to need me. But that’s not it. Sometimes you need someone who’ll stand in front of the fire for you. Someone who’ll teach you how to stop apologising for taking up space.”

Chan shifted just slightly. “Changbin—”

“I’m just saying,” Binnie went on, completely undeterred, “he doesn’t need to explode. He just needs someone who’ll say, ‘I’ll burn it down for you if you can’t.’ And I can do that. I want to do that.”

Felix gently set down his knife. “Bin.”

“What?”

“He hasn’t read the book yet.”

Changbin paused.

“Oh. Shit.”

“Language.”

“I mean—uh—oh, sugar?”

Chan sighed into his coffee. Seungmin, meanwhile, tilted his head at them all, clearly aware something had been said, even if he didn’t understand it. He didn’t ask, though. Just blinked slowly, still quietly sipping. But the faint crease between his brows said he’d be asking soon. Chan tapped a spoon against his mug. “Well,” he said lightly, “now that the introductions are finally done, can we all agree this kitchen survived better than expected?”

“I want it on record that I didn’t break anything,” Changbin said, pointing vaguely at the tea tray like it might disagree.

“You broke everyone’s peace and quiet,” Minho muttered, already walking out with a piece of toast.

“I broke the tension,” Changbin shot back. “You’re welcome.”

Jisung bumped Seungmin gently with his elbow. “You okay?”

Seungmin nodded. “Yeah. I think I like him.”

“That’s disturbing,” Jisung whispered, just loud enough for Changbin to hear.

“SAY THAT AGAIN AND I’LL SHOVE THIS TIRAMISU SO FAR UP YOUR ASS YOU’LL BE SWEATING MASCARPONE.”

“LANGUAGE!” three voices chorused at once.

Seungmin smiled. And this time, it stayed.

Chapter Text

The steam curled like breath against the mirror. Seungmin stood beneath the shower, water sliding down his back in smooth, lazy ribbons. The heat softened him, mind, body, everything. He wasn’t used to this kind of stillness. The kind that made him feel present in his own skin. The kind that made it impossible not to notice every breath, every brush of water, every ache that lived beneath the surface.

His hands moved slowly across his chest, over the slope of his ribs, down the subtle dip of his stomach. He wasn’t in a rush. The motion felt instinctive, like his body had been waiting to be touched like this, not with urgency, but awareness. Reverence.

Wrath.

That word had been thrown into the kitchen like a flare, bright, loud, impossible to ignore. Changbin hadn’t denied it. If anything, he’d rolled his eyes like it was something he wore like armour. But Wrath hadn’t felt cruel. He’d felt… protective. Like fire, yes—but the kind that stayed lit through the night so you wouldn’t be alone.

Seungmin dragged his palms lower, over the curve of his hips, his breath catching slightly. Not from arousal. Not quite. But from the sudden heat building beneath his skin. Like something had noticed the way he was touching himself. Like something in the house was watching. Encouraging. Wanting. His fingers paused at his lower belly. And his mind drifted, unbidden, unstoppable, to the locked room upstairs.

He didn’t know who lived there. Didn’t know the name. The voice. The story. But every time he passed that door, his chest tightened. His throat dried. His fingers twitched like they wanted something he didn’t have a name for. And now, here, under this water, in this heat, in this moment, that wanting reached for him.

His hand drifted, fingertips brushing further down. Nothing deliberate. Just enough to feel. Just enough to let the thought bloom: What if I let myself want? The ache was soft. Heavy. Like longing soaked in honey. His mouth parted. His eyes fluttered closed. His skin prickled like it had been kissed by steam. And then—

He pulled his hand away. Sharp. Clean. Breath held. No. Not yet. Not like this. His palm flattened against the tile wall. He exhaled. The air around him shifted, just slightly, cooler near his wrist, warmer at the base of his spine. A pulse beneath the floorboards. A hum in the walls. As if the house had leaned in for a moment and then stepped back.

He swallowed hard. Sloth. He’d heard Jisung say it once, when he thought Seungmin wasn’t nearby. Light-hearted. Almost proud. Greed. That one had floated to him in sleep, a word that curled into his dreams like mist. Now Wrath had been named aloud.

Three names. Three boys. Seven in total. He didn’t know what they were. Not yet. But they weren’t evil. Not by any definition he understood. He closed his eyes again, water running through his hair, over the back of his neck.

“They don’t feel like sins,” he murmured.

And just as the words left him, the water shifted. Not sharply. Not painfully. Just a subtle cool bloom through the heat, like breath against overheated skin. The steam pulsed around him. The pipes groaned softly behind the wall, not broken… just awake.

Listening. Agreeing. His breath trembled. He didn’t know what he was becoming inside this house. But whatever it was… it had started to feel like his.

—

The hallway was dim with late-afternoon light, golden warmth bleeding through high windows, catching in dust motes and softening the edges of every frame. Seungmin moved without much thought, his towel slung lazily around his neck, the cotton of his shirt clinging to his damp skin in a few stubborn places. His hair, still wet from the shower, clung in dark, curling strands to the nape of his neck and temples. Every step echoed faintly, like even the floorboards knew not to interrupt the quiet pulsing in his chest. He didn’t plan to stop. But his feet slowed as he passed the end of the hall. And then, stilled.

The master bedroom. The door stood shut as always, carved and beautiful, with its quiet golden handle and the faint shimmer of something heavier behind it. It had always made him feel strange to walk by. A tension just beneath the ribs. Like there was something waiting. Like it knew something he hadn’t remembered yet.

Now, clean and quiet and still humming from the shower, Seungmin found himself rooted in place before it. His fingers rose—hovering near the frame, not quite touching, just sensing the warmth of the wood beneath his skin. He didn’t know who lived behind this door.

But the room made him feel things. Strange things. Like need, and ache, and something darker and softer all at once. He thought about the way his hands had moved across his body in the shower, slow and tentative and exploratory. He hadn’t meant to touch himself like that. It hadn’t been about want, not really. Just comfort. Just being present in his own skin for the first time in too long.

But it had felt good. Too good. And standing here, just outside this door, that same warmth bloomed low again in his belly. A soft hum that crept up his spine, made his breath catch and his shoulders curl inward slightly. He pressed his palm flat against the wall beside the door.

Would it be okay to want someone to help him feel that again?

It had been so long. So long since he let himself want anything. Let alone someone’s touch. Someone’s mouth. Someone to hold him down gently and coax him apart until all the pain unraveled into something tender. His fingers trembled against the wall. He wasn’t even sure he deserved that kind of relief. He didn’t know if it was even his to ask for. But the thought lingered, aching and golden and slow. He wanted to feel like that again. Like something sacred was being offered. Like his body wasn’t something to flinch away from. Like he was allowed to want more than survival. And then—

Click.

The sound was soft. So soft it might’ve been imagined. But it wasn’t. The lock disengaged. The master bedroom door hadn’t opened… but it had unlocked.

Seungmin froze. His throat tightened. The air shifted around him, heavy with the perfume of invitation. Something invisible brushed against his skin, not air, not quite, just warmth. Awareness. As if someone had placed a hand at the small of his back and whispered, you’re welcome whenever you’re ready.

His heartbeat jumped. And in the next breath, he turned on his heel and walked away. Not slowly. Not thoughtfully. Not with confidence. Just away. Fast enough that the warmth followed him. Fast enough that it couldn’t quite catch up. He didn’t stop until he reached the lounge, breath shallow, skin flushed, his towel slipping from his shoulders like an afterthought. The heat he’d tried to leave behind clung to him anyway, licking at the edge of his thoughts, curling through his ribs like something hungry.

—

The room was quiet when he stepped inside, soft golden light spilling in through the sheer curtains. The television murmured low in the background, some nature documentary flickering blue and green across the walls, the sound barely louder than a breath. The fireplace crackled gently, casting shifting shadows across the floor. It was the kind of room that held its stillness close. That welcomed silence not as emptiness, but as invitation. Seungmin lingered in the doorway for a moment too long. His skin still felt too warm beneath the damp cling of his shirt. His hair curled at his temples, not yet dry. And his eyes, dark and distant, carried the weight of something he hadn’t quite let go of yet.

Jisung was the first to look up. He was sprawled upside down on the couch, head dangling off the edge, arms thrown dramatically across his chest like he’d fainted mid-soliloquy. The moment he caught sight of Seungmin, his grin unfurled slow and wicked, like a sunrise with too many secrets.

“Oh no,” Jisung said, sitting up with the fluidity of someone too smug for gravity. “Somebody’s got that post-shower glow.”

Jeongin, curled in the far corner with his knees drawn up and a throw blanket across his lap, turned slowly. His gaze, as always, was quiet and unreadable, but it pinned Seungmin where he stood. Not harsh. Not judging. Just… seeing. All of him. At once. Seungmin blinked. He hadn’t meant to flush deeper, but the heat that lingered under his skin from the hallway seemed to flare all over again beneath that attention.

“I wasn’t—” he started, then stopped. He had no idea what he was trying to deny.

Jisung tilted his head, eyes twinkling. “You weren’t what? Thinking about someone while you were rinsing off?”

“I wasn’t.”

The protest came out too fast. Too sharp. And way too pink. Jisung let out a delighted wheeze. “Oh my god. He totally was.”

Jeongin said nothing. Just looked. And Seungmin, mortified and suddenly very aware of how damp his shirt still was against his back, shuffled stiffly across the room and sank onto the couch between them like it might swallow him whole. He tucked his legs up close. Curled slightly in on himself. But not out of shame. Not entirely. It was more like… containment. He felt like his skin couldn’t hold it all, the warmth, the embarrassment, the slow pulse of want still ticking at the base of his spine.

The moment stretched quiet for a beat too long. Then Felix breezed into the room, balancing a tray in his hands like some kind of soft domestic angel. Three mugs of hot chocolate steamed gently atop it, each topped with cinnamon and fluffy clouds of cream. His apron was still on, tied loosely over a cozy knit sweater.

“Hot chocolate delivery,” he announced gently, setting the tray down on the low table. “For my three favourite emotional wrecks.”

He handed one to Jisung, then one to Seungmin. The moment he got a good look at him, Felix paused. His eyes flicked from Seungmin’s flushed cheeks, to his slightly parted lips, to the damp hair still curling at his nape. And then, with a small, knowing smile, he said, “So that’s the flavour of today’s inner turmoil.”

“He’s blooming into a lustful flower,” Jisung stage-whispered, stirring his mug with a cinnamon stick and giving Felix a knowing look. 

“Beautiful time of year,” Felix replied, as though discussing the weather. Seungmin nearly dropped his mug.

“I’m not—”

“Sweetheart,” Jeongin said suddenly, voice low, “It’s okay.”

The words cut straight through the teasing. They landed soft and serious in the quiet, like a warm hand against a cold shoulder. Seungmin turned toward him slowly, unsure what he’d heard in that voice, gentleness, maybe. Understanding.

“To want that kind of affection,” Jeongin continued, shifting so their knees touched lightly. “It doesn’t make you selfish. Or wrong.”

The words made something crack low in Seungmin’s ribs. Not break. Just… open. He nodded slowly, throat tight. The mug shook faintly in his hands. And without thinking, without filtering the impulse through fear or shame, he reached out and took Jeongin’s hand. It was warm. Steady. A perfect fit in his palm. But Jeongin only held it for a moment before tilting his head and murmuring, “That’s not what I meant, baby.”

The endearment hit like a pulse. Deep. Heavy. Right between his hips. Seungmin’s breath hitched. His eyes went wide. And Jisung lost it.

“Okay wait, you can’t just say that to him! Look at him! He’s gonna combust!”

“I hate all of you,” Seungmin muttered, cheeks burning bright.

“You don’t,” Jeongin said, smirking. “You’re just not used to being wanted.”

The words weren’t cruel. They weren’t teasing. They were quiet and terrifying and gentle in a way that made Seungmin’s chest ache. He didn’t respond. Just shifted slowly. Folded himself inward and curled up against Jeongin’s side like he’d been doing it for years. The blanket was drawn over them with care. The television flickered. The mug settled quietly on the table, untouched. Seungmin leaned in and closed his eyes. And beneath all the warmth and comfort and stillness, the ache didn’t fade. It deepened.

— 

The master bedroom did not creak. It did not sigh. It waited. Everything inside it, pillows, candlelight, velvet and silk, was quiet by design. It was a room built not for noise, but for presence. The weight of longing lived in its walls like perfume in linen. Even in stillness, it pulsed. And Hyunjin stood in the centre of it, barefoot on the rug, listening to the house hum like a throat catching breath.

He had felt the change hours ago. Not loud, never loud. Just a ripple. A flicker in the fabric of things. A slow shift in the air that only someone like him would notice. There had been heat in it. Not the usual kind, the tangled, frantic kind that hit like lightning. No, this was quieter. Softer. A warmth pressed into the corners of the day, leaking into seams. A heat born of curiosity, not hunger. But it was real. And it came from him. Hyunjin didn’t move. Didn’t chase it. That wasn’t what Lust did. Lust waited. Lust seduced. Lust let others come when they were ready, if they ever were. 

But then, hours later, he felt it again. Footsteps in the hall. Familiar and hesitant. Breath catching outside his door. And just like that, the house bloomed around him.

It was Seungmin. Close enough to feel. Close enough to touch, if not physically, then spiritually, his presence clung to the edges of the door like a question too scared to be asked aloud. Hyunjin didn’t need to hear it. He felt it in his bones.

Am I allowed to want?

He didn’t dare speak. Not through the door. Not even inside his own mind. To move would be to break it. Instead, he stood still, pulse thrumming low in his throat, and let the ache build behind his ribs. This was what it meant to wait. This was what it meant to be the last. Seungmin didn’t knock. He didn’t open the door. But he lingered, longer than he should have. Long enough that Hyunjin felt the touch of his fingers against the air itself. Long enough that desire, soft and cautious, unfurled like steam across skin.

Hyunjin’s hand drifted to the lock. He didn’t think. He didn’t decide. He simply responded. A soft, gentle click echoed into the stillness. Not a demand. Not a command. An invitation. A door offered, not opened. And then—gone.

He felt it as soon as it happened. The sharp pivot. The way Seungmin’s footsteps stuttered, then retreated down the hall in a scurry of panic and confusion and barely-buried need. The hallway swallowed him. The house quieted. Hyunjin didn’t move. He didn’t chase. He simply smiled.

Not because it didn’t hurt. It did. It always did, watching them run. But this? This wasn’t rejection. This wasn’t denial. This was the beginning. The door had been unlocked, not barged through. The seed had been planted. And Seungmin had touched the edge of it, the edge of him, and chosen to feel something instead of nothing.

That was enough. 

Hyunjin crossed the room and sat at the edge of the bed, the silk comforter cool beneath his fingertips. The room still shimmered faintly with Seungmin’s presence, even though he hadn’t entered. Desire had weight. It left footprints. He tilted his head slightly, eyes slipping closed. The house allowed him to feel, just a little. Just enough.

The lounge. That’s where Seungmin had fled. He was curled into someone, Jeongin, maybe, or Jisung. Heart racing, skin still flushed. Not lusting, not yet, but aching. The ache of denial. Of waiting. Of wanting something that still felt too dangerous to name. Hyunjin didn’t envy the others. He never had. Their connections came first, yes. But his would be the most intimate. The most sacred. Not because it came last, but because it came only when chosen. Desire was not something you stumbled into. It was something you claimed.

And Seungmin… was getting closer.

Hyunjin exhaled slowly and opened his eyes. He didn’t need to chase. He didn’t need to knock. Seungmin had come to the door. And that was more than enough. For now.

—

The lounge-room curtains filtered soft, dimming light into the room, and the fireplace cracked low in the background, warm and steady. The television played on, muted and slow, casting cool shadows across the walls, but Seungmin wasn’t really watching it. He was curled into the corner of the couch, wrapped in the blanket Jeongin had left behind.

Alone now, Jeongin having returned to the library not long before, and Felix back in the kitchen humming softly to himself, Seungmin was left with only his thoughts and the ghost of body heat fading beside him. The silence felt heavier without their presence. Not hostile. Just thoughtful. Like the house was waiting to see what he would do next.

And Seungmin… didn’t know. His skin was still warm from the shower, his shirt clinging faintly in places that made him feel too aware of himself. The memory of the door lingered, how it had clicked open with no hand on the knob, no warning. Just an answer to a question he hadn’t meant to ask. His eyes were open, half-lidded in feigned rest, but his mind was far too loud to sleep. The image of the master bedroom door hovered behind his eyelids like an imprint burned into him. That soft click, that moment of stillness, the door opening without a hand on the handle, without a sound to announce it. Just invitation. Just permission.

Why had it opened? Why then?

His fingers curled slightly against the blanket, gripping it like a tether. It had to be a coincidence. It had to be. He’d simply been too close. The house did strange things all the time. But…

No.

This had been different. The door hadn’t just unlocked. It had answered him. He squeezed his eyes shut. The memory of his own hands came rushing back. The way he’d run them over his skin in the shower, tentative and slow, how good it had felt just to touch himself again. Not for pleasure, exactly, but for presence. For proof. That his body still belonged to him. That he could feel something without guilt.

But the moment the pleasure had started to rise, he’d stopped. He always stopped. Because he didn’t believe he was allowed to feel. He didn’t believe he was allowed to want. Not like that. Not in a way that left him open and vulnerable and seen.

The coil still sat in his belly. Quiet. Waiting. Not demanding. But present. And he hated how quickly shame tried to swallow it. He didn’t even know what he wanted. Didn’t know who. Just that something inside him ached, and the only thing worse than the ache was the idea of asking for someone to touch it.

Because what if they said no? What if they laughed? What if no one would ever want him that way at all?

“Hey.”

The voice cut into the quiet like warm butter through bread. Jisung. Seungmin blinked slowly and turned his head just enough to look. Jisung had stretched himself out on the rug, one leg over the arm of a beanbag, head tilted toward the flickering TV light. He looked… soft. Less chaotic than usual. There was a calm to him that only came in moments like this, when the house was quiet and the walls weren’t watching too closely.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low.

Seungmin hesitated. “Yeah. Just tired.”

Jisung hummed. Not disbelief exactly. But not acceptance, either.

“You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The one where your brain’s being mean again.”

Seungmin opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. Jisung grinned, slow, sly. “Bet you were thinking about that door.”

Heat flared in Seungmin’s face. “I was not.”

“You totally were. You’ve got that post-door linger blush.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is now,” Jisung said cheerfully. “I’m documenting your descent into needing someone. It’s adorable.” Seungmin groaned and buried his face in the blanket.

“Hey,” Jisung said again, voice suddenly gentler. “It’s okay, you know. To want touch. To want closeness. You’re not broken for needing that.” 

Seungmin peeked over the edge of the blanket. “I didn’t say I did.”

“You didn’t have to,” Jisung said, propping himself up on one elbow. “You reek of it.”

Seungmin narrowed his eyes. “You’re so annoying.”

“And you,” Jisung murmured, crawling closer now, “are still pretending that hand-holding is all you need.”

He reached forward and gently brushed Seungmin’s hair back from his forehead, fingertips lingering just long enough to make Seungmin’s breath stutter. It was soft. Almost innocent. But not quite.

“I—I’m not pretending,” Seungmin whispered. Jisung leaned in close, lips near his ear, voice warm and full of mischief.

“Then why is your heart beating so fast?”

Seungmin couldn’t answer. Couldn’t breathe. The warmth in his belly flared again, slow and spiralling. But instead of teasing further, Jisung shifted beside him on the couch and tugged the blanket higher over them both, settling in with an exaggerated sigh.

“Come here, cuddlebug.”

Seungmin hesitated only a second before folding into him, head against his shoulder, limbs tucked in. Jisung’s arm came around him naturally, like they’d done this a hundred times before. And just like that, the ache quieted. Not gone. Not forgotten. But held.

Safe.

Chapter Text

The lounge had settled into a hush that felt deeper than quiet. The kind of silence that arrived only after comfort had settled into every cushion, every corner. The fireplace glowed low and steady, embers crackling like a heartbeat at rest. The television played on in faint whispers, its blue light flickering over the rug, over the blanket, over the curve of Seungmin’s back where he was curled against Jisung, wrapped tight in warmth and the illusion of peace.

Jisung hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but Seungmin’s weight against him had grounded him in a way that made the rest of the world melt away. He’d barely registered the moment his eyes slipped shut, still half-awake with the awareness of Seungmin’s breath near his collarbone, his fingers tangled in the fabric of Jisung’s sleeve. But the stillness didn’t last. It shifted slowly, then all at once.

A tremor, subtle at first, just the tightening of a shoulder, a breath caught in the throat. Jisung stirred, blinking himself awake, already sensing something was wrong. He didn’t move right away. Just listened. And then he heard it. A soft, broken whimper. Not the kind made by dreaming. Not harmless. Not distant. The sound was too real, too ragged.

Jisung’s body snapped into awareness. He sat up just enough to see Seungmin’s face, half-hidden in the blanket, twisted in a silent kind of pain. His lips moved, but the words were slurred, half-spoken in sleep, half-choked by something heavier.

“No… please… stop—don’t…”

The words shattered whatever calm had been in Jisung’s chest. Panic surged. He reached out instinctively, cupping the back of Seungmin’s head and pulling him close, his other arm folding protectively around his middle.

“Seungmin,” he whispered, voice already breaking. “Hey, hey—it’s okay, I’m here, you’re safe.”

But Seungmin didn’t wake. Not fully. His limbs trembled, breath stuttering in sharp, uneven bursts. His face crumpled further as the tears began to fall, hot, silent, and relentless. Jisung could feel him falling apart in his arms, could feel the kind of ache that wasn’t caused by fear of the dark or monsters in closets, but by memory. Wounds too old to be raw, but too deep to be healed. He whispered his name again. Softer. Reassuring. Seungmin’s eyes finally fluttered open, dazed and rimmed with tears, his whole body shaking as if the grief had soaked down to his bones. He didn’t speak right away. Just gasped in short breaths and turned into Jisung’s chest like he could hide from whatever his mind had dredged up.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Jisung shook his head immediately, holding him tighter. “Don’t apologize. Not for this. Never for this.”

Seungmin trembled in his arms, fingers fisting into Jisung’s shirt like he needed something to anchor him. His voice came again, raw and halting.

“He told me… it was my fault.”

Jisung didn’t breathe.

“He said I was hard to love.” Seungmin’s voice cracked in the middle, barely holding shape. “That I was only good for one thing.”

Jisung felt his entire chest cave in. He didn’t ask who. He didn’t need to. The way Seungmin said he was enough. It was someone recent. Someone who had touched him, spoken to him, convinced him that his softness was a weakness to be used. Jisung gritted his teeth, his fingers tightening in Seungmin’s hair, not hard, just enough to keep him grounded.

“You are not what he made you feel,” Jisung whispered. “You’re not.”

“I didn’t even want it,” Seungmin said, voice thin and breaking. “But I thought I was supposed to. Because that’s all I was good for, right? That’s what he said.” A sob slipped free, small but devastating. “I tried to believe it wasn’t true. But… it felt true.”

The words were barely there. No full story. No details. Just fragments. Just the broken shards of something he hadn’t dared say aloud before now. Jisung held him like he was precious, like he was whole, even when he was unraveling. And somewhere in that silence, something shifted in Jisung too.

He understood now. Why Lust was the last. Why it lingered behind locked doors and unspoken names. Why Seungmin flinched when he wanted, why he never reached out first. It wasn’t just self-doubt that kept him from seeking touch, it was damage. The kind that wasn’t only carved by his own mind, but by someone else’s cruelty. Someone had told Seungmin he didn’t deserve to feel. That his body was a thing to be used, not cherished. And that made Lust the hardest sin of all—not because it was dangerous, but because someone had convinced Seungmin it was a weapon instead of a wound.

“No one gets to tell you what you’re worth,” Jisung said gently. “Not him. Not anyone.”

Seungmin didn’t respond. He couldn’t. He just let the tears come, curling tighter into Jisung’s lap, face hidden in his chest, the sobs quiet and choked but endless. Like this had been sitting inside him for so long it had turned into stone, and now that it had cracked, he couldn’t stop what spilled out. Jisung pressed a kiss to the top of his head. Soft. Careful. His own chest ached from how much of this he felt, how much of this he would have taken on himself if he could. But all he could do was hold. And whisper. And remind him that this was not the end of his story.

“You’re not here to be used,” Jisung said gently. “You’re here to be loved.”

And Seungmin, trembling, crying, finally breathing, let that truth sit against him like warmth he hadn’t known he was allowed to feel. He didn’t say anything else. But he didn’t let go. And that was enough.

—

The room had slipped back into stillness. Seungmin was tucked into Jisung’s lap like a heartbeat, head resting beneath his chin, arms wound around Jisung’s waist. His breathing had evened out, soft but hitched now and then, like his body hadn’t quite remembered how to relax. Jisung didn’t move. He just kept his hand in Seungmin’s hair, threading through the strands with slow, gentle strokes. His shirt was damp at the collar. His chest ached. The lounge light had dimmed, the fireplace flickering low and warm, when the door swung open with an unapologetic clatter.

“You guys will not believe the absolute bullshit I just—” Changbin’s voice cut off mid-sentence. Jisung looked up.

Changbin stood frozen in the doorway, one hand still on the frame, the other mid-gesture like he’d been mid-rant about something utterly mundane, jam jars or squeaky stairs or someone forgetting to rinse a dish. But none of that mattered now. His gaze had landed squarely on the couch.

On Seungmin. On the tear tracks still clinging to his cheeks, the soft sniffle as he shifted in his sleep, face tucked into the curve of Jisung’s chest like he was hiding from the world. Changbin’s jaw clenched. His eyes darkened.

“Who the fuck made him cry?”

The words weren’t loud, but they hit like a detonation. Jisung raised a hand instinctively. “Bin—”

“No,” Changbin snapped, storming forward. “Who hurt him? What did they say? Give me a name. A location. Blood type. I’ll burn their house to the fucking ground.”

“Binnie—he’s okay—”

“He’s not okay, he’s got puffy eyes!” Changbin dropped to his knees like it didn’t even register, already scanning Seungmin’s face with the expression of someone looking for wounds he could fight. “He’s been crying. He’s—he’s small. Look at him! He’s all curled up like a kicked puppy—who the fuck does that to someone like him?!”

Jisung’s voice was calm, too calm. The only kind of calm that could hold Wrath in place. “I think it was an ex.”

Changbin’s mouth opened. Then closed. And then opened again, fury crawling up his throat like fire.

“I’ll end him.”

“Yeah,” Jisung murmured. “Me too.”

That was all it took. Changbin’s rage stilled, just barely, as he turned his focus entirely to Seungmin. The boy in question stirred in his sleep, a faint whimper caught in his throat, brows furrowing like the nightmare hadn’t fully let go. A soft sound escaped him, small and wounded, and Changbin’s face shattered.

“Shit,” he whispered, reaching out. Jisung shifted gently to let him closer, careful not to jostle Seungmin too much. Changbin crouched directly in front of the couch now, face softened by something fierce and unbearable. He reached forward, not to touch, but to rest his hands on the edge of the blanket like a vow.

Seungmin’s lashes fluttered. His breath caught. And then he looked up. Dazed. Still half-asleep. But eyes wide and wet and lost. Changbin exhaled like he’d been punched in the ribs.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, all the sharpness drained away. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re okay.”

Seungmin blinked slowly. Recognition flickered. Then came the first tear, helpless and quiet, sliding from the corner of his eye. That was all Changbin could take. He moved instantly, cupping Seungmin’s cheek with one hand and the back of his head with the other, pulling him forward into a hug that bordered on crushing, but never crossed the line. Just strong. Just real. The kind of hug that said I would kill for you, but more importantly: You never have to earn this.

“I swear to fuck,” Changbin whispered into his hair, “no one is ever going to hurt you again. I’ll break their legs. I’ll break their house. I’ll break every fucking thing they love.”

Seungmin let out a wet, trembling breath against his shoulder. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. Changbin’s arms only tightened.

“You’re mine now,” he murmured. “Ours. We’ve got you. Forever. Got it?”

And all Seungmin could do was nod. He didn’t know how long he stayed folded into Changbin’s arms. It could’ve been minutes. Could’ve been an hour. Time warped in comfort like that, when the ache stopped pressing so hard against the ribs, when the warmth of someone’s hands made it easier to exist. Changbin held him with a kind of unwavering strength, his breath slow and steady, like he’d decided that if Seungmin needed to stay there forever, he’d let him.

No one moved. And then, the door creaked open again. It wasn’t loud. Not jarring. Just a soft shift in the air, like the house had exhaled and someone had heard.

Felix stepped into the room. He didn’t say anything at first. Just took one look at the way Seungmin trembled in Changbin’s hold, and all the brightness in his face softened. He walked in slowly, quietly, like someone approaching a wild animal in pain, not to startle, not to overwhelm. Just to be there.

He lowered himself onto the couch beside them, gently placing a small folded cloth onto the armrest. “For your face,” he murmured, almost shy. “It’s still puffy.”

Seungmin turned his head, just enough to meet his eyes, and Felix offered the smallest, most earnest smile. “Still handsome, though.”

Changbin huffed a wet laugh through his nose. “Obviously.”

Felix reached out and brushed Seungmin’s hair from his temple, careful not to crowd him. His hand lingered, just for a second. Not a demand. A promise. And then he settled in beside them without another word, close but not pressing, letting his presence do the rest.

Then came the sound of footsteps in the hall. Not hurried. Measured. Chan entered next, pausing just inside the doorway like he’d sensed something too tender to step into uninvited. He looked at them all for a long moment, eyes sweeping from the couch to the fireplace, to Seungmin’s blotchy cheeks and the way he clung to Changbin like he might disappear if he let go.

He didn’t speak. He just crossed the room, sat down on the rug in front of the couch, and rested his hand gently on Seungmin’s ankle over the blanket. Steady. Anchoring. Like a lighthouse built into the floorboards.

“You don’t have to explain,” he said softly. “We’re not here for answers.”

Seungmin blinked at him through red-rimmed eyes. Chan met his gaze, warm and steady. “We’re here for you.”

Jisung hadn’t moved far, just shifted slightly when Changbin arrived, giving him space while still staying close. One arm had stayed draped loosely around Seungmin the entire time, fingers occasionally brushing against the hem of his shirt like a grounding thread. But now, with everything quiet again, Jisung eased back into place with more intention, curling tighter behind Seungmin, moulding himself into the curve of his spine like a blanket that always knew where to settle.

He didn’t say much. Didn’t need to. He just pressed his cheek softly to the back of Seungmin’s shoulder, his breath warm and even now, and mumbled into the fabric between them.

“I’m not going anywhere. Not ever.” There was no teasing in his voice. Just promise.

The room sighed. Or maybe the house did. And then, without warning, another body joined them.

Jeongin.

He didn’t knock. He didn’t announce himself. He just appeared, as he always did, quiet and sure, with eyes like ink and a soul that had known Seungmin’s ache long before either of them had words for it. He walked around the couch slowly, stepped in front of Seungmin, and crouched low. His hand reached forward, tentative but open, and Seungmin took it instantly. He pressed their foreheads together and let them stay there. Seconds. Maybe longer. And in that silence, Seungmin could feel it.

That promise. That history. That envy that had once been sharpened by loneliness now softened by presence. When Jeongin pulled back, he didn’t go far. He knelt beside Chan and kept holding Seungmin’s hand, his thumb moving in slow, grounding circles. For a moment, the room held still again. 

Minho appeared in the doorway, arms folded, one brow raised. His tone was teasing, but his eyes were scanning every detail with a quiet intensity. When they landed on Seungmin, still nestled in the centre of it all, wrapped in arms and blankets and love, Minho’s posture eased.

“You’re still alive, then,” he said. “Shame. I had a speech prepared.”

No one laughed. But Seungmin smiled. Just barely. And Minho caught it. He pushed off the doorframe, sauntered into the room with his usual graceful disinterest, and perched on the arm of the couch nearest Seungmin’s head. He didn’t touch. But he didn’t need to. His presence was its own kind of comfort, cool and cutting, but always watching.

Minho smirked. “If I’d known it was cuddle hour, I’d have brought snacks.”

He paused, eyes scanning Seungmin’s puffy cheeks, the way he instinctively curled deeper into Jisung’s side at the sound of his voice. For a moment, Minho’s gaze softened. Just a fraction.

“…You okay, little one?”

It wasn’t playful. It wasn’t teasing. It was Minho, quiet, steady, and a little rough around the edges, but full of something unmistakably safe. Seungmin offered a small nod, and Minho smiled softly. And somehow, that was the most comforting thing of all.

— 

The lounge had grown still, the kind of stillness that only arrives after every voice has gone quiet and every breath has softened into sleep. The fireplace had burned low, casting gentle shadows across the room where bodies lay half-curled in blankets, tucked into cushions and limbs. Jisung was still beside him, slumped with his mouth parted slightly in sleep. Felix had shifted to the floor sometime earlier, a pillow under his head, one hand still outstretched as if reaching. Jeongin was curled near the hearth, knees tucked to his chest, his back rising and falling in the rhythm of peace.

And yet, Seungmin was awake. Not fully. Not loudly. But enough. Enough to feel the warmth of all of them wrapped around him like armor, and still ache beneath it. Enough to know he was loved and still feel something missing. The memory of the door echoed in him like a song unfinished. That soft click, that unspoken invitation. The way his body had come alive in the hallway, flushed and trembling, only to scurry back into safety before desire could bloom into action.

And now… it pulsed. Not in his skin. But deeper. In his heart. In that place beneath language where longing lives.

He shifted gently, slowly extracting himself from the blanket cocoon, mindful not to wake the boys still pressed around him like petals. Every movement was quiet, reverent. As if he were moving through a dream. He stepped barefoot through the house, hallway lit only by the breath of moonlight and the house’s soft glow. Every floorboard he crossed seemed to hush in understanding. The air grew cooler near the stairs. The ache in his chest rose with him as he ascended. He turned the corner.

The master bedroom door stood where it always had—tall, graceful, and now, unmistakably unlocked. The handle gleamed faintly. It hadn’t opened further. It hadn’t tried to coax him again. But it had waited. Seungmin reached for it. His fingers trembled as they closed around the knob. He didn’t breathe. He simply pushed. The door gave way without resistance. And inside, the air changed.

It smelled like silk and summer rain. Like candle wax and skin. Like longing dressed in linen and warmth so deep it didn’t need fire. The room wasn’t bright. But it wasn’t dark either. It glowed. It breathed. And from within that glow… he came.

Hyunjin moved like smoke. Like something eternal wrapped in grace. He stepped forward, not with urgency, not with hunger, but with the quiet certainty of someone who had always been waiting. His arms opened before a word was spoken. And Seungmin, wide-eyed, trembling, already breaking, fell into them.

Hyunjin caught him without hesitation. Held him with a softness that made Seungmin collapse. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t messy. But the tears came. Slow, steady, silent. His face tucked into Hyunjin’s shoulder, his hands fisting gently into the fine fabric of his robe. His body didn’t tremble, not at first. It just… gave in. Like something inside him had finally been allowed to fall.

Hyunjin’s arms wrapped tighter. One hand slid up to cradle the back of Seungmin’s head, the other curved around his waist, holding him not like something fragile, but something sacred.

“Oh, my darling,” Hyunjin whispered, voice like velvet and dusk. “You made it.”

Seungmin didn’t speak. He couldn’t. His tears soaked into Hyunjin’s shoulder, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he didn’t apologise for them. The ache, the shame, the fear, they all softened under Hyunjin’s touch. Not erased. But seen. Held. Answered. Hyunjin pressed his lips to the crown of Seungmin’s head, whispering again into the hush between them.

“I’ve waited for you,” he murmured. “As long as it takes.”

And Seungmin, still trembling, still crying, still somehow alive in the middle of all that pain, let himself believe it. Just for tonight. He let himself believe he was wanted.

Chapter Text

Seungmin woke to warmth. Not just the kind that lingered in bedsheets, but something deeper, body heat and breath, the slow unfurling of morning light across skin. He blinked slowly, lashes sticking together from sleep, and for a moment, he didn’t remember where he was. Then he did. The master bedroom. The locked room.

Him.

Seungmin didn’t move right away. His body ached in the tender, unfamiliar way that followed a night spent held. Not just comforted. Held. Like something precious. The boy beside him, because Seungmin still didn’t know his name, still didn’t dare ask, was sleeping. And gods, he was beautiful. Not in the way that hurt to look at, but in the way that made you ache to be closer.

Pillow-soft lips, full and parted slightly with breath. Hair fanned across the pillow like ink spilled in slow motion. His face was relaxed now, free of the magnetic intensity he wore while awake, and Seungmin let himself look. Really look.

This boy had touched him without asking for anything in return. He’d said my darling like it was sacred. And for the first time in a long time, Seungmin had let himself be vulnerable in someone’s arms, and had not been broken for it. His heart squeezed, low and slow. But it wasn’t fear. It was want. That low ache had returned, curling in his belly like an invitation. Not urgent. Not overwhelming. Just present. And maybe it was time to stop running from it.

Seungmin slipped out of bed quietly, careful not to disturb the sleeping figure beside him. The sheets clung to him like breath, but the floor was cool beneath his feet, the air rich with candle smoke and something floral. He didn’t look back, not because he didn’t want to, but because if he did, he might crawl back in.

Today was the day. He didn’t know how he knew. But he did. The book was waiting.

He padded into the hall with quiet resolve, hair still tousled from sleep, socks half-pulled on, sweater falling off one shoulder. The house felt warmer this morning, like it approved of his decision. As he descended the stairs, that same low ache stayed with him, not painful, just grounding. Like desire could be something to guide him instead of haunt him.

The lounge was quiet. The nest of blankets still scattered where the boys had gathered last night was beginning to stir. Felix was the first to notice him. He was seated at the edge of the couch, already dressed and sipping from a steaming mug. When his eyes landed on Seungmin, his entire expression melted into something fond.

“You’re up,” Felix said softly, as if speaking too loud might wake the peace. Seungmin gave a small nod, rubbing the back of his neck. Felix stood, crossed the space between them, and reached up to fix Seungmin’s messy hair. His touch was gentle, fingertips smoothing a stray curl before trailing lightly down Seungmin’s cheek.

“You look warm,” he murmured, with a knowing smile.

Seungmin flushed. “It was a warm room.”

Felix didn’t push. He just bumped their foreheads together for the briefest moment, then turned toward the kitchen. “I’ll get your tea.”

The quiet swish of socks approached next. Jisung shuffled in from the hall, hoodie swallowed around him, hair fluffed in every direction like he’d wrestled the night itself. He saw Seungmin and made a beeline, arms out, collapsing into a loose slouch against his side.

“Didn’t want to wake up without you,” Jisung mumbled, cheek against his shoulder. “Thought you disappeared.”

“I didn’t,” Seungmin said, a little too softly.

“Good.” Jisung tightened the half-hug, then yawned. “Your side of the blanket’s cold. Traitor.” Seungmin snorted and patted his back. Jisung pressed a kiss to his shoulder, quick, sleepy, and shuffled toward the couch again. 

Jeongin had been in the corner the whole time, leaning against the window seat, watching. He rose slowly now, graceful in a way that felt too quiet for morning. When he reached Seungmin, he didn’t speak. He just rested his hand against the small of his back, eyes scanning his face. Not searching. Just… knowing.

“I’m okay,” Seungmin whispered.

“I know,” Jeongin replied, thumb brushing once, barely there. Still, he didn’t move away. And Seungmin didn’t mind.

Chan passed through next, stretching with a half-yawn and giving Seungmin a warm squeeze on the shoulder as he did, nothing showy, nothing weighty, just something real. Grounding. He murmured something about food and vanished toward the kitchen after Felix.

Minho, as usual, arrived last. He didn’t say anything. Just walked up, touched his knuckles briefly to Seungmin’s jaw like he was checking to make sure it hadn’t shattered overnight, then said, “You smell like a different room.”

Seungmin blushed instantly. Minho smirked. And yet, his eyes lingered a moment longer, softer than his words.

“You’re glowing, little one,” he murmured. “Good.”

Just after Minho walks away, the silence almost settles, until a loud thump sounded from behind the couch, followed by a grumble and the distinct sound of someone kicking off a blanket.

“Ugh, shit—I was dreaming we were fighting demons and I won.”

Changbin popped up, hair sticking in five directions, one sock missing, and face set in the scowl of someone personally offended by the concept of morning. His eyes scanned the room blearily before landing on Seungmin. The scowl melted. Completely.

“Oh. You’re up.”

Seungmin offered a small smile. “Good morning.”

Changbin stood slowly, stretching with a dramatic groan, then stomped across the rug and stopped directly in front of him. He didn’t say anything at first. Just stared. Then, as if no time had passed since the night before, he leaned forward and yanked Seungmin into a full-body hug, tight, grounding, all-consuming.

“I meant it,” he mumbled against Seungmin’s shoulder. “Everything I said last night. Nobody hurts you again. Not on my watch.”

Seungmin, startled but not fighting it, found himself hugging back.

“…Not even in your dreams,” Changbin added gruffly. “I’ll fight those too. Don’t think I won’t.”

Seungmin laughed, really laughed, for the first time that morning. Changbin pulled back, holding him by the shoulders like he needed to check he was real. “You good?”

Seungmin nodded.

“You sure?”

Another nod.

“Okay.” Changbin nodded too. “Now go eat something or I will carry you like a sack of emotional potatoes.”

Seungmin flushed, eyes wide. And Changbin winked. Then wandered off muttering something about coffee and protein and smashing emotional instability with carbs.

The book was waiting. But maybe breakfast could come first.

—

The kitchen was alive in the softest way, sunlight pouring through gauzy curtains, steam rising from a stack of toasted bread, and warmth spilling from every corner like the house itself had decided to wrap them in a blanket.

Seungmin had only just made it to the doorway when someone pressed a mug into his hands. He blinked down at it—chamomile and cinnamon, perfectly steeped.

“Didn’t think I’d let you come down empty-handed,” Felix said with a grin, already sliding back toward the stove where something hissed gently in a pan.

Jisung was perched on the bench like a gremlin in a hoodie, already munching toast straight off a plate with half-lidded eyes. When he saw Seungmin, he held up the bitten piece in greeting and mumbled, “You missed the first batch. I’m still mad.”

Minho was at the table, legs crossed, a notebook open in front of him that he hadn’t written in once. He raised a brow at Seungmin, then nodded at the chair beside him. “Sit. Before someone makes you.”

Seungmin sat. Chan was already leaning over the counter, cutting fruit like it was a meditation. “You doing okay?” he asked without looking up. Seungmin nodded, sipping his tea.

“You sure?”

He hesitated. “I think so.”

Chan glanced over then, offering a soft smile. “Good. You look… lighter.”

There was no teasing in it. No undertone. Just kindness. And it made Seungmin’s chest ache in a new way.

Jeongin entered a moment later, not speaking, but sliding behind Seungmin’s chair and brushing a hand gently across his shoulders in passing. He didn’t sit. Just leaned against the counter, watching everyone with that quiet curiosity he always wore like armour.

Then came Changbin. He stomped into the kitchen like someone had personally wronged him. “Where the hell is the jam?” he shouted, opening two cupboards and one drawer before Felix pointed silently at the fridge.

“Why would jam be in the cold?!” Changbin cried, offended.

“Preservation,” Minho muttered.

“Disrespect,” Changbin countered.

Seungmin stifled a laugh behind his mug. He hadn’t even eaten yet, and he already felt full in a way that had nothing to do with food. The boys moved around each other with ease, jokes tossed across the table, toast flung with precision. Every now and then someone touched his shoulder, ruffled his hair, bumped his knee under the table. Small things. But they stayed. They stayed. The kitchen had never felt so alive. Then, the air shifted. Subtle. But unmistakable. The house seemed to pause. Like it knew who was coming. And then he entered.

He didn’t walk so much as glide, barefoot, robe cinched, hair falling around his shoulders like silk. He moved like smoke, like art given breath, and the room stilled. No one spoke. No one moved. Even Changbin stopped mid-chew.

Hyunjin’s presence wasn’t loud, but it was absolute. Like a dream that refused to fade. He moved toward the table with the slow, regal grace of someone who had nothing to prove. His eyes swept once across the room, grazing over each boy, every detail, until they landed softly on Seungmin.

Their gazes met. Seungmin forgot how to breathe. And then, Hyunjin smiled. It wasn’t wide. It wasn’t bright. But it landed. He stepped closer, came to a stop just beside Seungmin’s chair, and leaned down, so close that Seungmin could feel the whisper of his breath.

“My name,” he said, voice a velvet sigh, “is Hyunjin.”

The words settled like heat in Seungmin’s spine. He blinked once, then managed the smallest smile.

“Hi,” he said, soft and wrecked all at once. Hyunjin smiled back. And then, as if the entire world wasn’t watching, he turned to Minho, who had gone very still, and pressed a kiss to his lips. Not possessive. Not lustful. Just gentle. Then he reached for a cup of tea Felix had already prepared, like he’d known, and walked out without another word. The silence lingered for a beat longer.

“Oh my god,” Jisung whispered, pressing a hand over his chest. “I forgot we were allowed to look at him.”

Chan cleared his throat and muttered something about ethereal bastards under his breath. Changbin was blinking rapidly. “Did—did anyone else just—did he always look like that?”

Minho didn’t speak. Just touched his lips once, gaze distant. Felix, smiling faintly, passed Seungmin a napkin. “You’re drooling.”

“I’m not,” Seungmin mumbled, even though his face was burning. They laughed. Softly, affectionately. 

“I miss him,” Jisung said quietly, gazing at the doorway Hyunjin had just disappeared through.

“Me too,” Jeongin murmured.

Chan nodded. “He doesn’t come out often.”

“He burns too bright,” Minho said simply. “Even the house flinches.”

“But we love him,” Felix added, a little too gently.

“So much,” Changbin agreed, mouth full.

Seungmin listened to all of it, eyes wide, heart full. They love him. They love each other. And maybe, just maybe, there was room in that love for him too.

—

The conversation swelled again after Hyunjin left, a little quieter than before but no less rich. Someone made a comment about Minho blushing, Minho responded with an arched brow and a slow sip of tea. Jisung had stolen another slice of toast and was now defending himself like it was a legal trial. Felix had dropped a dollop of jam on his shirt and was cursing with a mouthful of apology. Chan was already getting up to do the dishes even though everyone told him not to. The room glowed.

And through it all, Seungmin sat perfectly still. His hands were wrapped around his mug, cooling slowly. His heartbeat was steady. But something in his chest felt lifted. Not weightless. Just lighter. Like something had shifted into place without being named. And maybe that was enough.

He looked around at them, these boys who weren’t really boys, who had cried for him, held him, joked with him, stayed with him. He still didn’t understand them. But he trusted them. And maybe that meant it was time. Seungmin cleared his throat.

“I want to read the book.”

The room fell quiet. Not abruptly. Not in shock. But like the moment deserved stillness. Jisung paused mid-bite. Chan turned off the tap. Jeongin looked up, his expression unreadable, but something moved behind his eyes. Felix’s breath caught. Minho didn’t blink. Seungmin’s voice was softer when he added, “Today. I want to know.”

For a heartbeat, no one spoke. Then Jeongin stood. He didn’t say anything. He just crossed to Seungmin and extended his hand, palm up, steady. Seungmin took it. Their fingers laced easily and naturally, like they’d been doing this all along.

“I’ll walk you,” Jeongin said gently. Seungmin stood, heart hammering, not with fear, but anticipation.

Felix moved first, squeezing Seungmin’s shoulder. “We’ll be here when you’re done.”

“You don’t have to do it all at once,” Chan added. “The house will let you go at your pace.”

“Just breathe,” Jisung whispered, voice suddenly small. “You’re not alone.”

Minho didn’t say anything. But as Seungmin walked past him, his hand brushed against his sleeve, brief, grounding, real. And then he was in the hallway, walking side by side with Jeongin toward the library.

The book was waiting.

— 

The walk to the library was quiet. Not empty, but weighted. Like the house was watching. Listening. Holding its breath. Each step echoed softer than usual, the creak of the floorboards gentled as if by reverence. The very air had changed, heavier, but not oppressive. Like the dust had stilled in place, unwilling to stir. Like even the walls knew: something was about to begin.

Seungmin’s hand stayed in Jeongin’s the entire way. Not tightly. Not like he was afraid. Just firmly. Like he didn’t want to go alone.

The hallway opened into the library without fanfare, and yet the moment Seungmin crossed the threshold, he felt it. The shift. The way the room seemed brighter around the edges, golden light pooling not from lamps but from the very air. The books hummed, silent and waiting. The shadows moved differently here. Nothing unnatural, but aware.

The house was ready. He wasn’t sure if he was.

Jeongin let their joined hands fall gently between them. “Would you like me to stay?”

The question was quiet. Not casual. It was an offering. Seungmin didn’t answer right away. He looked around the room, at the tall shelves and sun-warmed rugs and the gentle hush that wrapped it all like a shroud. Then he turned to Jeongin, and nodded.

“Yes.”

Jeongin gave a small smile. Nothing triumphant. Just understanding.

“Come on,” he murmured, tugging Seungmin by the hand once more. “I’ll show you where it’s kept.”

They moved to the far side of the room, where the shelves were older, darker. More untouched. Jeongin paused before one that looked no different than the rest, ran his fingers along the spine of a weathered poetry collection, and pressed inward. A soft click echoed. A section of the shelf shifted, pulling back to reveal a recessed cubby, hidden, dustless, and empty but for a single object resting inside.

A book. Bound in deep charcoal leather, edges gilded, and a sigil too faint to make out pressed into the cover. It didn’t glow. It didn’t hum. But Seungmin’s chest clenched the moment he saw it. He didn’t reach for it right away. He couldn’t. His feet had rooted to the floor, breath caught somewhere between his ribs and his throat. Something about it felt too big. Not physically, but spiritually. Like it carried a weight he’d been dancing around since the moment he stepped into this house. Jeongin watched him wipe his eyes in silence.

“I don’t know why I’m crying,” Seungmin whispered, voice rough with the tightness in his chest. Jeongin didn’t ask him to stop. He simply reached out and rested his hand on Seungmin’s shoulder. Not pushing. Just there. Seungmin took a shaking breath, reached forward, and cradled the book in both hands.

It was heavier than he expected. But it didn’t fight him. They made their way to the library couch, where the cushions sank softly beneath them. Jeongin didn’t hover. He simply sat close, hands in his lap, posture open and calm. He wouldn’t rush him. Seungmin sat with the book resting against his knees, thumb stroking the edge of the cover like it might soothe him. He stared at it for a long time, the weight of it grounding him, the ache in his chest uncoiling slowly with each breath.

Finally he spoke, not to Jeongin, not even to himself. Just softly, to the room. 

“Okay.”

And then, hands trembling, he opened the book.

Chapter Text

The ink shifted as Seungmin stared at it, the words etched in a hand that felt older than time. The letters weren’t printed, they were etched, like the page had once been skin and the story had been carved into it line by line. The moment he began to read, the air in the library stilled completely. The fire didn’t crackle. The dust didn’t drift. Even his heartbeat seemed to slow.

They will tell you it was built.
They will say it has a foundation, blueprints, a roof measured by mortal hands.  
They will call it an old home, a cursed mansion, a place the light forgot. But the truth is this:
The house was not built. It was born.
Born not of brick or timber, but of silence and sorrow.

It came into being the way a storm does—gathering in the distance, low and slow, until it could no longer be ignored. A place shaped not by architects, but by ache. Where grief and hope collide, something always rises.

It answered no master’s plan. It belongs to no time, no map, no lineage.
It simply appeared. When it was needed most.
The house does not appear for those who seek it.
It finds those who can no longer seek at all.

The passage deepened. Seungmin’s eyes blurred, not from tears but from the intensity of the language. He wasn’t just reading, he was remembering, as if some part of him already knew this.

It calls to those who have forgotten how to want.
To those whose names have grown too heavy in their own mouths.
To those who wake and do not know why.
The next page turned itself. Not with wind. Not with magic. But with memory.

The house is not alive.
But it breathes.
It shifts. It listens. It learns.
It holds the weight of every name whispered inside its walls. Every sob pressed into a pillow. Every breath taken when someone decides to stay just one more day.

It does not punish. It does not save.
It reflects.
And sometimes, when the right soul walks through its doors, it remembers them.

These are the tethers.
They are not chosen at random.
They are not asked.
They are seen.

A tether is someone the house recognises, not because they are whole, but because they are not.
Because they are breaking in the way that builds something new.

The writing slowed here, becoming more intimate.

There is no ceremony. No revelation.
Just a door that opens too easily. A room that warms when it should not. A hallway that turns left when it always turned right.
The house knows its next tether from the moment they enter.
Sometimes even before.

If a tether steps inside as a child, the house does not forget.
It tucks their presence into the folds of its walls. It remembers their footsteps. Their fears. Their laugh.
And when they return, it opens for them.

Seungmin’s throat tightened.

He felt the walls shift around him, not physically, but emotionally. Like the house had exhaled. Like it had heard him reach the sentence and was waiting for him to understand. He didn’t need to ask if it was true. He knew.

That first day, how easily the front door had opened. How the floor hadn’t creaked beneath his feet. How the light in his room had been warm before he even touched the switch. How every part of the house had known him. He hadn’t knocked. But the house had welcomed him home.

His hands trembled slightly as he kept reading.

The tether does not own the house. They do not control it.
But they are its mirror. Its reason. Its anchor.
The house does not need them.
But it wants them.

It always has.
The tether is the one who walks the longest road.
They are not the strongest.
They are not the wisest.
They are simply the one who is still here.
The house has one promise to them:

You do not have to heal alone.

Seungmin’s vision swam. Not with tears, but with clarity. He felt Jeongin shift beside him, but didn’t turn. Couldn’t. He was still too wrapped in the gravity of the words, in the realisation that this place, this impossible, living, aching house, had seen him years ago and never let him go.

The house had chosen him. Before he knew pain. Before he understood worth. It had opened its doors to a boy with quiet eyes and a heart already unraveling, and it had said: You will matter here.

Tears slid down Seungmin’s cheeks before he even registered the sting. They weren’t loud. They weren’t heaving. Just… constant. Quiet little floods from a place too deep to name. He hadn’t imagined the ease with which the house had welcomed him. That first night. That first breath. That impossible feeling of belonging somewhere when nowhere else had ever made space for him.

The book was still open in his lap, glowing softly in the hush. The passage stayed fixed beneath his gaze:

The house does not need the tether to be perfect. It only needs them to still be breathing.
It chooses those who have been told they are unworthy.
It finds those who were left behind. Those who have made it to the end of themselves and still dared to wake up.

Seungmin’s hands trembled. Because that was him. He had come here as a child, not for a holiday, not for school, but because his parents didn’t want him. Because they had passed him off like a task, right before his birthday. As if the burden of his existence could be transferred through a phone call and a suitcase. He hadn’t understood it then, not fully. But he felt it. The grief. The failure. The ache of being something someone could walk away from.

He remembered lying awake in his aunt’s guest room, barely six, clutching a blanket that wasn’t his, and wondering what was wrong with him. What he had done to be so… unwanted.

He hadn’t wanted to die, exactly. But he hadn’t understood why living mattered. And now the book was telling him the house had seen that. Felt it. Remembered it. And still, it had opened.

Jeongin moved beside him once more, just a small shift, a breath, a weight he hadn’t realised he’d been leaning on. Seungmin wiped at his cheeks with the back of his hand and whispered, “I was only a kid…”

“I know,” Jeongin murmured, voice low and steady.

“It says the house knew me then. That it chose me.”

Jeongin’s eyes didn’t flinch. “It did.”

“It wasn’t just a memory, was it?” Seungmin asked. His voice cracked on the last word. “You were there.”

“I was.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I wasn’t supposed to.” Jeongin hesitated, then added softly, “But the house… bent the rules. For you.”

“Why?” It came out more desperate than intended. “Why me?”

“Because you were already surviving something no child should have to.”

Seungmin stilled.

“Because,” Jeongin continued, “even when your heart was breaking, you still reached out for something warm. Because you cried, and questioned everything, and still kept breathing. Because even then, you were trying.”

He reached for Seungmin’s hand, slow and sure, and laced their fingers together. “The house saw you, Seungmin. All that sadness. All that strength. You weren’t invisible here.”

“I didn’t feel strong,” Seungmin said quietly.

“You weren’t,” Jeongin replied. “You were hurting. That’s what the house recognises. Not strength. Not certainty. Honesty. You were a child who had been handed heartbreak and still found a way to keep going.”

“I don’t remember feeling like I belonged anywhere.”

“But the house remembered you.” Jeongin’s voice broke just slightly. “It carried you in its walls for all these years. It’s why the doors opened for you so easily. It’s why the light stayed warm. Because it never stopped waiting.”

Seungmin pressed his free hand to his face, but it didn’t stop the tears. He shook his head like he was trying to clear it. “That’s so much pressure…”

“It’s not,” Jeongin said, pulling their joined hands to his chest. “It’s not asking you to be anything other than what you already are.”

“A mess?”

Jeongin smiled faintly. “Someone who stayed. Someone who came back. Someone who never stopped meaning something.”

A long silence passed. Seungmin looked down at the book again, breath shaky, heart exposed.

“…I want to keep reading.”

Jeongin leaned into him just a little more. “Then I’ll stay. Like I always have.”

The page shifted on its own. Not with magic. Not with wind. But with readiness. The ink flowed darker here, the edges of the parchment slightly warmed to the touch, as if the passage itself had been left too close to an oven’s heat. There was something soft about the aura that clung to it. Sweet. Lingering. Like cinnamon sugar on the tongue of a memory. Seungmin leaned forward.

Gluttony is often misunderstood.
It is painted as grotesque, selfish, wild. A mouth that takes without ceasing. A stomach that swells and never satisfies.
But the truth is quieter. More devastating.

He read on, the words settling deep in his ribs.

Gluttony is not a sin of greed. It is a sin of emptiness.
A hunger born not from appetite, but from absence.
He is not full because he chooses to overindulge. He is full because it is the only way he knows how to feel less alone.

Seungmin’s chest ached suddenly, unexpectedly.

There is a boy who lives in warmth.
He smells of sugar and cloves, of baked fruit and browned butter, of safety pulled from the oven and set carefully onto a table for one.
He hums when he works. Laughs when he measures. But inside, he is always asking— “Is this enough to make you stay?”

The passage tilted, metaphor and memory woven like lace through every line.

His hands are soft not because he is delicate, but because he has spent his existence learning how to comfort others first. He will always ask if you’ve eaten. He will never ask if you’ve listened.
Because needing to be loved feels shameful.
Because wanting to be chosen feels dangerous.

Gluttony is the ache of overcompensating. Of over-giving. Of always asking for one more bite, one more smile, one more moment of feeling full before the emptiness returns.

Seungmin swallowed, blinking fast. He didn’t need the book to name him. He knew.

Felix. The kitchen. The softest hands. The biggest heart. The way he made toast like a prayer and jam like a promise. The way his presence had wrapped around Seungmin first, gently, wholly, with no demands. He hadn’t known then what Felix truly wanted. But now, he understood.

Gluttony’s tethered space is the kitchen, warmth incarnate, where the scent of sugar clings to the walls and the floorboards hum with memory.

But the kitchen is not chosen for its ingredients. It is chosen for what it symbolises: comfort, ritual, the act of giving nourishment when words aren’t enough.

He resides there not because he hungers—but because he knows hunger. Not just of the body, but of the soul. Of being left empty and asking, without speaking: “Will you stay if I feed you?”

His room is not a prison. It is a table, always set. A promise that someone will come. That someone will be hungry for him too.

Seungmin exhaled shakily. A memory bloomed, Felix kneeling beside the couch, brushing crumbs from Seungmin’s sleeve. His thumb passing gently over the back of Seungmin’s hand. The peach-coloured toast. The careful way he’d said, “Eat something. You’ll feel steadier.” It wasn’t just about the food. It never had been.

Gluttony heals not through answers, but through abundance.
He wraps warmth around the weary. He fills the silence with softness. He offers something sweet, not to distract from the pain, but to remind you that sweetness still exists.

He gives until you remember that you are worth giving to.
His magic is not in the meal. It’s in the feeling of being cared for without being asked to earn it.

He will feed you until you burst.
Not because he wants you full, but because he is afraid to be empty again.
Because no one ever asked what he was hungry for.

The final lines of the page came slowly, inked darker than the rest.

Gluttony is not the monster they told you he was.
He is the boy who never stops giving, because it is the only way he believes someone might finally choose to stay.

The page turned slowly this time. Like it was tired. Like it understood that some truths deserved to arrive gently. The ink was softer now, its script drawn in curving lines and clouded hues, as if written under heavy eyes and a blanket too warm to leave behind. But the words were still clear. Still present. Like a voice murmuring from the corner of a quiet room. Seungmin leaned in once more.

Sloth is not what they say it is.
It is not laziness. Not failure. Not avoidance for the sake of cruelty or convenience.

Sloth is the ache beneath the effort.
The moment the body stops not because it doesn’t care, but because it has cared too much for too long.

He is not the boy who does nothing.
He is the boy who gave everything until there was nothing left.

Seungmin’s chest tightened.

There is a boy who lives in quiet corners.
He is laughter behind a blanket. He is warmth under flickering light. He is arms open when words are too heavy.

But beneath that softness is something harder. Something heavier.
A history of reaching out and being told it wasn’t enough.
So now, he stops.
Not to give up. But to survive.

The words blurred slightly, not from tears, but from recognition. Understanding.

Sloth is not a sin of apathy. It is the wound of never being allowed to rest.
Of being measured only by productivity.
Of being told that love is something you earn by exhaustion.

He jokes, not because he is lighthearted, but because joy is easier to offer than explanation.
He yawns because the world never stops shouting.
He curls inward because it is the only way he knows how to feel safe.

The ink shimmered slightly on the next line, a glint of silver in the soft gloom of the page.

His greatest wish is not to be adored, or even to be understood.
It is simply this: that someone might sit beside him and not ask him to be more.

Seungmin’s throat clenched. Jisung. Of course it was. The quiet touches. The drowsy cuddles. The way he always waited beside Seungmin rather than trying to fix him. The way he never expected him to perform. Just… be here. That was all Jisung ever asked.

Sloth’s tethered space is the lounge, soft and sun-dusted, lined with blankets and old movies, where the clock moves slowly and the walls remember every exhale.

It is not a space of retreat, but of recovery. A place to lay down the weight of performance and breathe as someone who is already enough.

He is tethered there because it is where people rest. And he is the boy who watches over those who don’t know how.

He does not sleep because he is bored. He sleeps because it is the only time no one can expect more from him.

Sloth heals not through motion, but through presence.
He reminds the lost that stillness is not failure.

He sits beside you when you are too tired to speak. He offers silence that doesn’t shame you. He gives comfort without requiring you to earn it.

His is a sanctuary made of pause. Of permission. Of holding space until the storm inside you slows.

Because some days, healing looks like doing nothing. And some hearts need to be reminded they are still worthy even when they’re quiet.

Seungmin curled his hand against the page. The way Jisung had held him after the nightmare. The soft shushing. The quiet presence. He hadn’t spoken much. But he’d stayed.

Sloth is not the boy who gave up.
He is the boy who survived too much, too young, and now finds safety in stillness.

He is not lazy.
He is learning how to be held without apologising for the weight of himself.

Seungmin inhaled slowly, and the scent of the lounge bloomed behind his eyes, old upholstery and warm tea, and the rustle of a blanket being pulled higher.

The page that followed was darker. Not in shade, but in weight. Like it had been pressed harder, like the ink had been written with a hand that trembled, determined to make its mark. The edges of the script were sharper here. Cleaner. As if every word had been revised again and again before being allowed to settle.

Greed is the hunger that grows in silence.
Not for gold, or jewels, or crowns.
But for significance. For presence. For the feeling of being wanted, endlessly.
He is not the boy who hoards. He is the boy who gives so much of himself he forgets what’s left to keep.

Seungmin’s fingers pressed gently to the page.

There is a boy who lives among reflections and words.
He speaks with certainty. He moves with control. He guides with an open palm.
But beneath the composure lies something more: a fear of being forgotten the moment he stops giving.

Greed is not a lust for wealth. It is a desperation to remain needed.
He takes charge because leadership makes him visible.
He offers wisdom because being right keeps him close.
He gives advice like oxygen, because he cannot bear to be overlooked.

The words struck too close to home. Seungmin remembered the first time he’d met Chan, how grounded he’d felt, how easily Chan had offered answers. Comfort. Logic. But now he saw it: how each offering was also a plea. Let me matter to you. Let me be irreplaceable.

Greed’s tethered space is the study, a room of polished wood and angled light, where mirrors catch the eye and books hold carefully folded truths.

It is not a room of ego, but of measurement. Every surface reflects. Every object is placed with purpose. He lives among these things not because they validate him, but because they whisper: “You are still here. You still count.”

The study is not about knowledge. It is about control. About understanding things so he does not have to fear them.

Greed heals through stability.
He offers structure to those who feel lost. He makes sense of the chaos. He listens, and he does not flinch.

He teaches you how to stand on your own, but he always hopes you’ll turn back to him when you need someone to lean on.

His is a healing made of constancy. Of competence. Of showing up even when he is tired, because he believes being chosen is something you must earn again every day.

And when you finally look at him and say, “I trust you,” it fills something he will never fully admit was empty.

Seungmin exhaled softly, his hand tightening on the edge of the book. Chan had never asked for anything. But everything about him had been asking.

Greed is not the monster of legend.
He is the boy who teaches others how to hold themselves together, even as he quietly wonders who will hold him.

He is not selfish.
He is just afraid to be forgotten.

The fire flickered beside the couch. The next page turned, shimmering in the soft light.  Not bright. Not loud. Just a subtle shift of gold along the paper’s edge, like morning light catching the rim of a teacup. The ink here was elegant, taller than the others, slanted like calligraphy carved from discipline. The words greeted Seungmin like sunlight through lace. Gentle. Revealing. Impossible to ignore.

Pride is not arrogance.
It is the quiet miracle of knowing your worth in a world that tried to convince you otherwise.
He is not loud. He is not boastful.
But he will not shrink to make others comfortable.

There is a boy who lives in light.
He moves like certainty. Speaks like still water. Watches everything.
He does not demand to be seen. But he will never let himself be overlooked.

Pride is not the absence of humility. It is the reclamation of identity.
It is the knowing, deep and unmoving, that you are allowed to take up space.

The next line pulled at something deep beneath Seungmin’s ribs.

He once believed he had to be perfect to be enough.
Now he believes he has nothing to prove. Only something to protect.
And that something, is himself.

Seungmin exhaled. Minho. Always still. Always sharp. But never cruel. Not really. Even when his words sliced close, they were precise. Protective.

Pride’s tethered space is the sunroom, wide and open, where every inch is bathed in light.
It is not a stage. It is a mirror.
A place where the truth of who you are cannot be hidden in shadows.

He resides there because he wants you to be seen.
Not as others see you, but as you were meant to be. Whole. Worthy. Real.*

He heals through reflection.
Through subtle defiance. Through beauty offered like a weapon you never knew you could wield.
He doesn’t fix what’s broken, he reminds you it was never broken at all.

Pride does not tell you who you are.
He stands beside you until you remember it for yourself.

Seungmin blinked hard.

To Pride, appearance is not vanity. It is alignment.
The body is a canvas of identity. The way you present yourself is a reflection of what you believe you’re allowed to become.

He clothes people not in fabric, but in self-respect.
He brushes out the shame others have knotted into your hair. He polishes the parts of you that were told they weren’t worth tending.

He says: “Let them see you.”
And if you tremble, he will hold your hand until you stop.

Pride is not the boy who looks down on others.
He is the boy who dares to look in the mirror and say: “I am allowed to take up space. And so are you.”

The page didn’t turn right away. It waited. And Seungmin understood. Pride never rushed. Pride waited until you were ready to move forward. So he took a breath.

And when he was ready, the book continued.

This ink was darker. Not bold like Greed. Not soft like Sloth. It was precise. Held back. Measured, and yet straining at the edges like it had more to say than the page could contain. The room around him quieted further. As if even the shelves knew what was coming. Jeongin stayed beside him. Silent. Steady. Seungmin read.

Envy is not the storm you were warned about.
It is not rage. Not bitterness. Not cruelty disguised as want.
It is the ache of being overlooked.
The echo of watching love pass you by again and again, and wondering what you lack that others seem to hold so easily.

There is a boy who lives in silence.
He listens. He observes. He learns.
But more than anything, he waits.
For someone to choose him. Not by default. Not because there’s no one left. But because they see him.

Seungmin’s didn’t need to guess. He knew. Jeongin. The boy who had touched his hair in a dream. The boy who had comforted him long before he knew he needed comfort. The boy whose voice had lingered in his bones long after Seungmin had forgotten his name.

Envy does not demand.
He only wonders: “Why not me?”
He does not ask for the spotlight. He only wants to feel the warmth it casts on others.

He smiles when the others are chosen.
And then he curls inward, quietly asking himself what it is about him that wasn’t enough.

Seungmin reached for the next line with his eyes like a lifeline.

Envy’s tethered space is the library, a room of memory, of silence, of knowledge too vast to ever fully claim.
It is where the forgotten things live.
The unspoken truths. The shadows of people who were almost held.

He is tethered here because he is used to being quiet. But the library does not ask him to speak louder. It simply makes room for him to be seen.

He heals not through presence, but through recognition.
He sits beside those who feel invisible. He watches without judgment. He waits, always, until someone is ready to say his name.

His power is not in demanding attention, but in proving that even silence holds weight. That even the forgotten have stories worth remembering.

He reminds you that love is not a contest.
That your worth is not diminished just because someone else is shining.

Seungmin’s breath stuttered. He remembered sitting in this very room as a child, and how it had held him. How someone had held him. Not so much with words. With presence. He turned the page again, his vision blurring as he read the last lines.

Envy is not the monster they warned you about.
He is the boy who stayed, even when he was forgotten.
He is the one who notices first. Who never looks away.
He does not want to steal love from others.
He just wants to know, could there ever be love enough for him, too?

The words bled into the margins. And Seungmin could not speak. The book fell still. But his hand moved, slowly, across the space between them. He found Jeongin’s fingers resting quietly against the spine of the open book. He took them gently. Jeongin looked up, and in that moment, he wasn’t Envy. He wasn’t a sin. He wasn’t even someone Seungmin had forgotten. He was the boy who had waited. And Seungmin, trembling, tearful, but steady, lifted Jeongin’s hand to his lips.

A kiss. Light as breath. Not rushed. Not uncertain. Just real. When he pulled back, their eyes met. Jeongin didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The moment held more than language could carry. And in the stillness, Seungmin curled into him, resting his cheek against Jeongin’s shoulder. Their hands remained clasped, hearts syncing slowly beneath skin. The library sighed around them. Not a creak. Not a warning. A relief. Like someone had finally been seen.

The following page turned sharply. Not aggressive. But definite. Like a match being struck. The ink had weight to it, darker than the rest, but not chaotic. It was controlled. Etched in angles and conviction. Seungmin felt it pulse beneath his fingertips like a heartbeat. Not his. Not the book’s. Someone else’s.

Wrath is not blind.
He is not reckless.
He is not the monster they made him out to be when they were afraid of what he reflected back at them.

He is the scream at injustice. The fists clenched for someone who couldn’t defend themselves. The roar of a heart that refuses to let pain go unnoticed.

Seungmin swallowed hard.

There is a boy who does not wait for permission to care.
He does not whisper. He does not ask twice.
He steps into a room like a wall of sound, but underneath the volume is something warmer than anyone expects.
He is fury born of empathy.

The words burned low and slow. Not like a wildfire, more like an ember long buried that refuses to die.

Wrath is not summoned by rage alone.
Sometimes, he is drawn to silence. To the quiet ones who do not know how to scream.

To the ones who swallow their hurt until it poisons them.
To the ones who were taught that anger made them dangerous, unworthy, broken.
He comes not because you are furious, but because you are afraid to be.

Seungmin’s hands trembled slightly.

Wrath’s tethered space is the basement, a room beneath everything, where things are buried but never gone.
The walls here are thick. The air is dense. It is not cold. It is compressed. Like the breath before the yell. Like the moment before something finally cracks.

He resides here because this is where people put what they don’t want to feel. But he knows that just because it’s buried, doesn’t mean it’s dead.

Wrath heals through release and acceptance. 
He teaches you how to scream without shame. How to shake without guilt. He tells you: “You’re allowed to feel it. You’re allowed to rage.”

And when the storm passes, he is the one who holds you through the exhaustion of finally letting it out.
He is not reckless. He is just unwilling to let injustice stand unchallenged.

A memory flared—Changbin’s voice, loud and unapologetic, “Who the fuck made him cry?” The fury had felt shocking in the moment. But not threatening. Protective. It had felt like someone was finally mad for him.

Wrath is not the boy who breaks things for fun.
He is the boy who steps between the blade and the body.
He takes the pain so you don’t have to.

He will teach you how to wield your own anger. But more than that, he will teach you that you’re allowed to feel it in the first place.

Seungmin exhaled shakily. He had never considered that his refusal to feel anger might be a wound in itself. But Wrath had. Wrath had known.

He is not rage incarnate.
He is the permission to be furious and still loved. To be loud and still worthy. To be hurt and still whole.
Wrath is not destruction.
He is defence.

And with that, the final line etched itself onto the page in the space just before the paper turned:

He is not what they told you he was.
He is the boy who burns, so you don’t have to burn alone.

The next page turned as if the book itself exhaled. It didn’t glow. It didn’t pulse. It breathed, the way a body does when it’s finally allowed to rest. The ink was softer than expected. Not red. Not gold. A dusky plum, like bruised petals beneath fingertips. The script curled and leaned, like someone had written it slowly, tracing every word like a secret. And the moment Seungmin’s eyes touched the page, he felt it. A warmth low in his belly. Not arousal. Not hunger. Yearning.

Lust is not sin.
It is not shame.
It is not the gasp behind a closed door, or the skin flushed beneath moonlight.
It is the permission to want.
To crave.
To reach.

There is a boy who moves like poetry and stillness at once.
He glides, not to be watched, but because he cannot help it.
He touches like he’s memorising you. He speaks like a confession wrapped in silk.

Lust is not what you were told to fear.
He is not temptation in disguise.
He is the softest part of you—the part that wants to be held, to be kissed, to be seen in the way that says: I know you. And I still want you.

Seungmin swallowed, his breath catching at the edge of something unspoken.

He is tethered to the master bedroom, locked for as long as you deny yourself.
Because Lust cannot be forced open. He must be invited.
His room is velvet and breath. Light that flickers when hearts stutter. A mirror you’re meant to look into and say: “I deserve to feel.”

It is not about sex.
It is about surrender.
About allowing comfort. About reaching without apology.

Lust lives not only in touch, but in longing.
He is in the ache to be desired emotionally, spiritually, wholly, not just taken, but chosen.

The words shimmered faintly on the page.

He is the most sensitive of them all.
Because he does not only feel what you give him, he feels everything.

He feels the tremble in the walls when a kiss is given in the hallway. He feels the warmth of a hand held too long in the lounge. He knows when one heart pulls toward another like tide to shore.

He is connected to the house itself, to its breath, its pulse, its want. When desire sparks between others, he feels it.

Seungmin’s hands clenched slightly. The water. The ache. The steam. That hallway moment. That soft click of the locked door finally yielding.

It can overwhelm him.
So he stays hidden. Behind that locked door, in shadows of silk and stillness.

Because every ache, every stir, every yearning in this house ripples through him. And sometimes, it’s too much to bear.

Seungmin blinked hard, heart twisting. Hyunjin hadn’t kept his distance because he was cruel. He had done it because he felt too much.

Lust heals through permission.
He offers softness to the ones who have been touched but never held.

He whispers: You are allowed to want comfort. You are allowed to desire connection. You are allowed to be filled, not just physically, but with love, with presence, with being chosen.

He teaches that pleasure is not shameful. That closeness is not a trap. That you are worthy of affection that expects nothing in return but truth.

He is not what you were warned about.
He is what you were denied.
He is the open door in the dark, the one you’re terrified to enter because part of you still believes you don’t deserve what’s on the other side.

Seungmin exhaled. He did want to open that door. He had for a long time.

Lust is not devouring.
He is not danger.
He is invitation.
To feel.
To want.
To be wanted, and never again question whether you are allowed to be.

The book stirred once more. Not just a page turning this time, but a quiet expansion, like something was unfolding from deep within its spine. A warmth spread through the paper, golden and steady, and the next passage shimmered into being. There was no heading. No flourish. Just words that felt older than the house itself. Seungmin leaned in, and the book began to speak again.

A tether is not a keeper.
He does not control the sins. He does not bind them like beasts.
He meets them in the space between guilt and grace, and chooses to stay.

Where the sins are rooted in emotion, the tether is rooted in love.
Not the fleeting kind. Not possession. Not pity.
But the slow, aching, truthful kind of love, the kind that sees every part of you and dares to say: “I still want you here.”

To be a tether is to become the heart of the house.

Seungmin’s breath hitched softly.

The sins are drawn to emotion, but it is relationship that transforms them.
They do not become human because they are watched.
They become human because they are held. Chosen. Trusted. Known.

The tether does not command them. They open to them. And in doing so, they soften. They learn. They ache. They love.

The light behind the pages pulsed once. Not bright. Just full.

Through the tether, each sin finds its mirror.
Gluttony remembers he is not too much.
Sloth learns that his rest is not a flaw.
Greed discovers he is not forgotten unless he forgets himself.
Pride stops defending his worth and begins to simply be.
Envy realises he does not have to wait forever to be seen.
Wrath learns that anger is not shameful, and tenderness is not weakness.
And Lust is reminded that longing is not a curse, and he is not only loved for what he can give, but for who he is.

Seungmin blinked fast, throat tight.

The tether becomes the reason they stay.
Not because they are trapped, but because they want to remain near the one who saw them as more than sin.

And when the final tether feels deeply enough, when their love is lived, not just felt, the sins begin to change.

If the sins are loved deeply enough, they may choose to become human.
Not because the tether asks them to.
But because they no longer wish to leave him behind.

It has never happened.
But the house believes it could.

Seungmin’s hands gripped the pages like they might float away.

To tether is not to heal all wounds.
It is to hold them with someone else.
To be the home each sin never believed they were allowed to have.
And to finally, truly, be loved in return.

The page faded gently to white. But the words didn’t leave him. They lingered, like a hand resting over his heart, like the quiet breath of someone sitting beside you who knows. The fire beside them cracked once, low and warm, like it too had been holding its breath.

Seungmin didn’t speak right away. His hands remained open over the book, trembling just faintly. Then, without looking up, he whispered, “Is that true?”

Jeongin turned to him, head tilted slightly. “Which part?”

Seungmin’s voice caught in his throat. He swallowed. “The… becoming human thing.”

Jeongin was quiet for a long moment. Not avoiding the question, just choosing the shape of his answer carefully. Then he said, gently, “It’s never happened.”

“But it could?”

Jeongin nodded once, slow. “If the bond is strong enough. If the love is real enough.”

Seungmin turned to him then, wide-eyed and raw. “And that’s what this is? What I’ve been building with all of you?”

Jeongin didn’t answer. Instead, he reached out, fingers brushing Seungmin’s with the kind of tenderness that made the world feel quieter. He took Seungmin’s hand in both of his, and brought it close, not to his lips this time, but to his heart.

“Only you can decide if it’s love,” he said softly. “But we feel it. All of us. We wouldn’t be this present if we didn’t.”

Seungmin’s eyes shimmered. “It scares me.”

“I know,” Jeongin said. “But you’re not alone in it anymore.”

They sat like that for a while, hands pressed together, hearts beating close. And in the hush between them, no one had to explain what it meant. They already knew. And the book, warm beneath their fingertips, did too.

Seungmin’s hand hovered over the back cover, breath caught somewhere between his ribs. The pages had stopped turning themselves, but the weight of it hadn’t lifted. If anything, it had settled deeper, like something ancient had just finished exhaling inside him. And then, just as his fingers shifted to close it, he felt it. A whisper of paper where there should’ve been none. Tucked between the final pages, almost hidden in the spine. He hesitated. Then reached.

A folded note. Handwritten. The ink was slightly faded. Familiar. His breath left him.

It was hers.

The parchment trembled in his hands as he unfolded it. The script wavered, not because of age, but because she’d written it with trembling fingers. Still, it was her writing. Curved. Careful. Holding something tender in its shape.

My darling boy,

If you’re reading this… then I think I’ve already gone.

His throat closed. He blinked rapidly, but the words didn’t blur. They pierced.

I don’t know if it’s morning or night. I don’t know if you’re alone. But I hope, more than anything, that you’re not.

I hope you’re sitting somewhere warm, somewhere safe, with the book in your lap and at least one of the boys nearby. I hope you let them stay close.

Seungmin’s lip trembled.

You always carried more sadness than you let anyone see. Even as a child, you tried so hard to be quiet about it, like you thought your pain would inconvenience the world. But the house knew. I think it knew before even I did.

He clutched the note tighter.

When your parents left, I didn’t bring you to the house because I thought it would fix you. I brought you because I recognised that grief. Because I knew what it meant to be discarded and not know what to do with the hurt.

You met them then, even if you don’t remember. And the house let you in because it already knew you were the next. The next tether. The one who would come after me.

His vision blurred. His fingers curled tighter, crinkling the corners of the letter.

But I stopped taking you there after a while. Not because you did anything wrong, but because I could feel the house stirring, waiting. And I knew you weren’t ready yet.

You needed time to break apart before you could be rebuilt.
You needed to grow into the beautiful young man I know you as today, and let your heart prepare itself for the bonds you will build here.

He made a sound then. A quiet exhale, like a gasp wrapped in sorrow. Jeongin stilled beside him, his gaze lifting without pressure. He didn’t speak. He didn’t interrupt. He just watched.

I’ve been sick for a long time. I’m sorry I wasn’t honest with you about it until the end. I didn’t want you to carry that weight on top of everything else.

But I knew I wouldn’t be able to stay. And I knew the boys deserved to be loved by someone who had more left to give than I did.

Seungmin’s chest convulsed with the sharp intake of a breath he couldn’t quite finish.

That someone was always going to be you.
Despite the pain you’ve been dealt in your life, you are not too broken for them. You are not too heavy. You are not a burden.

You are the light they’ve waited for.
And they are the arms I prayed would hold you when I no longer could.

The letter blurred now, smudged from tears. Seungmin didn’t stop them.

Please, let yourself want this life.
Not because you owe it to me, or to them.
But because it was always meant to be yours.
You deserve love that stays.
You deserve softness that never asks you to earn it.
You deserve to be held, and loved, and chosen.
And if you ever doubt that, open this letter again.
Live. Not because you must. But because you can.
And if I’m right, you’ll never have to live in loneliness again.  
Let them love you. Let them live this life with you.

I love you, Seungmin.
So much more than I had time to say.
I’ll always be with you.

– Auntie

He didn’t finish the line. He couldn’t. His hands shook as he folded the letter back, too gently, too carefully, as if afraid the words might fall apart if handled wrong.

He closed the book. And set it down. And then slowly and silently, he turned toward Jeongin. Eyes flooded. Shoulders trembling. His mouth opened to say something, anything, but no words came. Only a sob. The kind that came from deep inside the ribcage. From years of silence. From the kind of loss that had no tidy shape.

Jeongin moved before the next cry could even leave Seungmin’s throat. Arms open. Steady. Sure. Seungmin folded into him like a wave collapsing, like he’d been waiting years for a place to fall apart that wouldn’t let him break. Jeongin wrapped him in both arms, pressing his hand to the back of Seungmin’s head, tucking him in, breathing with him. His own eyes shimmered, but he didn’t cry. Not because he didn’t feel it. But because he knew right now, Seungmin needed someone to hold the flood.

Seungmin sobbed against him, the sound broken and real and raw. And Jeongin held on tightly. And the house, quiet and golden around them, listened. And for the first time in a very, very long time, it wept with them.

The tears came slower after a while. Not gentler, just deeper. Like rain that had learned not to flood, but still needed to fall. Seungmin remained curled against Jeongin’s chest, trembling in the steady warmth of his arms. Jeongin didn’t move. Didn’t rush him. Just breathed with him, like stillness could be an answer.

The book sat closed on the table beside them. The letter tucked safely inside, folded like a prayer. And the house was still. But not silent. It was listening. And then, quiet as a hush between heartbeats, there were footsteps. The library door creaked open.

Felix entered first. He didn’t say a word. He just stepped in, barefoot and wide-eyed, his expression stricken with the kind of tenderness only grief could draw out. His hands holding a small candle. He set it on the edge of the shelf, its tiny flame flickering low, and came to kneel beside the couch. His hand brushed Seungmin’s ankle. A soft presence. No pressure. Just here.

Another step behind him. Jisung. Shoulders tense, eyes wet already though he didn’t speak. He hovered near the back of the couch for a moment before circling slowly and sinking down to the floor beside Felix. His head bowed slightly, fingers fiddling with the hem of his sleeve—then, after a long pause, he reached out and rested one hand gently against Seungmin’s back.

Minho followed moments later. Not rushing. Not loud. Just present. His steps were smooth, catlike as always. But there was something softer in his shoulders than usual. He came to stand at the head of the couch. Didn’t crouch, didn’t kneel, just stood like a silent sentinel. And then, so faint it was almost missed, he reached out and smoothed a hand down Seungmin’s hair. Once. Just once. Then let it rest on his shoulder.

Chan entered next. Slower. He hovered in the doorway as if asking permission with his breath. But when the house didn’t resist, when the air stayed still and waiting, he stepped inside. He crossed the room and settled onto the arm of the couch, one hand resting on Jeongin’s arm in silent solidarity. His other hand hovered before resting flat against Seungmin’s upper back, warm and grounding.

Seungmin sobbed again. His fingers clutched at Jeongin’s sweater like he needed it to stay tethered to this moment. Jeongin cradled him tighter. Didn’t speak. Just breathed for him when he forgot how.

The next arrival wasn’t quiet. Changbin’s footsteps thudded in the hall, louder than anyone else’s. Like the weight in Seungmin’s chest had reached out and yanked him bodily from wherever he’d been. He opened the door like he was ready to fight someone, but the moment he saw Seungmin’s small form shaking in Jeongin’s arms, his entire body gentled.

He blinked. Took it in. Swallowed something sharp. Then wordlessly crossed the room and crouched directly in front of the couch. No hesitation. No uncertainty. His hands were fisted against his knees like he didn’t trust himself to touch, but after a second, he reached up and pressed his palm to Seungmin’s shin, solid and warm. And stayed there. Not to demand attention. Just to offer himself.

And then, the final arrival. Hyunjin. The air shifted with him, like the scent of jasmine and memory trailing in his wake. He stepped into the room like he’d always belonged there, though he almost never showed himself this fully. His presence didn’t demand attention, it drew it, slowly, like gravity. He didn’t approach fast. He came with the hush of someone reverent before something sacred.

He stepped close. Sank slowly to the floor beside the others, his robes pooling like silk. And then, ever so gently, he reached forward, his fingers brushing the back of Seungmin’s calf in the softest, most intimate way. Like touch could be a blessing.

No one spoke. The house didn’t creak. The flames didn’t flicker. The room simply held. Seven presences. One boy, crumbling. And not a single person turned away. There were no demands. No expectations. Only warmth. Only hands. Only stillness.

Jeongin shifted slightly to let Seungmin curl in deeper, and Seungmin did. His face pressed tighter to Jeongin’s chest, his body surrounded now, floor and couch and arms and knees and hearts.

He had fallen apart. And not a single one of them tried to put him back together. They simply stayed. And in that silence, healed by presence alone, the house glowed softly.

Chapter Text

The house was quieter now, but not empty. Not silent. It had settled into a kind of hush that felt sacred. As if the very walls understood the weight of what had just been revealed. As if they, too, were giving Seungmin time to breathe. He hadn’t moved much since closing the book.

Jeongin still held him. One hand gently stroking up and down his spine, the other curled protectively around his waist. The others lingered nearby, Felix close enough that their knees touched, Chan still crouched with a hand resting lightly on Seungmin’s shoulder. No one rushed him. No one asked for anything. They just stayed, and for once, Seungmin allowed it.

Eventually, the moment softened. Not ended, just shifted. The weight didn’t vanish, but it lifted enough for breath to come easier. And it was Felix who spoke first, voice gentle, like the house itself had handed him the words.

“I think we need some fresh air.”

—

They didn’t go far. The house led them with quiet intention, guiding their feet down the corridor, through the back doors, and out into a sun-drenched patch of garden Seungmin had only glimpsed before through misted windows. It was more meadow than yard, wild grasses swaying in a breeze just strong enough to feel intentional, soft clusters of flowers blooming in corners like secrets that had been waiting to be found.

Blankets were laid out in a circle on the grass. The food seemed to arrive all at once, baskets of fruit and pastries, jars of lemonade that caught the sunlight like glass lanterns, small wrapped parcels of something warm and savoury that smelled like rosemary and comfort. Felix beamed when Seungmin looked at him.

“The house provides,” he said with a wink.

Jeongin helped him sit. He didn’t need the help, not really, but it felt good to be cared for in a way that asked for nothing in return. The others settled in naturally around him, some lounging, some cross-legged, Minho somehow managing to recline like royalty on a roll of blanket that hadn’t been there a second ago. And then Hyunjin appeared.

He stepped into the light as if it parted for him. Loose cream fabric clung delicately to his frame, the afternoon breeze playing through the strands of his long, soft hair. His eyes caught the light and held it. His presence wasn’t loud, but it rippled through the group like a held breath. Even the grass seemed to sway toward him.

Seungmin stared. Hyunjin met his gaze with a slow, knowing smile. No words were exchanged, but something passed between them, quiet and charged. Hyunjin didn’t sit right away. He walked the perimeter of the blankets with slow grace, accepting soft greetings, trading subtle smiles. When he finally folded himself onto the grass, he did so beside Seungmin, leaving only enough space between them for one unspoken breath. Seungmin didn’t know if the heat rising in his chest was the sun or something else entirely.

The picnic bloomed. Laughter came in small bursts, Jisung balancing grapes on his nose, Changbin threatening to body slam a bee that flew too close to the lemonade. Minho gave long-suffering sighs at all of it, while still carefully refolding a napkin that had blown out of place. Chan quietly topped off everyone’s cups like he’d been born to serve and lead in equal measure. Jeongin, soft and steady, stayed close, handing Seungmin a slice of fresh melon with fingers that lingered just a second too long.

And Seungmin… just watched. Listened. Breathed. It was strange to feel full without eating much. Strange to feel wanted without performing. He caught himself smiling once, and then again. When Felix leaned over and tucked a flower behind his ear, smelling like sugar and citrus, he didn’t even flinch. He was warm. He was safe.

Seungmin glanced down at his hands, fingers idly folding a corner of the blanket. Then he lifted his gaze slowly, tracing it around the circle of faces around him. They all looked back, some curious, some fond, some already knowing what he was about to say. He swallowed.

“I…” He paused, breath hitching. “I want to make sure I know who you all are. Not just what I’ve read. What you’ve shown me.”

The hush deepened. Not awkward. Not afraid. Just waiting. Seungmin’s fingers curled lightly into the fabric beneath him as he turned first toward Felix, whose fingers were sticky with honey and who had, at some point, woven a daisy chain into Jeongin’s hair.

“You’re Gluttony, right?”

Felix looked up. For a moment, there was a pause, like he hadn’t expected to be addressed directly. Then he beamed, and it was the kind of smile that made you forget to worry.

“Took you long enough,” he said with a wink, nudging a strawberry slice toward Seungmin’s plate. “But yeah. That’s me.”

It wasn’t embarrassment. It wasn’t pride. Just ease. Like the name didn’t define him, but belonged to him anyway. Seungmin turned next to Jisung, who was half-curled beneath a blanket, chewing lazily on a piece of toast and looking like he’d nap between every breath if no one stopped him.

“Sloth?”

Jisung stretched dramatically, arms overhead, toes pointed, a little groan like he was trying to become one with the grass.

“Sounds about right,” he said, sleepy and soft. Then, with a grin, “Welcome to the chillest club in the house.”

Next was Minho. He was the only one who didn’t break eye contact. The sunlight caught in his lashes. His posture was easy, but his gaze was sharp, like he wanted to see what Seungmin would say before he gave anything away.

“Pride,” Seungmin murmured. Minho inclined his head slightly, not a nod, not quite a bow. His lips twitched, amused but not unkind.

“Finally some proper recognition,” he said. But his voice was quiet. There was no sting in it. Just a warmth that didn’t reach his mouth, but did reach his eyes.

Chan was next, cross-legged and fiddling with the edge of a linen napkin. His brows rose as Seungmin looked at him.

“You’re Greed, aren’t you?”

There was no judgment in the question, only quiet certainty. Chan let out a soft exhale, something unguarded moving through his face.

“Depends on what you think I’m greedy for,” he said. Not challenging. Just honest. Seungmin didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. Just offered a small smile.  He turned to Changbin, whose arms were crossed and who had been dramatically refusing to eat the last scone as a protest against its being “too cute.”

“Wrath.” Changbin looked delighted.

“Damn right,” he said. Then leaned in slightly, one brow raised. “You scared?”

Seungmin shook his head, a small smile forming despite himself.

“Not even a little.” The grin Changbin gave him then was wild and soft at the same time. And then Seungmin’s eyes drifted to Jeongin.

Jeongin, who had stayed close all afternoon, who had held his hand when it trembled and never once pulled away. His expression was unreadable, but his hand, still resting on the blanket beside Seungmin’s, was open. Seungmin looked down at it. Then back up.

“Envy.”

Jeongin didn’t speak. He didn’t nod. He simply reached forward and linked their pinkies. The touch was barely there. But it was everything. And finally, Seungmin turned to the one he hadn’t dared name until now.

Hyunjin. 

He sat just slightly apart, legs folded beneath him, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His hair shimmered like something enchanted, the wind catching it like a secret. His face was calm, but there was something in his eyes that burned softly, like a candle you never wanted to blow out.

“And you…” Seungmin breathed.

Hyunjin looked at him like he was waiting.

“Lust.”

The air shifted. Not dramatically. Not with a jolt. Just enough to draw the breath from Seungmin’s lungs. Hyunjin’s lips parted into the faintest smile, slow and aching and beautiful.

“Say it again, darling.”

Seungmin’s breath caught in his throat. He didn’t say it again, but the words lingered between them like incense, sweet and warm and far too intimate to burn away quickly. A gentle breeze came past, carrying a feeling of certainty, or acceptance. Seungmin glanced to the house. The house seemed to exhale with him. 

Silence stretched for a moment, and then it was Chan who broke it, voice soft but steady.

“You’re not scared?”

Seungmin looked at him, startled by the question. “Of you?”

Chan nodded. So did Minho. Even Felix’s fingers fidgeted slightly on the blanket. Jisung’s lashes lowered. Jeongin didn’t blink. And Hyunjin, for once, looked away.

“You found out what we are,” Minho said, carefully neutral, like he was trying not to sway the answer. “That kind of truth tends to break things. Or push people away.”

Felix leaned in, offering the smallest smile, eyes too bright.

“Most don’t handle it this well. Most don’t… stay.”

“Or they do,” Changbin muttered, arms crossing again, “but they stop looking at us the same way.”

Seungmin sat up a little straighter, heart hammering quietly in his ribs. He looked around at them, all of them, and let the moment settle on his shoulders like a second skin.

“I won’t lie,” he said, voice barely above the rustling breeze. “Reading that book… it shook something in me.”

A few of them flinched, just slightly.

“But not because I was afraid of you,” he continued. “Because for the first time, I saw you clearly.” The words seemed to echo, deeper than they should have. “You’ve all given me pieces of yourselves before I even understood what you were.”

He turned to Felix. “The way you fed me when I didn’t know how to feed myself.”

To Jisung. “How you let me rest without guilt.”

Minho. “How you showed me what it meant to be seen as more than what I survived.”

Chan. “How you made me feel safe.”

Changbin. “How you made me feel strong.”

Jeongin. “How you stayed. Always.”

And Hyunjin… he paused. Then offered a breath. “How you make desire feel safer.” His voice cracked a little on the last word. “After everything I read, everything I know now, it didn’t make me want to run.” He swallowed hard, eyes shining. “It made me want to stay more than ever.”

No one moved at first. And then Jisung sniffled. “That’s not fair,” he whispered. “You can’t just say stuff like that and expect us to be normal about it.”

Felix’s hand reached for Seungmin’s without hesitation, gripping tight. Minho looked away and blinked once, long and hard. Changbin rubbed at his eye like something had flown into it. And Chan exhaled, slow and stunned, like Seungmin had said something he’d waited decades to hear.

“You’re the first,” he said, almost to himself. “In all my time here. We’ve had tethers. But none like this.”

Jeongin nodded, eyes fixed on Seungmin like he might disappear if he blinked.

“You see us,” he said. “Really see us. We’re not just roles to you.”

Hyunjin hadn’t spoken yet. He was still watching Seungmin with that unreadable gaze, lashes low, fingers curled lightly in the grass beside him. When he did speak, his voice was thoughtful, but quiet.

“Most people flinch,” he said softly. “At me. At what I am.” His eyes lifted, meeting Seungmin’s fully for the first time since the words had left his lips. “You didn’t.” 

—

The moment settled again, like sunlight after rain. The kind of quiet that doesn’t demand silence but invites it. Around Seungmin, the boys had softened in their own ways—Felix leaning closer, Jisung practically curled into a blanket burrito, Minho silently tearing pieces from a croissant he hadn’t touched until now. Even Changbin had gone still, fingers plucking gently at a blade of grass. It was Chan who broke the hush this time, rising to stretch his arms overhead with a long groan and a dramatic pop of his spine. “Okay,” he said, exhaling. “That was a lot of feelings for one picnic.”

Felix snorted. “You started it.”

“Don’t act like you weren’t all sniffling with me.”

“Lies.” Changbin said through a suspiciously clogged nose. “I’m perfectly composed.”

“You’re snotty.”

“I’m wrathful.”

Jisung, giggling softly into his sleeve, suddenly gasped and sat up. “Oh! Wait, hang on.” He scrambled for the nearest picnic basket and dug beneath some napkins and a bundled up tea towel. “YES! I knew I saw them.”

He emerged triumphant, clutching a compact wooden box smudged with faded colour.

“Paint?” Seungmin blinked.

“A full set.” Jisung opened the lid with a flourish, revealing a rainbow of little circular trays, half-used and glimmering. “The house knew. Art therapy time, babes.”

“Not it,” Minho said immediately, lying back in the grass and throwing his arm over his eyes.

“Yes it is,” Chan said, grabbing his foot and shaking it gently. “You’re the prettiest one here. You better paint like it.” Minho kicked him. Lovingly.

Felix began unrolling a stack of sketchbooks that had appeared, as they often did, without anyone having to fetch them. There were brushes, too, some fat and clumsy, others so thin they looked like they belonged in fairy tales. Water jars, little rags, the soft scent of dried pigment blooming around them like memory. Seungmin blinked, overwhelmed for a moment by the gentleness of it all.

“What should we paint?”

“Whatever you feel,” Jisung said, already dipping a brush into yellow and dabbing at the paper like it owed him money. “That’s the only rule.”

And so they painted. The sun warmed their backs. The breeze tugged softly at corners of pages and stray strands of hair. Felix hummed something under his breath, something sweet and slow and full of honey.

Jisung painted a smiling worm with sparkly eyes and declared it his “rebirth arc.”
Felix painted a tiny sun inside a teacup. Changbin painted a volcano exploding into fists and thunderclouds. Minho, true to his aura, painted something dark and symmetrical and painfully beautiful, Seungmin didn’t ask what it meant, and Minho didn’t offer. Chan’s was deceptively simple, a flower with too many petals and a hand reaching out to hold its stem. Seungmin stared at it longer than he meant to.

Jeongin painted a window, arched and ornate, with shelves in the background and a tiny figure standing in shadow, gazing out. He didn’t look at Seungmin once while working on it, but the second he set the brush down, their eyes met. Hyunjin didn’t paint right away. He held his brush like it was something he hadn’t touched in years, fingers curled delicately, lips pressed into a line. He glanced up at Seungmin once, and then turned his paper away.

Seungmin, after a long pause, finally pressed his own brush to the page. He didn’t know what he was painting. He didn’t try to plan it. Just let the colours take him, one stroke at a time. Blues. Golds. Pinks like Jisung’s laughter. Deep reds like Changbin’s voice. Soft white flecks like Jeongin’s fingertips against his skin. It wasn’t a picture, exactly. It wasn’t a scene. It was a feeling. A memory. A moment trying to speak without words. When he looked down at the finished page, he had no idea what it meant. But he loved it anyway.

The sun had tilted further by the time the painting stopped. No one said they were finished, exactly. They just slowed. Brushes dipped with less urgency, shoulders softened, laughter drifting into quieter, sleepier shapes. The warmth of the day had sunk into their skin, and even the house seemed to lean back with a satisfied sigh.

Paintings lay scattered like dreams across the grass, pages fluttering in the breeze, catching the golden light. Felix was gently washing out brushes in a wide bowl of water that hadn’t been there earlier. Chan was stretched out in the grass, one arm behind his head, eyes closed. Jisung had curled up beside him and was doodling a moustache on his own worm drawing with a sparkly pen.

Seungmin sat with his knees pulled up to his chest, hands clasped loosely around them, gaze drifting from face to face. He felt full. Not of food. Not even just of emotion.

Full of something else.

Belonging.

It wrapped around him like a blanket, one he hadn’t known he was cold without. A soft shuffle to his right made him glance up. Hyunjin was standing again, eyes half-lidded, paint still drying on the tips of his fingers. He held something in his hands, a single sheet, folded gently, paint hidden on the inside. His gaze slid toward Seungmin but didn’t meet his eyes.

“You can look later,” he said, voice smooth but a little breathless.

Seungmin blinked. “Why not now?”

Hyunjin’s lips curved at the edges, a faint echo of his usual self, but softer.

“Because I don’t think you’re ready to know how I see you.”

He placed the folded paper beside Seungmin, then turned to walk back toward the house without another word. Seungmin stared after him, heart doing something strange and fluttery in his chest.

Beside him, Jeongin appeared with a little hum and dropped onto the grass with a plop, placing his head in Seungmin’s lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. He didn’t speak, just closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Seungmin threaded his fingers gently through Jeongin’s hair, gaze softening as he looked down at him. From the other side of the picnic blanket, Changbin groaned and rolled onto his stomach. “If anyone moves, I’m fighting them. I’m so comfy I might cry.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Jisung said, tossing a napkin at him. Minho let out a dramatic sigh, but made no attempt to move either. And so they stayed. The light dipped lower, wrapping them in amber. Birds sang soft evening songs somewhere in the trees. The scent of paint, fruit, and sun-warmed pages lingered in the air.

Seungmin didn’t speak. He just let himself be, cradled in laughter and colour and presence. And for the first time in a very long time, the ache in his chest didn’t feel like it was trying to hollow him out. It felt like it was making space for something beautiful.

Chapter Text

The house had gone still, in the way an old friend goes quiet, waiting to be needed. The lights had dimmed on their own, as if the air knew the hour. Somewhere deep in the kitchen, plates sat rinsed and stacked, the warmth of dinner long since faded into memory.

Seungmin padded barefoot through the upstairs hall, still warm from his shower, wearing soft flannel sleep pants and a pale long-sleeved top he’d found tucked at the back of a drawer. His hair was damp, curling faintly at the ends, and the house seemed to hush as he moved through it, like it didn’t want to interrupt his thoughts. He hadn’t meant to wander. But he wasn’t ready to sleep. Not yet.

That’s when he noticed the glow down the hallway, Hyunjin’s door cracked just slightly, golden light curling from within like smoke. Then came the voice, low and melodic. “Can’t sleep?”

Hyunjin stood leaned against the doorway, a mug in hand and a sleepy elegance to the way his robe hung from one shoulder. His hair was loose tonight, falling soft against his collarbones. Even in candlelight, he looked more like something conjured than someone real.

Seungmin hesitated, then shook his head. “No. Just… walking.”

There was no judgment in Hyunjin’s face. Just a gentle tilt of his head. “Come in. I just brewed some tea.”

Seungmin gave a small nod, stepping past him and into the soft hush of the room. It glowed like a dream remembered, and smelled like bergamot and something floral, light and lingering. The bed was low and sprawling, dressed in layered silks and velvet, with pillows in soft, earthy shades scattered like leaves in early autumn. Candles flickered on the windowsill and along the desk. A small record player murmured something classical and slow, barely louder than breath.

Hyunjin’s presence didn’t crowd the space. He was graceful even in stillness, his body folded lightly on the bed as Seungmin joined him, backs against the carved headboard, mugs warm between their hands. They didn’t speak at first, and the silence felt intentional, not heavy. Just shared.

Seungmin sipped his tea. “This room feels like it shouldn’t belong in this century.”

Hyunjin smiled, soft and sleepy. “That’s the idea.”

“Do you… decorate it yourself?”

“Mm. I guided it.” His voice dropped to something close to reverent. “The house does most of the work. It wants each of us to be comfortable. So it listens.”

Seungmin looked around, watching the way the light played off the silk. “Feels like it’s always listening.”

Hyunjin tilted his head. “Not in a bad way?”

“No. In a safe way.” Seungmin paused. “It’s strange. I’ve never really had a place that felt like that before.”

Something in Hyunjin’s gaze flickered, but he didn’t press. Instead, he said, “The picnic today, you seemed more at ease. Even with all of us around you.”

Seungmin nodded slowly. “I think I was.”

“You smiled a few times.”

“I’m trying to get better at that.”

Hyunjin let out a soft breath of laughter. “It suits you.” Seungmin flushed faintly, but didn’t look away. They sat like that for a few more moments. Quiet. Letting the warmth of the tea settle into their hands, letting the hush stretch long enough that it didn’t feel like it needed to be broken.

Then, gently, Hyunjin asked, “Can I ask you something?”

Seungmin glanced sideways, not startled, just wary. “…Yeah.”

“I know you’ve let some of us close. But with me… it’s different. You hesitate.”

Seungmin looked down at his cup. “You’re Lust.” The words weren’t cruel. Just quiet. Factual.

Hyunjin didn’t move. “And that frightens you.”

“Not you,” Seungmin murmured. “Just… what your name reminds me of.” He turned the cup slowly in his hands, watching the candlelight catch in the swirl of steam.

“I know it’s not your fault,” he said. “But you’re the one I’ve tried the hardest not to think about. Because I already think about you. Even when I don’t want to.”

Hyunjin didn’t respond right away. He didn’t lean closer. Didn’t reach out. But his voice was careful. Measured. “…I’d like to understand,” he said. “Not for my sake. For yours.”

Seungmin didn’t answer right away. The room held him in its softness. Candlelight flickering low, the record humming softly beneath the weight of their silence. He could feel the question pressing, not from Hyunjin, but from inside himself, like a bruise aching beneath still skin.

“I’ve never talked about it out loud,” he said eventually. Hyunjin didn’t rush him. Just watched him, gently open, waiting.

Seungmin traced the rim of his cup with a fingertip. “It wasn’t always violent. I think that’s what made it worse. He was charming. Knew how to make it feel like a gift. Like attention was something I had to earn.” He took a breath, but it shook on the way in.

“I was nineteen. Moved in with him because he said I needed to get away from my aunt. Said he’d take care of me.”

He exhaled. “It started with rules. What I could wear. Who I could talk to. Then it turned into bargains. He’d say things like, ‘If you really cared, you’d show me.’ And I… I didn’t know how to say no.”

Hyunjin’s hand tightened around his own cup, but he stayed quiet. Seungmin’s voice dropped, barely above a whisper. “Saying no wasn’t really an option anyway. Not after a while.”

He flinched slightly, enough to feel it all over again. Hyunjin’s breath caught. Seungmin’s gaze remained fixed on the candle at the far side of the room. “He’d get this look in his eye when I hesitated. Not angry. Just… cold. Like I was wasting his time. Like I was the reason everything in his life felt hard.” The silence thickened. The air felt warmer.

“I stopped resisting. I stopped asking for anything. I just… let it happen. Kept thinking, maybe if I was good enough, he’d start loving me properly.”

Hyunjin didn’t speak. But the sound of him setting his mug down, too soft, too careful, carried more weight than any words.

“I didn’t cry,” Seungmin murmured. “Not once. I thought that was a kind of strength.”

His fingers clenched around the fabric of his sleep pants. “But it wasn’t strength. It was silence. And it kept me there.”

He didn’t realise he was shaking until Hyunjin moved. Very gently, Hyunjin set his hand atop Seungmin’s, not gripping, not urging, just offering. And when Seungmin turned to look at him, he saw tears already on Hyunjin’s cheeks.

“You’re crying?” he asked, too surprised to hide the softness in his voice.

Hyunjin swallowed hard. His voice came out rough and broken. “You shouldn’t have had to survive that.”

“I’m okay now,” Seungmin whispered. But his voice cracked in the middle, thin and worn.

Hyunjin shook his head, barely holding himself together. “I’m supposed to comfort you. Not fall apart like this.”

Seungmin didn’t speak. He just moved, quiet and deliberate, shifting his cup aside and turning to face him fully. Then, gently, he reached out. His arms circled Hyunjin’s waist and pulled him close, letting their knees brush, their foreheads nearly touching. He guided him into the embrace with the kind of care he’d never been given, like this was a language they were only now remembering how to speak.

“You are,” Seungmin whispered. “Believe me… you are.” Hyunjin folded into him like sunlight sinking into clouds. They stayed like that for a long time, no words, no need for them. Hyunjin’s hands curled around Seungmin’s back, and Seungmin let himself breathe into the softness of Hyunjin’s hair, both of them anchored in something that felt like safety for the first time in years.

Eventually, without meaning to, their bodies sagged into the mattress. Seungmin lay down first, tugging Hyunjin with him gently, and Hyunjin came without resistance. They curled toward each other beneath the heavy blanket, and somewhere between the breath and the stillness, Seungmin let his eyes fall closed.

The last thing he felt was the slow, even rise and fall of Hyunjin’s chest against his own. The room didn’t feel like a place anymore.

It felt like home.

—

The light was different in Hyunjin’s room come morning. It filtered in slow, softened by gauzy curtains and the faint golden hue of candle stubs still flickering from the night before. It felt like the room was caught between breath and dream, half-asleep, half-awake, waiting for its heartbeat to catch up.

Seungmin stirred first. He blinked into the quiet, heavy warmth of the velvet covers draped over his side, and took in the weight curled against him. Hyunjin lay tucked close, one arm bent beneath the pillow, his dark hair spilled like silk across the mattress. In sleep, his features had lost none of their ethereal grace, but softened somehow, lips parted slightly, lashes fanned out like ink strokes across porcelain skin.

Seungmin didn’t move. Just… looked. 

He took in the hollow of Hyunjin’s throat, the way his breath rose and fell evenly, the delicate point of one collarbone peeking from where his robe had shifted. He was so beautiful it hurt. Not in a loud, demanding way, but the kind of beauty you noticed slowly, all at once, like falling into warm water. His chest ached. That soft, awful ache that said I’m not used to being this close to something I want to keep.

“Were you staring at me while I slept?” Hyunjin murmured, voice still thick with sleep, lips curved into a knowing smile. Seungmin flushed, warmth blooming up his neck.

“I—” He faltered, then let the honesty spill. “How could I not… when you’re so beautiful?”

Hyunjin’s lashes fluttered. His smile deepened, not teasing, not smug. Just tender. He rolled slowly to face Seungmin, their knees brushing beneath the blankets. His eyes were sleepy but clear, soft in the way only someone completely comfortable in your presence could be.

“You’re beautiful too,” he whispered. “And anyone allowed to love you in the way you deserve would be the luckiest person in the universe.” Seungmin’s breath caught. 

They lay there for a moment, suspended in the quiet weight of that truth. Seungmin searched his face, looking for the lie, the pity, the softness that might have been meant for someone else, but there was nothing. Only sincerity. Only him.

Seungmin reached up with a hand that didn’t quite feel like it belonged to him. His fingers brushed a loose strand of Hyunjin’s hair away from his face, tucking it carefully behind his ear. His knuckles lingered there, soft against skin, and Hyunjin tilted into the touch with his eyes fluttering closed. When Seungmin pulled his hand away, Hyunjin caught it in his own.

He didn’t say anything. Just curled their fingers together gently, thumb brushing across Seungmin’s knuckles like a promise that didn’t need to be spoken. Seungmin leaned in and, with a breathless sort of reverence, pressed the gentlest kiss to Hyunjin’s hand.

Hyunjin’s lips parted, just a little, as if the gesture had knocked the wind from him. But he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He only smiled, soft and small, and whispered, “Thank you.”

They stayed like that, still entangled, eyes open for a moment longer. Then Hyunjin exhaled a quiet, content sigh, and slowly closed his eyes again, their joined hands resting between them like the safest place in the world. Seungmin let the morning light hold him without fear.

—

The golden light of morning stretched long across the floorboards, but something in the air had shifted. Warmth, rich and familiar, was sneaking in through the slightly open door. 

The scent of bacon.

It hit Seungmin slow at first, but then his stomach made the most unholy gurgle against the hush, betraying him instantly. Hyunjin, eyes still closed, burst into a fit of laughter. Not loud. Not mocking. Just pure delight. Like someone had told him a secret he couldn’t keep.

Seungmin groaned softly and buried his face in the pillow. “Nooo. Not in front of the angel lighting.”

“You’re too cute,” Hyunjin snorted, stretching long beside him. “Come on. We’ll go feed you before your stomach starts reciting poetry.”

Seungmin huffed but rolled out of bed with him, cheeks pink and warm. They moved slowly, reluctant to leave the safety of blankets and golden candlelight, but also drawn by the unmistakable promise of breakfast. As they reached the stairs, Hyunjin shot him a side glance, mischief curling at the corner of his mouth.

“I bet Changbin’s going to be so jealous we spent the night together.”

Seungmin blinked. Then grinned, slow and devilish. “Wanna mess with him?”

“Oh,” Hyunjin said, eyes gleaming, “absolutely.”

—

The kitchen was alive in that sacred morning way, sunlight pooling on the floor, a record humming low from the sitting room, and Felix moving between stove and bench like a magician with jam. The others were gathered at the table, voices soft, laughter easy. It was peaceful. Until Seungmin and Hyunjin entered.

Changbin looked up from his bowl of cereal and instantly narrowed his eyes. “You,” he pointed at Seungmin, “better have a damn good reason for going missing all night.”

Seungmin blinked innocently. “I was with Hyunjin.”

The room paused. Changbin’s spoon clattered against the table. “You were what now—”

“You heard him,” Hyunjin said, smug and graceful as he floated past, grabbing a cup of tea.

“You little—” Changbin gestured wildly, nearly slapping his cereal bowl. “You had a sleepover with Lust and I got what? An empty couch?!”

Seungmin didn’t answer. He just padded over quietly, collected a plate from Felix, and without breaking eye contact, sat himself directly in Changbin’s lap.

The room exploded.

Jisung let out an actual gasp, Felix choked on his tea, Minho full-body leaned back in his chair like he’d just been slapped by the drama gods.

“EXCUSE ME?!” Changbin screeched, going rigid like someone had poured ice water down his spine. “What the—what are you—this is—there are chairs, Seungmin!”

“I like this one,” Seungmin said sweetly, nibbling at his toast.

“He likes this one,” Minho echoed flatly. “Congratulations, Binnie. You’re furniture now.” Changbin made a strangled noise. His arms were stuck at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“Relax,” Seungmin murmured, glancing up at him with a small smile. “Here.”

He gently took Changbin’s hands and guided them around his waist, setting them in place like puzzle pieces that had always belonged there. Changbin flushed violently. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

“Y—you can’t just—” he stammered. “I mean, I’m Wrath, not a goddamn beanbag!”

“You’re very comfortable,” Seungmin said without missing a bite of his breakfast.

“HE THINKS I’M COMFORTABLE—”

“You are comfortable,” Hyunjin sang as he floated past, sipping tea like he’d orchestrated the entire thing. Chan just leaned on the counter, smirking behind his coffee. “He’s got you wrapped around his little waist, huh.”

Felix walked by and patted Changbin’s head. “You look good like that. Very nurturing.”

Changbin opened his mouth again, but paused when Seungmin leaned back slightly against his chest and gave a soft, content sigh. And just like that, he was quiet. Still red. Still malfunctioning. But quiet. His arms stayed where Seungmin had left them. Maybe even tightened just a little. No one said anything after that. They just let the moment settle, silly, warm, a little absurd, but perfectly theirs.

And Seungmin? He just smiled down at his plate and took another bite of toast.

—

The kitchen had settled into that quiet fullness only a good meal could bring. The laughter had softened to chuckles, the chaos of earlier melting into gentle conversation and clinking forks. Steam curled from mugs. Toast crumbs dotted the table. Seungmin remained perched on Changbin’s lap, leaned back just enough to feel anchored but still able to reach his plate. Binnie had stopped protesting at some point. His arms stayed loosely around Seungmin’s waist, and every now and then he’d mumble something like eat more, you’re still too small, or that bite was pathetic, do better. Seungmin had stopped arguing too.

He took a sip of tea, let the silence linger a moment, then asked softly, “How long have you all lived here?”

The room didn’t freeze, just paused long enough for his question to land, to ripple through the warmth like a skipped stone. Chan set his mug down gently. “A long time.”

“How long is long?”

Felix grinned. “Longer than you’ve been alive, petal.”

Jisung leaned forward. “I don’t even remember not being here.”

Minho, from where he lounged against the counter, arched a brow. “A little rude to ask someone’s age first thing in the morning, don’t you think?”

Seungmin smirked. “So you’re the oldest.”  Minho clicked his tongue, but didn’t deny it.

“I’m just curious,” Seungmin said, quieter now. “You’re… important. It’s not just the house. It’s you.”

That silenced whatever joke was loading on Jisung’s tongue. Hyunjin glanced up from his tea, expression soft. Felix gave a little smile, folding his arms on the table. Even Minho’s gaze warmed. Changbin didn’t say anything. He just pressed his palm firmer against Seungmin’s side, grounding.

“I guess,” Seungmin continued, “I just want to understand who you are. Where you came from. What you’ve seen.”

“We’ve seen a lot,” Chan said. “Tethers come and go. The house only calls us when it needs to.”

Felix tilted his head. “Your aunt was the last one.”

Seungmin blinked. “When was she here last?”

The mood shifted again, gentle, but heavier now. Jisung set down his spoon. “It was a while ago.”

“She came less and less,” Hyunjin murmured. “When it was quiet for too long, we felt the connection weaken until eventually it was gone.”

Seungmin’s chest tightened. “Did you… did you love her?”

Chan nodded. “We cared for her. She was kind. She gave us purpose.”

“But it’s different with you,” Felix added, voice low.

“It’s so different,” Jisung said, looking at him like he still couldn’t believe Seungmin was real.

Hyunjin reached across the table, brushing his fingertips against Seungmin’s wrist. “She tethered us. But you… bonded with us. That doesn’t always happen.”

Minho’s voice was quieter now, but certain. “It’s never been like this before.”

Changbin’s arms shifted again, pulling Seungmin in that little bit tighter, like the conversation had reminded him how much he hated letting go. Seungmin stared at the table for a moment, then let out a soft breath. “I think I’m finally becoming who I was supposed to be.”

Felix smiled, eyes glassy. “Then it’s working.”

Seungmin reached up and gently covered Changbin’s hand with his own, lacing their fingers together. The house exhaled around them. Not a noise. Not a movement. Just that same feeling, of walls listening, of something ancient and kind watching over them, sharing this moment. 

—

Everyone eventually trickled away from the kitchen, though the scent of jam and butter still lingered in the air like a warm hug. Felix and Jisung had wandered off in search of something sweet, Chan had retreated to his study with a new book under one arm, and Hyunjin vanished like a poem unfinished.

Seungmin stayed to help tidy. Not because anyone asked him to, but because it felt right, gentle, grounding. He wiped the counter slowly, soaking in the domestic quiet, until only Minho remained nearby, polishing a teacup like it had insulted him personally.

“Hey,” Seungmin said softly, almost shy. Minho looked up, one brow lifting. Seungmin hesitated, thumb brushing over the cloth in his hands. “Would you… like to explore the garden with me?”

The teacup stilled. Minho didn’t react right away, not outwardly. But something flickered behind his eyes. Surprise, maybe. Or maybe something more private.

“…Sure,” he said after a beat, like it was no big deal. “Why not.”

But Seungmin caught the tiniest flush on his cheeks as he set the cup down. And something in Seungmin’s chest fluttered. They stepped out into the garden a few minutes later, shoes crunching lightly on the pebble path. Morning had melted into early afternoon, sun warm but filtered through a gentle veil of cloud. The air smelled like damp earth and fresh growth. Vines trailed lazily along the brick walls, and scattered petals dotted the grass where the wind had been too greedy to leave blossoms alone. Minho walked with his hands in his pockets, half a step ahead but always glancing back to make sure Seungmin was still close. Seungmin took his time, trailing fingers along the leaves, brushing soft rosemary with his fingertips just to inhale its scent.

“You like it out here,” Minho said eventually, not a question.

Seungmin nodded. “It’s quiet. Feels like I can hear myself think.”

“Dangerous,” Minho said with a teasing glance.

Seungmin smiled. “Not always.”

They paused at a low patch of wildflowers, pinks and purples swaying lazily. A bee buzzed nearby, too drowsy to sting. Seungmin crouched to admire a bloom, then looked up. “Would you maybe want to take me shopping sometime?”

Minho blinked. “Shopping?”

“For clothes. You mentioned it a while ago.” He stood, brushing off his hands. “And I think I’d like to feel more like myself again. You’re good at that, right? Helping people see themselves better?”

Minho blinked again. Then cleared his throat. “I—yeah. Yeah, I’m excellent at that.”

Seungmin tilted his head. “Are you flustered?”

“No.”

“You so are.”

“I am graciously accepting your request as your personal style consultant,” Minho declared, but his ears were pink.

Seungmin giggled. “Thank you.”

They continued on until the path opened into a wide clearing at the back of the garden. A single massive tree stood in its centre, branches spread like arms outstretched, canopy thick and dappled with light. Beneath it lay a faded quilt, a book someone had forgotten, and the remnants of a past picnic, grape stems, crumbs, the memory of laughter.

Seungmin sat first, tugging off his shoes and tucking his legs beneath him. Minho followed more carefully, settling beside him with a soft exhale. It was quiet for a moment. Birds called in the distance. The wind tugged at their sleeves. Then, softly, Seungmin reached out. He found Minho’s hand resting beside him and laced their fingers slowly, almost uncertainly, like he expected to be pulled back. Minho didn’t flinch. He turned his hand slightly, letting their palms align, and gave a gentle squeeze.

“You’re learning to like this,” he murmured, not teasing.

Seungmin looked down. “What?”

“Touch. Being held. Reaching first.” Minho glanced sideways. “You didn’t use to. You used to brace like it would hurt.”

Seungmin swallowed.

“And now?” Minho’s voice was quieter. “Now you’re asking for what you need.”

“I’m trying,” Seungmin whispered. Minho’s thumb brushed once along the back of his hand.

“You’re doing more than trying.”

The breeze shifted. Not cold. Just enough to ruffle the grass and lift the edge of the blanket beneath them. Seungmin watched a petal drift past, its edges curled and golden, and he wondered, absurdly, if the house had sent it. A little sign. A little yes, you’re doing well. 

He glanced at Minho beside him. The boy who always looked a little like something painted, something poised. Chin tilted, gaze faraway, posture perfect without trying. He wore pride like a second skin. Like a truth he didn’t need permission to carry.

“What does it mean to you?” Seungmin asked suddenly.

Minho turned to him. “What?”

“Pride. What does it mean to you?”

Minho blinked. Not in confusion. More like surprise that someone wanted to ask. He looked away, up into the branches above them. Light danced across his features, catching on his lashes, his cheekbones.

“It means holding your head high even when the world wants you to bow,” he said slowly. “It means knowing your worth before anyone else names it.” 

He paused. “And it means not being afraid to take up space in the shape of the person you’re becoming.”

Seungmin was quiet for a moment. “I’ve always felt like I had to earn space. Like I had to be useful to deserve to exist.”

Minho turned to him sharply, brows pulling. “You don’t have to earn the right to be here.”

Seungmin looked down at their joined hands. “I used to think if I looked small enough, stayed quiet enough, didn’t need anything… people would let me stay.”

“That’s not staying,” Minho said. “That’s surviving. There’s a difference.”

They sat with that for a while. Then Minho reached over, lifted Seungmin’s chin with two fingers, not forceful, just enough to make him meet his eyes.

“You deserve to be seen. Fully. Not just when you’re easy to love.”

Seungmin’s eyes shimmered. “Even when I’m messy?”

“Especially when you’re messy.”

A soft laugh broke from Seungmin. Wet. Real. “You’re really good at this.”

“I’m literally the embodiment of self-worth,” Minho deadpanned. “It’s kind of my whole deal.”

Seungmin laughed harder, the sound like cracked sunlight. Minho watched him for a long moment, then looked away again. “When you asked me to walk with you… I didn’t expect that.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not the easiest person to approach. I know that. But you… made it easy.”

Seungmin leaned in a little closer, resting his head on Minho’s shoulder without asking this time.

“You make me want to carry myself like someone who matters,” he whispered.

Minho’s breath hitched slightly. “Then I’m doing my job.”

They sat like that for a long time. Quiet. Connected. No declarations. No fireworks. Just two souls, beneath the oldest tree in the garden, learning how to stand taller together.

—

The sun had dipped just low enough to stretch their shadows long across the grass, painting them in gold and softness. The breeze had warmed slightly, cradling them as if even the air wanted to keep this moment intact. Seungmin shifted a little closer, their hands still laced between them, fingers absently tracing small movements now, no urgency, just comfort. His head tilted back against the bark behind him.

“Okay,” he said suddenly. “What’s your favourite flower?”

Minho blinked. “What?”

“You seem like a garden snob. Tell me your favourite.”

Minho let out a sound that might’ve been a scoff. “I’m not a ‘garden snob.’ I’m cultivated.”

Seungmin grinned. “So…?”

Minho hesitated, eyes narrowed like he was about to commit treason. “…Camellias.”

Seungmin lit up. “That’s so specific.”

“They’re elegant. They survive frost. And they bloom in winter.” He paused. “It’s respectable.”

“You’re such a poet,” Seungmin giggled.

Minho huffed. “Fine. Your turn. Least favourite food.”

Seungmin didn’t hesitate. “Water chestnuts.”

Minho physically recoiled. “They’re texture perfection—”

“They squeak,” Seungmin deadpanned. “Like edible rubber.”

“I’m judging you.”

“You can judge me after you explain why your bathroom has more hair products than a salon.”

Minho narrowed his eyes. “I’ve been alive longer than the invention of mousse. I’ve earned it.”

Seungmin laughed again, freely this time. It sounded like sunlight. Like something that had been locked up finally finding its key.

“Alright,” he said. “Who snores the loudest?”

Minho smirked. “Felix, when he’s on his back.”

“Noooo, not sunshine boy!”

“Jisung talks in his sleep, though.”

“Oh, I know. He confessed to stealing someone’s pastry in a dream the other night.”

They kept going like that, light and effortless. Favourite colours (Minho: obsidian; Seungmin: peach). Best hiding spots in the house. Weirdest house noises they’d both heard. At one point Seungmin reached down to pluck a flower petal and flicked it at Minho’s forehead, earning a dramatic glare and a retaliatory shoulder bump. It was easy. It was natural. It was everything Seungmin hadn’t known he needed.

Eventually, Minho stood, brushing off his pants and offering a hand down. “Come on, before you end up collecting dew like a forgotten doll.”

Seungmin took the hand, warm and sure in his own, and let himself be pulled up. They strolled back toward the house slowly, hands still loosely linked. The windows glowed with soft light, the house humming gently with that ever-present warmth, like it was smiling. The moment they stepped into the hallway—

“Well look who’s back from their private garden getaway,” Jisung called from the stairs, lounging like a little goblin of chaos. “You two smell like trust and unresolved yearning.”

Minho’s nose scrunched. “We were talking.”

“Talking,” Jisung echoed, wiggling his brows. “Is that what they’re calling it now?”

Seungmin, cheeks pink, tried to stifle his grin. Minho, in his infinite composure, said, “Not everyone needs to make out in storage closets to form bonds.”

“Oh, is that a dig at Lust?”

“Indirect praise, actually. Hyunjin has taste.”

Jisung let out a delighted wheeze. “Oh my god, Pride has a favourite now.”

“I do not have a favourite.”

“You’re still holding his hand.” 

Minho looked down. Seungmin looked down. Their hands were still twined.

“…It’s for balance,” Minho muttered.

“Uh-huh.”

“Shut up.”

But when Seungmin gently squeezed his fingers, Minho didn’t pull away.

Chapter Text

The basement was warm. Not stifling, not damp. Just held. The way old rooms get when they’ve been filled with too many memories and not enough people to hear them all. The light overhead buzzed faintly, filtered through old glass and the ever-present hum of the house’s pulse. It felt lived-in. Safe. Oddly soft.

Which was not what Seungmin had expected of Changbin’s gym. The space was functional, sure—rack of weights, padded flooring, resistance bands hanging neatly like they’d never been yanked in anger. But tucked among the controlled chaos were little islands of unexpected tenderness. A stuffed bear on the bench press. A squishy plush puppy near the stretching mat. A faded yellow duck perched on the windowsill. Seungmin blinked slowly. He would’ve smiled, if the boy at the centre of the room hadn’t already stolen all his breath.

Changbin was mid-set, sweat clinging to the line of his spine like melted moonlight. Tank top discarded somewhere, gym pants slung low on his hips, arms flexing with every exhale like wrath itself had sculpted him out of discipline and fire. His face was flushed, jaw clenched, eyes focused and burning through the air like it had dared to get in his way.

Seungmin forgot how to move. Then the weights clanked into place and Changbin let out a loud, very unnecessary groan of victory.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, wiping his face with a towel. “That last rep was trying to kill me.”

“Well that’s dramatic,” Seungmin said before his brain could stop him. Changbin startled. Looked over. Blinked.

“…What the fuck, why are you in my basement.”

Seungmin raised both hands slowly. “I knocked.”

“I didn’t hear you.”

“You were swearing at your own dumbbell.”

“It was judging me.”

Seungmin bit back a laugh. “Sure it was.”

Changbin tossed the towel across a bench and rolled his neck, eyeing Seungmin with suspicion. “You stalking me now or what?”

“No.” Seungmin shrugged. “Just… wanted to see what you do down here. And maybe say hi.”

Changbin stared. “You picked a weird time.”

“I like weird times.”

Changbin huffed. “Fucking figures.”

He turned, rummaging through a crate of resistance bands. Seungmin stepped further in, fingers brushing a plush cat near the elliptical. He picked it up gently.

“You always keep these here?”

Changbin didn’t look at him. “They help.”

“With working out?”

“No. With not flipping my shit.” A pause. “You got a problem with that?”

Seungmin turned the toy over in his hands. “No. I think it’s sweet.” Changbin made a sound like a dying vacuum cleaner.

“It’s not sweet,” he snapped, finally looking over. “It’s coping. You try being made of rage and not hugging a fucking stuffed animal now and then.”

Seungmin smiled. “I really like that about you.”

“…What?”

“You’re angry. But you still have space for softness.” Changbin looked like he might actually explode. His hands flexed. His ears went red.

“Do you want something or are you just here to fucking psychoanalyse me?”

Seungmin laughed. “Can I work out with you?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you look like a dehydrated forest sprite and I’m not liable if you snap like a twig.”

“I’m stronger than I look.”

“I highly doubt that.”

Seungmin took a step closer. Their eyes met, glare vs grin.

“Let me try.”

Changbin stared. Then rolled his eyes. “Fine. But when you throw out your back trying to lift a bottle of water, I’m not carrying your ass upstairs.”

“You absolutely would.”

“Fuck you.”

“You would.”

Changbin turned away with a muttered string of profanities and something about “needy twinks” that Seungmin pretended not to hear. But when he grabbed a smaller set of dumbbells and adjusted the bench for Seungmin’s height, he did it with a kind of reverence that made Seungmin’s chest ache.

Wrath, it turned out, had a very soft underbelly. And Seungmin was already in too deep. 

—

Seungmin was not built for this. His lungs burned. His arms ached. His pride, ironically, was the only thing keeping him upright. Changbin stood beside him like some furious demigod sculpted by fire and gym playlists, arms crossed, breathing steady. Not a drop of sweat out of place. Not a flicker of exhaustion.

Seungmin wanted to impress him. So when Changbin said to hold on a second and moved to swap weights, Seungmin took the moment to add one more rep. Just one more. He’d show him. He could keep up. His arms trembled. His grip slipped. And the world spun. It happened fast, so fast he didn’t register the sound of the bench shifting under him or the dumbbell tipping too far back. Just a flash of panic, the feeling of air where there should’ve been support, and then—

Thud.

Pain bloomed at the back of his skull as it met the rubber mat with a sickening bounce. He didn’t cry out. Didn’t even groan. He just went very, very still.

“Min?”

A pause.

“Seungmin? Fuck, SEUNGMIN!”

He was vaguely aware of Changbin crashing to the floor beside him, hands frantic and too large, hovering over him like he didn’t know where to touch first.

“Shitfuckshitfuckshit— what the fuck was that? Are you—can you hear me?”

Seungmin blinked up at him, eyes glassy, head pounding. “Ow,” he mumbled.

“No shit,” Changbin snapped, voice cracking. “What the fuck were you doing—I told you to wait! Why the fuck didn’t you wait?!”

“I just…” Seungmin winced. “I was gonna finish one more.”

“ONE MORE?” Changbin half-shouted, full of rage and terror, “You idiot! You stupid, stubborn…” He cut off. Took a breath that rattled in his throat like he’d been holding it since Seungmin fell.

“Okay,” he muttered. “Okay okay okay. Stay still. Don’t fucking move.”

Seungmin didn’t argue. His head throbbed, vision fuzzing at the edges. He felt Changbin’s fingers, gentle now, shaking, press lightly at the back of his skull, checking for blood, for cracks, for the part where Seungmin had apparently decided to break himself.

“Goddamn it,” Changbin whispered, all the fire in him suddenly banked low. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Seungmin said softly.

“Yeah, well, I’ve aged five years and developed a heart murmur.”

Seungmin almost laughed. It came out more like a wheeze.

“Fucking hell,” Changbin muttered again, pulling Seungmin carefully into a sitting position. His hands cradled the sides of Seungmin’s face, thumbs brushing just beneath his ears. “How many fingers?”

Seungmin blinked. “You’re not holding any up.”

“Oh my god, I’m gonna shake you.”

“Please don’t,” Seungmin whispered, leaning into him. “Head hurts.”

“Yeah,” Changbin said, voice low. “No shit, baby.”

They froze. Both of them. The word lingered, barely spoken, accidentally tender.

“…I didn’t mean to say that,” Changbin added quickly.

“You kinda did.”

“Shut up.”

Seungmin smiled. And then winced.

“Fuck,” Changbin hissed again, pulling him forward, wrapping an arm around his back and the other bracing against his head like he could physically shield him from the pain. “We’re going upstairs. Ice pack. Water. Possibly wrapping you in ten layers of bubble wrap.”

“I’m okay.”

“You’re not. You just slammed your head into the floor like it owed you money.”

“I wanted to impress you.”

“Well congratulations,” Changbin growled, voice thick now. “You fucking traumatised me instead.”

They stayed there for a moment, curled together on the gym mat, surrounded by dumbbells and plushies and tension, and care that ran deeper than either of them knew how to say yet. 

—

Changbin all but exploded through the basement door.

“MOVE,” he barked, not caring who heard. “Out of the way, broken baby incoming.”

Seungmin slumped against his chest, arms lazily looped around his neck. His head nestled into the crook of Changbin’s shoulder like he’d done it a hundred times before.

“‘M-not broken,” he slurred, dazed and half-smiling. “Just dramatic.”

“YOU,” Changbin hissed through his teeth, “are one loose step away from getting wrapped in gauze and hidden under a mattress for the rest of time.”

“Can’t fit under the mattress,” Seungmin murmured. “I checked.”

“STOP TALKING.”

Minho appeared, one eyebrow already raised like he’d been summoned by the noise.

“What,” he said flatly, “did you do to him?”

“I didn’t do shit,” Changbin growled, kicking the door open wider with one foot. “Your masochist tether here decided he wanted to play gym rat without a fucking license.”

“I fell,” Seungmin mumbled with a pout, sounding pitiful. 

“I SAW.”

“Oh my god,” Jisung gasped, skidding in from the hallway with wide eyes and a tangle of blankets over one arm. “Is this a sexy head trauma moment?”

“Not unless you want to get fucking tackled,” Changbin barked. Behind him, Felix bolted from the kitchen, hands already full with an ice pack, some painkillers, and a glass of water, pink apron fluttering like a concerned nurse in a baking show.

“What happened?” he demanded. “Is he okay? Is he bleeding?”

“No bleeding,” Seungmin said softly, still curled like a content cat in Changbin’s arms. “Just bruised. And lucky.”

Changbin stopped moving. Looked down. Their eyes met. “Lucky?” he repeated.

Seungmin nodded slowly. “Got carried by the angriest teddy bear in the house.”

“FUCKING—”

“He’s delirious,” Minho said. “Put him down before he confesses he wants to marry you.”

Changbin’s ears went red. Jisung gasped again. “Do you?!”

“I didn’t say no,” Seungmin muttered.

“I’m leaving him outside,” Changbin decided. “I’m putting him in the bin.”

“I am the bin,” Seungmin whispered. Felix burst out laughing.

“Okay, okay, set him down on the couch,” he said gently, already fussing with the cushions. “Seungmin, sweetheart, stay awake for me, alright?”

“I’m awake,” Seungmin sighed. “I’m enjoying this too much to pass out.”

Changbin lowered him slowly, like one wrong move might shatter something. Seungmin groaned as his head touched the pillow, and Changbin immediately crouched beside him again, eyes scanning his face like he’d memorise every expression just to know when something was off. Jeongin appeared in the doorway last, silent and sharp-eyed. His arms were folded, jaw tight, expression unreadable. But when he saw Seungmin blink slowly and smile up at him, his shoulders eased. 

“No one’s allowed to lift anything ever again,” Jeongin muttered.

“You get it,” Changbin grunted.

Seungmin smiled faintly, looking up at the ceiling. “This is nice.”

“You’re injured.”

“I’m being babied. Let me have this.”

“You nearly DIED—”

“Shhh.” Seungmin reached for his hand. “You’re ruining the vibe.”

And just like that, Changbin shut up. Because Seungmin’s fingers were curled around his like it was normal. Like it was natural. Like he wanted him there. Felix tucked a blanket over Seungmin’s legs. Jisung shoved a pillow under his feet. Minho brought over a cup of tea no one asked for and set it down with a huff. And Changbin sat there, still holding Seungmin’s hand like it was the only thing anchoring him to the floor.

“…Fucking idiot,” he muttered, so quiet only Seungmin could hear. But Seungmin just smiled.

“Yours though,” he whispered back. Changbin blushed furiously. 

—

The house had shifted, like a soft exhale of understanding, like it knew Seungmin needed gentleness today. The light through the curtains had dulled to something buttery and warm, like sunshine filtered through a daydream. The couch, usually firm, felt somehow deeper beneath him, like it had softened in sympathy. Or maybe that was just the five blankets someone had tucked around his legs.

“Okay,” Felix whispered as he tiptoed in, carrying a tiny wooden tray with comically oversized focus. “One cup of tea. One peach scone. And—” he leaned in, eyes sparkling, “—one tiny spoon of strawberry jam, just for the drama.”

Seungmin beamed, face still a little pale, but glowingly amused. He held out his hands like a child expecting a crown. “You’re spoiling me.”

“I absolutely am.” Felix knelt beside the couch like a royal attendant. “Because you fell over like a stunned baby deer and gave everyone heart attacks, so now you get pampered within an inch of your life.”

“I like this punishment,” Seungmin said, sitting up slightly with a wince. Felix immediately adjusted the pillows behind him, muttering something about “precious cargo” under his breath.

The tea was perfect, softly sweet, with a hint of vanilla and something calming in the steam. Felix watched him take the first sip like it was a religious experience. When Seungmin hummed, eyes fluttering shut, Felix visibly relaxed.

“You made this?”

Felix nodded proudly. “And the scone. From scratch. I put extra butter in the dough so it melts in your mouth.” Seungmin took a bite and made a tiny noise that made Felix glow.

“You’re like, aggressively gentle,” Seungmin murmured.

Felix grinned. “Gotta balance out the chaos. Someone’s gotta fuss over you.” 

He stayed on the floor while Seungmin ate, head propped on his hand, just watching. Every few minutes, he’d brush a crumb from the blanket or adjust the tray. When Seungmin leaned his head back and sighed dramatically, Felix reached up and gently tucked a stray piece of hair behind his ear without a word.

“You don’t have to keep checking on me every five minutes, you know,” Seungmin said, voice teasing.

“I do, actually,” Felix whispered. “Otherwise my heart stops.” Seungmin flushed, startled into silence. Felix leaned his chin on the armrest, suddenly soft again.

“Let me take care of you, Seungmin. You deserve it.” Seungmin didn’t answer. Just reached down, threading their fingers together lazily under the blanket. And Felix stayed there, warm and glowing, brushing his thumb over Seungmin’s hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

—

Seungmin wasn’t sure how much time had passed. One minute, Felix was fussing with the tea tray and fluffing the corner of the blanket like a nurse with a mission. The next, Jisung had flopped over the back of the couch with all the grace of a fallen angel in socks, and was slowly oozing into position beside Seungmin like it was his couch, his boy, his moment to shine. 

Seungmin blinked at him slowly, his head still resting gingerly against the pillow, a faint ache pulsing near the back of his skull. “You’re not very subtle.”

“I’m not trying to be subtle,” Jisung said, already arranging himself like a human blanket across Seungmin’s lap. “Felix was hogging you.”

“I have a head injury.”

“I know. That’s why I’m here. My presence is proven to lower blood pressure and increase serotonin in most mammals.”

“I’m not a—” Seungmin stopped. Blinked. Tilted his head too fast and immediately winced.

Jisung was up in an instant. “Oh shit, did that hurt? Are you okay? Do I need to yell at gravity again?”

“I’m fine,” Seungmin said, eyes fluttering. “Just moved too quick.”

“Stop moving then,” Jisung ordered, already tucking the blanket higher and nudging the ice pack into place with the care of someone handling a baby bird. “You have one job and it’s being unconscious and adorable.”

“I’m not unconscious.”

“Yet.”

Seungmin snorted softly. “Are you trying to sedate me?”

“Is it working?”

“…maybe.” Jisung beamed like he’d just won a game no one else knew they were playing. He settled again, head tilted to rest just beneath Seungmin’s chin, a hand loosely sprawled over Seungmin’s stomach like he’d claimed that territory too. For a while, they just sat like that, the room quiet, the low hum of the house pulsing like a heartbeat in the walls. Seungmin’s fingers absently combed through Jisung’s hair, and if his motions were a little clumsy, a little uncoordinated, Jisung never said a word about it.

“You’re really warm,” Seungmin murmured eventually.

“That’s because I’m 98% love and 2% existential dread.”

“Sounds about right.”

“You smell nice.”

“I nearly died.”

“And yet you still smell like peaches and safety. Disgusting.” Seungmin laughed, and the volume of his own voice made him scrunch his eyes closed. Jisung immediately tensed.

“Too much?”

“No,” Seungmin said softly, turning his head just enough to look down at him. “Just a little too loud.”

“That’s okay,” Jisung whispered. “I’ll keep the world quiet for a while.”

That startled something in Seungmin, a flutter behind the ribs, just beside the ache. He swallowed hard. Jisung felt it.

“Too soft?” he teased, grinning into his hoodie. Seungmin leaned back and closed his eyes.

“Maybe,” he whispered. “But I like it.”

—

The scent of buttered scone and strawberry jam still lingered faintly in the air, but the sunlight had tilted, painting the floorboards in soft golds and warm shadows. Seungmin had curled deeper into the couch without really meaning to, head resting on the armrest now, eyes half-lidded as the lingering pulse in his skull kept him quiet, but not unhappy. He was drowsy. Fuzzy around the edges. But warm. When the blanket shifted, he didn’t startle. 

Jeongin.

He didn’t announce his presence with footsteps or a voice, just the soft press of the cushion dipping beside Seungmin’s legs and the even softer exhale as he settled into the space beside him. His fingers were cold from being somewhere bookish and quiet, and he didn’t reach for Seungmin immediately. Just… sat there. Watching. A presence with edges like paper and shadow, folding around the space without demanding anything from it.

“Hey,” Seungmin said, voice barely above a murmur.

“Hey,” Jeongin answered, just as soft.

Their eyes met, and something moved between them. Not dramatic. Not new. Just the familiar flutter of quiet people trying to say things without ruining them by speaking.

“You on nurse duty now?” Seungmin asked.

“I brought you a lemon drop,” Jeongin said, holding out a single gold-wrapped candy. “It won’t fix the headache, but it’ll distract you for a while.”

Seungmin blinked. Then smiled. “That’s the most Jeongin solution I’ve ever heard.”

Jeongin’s lips quirked. “Take the candy.”

They lapsed into silence after that, but it wasn’t awkward. Jeongin leaned back against the cushions beside him, one leg folded, arms loosely crossed like he was keeping himself from reaching out too much. Seungmin let his fingers graze the edge of the blanket, absently toying with a seam.

“Do I look pitiful?” he asked eventually, cracking one eye open again. Jeongin didn’t answer right away. His gaze flicked down to where Seungmin’s hair curled gently against the pillow, then to the slight flush in his cheeks, and finally to the way he was still moving slow, like the world hadn’t quite stopped spinning yet.

“No,” Jeongin said. “You look like you deserve rest.”

That shut Seungmin up. Not because it was dramatic. But because it was true. Because it was said without question or condition. Because it came from Jeongin, who rarely spoke unless the words mattered.

“You always this soft when you’re watching someone sleep?” Seungmin teased after a long pause.

“I don’t watch everyone sleep,” Jeongin muttered, looking away. “Just you.”

Seungmin let that sit. Let it settle between them like a stone in a still lake. Then he reached out and very quietly placed his hand over Jeongin’s, letting their fingers rest against each other without pressure.

“Thanks for the candy.”

“Thanks for being okay.” It was barely a whisper. But Seungmin heard it.

—

Minho didn’t announce that it was his turn. He just appeared. As usual. One moment, Jeongin was gently standing up, murmuring something about needing fresh air. The next, Minho was already in the hallway, arms folded, eyes sweeping the living room like it had personally offended him. Seungmin clocked the exact second Minho registered him wrapped in three blankets and a half-drunk cup of tea, because the other boy’s mouth twitched in a way that meant he was judging everything.

“Comfortable?” Minho asked, voice deadpan.

“Are you here to fluff my pillows?” Seungmin countered, already smirking.

Minho’s eyes narrowed. “Do you need them fluffed?”

“Depends. Will it cost extra?”

There was a pause. A silence thick with mutual defiance and barely-suppressed fondness. Then Minho sighed, deep and theatrical, and stalked over to the couch. He didn’t sit. He just started adjusting things. Folded the blanket back more neatly, shifted the ice pack a few centimetres to the left, and plucked the empty tea mug from the end table with the delicate disdain of a man correcting the universe.

“Is this how you flirt?” Seungmin asked. “By reorganising furniture around the object of your affection?” Minho paused mid-realignment.

“No,” he said slowly. “This is how I prevent spontaneous eye twitching.”

Seungmin grinned, stretching just slightly as he yawned, and immediately flinched. It was small. Barely noticeable. Just a sharp breath through his nose and a tiny twitch of his fingers toward the base of his skull. But Minho saw. And in the span of a heartbeat, all the sharpness in his expression dropped into something terrified.

“What was that?” he demanded, crouching down instantly. “What did you do? Did you hit it again?”

“No, no—” Seungmin rushed to reassure him, even as his voice turned sheepish. “I just moved a little too fast. I’m fine.”

“You are not fine, you absolute gremlin,” Minho snapped, already reaching to adjust the pillow behind his head like it was a lifeline. “You were told to rest, not practice yoga in a quilt cocoon.”

“I was reclining with flair, thank you.”

Minho gave him the kind of look usually reserved for art thieves and malfunctioning printers. “Don’t do that again,” he muttered. “I’m not joking.”

And that, more than the barked command, more than the dramatic sighs or the over-fluffed blanket, was what landed. Because Minho’s voice was low now. Unsteady. Not sharp, not sarcastic. Just raw. Just honest. Seungmin blinked. Then, as soon as Minho sat beside him, Seungmin very deliberately turned, half-flopping into Minho’s side like a sleepy puppy.

“What—what are you doing—”

“You said don’t do that again,” Seungmin said, already burrowing. “You didn’t say anything about cuddling the nearest sin of pride.” Minho went absolutely rigid.

“…You’re such a menace.”

“I feel faint. Comfort me.”

“I will smother you with this cushion.”

“You fluffed it perfectly for that.”

Minho didn’t answer. But he didn’t move away, either. His arm came up after a long pause, wrapping securely around Seungmin’s shoulder, fingers resting softly. Not pressing. Just there. Protective. Seungmin smiled against his side.

“…I like you better when you’re yelling at me.”

Minho snorted softly. “No you don’t.”

“You’re right,” Seungmin whispered. “I like you just like this.” And Minho, flustered, fussy, and more in love than he would ever admit out loud, didn’t argue.

—

After Minho decided he needed to water his plants, Seungmin closed his eyes and laid back, thinking he was alone again. Until he heard a floorboard creak, and noticed Chan. Leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes locked onto Seungmin with a tension in his shoulders that said he’d been standing there longer than he wanted to admit.

“You gonna stand there all day?” Seungmin asked, voice soft, teasing around the edges.

Chan startled slightly, then let out a sheepish breath. “Didn’t think you were awake.” Chan stepped closer, hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets, jaw tense like he’d been chewing over too many thoughts and none of them had answers.

“You’re staring,” Seungmin pointed out, more amused than annoyed.

Chan shrugged. “Just making sure you’re breathing.”

“Is that all I am to you?” Seungmin quirked an eyebrow. “A pulse check?”

Chan hesitated, gaze dropping. “No. You’re just…”

Seungmin waited. Chan sighed and sat down on the edge of the coffee table, elbows on his knees, looking like he was five seconds from bolting.

“I haven’t really had a turn with you yet,” he said finally. “Not properly. Not like the others.”

“Thought you were keeping your distance on purpose.”

“I was,” Chan admitted. “Figured I’d overwhelm you. I can be… a lot.”

Seungmin tilted his head. “And now?”

“Now you’ve got a bump on your head and a dizzy spell that nearly sent Changbin into cardiac arrest,” Chan said, lips twitching despite himself. “And I realised maybe I didn’t care about overwhelming you. I just wanted to be the one holding you when it happened.” Seungmin blinked, surprised at the bluntness. Chan seemed equally startled, like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

“Oh,” Seungmin said softly.

“Sorry.”

“No. Don’t be. That was…” He paused. “Weirdly flattering.”

Chan looked away. “Yeah, well. I’m greedy.”

“I noticed.”

That earned a small laugh. Tired. Honest. Real. They lapsed into quiet again, the air thick with unspoken things. Then Seungmin shifted just slightly, tugging the blanket around his shoulders as he looked up.

“…Can I lay on your lap?”

Chan blinked. “What?”

“Just…” Seungmin glanced away, suddenly sheepish. “I think it’d help. I’m still kind of dizzy.”

Chan stared at him for a long moment. Then nodded, quiet and gentle. “Of course. Come here.”

Seungmin moved slowly, careful, trying not to jostle his sore head. As he leaned in, Chan helped guide him, hand at the back of his neck, fingers barely touching.

“Does your head still hurt?” Chan asked softly. Seungmin nodded. Then winced. Chan reached for a pillow to place under Seungmin’s head, and was on his feet instantly.

“Don’t move,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

And just like that, he was gone, off with that laser-focus he only used when something truly mattered. Seungmin lay back carefully, stunned by how fast it had shifted. Touched, too. Chan returned a minute later with painkillers, a bottle of water, and a look in his eyes that said this matters. He knelt beside him, pressing the pills gently into Seungmin’s hand. “Here. You need water too.”

“You didn’t even ask what kind of pain it was.”

“I don’t care,” Chan muttered. “If you said your knee hurt, I would’ve returned with a heating pad, a massage roller, and a legally binding agreement to carry you everywhere.”

Seungmin laughed quietly. “Possessive.”

Chan didn’t respond. Just helped him take the pills, watched him swallow, then tucked the blanket a little closer before sitting down again and letting Seungmin curl gently into his lap.

“I’m not going anywhere, you know,” Seungmin said quietly. “Even if you’re… a lot.”

Chan’s expression didn’t shift much. But his shoulders softened. His hand hovered, then rested lightly on Seungmin’s arm, thumb tracing slow, grounding circles.

“I don’t want to share you.”

“I know,” Seungmin whispered.

“I’ll try. But I—God, I hate how good they all are with you.” 

Seungmin reached up, curling his fingers around Chan’s and squeezing once.

“You’re good with me too,” he said. “You just think too much.”

“I always think too much.”

“Then shut up and sit here with me.”

Chan huffed a laugh, but it sounded like relief. His arm settled more fully around Seungmin now, protective, warm, the world narrowing down to just this, just them.

—

Seungmin was feeling just a little better now. The tablets Chan had given him had dulled the pain behind his eyes to a background hum, and though the dizziness lingered, it wasn’t as sharp. He was cocooned in the middle of the couch, Felix having returned like clockwork with another cup of herbal tea, steam curling between them like a quiet offering of love.

“You’re ridiculous, you know that?” Felix whispered, smiling fondly as he fluffed Seungmin’s blanket again for no real reason.

“I’m adorable,” Seungmin corrected, sipping smugly.

Felix rolled his eyes, then perked up, head tilting toward the hallway. “Speaking of chaos,” he said, “Changbin’s on his way.”

Seungmin’s eyes lit up like he’d just been offered a front-row ticket to a circus.

“Wait—what if…” he began, voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. “What if I mess with him a little?”

Felix blinked. “Mess with him how?”

“Not too dramatic,” Seungmin promised quickly. “Just… maybe I stand up all woozy and faint into his arms.”

Felix’s smile bloomed into something wicked. “You want to fake faint into Wrath’s arms?”

“It’s a trust exercise.”

“It’s a death wish.”

Seungmin smirked. “He’ll love it.”

Felix snorted into his tea. “Alright. I’ll play along. Let me just… set the stage.” 

And just like that, Felix was gone, padding off casually toward the kitchen like nothing was about to happen. Seungmin smoothed his blanket, adjusted his expression to something appropriately pale and tragic, then slowly pushed himself up to stand beside the couch, gripping the armrest like it was his only tether to life. He didn’t have to wait long.

“Where is he—where is the idiot—” came Changbin’s voice from the hall, getting louder with each step. Then he burst into view, all fire and fury and concern packed into a compact muscle tank, eyes already scanning the room like he expected blood.

“Seungmin!”

Seungmin turned toward him with the most delicate, calculated wobble.

“Oh, Binnie…” he murmured dramatically.

“What?” Changbin barked, already charging forward. And then Seungmin’s knees buckled, not too fast, not too hard, just enough for the illusion of fragility. He tipped forward like a petal caught in a breeze. Changbin caught him. One arm hooked around his waist, the other under his shoulders, swearing already.

“Jesus fuck— what the hell—Seungmin, what the fuck—why are you standing—”

Seungmin slowly blinked up at him, face the picture of innocence. “My hero,” he whispered. There was a pause. A sharp, echoing pause.

“You little—” Changbin choked. “You fucking …what the hell!”

Felix was openly cackling in the kitchen. Seungmin smiled like an angel. “I missed you too.”

“You faked a faint!”

“Technically I initiated a trust exercise.”

“You don’t test Wrath’s reflexes!”

But he didn’t let go. Not even close. In fact, Changbin sank to the couch with him still in his arms, depositing Seungmin like precious cargo while his own breathing caught up with his panic.

“You alright?” he muttered finally, brushing hair from Seungmin’s forehead.

Seungmin nodded, blinking innocently. “You’re really warm.”

“Yeah, well. You’re really stupid.”

“I did it ‘cause I trust you.”

Changbin stared at him. Then shoved his face into Seungmin’s neck and groaned, “Fuck you, that’s not fair.” 

Seungmin just giggled and leaned into him.

—

After Changbin held Seungmin hostage in his arms for a solid half-hour, he decided he needed to consult his emotional support punching bag to process the trauma. 

That’s when Hyunjin entered. Like moonlight slipping through cracks, he didn’t announce himself, he appeared like shadow in the doorframe, a soft sigh carried on perfume and calm. His eyes, dark and glassy, soaked Seungmin in with a single glance. He looked like he hadn’t dared to breathe all day.

Seungmin sat propped against the lounge cushions, legs curled under the blanket Felix had tucked around him earlier. He blinked, startled, but not unpleasantly so. Something in his chest fluttered, unsteady.

“Hey,” he said, voice still a bit husky from too much tea and too much attention.

Hyunjin didn’t answer immediately. He stepped into the room like he was walking into a dream, every movement slow and intentional. His hair brushed his cheeks. His hands were empty. He looked like poetry, like longing.

“I didn’t want to crowd you earlier,” Hyunjin murmured, voice low, careful, and so devastatingly soft. “But I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

The words hit Seungmin with a heat that rushed up his neck and spread over his cheeks. He swallowed, flustered by the sincerity, by the way Hyunjin didn’t seem to want anything but to be here.

“I, uh… I’m fine now,” Seungmin offered, shifting slightly. “You don’t need to worry.”

Hyunjin’s head tilted. He knelt slowly in front of the lounge, resting his hands on the cushion near Seungmin’s knees, not touching, but close enough that Seungmin could feel the warmth.

“You’re flushed,” Hyunjin whispered, his eyes flickering over Seungmin’s face like he was reading a secret message there. “Still dizzy?”

“Maybe a little,” Seungmin replied, though the flutter in his chest was far more intense than anything in his head. Hyunjin reached up, fingertips ghosting over Seungmin’s temple with a reverence that made Seungmin freeze. The touch was so light it was like being blessed. “You scared me,” Hyunjin said simply.

Seungmin exhaled, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “You don’t scare easy.”

“No,” Hyunjin said, “but you’re not supposed to fall.” His fingers traced Seungmin’s hairline, then tucked a stray lock behind his ear. The act was quiet, intimate. His knuckles brushed Seungmin’s cheek. That flush? Full bloom now.

“You’re warm,” Hyunjin murmured.

“Embarrassed,” Seungmin admitted, pulse racing.

Hyunjin smiled. “Good.”

That one word sent another rush down Seungmin’s spine. Hyunjin rose slowly, settling beside him on the lounge with liquid grace. Without asking, he reached out again, one hand finding Seungmin’s, the other sliding around his back beneath the blanket.

“May I?” Hyunjin asked softly, nose nearly brushing Seungmin’s cheek. “Hold you?”

Seungmin nodded, barely breathing, and Hyunjin pulled him in gently, deliberately, like he was drawing silk through his fingers. Their bodies pressed together under the blanket, legs entangled just enough to feel close without crowding.

“You smell like tea and trouble,” Hyunjin whispered against his temple, and Seungmin actually whined. A soft, helpless noise of flustered disbelief.

“I hate you,” he muttered, hiding his face in Hyunjin’s chest.

“You love this,” Hyunjin replied, and Seungmin’s silence confirmed it.

Their breathing synced. One heartbeat, then another. Skin to skin, soul to soul, no pressure, no expectation. Just a sensual, feather-light intimacy. One boy nursing a headache. One boy nursing a longing. And for a little while, that was enough. Their silence lingered like velvet, comfortable, warm, impossibly close. But Seungmin’s brain wasn’t very good at leaving things soft for too long. Especially not when Hyunjin’s thumb was stroking lazy circles against his side, and his leg was draped just barely over Seungmin’s like they’d been lovers for centuries. So naturally, Seungmin opened his mouth and said:

“Do you think you’d survive a zombie apocalypse?”

Hyunjin blinked. Paused. Then slowly leaned back just enough to look Seungmin in the face. “You mean like, right now?”

“Yeah,” Seungmin said, lips twitching. “If it happened this second. All of us in the house, just—boom. Zombies. What’s your game plan?”

Hyunjin stared at him, deadpan. “…My game plan is to stay right here with my warm headache baby and let the others die first.”

Seungmin cackled. “Selfish.”

“Survivalist,” Hyunjin corrected, smirking now. “I’m Lust. I don’t run. I seduce. I distract the zombies with my beauty and you stab them while I pose dramatically.”

“Oh my god.” Seungmin wheezed. “Okay but if I’m the one doing the stabbing, we’re both dying in under five minutes. Have you seen my arms?”

“Mm, I’ll see everything one day,” Hyunjin said smoothly, and Seungmin went red again.

“You’re mean,” Seungmin muttered, hiding his face against Hyunjin’s collarbone. “I regret this conversation.”

“No you don’t,” Hyunjin purred, letting his fingers drift up Seungmin’s spine in a slow, soothing pattern. “You love me. You’d protect me in the zombie apocalypse.”

Seungmin groaned dramatically. “I’d trip you and run.”

“You’d cry the entire time.”

“…True.”

They both fell into quiet laughter, the kind that buzzed low and warm in their chests, stitched between breaths and blanket folds. Hyunjin tilted his head until his lips brushed against the top of Seungmin’s hair, just a whisper of a kiss. “You’re feeling better,” he said quietly.

Seungmin nodded. “Yeah. I think your cuddles are medicinal.”

“Obviously,” Hyunjin replied. “I’m the cure for many things.”

Seungmin snorted. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“I’m full of you,” Hyunjin said with a wink, and Seungmin shoved him lightly, immediately flustered.

“Okay, nope. You’re not allowed to be a romantic sap and an absolute menace. Pick one.”

“Never,” Hyunjin said sweetly. “I’m both.”

Just as Hyunjin was whispering something entirely inappropriate into Seungmin’s ear, something about post-apocalyptic kisses and “using your body as bait”, Felix’s voice rang out from the kitchen.

“Dinner’s ready!”

It carried through the halls like a promise. The sound of plates being set, the faint clatter of cutlery, the warm scent of something buttery and herb-filled wafting into the lounge. Seungmin let out a sleepy little hum against Hyunjin’s chest.

“Mmm. Smells good. My favourite nurse really is good at everything.”

Hyunjin gave a soft chuckle. “Come on, darling. Let’s get you fed before Changbin comes back and insists on taste-testing everything for poison.”

“Again,” Seungmin muttered, already rolling his eyes.

He made to stand, legs shifting beneath the blanket, and Hyunjin helped peel it off gently, hands brushing his arms, his back, soft touches that lingered just a little longer than necessary. Seungmin wobbled slightly when he finally stood, a leftover wave of dizziness tipping his balance.

Hyunjin was immediately there. One arm slid around Seungmin’s waist, the other catching his elbow. “Hey, hey. I’ve got you,” he murmured, low and intimate.

Seungmin blinked up at him, wide-eyed and just a little pink. “Still trying to seduce me?”

“Always,” Hyunjin said with a wink, steadying him until he felt sure on his feet again.

—

The dining table was already half-filled when they arrived—Felix flitting between chairs with extra napkins, Jeongin helping serve bowls, Chan pouring drinks with exaggerated care and low grumbles about there not being any lemon cordial left. Minho was slicing bread with deadly precision. Jisung had taken a bite already and was dramatically pretending it had cured his trauma. Changbin was just waiting. Arms crossed. Watching the doorway like a hawk. When he saw Seungmin and Hyunjin enter, still holding onto each other, he narrowed his eyes. “Took your sweet time, huh?”

“He needed help walking,” Hyunjin said smoothly.

“I needed to emotionally recover from your entire existence,” Seungmin added, deadpan.

“You’re lucky you’re still injured,” Changbin muttered, pulling out Seungmin’s chair anyway.

Seungmin smirked as he sat down. “Aw. You saved me a spot.”

“I always save you a spot,” Changbin grumbled, avoiding eye contact. Everyone noticed. Dinner began with the usual chaos, too many voices at once, someone passing the wrong plate, Jisung immediately spilling something on his sleeve. But it was light. Easy. For the first time all day, the weight seemed to lift.

Seungmin looked around at them all, the sins, his sins, and smiled. There were jokes, teasing, and shared bites. Minho insulted the seasoning while secretly taking seconds. Chan finally gave in and let Felix put a flower in his hair, just to see if it suits him. It did.

At one point, Jisung pointed a spoon at Seungmin and asked, “So, on a scale from one to ten, how babied do you feel right now?”

Seungmin chewed thoughtfully, then held up all ten fingers. “I’ve reached full princess status. Any more pampering and I’ll start levitating.”

“You already do,” Hyunjin murmured beside him, too quiet for the others to hear. And Seungmin blushed again. For the millionth time that day. He didn’t mind. Not one bit.

—

Dinner wound down with crumbs on plates and laughter still echoing in the corners of the house. The warmth in Seungmin’s chest had nothing to do with the tea Felix poured him and everything to do with the way every single one of these ridiculous boys looked at him.

Loved him. Watched him. Wanted him.

He stretched his arms overhead with a dramatic little groan. “Mmm… I do feel better,” he sighed aloud. “So much better, in fact, that I’m starting to worry about tonight.” The sins perked up.

Chan looked concerned. “Is the headache back?”

“No,” Seungmin replied, innocent as anything. “I just… I don’t think I should sleep alone. You know, for safety.”

Minho raised an eyebrow. “You literally have a plush octopus and a stuffed bear the size of a microwave.”

“Exactly,” Seungmin said solemnly. “No pulse. No body heat. A total lack of cling factor.” Hyunjin choked on his water.

“And that leaves me in a very difficult position,” Seungmin continued, milking the moment, chin tilted high. “How ever will I choose the perfect cuddle buddy?”

The table exploded.

“Me, obviously,” Changbin barked, slamming his hand on the table. “I carried you bridal style up the stairs, don’t test me!”

“I gave him herbal tea and foot rubs!” Felix piped up, waving a napkin like a white flag.

“I was the first one in the room!” Jisung shouted. “I cuddled him when his soul was still hanging on by a thread!”

“I was the calmest one,” Jeongin said mildly. “He deserves peace.”

“I let him cuddle me,” Minho added, arching a brow like that fact alone should’ve ended the conversation.

“I made him blush four times in a row,” Hyunjin declared smugly, sipping from his glass like it was a chalice of victory.

“I will fight all of you in the yard,” Changbin muttered darkly.

They all started talking over each other, pointing, whining, listing crimes and achievements. It was chaos. Glorious, affectionate chaos. Seungmin watched them, utterly delighted, sipping his tea with a very smug smile. Then, just as Minho suggested they draw lots and Jisung tried to climb over the table, Seungmin stood up slowly and cleared his throat.

“I’ve made my decision.”

Silence. They all froze.

He looked around, pausing just long enough for dramatic tension, then beamed. “I’ll choose… tomorrow.”

Screams. Outrage. Betrayal.

“WHAT?”

“You can’t do that!”

“THIS IS EMOTIONAL MANIPULATION.”

“I’M GONNA LOSE SLEEP OVER THIS.”

“YOU’RE LITERALLY SICK!”

Seungmin just giggled and turned toward the hallway like a prince retiring for the night. “Thanks for dinner, everyone. I feel so loved.”

“I HOPE YOUR STUFFED BEAR CHEATS ON YOU.”

“Goodnight~!” he sang over his shoulder, swaying with every step.

Hyunjin caught his eye just before he disappeared from view and smirked. “Sleep tight, heartbreaker.”

Seungmin winked. “Only if I’m not mobbed in the hallway by desperate suitors.”

And then he was gone, leaving seven sins in absolute romantic ruin.

Chapter Text

It had been a few days since the gym incident, and Seungmin’s world had slowly shifted back into soft. The bump on his head gone, the headache had dulled, and the sins, though still smothering him in little ways, had finally stopped hovering like ghosts outside the bathroom.

The care hadn’t stopped. If anything, it had grown quieter. More instinctive. Hands in his hair. Arms around his waist. Felix popping into his room every few hours with snacks and a forehead kiss. Seungmin let himself melt into it, touch, closeness, comfort, but beneath it all, a part of him still waited for it to end.

—

The lounge was warm that night. The TV glowed blue and flickered with cartoon violence as Home Alone played on, filling the space with nostalgic chaos. Seungmin padded in late, wearing a sweater three sizes too big and dragging a blanket behind him like a cape. He didn’t ask before climbing into the pile on the floor, curling himself up between Jeongin and Changbin like a cat looking for heat. Changbin immediately slung an arm over his shoulder, pulling him closer without thinking.

“Damn,” Jisung muttered, watching Kevin McCallister scream into a mirror. “That kid’s crazy.”

“He’s a hero,” Hyunjin argued from the couch. “He’s literally fighting off two grown men with a tarantula and a paint can. Icon.”

“Okay but how did they just forget their child?” Changbin cut in, frowning at the screen. “Like seriously—how the fuck does a parent not realise they left their kid behind? That’s not a mistake. That’s just being a shitty human.”

And the room fell silent. Seungmin didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Jeongin’s hand stilled on the blanket. Felix’s smile faded, jaw tightening ever so slightly. Even Hyunjin froze, his body stiffening like something had cracked beneath the surface of the scene.

Changbin’s eyes widened. “Shit.”

He looked down. Seungmin was still nestled against him, still quiet. Too quiet.

“Min?” Changbin whispered, voice gentle now. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay,” Seungmin said softly. Changbin’s heart sank. Because it wasn’t okay. He knew that tone. That gentle, detached tone when something cut a little too deep. 

“I just forgot for a second,” Changbin murmured. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“I said it’s okay,” Seungmin repeated. Still not looking at him. Still staring straight ahead at the screen, where a little boy set traps to protect a house no one came back to. The others exchanged glances, silent agreement flowing like a ripple between them. They stayed that way for a while. The movie kept playing. Kevin kept building his fortress. Jisung laughed a little too loudly at one point. Felix offered Seungmin a handful of popcorn, which he accepted with a small nod and a forced smile. It wasn’t convincing. Then, halfway through the third act, just as Kevin lit the string for the final blow, Seungmin stirred.

“I think I’m gonna head to bed,” he said, pushing the blanket off.

“Want company?” Jeongin asked quietly.

Seungmin shook his head. “Nah.”

And he stood. Left the room, headed towards the stairs. 

“Nice going,” Minho said flatly, turning toward Changbin with an arched brow.

“I forgot,” Changbin snapped, already tugging at his sleeves like he wanted to crawl out of his skin. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You still said it,” Hyunjin muttered.

“He’s been doing so well lately,” Felix whispered, fidgeting with a thread on the blanket. “And now he’s going to spiral thinking he’s not allowed to feel upset about it.”

Chan sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “You need to go talk to him.”

“Yeah,” Jisung added. “And don’t try and fix it. Just… be there. Bring a blanket. Or juice. Or his weird stuffed rabbit.”

“It’s a bunny bear,” Jeongin corrected under his breath.

Changbin was already halfway to the hallway. “I’ll figure it out.”

Minho called after him, “If he cries and you make it worse, I will throw you outside.”

“Got it,” Changbin muttered, disappearing down the hall, guilt burning like a brand in his chest. He’d promised to protect Seungmin. Now it was time to show it.

—

Changbin hesitated outside the door longer than he’d ever admit. One hand hovered just above the wood, the other fidgeting at the hem of his hoodie. He could still see the look on Seungmin’s face, not angry, not even disappointed. Just far away. Like the words had pulled him somewhere else entirely. He knocked twice. Soft.

“…Come in.”

The door creaked open and Changbin stepped inside, closing it behind him like he was afraid to let too much light in. Seungmin was sitting on the edge of the bed, legs drawn up loosely, hands curled in his lap. He wasn’t crying. He didn’t even look upset, not really. He just looked… quiet. Thoughtful. Like he was replaying something that used to hurt more than it did now, but still hurt all the same.

“I know I’m late to the party,” Changbin said, voice low as he crossed the room. “But I’m here to grovel anyway.”

Seungmin didn’t look up right away, but he smiled, just a little. “You’re not that late. I haven’t decided whether to banish you forever yet.”

“That’s fair.”

Changbin sat beside him, not too close, just enough to share the space. He glanced down at his own hands, then at Seungmin’s.

“I forgot,” he said. “For one second, I forgot how bad it was for you. And I’m so fucking sorry, Min. I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t mean—”

“I know,” Seungmin cut in softly, finally turning his head. His eyes were clear. Sad, maybe, but not distant anymore. “I know you didn’t.”

Changbin opened his mouth to speak again, but then Seungmin reached out and laced their fingers together.

“It’s okay,” he said, voice like candlelight. “You don’t have to explain. You didn’t mean to hurt me. It just… reminded me.”

Silence settled between them, not heavy, but full. Honest. Changbin’s thumb brushed across Seungmin’s hand.

“I’m still figuring out what not to say,” he admitted. “But I’ll get better. For you.”

Seungmin smiled again. Softer this time. He leaned his head against Changbin’s shoulder, the crown of his hair brushing against Changbin’s jaw.

“Y’know,” he whispered, “sometimes I think about how different my life would’ve been if my parents had stayed. If things had gone the way they were supposed to.”

Changbin didn’t speak. Just waited. And Seungmin’s voice got even quieter. “But then I think… if none of that happened, if they hadn’t left, if I hadn’t been alone, I never would’ve ended up here. With you. With all of you.” 

He exhaled. A tiny sigh that held years inside it. “And I wouldn’t change a thing.”

Changbin turned his head just enough to press a kiss into Seungmin’s hair. “God,” he murmured. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

“You’re already ruined,” Seungmin mumbled against his shoulder.

“True.”

They sat there like that for a long while, hands held, hearts open, everything still. And if Seungmin fell asleep like that, tucked into the one person who made the whole world feel loudly safe, Changbin didn’t mind at all.

—

Seungmin woke up to warmth. Not just the soft sheets tangled around his legs, or the sun slipping through his curtains, but the steady rise and fall of someone breathing beside him.

Or rather, under him.

He blinked blearily, finding himself sprawled half across Changbin’s chest, blanket kicked off sometime in the night, one of his hands still tucked firmly in Changbin’s hoodie pocket. The other boy was still sleeping, mouth parted slightly, hair a mess, arms curled protectively around Seungmin like his body refused to let go even in sleep. Seungmin smiled. God, he felt safe.

He shifted just enough to glance up at Changbin’s face—peaceful, for once, brow smooth instead of furrowed with some misplaced urgency. His cheek was squished against the pillow, and one arm had Seungmin pinned like he was something precious.

“Jesus,” Seungmin whispered. “You really are built like a mattress with abs.”

Changbin stirred, groaning. “Don’t start,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep. “It’s too early to be objectified.”

“But you make such a good pillow,” Seungmin teased, trailing a finger down the dip of Changbin’s chest. “So warm. So firm. So—”

“Okay,” Changbin said quickly, eyes flying open as a flush climbed his cheeks. “We’re going to breakfast before you get us both banned from heaven.”

Seungmin smirked. “We were never getting into heaven.”

“Exactly my point.” Changbin sat up with a groan, trying, and failing, to flatten the dent Seungmin had left in his fluffy hoodie. “Let’s go. Before I commit a sin in my own name.”

“You already did,” Seungmin said sweetly, sliding off the bed. “Wrath has never looked so cuddle-able.”

Changbin groaned louder. “I take it back. You’re banned.”

—

They made their way down to breakfast not long after, still in their sleep clothes, Seungmin wearing socks that didn’t match and Changbin trying not to think about Seungmin’s comments. Most of the sins were already seated around the table, scattered between pancakes, toast, and Felix’s chaotic fruit salad that definitely included Skittles again.

“Where’s Hyunjin?” Seungmin asked as he took a seat beside Jeongin.

Felix glanced toward the stairs. “Still in his room. I think he’s feeling a bit overwhelmed today.”

Seungmin nodded softly. “I’ll visit him later.”

Conversation flowed easily, teasing, food stealing, the usual light chaos. Then, without warning, Seungmin stood, walked around the table, and plopped himself right into Minho’s lap.

Minho froze mid-toast. “…What are you doing.”

“Rewarding you,” Seungmin said sweetly, picking up a fork. “For being the prettiest pride demon this side of hell.”

“Oh my god,” Jisung choked.

Seungmin stabbed a piece of pancake from Minho’s plate and held it up dramatically. “Say ‘ah.’”

“You are so unwell,” Minho muttered, but he opened his mouth anyway, and Seungmin fed him like a deity. Outrage followed instantly.

“EXCUSE ME?”

“HE FED MINHO?!”

“HE’S NEVER FED ME.”

“FELIX LITERALLY MADE THE PANCAKES.”

“WHY IS MINHO THE CHOSEN ONE.”

Seungmin just beamed, swinging his legs slightly where they dangled over Minho’s lap. “Jealousy’s such a bad look on you all.”

“I will toss you like a pancake,” Changbin muttered darkly.

“Oh, you’ll toss me?” Seungmin purred. “Into your arms?”

Changbin flushed instantly. “I take it back. You’re banned.”

The laughter that followed was contagious. Jisung nearly fell off his chair, Felix was red in the face from giggling, and even Chan was grinning behind his coffee cup. And Seungmin laughed so hard he had to lean forward against Minho’s shoulder to catch his breath.

At some point, when the moment finally slowed, Jeongin looked across the table and said softly, “He’s really coming out of his shell, huh?”

Felix nodded, eyes bright. “He’s not shy anymore. Just deadly.”

“Adorable and terrifying,” Jisung added. “Powerful combination.”

Minho looked down at the boy still draped across his lap and murmured, “He was always that. He just didn’t know we were safe yet.”

And none of them said anything for a second, just took in the sight of Seungmin, cheeks flushed from laughter, still smiling into his mug, legs tangled in someone else’s lap, love blooming so effortlessly around him now. They all shared a look.

God, they loved him.

Seungmin was still smiling when he stood from Minho’s lap and gave an exaggerated little bow to the table. “Okay, audience satisfied. Now, I have a mission.”

“Oh god,” Chan muttered. “He’s on a power trip.”

“Let him cook,” Jisung said with his mouth full. “Literally.”

Seungmin turned and caught Felix’s hand in his own, squeezing gently. “Can you help me put together a little tray?”

Felix tilted his head, eyes already softening. “For Hyunjin?”

Seungmin nodded. “Something light. Pretty. He doesn’t have to eat much, I just… I want him to know he’s not alone.”

Felix melted instantly. “Let’s go.”

The tray came together quickly, delicate pieces of toast with honey, a few slices of fruit arranged like flower petals, a small mug of chamomile tea, and a note from Felix written in sparkly gel pen: you are so sexy, even when you’re melting xoxo. Seungmin rolled his eyes but kept it tucked in the corner of the tray. He carried it upstairs with quiet steps. The door to Hyunjin’s room was slightly ajar.

“Jinnie?” Seungmin whispered, tapping gently as he pushed it open. Hyunjin was in bed, curled beneath the soft grey throw he pretended wasn’t his favourite. His skin was a little flushed, hair a little messy, and eyes hazy from the weight of the world. But he smiled when he saw Seungmin.

“Aren’t you supposed to be causing chaos downstairs?”

“Taking a break,” Seungmin said simply. “Brought you something.”

He set the tray down gently on the nightstand and moved closer, pausing by the edge of the bed. “Do you want me to stay?”

Hyunjin didn’t answer right away. He looked up at Seungmin, eyes glassy but grounded, then reached out a hand. Seungmin climbed in carefully, sliding beneath the blanket until Hyunjin could settle against his chest. One arm curled around his waist, the other pressing between them.

“You okay?” Seungmin asked softly, fingers brushing through Hyunjin’s hair.

Hyunjin didn’t open his eyes. “Just… a lot today. The air feels too loud. Everything’s too bright.”

“Too much?”

“Yeah.”

Seungmin nodded, his chin resting atop Hyunjin’s head. “Do you want me to leave?”

Hyunjin’s grip tightened.

“Not yet.”

They didn’t speak much after that.

Seungmin just held him. Let his hand drift up and down Hyunjin’s back in slow, calming strokes. Let his own breathing sync with the boy in his arms. Hyunjin melted into the contact, soft and quiet, letting himself be small for once. Seungmin didn’t ask him to explain it. Didn’t make him perform. Just stayed. Seungmin felt proud of himself. He’d spent so long needing to be held, it startled him how easy it was to hold someone else.

When Hyunjin finally drifted off, Seungmin slipped out as gently as he’d arrived. He tucked the blanket up to Hyunjin’s chin, brushed a strand of hair off his face, and smiled.

“Not alone,” he whispered. “Not today.”

And then he closed the door behind him with a quiet click, and headed back downstairs, heart full, arms empty, but somehow still held, warmth now etched into his chest like a wound finally healing.

Chapter Text

Seungmin always took long showers when he was feeling too much, not sad, not overwhelmed, just… full. Like his chest had soaked up everyone else’s emotions and needed to be rinsed clean.

After visiting Hyunjin, he’d stood under the warm water until his fingers pruned, letting the steam loosen whatever tension still clung to his spine. He towel-dried his hair just enough not to drip all over the floors, then padded down to the lounge barefoot and hoodie-clad, feeling a little sleepy and a lot lighter.

He expected the room to be empty. Instead, he found Jisung, stretched dramatically across the couch like he was posing for a sinful Renaissance painting, one arm flung over his eyes. Seungmin grinned.

Target acquired.

Without warning, he flopped forward, landing squarely on Jisung’s stomach with an exaggerated sigh, his damp hair smacking across Jisung’s exposed neck.

“AAAGHHHHH!”

Jisung thrashed like he’d been electrocuted. “WHY ARE YOU WET?! YOU’RE WET, YOU’RE WET, I’M DROWNING—”

Seungmin giggled into his chest. “Shhh. It’s a comfort flop.”

“It’s a crime!” Jisung screeched. “You’re committing emotional waterboarding!”

“You’re so dramatic,” Seungmin hummed, nuzzling further in, knowing full well his hair was dripping straight into the collar of Jisung’s shirt.

“Oh you little—!”

Jisung launched into action, twisting beneath Seungmin and digging his fingers mercilessly into his ribs. Seungmin squealed.

“Don’t—Jisung—NO!”

“THIS IS RETRIBUTION!!” Jisung howled, laughing maniacally as Seungmin kicked and writhed, trying to escape. They rolled, tangled, bodies bumping into cushions and limbs, until Jisung ended up pinning Seungmin down with his thighs bracketing his hips, hands gripping Seungmin’s wrists above his head. Breathing hard. Grinning wide.

And then—quiet.

Because their faces were suddenly close. Too close. Jisung’s smile flickered, then stilled. Seungmin’s chest rose and fell, a little too fast, his breath catching slightly as his eyes darted between Jisung’s mouth and his eyes and back again. The air between them felt… heavy. Like the room itself had leaned in. His brain screamed don’t be weird don’t be weird don’t be weird—

So, naturally, he did the weirdest thing possible. He leaned up and kissed Jisung. On the lips. Just a tiny, flutter-soft peck—no pressure, no heat, just touch. Barely a second. Then, before Jisung could speak, before either of them could process what had just happened, Seungmin bolted. Scrambled out from under him, cheeks flaming red, hoodie flying as he practically sprinted down the hallway.

“Gotta go BYE!”

Jisung blinked. Sat there on the couch, stunned, still slightly damp, and still very much processing the fact that Seungmin had kissed him. On the mouth.

He whispered to himself, “Did I just get kissed by a gremlin with a wet mullet?”

—

Seungmin wasn’t sure when his legs started moving. All he knew was that one second he was kissing Jisung—like, really kissing him, on the actual mouth—and the next, his body had entered flight mode. His brain hadn’t even finished processing the moment before his feet were already flying down the hallway and up the stairs like his life depended on it. He didn’t stop until he reached his bedroom. 

He dropped backwards, flopping fully onto his bed with a groan and covering his face with both hands. “I kissed him. I kissed him.”

He kicked his feet against the sheets like a toddler mid-tantrum. “Why did I do that?! What is wrong with me?!”

His lips still tingled. It hadn’t even been a real kiss—just a press of lips, light and quick, something he hadn’t even thought about until it was already happening. But it had felt like dropping a match into a room full of fireworks. A tiny moment, followed by immediate emotional detonation. And then he ran. Full scurry. Full coward.

“He’s gonna think I’m insane.”

He rolled onto his side and curled into a dramatic little ball, burying his face in the sheets. “He already thinks I’m a gremlin. Now he’s gonna think I’m a horny gremlin.”

He sat up quickly. “Was it horny?!”

He slapped both cheeks lightly. “No. No no no. It wasn’t horny. It was soft. Sweet. Stupid. Dumb. SO DUMB. GOD—”

He laid there for a while. Breathing. Blushing. Thinking. The moment kept replaying in his head. The look on Jisung’s face, half laughing, half stunned. The closeness. The tension. The way it hadn’t felt wrong. Just scary. And real.

“I think I like him.”

The words came out so quietly, they nearly disappeared into the air.

“I think I like… all of them.”

He sat up, hugging his knees. “What the hell do I do with that?”

And as he sat there, Seungmin finally admitted to himself what he’d been too afraid to say. That this wasn’t just affection. It wasn’t just connection. It was love. Complicated, messy, sin-soaked love. And there was no putting that back in the bottle now. He just needed to figure out how to feel safe while going for what he wanted. 

—

Seungmin didn’t remember consciously deciding to go to Hyunjin’s room. One moment, he was spiralling in his room like a damp, lovesick wreck. The next, he was slipping through the hall with socked feet and breathless panic, hand already reaching for the doorknob he always turned gently, like entering a sacred place.

Inside, the room was dim. Quiet. Ethereal. Hyunjin lay curled under a blanket, a faint flush still lingering on his cheeks, dark lashes resting heavy over half-lidded eyes. The world clearly still felt too loud for him today. His brow was furrowed like he was half-asleep, half-confused, and his hand twitched slightly against the sheets when the door creaked open.

“Seungmin?” he murmured, voice fog-soft. “What’s wrong?”

Without answering, Seungmin crossed the room in two steps and climbed into the bed. Hyunjin didn’t flinch. He just made space like it was instinct. Seungmin slid under the covers, curled himself into Hyunjin’s side, and tucked his face into the crook of his neck. “I needed you,” he whispered.

Hyunjin’s arms folded around him, slow but steady, his breath tickling Seungmin’s hair. “You’re freezing,” he murmured.

“I panicked,” Seungmin said.

Hyunjin’s hand began to drift up and down his spine in smooth, grounding strokes. “What happened, my darling?”

The pet name made Seungmin exhale, somewhere between a laugh and a whimper.

“I kissed Jisung,” he mumbled into Hyunjin’s neck.

Hyunjin blinked slowly. “Oh.” A pause. “On the forehead?”

Seungmin groaned. “On the mouth.”

Hyunjin’s eyes fluttered open fully now. He stared at the ceiling for a long beat, his expression dazed but focused. “I knew someone kissed someone. My brain registered it like a sound in another room.”

Seungmin laughed weakly. “Is that how fried you are?”

“Everything’s hazy. You’re the first thing that’s made sense.”

Seungmin went quiet. Hyunjin’s fingers moved to the back of his neck, massaging softly. “You’re trembling.”

“I don’t know why I did it. I didn’t plan it. I just… did it. And then I ran like a coward.”

Hyunjin’s lips tilted into a sleepy, knowing smile. “You acted on your desire. That’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

Seungmin let his eyes fall closed. “It’s scary.”

“Of course it is.”

“I don’t even know what I want.”

“You wanted him,” Hyunjin said gently. “Even for a moment. And you let yourself feel it. That’s a kind of bravery.”

Seungmin’s voice was small, barely there. “How am I supposed to look at him after this? After kissing him and then… running?”

Hyunjin gave him a long, thoughtful look, then reached out, brushing his fingers gently along Seungmin’s wrist. “You be you, like you always are. He knows your heart, even if he doesn’t know every piece of it yet. When you’re both ready, you’ll talk. And it’ll mean something, because it already does.”

Seungmin shifted closer, burying himself further into Hyunjin’s arms. “Is it bad that I think I want… more than one of you?”

Hyunjin’s voice dropped to a velvet whisper. “That’s not bad, Seungmin. It’s true. Your heart is vast. I think we all feel it.”

Seungmin blinked slowly, overwhelmed by the ache in his chest. Hyunjin’s hand traced along the edge of his jaw, featherlight. “You don’t have to have answers. You just have to stay open.”

“I feel like I’m going to explode,” Seungmin whispered.

“You’re blooming,” Hyunjin corrected. “It’s messy. And beautiful.”

A long silence stretched between them. Comfortable. Whole. Then Hyunjin leaned in, pressing the gentlest kiss to Seungmin’s head.

“One day,” he said softly, “I’d like to kiss you properly too.”

Seungmin’s breath caught. His heart did something stupid.

“…Okay,” he whispered.

Hyunjin smiled. “No running allowed.”

“I’ll try.”

“Good. You’re mine now. You’ve been initiated.”

Seungmin let out a soft, sleepy laugh. “I don’t think that’s how it works.”

“It is now,” Hyunjin murmured. “You’re in bed with Lust, my darling. All bets are off.”

Minutes later, Seungmin felt Hyunjin’s breathing slow, deeper now, his body finally relaxing. He stayed wrapped in Hyunjin’s arms a little longer. Let himself be held. And when he finally moved away, he tucked the blankets back up to Hyunjin’s chin and placed one last kiss on the back of his hand.

“You always know what to say,” he whispered. “Even when you don’t know what’s real.”

Seungmin felt calmer. A little steadier. A little less afraid.

—

It was long past midnight when Seungmin finally slipped out of Hyunjin’s room. He moved slowly, careful not to disturb the boy still curled in soft sleep beneath layers of grey and blush-toned blankets. His hand lingered on the doorframe for a second longer than it should have. Just enough to anchor himself. The hallway outside was hushed, the kind of quiet that only came when the house truly rested. No distant footsteps. No floorboard groans. Just silence and moonlight.

Seungmin padded down the corridor, down the stairs, bare feet soft against the cool wood. He didn’t really have a destination, just the vague urge to breathe somewhere that wasn’t soaked in heat and heartbeat and velvet Lust-scented sheets.

He turned a corner. And stopped. Chan was already there. Leaning against the wall just past the stairwell, arms crossed loosely over his chest, like he’d been waiting, or maybe like he just happened to be standing in the right place at the right time. He was dressed down, just sweatpants and a loose black shirt, hair falling into his eyes, one hand fidgeting with the cord of his hoodie.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and warm.

Seungmin blinked, caught off guard. “Hey. You’re still up?”

Chan shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep.”

There was a pause. Not awkward though. 

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” Chan added. “You looked like you were escaping something.”

Seungmin smiled faintly. “More like leaving something soft.”

Chan smirked. “Lust?”

Seungmin flushed. Chan held up both hands. “No judgment. You two have a… vibe.”

Seungmin ducked his head. “It’s complicated.”

“Yeah,” Chan said. “Everything with you kind of is.”

That earned him a look. Chan smiled. “Wanna talk?”

Seungmin hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Chan turned, beckoning with a tilt of his head. “Come on. Study’s quiet.”

The room was dim, just a few candles flickering on the desk and the soft amber glow of a reading lamp in the corner. Papers were scattered across the wood in that perfectly controlled chaos Chan always claimed was organised enough, and the whole space smelled faintly like old books, cedar, and black tea. Chan sank into one of the two leather armchairs near the fireplace and gestured for Seungmin to take the other. “Comfier than it looks.”

Seungmin sat, pulling his knees up under him like a cat. For a while, they just existed. No pressure. No questions. Chan broke the silence. 

“You feeling okay?” Chan asked gently, eyes flicking over him.

Seungmin nodded. “Yeah. I mean… today was kind of insane. But good insane. I think.”

Chan chuckled. “That’s how it usually goes with us.”

They sat in silence again for a moment, until Seungmin tilted his head. “What about you? What’s got you awake?”

Chan looked down at his hands, then shrugged. “Mind won’t shut up, I guess.”

Seungmin smiled softly. “Relatable.”

Chan looked over at him then, really looked. His voice dropped to something quieter. “Can I say something weird?”

Seungmin blinked. “From you? I expect nothing less.”

Chan laughed, the sound low and unguarded. Then he leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees.

“It’s been a while since we really… talked. Just you and me. I’ve missed it.”

Seungmin’s chest ached in the gentlest way. “Me too.”

Chan gave him a small, crooked smile. “You’ve changed a lot.”

And in that moment, Seungmin didn’t feel like he had to be funny, or cute, or deflecting. He just nodded.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I know.”

Chan leaned back in the chair like it took effort to keep his body from moving toward Seungmin. His fingers were laced in his lap now, thumbs fidgeting in small, rhythmic circles. The kind of nervous energy he never let the others see.

“I’ve been watching you,” he said softly. “Not in a creepy way. Just… in the way I do.”

Seungmin tilted his head, curious.

“You’ve changed,” Chan continued. “But not in a way that feels like you’re becoming someone else. More like… you’re finally becoming who you were always supposed to be. And it’s beautiful to watch.”

Seungmin didn’t speak, he just looked at Chan like the words were landing somewhere deep, somewhere raw. Chan breathed in slowly. “And part of me wants to be selfish about it.”

Seungmin blinked. “Selfish?”

Chan nodded, still not looking at him. “I’ve been holding back. Maybe more than the others. Not because I care less, if anything, it’s the opposite.”

His voice dropped. “I want everything. That’s what I was made from. Wanting too much. Taking too much. And when you started opening up, I was afraid if I let myself feel all of it, I’d… ruin it somehow.”

He glanced up, finally meeting Seungmin’s gaze. “You’re not something I want to possess, Seungmin. You’re someone I want to choose me back. And I didn’t know how to handle that.”

Seungmin’s chest tightened. “That’s why you’ve been keeping distance,” he said gently.

Chan nodded. “I figured if I stayed useful, organised, supportive, emotionally regulated, you’d trust me. And if I just… waited, maybe I’d be allowed to want more without it making me dangerous.”

There was a long pause. Then Seungmin leaned forward, arms curled loosely around his knees.

“I don’t think you’re dangerous,” he whispered. “I think you’re just… scared.”

Chan’s breath caught. Just for a second.

“Everyone else has been so loud, in their own ways, about their emotions,” Seungmin said, voice trembling at the edges. “But you’ve been quiet. And it’s easy to mistake quiet for distance. But I see you, Chan. I feel you.”

Chan’s eyes fluttered shut like he was absorbing it. Like those words were something he hadn’t even let himself wish for. Then, very softly, he asked, “So what do I do now?”

Seungmin smiled. “You stop holding back.”

They sat in silence for a while after that. Not awkward silence. Not heavy. Just stillness. The kind that wrapped around them like a blanket and whispered: You don’t need to rush.

Chan’s gaze dropped to the flickering candle between them. The flame bent and swayed in slow rhythm, throwing golden light across Seungmin’s cheekbones and collarbones, like the house itself wanted to keep him soft, bathed in warmth.

“There’s something I’ve been working on,” Chan said eventually. “I wasn’t sure if I’d ever show anyone. But…”

He stood slowly and crossed the room to a drawer beneath the tall bookshelf. From within, he pulled a slim leather-bound journal. It looked worn but cared for, edges thumbed, the elastic barely holding on. He returned to his seat and placed it in his lap, resting both hands on the cover.

“I write when I can’t say things out loud,” he murmured. “Helps keep the chaos in my head from getting too loud.”

Seungmin watched him, quiet, curious. Chan hesitated, then looked up. “You can read a little. If you want.”

Seungmin didn’t answer with words. Instead, he shifted from his armchair, moving slowly, like he didn’t want to startle anything sacred, and stepped into Chan’s space. Chan stiffened for just a second, unsure. But Seungmin didn’t sprawl or curl into him. He simply lowered himself into Chan’s lap, legs tucked to the side, light as a whisper. His fingers rested gently on the edge of the journal, not opening it yet, just letting it rest between them.

“Is this okay?” he asked.

Chan swallowed. Nodded. “Yeah. It’s more than okay.”

Seungmin smiled. He opened the book to the first page. There were no dates. No headings. Just a flow of thoughts, emotions, scribbled feelings. Some neat. Some messier. Some almost poetic.

He looks at everyone like he’s trying to remember why he matters. I want to be the reason he stops wondering.

The way he touches the others is different. Like he’s learning his own capacity for love by accident. I wonder if he’ll ever touch me like that.

They all want him. I just want him to be okay.

Seungmin’s fingers paused on the edge of the page. His breath caught in his throat. There was a section smudged with what looked like water. A small ripple in the paper.

“Did you cry?” he whispered.

Chan let out a soft laugh through his nose. “Just once. I think that’s the page where I realised you weren’t just our tether. You were… you.”

Seungmin didn’t speak. He just let the journal fall closed again and leaned forward, resting his head against Chan’s shoulder.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “For letting me see you.”

Chan’s hand moved hesitantly, and rested on Seungmin’s back. Not pulling him in. Just being there.

“You’re the only one I’ve ever wanted to show.”

Seungmin didn’t speak again, but his body answered for him. He shifted just slightly, moved deeper into Chan’s chest, head tucked under his chin, one hand slipping between them like he was trying to tuck himself into Chan’s heart. Chan exhaled softly, his arms wrapping around Seungmin with a tenderness that didn’t ask for anything back.

The journal sat forgotten now, placed gently on the table beside them. Its pages still hummed with truth, but for once, Chan didn’t need to write anything. This was the entry. This moment. This closeness. Seungmin’s weight against him. The soft rise and fall of his breathing. The smell of warm cotton and candle smoke and trust. He felt it all like it was being written into him.

Mine, Chan thought, but not possessively. More like a prayer. A miracle. His fingers brushed up and down Seungmin’s spine in slow, lazy passes, memorising the curve of him. There was no rush. No urgency. Just the sweetness of being allowed to hold something so wanted.

But then—

A soft flicker in the candles. A tremor beneath the floorboards, barely there. Like the house itself had shifted. And in the walls, something breathed. Not loudly. Not harshly. Just a presence. A nudge.

Be careful.

Chan stilled. Not because he was afraid. But because he knew that feeling. The house didn’t speak often. But when it did, it never lied. He tightened his arms just a little, resting his chin on the top of Seungmin’s head.

“I won’t hurt him,” he whispered into the quiet, not sure if he was speaking to the house or himself. Seungmin stirred faintly, nestling even closer. Like he’d heard something too, but chose to stay anyway. Chan closed his eyes.

“I’ll be careful,” he promised. And for now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

The lounge was a soft tangle of limbs and low lighting, warm cushions stacked at odd angles, two half-empty mugs of tea on the floor, and Jisung yelling about action movies from the deepest part of the couch.

“Something explosive!” he insisted, gesturing wildly with a handful of popcorn. “I want car crashes, fight scenes, maybe a sexy betrayal—”

“You want Fast & Furious again,” Minho muttered.

“I want something with plot,” Jeongin countered, pulling a blanket over his head like the discussion personally offended him.

“I second that,” Chan called from the floor, sprawled back on a cushion with one knee bent and one arm draped lazily over his face. “Just not whatever Felix made us watch last time.”

“It was cute!” Felix protested, hands on his hips. “It was about a frog and a human learning to communicate through interpretive dance—”

“Exactly,” Chan groaned. “We watched two hours of ribbit ballet.”

“You’re just uncultured,” Felix sniffed.

Seungmin watched them with a quiet smile as he wandered toward the old wooden cabinet beneath the TV. The drawers stuck slightly, their handles worn smooth from decades of use. He crouched, tugging one open with a soft grunt, and began flipping through the thin, plastic DVD sleeves tucked at the back.

Most of the cases were faded, some handwritten, some with torn covers, like they’d been watched too many times to be replaced. The sins were still arguing behind him, Jisung now fighting for “something with swords,” but their voices faded a little as Seungmin pulled out one particular case near the very back.

He paused. The title stared up at him like it remembered him. His fingers brushed over it. The cover was old, worn from years of loving hands, but he knew it instantly.

The Secret Garden.

Of course it was. He turned it over in his hands, already picturing the opening scenes. The quiet sorrow. The slow magic. The garden that bloomed only when someone believed it could. Rainy days. Tea steam. Her humming the theme under her breath while folding laundry. Reciting dialogue like scripture, soft and fond and full of something that felt like comfort.

His throat tightened, but he turned with a smile. “How about this one?”

He held it up. The room went still. Chan looked up first. Slowly. Like he wasn’t sure he’d heard right. Felix’s breath caught audibly. “Is that…?”

“My aunt’s favourite movie,” Seungmin said softly. “She used to play it all the time. Especially in winter.”

Nobody spoke. It was unnerving, how quiet the room became. Jisung was no longer flailing. Jeongin pulled the blanket down slowly. Even Minho, who rarely got visibly shaken, had gone oddly still.

Seungmin blinked. “What?”

Felix swallowed. “We haven’t watched that since she left.”

Seungmin stared at them, expression shifting, confusion giving way to something heavier. “You watched this with her?”

Chan nodded slowly. “She always put it on when she didn’t want to talk. Just… sat on the couch with a cup of tea and let it play. Over and over.”

Felix added, voice small, “She said it reminded her of what the house was supposed to be.”

Jisung, unusually quiet, murmured, “She never cried watching it. But she always looked like she was about to.”

Seungmin looked down at the case in his hands. The film felt heavier now. They hadn’t just known her. They had memories. They had sat with her. Laughed with her. Felt her disappear.

They watched the film in near silence. The only sounds were the soft flicker of the screen, the occasional breath catching in someone’s throat, and the whispery rustle of blankets being pulled tighter. Outside, rain tapped gently at the windows, faint and rhythmic, as if the world itself knew to hush.

Seungmin sat between Felix and Jeongin on the floor, a pillow hugged to his chest. He didn’t speak. Didn’t fidget. His eyes never left the screen. He knew this film. Every frame. Every musical swell. He’d memorised it through osmosis, hearing it over and over from the kitchen, from the hallway, from the space beside his aunt’s chair where she’d sit, half-watching, half-lost in thought. It hadn’t felt special then. Just… part of her. But now? Now it felt like she was in the room.

Felix hadn’t moved in ten minutes. His expression was unreadable, gentle, but tight around the eyes. Jeongin’s legs were drawn up to his chest, chin resting on his knees. Jisung had curled into Minho on the couch, unusually quiet. Even Changbin had gone still. And Chan hadn’t looked away from the screen once. The moment the credits began to roll, slow, swelling piano, soft and aching, Chan sat forward. Elbows on his knees. Hands clasped. Like he was trying to ground himself in something real.

Then, very quietly: “Seungmin?”

He turned toward him. Chan’s voice was softer than usual. Careful.

“Can I ask… what happened to her?”

The words landed like a breath. No weight, no pressure, just curiosity wrapped in care. Seungmin didn’t look away.

“She got sick,” he said quietly. “Slower than we realised at first.” His gaze softened, not detached, but steady. Anchored in memory.

“It started small. She said it was nothing. Just fatigue. A little shakiness. But I knew her. I could feel something changing before she even admitted it.” He exhaled, just once. Not to steady himself, but to make space.

“I was in a bad relationship then. Controlling. Cold. I think I would’ve stayed longer than I should have, if she hadn’t needed me. But when she got worse… I left him.” He paused, letting that sit.

“I left everything behind. Moved in with her. Became her hands when hers wouldn’t work. Sat beside her every day, through every bad night, every doctor’s appointment, every moment she tried to pretend it wasn’t getting worse.”

No one moved.

“I made her laugh when she didn’t want to eat. I held her while she slept. And when the time came, when it was clear she wasn’t going to recover, I stayed. I sat beside her bed and held her hand while she slipped away.” The words didn’t shake. They weren’t dramatic. But they were real.

“I watched the strongest person I’ve ever known disappear. And I’d do it all again.”

The silence afterward felt alive. Felix wiped at his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie. Jeongin had gone perfectly still. Even Jisung looked gutted. Chan’s expression broke. Just for a second. He blinked hard, rubbing a thumb against his temple like he was trying to catch up to something in his own mind.

No one spoke at first. The weight of Seungmin’s voice lingered like the tail end of a storm, soft, but undeniable. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. But it was true. And it was enough to stop the whole room from breathing for a beat too long.

Then Felix moved. He didn’t ask permission, just curled in beside Seungmin and rested his head against his arm, the way someone does when they don’t know what to say but can’t bear to stay still. Seungmin didn’t pull away. He let him stay. Let himself be leaned on. Maybe for the first time in a long time. Jeongin looked like he wanted to say something, but didn’t. His hands were tucked under the blanket in his lap, clenched white-knuckle tight. Jisung’s voice broke the silence first, gentle and cautious.

“That dream you had,” he murmured. “The one where you woke up crying… that was about him, wasn’t it?”

Seungmin nodded. “He used to tell me I was lucky,” he said, barely louder than the fire crackling beside them. “That no one else would want me. That I was a burden. A mess.” He swallowed. Felix’s hand found his.

“I used to believe him,” Seungmin whispered. “And then she got sick. And I left. And for the first time in years, I felt… useful. Like I mattered. Like I could do something right.”

His voice cracked. “She made me feel human again.”

A silence followed, not empty, but charged. The kind of silence that comes from people hearing you, not just listening. Chan exhaled shakily, rubbing a hand over his mouth like he was trying to settle something in his chest.

“I’m so fucking proud of you,” he said softly. “For getting out. For staying. For… surviving.”

Seungmin looked at him, eyes a little glassy but sharp with feeling.

“You didn’t deserve any of that,” Chan continued. “And I hate that he made you think you did.”

Minho, still quiet on the couch, finally spoke, his voice low, but unshaken.

“If I ever meet him,” he said, “I’ll bury him.”

That actually got a quiet laugh from Seungmin. Just a breath. But it was enough to shift the weight in the room. Felix squeezed his hand. “You’re not a burden.”

“Not even a little bit,” Jisung added.

Jeongin finally spoke, voice hoarse. “You’re the reason this place feels like home again.”

Seungmin blinked down at the floor, his throat tight. And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel small.

They stayed there together for a long while. No one filled the silence. No one needed to. The warmth of the room, their bodies pressed close, their hands still touching his, was enough. It held him in a way words couldn’t. Gentle. Honest. Undemanding.

Eventually, Seungmin shifted. He gave Felix’s hand one last soft squeeze, then let go and stood slowly, pulling his sleeves down over his wrists as if the motion could shield him from the weight of everything still clinging to his ribs.

“Hey,” Jisung said gently, “you okay?”

Seungmin nodded, not quite meeting anyone’s eyes. “I just… need a little time to think,” he said quietly. “Just for a while.”

The boys stilled, reluctant, but respectful.

“Alright,” Chan said after a moment. His voice was calm, but the worry in his eyes was unmistakable. “We’re here when you’re ready.”

Seungmin gave a small nod. No smile. Just… acknowledgment. Then he turned and walked out of the lounge.

-

The bedroom felt colder than usual. Not physically. Just emptier. The kind of quiet that pressed in around the edges, begging to be filled with anything but thought. Seungmin sat down on the edge of the bed, hands curled into the hem of his sleeves, and stared at the wall for a long moment.

And then, slowly, the memories started. Not just thoughts. Not images. Sensations. The sharp ache of being grabbed too hard. The coldness of being spoken to like he was property. The way sex had become a transaction. The way his body had stopped feeling like his.

“No one else is going to want you.”

“You’re only good for one thing.”

“Don’t pretend you don’t like it.”

“I said you were mine. That means you don’t say no.”

He clenched his fists, breath catching. He remembered flinching from touches, even soft ones. Remembered smiling when he didn’t want to. Saying yes when everything in him screamed no. He remembered the hollowness that came after. His throat burned. His chest ached.

And then, into the quiet,“…but they’re not like him.”

The words broke free like a crack in glass. He said them again, just a whisper.

“They’re not like him.” He closed his eyes. And the memories shifted. Not the old ones. New ones.

Felix bringing him tea without being asked, calling him sweetheart like it was sacred.

Minho’s hand in his, holding it so gently under the blanket.

Jisung’s laugh under his lips. The soft kiss. The shock of it. The way it hadn’t scared him.

Changbin catching him mid-prank, swearing and scolding but never letting go.

Jeongin brushing his fringe away, quiet eyes full of something like awe.

Chan whispering, “I’m proud of you,” like it was something Seungmin hadn’t believed until he heard it.

Hyunjin’s voice in the dark, velvet-soft: “My darling.”

Tears welled in his eyes, but they didn’t burn the same way. They weren’t heavy with shame or fear. They were soft. Full. Grateful.

He pulled his knees to his chest, buried his face in them, and let the tears come. Not because he was broken. But because for the first time in so long… he didn’t feel alone.

—

Hyunjin sat alone in his room, back pressed to the wall, one leg bent beneath him, the other stretched out over the blankets. The light was low, just the amber glow of the salt lamp on the dresser, warm and soft like candlelight. Everything else was still.

And yet, he felt it.

Not a sound. Not a sudden shift. Just a quiet, spreading ache. Like something inside the house had sighed too deeply. Like a thread had been pulled too tight and left humming, stretched between two hearts. He breathed in through his nose and closed his eyes. Something was wrong. Not loud wrong. Not panic wrong. Just… unsteady.

It didn’t take long to realise who it was. Even through the quiet, even from across the house, he could feel it. The tether had grown that much stronger. And if the others hadn’t noticed it yet, hadn’t felt the flicker of pain curling up the stairs like smoke, then maybe they were too used to feeling Seungmin bright.

But Hyunjin wasn’t.

He moved before he could second-guess himself. No one saw him slip from his room. The house was hushed, the hallway dim. He padded down the hall, bare feet silent against the wood, until he reached the door he already knew was closed.

Seungmin’s. He raised a hand and knocked once. Gentle. Knuckles barely brushing the wood.

“…Min?”

A pause. He heard nothing. But something told him: wait. So he did. Then, soft as breath, “Come in.”

Hyunjin slipped through the door and shut it behind him. Seungmin was sitting on the bed, legs pulled to his chest, face blotchy but calm. His eyes were red, but not leaking. Not anymore. He didn’t look startled. He looked like he’d expected this. Hyunjin didn’t speak right away. He crossed the room slowly, settling down beside the bed but not yet reaching for him. He waited. Watched. After a moment, Seungmin glanced over, voice small and tired.

“You felt it, didn’t you?”

Hyunjin nodded. “Of course I did.”

The silence stretched again, but it wasn’t empty. Then Hyunjin whispered, “Do you want me to leave?”

Seungmin shook his head. Hyunjin shifted closer. Carefully. Until their knees touched, barely.

“I won’t ask what you saw,” he said, voice like velvet. “But I can stay until it stops hurting.”

Seungmin’s throat tightened. “It won’t stop for a while,” he murmured.

“Then I’ll be here for a while.”

Hyunjin didn’t press. He never did. His stillness wasn’t silence, it was invitation. Seungmin uncurled slowly, lowering his knees, letting his legs stretch out along the bed. He glanced at Hyunjin, eyes still glassy, but steady now.

“I saw him,” he said softly. “In my head.”

Hyunjin didn’t ask who. He didn’t need to.

Seungmin exhaled, voice fragile.

“I remembered things I didn’t want to. Things I try not to think about because if I start, I don’t know where it ends.” He looked down at his hands.

“He made me feel like my body wasn’t mine. Like I was only worth what I could give. Or endure.”

Hyunjin’s jaw tightened, but his voice was gentle, “And now?”

Seungmin blinked.

“I’m scared,” he whispered. “Because this house… you, all of you, make me feel different. Like maybe I could be loved in a way that doesn’t hurt.”

Hyunjin moved closer, slow and fluid, and reached out with one hand, resting it over Seungmin’s where it lay in his lap. Seungmin didn’t flinch.

“I’m still trying to believe that’s allowed,” he said. “That it can be safe. That I can want someone without being afraid of what comes after.”

Hyunjin’s fingers curled slightly, not holding, just being there.

“You’re allowed,” he said. “Every part of you is allowed.”

Seungmin looked at him. “And if I’m not ready for everything yet?”

Hyunjin smiled, eyes glowing soft.

“Then I’ll wait. Even if it’s forever.”

The breath Seungmin let out was shaky, but this time, it didn’t hurt. Hyunjin didn’t let go of his hand. He didn’t say anything else, either. The silence between them felt like a velvet ribbon, binding, but soft. Seungmin stared down at their hands for a moment, his thumb brushing lightly over Hyunjin’s.

“I told the others what happened to her,” he said quietly. “How she died. But…”

He hesitated.

“I haven’t really talked about who she was. Not before all that.”

Hyunjin said nothing, but his thumb pressed gently back. Just once. I’m listening. Seungmin smiled faintly, but it was wobbly at the edges.

“My parents left before my sixth birthday. Walked out without saying goodbye. Called from the road to let my aunt know she can keep me or get rid of me.” He gave a soft, humourless huff, and glanced up at Hyunjin.

“She found out, and she came. No hesitation. Just, ‘he’s mine now.’ Like I was something to be claimed. Something worth keeping.” Hyunjin’s eyes softened, glowing with something close to awe.

“She made the best pancakes. Burnt every single one, but wouldn’t let me eat them unless they were cut into shapes. Hearts, stars, crooked little bears. I told her I was too old for that once and she cried. I never said it again.” Seungmin blinked, looking off toward the window like he could see her there.

“She taught me how to plant things. Said if you whisper to the roots, they remember you. Said it made them grow better. I didn’t believe her, until the garden started leaning toward me.” He laughed a little then, quiet and cracked.

Hyunjin’s voice was soft when it came. “She sounds like she loved you very much.”

Seungmin nodded, eyes brimming again.

“She did. More than anyone ever had. She was the first person who made me feel like… I wasn’t just surviving. Like I was supposed to be here.”

He turned toward Hyunjin, expression open and raw. “And now you all make me feel that, too.”

They stayed there for a while, just breathing, letting the weight of memory settle into something gentler. Eventually, Hyunjin moved to sit properly on the bed, cross-legged and facing him. Seungmin mirrored the pose, knees brushing, and something about the new shape of the space between them felt lighter.

They didn’t talk about grief anymore. They talked about plants. About Jisung’s war against a spider in the bathroom last week. About the time Minho purposefully washed a red sock in Chan’s laundry to turn his whites pink. They laughed.

Hyunjin leaned in slightly, smiling with his whole face. “What would you be if you weren’t human?”

Seungmin blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“You heard me,” Hyunjin grinned. “Spirit? Star? Mushroom? Pick your form.”

Seungmin hummed. “Maybe… a pond. One that looks still but is full of frogs and curses.”

“That’s terrifying. I’m in love.”

He rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. They were close now. Close enough that he could see the little flecks of brown in Hyunjin’s irises. Close enough that every breath felt like a question waiting to be asked.

Seungmin hesitated. He felt safe with Hyunjin. Safe and cared for. Something close to desire bubble beneath his veins. And then, quietly, softly, barely audible above the hush of the house, “Can I… kiss you?”

Hyunjin stilled. And then the most beautiful thing happened. He smiled. Not wide. Not smug. Just full. Bright and soft and so incredibly Hyunjin.

“My darling,” he whispered, “you never have to ask. But I’m so glad you did.”

Seungmin leaned in. And kissed him. It was small. Barely a brush. No fire, no urgency, just the tiniest press of hope. But it was his. It was his choice. And it was perfect.

Their lips met in the softest way possible, like the idea of a kiss, rather than the act itself. Just a press. A warmth. A moment.

And then Seungmin pulled back. Not far. Just a breath’s distance. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes wide but glowing.

Hyunjin hadn’t moved. He just looked at him. Steady. Open. Like Seungmin had done something sacred, and he wasn’t about to break the spell by rushing it.

Seungmin let out a slow, shaky breath—the kind you don’t realise you’ve been holding until you exhale and your whole body unclenches. He reached up and covered his mouth for a second, like he was trying to physically hold the feeling in. His voice was quiet when he finally spoke.

“I’ve kissed two of you now.”

Hyunjin raised an eyebrow, amused. “And?”

“At least I didn’t panic and run out of the room this time.”

Hyunjin laughed, soft and musical. “Progress.”

Seungmin dropped his hand and gave a shy smile. “It felt… different.”

“Good different?”

Seungmin nodded. “Yeah. It didn’t feel like… a performance. Or like I owed it to you. It just felt like… like I could.”

Hyunjin’s eyes softened. “You can.”

They sat there for a little while longer, knees still brushing, still facing each other. The air between them was light now. Like a blanket thrown over the sharpest edges of the world.

“Do you think frogs have soulmates?” Seungmin asked suddenly.

Hyunjin blinked. “That’s where we’re going next?”

“I’m just saying,” Seungmin said, lifting his hands in surrender, “if I was a pond, I’d want the frogs to find love.”

Hyunjin smiled, folding his arms. “You’re dangerously close to writing an indie romance film.”

Seungmin grinned. “Good. I’ll dedicate it to you.”

Hyunjin shifted slightly, one hand bracing behind him on the bed, the other lazily resting in his lap. His eyes never left Seungmin’s face, not in a hungry way. Just fond, like he was trying to memorise every single second. Seungmin tucked his legs underneath himself again, hoodie sleeves fidgeted down over his palms, cheeks still pink from the kiss.

“Okay,” Hyunjin said, tone playful. “So you’re a soul-match-making pond. What am I?”

Seungmin squinted dramatically. “Something… untouchable.”

“Oh?”

“You’d be, like… a cloud that steals thoughts.”

“A what.”

“A seductive weather phenomenon,” Seungmin said, straight-faced. “Lurks near mountaintops. Looks poetic. Ruins your day.”

Hyunjin was wheezing. “Are you saying I’m just floating brain static in a nice outfit?”

Seungmin shrugged, biting back a smile. “If the boot fits.”

“I’m deeply offended,” Hyunjin sniffed. “I was going for enchanted fae prince, but sure. Moist air.”

“Hey, I said seductive.”

“You said weather.”

Seungmin giggled, actually giggled, like a sound he hadn’t made in years just slipped out because the air finally felt light enough to hold it. Hyunjin stared at him, soft with wonder.

“Do you know how beautiful you are when you laugh?”

Seungmin blinked. His lips parted like he was about to deflect, make a joke, tease back, hide behind a smile. But then he stopped. And just said, quietly, “Thank you.”

Hyunjin’s smile turned into something quieter. “You don’t have to make yourself smaller anymore.”

Seungmin looked at him. And then nodded.

“I’m trying.”

They sat in the stillness again, but this time it felt warm. Sweet. Like a storybook chapter that didn’t want to end.

Hyunjin tilted his head. “You gonna kiss the rest of us, too?”

Seungmin blushed. “Don’t tempt me.”

“I’m just saying. It’s gonna be chaos when they find out.”

Seungmin groaned. “Can we not think about that yet? Let me live in this moment where I’m brave and kissed you and nobody’s yelling.”

“I’m not yelling.”

“You’re yelling with your eyebrows.”

“Impossible,” Hyunjin said, smug. “These are sculpted.”

The laughter faded slowly, like a song ending on a smile. Seungmin still hadn’t moved far. They were barely a foot apart now, knees almost touching, the kind of closeness that made the air feel thinner. Hyunjin’s expression was soft and open, eyes heavy-lidded but warm, like he could stay here forever. Seungmin hesitated, bit his lip, then let out the tiniest laugh.

“What?” Hyunjin asked, voice low. Seungmin glanced up at him, cheeks pink.

“…Can I… do it again?” Seungmin couldn’t believe his courage today, maybe Felix spiked his tea.

Hyunjin blinked. Then his whole face lit up. “Of course you can,” he whispered.

This time, Seungmin leaned in slower. He lifted one hand, tentative at first, then placed it carefully against Hyunjin’s cheek. His thumb brushed the edge of his jaw. His other hand rose and threaded gently through the hair at Hyunjin’s temple, his fingers curling into the softness. Hyunjin melted into it.

Their lips met again. Longer, this time. No urgency. Just warmth. Just the kind of kiss that lingers because it wants to. The kind that speaks in quiet heartbeats and slow exhales. They tilted toward each other like they were being pulled, not by tension, but by gravity. When they finally broke apart, barely inches between them, Seungmin let out a shaky breath that ended in a laugh. Hyunjin rested his forehead against his.

“You okay?” he murmured. Seungmin nodded, dazed and dreamy.

“Yeah. I’m… okay.” He smiled, small and giddy. “Maybe even better than okay.”

Hyunjin grinned. “Good. Because I’m pretty sure you just ruined me for anyone else.”

“Guess I better get to the others before they fall in love with someone else, huh?”

“Too late,” Hyunjin whispered, kissing the tip of his nose.

Chapter Text

The days since his conversation with Hyunjin had passed in a kind of hush—soft, golden, undemanding. There had been laughter in the kitchen. Quiet music in the lounge. A shared bowl of fruit between him and Jeongin that neither of them had wanted to finish first. The house had felt warmer, lighter, as if the storm had passed and the dust was finally starting to settle. But even peace could become a pressure. And some questions didn’t dissolve with time.

Seungmin lay in bed that night with his hands folded over his chest, eyes fixed on the crack in the ceiling plaster he’d only just noticed. It looked like a branch. Or a fracture. Or a lightning bolt, split just above his pillow and spidering into silence. The blankets were soft. The room was dim. Nothing stirred.

Except him.

He hadn’t stopped thinking about it. Not really. The kiss. The bolt of instinct that had driven him forward and the panic that had chased him back.

Jisung hadn’t mentioned it. Not once. Not in the two days following. Not in the days after that. He’d teased him about everything else, the way Seungmin always forgot which drawer held the forks, the time he tripped over a rug trying to dodge a compliment, the way he chewed with his left cheek like he was guarding a secret.

But not the kiss.

Not the way Seungmin had kissed him, then fled like he’d caught fire. The quiet around it had grown louder. A creak echoed faintly above the window. Just the house settling, maybe. Or maybe not. The air felt different. Watchful. Expectant.

Seungmin sat up. He moved without really deciding to. Pulled on the hoodie slung over the bedpost. Tiptoed barefoot across the cool floorboards, the ones he now knew by memory, where they groaned, where they stayed silent. The hallway was dim, lit only by moonlight dripping through narrow windows. The house didn’t speak. But it didn’t stop him either. He padded downstairs.

The clock in the front hall had just ticked past three. Too late for tea. Too early for excuses. But his feet moved anyway, drawn toward the den like they knew what he needed before he did. He heard it before he saw it, the low static hum of the television and the soft rustle of a snack packet being rummaged through. Seungmin paused in the doorway.

Jisung was curled on the left side of the lounge, hood up, blanket twisted around him like a makeshift cocoon. His hair stuck out in too many directions. His socks didn’t match. A bowl of popcorn sat wedged between his knees like a hostage. And his eyes, though fixed on the screen, flickered toward Seungmin the second he stepped into the room.

But Jisung didn’t say anything. He shifted slightly, shoved his hand into the bowl, and popped two pieces into his mouth like this was nothing. Like they weren’t both haunted by a moment they never spoke about. Seungmin stepped inside.

“Still traumatised by my wet hair?” he asked, voice dry, soft, and too careful.

Jisung chewed. Shrugged. “You’ve had worse looks.”

The tension snapped like a thread. Just a little. Seungmin crossed the room, sat at the far end of the lounge. Not too far. But not close enough for answers. The silence stretched again. The show on the screen was some kind of muted sci-fi rerun. Neon lights flickering, actors in stiff jackets arguing over a glowing cube. But neither of them were watching. Seungmin pulled the blanket higher around his shoulders. He exhaled.

“I keep thinking about it,” he said quietly. “That night.”

The house didn’t creak. But something shifted. Like breath held. Jisung’s eyes stayed on the screen. But his voice came low. Tired. Honest.

“Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

Seungmin didn’t respond right away. He watched the screen instead, watched the fake galaxy spin, watched a spaceship disintegrate into neon ash. The volume was low. The light from the TV flickered over Jisung’s face, softening him into something younger. Something lonelier.

“I didn’t mean to…” Seungmin started, then stopped. The words dissolved on his tongue. Jisung didn’t look at him. But his hand stilled halfway to the popcorn bowl.

“You didn’t mean to kiss me?”

“No,” Seungmin said quickly, heart jolting. “I did. I really did. I just—” He swallowed. Rubbed a palm over his thigh. “I didn’t mean to run.”

That got Jisung’s attention. Slowly, deliberately, he turned to face him.

There was no teasing in his eyes. No grin. Just that same quiet ache Seungmin had only ever seen in rare, fragile moments, like when the house thundered with wind and Jisung would press closer to the wall like he needed something to anchor him.

“You think I’m mad that you ran?” he asked, voice too light to be casual. “I’m not.”

“…You’re not?”

Jisung shook his head. “I’m mad you didn’t come back.”

That shut Seungmin up. Jisung shifted again, curling his legs beneath him, blanket draped like armour across his lap. He looked away, down at the half-empty bowl.

“I’ve been trying not to make it a thing. I figured if you wanted to talk about it, you would. And if you didn’t, maybe it didn’t matter as much as I thought.” He laughed once. It sounded like a crack. “But I’m so tired of pretending I didn’t feel it.”

Seungmin’s breath caught. Jisung licked his lips, eyes still low. “You can kiss me and run, Min. That’s fine. But don’t pretend it didn’t mean anything.”

He finally met Seungmin’s gaze. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Not to me.”

Silence. Thick and trembling. The house didn’t speak, but something in the room shivered. Like the walls knew this mattered. Like even the floorboards wanted to listen.

Seungmin leaned forward. “I’m not pretending,” he said, and his voice sounded wrecked, even to him. “I just… didn’t know what to do with it. With you.”

Jisung blinked.

“You’ve always been the one who made things easier. The one who made me laugh. Made me feel safe. I didn’t know how to ruin that by making it…“ He hesitated. The words felt too big. “Real.”

Jisung tilted his head. “You think this isn’t real?”

“No,” Seungmin said, voice cracking. “I think it’s too real.”

For a second, neither of them moved. The show flickered in the background, some hero making a sacrifice in slow motion, light exploding across the screen.

And then Jisung shifted. “I wanted it to mean something.” He looked down at his hands. “I wanted me to mean something.”

And that undid Seungmin. Because he did. He meant everything. Seungmin moved before his brain could catch up. He set the popcorn bowl aside, turned fully toward him, heart pounding so loud he was sure the house could hear it.

“You do,” he whispered. “You do mean something. You were the first one I wanted.”

His throat tightened. “I was just too scared to admit it.”

Jisung stared at him. A long moment passed. Slowly, his expression shifted, relief bleeding through his edges, disbelief giving way to something warmer. Softer. And then, with a grin that was barely a whisper and eyes that still shimmered like they’d almost cried, he leaned in and kissed him.

This one wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t panicked. It was full of knowing. It was warm and real and tasted faintly of salt and sugar and the ache of days they’d both pretended not to miss. When they pulled apart, Seungmin was breathless. Jisung smirked, but there was no bite in it. Just fondness. Just the echo of something that might grow.

“If you run this time,” he said softly, “I’m tripping you.”

Seungmin let out a shaky laugh. His voice wobbled when he answered, eyes locked on Jisung’s like they were the only steady thing left in the world.

“…As long as you catch me.”

And Jisung, without hesitation, without a single breath of doubt, whispered, “Always.”

Something cracked open between them. Not broken, just unlocked. A door swinging inward. A heart letting the light in. And in the corner of the room, a floorboard creaked, just once. Like the house was joining them in their special moment. Seungmin smiled. 

-

The morning sunlight slanted lazily through the kitchen windows, catching on the dust motes dancing in the air and painting everything in soft gold. It was the kind of light that didn’t demand anything, just poured in like warm tea and waited to be noticed.

Felix was already in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, curls damp from a quick rinse. The air was filled with the smell of buttered toast, and something sweet baking, maybe maple, maybe brown sugar. Something sinful. Something soothing. He hummed under his breath, barefoot on the tile, every movement a quiet celebration of domestic magic. The house felt warm. Settled. Happy. 

He glanced toward the lounge doorway just as the blanket heap on the couch stirred. Seungmin shifted first, blinking slowly, nose scrunched from the way the sun filtered through the curtains. Jisung was still curled against him, mouth half-open, one hand flopped dramatically over Seungmin’s hip like a sleepy koala. His hoodie was halfway up his stomach. Neither of them had moved all night. Felix smiled to himself. He didn’t say anything. Just set another plate down and kept stirring. Eventually, Seungmin sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and blinked toward the kitchen.

“Did you sleep there the whole night?” Felix asked, too casually, without turning around.

Jisung groaned into the couch cushion. “Define ‘sleep.’”

Felix just snorted. “Breakfast in ten.”

By the time the food was done, a few others had emerged, drawn by the smell or by the strange magnetic pull of calm after comfort.

Chan appeared first, still in his black tee and loose sweats, hair a mess, one sock missing. He mumbled something vaguely grateful about the scent of garlic saving his life and immediately stole a piece of toast off Felix’s tray. 

Minho followed next, far too composed for this hour, mug already in hand. He nodded once in greeting, muttered, “You look like death,” to Jisung, and then sat gracefully at the far end of the table like a cat pretending not to judge.

Changbin stumbled in last, shirtless, hair defying gravity, a singular slipper on his left foot. He took one look at the table, then at the couch, then at the empty seat beside Jisung and muttered, “Nah. I’m not emotionally prepared for whatever this is.” Felix handed him a plate anyway.

Seungmin didn’t sit in the empty chair. He crossed the room without a word and plopped directly into Jisung’s lap, settling like he belonged there, which, arguably, he did. Jisung froze for a second, arms still mid-stretch, before they automatically wrapped around Seungmin’s waist like instinct. “Uh. Hello?”

“You’re warm,” Seungmin mumbled. “And the chair’s cold.”

“Use your own body heat like a normal person,” Chan muttered from across the table, but his smirk gave him away. Minho didn’t comment. Just raised one perfect eyebrow and kept sipping his coffee like he was clocking every micro-expression in the room.

And then Seungmin did it. Just a little thing. Just a quick, casual press of lips to Jisung’s cheek. A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind of kiss.

Except no one missed it.

Jisung went still. Felix dropped the spatula. Minho blinked, once. And Changbin—

“WHAT THE FUCK?!”

His chair scraped backward so violently it tipped, and he stood like someone had just threatened national security. “EXCUSE ME?! ARE WE—ARE YOU JUST—IN FRONT OF MY EGGS?!”

Seungmin blinked at him. “…You’ve literally seen me crying.”

“THAT’S DIFFERENT,” Changbin shrieked. “That was a crisis! This is—this is SMILING and TOUCHING and—HAPPINESS??”

“Yeah,” Jisung said slowly, catching up, one arm still around Seungmin’s waist. “We’re happy now. Try not to pass out.”

“I’m gonna vomit.”

“Do it quietly,” Minho said, without looking up. “I’m eating.”

Felix buried his face in a dishtowel to hide his giggle. Seungmin leaned back into Jisung’s chest, eyes fluttering shut, smile threatening the corners of his mouth. “I should kiss him again.”

“DON’T YOU DARE!”

Changbin didn’t sit back down for a full two minutes. He paced instead, shirtless and scandalised, muttering things like “absolutely deranged behaviour” and “in front of the goddamn orange juice??” under his breath like the universe had personally betrayed him.

Jisung had gone pink. Not a little pink. Not a “haha I’m shy” pink. Like full blush-all-the-way-to-his-ears pink. He was holding Seungmin like he didn’t know where his hands were supposed to go anymore  one arm tentatively looped around his waist, the other just… floating.

“I think I’m dissociating,” Jisung whispered.

“You’re just in love,” Felix said brightly, and then immediately ducked behind a cabinet when Jisung chucked a crouton at him.

Meanwhile, Seungmin was calm. Devastatingly calm. Sitting like a smug little prince on his gremlin throne, picking toast crusts off Jisung’s plate and popping them into his mouth like this was just a Tuesday.

Minho arched an eyebrow. “That’s his food.”

Seungmin shrugged. “He likes when I steal things.”

“I have no evidence to the contrary,” Jisung mumbled, clearly trying to black out in real time. Felix reappeared behind the counter, setting down another tray, this one full of little jam pots and a carafe of warm spiced tea. He caught Seungmin’s eye and gave him a wink. Not teasing. Just warm. Quietly proud. Like someone who’d been waiting for this moment to happen and was pleased it hadn’t exploded completely.

Seungmin’s smirk softened. He leaned back slightly, enough to let his shoulder rest against Jisung’s chest. Not dramatically. Just securely.

The chaos lulled. Even Changbin eventually dropped back into his chair, arms crossed, mouth pulled into a pout that was 60% dramatic posturing and 40% genuine emotional overwhelm.

“I just—” he waved a hand vaguely at them. “There’s already enough feelings in this house. Now we have public displays of affection? What’s next? Holding hands during movie night? Whispering??”

Felix sipped his tea. “They’ve already done both.”

“I need to lie down.”

“You’re sitting down.”

“I NEED TO LIE FLAT.”

Seungmin plucked a piece of toast from Jisung’s plate and turned in his lap just enough to feed it to him. “Open.”

Jisung blinked. “What?”

“Open your mouth, baby.” Deadpan. Commanding. Sinisterly flirty.

Changbin screamed into his hands. Jisung opened his mouth. The toast went in.

“Good boy,” Seungmin whispered.

Minho stood up and left the room. Felix laughed so hard he nearly dropped the jam. And somehow, despite the absolute circus of it all, the air stayed warm. The kitchen stayed kind. The house… felt pleased. Not loud, not heavy. Just full. Like it had stretched after a long sleep and found its family intact.

Seungmin tucked his head under Jisung’s chin, let himself breathe in the moment. He hadn’t known breakfast could feel like this. Full of food, yes, but also softness. Belonging. Laughter that didn’t cost him anything. A body beneath him that didn’t want to leave. It was only a moment. A kitchen. A stupid, chaotic meal. But it felt like something had bloomed.

-

By late morning, the house had settled into that rare, golden lull, quiet hallways, open windows, and a breeze warm enough to make the dust float in slow spirals. Somewhere upstairs, music played faintly. Downstairs, Felix had vanished into the pantry muttering about cardamom and “emergency muffins.” Chan was reading on the stairs with his legs stretched across three steps like a feral cat. The world felt still.

And in the middle of it, like a bubble floating through a battlefield, were Seungmin and Jisung. They had commandeered the lounge-room. Not with purpose. Not with intention. Just… them. 

There were two laundry baskets, a pile of mismatched socks, and one suspiciously fluffy blanket that had clearly never been washed in its entire cursed life. Jisung was sprawled across the rug like gravity had personally victimised him, hoodie pooled around his hips, one foot flicking rhythmically in the air as he folded shirts with approximately zero urgency.

Seungmin sat cross-legged beside him, head tilted, brows furrowed in deep, investigative judgment. “That’s not folding. That’s… aggressively wrinkling.”

Jisung shoved a shirt into a loose rectangle and flung it at him.

“Slothfold™. Patent pending.”

“You’re folding like you’re mad at the shirt.”

“I am. It looked at me weird.”

“Do you want me to fold them?”

“No,” Jisung said, already handing over another one. “Yes. Shut up.”

Seungmin laughed, low and warm. “You’re so useless.”

“You kissed this useless,” Jisung shot back, eyes crinkling.

“Don’t remind me.”

“I will literally never stop reminding you.”

From the hallway, Changbin passed with a towel over his shoulder and full intent to ignore them. He took one look into the lounge. Paused. Stared. Then let out the most theatrical sigh in recorded history.

“I hope you both develop a rash.”

Seungmin waved cheerfully. “Hi Binnie.”

“Don’t ‘hi Binnie’ me while sitting in his lap on a pile of folded socks.”

Jisung leaned backward dramatically, grabbing Seungmin around the waist. “We’re building trust. In the laundry.”

“You’re building a cult of codependency and I refuse to join.” He stalked off before anyone could see his ears turning red.

They didn’t get far. The basket only got half-emptied before Jisung flopped onto his back with a groan and tugged Seungmin down on top of him.

“I’m dying.”

“You folded three shirts.”

“Exactly. I gave my life to this domestic hellscape. You should kiss me in thanks.”

Seungmin rolled his eyes, but leaned down anyway. The kiss was brief. Stupid. Perfect. Jisung grinned against his mouth. From the hallway, a cough echoed. Then Minho’s voice, “Some of us still believe in dignity.”

Seungmin tilted his head. “You’re just mad we’re ahead of you.”

“Please. If I wanted to be ahead, I would be.”

Jisung whispered, “He’s absolutely seething.”

Seungmin grinned. “He’s gonna kiss me in the chilliest part of the house out of spite.”

“I hope it’s the attic.”

“I hope it’s the dungeon.”

“You’re both terrible,” Minho muttered, and padded off with his coffee like the deeply offended cat he truly was.

-

The sun had long since softened, bleeding into gold along the windowsills, the day drifting into that quiet pocket of the afternoon when even the light seemed to tiptoe. Somewhere, water trickled faintly, maybe from the kitchen sink, Felix humming beside it. The sins had scattered, lulled into corners and couches and half-hearted naps. A silence had settled, not empty but full, like the hush after laughter.

Seungmin stood barefoot at the threshold of the garden. He hadn’t meant to come outside. His steps had carried him there gently, as if the house had guided him without words. Something in him was restless, but not like before. Not panicked, not aching. Just… tugged. Drawn. As if someone had left a light on, somewhere past the hedges, and he was the only one who could see it.

The garden greeted him like an old friend. The grass had dried from the morning dew, dappled with shadows and soft yellow light. Petals drooped in sleepy arcs. Bees murmured low above the thyme bushes, unbothered by his presence. It smelled like earth and lavender and the faintest hint of citrus, like the house was steeping its thoughts in the air, brewing something sacred beneath the surface.

And then, between the tree trunks, he saw a shape. Half-folded beneath the heavy boughs of an old oak, knees pulled up to his chest, arms loose around them. Jeongin. His hair glowed warm at the edges, haloed by a shaft of fading light. He wasn’t moving, just staring at something far away, as if the air in front of him held stories only he could read. He looked still. Not peaceful, not quite sad. Just quiet in a way that felt practiced. Seungmin’s chest ached at the sight of him.

He crossed the lawn slowly, careful not to crunch the scattered leaves beneath his feet. As he drew closer, he could see the set of Jeongin’s mouth, too straight. The way his hands flexed once, then stilled again. The mask of stillness only made it clearer how much he was holding in. Seungmin didn’t speak until he was close enough to hear Jeongin’s breath.

“Hey,” he said softly.

Jeongin startled just slightly, only his shoulders twitching, but he didn’t turn around. “Hey.”

“I can go,” Seungmin offered, crouching beside him in the grass. “If you want to be alone.”

Jeongin shook his head. “You’re fine. I just didn’t hear you.”

Seungmin sat, knees bending easily beneath him as he settled into the grass. The tree cast a veil of shade over them both, dappling his arms and cheeks with faint golden spots. For a moment, neither of them said anything. There was no tension in the quiet. Not yet. Just the delicate pause of someone who hadn’t expected to be seen.

Seungmin tilted his head gently. “You looked far away.”

Jeongin gave a noncommittal hum. “Thinking.”

“About anything you wanna share?”

Another pause. Jeongin finally glanced at him, just a flicker of his dark eyes, unreadable and steady. “Not yet.”

Seungmin nodded. He didn’t press. Just leaned his shoulder into Jeongin’s, soft and tentative, like offering a hand without asking for one in return. And to his quiet, aching delight, Jeongin didn’t flinch away. He shifted instead, leaning into the contact, his body curling subtly toward Seungmin like gravity had shifted around them both.

The birds chirped low in the distance. The house, somewhere behind them, shifted its weight and settled. Even the breeze softened, brushing past them like it knew something important was beginning. And Seungmin waited, breath slow, presence steady, until Jeongin was ready to speak.

The hush between them stretched, not uncomfortable, but full. Like the garden itself was holding its breath. Seungmin didn’t rush it. He let the quiet live, let Jeongin stay folded against his side, half-curled like a question not ready to be asked.

But eventually, Jeongin shifted. Not much. Just a slow lean forward, elbows resting on his knees, fingers tangled loosely. He stared down at his hands for a long time.

“You ever feel like everyone else gets to be… loud about how they feel?” he murmured. “Like they don’t have to earn it, they just say things. Take space. Get kissed.”

Seungmin blinked, heart stuttering.

“I do,” he said, voice quiet.

Jeongin huffed out a breath, not quite a laugh. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

He dragged a hand through his hair, the movement stiff with emotion. “You’ve kissed them, Seungmin. Hyunjin. Jisung. Maybe others. And it’s not like I didn’t see it coming. I mean—how could I not? They’re beautiful. Bold. They pull you in like gravity.”

His throat bobbed. He didn’t look up. “I’m not like that.”

Seungmin opened his mouth, but Jeongin kept going, words gaining momentum like a dam giving way.

“I don’t know how to ask for things I want. Not really. I just… feel everything and say nothing. And it builds up. And I pretend it doesn’t bother me because I’m Envy and that’s what I’m supposed to do, right? Watch. Want. Wait.” 

There was a tremble in his voice now. Raw and unguarded.

“I think I’ve felt something for you since the beginning. I just didn’t know what it was. It wasn’t like with the others. It wasn’t lust or possessiveness or competition, it was just… comfort. Warmth. Like you saw me and didn’t ask for anything else. And I thought that would be enough. Just being near you. Just caring from a distance.”

He exhaled harshly. His voice cracked.

“But then I saw you kiss him. Jisung. And it hit me. How much I wanted you to kiss me. How much I wanted to matter to you the same way.”

The last few words came out in a whisper, barely held together. “I didn’t know how to ask. I still don’t.”

Seungmin’s heart clenched. He reached out without thinking, threading their fingers together gently. Jeongin let him.

“I’m sorry,” Jeongin said, and he sounded like he meant it. Like it hurt to say. “I’m not trying to make you feel guilty. I just… I needed you to know.”

Seungmin held his hand tighter. “And I’m glad you told me.”

Finally, Jeongin looked up. His eyes were glassy, lashes wet. Seungmin, breath caught in his throat, realised he’d never seen someone look so heartbreakingly beautiful. Not just because he was crying. But because he was honest. Unmasked. Wanting, but not demanding. Soft in a way that had nothing to do with envy at all. Just love. Quiet and scared and aching to be returned.

The silence didn’t last long, not really. It just stretched, soft and trembling, like the moment was waiting for something to bloom. Seungmin turned, slow and steady, and reached up to cradle Jeongin’s cheek. His fingers were warm from where they’d been laced together, and Jeongin’s skin was even warmer, flushed and damp from unshed tears.

“I know what you mean,” Seungmin said quietly. “About feeling something… from the beginning.”

Jeongin’s eyes snapped up, wide and startled.

“I didn’t understand it at first,” Seungmin went on, thumb stroking gently just beneath his eye. “You were quiet, careful. Always watching, but never pushing. And there was this… pull. This sense that you saw me in a way no one else did. It scared me.”

Jeongin’s brows drew together, confused. “Scared you?”

Seungmin nodded slowly. “I think maybe I didn’t come to you first because I knew how badly it would hurt if you didn’t feel the same.”

His voice softened even more, barely above a whisper now, like the words were too fragile to exist outside the hush between them.

“You felt like a risk. The kind of love that digs in deep and doesn’t let go. And I didn’t know if I was ready for that. Not when I was still running.”

Jeongin didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

“But I’m learning,” Seungmin whispered. “I’m learning what it means to be held without breaking. To want without apology. And I’m not afraid of love anymore.”

He leaned in, and rested his forehead against Jeongin’s, their noses brushing. The warmth between them swelled, slow and tender.

“You don’t have to ask for more, Jeongin,” Seungmin murmured. “Just look at me like that, and I’ll know.”

That was it. That was the moment. Jeongin surged forward, just a little. Just enough. And Seungmin met him halfway. The kiss was soft, tentative at first. Jeongin trembled, and Seungmin cupped his jaw, steadying him with a touch that said you’re safe. It deepened gradually, lips brushing with more certainty, mouths parting only to fit together again and again like they were made for this. When they finally pulled apart, Jeongin pressed his face to Seungmin’s shoulder and let out a sound that was halfway between a sob and a laugh.

“God,” he whispered. “I’m so—”

“Don’t,” Seungmin cut in, arms winding around him. “You don’t have to explain.”

“But I’m crying.”

“I know.”

“I don’t cry for just anyone.”

Seungmin smiled into his hair. “I know that too.”

They sat like that for a while, curled beneath the old tree like a secret the house had been guarding. Jeongin sniffled once, then again. Seungmin kept his arms around him, thumbs brushing over the soft cotton of his sleeves, the way you’d soothe a heartbeat. After a few minutes, Jeongin lifted his head and said, deadpan, “So… this means I’m officially winning, right?”

Seungmin blinked. “Winning what?”

“The Affection Olympics.”

“You’re literally crying on my shirt.”

“Champions cry sometimes.” Jeongin smirked through the redness in his eyes. “Eat shit, Jisung.”

Seungmin laughed, nose crinkling as he leaned in again, just for a kiss on the cheek this time. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“Devastating for you, really.”

“Unbelievably.”

They stayed until the light began to fade, and the wind wrapped gentle fingers around their ankles like even the house didn’t want to let them go.

-

By the time Seungmin and Jeongin made it back inside, the scent of roasted vegetables and spiced something-sweet had completely overtaken the house.

Felix was plating with serene intensity, cheeks pink from the oven’s heat, humming softly as he sprinkled herbs over something that absolutely did not require herbs. The table was already half full, Chan seated with one leg pulled up, Changbin leaning back in his chair with a smug sort of scowl, and Jisung…

Climbing Minho like a tree.

“I swear to god,” Minho muttered, not even trying to fight it as Jisung flopped fully into his lap. “Do you not have your own chair?”

“I have love to give,” Jisung declared dramatically, arms slung around Minho’s shoulders. “And a tragic lack of reciprocation.”

“You’re literally smothering me.”

“Then die warmly.”

Seungmin snorted as he slid into a chair, glancing at Jeongin beside him. The younger boy was still visibly flushed, eyes darting everywhere but Seungmin’s face like it would betray him with a blush the moment they made eye contact. Cute.

“Oh,” Chan said without looking up. “Look who’s back from their romantic evening in the hedges.”

Jeongin immediately kicked him under the table. “I will end you.”

“That’s not a denial,” Changbin chimed in, eyeing Jeongin’s collar like he expected grass stains. Seungmin, feeling far too pleased with himself to bother denying anything, just reached for a slice of warm bread. “I don’t kiss and tell.”

“You don’t kiss and shut up, either,” Jisung grumbled, still latched onto Minho like a lovesick octopus. Minho sighed, long, tired, and completely betrayed by the way his hand was now gently petting the back of Jisung’s hair. “He’s been like this since you finished with the laundry.”

“I unlocked something,” Seungmin said with faux seriousness, tearing off a bite. “A whole new level of cling.”

“I am blossoming,” Jisung announced.

“You are moulting,” Minho muttered.

Across the table on Seungmin’s other side, Hyunjin hadn’t said a word. He sat quietly, chin resting against one hand, gaze flickering over Seungmin like he was seeing the world unfold. There was no jealousy in his expression, only awe. A kind of proud, private softness that lit his eyes from within. And then, beneath the table, a gentle hand slipped into Seungmin’s. He startled slightly, until he turned to meet Hyunjin’s gaze. The smile that met him was slow. Knowing.

“You’re letting yourself love,” Hyunjin whispered, low enough that only Seungmin could hear it. “And it looks beautiful on you.”

Seungmin blinked. His breath caught in his chest.

“Thank you,” he whispered back. Hyunjin gave his hand a quiet squeeze. Didn’t say anything else. Didn’t need to. Because everything he felt, everything they felt, was already dancing in the silence between their joined palms.

“Oi!” Changbin barked, breaking the moment like a sledgehammer through a soap bubble. “Can we eat now or are we all too busy fondling each other’s souls to pass the fucking carrots?”

“Binnie, we’ve talked about tone,” Chan sighed.

“We’ve talked about your tone,” Changbin snapped. Felix gently pushed the platter of roast potatoes toward the centre of the table and smiled beatifically. “Who wants a spoonful of peace?”

“Give me six,” Minho muttered as Jisung nuzzled his neck with a whine.

Seungmin leaned back in his chair, hand still warm in Hyunjin’s, and let the chaos roll around him like a tide. He was used to drifting in it now, loved, teased, tethered. He watched Jeongin swipe a dinner roll off Chan’s plate. Watched Jisung make grabby hands at Felix for seconds. Watched Minho silently tolerate it all while pretending not to care.

And through it all, the house pulsed warm and steady. Satisfied. Whole. Home.

-

Steam curled like silk around the bathroom, clinging to the tiles and wrapping its fingers around the mirror. Seungmin stood beneath the gentle stream, water tracing every curve and line of his body like it was relearning him.

He felt… full. Not in the bloated, exhausted way he used to after eating, when his body had felt like a stranger, a burden to carry. No. This was warmth. Wholeness. His skin felt firmer. His cheeks had a roundness again. His ribs weren’t sharp shadows anymore. And beneath his fingers, his own chest rose and fell with calm, steady breath.

He stayed like that for a while, eyes closed, palms flat against his stomach. Just breathing. When he stepped out, the mirror had fogged over, but the outline of his reflection stared back. He wiped it clean. And paused.

His skin was glowing, really. Not in some ethereal magic way, but in a way that said you’re eating, you’re resting, you’re choosing to live. His lips looked softer. His collarbones weren’t jutting out like apologies anymore. His eyes were brighter than they’d been in months. Maybe years. He tilted his head.

“I look…” he whispered, voice catching. He reached for a towel but paused again, staring.

“I look like someone worth loving.”

It wasn’t a dramatic declaration. Just an observation. A truth that felt like it had been waiting for him to notice. He wrapped the towel around his waist and stepped toward the bench, moving slow, gentle with himself in a way he’d never been taught to be. 

As he dressed, he thought about all the little ways love had started to live in his body. The way he leaned into touch now. The way his laughter came easier. The way he kissed Jeongin like he meant it, and let Jisung cling to him like he’d earned the right. He used to guard affection like it was something dangerous. Something that would be stolen, twisted, used against him. But now?

He gave it freely. And it came back to him like sunlight.

Seungmin sat on the edge of the bathtub for a moment, still half-dressed, heart soft and full. He thought about how close he’d come to giving up. How easily he might have let himself fade if he hadn’t left. If he hadn’t answered the call of this strange, haunted house and the broken, beautiful boys inside it. Tears welled in his eyes, uninvited, but not unwelcome. He let them sit there, blurring his vision as he pulled his shirt on and padded toward the door.

When he opened it, Minho was waiting. Leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, looking casual. But his eyes were soft. Watchful.

Seungmin blinked at him, caught halfway between laughter and sobs. “You been standing there long?”

Minho gave a small shrug. “Long enough.”

“Eavesdropping?”

“Not on purpose.” A beat. “But I felt it.”

Seungmin’s brows knit, confused. “Felt what?”

Minho pushed off the wall and stepped closer, voice quiet. “That moment. When you looked in the mirror and saw yourself. Really saw yourself. I felt it.”

He reached out and gently touched the edge of Seungmin’s damp hair, brushing it back from his forehead.

“You’re allowed to be proud of that,” Minho said, so quietly it barely reached above the hum of the house. “You’re allowed to be proud of you.”

The tears fell then. Just a few. Just enough. Seungmin’s lip trembled and he reached out instinctively, half for a hug, half for something to steady himself with, and Minho caught him without hesitation, arms wrapping strong and sure around his shoulders. They stood there in the hallway, hearts pressed close, warmth curling around them like the last remnants of shower steam.

No performance. No masks. Just a boy healing, and another who saw it. And the house, ever listening, ever watching, was proud too.

Chapter Text

The morning unfolded like a well-worn quilt, familiar and warm, stitched with the gentle rhythm of footsteps padding across floorboards and birdsong echoing faintly from outside the windowpanes. A soft light filtered through the glass, glinting off the old brass fixtures in the kitchen and painting pale gold stripes across the floor. The house, for once, wasn’t fussing.

It wasn’t rearranging mugs or floating napkins or nudging Seungmin’s shoulder like it sometimes did when he passed through the hallway deep in thought. Today, it simply observed. Quiet. Present. Listening, maybe.

Seungmin wandered in with sleepy eyes and mussed hair, swimming in a hoodie that clearly wasn’t his, probably Jisung’s, based on the candy-wrapper tucked in the pocket. He rubbed his eyes and sniffed at the air, expecting the comforting scent of something sweet and half-baked.

But nothing greeted him.

No toast. No sizzling butter. No Felix humming under his breath while pretending not to dance. Instead, there was just the faint tick of the old clock on the wall and the low, strange hush of a kitchen that felt paused mid-sentence.

“Felix?” he called gently.

At first, he didn’t see him. Then he caught the soft sway of blond hair, Felix standing in front of the pantry with one hand braced against the doorframe like he was lost in thought. He wasn’t moving. Not even when Seungmin stepped closer.

“Morning,” Seungmin said again, softer this time. Felix turned abruptly, as if pulled from a dream. His eyes were bright but unfocused, and the smile he gave didn’t quite meet the corners.

“Hey, Minnie,” he said too cheerfully. “Pantry’s being a little weird. Guess we’re out of everything all of a sudden. Magic’s got the Monday blues.”

Seungmin frowned. He leaned over to peek inside, expecting clutter or mess. Instead, empty. A bare shelf. A few crumbs. One sad, lonely potato.

“That’s… never happened before,” he said slowly.

“Probably just glitched.” Felix shrugged, already turning away. “It’ll come good in an hour or two. I’ll throw something together. Maybe breakfast nachos. Or… soup?”

“Soup?” Seungmin repeated, smiling despite himself.

“Totally a breakfast food,” Felix insisted. He grabbed a saucepan and started opening drawers with exaggerated flair, clearly trying to fill the air with motion. “I’ll make it work.”

But Seungmin noticed the tension in his shoulders. The way his movements were too fast, too rehearsed. Like he needed noise to cover something quieter slipping through the cracks. Something about the house shifted, not loud, not dramatic. Just a subtle change in air pressure, like the room was waiting. Seungmin’s chest tightened.

“Do you want help?” he offered, even though Felix always insisted on doing it himself.

“Nah, I got it!” he chirped, voice a little too bright. “You go get comfy. I’ll have something weird and wonderful ready soon.”

He smiled, and this time it was closer to real. But not quite there. Seungmin lingered a moment longer, then turned to go. He didn’t look back, but he could feel the house watching.

-

Felix made toast. Burnt toast. He tried to laugh it off, brushing blackened crumbs into the sink like they hadn’t just watched him incinerate three slices in a row. The fourth attempt came out edible, sort of, but the boys had all gone quiet by then, utensils clinking, eyes flicking between one another as they chewed politely. The mood wasn’t bad, not exactly. But something wasn’t sitting right.

Jeongin noticed first. He always did. Especially when it came to Felix. He leaned forward at the table, elbows braced on either side of his plate, and squinted. “Is this… is this just jam on toast?” he asked.

Felix blinked. “Yeah?”

“No cinnamon sugar swirl? No buttered crusts? No god-tier strawberry reduction in the shape of my initials?”

“Wow,” Felix said, deadpan. “Your standards are sky-high.”

Jeongin pointed at his plate. “Your standards are usually higher.”

That earned a small ripple of laughter, but it was muted. Even Chan, halfway through his second slice, looked up from his notebook with a frown tugging at the corner of his mouth. He didn’t say anything, but his gaze lingered on Felix longer than usual, curious, maybe. Or concerned.

Felix didn’t meet anyone’s eyes.

He stayed standing through the meal, fluttering between the bench and the toaster like a bird that couldn’t settle. At one point he opened the fridge and just stared inside for a full twenty seconds before closing it again with a vague shake of his head.

“Felix?” Seungmin asked softly. “Did the pantry refill yet?”

Felix froze. It was only for a second, but enough. The tension rippled down his spine, shoulders locking up before he smoothed them again with practiced ease.

“Nah,” he said too casually. “Must be having a moment. It’s fine. I’ll just pop out later and grab a few things manually.”

“Manually,” Jeongin repeated. “As in… go to the store.”

“Yep!”

“You haven’t left the house since Seungmin got here.”

Felix turned, smiling too brightly. “Maybe it’s time for a change of pace.”

Jeongin’s brows shot up. Even Minho paused mid-sip of his tea, the mug still hovering near his lips. That was the thing about Felix, he was reliable. Not in the boring, predictable way, but in the sacred, soul-deep way. He showed up. Every morning. Every mealtime. Every quiet breakdown. He fed them, held them, laughed for them when they couldn’t. He didn’t just leave.

Felix… didn’t need change. Which meant something was wrong. Jeongin opened his mouth to say something else, but Chan set his mug down with a gentle clink.

“Felix,” he said carefully, “are you alright?”

The room went still. Felix’s smile didn’t budge. But his fingers curled around the edge of the counter like he needed something to hold onto.

“I’m good,” he said lightly. “Just adjusting the routine.”

He tapped the toaster like it had personally offended him. “Not my best work, I’ll admit. But hey—can’t be gourmet every morning, right?”

It was meant to be a joke. But no one laughed. Seungmin watched him quietly from the table, hands folded in his lap. Something in his chest pulled tight again. The house hadn’t made a sound. No flutter of curtains. No playful shifting of sugar bowls. It wasn’t ignoring them, it was watching. Waiting.

And Felix?

He was smiling so hard he might crack.

-

By mid-afternoon, the kitchen had been cleaned and wiped down with mechanical precision. Felix kept busy, so busy it bordered on frantic. Every drawer had been reorganised. The tea towels were refolded into matching triangles. The oven knobs gleamed like they’d been buffed with moonlight.

And yet there was still no food. The pantry remained barren, as if the house itself had withdrawn its warmth, withholding its magic like a silent protest.

Felix didn’t mention it again. But he kept glancing at the door like it had betrayed him. He flitted between rooms like a restless spirit, his apron still tied around his waist though he wasn’t cooking anymore. He passed Jisung and Minho playing cards in the living room, offered a joke with all the charm of spun sugar, and disappeared before either could respond. He picked up a pair of socks someone had left on the stairs and folded them with too much care, fingers trembling slightly as he tucked them into a basket that didn’t need tidying.

In the hallway, Seungmin watched him from a quiet corner, just a boy with a book and a growing knot in his chest.

This wasn’t like Felix. Felix didn’t drift. He anchored people. He buzzed and bounced and wrapped his warmth around every heartbeat in the house. He never left a room quieter than he found it.

But today, he did. Today he smiled too brightly. He moved too quickly. And he hadn’t eaten a single bite since morning.

At one point, Chan leaned into the doorframe of the study, arms crossed over his chest. He called gently, “Lix? Come sit with me for a bit.”

Felix appeared around the corner, hands smudged with flour that hadn’t come from anywhere in the house. “Ah, can’t,” he said with a chirp. “I’m baking.”

“You’re not.”

“I will be.”

Chan didn’t push. But he held Felix’s gaze for a second too long. Something passed between them, an old understanding, maybe, shaped by years of looking after each other without asking for anything back.

Felix looked away first. “It’s just a weird pantry day,” he said quietly. “I’ll figure it out.”

Chan nodded slowly. “You don’t have to figure it out alone.”

But Felix was already gone.

-

In the garden, Jeongin lounged beneath the willow tree, pretending to scroll through a book he’d already read three times. He wasn’t paying attention to the pages. He was watching Felix on the porch.

Or more specifically, watching him try, and fail, to eat a cracker. It wasn’t a real lunch. It wasn’t even a real snack. Just one dry, crumbling wafer held between hesitant fingers. Felix sniffed it. Nibbled the corner. Put it down. Picked it up again. Then, slowly, he placed it back in the box, closed the lid, and sat still for a long moment, staring out at nothing.

Jeongin didn’t say anything at first. But eventually, he shut the book and stood, dusting grass from his jeans. When he padded over, Felix glanced up and pasted on another one of those smiles that didn’t quite fit his face.

“Afternoon,” he said breezily. “What’s the verdict—sunny enough for a picnic?”

“You’re acting weird,” Jeongin said bluntly.

Felix blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Jeongin crossed his arms. “You haven’t eaten. You’re cleaning things that are already clean. You’re dodging every conversation longer than five words. What gives?”

Felix gave a soft laugh, but it lacked the usual musical edge. “Since when are you the emotional barometer of the house?”

“Since you started spiralling like a cupcake in a blender.”

Felix looked away. His hands curled in his lap, fingers twisting the edge of his apron.

“It’s fine,” he said after a pause. “I just… I need to recalibrate. I’m allowed to have an off day.”

“Sure,” Jeongin said carefully. “But this doesn’t feel like an off day. It feels like you’re pretending you’re not drowning.”

Felix went still. A breeze picked up. Soft. Barely there. The wind chime above the porch gave a single, deliberate clink.

“I’m fine,” Felix repeated, a little too firmly.

And that was that. Jeongin didn’t push. He just nodded once, eyes narrowed slightly, and walked back across the lawn without another word.

Felix sat there for a long time afterward, hands in his lap, eyes on the horizon. The cracker still sat beside him, untouched. Behind him, through the kitchen window, Seungmin watched. And the house listened.

-

Chan sat slouched in his armchair, a pencil tucked behind one ear and his journal balanced on his knee. The pages were open, blank, untouched. Not for lack of thoughts, if anything, his head was loud. Too loud. He’d come in here to write, maybe make sense of things, but the words refused to come.

Outside the window, the late afternoon sun had turned the garden gold. He could see Felix’s figure on the porch, still and small, shoulders hunched like someone waiting for a storm that hadn’t started yet.

Chan didn’t like it. He drummed his fingers against the leather armrest, then sighed and leaned back, staring up at the ceiling like it might offer answers.

“I don’t know what to do,” he said aloud, not to anyone in particular. The house didn’t respond. Not directly. But the air shifted, a quiet thickening, like the walls were leaning closer to listen.

Chan exhaled and tilted his head toward the fireplace. “You feel it too, don’t you?”

The silence deepened. Not ominous. Just focused.

“He’s not himself,” Chan murmured. “And it’s not the pantry. That’s just the symptom. I think he’s forgotten that it’s his connection with you, and with himself, that keeps the magic flowing. He hasn’t stopped moving all day. Keeps smiling like he’s fine, but he’s been running on empty since breakfast.”

He glanced back toward the window. Felix hadn’t moved.

“Seungmin’s worried. Jeongin confronted him. Changbin’s angry. Jisung’s pretending he hasn’t noticed, but he has, he hovered the whole time Felix was cleaning the stair railings, like he thought he might fall over. And Minho’s been watching him all day. Not saying anything, just watching.”

A pause. A frown.

“And Hyunjin… Hyunjin cornered me in the hallway an hour ago and asked if I thought Felix was mad at him. He hasn’t been able to look him in the eye all day. None of us have.”

Chan pressed a hand to his face, then dragged it down slowly.

“He’s pulling away. And we’re letting him. Because he’s so good at pretending it’s okay.”

The house remained still. But something in the corner of the room shifted, a low creak from the far bookshelf, like the wood itself had sighed.

“I don’t know how to reach him when he won’t let himself stop,” Chan whispered. “It’s like… if he rests, he thinks he’ll break.”

His voice cracked at the edges, caught somewhere between frustration and fear.

And then, quietly, “Please. If you can help… please do.”

The lamp on the desk flickered once. Not a full blink. Just a pulse.

The house heard him.

-

Meanwhile, in the lounge, Changbin was pacing. Not angrily. Not yet. But he’d been up and down the same stretch of carpet for ten minutes while Hyunjin watched him from the couch with a frown.

“You’re going to wear a groove in the floor,” Hyunjin said softly.

“I don’t get it,” Changbin snapped. “Why’s he acting like nothing’s wrong?”

Hyunjin didn’t answer at first. His legs were curled beneath him, fingers absently tracing the hem of the blanket over his lap.

“I think… he doesn’t know how to ask for help without offering something in return,” he murmured. Changbin stopped mid-stride, arms folded tight across his chest.

“He doesn’t need to give us anything. We’d drop everything for him.”

“I know that,” Hyunjin said. “But he doesn’t.”

Silence settled between them. It wasn’t heavy. Just sad. Like watching someone wrap themselves in a quilt that wasn’t warm enough anymore, but pretending it still was.

-

The light in the kitchen had dimmed with the sunset, muted and gold, barely reaching the far corners. But Seungmin still saw him.

It took a moment to register what he was seeing. He’d opened the pantry door on instinct, not expecting anything, just trying to shake the tightness that had settled in his chest like smoke. But there, nestled against the wall beneath the lowest shelf, was Felix.

He wasn’t moving. He was tucked small, shoulders hunched, arms curled around the empty cookie tin like it was something sacred. His legs were folded up awkwardly beneath him, head resting against the paneling, as if he’d slid down the wall and just… stayed.

Seungmin didn’t speak. He stepped inside quietly and knelt beside him, the floor cold against his knees. 

Felix didn’t acknowledge him. Not with a flinch, or a glance, or even the twitch of a hand. He just sat there, so still he could’ve been part of the woodwork, save for the sharp little rise and fall of his chest, too fast, like he was trying not to let it show he’d been holding his breath for hours. Seungmin gently placed one hand against the floor beside him, grounding himself. He let the quiet settle, didn’t try to fill it. Let Felix choose when to speak.

Minutes passed. Then, softly, so faint it barely carried, Felix whispered, “I couldn’t fix it.” 

Seungmin turned toward him, expression softening. 

“I thought… if I moved fast enough, stayed busy enough, cooked enough, smiled enough, maybe no one would notice it wasn’t working. That I wasn’t working.”

His voice was a raw scrape in the back of his throat. He let the cookie tin slip forward in his hands and land in his lap with a dull clink. His fingers clenched around the edge of it like it might keep him tethered to the moment.

“The house always gives me what I need to feed everyone,” he murmured. “Every single time. I don’t even think about it. I open the door, and it’s there. Flour. Sugar. Magic jam.”

A breath. Shaky. Not quite a sob, but close.

“So when it stopped—” his voice broke slightly, “—I figured maybe it knew. Maybe it finally figured it out.”

Seungmin’s brow creased. “Figured what out?”

Felix still didn’t look at him.

“That I don’t let you in,” he said softly. “That I’m not really… giving anything, just performing it. Smiles. Meals. Hugs. Like if I keep dishing out sweetness, no one will see how empty the middle is.”

A silence dropped between them. Not sharp. Just heavy. Felix’s hands trembled slightly as they rested in his lap, the tin rattling faintly with the motion.

“I’m scared to let you see the hollowness,” he whispered. “Because what if that’s all there is? What if I’m just… sugar and nothing underneath?”

Seungmin’s breath caught, slow and quiet. Felix shifted then, finally turning his head and his eyes meeting Seungmin’s. 

Wide. Shining. His lashes were clumped at the edges, damp and dark. The soft brown of his eyes shimmered like glass just before it breaks. All the sparkle he usually wore like armour had been stripped back, leaving nothing but the truth: fear, laid bare. Not dramatic, not loud. Just a tremble beneath the surface.

“If I can’t give,” he said, barely audible now, “will you still want me?”

The question cracked something open in Seungmin’s chest. He reached forward gently, slowly, giving Felix time to pull away if he needed to, but he didn’t. Seungmin cupped his face, thumbs resting along his cheeks. His skin was warm. Damp. Soft in a way that made Seungmin feel like he was holding something too precious for this world. Felix blinked. And when he did, a single tear spilled over, carving a path down his cheek. Then another. And another.

He didn’t look away. Those big, tear-glossed eyes stayed locked on Seungmin, full of so much longing and guilt and unspoken ache that it made the air feel too thick to breathe.

“I don’t want what you make,” Seungmin whispered, voice shaking. “I want you.”

That was all it took. Felix crumpled forward with a soft, choked sound, somewhere between a sob and a sigh, and Seungmin caught him in both arms. The tin clattered forgotten to the floor. Felix curled into Seungmin’s chest, face pressed against his shoulder, hands fisting in his hoodie like he was trying to hold himself together through sheer touch alone. The tears came in slow waves. Not violent. Just steady. And Seungmin held him through every one.

The shelves around them didn’t flicker. The air didn’t move. But something in the room warmed, something unseen but unmistakable. The house hadn’t spoken. But it was listening. And for the first time all day, Felix wasn’t pretending.

-

They didn’t move for a long time. Felix’s body was curled into Seungmin’s lap, boneless and damp-cheeked, his arms looped loosely around Seungmin’s waist like he wasn’t quite sure if he was holding on or being held. His breaths came in slow, shivery exhales, no longer panicked, just tired. Like all the pretending had drained out of him, leaving only the small, quiet boy who’d been buried beneath it.

Seungmin rested his cheek against Felix’s hair. He didn’t try to fill the silence. Didn’t reach for reassurances or tidy endings. He just stayed, warm and real. One hand stroked absently down Felix’s back, grounding him with every gentle pass.

At some point, Felix whispered, “I’m sorry.”

And Seungmin whispered back, “You don’t have to be.”

That was all. But it was enough.

The light inside the pantry shifted subtly. Not brighter, but fuller. A softness bled into the space like sunlight filtering through honey. The air grew warmer, richer. Not magical, not obvious. Just… comforted.

Seungmin felt it first. Then, Felix stirred. He lifted his head slowly, blinking as if he hadn’t realised how much time had passed. His eyes were puffy, lashes wet and stuck together, but clearer now, less like glass on the verge of breaking, more like sea-foam smoothing after a storm.

Seungmin smiled at him gently. “You alright to stand?”

Felix nodded, though it was clearly a lie. “My legs feel like mashed potato.”

“Then we better see if we’ve got any butter,” Seungmin teased, shifting so he could ease him upright.

They rose carefully, arms linked, bodies close. Felix winced as his knees popped, but didn’t let go of Seungmin’s hand. When they stepped out of the pantry together, the house didn’t creak or shiver. It simply felt different.

Alive. 

And when Seungmin turned back to look, the shelves had started to refill. Not all at once. Not magically stocked with gleaming ingredients like nothing had happened. Just a few small, deliberate things. A glass jar of honey. A paper bag of self-raising flour, folded at the top like it had been used once and left behind for later. A little container of vanilla bean paste, sitting dead centre as if placed there with intention. And nestled near the back—a single soft pink box of pancake cutters. Felix blinked at them. His breath caught.

“Those weren’t there before,” he whispered.

The house didn’t respond. Didn’t flicker or nudge. But its message was clear. It was ready now. Not because Felix had performed or produced or pleased. But because he’d let himself break. And because Seungmin had stayed with him through it. Felix’s hand tightened around Seungmin’s.

“I think I need to rest,” he said, voice still a little hoarse. “And maybe… be fed.”

Seungmin grinned. “Baby, I thought you’d never ask.”

-

Felix sat on one of the kitchen stools with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and his chin resting in his hand. His eyes followed Seungmin’s every move, not in suspicion, not in worry, but in something soft and wonderstruck. Like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.

Seungmin stood at the counter, sleeves rolled up, hair a little messy from where Felix had clung to him earlier. He looked like someone’s slightly frazzled boyfriend trying his best, and somehow, still pulling it off.

“I haven’t made these in years,” Seungmin murmured, as he carefully poured the first circle of batter into the pan.

Felix tilted his head. “We’ve made pancakes before?”

Seungmin glanced back at him with a small smile. “These are special pancakes. My aunt used to make them for me.”

Felix blinked slowly, eyes wide and warm.

“She always did three shapes,” Seungmin added, almost to himself as he reached for the next cutter. “Hearts, stars… and bears. Said they were lucky. Or maybe she just liked bears.”

From his seat, Felix made a soft, startled noise, half breath, half laugh. The kind of sound that came out when you were already tearing up and didn’t know what to do with the feelings bubbling in your chest. He didn’t speak. He just watched.

Watched as Seungmin poured the batter slowly and evenly, making the edges just a little crispy the way Felix liked. Watched as he adjusted the heat, not rushing anything. Watched the way Seungmin moved with quiet confidence, not perfect, not polished, but intentional.

Every little motion said: I remember how to be loved. And I want you to know what it tastes like.

Felix’s eyes shimmered again. The blanket slipped from one shoulder, but he didn’t fix it. His whole body leaned forward slightly, like he was trying to be closer without getting in the way.

“You’re really good at that,” he whispered.

Seungmin glanced over, smiling faintly. “I had a good teacher.”

Felix nodded, but didn’t speak again. His throat felt thick. The smell of warm vanilla and browned butter began to fill the kitchen. Soft. Familiar. Safe.

Seungmin flipped the heart pancake with a little flourish and set it gently onto the plate beside a star and a bear. Then he grabbed the smallest cutter, a teeny little star, barely the size of a spoonful, and pressed it into the corner of one pancake like a secret signature. Felix’s lips trembled.

“You’re really making them all,” he said quietly.

“Of course I am,” Seungmin replied, voice gentle. “She made them for me because she loved me.”

Felix looked up, eyes already shimmering.

“And now,” Seungmin said softly, “I’m making them for you. Because I love you too.”

There was no drama in his voice. No hesitation. Just the plain truth, spoken with his hands full of batter and flour on his cheek. Felix blinked, and his whole face crumpled for a second like he might cry again, but then, slowly… he smiled.

His real smile. Wide. A little shaky. Soft around the eyes. Honest in the way so few things ever are.

“Can I cheer you on?” he asked, voice barely holding together.

Seungmin turned to him with a startled blink, then laughed. “Please. I need all the moral support I can get.”

“Okay.” Felix sniffled. Wiped his nose on the blanket. “You’re doing amazing, sweetie.”

Seungmin cackled. And Felix laughed too, bright and bubbling, cracking through his exhaustion like sunshine breaking cloud cover.

-

Felix didn’t reach for the plate right away. He just sat there at the bench, the edges of a blanket still draped loosely around his shoulders, his fingers fidgeting with a loose thread as he stared at the pancakes like they were something sacred. His eyes were wide and glassy, still faintly pink from crying, but the storm behind them had quieted. Now there was only wonder, quiet and trembling, as if he was seeing a version of care he’d never believed he was allowed to receive.

Seungmin placed the plate in front of him without a word. Three pancakes. One heart, one star, one slightly wonky bear. No syrup yet, no toppings. Just warm, fresh pancakes shaped like love. He didn’t rush. He didn’t explain. He simply set the plate down and folded his arms gently on the counter, as though letting the food speak for him.

Felix blinked slowly. His gaze hovered over the soft ridges of the pancakes, the golden-brown edges, the delicate detail of each shape. They weren’t perfect, the bear had a squishy ear, and the star had browned a little unevenly, but somehow, that made it better. Because they weren’t made for show. They were made for him.

He picked up the fork with hesitant fingers, slow like he wasn’t sure if this was something he was really allowed to touch. He pressed the prongs through the tip of the heart first, lifting the bite like it might collapse before it reached his mouth. When he finally took it in, he closed his eyes for a moment, breathing through the taste.

The warmth bloomed slow. Crispy at the edge, soft in the center. Not overly sweet, just buttery, balanced, made with care. It was familiar in a way he couldn’t name, but also brand new, like finding something you didn’t know you’d lost.

His chest ached.

Felix swallowed, eyes blinking open again. He set the fork down carefully beside the plate. It clinked against the ceramic, far too loud in the quiet kitchen. His hands dropped into his lap, trembling slightly, and he stared down at the pancakes as though they had just ruined him.

“I…” His voice cracked instantly, and he laughed, breath hitching as he pressed a hand over his mouth. “God, Seungmin.”

Seungmin didn’t say anything. He leaned in, bracing an elbow on the counter, letting Felix take whatever time he needed. Felix shook his head slowly, eyes glimmering again. Not from pain now, but something gentler. He wiped beneath one eye with the sleeve of the blanket, his mouth twitching at the corners.

“They’re perfect,” he whispered. “They’re not… perfect-perfect, but they’re perfect to me.”

The moment lingered like the smell of warm butter in the air. Then, as Felix reached for the next bite, something shifted. Not in the room, inside him.

A warmth bloomed in his chest, low and steady, like a fire being quietly rekindled. Not from the pancakes, not from Seungmin. From the house. From the presence it always carried in its bones. It wasn’t a sound or a whisper. Not exactly. But he felt it settle deep in his ribs like breath, like heartbeat, like being held by something older and wiser and kind.

You are enough.

The message was clear. No words. Just knowing. Felix looked up sharply, eyes wide, breath shivering in his throat.

“You felt that too, right?” he asked.

Seungmin nodded, voice soft. “Yeah. I did.”

Felix reached across the counter without thinking, grabbing his hand. Their fingers laced easily. Naturally. He didn’t ask why. Didn’t explain what he needed. Because he didn’t need to give anything in return. He just let himself be loved.

-

The sink was warm and sudsy, filled to the brim with soapy water and a few wandering utensils. Sunlight slanted low through the kitchen windows, casting golden stripes across the tiles. Outside, the garden murmured with birdcalls and gentle breeze, but inside, it was quiet. Soft. Just the occasional clink of ceramic and the hush of running water.

Felix stood at the sink, sleeves rolled up, curls slightly flattened from the blanket he’d finally abandoned. His cheeks were still a little pink from crying, but his eyes were bright now. Clear. He looked like himself again, maybe even more than before. Like someone who’d been polished gently from the inside out. Seungmin stood beside him, drying each plate as it came. He was focused, calm, slightly smug from the success of his pancakes and the emotional unraveling that followed.

“You know,” Felix said, rinsing a spatula and setting it gently in the dish rack, “you have a natural talent for emotional healing through carbs.”

Seungmin smirked. “It’s a niche skill.”

“It’s a superpower. Honestly, the bear alone almost killed me.”

“The bear made you cry.”

“You shut up,” Felix said, flicking water in his direction.

Seungmin gasped.“How dare you!”

Felix grinned. Bright and cheeky. “What?”

“You just flicked me—”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Felix said, spinning back to the sink like a man with nothing to confess.

“Oh, it’s war.”

The next flick came fast. Sudsy and accurate. It hit Felix on the arm and earned a full-bodied shriek.

“SEUNGMIN!”

“You started it!”

Felix whipped a handful of bubbles at him. Seungmin dodged, but not in time to avoid the splash that landed square on his neck. His eyes went wide. A moment of silence passed. The tension of a thousand romcoms compressed into two heartbeats.

And then—chaos.

They dissolved into motion. Water flying. Towels swinging. Dish soap bottle nearly toppling over as Felix reached for backup. Seungmin circled the kitchen island, laughing breathlessly as he ducked behind chairs and dodged a wet sponge that somehow got involved.

“I’m gonna drown you in bubbles—”

“You wouldn’t dare, pancake boy—”

Felix shrieked again as Seungmin managed to corner him near the fridge, his back hitting the counter with a soft thump. For a moment, they were both laughing too hard to keep going. Breathing fast. Dripping slightly. Still holding spatulas like weapons but too full of joy to remember why.

And then Seungmin said, softer now, “You’re beautiful when you laugh like that.”

Felix stilled. Their eyes met across the breathless space between them, and it felt like the world tipped slightly sideways. Felix lowered the spatula.

“Don’t say sweet stuff like that when I look like a drowned mouse,” he mumbled, though his smile didn’t falter.

Seungmin stepped forward, closing the gap slowly. His hand came up, fingers brushing a streak of suds from Felix’s cheek.

“I’m saying it because it’s true.”

Felix swallowed. Then Seungmin tilted his chin up gently and kissed him. It wasn’t long. Wasn’t deep. Just a soft press of lips, tender and warm, lingering in the space where laughter had lived moments ago. A kiss full of thank-you, of I see you, of stay. When they pulled apart, Felix was smiling. Truly smiling. He looked like someone who had been undone, rewoven, and was finally starting to recognise the pattern.

“Don’t you dare get sappy on me,” he whispered, blinking fast. Seungmin opened his mouth to reply, but Felix shoved him playfully, just enough that they both stumbled. And then collapsed onto the floor in a giggling heap, tangled in each other, breathless with joy.

They stayed like that for a while, leaning back against the cabinets, legs sprawled, heads bumping gently as they laughed too much over nothing at all. It was warm. It was quiet. It was ridiculous. And for the first time in too long, Felix didn’t feel like he had to earn the softness. It was already his.

-

They were still on the kitchen floor when the moment cracked. Seungmin had shifted sideways to rest his head against the cabinets, one arm looped lazily around Felix’s shoulders. Felix was half-curled into his side, still wrapped in the remnants of his blanket, cheeks flushed from laughing too hard. Their legs were tangled. Their hands were linked. And the last few bubbles of their dishwater war glistened on the tiles nearby like confetti after a very gentle, very gay riot. It was one of those rare stillnesses where the whole world felt paused, suspended in warmth, soft light, and the distant hum of a house that had finally settled into contentment.

Which meant, naturally, someone had to ruin it.

The sound of approaching footsteps on tile was their only warning. Then the doorway filled with the silhouette of Minho, arms folded, eyebrow already raised like he’d walked into a crime scene. His gaze flicked over the water spots, the suds, the soapy towel hanging off the edge of the counter, and finally landed on Felix and Seungmin, still curled up like a pair of giggling house-cats.

A beat of silence. 

Then Minho clicked his tongue. “Well,” he said flatly, “I’m glad one of us had an emotional breakdown and a honeymoon today.”

Felix groaned softly and dropped his forehead to Seungmin’s shoulder. Seungmin didn’t flinch. He just grinned smugly. 

Minho tilted his head, dry as ever. “Honestly, I’m just impressed. You’ve been here—what, a couple months? And you’ve caught more hearts than a Pokémon trainer in a starter zone.”

Felix made a sound like a wounded animal. “Please shut up.”

“No, no,” Minho continued, strolling over to lean against the fridge like he lived there now. “Let’s talk about it. First Jisung, then Hyunjin, now Felix—who’s next?”

“I’ve already made you tea,” Seungmin said sweetly. “You’re next on the list, baby.”

Minho blinked.

Felix wheezed.

And Seungmin, looking far too pleased with himself, untangled from the floor just long enough to snag the nearest dishtowel and toss it over Minho’s head. Minho peeled it off with all the grace of someone questioning their life choices.

“I hate it here,” he muttered.

“You’re smiling,” Felix pointed out, still grinning like he hadn’t smiled in days.

Minho sighed through his nose. “I’m horrified.”

Seungmin paused, then tilted his head thoughtfully, lips quirking. “I should probably mention… I also kissed Jeongin.”

That landed like a slap made of glitter. Minho’s eyes widened. Felix sat up straighter like someone had pulled a string in his spine.

“You what?” Felix gasped, clapping a hand over his mouth.

Minho turned fully, mouth dropping open. “When?!”

Seungmin shrugged, far too casually. “In the garden. A few days ago.”

Felix’s jaw dropped. “I thought you were joking around! He didn’t say anything!! Oh my god. He’s so sneaky.”

Minho scoffed. “He’s a quiet menace.”

Seungmin just smiled. “He’s shy. And secretive. And cute.”

“You’re corrupting him,” Minho muttered, though his voice lacked any bite. 

Felix flopped dramatically back onto the floor and looked up at Minho. “He’s gonna act all innocent and blushy at dinner like he didn’t just casually wreck our emotional rankings. I love him.”

“You love all of us,” Seungmin pointed out with a grin.

Felix peeked up at him, smile soft and sincere. “Unfortunately, yeah.”

-

They didn’t plan it, exactly. There was no sudden announcement or dramatic proposal, just the quiet decision made somewhere between a shared giggle and a lingering glance that said, Let’s make something beautiful. And maybe it wasn’t about impressing the others. Maybe it was about claiming the warmth that had settled between them, letting it expand into the room, into the food, into something that could be shared.

Seungmin stood barefoot at the counter, sleeves rolled up again, his hair still a little wild from the floor-laughing earlier. He looked… free. Not giddy, not frantic, just calm. Like he was rooted now, like he was growing.

Felix fluttered around him with that soft joy he wore like a second skin when no one was looking too closely. His movements were fluid, easy again, and his hum was back, low, airy, aimless, as he measured out ingredients with the care of someone folding love into every gram.

They chose dishes together, half-whispered over open cupboards and murmured memories. Felix, ever the sugar saint, wanted something caramelised, something golden and soft. Seungmin wanted contrast. Something herbaceous, something rich. Together, they settled on a spread: roasted pumpkin and sage ravioli in brown butter, honey balsamic roasted carrots with garlic crumble, a fresh fig and walnut salad drizzled with house-sourced honey. And for dessert, a peach galette. Rustic and beautiful. Felix’s idea, but Seungmin assembled it like a painting.

The kitchen smelled like autumn and sweetness and something holy. At one point, Seungmin stood behind Felix, guiding his hands as they folded the galette crust over the fruit. His chin rested lightly on Felix’s shoulder, and neither of them commented on it. They didn’t need to. The bowl shifted slightly under their shared grip. Felix laughed quietly when the peaches slid to the side, and Seungmin leaned in a little closer, steadying them.

Then, softly, seamlessly, he kissed Felix’s cheek. It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t a big moment. Just the natural answer to the way Felix fit there in front of him, warm and focused and glowing from the inside out.

Felix didn’t flinch. Didn’t even pause. He leaned into it. A breath, a smile, and then they went back to folding the crust like nothing had happened.

But everything had.

There were smudges of flour on Seungmin’s cheek by the time they started setting the table. Felix had some in his curls. Neither bothered to fix it. The candles, mismatched and dripping with wax, lit themselves. The house didn’t rush. It didn’t stir the wind or exhale some grand announcement. It just glowed quietly around them, letting the moment stretch long and golden, like honey across warm bread.

Felix looked up after finishing the plating and caught Seungmin watching him.

“What?” he asked, blushing faintly.

Seungmin shook his head, smiling so softly it made Felix’s stomach do a slow roll. “Nothing. Just… this is nice.”

Felix nodded, eyes bright. “It’s more than nice.”

And it was. It was everything.

-

The table was a masterpiece. No one had asked it to be, but the house, quietly delighted by the shift in its energy, had offered its approval in the only language it knew: aesthetics. The mismatched candles had rearranged themselves into a perfect arc, flames flickering soft and slow like they were in on the secret. A vine of fresh herbs had slithered across the centre like a runner, settling with gentle poise among polished plates and gleaming silverware. The chairs, usually uneven or half-occupied, were perfectly spaced. Ready.

Seungmin and Felix stood by the stove, doing a final check. The air smelled divine, roasted pumpkin, sweet balsamic, toasted walnuts, the faint perfume of honey and peaches cooling by the window. Felix adjusted his curls with one flour-dusted hand and gave Seungmin a look that said, We really did that. Seungmin bumped their shoulders together in reply.

And then they called them in. One by one, the sins filtered through the doorway, and froze.

Hyunjin was first. He blinked like he’d stepped into a dream and nearly backed out again. “What the hell—did I die? Is this heaven?”

Jisung followed and immediately gasped, eyes going wide. “Why does it smell expensive in here?”

Chan stepped in and stopped dead. “Did the house finally snap and decide we’re royalty?”

Minho silently looked around in awe. Jeongin wandered in after him, mouth open. “Oh my god.”

Changbin stalked in last, expecting chaos, and stopped short, visibly jarred by the glow. He sniffed. “What the fuck—is that figs?”

Felix beamed. “We cooked.”

“You cooked,” Jisung echoed, spinning to look at the table. “You cooked cooked.”

Seungmin’s smile turned positively radiant under the attention. “We just thought everyone deserved something nice.”

“It’s… actually beautiful,” Chan said slowly, awe replacing his usual composure. “You made all of this?”

Felix nodded, proud and flushed. “From scratch.”

Minho stepped closer, eyes narrowed, not with suspicion, just with quiet surprise. “It’s gorgeous. The fig salad. The roasted carrots. The ravioli—”

“You made ravioli?” Changbin asked, like it had personally betrayed him.

“I helped,” Felix said, nudging Seungmin with his elbow.

“He did more than help,” Seungmin said, grinning. “He’s basically a Michelin star wife now.” 

That earned a chorus of groans and applause. Jeongin stepped forward, still blinking in quiet shock. “This is… incredible. Really.”

And that was it. Seungmin’s face split into the biggest, brightest smile the house had ever seen. He didn’t think, he just launched himself forward and wrapped his arms around Jeongin, catching him in a tight, impulsive hug that knocked the boy back a step. Jeongin squeaked but recovered fast, hugging him right back with a grin creeping across his face.

Chan laughed softly. “Someone’s happy.”

Before Seungmin could pull away, Felix swooped in and hugged them both from the side. “Group hug! We’re in our domestic era.”

“Your gay little housewife era,” Minho muttered.

Hyunjin sighed, dreamy. “I’ve never wanted to marry someone over ravioli more in my life.”

“Sit down and eat before I do marry him,” Changbin snapped, pushing chairs out one by one and muttering under his breath about fig sorcery.

They all gathered at the table, settling into their seats. Jeongin beside Seungmin, Hyunjin on his other side and across from Felix. Chan at the head, Minho to his left, Jisung bouncing between spots until Changbin yanked him down with an eye-roll and an affectionate glare.

And just like that—it began.

Laughter. Compliments. A cacophony of “holy shit,” and “what is this?” and “I’m gonna cry over this carrot.”

Felix glowed under the praise. Seungmin beamed so hard he forgot to eat for the first ten minutes. The house, quietly pleased, adjusted the candlelight just a little warmer.

Jisung stole a second roll. Hyunjin made a pun so bad even Minho giggled. Changbin got hit in the shoulder with a fig that definitely wasn’t thrown by Jeongin. Felix wiped Seungmin’s cheek with a napkin mid-sentence, and everyone groaned. 

And somehow, amid all the noise and laughter and love, it felt like a celebration. Not of the meal, not of recovery, not even of Felix.

But of Seungmin.

And what it meant to have him here.

-

By the time the plates were cleared and everyone was nursing warm drinks or groaning softly into their chairs, the galette made its entrance.

It had been cooling by the window like a secret, the scent of sugar and peaches quietly seeping into the air. The crust was golden and cracked just right, the fruit inside syrupy and soft. A few stray thyme leaves were scattered over the top—Felix’s touch—while the folding, rustic edges bore the slightly uneven fingerprints of Seungmin himself. And when Felix set it down in the centre of the table with a dramatic “Ta-da~!”, the room erupted.

“You’ve gotta be kidding—”

“Oh, now I’m gonna cry again.”

“Is that jam in the glaze?”

“WHO LET YOU BE THIS PERFECT?”

Seungmin was pink-cheeked, flustered, glowing.

“Sit, Minnie,” Chan said gently, smiling like he was about to burst just from looking at him. And Seungmin? He didn’t sit in his own chair. No, no. Without a word, he stepped around the table and lowered himself straight into Chan’s lap.

The room froze.

Chan made a soft, startled sound, nothing too loud, just a hitched breath and a flex of his arms around Seungmin’s waist as if his body reacted before his brain could. His hands settled on Seungmin’s hips. Not hesitant. Not even careful. Just… claiming.

Seungmin didn’t seem to notice the chaos he’d caused. Or maybe he did, and he just didn’t care. He picked up a fork, carved off the prettiest corner of the galette, and turned to Chan with a smirk.

“Open,” he said.

Chan opened. The piece disappeared into his mouth. He made a low sound in his throat, part moan, part sigh, and Seungmin, still smirking, tilted his head. “Good?”

Chan chewed slowly, hands still holding Seungmin in place like he might float off otherwise. “Divine.”

Minho blinked. “Did he just purr?”

“I think he did,” Hyunjin whispered, hiding behind his wine glass. Felix was grinning into his fist, trying to be supportive but absolutely losing it at the sight of Chan thriving under Seungmin like some smug little house-cat. Then Changbin spoke.

“Okay, seriously?” he snapped, scowling across the table. “Do you have to feed him?”

Seungmin looked up sweetly from Chan’s lap. “Would you prefer I fed you, Binnie?”

The table howled. Chan choked on his bite. Jeongin nearly knocked over his glass. Felix covered his eyes with one hand a Jisung’s with his other. Even Minho snorted before quickly covering it with a fake cough. Changbin’s ears turned red.

“I—what—NO!”

Seungmin popped a bite of galette into his own mouth and leaned back against Chan’s chest like a prince. “Then shut up and let me spoil my greedy boy.”

“Your what now—?!”

Jisung had folded forward onto the table at this point, wheezing. “Seungmin you absolute psycho, I love you so much.”

Chan, still holding Seungmin like he was both holy and his, looked like his entire soul had been fed alongside that galette. His grip had tightened just enough to be noticeable, soft but firm. Protective. Possessive. Greedy, in the quietest way.

He didn’t speak. He just nuzzled his cheek lightly against Seungmin’s shoulder, like he could live there now. And the house, glowing quietly in the candlelight, didn’t exhale. Didn’t flicker. But if it had lips, it would’ve smiled.

-

The dining room had finally quieted. Plates stacked, wine glasses rinsed, napkins folded. The candlelight had dimmed naturally, as if the house knew the celebration was over and all that remained was the softness that follows. Most of the boys had filtered out slowly—Jeongin trailing yawns, Jisung practically sleepwalking, Minho muttering something about digestion and curses as he vanished down the hall. Even Hyunjin had floated away with a dazed smile, the galette apparently enough to calm even Lust’s insatiable edge.

Chan lingered.

He was still drying the last of the dessert plates when Seungmin wandered back into the kitchen, cheeks flushed pink from the residual heat and his sleeves pushed up just enough to show the delicate curve of his forearms. He looked tired. Glowing, but tired.

Chan hesitated, towel in hand, mouth opening, then closing again. Seungmin tilted his head. “You good?”

Chan nodded. Then paused. “Yeah. I just—uh.”

That wasn’t like him. Chan didn’t stumble. He didn’t fidget. But now he was wringing the towel between his fingers like it might give him the words.

“I was just thinking,” he tried again, “since everyone’s going off to bed, and you’re probably winding down, and I’m not doing anything else—well, I mean, I was doing dishes, but now I’m not, and—”

“Chan.”

He stopped rambling. Seungmin stepped closer, brows drawn together in quiet amusement. “Do you wanna spend more time with me?”

Chan blinked. Then nodded. His voice was very small when he said, “Yeah.”

Seungmin smiled and reached out, taking Chan’s hands gently in his own. He rubbed a thumb across Chan’s knuckles slowly.

“I’m really tired,” he said honestly. “But if you wanna come to my room after I shower… we could do a sleepover or something?”

Chan’s head snapped up. The way his face lit up, like someone had plugged him directly into the warmth of the house, was almost comical. He looked stunned. Hopeful. Hungry. Not for anything physical, just for closeness. For being chosen.

“Yeah,” he said quickly. “Yes. I’d like that.”

“Cool,” Seungmin said, already stepping back with a little grin. “Then you better get the good pillows ready, Greed.” 

Chan laughed softly. Seungmin disappeared down the hall toward the shower, yawning as he went. Chan stood there a moment longer, smile still lingering. Then he turned, and found Felix leaning against the doorway, arms crossed and smirking like he’d been watching for a while.

“You look pleased,” Felix said, pushing off the frame.

Chan didn’t deny it. “You look better.”

“I am better.” Felix stepped into the room, brushing a curl behind his ear. “Thanks to pancakes. And honesty. And, you know—your new emotional support slumber buddy.”

Chan chuckled, setting the towel down. “He’s something.”

“He’s everything,” Felix said without hesitation. “And you’re cute when you get all weird about it.”

“I wasn’t weird.”

“You almost dropped a plate.”

“I was tired.”

“You were blushing.”

Chan gave him a look, but there was no real fire in it. Just fondness.

Felix stepped closer, bumping their shoulders lightly. “It’s okay to want more of him.”

Chan’s gaze softened.

“I know,” he said quietly. “I’m not ashamed to ask for what I need anymore. Not when it comes to Seungmin.”

Felix smiled, proud and full. “Good.”

They stood there a moment, quiet, side by side. Then Felix whispered, “You do know you’re gonna have to fight at least four of us eventually, right?”

Chan rolled his eyes. “We’ll cross that bridge when we’re all making out on it.”

Felix cackled and shoved him gently toward the hallway. “Go have your sleepover, Romeo.”

-

The room smelled like chamomile and safety. Seungmin stepped through the doorway, hair damp and curling softly at the ends, his oversized shirt sticking slightly to his skin in places where the steam from his shower still clung. His eyes were already sleepy, his steps slow, but they stopped cold the moment he saw what was waiting for him.

Chan was perched on the edge of the bed in soft grey track pants, barefoot, and shirtless. In his hands was a steaming mug, cradled between his palms like something precious, a second one already resting on the bedside table. The sight was casual. Intimate. Like he’d done this a hundred times before. 

Seungmin blinked once. And then his gaze dropped to Chan’s chest, and stayed there.

“Oh,” Seungmin breathed, not even trying to hide it. “Wow.”

Chan looked up from the tea. And when he saw Seungmin staring, wide-eyed, mouth parted, stunned into silence, his ears went pink. Then his cheeks. Then all the way down his chest, like the blush was trying to meet the waistband of his trackies halfway.

“I—uh—I didn’t—” Chan cleared his throat and glanced down at himself like he’d only just realised he was bare from the waist up. “I always sleep like this. I swear. I wasn’t trying to, like, seduce you or anything. It’s just—shirts get hot and I—”

“Chan,” Seungmin said, voice light with amusement. Chan froze mid-ramble.

“It’s okay.” Seungmin crossed the room slowly, eyes crinkling into the gentlest smile. “I’m not mad. Just… a little distracted.”

Chan looked away, still flustered. “I didn’t think you’d… notice.”

“I definitely noticed.”

Seungmin crawled onto the bed beside him, reaching for his mug and settling into the pillows like he belonged there. Chan watched him move with a softness in his gaze he didn’t try to hide. For a while, they just sat side by side, sipping chamomile in matching mugs, legs brushing beneath the blankets, the silence between them easy.

“Do you think ghosts get jealous?” Seungmin asked out of nowhere.

Chan turned his head. “What?”

“I was just thinking,” Seungmin said, eyes drooping slightly, “if a ghost haunted a house for like a hundred years, and then someone moved in who got to eat dessert and snuggle and take showers… wouldn’t they be, like… bitter?”

Chan snorted. “You’re asking if we’re emotionally taunting the undead?”

“I’m just saying,” Seungmin murmured, leaning his head briefly on Chan’s shoulder, “if I were a ghost, I’d be pissed watching us right now.”

Chan looked down at him, fond. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re topless.”

“Fair point.”

They finished their tea in a sleepy haze, mugs eventually placed on the nightstand with soft clinks and sleepy sighs. The bed creaked gently as they shifted beneath the covers, the kind of soft rustle that only ever sounded like home. Seungmin was the first to settle, back against the pillows, head tipped toward Chan’s side. And without thinking, he curled in close, pressing himself against the warmth of Chan’s bare chest.

Chan exhaled, low and content. Seungmin’s hand slid across his stomach, resting lightly against the dip of his abs. His fingers traced lazy, featherlight lines over the muscle, curious, absent, a little cheeky.

“You know,” he whispered, voice low and sweet and already full of sleep, “you’re kind of stupidly attractive.”

Chan’s breath caught.

Seungmin kept going, barely above a hum now. “I’m very lucky to share a bed with you.”

That was it. Chan’s arms wrapped tighter around him, one hand gently cradling the back of his head, the other sliding across his waist. His face was flushed, but he didn’t try to hide it. He just held Seungmin close like he never wanted to let go.

The lights dimmed softly. No flicker. No dramatic farewell. Just a warm, gentle fade, like the house itself was tucking them in. Seungmin yawned. Chan smiled. And together, they drifted off to sleep.

Chapter Text

Morning light crept gently across Seungmin’s eyelids, soft and golden, the kind that made the world feel almost safe. He blinked awake slowly, caught between dreams and the hazy warmth of blankets—and then he felt it. The heat pressed along his side. The steady rise and fall of a chest against his back. A heartbeat that wasn’t his own. Seungmin froze for half a second before memory caught up. Chan.

He tilted his head slightly, careful not to disturb him, and found himself nestled into the crook of Chan’s arm. His shirtless chest was solid under the blanket, smooth and warm against Seungmin’s shoulder, his skin smelling faintly of soap and something deeper. Comfort, safety, home.

Seungmin let his eyes fall shut again for a moment, listening to the soft, steady rhythm of Chan’s breathing. The house creaked faintly around them, like it was exhaling too, content to leave them in this bubble of quiet. His hand twitched before he could stop it, brushing over the defined line of Chan’s stomach. Heat flushed his face instantly. Oh god. He’d spent half the night doing that, restless in sleep, touching the warmth under his fingers like it was magnetic.

“…You awake?” Chan’s voice was rough with sleep, low enough to curl all the way down Seungmin’s spine. He hesitated, then made a soft hum of agreement against the pillow.

There was a pause. Then a faint, amused rumble in Chan’s chest. “You’re warm.”

“…So are you,” Seungmin muttered, the words slipping out before he could think better of them. Chan shifted, draping his arm a little heavier across Seungmin’s middle. It wasn’t confining, it was grounding, like the weight was meant to keep him floating here in this soft morning.

They stayed quiet for a while, the room steeped in the soft kind of morning that felt like it belonged to no one but them. Chan’s arm was heavy and warm, his thumb brushing idle, lazy patterns against the edge of his hoodie. Every pass made Seungmin’s heart skip, little jolts of heat curling through his chest. His fingers twitched again, barely grazing the smooth plane of Chan’s stomach. He swore he could feel the faint ripple of muscle under the skin, firm and hot beneath his hesitant touch.

A soft hum rumbled in Chan’s chest. “You’re kind of handsy in the mornings.”

Seungmin froze, then made a pathetic sound and buried his face in the blanket. “I can’t help it…” he mumbled, voice muffled. His face burned hotter with each word, but something in him wanted to push past the embarrassment. Wanted to know.

“…If I touched you more often,” he whispered, barely audible, “would you stop me?”

The room went still, except for the steady beat of Chan’s heart against his ear. Slowly, Chan shifted, his hand sliding to rest more firmly on Seungmin’s side. His voice, when it came, was rough but soft. “…No. I wouldn’t.”

Seungmin felt his entire body spark, curling closer instinctively, his forehead pressed against Chan’s chest. He could feel the way Chan’s chest rose a little deeper, a low laugh rumbling in satisfaction as he tightened his hold. It was dangerous how good this felt, how easy it was to sink into the warmth, to pretend the world outside the blankets didn’t exist. They lingered a little longer, tucked into the cocoon of blankets and warmth, until Seungmin’s stomach gave an impatient growl. Chan grinned against his hair, pressing a gentle squeeze to his side before untangling just enough to sit up.

“C’mon,” he said, voice warm with fond amusement. “Let’s get you fed before you start gnawing on me instead.”

Seungmin swatted at him weakly but followed, stretching as he slid out of bed. The house felt different in the morning, sunlight spilling across the floorboards, soft and golden, and the faint creak of wood like a greeting. Somewhere below, the smell of bacon and pancakes drifted up, rich and sweet. Seungmin smiled contentedly, knowing Felix was okay again. 

By the time they reached the kitchen, the hum of life had already begun. Felix was at the stove with a spatula in hand, his hair fluffy and backlit by the window, while Jisung rummaged in the fridge. Hyunjin leaned lazily against the counter with a glass of orange juice, eyes half-lidded. 

Felix was the first to notice him, lighting up like sunshine. “Good morning, sunshine!”

Seungmin’s lips curved into a small, shy smile as he stepped over, giving Felix a soft kiss on the lips. Warm and fleeting, it made Felix’s freckles crinkle with joy.

“Morning, Lixie,” he murmured.

Hyunjin tilted his head, watching him approach with that slow, sultry smile. Seungmin hesitated for a moment, then leaned in to brush a gentle lip kiss against his mouth, soft as a whisper. Hyunjin’s lashes fluttered, and his smile turned molten. “Morning,” Seungmin whispered. 

Jisung popped up from behind the fridge door, hair a mess, grin already spreading. “I see how it is.” Seungmin padded over and gave him a fond kiss to the temple, and Jisung made a happy little noise, practically glowing under the casual affection.

Finally, his gaze found Jeongin, who was sitting quietly at the table, watching with those soft, steady eyes. He didn’t say a word as Seungmin crossed the room and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, feeling the faintest tension in his shoulders melt. Sliding into the seat beside him, Seungmin let his hand brush against Jeongin’s under the table. Jeongin immediately curled his fingers around his, holding on like he’d been waiting for it.

The soft hum of morning was broken by the heavy tread of footsteps down the hall. A moment later, Changbin appeared in the doorway, hair damp from a quick wash and a hoodie tugged over his broad shoulders. He froze for half a second, scanning the room like he already suspected chaos, then stomped toward the counter to grab a plate.

Jeongin leaned in, voice a whisper only Seungmin could hear. “Good timing,” he murmured, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “You should be thankful he didn’t see all that PDA.” Seungmin bit the inside of his cheek, warmth blooming in his face as he tried and failed not to smile.

The kitchen was a soft murmur of life, the kind that seeped into Seungmin’s bones and made him feel… settled. Safe. He let his fork wander through a piece of pancake, savouring the faint sweetness of syrup, the warmth of the food in his chest.

Jisung was mid-rant about something no one had asked about, gesturing wildly with his fork. “…and then the stupid painting just fell off the wall, like, for no reason! I swear this house is just trying to test me—”

“It was hanging wrong,” Minho said, calm as ever, not even glancing up from buttering his toast.

“It wasn’t hanging wrong!” Jisung insisted, voice going up an octave. A loud snort came from the other side of the table where Changbin was demolishing a plate of hash browns. “I told you to fix that days ago. You never listen.”

Jisung gasped. “Whose side are you on?!”

“The house’s,” Changbin said through a mouthful of bacon, completely unapologetic. Felix giggled, sliding a small bowl of strawberries toward Seungmin. “Ignore them. They’re always like this in the morning.”

“Hey—” Jisung started, but Seungmin had to bite his lip to keep from laughing, shoulders shaking.

Changbin caught the almost-laugh and grinned. “Look at him. He’s finally joining in instead of hiding.”

Seungmin ducked his head, but the warmth in his chest didn’t go away. He let his shoulder brush Chan’s arm, let Jeongin’s fingers trace little circles against his palm under the table, and just… breathed.

Minho’s voice cut through the warmth of the chatter, low and thoughtful. “Weather’s nice today,” he said, mostly to himself, but the room stilled just a little to listen. “Good sunlight. Might be perfect for tending the garden.”

Seungmin glanced toward the window. The sky was a soft, pale blue, and the light spilling across the table made everything look alive. His chest fluttered. “…I could help?” he said before he could think better of it.

Changbin froze mid-bite, blinking. “You? In the dirt?”

Seungmin gave him a flat look that didn’t hold any real heat. “…Yes. Me.”

Minho’s hand paused mid-motion, the butter knife hovering above his toast. He lifted his eyes, and for a heartbeat, the faintest flicker of surprise crossed his face, followed by something softer. Warmer.

“…If you want,” he said, too casual to be convincing. Seungmin hid a little smile in his pancake.

The conversation drifted to softer things after that, the table buzzing with low chatter and the occasional clink of forks. Seungmin found himself glancing toward the window again, where sunlight spilled over the edge of the sill like honey, catching on the leaves of the climbing ivy outside.

When breakfast wound down, plates pushed aside and the last of the orange juice drained, Minho rose first. He was quiet as always, stacking a couple of plates without being asked, the morning light catching the faint sheen of his hair. He moved with that unspoken calm that had always made the house feel steadier somehow. Seungmin hesitated, fingers still curled loosely with Jeongin’s beneath the table, then slipped free and stood as well. “I, um… I’ll grab a jumper and meet you outside?”

Minho paused, looking back over his shoulder. His face didn’t change much, but Seungmin swore he caught the tiny shift, the ghost of a smile in his eyes, a flicker of something warm and pleased before he nodded. 

Seungmin pretended not to notice the way Chan’s gaze followed him as he left the table, or the subtle smirk Hyunjin tried to hide behind his juice glass. He focused on tugging on his soft hoodie and stepping into the sunlight, where the air was cool and bright, smelling faintly of grass and damp earth.

Minho was already crouched near the edge of the garden with a pair of small shears in his hand, trimming away a few overgrown leaves. He didn’t look up right away, but his voice drifted across the space anyway, calm and low.

“Grab those gloves on the bench if you want. I don’t want you getting your hands covered in soil.”

The house creaked faintly behind them, and Seungmin felt something bloom quietly in his chest. The garden felt different in the morning light. Dew clung to the grass and the edges of the leaves, glittering like a scattering of tiny stars. The air was cool against Seungmin’s skin, carrying the soft smell of earth and the faint sweetness of the flowers Hyunjin had insisted on planting weeks ago. 

He crossed to the old wooden bench where Minho had pointed, fingers brushing over the worn grain as he picked up the gardening gloves. The leather was soft and faintly warm from the sun. He tugged them on carefully, flexing his hands as he stepped toward Minho. 

Minho glanced up then, eyes briefly scanning him head to toe like he was checking for… something. Approval, maybe. He didn’t smile exactly, but there was a softness there, subtle as a breath.

“Good,” he murmured, nodding toward a patch of sprouting greens. “We’ll start here. The soil’s still damp, so it’ll be easier for you.”

Seungmin crouched beside him, the morning grass cool through the knees of his sweats. Up close, he could see the small details he’d never noticed before, tiny veins in the leaves, beads of water trembling at the tips, the way the soil crumbled delicately under Minho’s fingers.

Minho worked slowly, efficiently, trimming a wayward stem here, loosening the dirt around a stubborn weed there. His movements were careful, deliberate, like he respected the garden as something alive. Seungmin found himself mirroring him, scooping the soil gently, trying to follow his quiet rhythm.

“You’re good at this,” Seungmin said after a while, his voice soft in the morning stillness.

Minho’s shoulder shifted in a faint shrug. “You just… listen to it,” he replied, eyes still on the plants. “It’s quiet, but it tells you what it needs.”

Seungmin glanced at him, caught on the side profile softened by the sunlight. “…You sound like you’re talking about the house.”

That earned him the smallest huff of amusement, the corner of Minho’s mouth twitching. “Maybe.”

The quiet settled again, but it wasn’t empty, it was full of the soft sounds of the morning. Birds calling distantly. The whisper of the breeze moving through the branches. The low, comforting rhythm of Minho’s presence beside him, steady and grounding. Seungmin let his hands sink into the damp earth, feeling the cool grit through the thin gloves, and for a moment he forgot the world had ever been cold or lonely.

They worked in quiet harmony for a while, the sun creeping higher, soft warmth kissing the tops of their heads. Seungmin found a strange comfort in the rhythm of it—the slow scoop of earth, the careful pat of soil around tender roots. It was meditative, the kind of work that let his mind float somewhere light and unburdened. 

After a while, he paused, brushing a stray hair from his forehead with the back of his wrist, leaving a faint smear of dirt across his skin. Minho noticed but said nothing, only tilting his head slightly in that way he had when he was paying closer attention than he let on.

“My aunt used to make me do this with her,” Seungmin said quietly, his voice almost carried off by the breeze. “She said gardens… remember if you’re gentle with them.”

Minho’s hands stilled for a moment. He didn’t look at Seungmin right away, just pressed his thumb lightly into the damp soil as if feeling the pulse of it. “…She was right,” he said at last, the words low but certain.

Seungmin’s chest tightened, but not in a painful way. More like something tender was stretching, soft and new, blooming in the sunlight. He reached toward a sprout that had been struggling against a tangle of weeds, his gloved fingers careful as he freed it. “I guess I forgot how much I… liked this. Being out here.”

Minho finally looked at him then, the faintest ghost of a smile on his lips. “It suits you,” he said simply.

The praise landed warmer than he expected, curling deep in his stomach. He didn’t reply, just let the quiet settle between them again, filled with birdsong and the gentle rustle of leaves. Minho’s presence beside him felt like an anchor, steadying and sure, and for a while, it was enough to just exist there together. 

After a while, Seungmin leaned back on his heels, brushing dirt from his gloves. “You like it out here, huh?”

Minho didn’t answer immediately. He sat back too, resting his forearms on his knees, his gaze fixed on the patch of earth in front of them. “I like…” He hesitated, words careful. “…That it doesn’t ask for anything I can’t give.”

Seungmin tilted his head, waiting.

“People,” Minho continued, his voice low and even, “they take. They reach for you until there’s nothing left to give. But a garden…” His thumb pressed into the soil, leaving a soft impression. “…A garden only asks for your time. A little patience. And if you give it that, it grows. It gives back.”

The quiet stretched, full of meaning.

“My aunt used to say that,” Seungmin murmured. “She said gardens… make you feel wanted. Even if no one else does.”

Minho finally looked at him, and for a moment, the sunlight caught in his eyes, softening the sharp edges of him. He studied Seungmin in that unflinching way he had, the way that felt like being seen.

“…You are wanted,” he said at last, his voice quieter than the breeze. “By more than the garden.”

The words sank in like sunlight through damp soil, warm and heavy all at once. Seungmin’s breath caught, his throat tightening around everything he couldn’t say. Minho didn’t elaborate, and he didn’t need to. The air between them was full, steady and golden, like the world itself had paused to hold the moment.

They sat in the sun, side by side, the earth cool beneath them and the air tinged with the sweet green scent of leaves and damp soil. Seungmin let the words replay in his head, more times than he meant to, curling warm in the hollow places he rarely let himself touch. He reached for another stubborn little sprout, fingers brushing the soil, and for a moment it felt like the world wavered around him. Subtle at first, just a faint shift, like the ground had breathed under his knees.

Seungmin blinked. His hands stilled in the dirt, and he curled them into loose fists, the leather of the gloves creaking softly. Maybe he’d just moved too fast. Maybe the sun was a little warmer than he realized. He tried to keep moving, but the next handful of soil slipped through his fingers slower than it should have, his body suddenly aware of its own weight. He exhaled carefully, steadying himself, but his heartbeat gave a soft, nervous flutter.

His right hand trembled, just slightly, a delicate shake he might have missed if he hadn’t been staring at the shadow of it against the earth. He tucked it close to his thigh instinctively, hoping Minho wouldn’t notice. Seungmin sat there a moment longer, breathing through the faint tremor in his hand, willing the flutter in his chest to settle. He could do this. It was just a moment, he wasn’t weak. He wasn’t fragile.

“I think…” He let out a soft breath and pushed his palms into the cool earth to rise. “…I’ll grab some water.”

The world tilted.

It wasn’t dramatic, not at first, just a slow sway, like he was on a boat and the ground had decided it wanted to drift beneath him. He caught himself with a small step back, heart lurching, his hand bracing against the edge of the garden bed. The air felt thicker suddenly, heavier in his lungs. He swallowed hard, blinking against the haze creeping at the edge of his vision.

“Seungmin?”

Minho’s voice was calm but sharper now, focused. Seungmin didn’t look at him yet, jaw tight as he tried to straighten fully. His legs felt unsteady, like the strength had been quietly sapped from them while he wasn’t paying attention.

“I’m fine,” he said softly, though it wavered, his breath not quite matching the words. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Minho move, not fast, not frantic, but with that quiet decisiveness that made the air feel different around him.

Seungmin swayed again, knees softening, and this time Minho was there before he could think about falling. A firm hand closed around his arm, steady and warm through the fabric of his hoodie. The other hovered near his back, guiding him without pressure, but solid enough that Seungmin knew, if he went down, Minho wouldn’t let him.

“Easy,” Minho said, low and even. No panic. Just certainty. Seungmin let out a shaky breath, his fingers curling into Minho’s sleeve instinctively. The world still felt like it wanted to drift sideways, but Minho was an anchor—broad, unmoving, and calm in the morning light.

“Hey,” Minho murmured, tipping his head just enough to catch Seungmin’s eyes. “Look at me.”

He did. Slowly, unsteadily. And the spinning eased, just a little, as Minho’s gaze locked onto his, dark and grounding.

“Good,” Minho said quietly, thumb brushing the edge of Seungmin’s arm in a subtle, soothing circle. “You’re alright. Just breathe.”

The scent of soil and grass mingled with the warmth of Minho this close, steady and unshakable. Seungmin leaned in without meaning to, his body seeking the support even his pride couldn’t argue with. Minho didn’t move away, he simply shifted, guiding him a half-step closer so Seungmin could rest against the firm line of his shoulder. For a moment, the world shrank to sunlight, the earth beneath their feet, and the quiet, solid weight of Minho’s presence.

“You scared me for a second,” Minho said softly, the words nearly lost to the breeze. Seungmin’s throat tightened, and he let his eyes fall shut, letting himself stay there just a little longer, held steady in the calm orbit Minho always carried with him.

For a long moment, they stayed like that—Seungmin leaning against Minho’s steady frame, his breath uneven but softening, the sun warming his cheek where it brushed the edge of Minho’s shoulder. The world still hummed faintly off-kilter, but Minho’s hand on his arm was a tether, keeping him upright, keeping him here.

“Think you can walk?” Minho’s voice was quiet, careful not to push.

Seungmin hesitated before nodding. “…Yeah. Just… slow.”

Minho didn’t move right away. He adjusted his grip first, making sure Seungmin was fully balanced before guiding him a step forward. The grass brushed against their ankles as they left the garden, the morning air cooler in the shade of the house.

Every step was deliberate. Minho kept just close enough that Seungmin could feel the heat of him, his hand a firm weight at the small of Seungmin’s back now, steering without pressure. When Seungmin’s knee wobbled, Minho’s arm was immediately there, curling around his waist in a subtle, protective hold.

“Better?” he asked after a few steps, his voice low enough that it almost blended with the creak of the porch beneath their feet.

“…Yeah,” Seungmin murmured, though his fingers tightened slightly in Minho’s sleeve, betraying him. The door eased open under Minho’s touch. The shift from sunlight to soft indoor glow made Seungmin’s head feel light again, and he instinctively leaned a little more into Minho’s side.

“I’ve got you,” Minho said simply, and he did.

Minho steered Seungmin toward the couch, the soft press of his hand at his back steady and sure. Every step made Seungmin more aware of the tired weight in his limbs, a quiet heaviness that sank into his bones now that the adrenaline had faded.

“Here,” Minho murmured, crouching slightly to help him sit. He guided Seungmin down with careful hands, not letting go until he was sure he was balanced against the cushions. The familiar scent of the lounge, warm fabric, faint traces of the fireplace, and something faintly floral from Hyunjin’s obsession with incense, enfolded him instantly.

“Lie back,” Minho said softly.

Seungmin hesitated, his pride bristling for just a heartbeat, but his body answered before his mind could. He sank into the couch, the cushions swallowing his weight in a way that made his chest loosen. Minho reached for the knitted blanket draped over the armrest, Felix’s handiwork, pale cream and soft as a cloud, and unfolded it carefully. He shook it out once, letting it settle over Seungmin’s legs first, then his torso, tucking the edge lightly against his side. His movements were precise but gentle, like he’d done this before and knew how to make someone feel safe.

“You should drink something,” Minho said, his tone quiet but certain. “And rest. Just for a little while.”

Seungmin nodded faintly, his eyes half-lidded. The low murmur of the house seemed to wrap around him, wood creaking in soft rhythm, the faint patter of leaves against the windows. Minho stayed crouched beside the couch for a moment longer, scanning his face with that unreadable, deliberate gaze.

“You’re okay,” he said finally, almost more to the room than to Seungmin.

The warmth of the blanket, the steady comfort of the couch, and the faint hum of the house all seemed to sink into Seungmin’s skin at once. His eyelids fluttered, heavy, the soft weight of exhaustion settling over him now that he was safe and still.

He felt Minho’s presence more than he saw it. The slight shift of air when he moved. The quiet scuff of his knee against the rug as he crouched nearby, not yet leaving. Seungmin let his head tip toward the cushions, his voice a whisper.

“…You don’t have to stay.”

“I know.” Minho’s reply was low, almost a murmur, but he didn’t move away.

The house creaked softly, as if agreeing that it was better this way, that he shouldn’t be left alone just yet. Sunlight pooled over the floorboards, catching the faint glint of the dirt still clinging to Seungmin’s gloves, now folded neatly on the coffee table. His breathing slowed, a rhythm Minho seemed to match without trying. The silence between them was full of something quiet and grounding, the kind of presence that wrapped around you without asking for anything in return.

Minho adjusted the blanket once, tucking it lightly against Seungmin’s shoulder, and Seungmin’s lips curved in the smallest, drowsiest smile. He didn’t open his eyes, but he let himself mumble, barely audible, “…Thanks.”

There was a pause. A shift in the air, like Minho had thought about answering and decided against words. Instead, Seungmin felt the faintest brush of fingers against the blanket near his arm, a silent reassurance, an unspoken I’m here.

Seungmin’s breathing had settled into a soft, steady rhythm, his lashes brushing his cheeks like shadows. Minho crouched beside the couch, one knee pressed into the rug, letting the quiet wrap around them like a second blanket.

The house seemed to hum with a low, comforting energy, floorboards giving the occasional gentle creak as if acknowledging that its human was safe again. Sunlight slanted through the window, catching on the edge of the blanket and the faint smear of dirt on Seungmin’s gloves where they rested on the coffee table.

Minho’s eyes lingered on the rise and fall of his chest. He stayed like that for another long moment, his own breathing steady, matching the rhythm unconsciously. His hand hovered briefly over the blanket, not quite touching, just close enough to feel the warmth seeping through.

Footsteps thundered suddenly down the hall, breaking the stillness.

Changbin appeared in the doorway, wide-eyed, hair slightly disheveled, and his voice sharp with alarm.

“What the fuck did you do to him?”

The volume was enough to make Seungmin stir with a small, tired noise, his brow twitching. Minho’s gaze flicked up, his tone immediately soft but firm.

“Lower your voice.”

Changbin froze mid-step, then stomped into the room anyway, his energy filling the space like a storm cloud. He hovered by the couch, glaring at Minho and then down at Seungmin. “He looks like a ghost! I leave for five minutes and—”

Minho straightened slowly, his presence unshaken, voice even as ever.

“He… got dizzy,” he said carefully, choosing his words. “I don’t know why. It passed once he sat down.”

Changbin’s jaw tightened, his fists curling for a second before he flexed his fingers out, restless and unsure where to put the surge of worry. His gaze kept darting back to Seungmin’s face, scanning for any sign of discomfort.

Minho watched him for a moment, his expression unreadable but his voice holding a soft weight.

“I’m going to finish up in the garden,” he said. “Stay with him?”

“Obviously,” Changbin scoffed, but the word carried more emotion than bite.

He kicked off his shoes and lowered himself carefully onto the couch, settling at Seungmin’s feet. The couch dipped under his weight, and he reached down to adjust the blanket almost automatically, tucking it a little more securely over Seungmin’s legs.

Minho’s gaze lingered for a moment, that subtle Pride approval in his eyes, before he turned toward the back door. The sunlight followed him out, leaving the lounge steeped in a softer kind of glow.

The house seemed to exhale as the rhythm shifted again—Seungmin dozing, blanket-wrapped, and Changbin a quiet, solid sentinel at the edge of the couch, his knee brushing the fabric like a vow.

-

The lounge felt almost too quiet once Minho left, though the house itself still hummed softly, a low, almost watchful thrum. Changbin sat at the edge of the couch, Seungmin’s socked feet resting near his thigh under the blanket. He kept one hand loosely against the knitted edge, just enough to feel the faint warmth through the fibers.

God, he looked small like this.

Not weak, Changbin would never think that, but soft, in a way he wasn’t used to seeing. His face was relaxed, mouth slackened in sleep, dark lashes like brushstrokes against his skin. A strand of his hair fell across his forehead, and for half a second, Changbin had the ridiculous urge to brush it back.

He didn’t. He stayed still, perched like a guard dog, heart doing restless flips in his chest. His eyes kept scanning for signs of… something. A twitch. A frown. A shift in breathing. Anything that meant he wasn’t okay. Minho’s words replayed in his head: “He got dizzy. I don’t know why”.

The thought sat like a stone in his stomach.

Changbin’s fingers flexed against the blanket, restless. He hated not knowing. He hated the feeling of being useless, of having all this strength and no way to stop whatever invisible thing had tugged at Seungmin’s body like a thread. He leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose, and let the hum of the house fill the space. Sunlight slid across the floorboards in lazy golden stripes, catching the edge of Seungmin’s hair. The rise and fall of his chest was the only rhythm Changbin cared about right now.

“…I’ve got you,” he muttered, barely above a whisper, the words more for himself than for the boy sleeping inches away.

His hand moved before he could think about it, adjusting the blanket just a little higher over Seungmin’s legs. When the human sighed in his sleep and shifted closer by an inch, Changbin froze, then let his shoulders relax. He could stay like this. All day, if he had to.

The lounge was quiet, but not silent. The house always had its soft murmur, floorboards settling, distant whispers of leaves against the window, the faint hum that had started to feel like approval. Changbin sat in his guard spot at the foot of the couch, one hand curled loosely over the blanket. He could feel Seungmin’s warmth through it, faint but steady.

Minutes passed like slow honey. The sun shifted, turning the golden stripes on the floor a warmer shade, and Changbin’s mind finally started to ease. He let his head rest against the back of the couch, eyes still on Seungmin’s face. Then, a flicker. A twitch at the corner of his mouth. A crease forming between his brows.

Changbin sat up straighter, pulse skipping. He didn’t speak right away; he just watched, alert, every muscle suddenly coiled. Seungmin’s fingers curled slightly under the blanket, a tiny, restless movement that made Changbin’s chest tighten. A faint sound escaped him, barely there. Not a word, more like a soft, uncertain whimper.

Changbin leaned closer, lowering his voice instinctively. “…Hey.”

The crease deepened. His lips moved without sound, and his shoulders gave a small, uneven shudder.

“Seungmin?” Changbin tried again, still quiet, still steady. He reached out, his hand hovering just above Seungmin’s shin under the blanket, close enough for warmth to bridge the gap. He wasn’t touching yet. Not until he needed to. The house gave a faint, sympathetic groan in the wood above them.

Seungmin twitched again, harder this time. His fingers curled tight in the blanket, and a soft sound slipped from his lips, something like no, but broken and muffled.

That was enough.

Changbin moved, shifting up the couch with a smooth, quiet motion until he was beside him. Even crouched over, he felt huge next to Seungmin, broad shoulders taking up half the space, his presence heavy and grounding. Seungmin looked so innocent, curled on his side with the blanket bunched around him, dark hair sticking softly to his temple.

“Hey… shhh.” Changbin’s voice was low, calm but firm. He reached out and brushed the back of his knuckles lightly along Seungmin’s arm through the blanket. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

Seungmin stirred slightly, brow tightening, a faint tremor running through his body. His lips moved again, forming an unspoken word. Changbin’s chest clenched. He slid his hand up, resting it fully against Seungmin’s shoulder now, warm and steady. His thumb traced a small, slow arc. “You’re safe,” he murmured, leaning closer. “Nothing’s gonna touch you. Not while I’m here.”

Seungmin jerked faintly in his sleep, the apparent nightmare pulling him deeper, but his body instinctively pressed toward the warmth of the touch. Changbin closed in further, his solid frame curving around him without trapping him, a protective wall against the world. He could feel just how fragile Seungmin was, in a way that made his chest ache, but not weak. Never weak. Just… breakable in a way Changbin wasn’t, and that thought settled into his bones like a vow.

Seungmin’s face twisted suddenly, a quiet gasp breaking from his lips, and his body jerked under the blanket. The soft, pitiful sound of it hit Changbin like a fist.

“Shit—hey. Hey, Seungmin.” He slid closer in an instant, his hand finding Seungmin’s shoulder and giving a gentle shake, gentle for him, but firm enough to jolt. His pulse thundered in his ears.

“Wake up, baby, c’mon…” His voice cracked, rough with the edge of panic he couldn’t hide. Seungmin whimpered, curling in on himself, his fingers clenching tight in the blanket. His lips moved again, forming something like don’t go in a breathless whisper, and Changbin’s stomach twisted so hard it hurt.

“No, no, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere,” he said quickly, words tumbling out as he hooked an arm around Seungmin’s waist, dragging him gently but insistently into his chest. The movement was automatic, possessive, protective, desperate.

Seungmin was so damn small against him, swallowed in the curve of his arms. Changbin could feel every uneven breath, every tremor, and his heart squeezed in his chest like he could absorb the nightmare himself if he just held tight enough.

“Shhh… I’ve got you. I’ve got you, baby,” he whispered against his hair, rough and shaky. His hand splayed wide over Seungmin’s back, almost covering the whole width of it, feeling each shallow inhale. “Nothing’s touching you. Not while I’m here. I swear it.”

The house creaked low above them, and Changbin pressed his cheek to Seungmin’s hair, holding him a little tighter as if daring the nightmare to try again. Changbin didn’t know how long he stayed like that, wrapped around Seungmin like he could shield him from everything, even dreams. His heart thudded heavy against his ribs, the rhythm uneven, jittery with leftover panic.

Then, finally, a shift.

Seungmin’s lashes fluttered, his breathing stuttering before catching on a quiet sigh. His small body softened against Changbin’s chest, the tension bleeding out of him in fragile waves. He gave a faint, questioning whimper, like he wasn’t sure if he was still dreaming.

“Hey… shhh.” Changbin’s voice was low, rough from holding back all the fear that had threatened to claw up his throat. “It’s me. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Seungmin stirred, pressing his face instinctively into the curve of Changbin’s neck. His breath was warm against his skin, a soft puff that made something deep in Changbin’s chest ache. Automatically, his arms tightened, one hand rubbing slow circles along his back. God, he was so small. Small, warm, and breakable in his arms, and yet trusting him completely, melting into the safety he offered without question.

“…Binnie?” The whisper was barely there, scratchy and raw from sleep.

“Yeah,” Changbin breathed, the word catching on something he couldn’t name. He ducked his head, nose brushing against soft hair, and let himself murmur, “I’m here, baby. I’m not letting go.”

Seungmin’s fingers twitched against his hoodie, and for a moment, Changbin thought he felt the faintest, clumsy grip there, seeking, holding. His chest tightened, helpless tenderness swelling so sharp it almost hurt.

“You’re safe,” he whispered again, rough and certain, because it was the only thing that mattered.

Slowly, Seungmin’s breathing evened out again, softer now, calmer. He tilted his head slightly, his cheek brushing Changbin’s jaw, and something inside Wrath broke in the gentlest way. His heart was hammering, but the world had narrowed to this—the quiet weight of Seungmin trusting him, the house humming faint approval in the walls around them.

And before he could stop himself, before he could second-guess, Changbin bent his head just enough to press the softest, trembling kiss to Seungmin’s temple. Changbin’s knees were starting to ache from crouching on the floor, but he didn’t want to let go. Still, he knew he couldn’t hold Seungmin like this forever.

Carefully, he shifted his weight, one arm hooked securely around Seungmin’s waist as he slid up onto the couch. The cushions dipped under them, and he adjusted until his back rested against the corner of the sofa. Seungmin’s small body followed the movement instinctively, curling into him like he belonged there, his head settling under Changbin’s chin. For a moment, the only sound was their breathing and the soft hum of the house. Changbin’s heart was still beating hard, but slower now, like the rhythm had learned to match the rise and fall of Seungmin’s chest.

Then, muffled against his hoodie, came a quiet voice:

“…You called me baby again.”

Heat exploded across Changbin’s face. “I—uh—I didn’t—” He stopped, groaning softly and pressing a palm over his own eyes. “Okay, maybe I did.”

Seungmin’s lips quirked against his chest, and the tiny, sleepy smile felt like a victory and a dagger all at once.

“Whatever,” Changbin muttered, voice gruff. “You… you are my baby. I can’t—ugh.” He shifted, restless, tightening his hold without thinking. “You’re just… so special to me. I’ve never felt like this about any of my tethers, not like—”

He cut himself off, jaw clenching, frustration curling at the edges of his words. “I don’t know what to do with it. It’s… a lot.”

Seungmin tilted his head enough to look up at him, eyes still glassy from sleep but soft. That gaze undid him in ways he’d never admit out loud.

He swallowed hard, leaning his head back against the couch, exhaling through his nose. “…You scared the hell out of me, you know that?”

Seungmin was quiet, his fingers curling faintly in the fabric of Changbin’s hoodie.

“Do you…” Changbin hesitated, then asked gently, “Do you wanna talk about it? The nightmare?”

Seungmin was quiet for a long moment, just breathing against his chest. Changbin could feel every small movement, every inhale, the faint brush of his hair, the twitch of fingers curled in his hoodie. Then, slowly, Seungmin shifted.

“Careful,” Changbin murmured, immediately adjusting his hold as the boy squirmed upright. He ended up perched on Changbin’s lap, legs folding instinctively to the side, his small hands resting lightly against the broad plane of Wrath’s chest. The world narrowed to the space between their faces, close enough that Changbin could see the faint pink at the tip of Seungmin’s nose, the shine of sleep still clinging to his lashes. His breath brushed warm against Changbin’s collarbone, and it was wrecking him.

Seungmin hesitated, his gaze skittering to the side, then whispered, “…It was a bad one.”

Changbin’s arms tightened just slightly. “Yeah?” His voice was low, rough. “You don’t have to tell me, but…”

Seungmin swallowed, throat bobbing. “I… dreamed I was alone again. I couldn’t find you. Any of you. The house was empty, and I kept calling, but nobody came.” His voice trembled, cracking at the edges. “And it felt like… like I was going to wake up, and you’d all be gone.” A single tear slipped down his cheek before he could stop it.

The sound Changbin made was soft and furious all at once, his chest tight with something sharp and protective. He cupped the back of Seungmin’s head instinctively, voice a husky whisper.

“Never,” he said, firm enough to make the house seem to still around them. “I swear to you, Min. We’re not going anywhere. I don’t care what dreams try to tell you, I’d burn the whole world down before I left you like that.”

Seungmin gave a wet little laugh that broke halfway into a sniffle, curling into Changbin’s chest for just a heartbeat before pulling back enough to meet his eyes again.

He looked small. Breakable. And his.

Changbin’s hand stayed at the back of Seungmin’s head, his thumb brushing gently along soft hair. He wanted to say something, needed to, but the words felt like trying to lift a mountain in his chest.

“Seungmin…” His voice came out rough, quieter than he meant. “I could never leave you. Not in a dream, not in real life. I…”

Seungmin blinked up at him, eyes glossy, lips parted like he was holding his breath.

“I—” Changbin tried again, jaw clenching. He’d faced battlefields, he’d carried lifetimes of Wrath, and yet this fragile boy in his lap unraveled him completely. “…I think maybe I—”

The words caught. He huffed, frustrated, his face heating. “Fuck. I can’t say it.”

Seungmin gave a small, shaky smile, and something in Changbin’s chest cracked open. So he did the only thing he could. He met Seungmin’s eyes, holding that soft, fragile gaze for a heartbeat that felt like a lifetime. And then, with a low exhale, he leaned in and kissed him.

It was tentative at first, almost trembling, more a press of devotion than hunger. Seungmin made a soft, startled sound against his lips before melting into it, his small hands fisting in Changbin’s hoodie.

Changbin’s heart roared in his chest, all heat and ache and mine. When he finally pulled back, just an inch, his forehead rested against Seungmin’s. His voice was husky, low and certain.

“…Now you know.”

For a moment, all Changbin could do was breathe. His forehead stayed pressed to Seungmin’s, the echo of the kiss still thrumming through his chest like a second heartbeat. His hands hadn’t moved, one curved around Seungmin’s back, the other steady against the nape of his neck, grounding him like he was afraid he’d vanish. Seungmin’s eyes fluttered open first. They were soft and wet at the edges, lashes clinging together, and he stared up at Changbin like he was seeing him for the first time.

“…Binnie,” he whispered, the word catching on a shaky exhale.

Changbin swallowed, rough and overwhelmed. “Yeah, baby.”

A soft flush bloomed across Seungmin’s cheeks. He hesitated, his fingers flexing against the fabric of Changbin’s hoodie, and then he leaned in.

This time, the kiss was slower. Longer. Seungmin’s lips lingered against his like he was memorizing the shape of him, like he didn’t want to let go just yet. Changbin made a quiet sound in his chest, somewhere between a sigh and a groan, his hand sliding a little more firmly along Seungmin’s back. He didn’t deepen it, didn’t rush, just let himself feel it, let himself drown in the soft, perfect warmth of being wanted back.

When they finally broke apart, Seungmin stayed close, his nose brushing Changbin’s as he caught his breath. “You…” He hesitated, cheeks pink. “…You make me feel safe.”

Something hot and heavy lodged in Changbin’s chest, and for once, he didn’t try to fight it. He just tucked Seungmin tighter against him, a fierce sort of pride simmering under all the softness.

“Good,” he murmured, his voice low and certain. “That’s all I want.”

They stayed close, Seungmin still perched in his lap, warm and soft and so trusting it made Changbin’s chest ache. His arms were around him without thinking, protective but careful, like holding something precious.

Then Seungmin shifted slightly. Just enough for his thigh to brush over Changbin’s lap in a new angle.

He froze.

Seungmin blinked, then stilled too. A slow, dawning realisation lit up his face, followed by the tiniest smirk.

“…Is that…?” he whispered, mischief curling at the edges of his voice.

Changbin went scarlet instantly. “I—no—I mean—fuck—” He tried to adjust his arms like he could somehow hide, groaning as his head tipped back against the couch. “Seungmin—”

A soft laugh escaped Seungmin, warm and teasing, but not cruel. “Wow… I knew I was getting more irresistible.”

Changbin stared at him, utterly wrecked, his face in his hands. “You’re impossible.”

Seungmin giggled, leaning into him again, resting his cheek against Changbin’s shoulder like he owned the spot now. “It’s okay,” he said lightly, voice a little shy under the humor. “I… don’t mind.”

Changbin swallowed hard, his heart doing flips as he hugged him closer, half-buried in his hair to hide his expression. “…You’re gonna kill me, you know that?”

Seungmin hummed, smug and soft at the same time. “Mmm. Maybe just a little.”

Changbin had finally started to relax again, Seungmin’s small weight warm in his lap, his head tucked into the curve of his shoulder like he belonged there. His heartbeat was still trying to figure itself out, caught somewhere between holy shit I kissed him and holy shit he kissed me back.

Seungmin shifted just enough to look up at him with that little smirk, the one that was all soft lips and sharp edges at once.

“So…” he whispered. “Binnie gets flustered when he gets a kiss. But really flustered when he…” His eyes flicked meaningfully down before darting back up with faux-innocence. “…you know.”

“Seungmin!” Changbin groaned, his entire face on fire. He buried his face in his hands, shoulders curling as if he could hide from the teasing entirely.

A soft laugh bubbled out of Seungmin, and he leaned back against Changbin’s chest, smug as anything. “I’m just saying… it’s cute. I didn’t think Wrath would blush like this.”

“I’m gonna—” Changbin huffed, tugging the blanket higher around Seungmin as if that would protect him from the mortifying reality of his own existence. “…You’re evil.”

“Mm.” Seungmin hummed, half-asleep and wholly pleased. “You like it.”

Then, soft footsteps creak across the hall. The shift in the air is immediate.

Seungmin blinked drowsily as the lounge door eased open. Minho’s shadow stretched across the golden light, his hair catching the sunlight in soft brown strands as he stepped in, wiping faint soil from his hands on a rag.

His gaze flicked from Seungmin to Changbin, then to the way Seungmin was wrapped in the blanket and perched in Wrath’s lap. One brow lifted, slow and deliberate.

“…I see I missed something,” he said, his voice calm but carrying that subtle weight that made Changbin immediately flinch.

“Nothing!” Changbin said too fast, hugging Seungmin instinctively like Minho might try to take him.

Minho’s mouth twitched, the ghost of a smirk threatening. “Mhm.” His gaze swept them again, unhurried. “Seems pretty comfortable for nothing.”

Seungmin flushed, ducking into Changbin’s hoodie for half a second before mumbling, “…It is pretty comfy.”

Minho just hummed and moved closer, crouching to meet Seungmin’s eye level, his expression softening as he studied his face. “You feeling better?”

Minho stayed crouched, his steady presence filling the quiet between them. He didn’t rush or demand, he simply waited, his gaze soft but unyielding, until Seungmin finally lifted his eyes.

“I…” Seungmin hesitated, fingers twisting in the edge of the blanket. “I don’t really know what happened. I just… felt dizzy all of a sudden.” His voice wavered, like he was confessing a fault. “I’m sorry—”

Both sins cut him off instantly.

“No.”

Minho’s tone was firm, low and deliberate, while Changbin’s came out as an instinctive growl, protective and rough.

“You don’t need to apologize,” Minho said, his voice softer now but carrying weight. He reached out, brushing a speck of dirt from Seungmin’s blanket like an excuse to touch without overwhelming. “None of this is your fault.”

Seungmin ducked his head, but Minho’s eyes stayed on him, steady and grounding.

“I was…” Minho hesitated, then admitted in a quiet voice, “I was scared for a second. I don’t like seeing you like that.”

Something in Seungmin’s chest ached at the words, the honesty curling warm and heavy behind his ribs.

Minho let the silence breathe for a moment, then continued gently, “Just promise me if you feel like that again, you’ll tell someone. Right away. Don’t push through it alone.”

“…I promise,” Seungmin murmured, his voice small but sure.

The house gave a soft, approving creak above them, like it had been listening all along. The tension in the room eased, soft as an exhale. Minho’s words hung warm in the air, like sunlight through the high windows, and Seungmin felt the last remnants of the nightmare slip off his shoulders.

Changbin shifted beneath him, still cradling him close, and muttered, “…You’re never leaving my lap again.”

Seungmin huffed a quiet laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching. “I don’t remember agreeing to that.”

“You don’t have to,” Changbin said, chin lifting with stubborn pride, though the tips of his ears betrayed him, pink and flustered.

“Mm.” Seungmin tilted his head, feigning thoughtfulness. “You know… Binnie getting all protective, calling me baby, turning red…” His eyes glittered with mischief. “It’s kinda cute.”

“Seungmin—” Changbin groaned, tipping his head back against the couch, and Minho’s mouth quirked in silent amusement.

“Don’t tease him too much,” Minho said, though the subtle warmth in his voice gave him away. He reached over to adjust the blanket more securely over Seungmin’s shoulders, his touch lingering just long enough to be grounding.

Seungmin’s teasing softened into a small, genuine smile. He let his head rest against Changbin’s chest again, tucking himself into the curve of his arms. The steady heartbeat beneath his ear was a comfort he hadn’t known he needed, and the blanket felt heavier now in the best way, like the house itself was holding him.

“You’re safe,” Minho said quietly, almost to himself, as he rose to leave them in the golden light.

Seungmin’s eyes fluttered shut. “…I know.”

Chapter Text

The house was quieter in the afternoon, holding the kind of peace that came only after a morning full of life. Sunlight stretched long and warm across the hallways, brushing against Seungmin’s shoulders as he climbed the stairs. His legs were steady again, but the memory of the dizzy spell lingered like a shadow in the back of his mind.

He told himself he was just going upstairs to tidy his room, a little cleaning, maybe folding the pile of clothes that had grown in the corner, but his thoughts were far from domestic.

He kept thinking about the kiss.

Or maybe not just one kiss, the kisses. The first soft press of lips, hesitant and trembling, and the second, when he’d leaned in and felt the world go quiet for a heartbeat. The warmth of Changbin’s arms around him, the solid weight of Wrath holding him like he was something breakable and beloved all at once. A small, involuntary smile curved his mouth. His chest felt fluttery. 

And then there was the… other part.

Seungmin’s ears went hot just thinking about it, his hand brushing the banister as if grounding himself. The heat of Changbin’s flustered body under his own, the realisation that his presence had that effect, it hadn’t scared him. If anything, it had made him feel… wanted. Safe. He didn’t mind it. Not with Binnie.

A quiet hum escaped his throat as he reached the top of the stairs, sunlight spilling across the landing. He wondered, not for the first time, how many of the others felt that way about him too. Hyunjin’s touches, Felix’s bright devotion, the subtle way Minho’s eyes lingered…

His chest tightened in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

Seungmin sank onto the edge of his bed, the familiar creak of the mattress grounding him in the quiet of his room. For a moment, he just sat there, letting the stillness settle over him, the muffled hum of the house like a heartbeat in the walls. He should have been resting. He was tired, body heavy in that way that came after dizziness. But every time he closed his eyes, he didn’t see darkness, he saw Changbin’s face, flushed and earnest, the press of warm lips against his own.

Seungmin lay back slowly, staring up at the ceiling. His chest felt full and tight at the same time, heat curling beneath his ribs and sinking low in a way that made him want to squirm. His fingers found the hem of his hoodie, curling in the soft fabric as he let the memory wash over him.

The way Wrath had held him, so solid, so careful, was seared into his skin. The faint rumble of his voice, the grip of strong arms that made him feel both small and untouchable to the world. And that kiss… tentative, then firmer, carrying all the words Changbin couldn’t seem to say.

Seungmin’s heart fluttered and stuttered, his body thrumming with an energy he didn’t know what to do with. Heat prickled at his ears and along his neck, and he pressed his face into the pillow with a quiet, frustrated noise.

God… why does it feel like this?

The ceiling blurred a little as Seungmin stared up at it, his heartbeat loud in his ears. He’d been kissed before, he’d done plenty more than that, if he was honest with himself. But this… this was different. Every other touch in his life had felt like a transaction. Someone reaching for what he could give them, not for him. But Changbin had kissed him like he was precious. Like holding him was enough.

A shiver ran through him, small and involuntary, curling heat low in his stomach. He turned his head into the pillow, biting back a soft, restless sound as his chest tightened with something giddy and terrifying.

For the first time, he let himself imagine… what it would be like, if his first time with someone who truly cared for him was with one of them. With Changbin. With someone who would treat him right, who would hold him like that the whole way through, make him feel safe and wanted, not used. The thought made his body stir, a subtle ache winding through him as his fingers clenched in the bedsheets.

He exhaled shakily, face hot as the thoughts tumbled uninvited through his mind. No one’s ever… wanted me like that before.

And now he couldn’t stop thinking about it. Seungmin’s chest rose and fell too quickly as he stared up at the ceiling, heat curling through him in slow, treacherous waves. The room felt warmer than it was, his skin tingling under the blanket, restless in ways he didn’t want to think about too hard.

He shifted, pressing his face into the pillow with a soft groan, his fingers fisting in the sheets. The memory of Changbin’s arms, his kiss, his desire, played over in his head, and his stomach fluttered helplessly.

Then came the knock. Soft. Measured.

Seungmin froze. His entire body jolted upright, and in a frantic heartbeat, he yanked a pillow over his lap like it could erase the warmth radiating off his skin.

“…C‑come in?” His voice cracked, and he winced. The door eased open with the familiar, quiet creak, and Hyunjin stepped into the room like he’d always belonged there. Loose hair framed his face, catching the dim light, and his eyes, dark, soft, aware, found Seungmin immediately.

“Hello my darling,” he said in a murmur, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

Seungmin’s breath stuttered, heat flooding his cheeks as Hyunjin’s gaze lingered, like he could feel every flicker of emotion thrumming in the air. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The room seemed to hum with the weight of everything unspoken. Seungmin clutched the pillow tighter, heart fluttering under the weight of being so seen. Hyunjin moved slowly, deliberately, crossing the room like a cat approaching skittish prey. He perched on the edge of the bed, leaving a careful distance between them. His voice was soft, velvet and steady.

“…You’re warm,” he said quietly, eyes flicking from Seungmin’s flushed face to the death grip on his pillow. “And a little… restless?”

Seungmin swallowed hard, his throat dry. “…Maybe.”

Hyunjin smiled, slow and knowing, but he didn’t tease. He simply leaned back on one hand, giving Seungmin space to breathe, the air between them thick with understanding. Hyunjin didn’t speak again right away, and somehow that made Seungmin’s pulse race faster. The silence was deliberate, like Lust was giving him time to squirm, to let his own thoughts rise to the surface. The pillow in his lap suddenly felt both ridiculous and necessary. He adjusted it slightly, just enough to feel more shielded, and Hyunjin’s gaze followed the movement without a word.

“…You feel it, don’t you?” Seungmin whispered before he could stop himself, his voice a little hoarse. Hyunjin tilted his head, his hair sliding across his shoulder like liquid silk. “Mhm,” he hummed, low and soft. “I can feel it… and I can feel you.”

Seungmin bit the inside of his cheek, heat flaring higher in his face.

“Don’t be embarrassed, Seungmin,” Hyunjin said, his tone tender rather than teasing. He reached out, slow enough for Seungmin to pull away if he wanted, and let his fingers brush lightly against the back of Seungmin’s hand where it clutched the pillow. “It’s natural.”

Seungmin shivered faintly, caught between wanting to hide and wanting to lean into the touch.

“I only came because I wanted to make sure you’re okay,” Hyunjin continued, voice a soothing murmur. “That all this… doesn’t scare you. Desire can be overwhelming, especially when it’s tied to feelings you’re still figuring out.”

Seungmin swallowed, his chest tightening in that vulnerable, tender way. “It’s just… it feels different this time. All of it.”

Hyunjin’s thumb gave a soft, grounding stroke against his skin. “Different how?”

Seungmin hesitated, eyes darting away, but he could feel the truth pulling at his throat. “…He wanted me. Not what I could give him. Me.”

Hyunjin didn’t rush him. He never did. He just let the quiet linger, his thumb still brushing slow circles against the back of Seungmin’s hand, a soft tether that held him in place.

Seungmin stared at the pillow in his lap, his voice barely above a whisper.

“…I think I could want all of you.”

The words trembled into the room, delicate as spun glass.

Hyunjin tilted his head, eyes warm and impossibly patient. “All of us?”

A small, shaky nod. “If… if I was brave enough.” His throat tightened, and he glanced down, cheeks heating. “I just… I don’t know if everyone would want that.”

There it was. The fear. The one that had lingered in the edges of every smile, every kiss, every quiet moment in someone’s arms. Hyunjin’s expression softened even further, and he leaned in ever so slightly, enough for Seungmin to feel the faint brush of his hair against his arm.

“Oh, my love…” His voice was velvet, tender and sure. “You are wanted. Entirely. It’s not about what you can give, it’s because of who you are. And if that’s where your heart leads you…” He let the words curl like a caress, “…then all you need to do is ask.”

Seungmin’s chest ached, a knot of nerves and relief tangling deep inside him. He bit his lip, voice quiet and unsure. “…Just ask?”

Hyunjin smiled then, slow and knowing, and reached up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind Seungmin’s ear. “There is nothing more powerful than being honest with the people you love. They deserve to know what your heart wants.”

Seungmin felt his pulse in his throat, heavy and fluttering. The idea of saying it aloud, of being that vulnerable made his stomach twist, but under Hyunjin’s gaze, it didn’t feel impossible.

The quiet that followed felt heavy but not uncomfortable, full of something tender and new, a warmth that settled in Seungmin’s chest like a heartbeat he could feel in every corner of himself. Hyunjin’s hand lingered at his cheek, thumb barely brushing the skin. He studied Seungmin for a long moment, his expression unreadable but soft, like he was holding a secret between them. Then he tilted his head slightly, and his voice slipped into that velvet murmur that always seemed to find its way under Seungmin’s skin.

“Just as I’ll be honest right now,” he said, the words slow and deliberate, “and admit that it’s incredibly flattering to know you think of me that way.”

Seungmin’s breath caught, his pulse jumping. The words curled around him like a ribbon, warm and dangerous in gentleness. Hyunjin’s lips curved into something soft, like pride and fondness all tangled together. “You make me feel… very lucky, you know.”

Seungmin couldn’t think for a second. He ducked his head into the pillow, muffling the involuntary, flustered noise that escaped him. His fingers clenched in the fabric, and heat prickled down the back of his neck. Hyunjin only chuckled under his breath, that low, fond sound that made it feel like he’d just gathered Seungmin into an embrace without moving an inch.

“Don’t hide from me,” he murmured, leaning just enough to press the lightest kiss to the top of Seungmin’s hair. “Your desire is nothing to be ashamed of. It’s a gift, one I’ll always handle with care.”

Seungmin’s chest ached with something fierce and warm. For the first time, he let the thought bloom fully: I really could love all of them.

Hyunjin lingered for a moment after the soft kiss to his hair, his fingers trailing lightly over Seungmin’s shoulder as if he were smoothing the air itself. The warmth of his presence filled the room, but it didn’t feel heavy, it felt like permission to breathe. Seungmin dared to peek up at him again, his lips still parted with things he couldn’t quite say. The weight of his own heartbeat thrummed low in his body, leaving him restless and shy all at once. Hyunjin seemed to sense every flicker of it. He tilted his head, dark hair slipping forward as he studied him, and then spoke in that slow, velvet voice that always wrapped around Seungmin like silk.

“If your body asks for something, my love… there is no shame in listening.”

Heat bloomed in Seungmin’s face. He swallowed, fingers tightening in the pillow.

“There’s nothing wrong with desire,” Hyunjin continued, soft and sure. “It’s a part of you. A beautiful one. And giving yourself what you need is never a thing to hide from.”

The words curled warm in Seungmin’s chest, both comforting and terrifying. He gave a small, shy nod, unsure if he could trust his voice. Hyunjin smiled faintly, and the expression was all fondness, no tease. “Good,” he murmured. “Just… be honest with yourself. And with us, when your heart is ready.”

He rose gracefully, his hand lingering a moment longer on Seungmin’s shoulder before slipping away. At the door, he glanced back, eyes soft but knowing.

“Rest now. Let yourself feel safe.”

When the door clicked shut, the room felt warm and golden, like the air itself had wrapped him in a soft embrace. Seungmin curled on his side, pillow still clutched to his chest, his heartbeat steadying under the weight of being truly, deeply seen.

-

The room felt different once Hyunjin left, warmer somehow, like his words had sunk into the walls. Seungmin lay still for a moment, curled around the pillow, his heartbeat slow but heavy, pulsing low in his body. He exhaled shakily, burying his face in the fabric. It would be so easy to ignore it. To shove the heat away like he always did. But Hyunjin’s voice lingered in his head, soft and certain: There’s nothing wrong with desire. It’s a part of you.

His fingers trembled slightly as they traced the seam of the pillow, wandering down, hesitant. Every nerve in his body seemed alive, and it felt different this time, because it wasn’t about escaping, or proving something, or giving someone else what they wanted.

This was just… for him.

He closed his eyes, letting memory and imagination blur together. Changbin’s arms around him. The soft rasp of “baby” in his ear. That first kiss, warm, shaky, real. A quiet whimper caught in his throat as his hips shifted, the pillow clutched tighter against him. Heat flushed through him in waves, twisting low in his stomach, and for the first time, he let himself feel everything.

Every soft shiver. Every pulse of want. Every heartbeat that seemed to whisper, you’re allowed.

Seungmin lay sprawled across his bed, the pillow clutched to his chest, the dim quiet of his room cocooning him in warmth. His heartbeat pulsed low, slow, and heavy, each thud humming in his stomach and down to where heat had been curling all night. He exhaled shakily, letting his free hand drift over his chest, light, hesitant at first, fingertips tracing the soft rise and fall of his breathing. He followed the line of his own body, over the dip of his ribs, his palm spreading over his stomach where warmth pooled like liquid. His skin tingled under the touch, his hips giving a small, involuntary twitch.

He let himself go lower, over the curve of his waist, cupping himself through the soft fabric of his sweatpants. A soft noise slipped from his lips, half‑startled, half‑relieved. It felt… good. Not rushed. Not desperate. Just his.

He pressed a little more firmly, letting his hips shift in a slow rhythm, and his thighs tensed in response. Breath hitched, and the faintest shiver rolled through him as pleasure bloomed like a slow, steady wave. His grip on the pillow tightened, grounding him in the moment. In his mind, the voices of the sins slipped in like warm threads weaving around his heart:

You’re safe, baby.
Changbin, rough and tender, like a hug wrapped in sound.

You’re wanted.
Minho’s voice, quiet but golden, full of pride and certainty.

I’m here, darling.
Hyunjin, velvet and knowing, like he’d always been waiting for Seungmin to let himself feel this.

The memory of their words, their touches, their love, it all swelled inside him as he moved against his hand, slow and careful, letting each tremor of pleasure roll through him. Tears pricked his eyes, heat flushing his face and chest, not from shame but from the overwhelming sweetness of it, of being wanted, loved, allowed.

“…Love you,” he whispered into the pillow, breathless. “…All of you.”

The release was soft and trembling, his body curling instinctively as he gasped against the fabric. Warmth rippled through him in quiet waves, and he stayed still in the aftermath, palm splayed over his stomach, heart fluttering and full.

For the first time, he felt whole in his own skin.

-

Hyunjin leaned against the doorframe across the hall, the faint hum of the house curling around him like a cat brushing his legs. He had left Seungmin to his quiet, to his own heart, but… he could feel it.

The ripple of his release bloomed through their tether like a soft, golden pulse, hesitant at first, then warm and whole, carrying that delicate thread of love with it. Hyunjin closed his eyes, letting the sensation sink into him. A slow smile curved his lips.

“Oh, my darling…” he whispered to the empty hall, voice velvet and full of pride.

It wasn’t lustful, not really. It was tender, protective, reverent. Seungmin had let himself feel, had embraced his own desire without fear or shame. That was more beautiful to Hyunjin than anything else.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured softly, his hand brushing along the wall where the house seemed to hum with shared warmth. “You’re learning to love yourself… and I’m so proud of you.”

A faint, almost imperceptible tremor shivered through the floorboards, the house itself resonating in quiet approval.

Hyunjin’s eyes softened as he turned toward his own room, the ghost of his smile lingering. He didn’t need to check on Seungmin again. He knew without question that the boy was safe, warm, and wrapped in the kind of love he’d always deserved.

-

In the morning that followed, the dining room was bathed in soft sunlight, warm streaks falling across the long table where the last crumbs of breakfast lingered. Plates were stacked in messy towers, and the air still smelled of toast, butter, and the sweet edge of Felix’s pancakes. Seungmin leaned into the back of his chair, a little bleary but content, hands wrapped around a mug that had long since cooled. The soft hum of conversation swirled around him, comfortable and warm, like the house itself was purring.

Felix was perched cross‑legged on his chair, grinning at something Jisung said, syrup glinting on his fingers. Jisung, predictably, was half‑collapsed against him, still chewing lazily, hair sticking up in uneven tufts. Minho sat across from them, posture relaxed, elbow on the table, calm gaze sweeping the room. Beside him, Changbin drummed his fingers on the wood, restless energy coiled tight even in a quiet moment. Hyunjin had claimed the edge of the table, long legs stretched out and hair catching in the sunlight like silk. His eyes flicked toward Seungmin every so often, soft, knowing, but he didn’t speak, simply basking in the morning calm. 

Jeongin was curled in his chair with the fruit bowl in front of him, holding a slice of melon with both hands as if it required his full attention. And at the head of the table, Chan leaned back with his arms folded over his chest, watching the scene with the faintest smile tugging at his lips. He’d been quiet for most of breakfast, only interjecting to nudge someone’s plate closer or refill a glass of juice, but his eyes kept drifting to Seungmin like a subtle check‑in. It was peaceful. Cozy. Like nothing bad could exist in a morning like this.

Then Jisung perked up, a mischievous light flickering in his sleepy face.

“…We should play hide and seek.”

All heads turned toward him, Felix’s instantly lighting up, Hyunjin arching a brow, and Minho pausing mid‑sip of his tea.

Jisung grinned wider, straightening in his chair. “C’mon, it’s perfect! Big house, good weather, no rules—”

Felix clapped his sticky hands together. “Ohhh, I’m in. I love hide and seek!”

Hyunjin tilted his head, dark hair spilling over his shoulder. “Hide and seek?” His tone was amused, but there was a spark of interest in his eyes. “Are we five?”

Jisung gasped, clutching his chest in mock offence. “Excuse me, it’s timeless.”

Felix nodded furiously, curls bouncing. “Timeless!” He bounced a little in his chair. “And the house is literally perfect for it. All the rooms, the stairs, the secret nooks—”

“That’s exactly what worries me,” Chan cut in, his voice calm but threaded with a subtle smile. He set down his coffee mug, scanning the table. “If we’re doing this, no disappearing for hours. Some of you are way too competitive.” His eyes landed on Changbin and Hyunjin pointedly.

Changbin scoffed, leaning back in his chair. “I wouldn’t leave him hanging. I’m responsible.”

Minho made a quiet noise that was definitely a laugh. “Sure you are.”

Seungmin hid a smile behind his hand, enjoying the back‑and‑forth more than he wanted to admit. It felt… light. Safe.

“C’mon, Seungminnie,” Felix said suddenly, eyes sparkling as they found his. “You’ll play with us, right?”

Seungmin hesitated, glancing around at the eager faces, well, except for Minho, who just raised an unimpressed brow like he was above it all. He felt his cheeks warm under the attention. “…I don’t know if I’d be very good at it.”

“That’s the point,” Jisung said with a grin, leaning over the table. “You’ll be adorable to catch.” Changbin shot him a look, and Jisung just smirked back, unfazed.

“You don’t even have to run,” Hyunjin murmured, his voice smooth as silk. “You just have to hide. I think we can make that fun, don’t you?”

A little shiver ran down Seungmin’s spine, but he nodded slowly, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “…Okay. I’ll play.”

Felix cheered, and the table erupted into overlapping voices as they began debating rules. The debate over who would be ‘it’ was already spiralling into playful chaos.

“Rock, paper, scissors,” Felix declared, bouncing in his chair.

“No way,” Jisung said. “I called the game, I shouldn’t be first!”

“That’s not how it works,” Changbin grumbled, though there was a grin tugging at his mouth.

Hyunjin leaned lazily on the table, swirling his juice. “I think it should be whoever lost the most last time we played hide and seek.”

Seungmin let the chatter wash over him, quiet amusement bubbling in his chest. Then he felt the lightest brush against his arm and turned to see Jeongin watching him, wide-eyed and a little shy, like he was seeking permission to share the moment.

“You’ll be good at hiding,” Jeongin said softly, his voice just for Seungmin. “You’re small. Quiet. I’ll help if you want.”

Warmth bloomed in Seungmin’s chest at the simple offer. “You will?”

Jeongin nodded, his dark hair falling into his eyes. “I always find the best spots. No one’s caught me first in… forever.” He hesitated, then added almost bashfully, “…And I like being with you.”

Seungmin’s lips curved into a small, soft smile before he could stop it. He reached under the table and let his fingers brush against Jeongin’s briefly, a silent thank you.

“Alright, alright,” Chan said finally, standing with the authority of a leader who had wrangled them a thousand times before. “Everyone up. Rock, paper, scissors for who’s it. Loser gets to hunt.”

Felix squealed. “This is gonna be so fun!”

The chairs scraped back as everyone shuffled to their feet, a ripple of excitement running through the room.

“Okay, everyone in a circle,” Chan said, clapping his hands like a camp counsellor. They huddled in a loose circle by the table, fists pumping three times in unison.

“Rock, paper, scissors!” 

All hands formed into their chosen object. Hyunjin and Minho whooped.

“Scissors for the win,” Hyunjin said smugly, twirling a strand of his hair.

Jisung looked around like he’d been personally betrayed. “Wait. I lost?”

“You’re it,” Changbin said gleefully, pointing both fingers at him.

“Nooo!” Jisung dropped to his knees dramatically. “The world is cruel! I started this game!”

“That’s what you get for hubris,” Minho said dryly, earning himself a snicker from Jeongin.

Felix clapped his hands, bouncing on his toes. “Okay! Count down from fifty, no peeking, and no teleporting!”

“I don’t teleport!” Jisung protested, covering his eyes. “I’m honest!”

“You floated through the attic last time we played,” Hyunjin reminded him, deadpan.

“That was an accident!”

Seungmin laughed before he could stop himself, the warm, bubbling sound spilling out naturally. Jeongin’s hand brushed his wrist as if to silently share in the joy, and for a second, Seungmin thought yeah… this is what happiness feels like.

“Fifty!” Jisung called, eyes covered with the sleeves of his hoodie. “Get ready, I’m coming for you guys!”

The room erupted in motion as chairs were abandoned and feet pattered across wood floors, laughter trailing behind them, everyone dashing for their hiding spots. Seungmin stood frozen for a second, unsure where to even start, until a warm hand slipped into his.

“Come on!” Jeongin whispered, his dark eyes shining with excitement. Seungmin let himself be tugged along, his heart skipping as they darted down the hall. Jeongin moved with surprising confidence, weaving through familiar turns until he stopped at a narrow alcove behind a heavy velvet curtain. He pulled it back just enough for them to slip inside, the two of them pressed close in the shadowed space. It was small. Close. Warm.

Seungmin’s back rested against the wall as Jeongin settled in front of him, practically in his lap, their knees and shoulders tangled. They were so close Seungmin could feel the soft puff of his breath against his cheek. For a moment, they just… looked at each other. The thrill of the game buzzed in Seungmin’s chest, mixing with a softer flutter that made his face warm.

Jeongin grinned suddenly, leaning in to brush a quick kiss against Seungmin’s lips. A tiny, surprised laugh slipped out of Seungmin before he could stop it. Jeongin immediately covered his mouth with his hand, wide‑eyed.

“Shhh!” he whispered, grinning. “You’ll get us caught!”

Seungmin clapped his hand over his own mouth, shoulders shaking with quiet giggles, the two of them pressed together in their secret pocket of the house as distant footsteps thudded down the hall. Their little alcove was warm, and Seungmin could feel every soft breath Jeongin let out, their shoulders pressed tight together. Outside, the house had fallen into that charged hush of a game in motion, floorboards creaking, distant laughter fading into soft echoes.

Then a muffled voice drifted from down the hall.

“…seven… six… five…”

Jeongin smirked and leaned his head against Seungmin’s shoulder, whispering, “He’s so dramatic.”

Seungmin bit his lip to stifle a laugh. He was about to whisper back when a thud shook the floorboards above them, followed immediately by a very loud:

“OW—FUCK!”

Jeongin slapped both hands over his mouth, eyes wide and gleaming with mischief. Somewhere down the hall, Jisung’s voice rang out, giddy and triumphant. “I found you!”

“THIS IS BULLSHIT!” Changbin roared, followed by the sound of more scrambling and something metallic clattering to the floor. “I SLIPPED—YOU CAN’T—AUGH!”

Seungmin lost it, laughter spilling against his own hand as he tried to muffle the sound. Jeongin shook against him, laughing silently, their foreheads almost touching as they tried to stay quiet.

“You’re gonna get us caught,” Jeongin whispered, barely holding in his own giggles.

Seungmin whispered back, “He’s so loud,” and they both dissolved into another fit of quiet, breathless laughter, pressed together in their secret little nook. Their laughter melted into tiny, breathless giggles that they tried to swallow down. Seungmin’s cheeks ached from smiling, and his chest felt warm and fluttery. He shifted slightly against the wall, and Jeongin stayed pressed close, his small hand still wrapped tight around Seungmin’s fingers.

Then came the creak of floorboards. Slow footsteps, careful but not silent, padded into the hall just beyond their hiding place. Jeongin stiffened in his arms. Jisung.

“I know someone’s in here…” Jisung’s voice was a teasing sing‑song, dragging the words out like he could lure someone into moving. Seungmin’s heart thumped hard in his chest. He could see the faintest shift of shadow under the curtain as Jisung paused, right outside. Jeongin clutched his hand tighter, and Seungmin instinctively tugged him a little closer, holding his breath.

Silence stretched.

Then—bang!—something clattered against the wall.

“WHO PUT A CHAIR HERE?!” Jisung yelped, his voice ricocheting off the walls. From somewhere farther away, Hyunjin’s smooth laugh drifted faintly, followed by a low, muffled groan that had to be Changbin sulking.

Jeongin snorted against Seungmin’s shoulder, trying to keep it quiet but shaking with laughter. Seungmin bit his lip, eyes crinkling, and gave his hand a tiny squeeze as if to say we survived. The footsteps retreated, off in pursuit of some other unlucky soul, leaving their little alcove wrapped in safe, giddy quiet.

The hall went quiet again, save for the faint creak of the old house and the soft sound of Jeongin’s breathing against his shoulder. Seungmin let his head tip a little toward him, their temples almost touching in the dim space.

“You know…” Seungmin whispered, just loud enough for Jeongin to hear, “your eyes are really pretty up close.”

Jeongin’s head jerked up slightly, his dark eyes wide in the low light. A soft pink spread across his cheeks, and for a heartbeat, he didn’t say anything. Then, almost too shyly: “…You think so?”

Seungmin smiled, small but sure. “Mhm. They… sparkle. Like you’re always holding a secret.” The look Jeongin gave him then, soft and  bashful, stirred a warmth deep in Seungmin’s chest. He didn’t overthink it; he just leaned in, and Jeongin met him halfway.

Their lips brushed, feather‑light at first, but then lingered. A quiet, careful press that deepened naturally, Jeongin’s hand tightening in Seungmin’s hoodie as he leaned closer. It was soft, warm, and just a little dizzying, like the secret they were hiding in wasn’t just a spot in the house, but a moment in time that belonged only to them.

A muffled yell broke the quiet.

“Gotcha!” Jisung’s voice rang out, gleeful, followed by a loud groan that could only be Felix’s. Jeongin jolted slightly, and Seungmin muffled a giggle against his lips. Their foreheads rested together for a heartbeat, sharing the thrill of the kiss and the game, before another set of footsteps creaked closer.

“…He’s coming back,” Jeongin whispered, voice giddy and soft, his hand still clutching Seungmin’s like a lifeline.

Jeongin’s eyes flicked toward the thin slice of light at the edge of the curtain. The footsteps were getting closer, measured, deliberate, Jisung drawing out the hunt with all the dramatics of a predator who knew he had prey nearby. Seungmin held his breath, his heart pounding against his ribs. Jeongin’s small hand squeezed his under the pillow they were tangled around, and for a moment, they were pressed so close he could feel his pulse too. Then Jeongin leaned close, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “I’ll go,” he whispered.

Seungmin blinked at him, wide-eyed. 

“If he catches me first,” Jeongin murmured, a quick flash of a grin sparking in his dark eyes, “you can stay hidden. It’s worth it.”

Before Seungmin could protest, Jeongin slipped out from behind the curtain like a shadow. For a heartbeat, the hall was quiet, then Jisung’s voice rang out, triumphant.

“AHA! GOT YOU!”

There was a scuffle, a muffled laugh, and Jeongin yelped in exaggerated defeat. “Okay, okay, you got me!”

Seungmin clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle his laugh, his heart racing for a different reason now. He could picture Jeongin’s smug little grin even in surrender, the way he’d tilted his chin up like he’d done something heroic.

“Now, where’s Seungminnie?” Jisung’s voice teased from somewhere in the hall. “I know he’s around here…”

Seungmin’s pulse leapt, hugging the pillow to his chest as his face flushed warm with a mix of nerves and giddiness. Seungmin stayed perfectly still, the faintest smile tugging at his lips as he hugged the pillow tighter. His heart was still racing, but it was lighter now, fluttery, proud. Jeongin sacrificed himself for me.

The muffled footsteps moved farther down the hall, Jisung’s voice growing louder with glee.

“I know there’s more of you! I can smell fear!”

Seungmin bit his lip, trying not to laugh. A loud thud echoed from the stairwell, followed by a startled, very dignified:

“…Ow.”

“Found youuuu!” Jisung crowed, voice sing-song.

“Cheating,” Minho muttered, his low voice carrying down the hall. “You set a trap or something.”

“I don’t need traps,” Jisung shot back, smug. “You’re just slow!”

“Slow?” Chan’s voice cut in, indignant and laughing. “You tripped me trying to get to him!”

“I did not—okay, maybe a little!” Jisung’s cackle bounced off the walls as footsteps shuffled and the sound of mock wrestling hit the floor. “Two for one! I’m a legend!”

Seungmin clapped a hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking with silent giggles. His hiding spot felt even more secret now, a little cocoon of warmth and mischief while the chaos played out somewhere else in the house.

He was the last one.

The house grew quiet again, broken only by the faint creak of floorboards and Jisung’s footsteps moving from hall to hall. Seungmin stayed curled in the alcove, hugging his pillow to his chest, heart pounding in a mix of excitement and giddy nerves. Every so often, he caught a glimpse of movement through the thin slit of light at the curtain’s edge, but Jisung didn’t pull it back, yet.

Then, his voice floated down the hall, a little louder this time, threaded with suspicion.

“…Seungminnie? You still in the game?”

Seungmin bit his lip to smother a giggle. He stayed perfectly still, holding his breath. Another creak. Footsteps slowing.

“…Okay… where are you hiding?”

Minutes stretched in golden silence, until Seungmin heard the distant murmur of voices.

“Has anyone seen him?” Jisung’s voice, a little sharper now, from somewhere near the kitchen.

“Nope,” Felix chimed cheerfully, clearly enjoying this. “He’s really good.”

“He hasn’t gone outside, has he?” That was Chan, his voice calm but with a hint of curiosity.

“No,” Hyunjin said smoothly. “I would’ve felt him leave the house.”

There was a pause. Then Jisung groaned, his voice echoing faintly through the halls.

“Ughhh, he’s gonna win! I can’t even find his shadow!”

Seungmin pressed his face into the pillow to hide his smile, his whole body humming with the thrill of being the last one hidden, with the soft pride that he’d managed to stay unseen this long.

Seungmin’s lungs were already tight from holding his breath, but the thrill of hiding in the quiet little alcove made it impossible to relax. He clutched a pillow to his chest like a shield, the soft cotton warm against his chin. His heart thudded, loud and insistent, almost loud enough that he worried the house might give him away.

Every creak of the floorboards outside sharpened his focus. He could hear distant footsteps, light and careful, but the occasional muffled voice broke through the hush. Jisung’s voice carried a singsong lilt somewhere down the hall.

“…I know you’re around here, Seungminnie…”

Seungmin squeezed his eyes shut, grinning despite himself. His pulse leapt. His toes curled in his socks against the floor. A sudden floorboard groan made him flinch, close, so close. The curtain of his alcove suddenly rustled, and Seungmin’s instincts took over. He yelped, springing to his feet with the pillow clutched like a weapon.

Jisung’s triumphant grin flashed in the sunlit gap.

“Gotcha—!”

But Seungmin bolted.

He burst out of the alcove, laughter tumbling out of him before he could stop it, the pillow bouncing against his chest as he sprinted down the hall. His socks slid a little on the polished wood, and he heard Jisung’s startled “HEY!” echo behind him, followed by the thud of quick footsteps giving chase.

“NO FAIR!” Jisung yelled, laughter in his voice as he closed the distance. Seungmin’s heart was soaring, his lungs burning in the best way. He barely made it three turns down the hall before he felt arms wrap tight around his waist, and his feet lifted off the floor in a squeal.

“Got you now!” Jisung crowed, spinning him once before tumbling them both gently to the rug at the end of the hall. Seungmin dissolved into helpless laughter, kicking his legs in protest as Jisung pinned him with an exuberant hug.

“You—cheater—!” Seungmin managed between giggles, clutching his pillow like it might save him.

“You ran!” Jisung accused, nuzzling against his shoulder as he laughed. “And you’re mine now—no take-backs!”

The laughter slowed into soft little aftershocks, leaving them tangled on the rug in a cozy heap. Seungmin’s chest rose and fell against Jisung’s, and he realised with a flutter that he didn’t mind being caught at all. He turned his face just enough to see Jisung’s soft brown eyes, warm and bright even in victory.

“…You’re beautiful,” Seungmin whispered, almost without thinking.

Jisung blinked, caught off guard, then smiled, soft and a little shy this time.

“Yeah? I like when you look at me like that.”

The words stirred something in Seungmin’s chest, and he leaned forward before he could stop himself, pressing a gentle kiss to Jisung’s lips. Warmth bloomed in his stomach, sweet and gentle. Jisung’s breath hitched, but he melted into it, one hand brushing the back of Seungmin’s neck. When they pulled back, their noses almost touched, and they both laughed quietly, giddy and breathless.

“You’re dangerous,” Jisung murmured.

Seungmin giggled, hiding his face in Jisung’s shoulder. They finally made their way back to the living room, still laughing and a little out of breath. Seungmin’s cheeks were flushed from running, his hair sticking up adorably where it had brushed against the walls during his escape attempt. Jisung followed behind with a grin that was equal parts smug and fond, clearly proud of himself for catching the last person.

“There they are!” Felix exclaimed from where he was draped over the armchair, his feet kicking in the air. “Our missing champion and his hunter!”

Seungmin froze mid-step, suddenly aware of all the eyes on them. Jisung gave him a little nudge forward, utterly shameless. Hyunjin’s eyes narrowed playfully as he leaned against the couch cushions. “Hmm… took you long enough. I wonder what exactly was keeping you two.”

Changbin immediately perked up, a wolfish grin spreading across his face. “Oh no. Don’t tell me—”

Jisung only shrugged, still holding Seungmin’s wrist loosely. “What? I caught him. Claimed my prize.”

Felix gasped dramatically and clapped his hands together. “You kissed him, didn’t you? Look at his face! He’s glowing!”

Seungmin made a noise halfway between a squeak and a groan, burying his face in his hands. Jisung laughed and leaned in to whisper just loud enough for the room to hear, “Might’ve been a tiny kiss… maybe two.”

The whole room erupted. Hyunjin kicked his feet against the couch with a delighted laugh, Minho rolled his eyes with the faintest twitch of a smile, and Felix practically fell off the armchair.

“You two are ridiculous,” Changbin said, shaking his head, though his grin gave away how fond he actually was.

Seungmin peeked up through his fingers, still scarlet. “I hate all of you.”

“Liar,” Jisung teased, tugging him toward the couch. “You love us. Especially me, apparently.”

-

The laughter was still bubbling when Felix, ever the chaos agent, perked up with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Okay, okay, hear me out,” he said, sitting upright and clapping his hands together. “Round two… but this time… pairs.” Everyone froze for a beat. Then the living room practically vibrated with overlapping reactions.

“Oh, I’m in,” Hyunjin said immediately, leaning forward on the couch like a cat spotting prey.

“Pairs?” Minho repeated, brows raised, though the corner of his mouth twitched.

“Absolutely not,” Changbin muttered at the same time, which only made Felix beam harder.

Chan chuckled under his breath. “I don’t know… sounds fun to me.”

“C’monnn, think about it! Bigger stakes, more chaos,” Felix said. “And a lot more hiding spots will be out of the question! We’ll draw names out of a hat. Totally fair.”

Seungmin, still perched beside Jisung, caught Jeongin’s gaze across the room. A silent, knowing spark passed between them, they had definitely shared a hiding spot last round, technically making them cheaters already. The tiniest guilty grin tugged at Seungmin’s mouth before he buried it against his sleeve.

“I’m making the slips,” Felix announced, already scampering toward the kitchen for paper. “No arguing, Wrath. It’s happening.”

“Fine,” Changbin huffed, but his crossed arms and averted eyes couldn’t hide the way he was already glancing toward the couch where Seungmin sat.

Chan leaned his chin into his hand, grinning softly. “I’m just saying, Bin… if we get paired, I’m not carrying you if we have to climb somewhere.”

“You WISH we’d get paired,” Changbin shot back.

When the hat was ready, Felix shook it dramatically. One by one, the sins drew their partners.

“My partner will be…” Felix read aloud, “Minho!”

Hyunjin gave a mock pout at the result while Minho just rolled his eyes and muttered, “Figures.”

Jisung leaned forward for his turn. “Gimme something good, gimme something good…” He unfolded the paper. “Jeongin! Yes!”

Jeongin lit up like a little sun, and Seungmin swore he felt his cheeks warm in response.

Chan reached in next, fingers rummaging with fake suspense. “And I get… Changbin!”

“WHAT?!” Changbin’s whole face scrunched in disbelief.

Chan just laughed, slinging an arm briefly over his shoulder. “Don’t worry, partner. I’m stealthy enough for both of us.”

That left the last name for Seungmin. It was a little silly to dramatically reveal it considering there was only one left, but he went for it anyway. His finger brushed the slip, lifting it towards him and unfolded it slowly. “…Hyunjin,” he read softly.

Hyunjin’s grin was immediate and incandescent, sharp canines flashing as he stretched out his hand like it was destiny itself. 

Felix shook the hat dramatically again. “Alright! Now, who’s gonna be our hunters?”

“I nominate Jisung,” Minho said instantly, deadpan.

Jisung gasped. “Betrayal?! I trusted you!”

“Exactly,” Minho murmured, taking a lazy sip of his tea.

Felix giggled, curls bouncing. “Okay, okay, no democracy. Let’s make it fair—” He quickly scribbled the pairs onto more pieces of paper, tossed them around in the hat and pulled one out. He held the folded paper above his head like it was divine judgment. “Hunters are…” He paused for unnecessary suspense, grinning wickedly. “…Chan and Changbin!”

Seungmin’s head whipped up immediately, catching the way Changbin stiffened beside the couch.

“Wait—what?!” Changbin barked, already looking personally attacked. “Why me?!”

“Because you’re fast, Bin,” Chan said smoothly, clapping him on the shoulder like a coach hyping up his star player. “Powerhouse energy. We’ll flush them out together.”

Changbin glared. “I’ll flush you if you slow me down.”

“You wish,” Chan shot back, grinning like this was the best outcome possible.

Felix beamed, delighted at the brewing chaos. “Oooh, perfect team! Wrath and Greed on the prowl!”

“Sounds unfair,” Jisung whined, flopping dramatically against Jeongin’s shoulder. “I call sabotage if they gang up on us.”

“You can’t sabotage a game that hasn’t started,” Chan said, already rolling up his sleeves. “Go hide. Fifty seconds. Use them wisely.”

“Unbelievable,” Changbin muttered under his breath, cracking his knuckles. “Seungminnie, I will find you first.”

Seungmin blinked, cheeks warming as Hyunjin slid a hand through his and tugged him gently away. “We’ll see about that,” Hyunjin purred, his grin sharp and knowing. “Come on, love. Let’s make it interesting.”

Seungmin’s ears burned hot, but he took Hyunjin’s hand anyway. From across the room, he could feel Changbin’s stare and hear Chan’s low chuckle under his breath. Hyunjin’s fingers laced through Seungmin’s as they padded up the staircase, his grin wicked yet quiet, like he already knew exactly where he’d claim his prize. Seungmin’s chest fluttered with every step, pulse high from the game and from the heat curling low in his stomach just being led like this. They slipped into the sun nook upstairs, a soft square of golden light spilling over the curved bench seat. Seungmin blinked in surprise as Hyunjin crouched, lifting a nearly hidden panel to reveal the hollow beneath.

“You’re joking,” Seungmin whispered.

“Never,” Hyunjin murmured, eyes gleaming. “It’s perfect. No one will think to check here… unless you start squirming and give us away.”

Seungmin’s face went hot. “I’m not gonna squirm…”

Hyunjin arched a brow, then slid into the hollow first, stretching out on his back with grace. “You’ll have to lay on me. You won’t fit otherwise.”

Seungmin hesitated, suddenly hyper-aware of every fluttering, traitorous thought in his head. His mind flashed to the night before, to the way he’d let himself get swept up in his own warmth, in the tangle of love and desire that the sins stirred in him. And Hyunjin… Hyunjin of all people would know.

“Hyunjin…” Seungmin mumbled, clutching the edge of the bench. “I… last night—”

Hyunjin’s eyes softened, his usual sharpness melting into velvet. “I know,” he said quietly, like a secret meant only for them. “And it’s okay, my darling. There’s nothing to be shy about.”

Seungmin chewed his lip, torn between curling up into a ball and running to another room entirely. “I just… what if you think I’m—”

“Human?” Hyunjin interrupted, a little laugh ghosting against his lips. He reached a hand toward him, palm up, inviting. “You’re perfect. Exactly as you are.”

Something in Seungmin unspooled at those words. Slowly, hesitantly, he crawled in. The hollow was cool and shadowed, the world muffled outside, and Hyunjin was everywhere beneath him, warm and solid, his heartbeat thrumming against Seungmin’s chest as he settled onto him.

“See?” Hyunjin whispered, looping an arm around his waist to hold him secure. “Nothing to be nervous about… unless you keep looking at me like that.”

Seungmin ducked his head into Hyunjin’s shoulder, mortified and flustered, and Hyunjin just chuckled softly, rubbing a soothing hand along his back. “You’re safe here. Always.”

The space was dim and quiet, the only light slipping through the narrow gaps in the wood. It smelled faintly of cedar and sun-warmed linen, but all Seungmin could focus on was the steady rhythm of Hyunjin’s breathing beneath him.

His own body was still taut with tension, tucked awkwardly against Hyunjin’s chest, trying to be small even though they were already pressed together as closely as two people could be. One of his knees was trapped between Hyunjin’s thighs, his cheek resting on Hyunjin’s collarbone, and he didn’t dare move.

“Seungmin,” Hyunjin whispered, his voice a breath against the shell of his ear, “you don’t have to hold yourself so tight.”

“I’m not,” Seungmin lied, barely above a murmur.

Hyunjin huffed a soft, fond laugh and ran his fingers down the length of Seungmin’s spine, not teasing this time, just gentle, grounding. “You’re like a little rabbit caught in my arms.”

Seungmin scrunched his nose and muttered, “Shut up…” but didn’t pull away.

“You don’t have to be shy with me,” Hyunjin added, more quietly now. “You never did. Especially not after last night. Especially not when I already think…” He hesitated just long enough for Seungmin to lift his head slightly. Their eyes met in the dim light.

“I think you’re one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen,” Hyunjin finished, soft and unashamed. “Even like this. Especially like this.”

Seungmin blinked at him, stunned into silence. His mouth opened, then closed again, and then, with a quiet, broken little sound, he just… melted. His body relaxed all at once, the weight of his embarrassment giving way to warmth as he burrowed deeper into Hyunjin’s chest. His arms slid around Hyunjin’s waist, curling in tighter, face hidden in the soft fabric of his shirt.

Hyunjin let out a soft exhale, arms wrapping fully around him now, holding him like something precious. 

The muffled sounds of footsteps were fading and returning like the ocean tide. Seungmin clutched Hyunjin a little tighter, his fingers curling in the soft fabric of his shirt as the heavy creak of the upstairs floorboards drifted closer.

“They’re up here,” Changbin’s voice called, low but gruff, somewhere just beyond the hall. “I know they are. Hyunjin always cheats.”

Seungmin flinched, pressing his face further into Hyunjin’s chest, as if he could hide from sound itself. Hyunjin’s laugh was silent, just a subtle shake of his shoulders and a sly hand smoothing down Seungmin’s back.

“I don’t cheat,” he mouthed, clearly delighted, eyes sparkling even in the dim light. Seungmin shot him a glare that was more pleading than angry, silently begging him not to get them caught.

A door creaked open down the hall.

“Binnie,” Chan’s voice joined in, exasperated but amused, “if they were in there, they’d have screamed already.”

“No, no,” Changbin hissed back, so close Seungmin could feel the vibration of his footsteps through the wooden floor. “This is exactly the kind of stunt Lust would pull. He’s probably got Seungmin pressed up against—”

Seungmin’s whole body went stiff against Hyunjin, his face burning.

“—the wall or something,” Changbin finished, tone flustered and almost offended at his own thought. “Cheater…”

Hyunjin smirked, dipping his head so his lips brushed the crown of Seungmin’s hair. “Not the wall,” he whispered, and Seungmin smacked his chest with a mortified little noise. The seekers lingered another moment, shuffling and muttering, before moving down the hall again, their voices fading like the tide receding. Seungmin didn’t breathe until they were gone, then let out a shaky exhale into Hyunjin’s shirt.

“See?” Hyunjin murmured, tipping his chin to rest on Seungmin’s head. “Flawless hiding. And no cheating.”

Seungmin swatted at his side weakly, too warm and too flustered to muster a real comeback. The world outside their little hollow seemed to vanish, swallowed by the hush of the house and the fragile warmth between them. Seungmin still lay pressed along Hyunjin’s chest, feeling the slow rise and fall with every breath. He hesitated for a long time, almost afraid to disturb the perfect stillness, but curiosity, and that quiet ache in his chest, finally pushed the words out.

“Hyunjin…” he whispered, voice brushing the air like the wings of a moth.

Hyunjin hummed low in his throat, a gentle vibration Seungmin could feel against his cheek. “Yes, my darling?”

“…Have you ever done this… with anyone else? Like… the way you offered to help me?”

Hyunjin’s fingers stilled in their slow circles against his back. For a moment, he didn’t answer, just let the silence hold. Then he exhaled softly.

“I have. I’ve… tended to my tethers before. That’s what I am, Seungmin. Lust doesn’t get to be choosy. I’ve given them what they wanted, what they thought they needed.” His voice dropped, quiet as a secret. “But it was never… real. Never like this.”

Seungmin’s brow furrowed slightly against his chest. “What do you mean?”

Hyunjin’s hand slid up to cradle the back of his head, thumb brushing his hairline. “It was duty. Heat. Instinct. A cycle I could never escape. And even if they enjoyed it, even if I made them feel good… it didn’t touch me. Not like you do.”

Seungmin’s heart skipped, a fluttery warmth blooming in his chest. Hyunjin tipped his head back against the wooden hollow, staring up at the ceiling with a faraway look before his gaze dropped back to Seungmin. “You… make me feel human. More than I ever thought I could. When you touch me, or smile at me, or just—” He paused, a little breathless. “Just when you let me exist here, with you… I feel like I’m living for the first time.”

Seungmin swallowed hard, his throat tight. He whispered, “I… think I feel it too.”

A soft laugh left Hyunjin, tinged with something like wonder. “Do you know how rare that is for me? To feel alive in this way? I want to hold onto it. I want to hold onto you.”

The words sank into Seungmin like sunlight through water, warming every part of him. His fingers curled lightly in Hyunjin’s shirt, and he whispered, almost shyly, “Then hold me.”

Hyunjin did. His arms wrapped fully around Seungmin’s smaller frame, anchoring him close, and for a heartbeat they just breathed together, sharing that quiet, fragile human moment. The hollow bench creaked softly under them, the only sound in the muted upstairs hall. Seungmin’s cheek was pressed to Hyunjin’s collarbone, listening to the slow rhythm of his heart. His own pulse felt unsteady, skittering in a nervous pattern, but being here, warm, hidden, held, coaxed something loose and trembling in his chest.

Hyunjin’s fingers traced idle, comforting shapes along his back, the movement so soft it barely registered as touch. Every brush of his hand felt like a quiet promise. Neither of them spoke for a long time. Seungmin’s throat worked as he swallowed. The words wanted to crawl out, raw and small, and he didn’t know if he was brave enough to let them. He shifted just slightly, tilting his head to hide against Hyunjin’s jaw.

“…I think I’m falling in love with you.”

Hyunjin went still. Completely, utterly still. Seungmin felt his breath stutter against his hair, a heartbeat skipping beneath his palm where it rested on Hyunjin’s chest. Then, slowly, he felt the tremor of a laugh, or maybe a sob, and Hyunjin’s arms wrapped around him with a sudden, desperate intensity.

“My darling…” The words cracked like glass under Hyunjin’s breath. He buried his face in Seungmin’s hair for a moment, holding him as if he’d waited lifetimes for this. Seungmin startled a little at the grip, then softened, letting himself be surrounded by Hyunjin’s warmth. The bench felt smaller, the world quieter, like time had folded itself to fit just the two of them.

When Hyunjin finally pulled back enough to see his face, his eyes were wet, lashes trembling. He cupped Seungmin’s jaw with one hand, his thumb tracing the corner of his mouth as if committing every detail to memory. “You have no idea,” he whispered, voice husky and unsteady, “what that does to me.”

Seungmin blinked up at him, shy but luminous, and his lips parted in a small, uncertain breath. Hyunjin’s thumb brushed there, gentle as a sigh, and then he leaned in. The kiss was slow at first, a careful press of lips that deepened with every second Seungmin clutched at his shirt. It felt like confession and answer all at once, love blooming against the walls of the secret little hideaway.

When they finally broke for air, Hyunjin let their foreheads touch, a teary smile curving his lips. “You’re going to ruin me, Seungmin,” he murmured, voice low and awed. “And I think I’ll thank you for it.”

Seungmin laughed breathlessly, the sound muffled against Hyunjin’s shoulder as he melted further into his arms. The world outside felt impossibly far away. Hyunjin kept his arms tight around Seungmin, one hand splayed protectively between his shoulder blades, the other cradling the back of his head like he was something fragile and sacred. His breath came slower now, though every inhale still carried a shiver of disbelief, of wonder.

“Do you know what you’ve done to me?” he murmured against Seungmin’s hair, voice low and rough with feeling. “I’ve spent lifetimes as Lust, thinking I knew desire… but this?” His hand gave a tiny squeeze at Seungmin’s nape, his thumb stroking in absent-minded comfort. “You make me feel real, Seungmin. You make me want in ways I didn’t think I could anymore.”

Seungmin’s chest ached, his fingers curling into Hyunjin’s shirt as he nestled closer, soaking in every word. It was like the warmth of sunlight under his skin. Hyunjin tilted his head, letting his lips brush Seungmin’s temple in the gentlest kiss, voice dipping to a whisper meant only for him.

“If you’ll let me, I’ll spend every day proving that you’re the most precious thing I’ve ever held. I want to keep you safe… and I want to keep this softness, this feeling you’ve given me, forever.”

A lump rose in Seungmin’s throat. His voice wavered, almost too quiet to hear. “I want that too…”

Hyunjin pulled back just enough to see his face, and the look he gave him could have set the world on fire. Tender and awed, like Seungmin had handed him the sky. He brushed a stray lock of hair off his forehead, thumb lingering as if to soothe away the sting of the confession. “I could kiss you forever,” he said, and then did just that—slow, languid, savouring.

For a long, breathless moment, the hollow bench felt like its own little universe, a sanctuary sealed in heartbeats and the smell of Hyunjin’s skin. Even the air seemed to hold still around them. Footsteps creaked faintly on the floorboards just beyond their hiding spot, and Hyunjin went still, arms firm around Seungmin as if he could shield him from discovery. The air grew sharper with anticipation, their heartbeats thrumming in sync in the tight hollow of the bench.

Then came Changbin’s voice, low but gruff, tinged with suspicion.

“…Does anyone else smell that?”

Chan gave a skeptical grunt somewhere nearby. “What, like dust?”

“No. Like—” A pause. “…like Lust has been here.”

Seungmin bit down on a tiny gasp, burying his face in Hyunjin’s neck, shoulders trembling with suppressed laughter. Hyunjin’s lips twitched into a wicked, silent smile, his fingers rubbing soothing circles against Seungmin’s hip as if to say don’t move. 

“Of course it smells like him,” Chan said dryly. “You say that everywhere he goes.”

“This is different,” Changbin insisted, voice closer now, and the soft creak of wood told them he was inspecting the area. “It smells like… like Lust plus something.”

Seungmin had to fist his hand in Hyunjin’s shirt to keep from snickering aloud. The warmth of Hyunjin’s body against his own and the echo of that kiss were making his pulse dance wildly. Hyunjin bent his head, his whisper a feather against Seungmin’s ear. “He’s not wrong,” he teased softly, eyes glinting. “I think you’ve left your mark on me, my sweet.”

Seungmin blushed fiercely, his toes curling in his socks, but the smile Hyunjin felt against his throat was bright and helpless. The hall had gone quiet for a few beats, only the faint shuffle of feet signalling that the seekers were circling closer. Hyunjin kept perfectly still beneath Seungmin, every muscle taut, one hand soothing along his spine in slow strokes.

Then came Changbin’s voice, sharper this time. “Where the hell are they? We’ve found everyone else already! This is stupid. I’m owed my Seungmin cuddles!”

Seungmin’s face went hot, his chest shaking with muffled laughter against Hyunjin’s collarbone.

Chan’s chuckle rumbled somewhere nearby. “You just want a repeat of last time, huh?”

There was a beat of silence. “…What the hell are you talking about?”

“Oh, you know,” Chan drawled, wicked amusement dripping off every word. “When he sat on your lap and you—”

“Shut. Up!” Changbin barked, his voice jumping an octave, and Seungmin clapped a hand over his mouth, mortified and giddy all at once. Hyunjin, for all his composure, couldn’t help it, and snorted. The sound was small but sharp in the still hallway.

A heavy pause.

“…Did you hear that?” Changbin’s voice dropped to a dangerous whisper.

Chan hummed. “I did.”

The sound of approaching footsteps was immediate, and Hyunjin only had time to murmur, “Oops,” before the lid of the bench creaked open, revealing Changbin’s wide, scandalised eyes. The lid creaked higher, and Wrath’s face went from confusion to sheer scandal in the span of a heartbeat.

“WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?” Changbin barked, voice echoing off the hallway walls. His eyes darted between the cramped bench, Seungmin sprawled across Hyunjin’s chest, and the blush blooming on both their faces. “ARE YOU—IN A BOX?! LIKE—LIKE A HUMAN PANINI?!”

Seungmin wheezed, halfway covering his face in embarrassment and laughter. “It’s… comfy?” he offered weakly.

“COMFY?!” Changbin sputtered, stepping back like he’d walked in on a crime scene. “You’re lying on top of him—his hands—your face—oh my GOD.”

Hyunjin, maddeningly calm, just raised an eyebrow and rubbed soothing circles on Seungmin’s back. “Technically, I’m simply… accommodating him.”

“ACCOMMODATING?!”

By then, Chan had leaned over to peek, grinning so wide his dimples were in danger of permanent strain. “Oh, this is gold.”

“Are they found?!” Jisung’s voice rang out from the stairs, followed by the sound of a stampede as the rest of the sins descended. Felix arrived first, already giggling, with Jeongin at his side. Minho followed, slow and suspicious. And then the lid opened fully, the tiny cavity exposed to the room. 

“Holy shit,” Jisung whispered. “That’s… creative.”

Felix gasped, clasping his hands to his cheeks like he’d witnessed a wedding proposal. “Aww, baby buns, you look so snuggly!”

Minho simply stared at the tangle of limbs and sighed like he’d aged a century. “I don’t even want to know how you got in there.”

Seungmin groaned and buried his burning face into Hyunjin’s neck. “It was his idea,” he muttered, pointing weakly toward Lust.

“I knew it!” Changbin roared, spinning on his heel to stomp in a little frustrated circle. “Hyunjin, I swear to—ugh, you are SO lucky he’s the only thing keeping me from committing a crime right now!”

“Jealous much?” Seungmin mumbled into Hyunjin’s shirt, finally peeking up with a teasing little smirk.

That was the last straw. Wrath whirled back, hands flailing. “I AM NOT JEALOUS—okay, I am, BUT THAT’S BESIDE THE POINT—YOU CAN’T JUST—IN A BOX—UGH—”

Felix fell to his knees laughing. Jisung had to brace himself on the wall. Even Chan was wheezing, eyes crinkled with joy.

“C’mon, baby,” Hyunjin said smoothly, shifting Seungmin like he weighed nothing as he sat up in the cramped bench. “Let’s emerge before Wrath has an aneurysm.”

“Too late,” Changbin muttered, collapsing against the wall and dragging a hand down his face as the others swarmed to help Seungmin out, though, honestly, he didn’t look like he needed the help.

The chaos still rang in Seungmin’s ears as he was finally hauled free of the hollow bench, Hyunjin dusting him off like a treasured relic while the rest of the sins argued around them.

“Why the hell would you even choose that hiding spot?” Changbin demanded, voice pitching high with leftover panic. “He could’ve suffocated in there!”

“It had ventilation,” Hyunjin replied smoothly, completely unbothered. “Also, he was lying on me. I would’ve noticed.”

“Oh my god—”

Jisung’s wheezing laugh cut through Wrath’s outrage. “Bro, it’s fine! He’s fine! Look at him, he’s all pink and cozy like a lil’ dumpling!”

“I—” Changbin sputtered again, then caught Seungmin’s tiny, teasing smile over Hyunjin’s shoulder. He froze, glared, and promptly crossed his arms in defeat. “I hate all of you.”

Minho clapped him on the back as if to soothe a feral animal. “You’ll live.”

Felix had taken it upon himself to fix Seungmin’s mussed hair, humming softly, while Jeongin clung to his other side like a guard dog. Within minutes, the chaos mellowed into a warm orbit around him, every sin falling into their natural places, bickering giving way to gentle touches and low laughter.

Eventually, they all ended up piled into the sunlit lounge, Seungmin nestled on the couch with his head in Hyunjin’s lap and his feet across Changbin’s thighs. Felix and Jisung sat on the floor beside him, leaning against each other, while Minho and Chan flanked the room like silent sentinels.

The last of the adrenaline eased out of his body, replaced by that thick, syrupy sense of safety he’d only ever felt in this house. He let his eyes flutter shut, smiling faintly as Changbin absently rubbed a hand over his ankle and Hyunjin carded fingers through his hair.

“You’re ridiculous,” Wrath muttered under his breath, too quiet for anyone but Seungmin to hear.

“I know,” Seungmin whispered back, half-asleep, “but you love me.”

Silence. Then the faintest, gruffest, “…Yeah. I do.”

The house hummed softly around them, warm and approving, as Seungmin drifted off in the arms of his impossible, perfect chaos. By the time the laughter had settled into lazy murmurs, the sun had long since dipped below the horizon. Seungmin blinked blearily, still draped across Hyunjin and Changbin like he belonged there, which in truth, he did.

A yawn snuck out before he could stifle it. “M’gonna fall asleep right here…” he mumbled, voice thick with drowsy warmth.

“You could,” Hyunjin teased, stroking a hand through his hair, “but you might get a crick in your neck.”

“I’ll carry him,” Changbin grunted, already half-ready to scoop him up like he always did.

But Seungmin stirred, gaze landing softly on Jisung, who had been quiet for a while, leaning against the couch. His cheeks were pink just from being near him, like always.

“…Jisung?” Seungmin murmured.

Sloth startled, eyes wide. “Y-Yeah?”

“…Do you… want to stay with me tonight?”

It was like tossing a lit match into a puddle of gasoline. Jisung’s whole body went stiff, then flopped like his soul had fled his body. “I—uh—what—uh—” He sputtered, cheeks blazing as the others immediately snorted or bit back their laughter.

Felix hid his grin behind his hands. “Oh, he’s short-circuiting…”

“Shut up!” Jisung squeaked, trying to regain composure. He turned back to Seungmin, swallowing hard. “…Y-Yeah. I’d… like that.”

Seungmin’s smile was small but radiant, and he tugged gently at Jisung’s sleeve until he got up, letting Changbin lift him easily into his arms to carry him upstairs. The procession followed like ducklings, all headed to their rooms for the evening: Felix humming, Minho shaking his head, Hyunjin trailing behind with a smug little smirk.

Changbin set Seungmin down gently in the hallway, and headed back downstairs. Jisung followed Seungmin into his room like he was walking into a dream, still flushed from the invitation. His hands fidgeted with the hem of his hoodie until Seungmin flopped onto the bed with a soft little “oof,” rolling onto his back.

“You’re really staying?” Seungmin teased, his voice quiet but giddy.

Jisung nodded, swallowing hard. “Y-Yeah. If… if you want me to.”

“I do.”

Something in the simplicity of that broke Jisung’s brain all over again, and he just stood there, blinking, until Seungmin started to giggle. He reached out a lazy hand and wiggled his fingers. “C’mere, dummy.”

Jisung went, because of course he did. He let Seungmin tug him down onto the mattress, and then they were just there, side by side, knees brushing, and the air between them felt thick with something sweet.

“Ugh, I should change first,” Seungmin muttered, sitting up and rummaging through his drawer for his softest pyjamas. Jisung’s eyes darted away, cheeks burning, even though he wasn’t seeing anything scandalous, just Seungmin pulling an oversized shirt over his head, hair sticking up in little tufts.

“Stop staring,” Seungmin teased, grinning when he caught him.

“I wasn’t!” Jisung squeaked, which made Seungmin laugh harder.

They brushed their teeth together in the bathroom, bumping shoulders and giggling whenever their reflections met in the mirror. Jisung couldn’t stop smiling, like his face was going to split. When Seungmin spit into the sink and rinsed, he nudged Jisung lightly.

“You’re cute when you’re nervous.”

“I’m not nervous!”

“You’re shaking.”

Jisung immediately checked his hands and groaned, which only made Seungmin’s grin grow wider. By the time they padded back to the bedroom, Seungmin just collapsed onto the bed and patted the space beside him.

“C’mere,” he said again, softer this time.

Jisung didn’t so much climb into bed as he oozed into it, sprawling like he’d been waiting his whole life for this exact mattress. His head found Seungmin’s shoulder instantly, nose tucking into the curve of his neck like a homing device.

“Mmm,” Jisung hummed, already sounding half-asleep. “You’re my favourite pillow. Don’t move. Ever.”

Seungmin laughed softly, carding fingers through his hair. “You literally just got here.”

“Exactly,” Jisung mumbled. “And I already know I’m never leaving. If you get up, I’ll die. Like… instantly. Body to dust. Gone.”

Seungmin rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth tugged upward. He liked this, how Jisung could be so unapologetically clingy. So when Seungmin shifted just enough to look at him, Jisung gave a small groan like he’d been deeply wronged.

“Do I have to kiss you,” Jisung asked lazily, eyes still shut, “or will you just do the work for me?”

Seungmin huffed out a laugh but leaned in anyway, brushing their lips together in a soft, slow kiss that made Jisung hum in satisfaction. A warm hand slid under Seungmin’s hoodie to rest against his waist, light, almost lazy, like Jisung wasn’t trying to push, just to keep him close. Another kiss. Deeper this time, and Seungmin felt Jisung smile against his mouth before the boy simply… melted. Like he’d gotten what he wanted and could now sleep for a hundred years.

“You’re trouble,” Seungmin murmured.

Jisung’s voice was already thick with sleep. “Mm. But I’m your trouble. Now shh. I’m busy being in love.”

Seungmin shifted slightly, trying to get more comfortable, and immediately felt Jisung’s arms tighten like steel cables, one leg hooking over his.

“Nope,” Jisung muttered without even opening his eyes. “You’re stuck. Try to move again and I’ll just wrap tighter. I will fuse us together.”

Seungmin snorted but didn’t try to move again. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Mm. Cozy though,” Jisung mumbled, already drifting off again, fingers curling at Seungmin’s side.

Jisung eventually found the perfect groove against Seungmin’s side, his forehead tucked just beneath Seungmin’s chin, one arm sprawled limply over his waist like it had nowhere better to be. He mumbled something incoherent about how soft Seungmin smelled, then sighed in that heavy way that belonged only to Sloth, already halfway gone.

Seungmin, though, lingered awake a little longer. His hand traced absent-minded circles along Jisung’s back, slow and steady, like drawing comfort into the skin beneath his palm. The room had gone quiet except for their breathing, one steady, one lazy, both syncing closer with every passing minute.

When Jisung let out a tiny, unexpected snore, Seungmin had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. Instead, he dipped his head and pressed the lightest kiss to Jisung’s hair, whispering a sleepy, “Goodnight, Sungie.”

The words seemed to settle in Jisung’s bones, he shifted, clutching Seungmin tighter, and let out a low hum of contentment. And finally, Seungmin allowed his own eyes to close, sinking into the warmth of it all. The house hummed faintly, approving, and the night cradled them both into dreams.

Chapter Text

It had been a peaceful week, passing by without urgency. Seungmin had settled a little more into himself, and into the strange comfort of the sins around him, quietly, cautiously, almost without realising he had begun to belong.

Tonight the house was quiet in the way only deep evening allowed, wine-soft and drowsy, the kind of hush that felt earned rather than imposed. Lamps glowed low in their corners, dripping amber light into the room. Someone had pulled pillows and blankets across the lounge in a haphazard nest, and bodies rested where they’d fallen, loose-limbed and unguarded. It was an easy night, one of those rare ones where no one was asking, needing, breaking.

It was dangerous, how safe it felt.

Chan sat slightly apart, as he often did, in the corner of the couch with one ankle hooked over a knee. From here he could see them all, their silhouettes softened by fatigue and wine, their voices quieter now that laughter had dulled into something gentler.

Felix was curled into the armchair, chin tucked atop folded arms. Jeongin lay half-swallowed by a blanket on the floor, blinking slow and heavy. Hyunjin stretched like a cat along the chaise, hair falling over the back cushions. Changbin sat cross-legged near the fire, shoulders relaxed, rolling the stem of his glass between his fingers.

And in the centre, Seungmin.

He sat with one knee drawn up, an elbow resting loosely atop it, his wine glass tipped between his hands. The firelight touched the side of his face, softening the sharp line of his jaw. There was a quiet ease to him now, a softness that hadn’t existed when he first arrived. It had happened slowly, so slowly Chan had feared he’d imagined it. But then there were moments like this, when Seungmin tilted his head and smiled at something small Jisung had said, and Chan felt it again.

Warmth. Real, living warmth.

Jisung lounged beside him, half-lying on his side, head propped in one hand. Their shoulders brushed now and then as they spoke, easy and without thought. Chan’s eyes tracked every one of those small touches, not with envy, but with an ache he did not assign a name.

He had chosen once, a long time ago, to love quietly. To love without reaching. He had held that vow in his mouth like a prayer.

It was beginning to taste like a lie.

“—trauma response,” Jisung was saying, indignant, waving his wine glass. “You don’t get to act innocent. You kissed my forehead like a grandmother and expected me to survive.”

Seungmin huffed, soft and disbelieving. “You melted.”

“I did not melt.”

“You made a sound.”

“I hummed. It was neutrality.”

Felix stifled a laugh into his sleeve. Changbin muttered something under his breath. Even Hyunjin’s mouth curved, barely.

Chan watched Seungmin’s smile as it lingered, small, but real. He remembered a time Seungmin’s face hadn’t formed soft expressions at all, only flinches. He remembered standing at the threshold of the kitchen one morning, unseen, watching Seungmin laugh with Felix over burnt toast, and feeling winded, as if he’d stumbled across something private and sacred. He had not interrupted then. He had walked away. He always walked away.

“Want another one then?” Seungmin asked Jisung lightly, tipping his glass toward him. “To make up for it?”

Jisung blinked. “Another… what?”

Seungmin’s lips quirked. “Kiss.”

It was a joke. A casual, unthinking joke. That was the moment something changed.

Felix’s head snapped up. Jeongin stilled, fingers freezing in the fringe of his blanket. Changbin straightened slightly where he sat. Hyunjin’s gaze flicked sharply toward them.

Jisung’s grin was slow. Dangerous. “I thought you owed me interest.”

Seungmin rolled his eyes. “Drop it.”

“Emotional reparations, Min. You promised.”

“I never promised.”

“I have witnesses.”

“You have delusions.” Seungmin nudged him with his shoulder. Jisung nudged back. They were laughing again.

Chan no longer was.

It began subtly, the shift. Not heat. Not anger. Something heavier. Something with the quiet weight of decision. He felt it settle low in his chest, as steady and unstoppable as gravity.

He had thought, once, that he could live with loving quietly. That restraint was a virtue. That Greed could be devout. But now, watching Seungmin offer softness so easily to others, he understood: It was not patience he had been practicing.

It was starvation. And he was done.

He set his glass down. He stood. No one spoke. Heads turned like pages. Felix blinked, lips parting around a soft, uncertain breath. Jisung’s smile faltered. Even Hyunjin straightened where he lay, brows lifting. Seungmin looked up.

“Chan?” he murmured.

He didn’t answer. He crossed the room. Each step felt strangely distant, as if his body had chosen before his mind could protest. He was not acting from impulse. This was not recklessness. This was clarity, the kind that arrived only after every possible reason had been exhausted. He reached him. Seungmin’s eyes were wide now, lips parted in something like confusion. He did not shrink. He simply watched, breath shallow.

Chan knelt before him. His hand lifted, hesitating only for permission that did not need to be spoken, and came to rest along Seungmin’s jaw, thumb brushing lightly at the curve beneath his ear. Seungmin inhaled sharply. His lashes trembled.

Chan’s voice was quiet. Steady.

“I have loved you quietly,” he said.

A breath.

“…I’m done hiding.”

He kissed him. Slowly. Deliberately.

He felt the shock first, the stillness beneath his palm, the sharp intake of breath against his mouth. Seungmin did not move. Did not lean forward. Did not pull away. He simply froze, like someone who had never been touched without warning. Chan’s thumb stroked once at the hinge of his jaw. A reassurance, not a demand.

And then, Seungmin exhaled.

His lips, soft and parted, yielded just barely. A return. Not passionate. Not certain. But present.

Chan’s eyes fluttered shut. A tremor went through him, as though something long-caged had finally, mercifully, ached free. He deepened it only a fraction, enough to breathe him in, to tell him without speech:

I will no longer pretend not to love you.

When he drew back, it was by inches, their foreheads nearly touching. Seungmin’s breath warmed his cheek. His fingers, Chan realized dimly, were curled in the fabric of Chan’s shirt. He hadn’t let go.

Felix made a soft sound, something like a gasp swallowed by awe. Jisung’s hand had risen halfway to his mouth, expression stunned into silence. Changbin remained motionless, eyes wide but unspoken. Jeongin simply watched, gaze unbearably gentle. Hyunjin’s eyes were trained on their mouths. He did not move. Minho, last to react, only blinked once, slowly, as though marking the moment. Chan kept his gaze on Seungmin. He would not look away first.

Felix was the first to move, though barely. His hand lifted, fingers pressing gently to his mouth as though holding something fragile between his teeth. No words came, only a trembled breath, a shimmering pause. Then, with eyes lowered, he stood. His movements were careful, reverent, as though afraid a single sound might shatter what had rooted itself in the room.

He passed behind Seungmin first. For a heartbeat, one hand hovered, almost touching Seungmin’s shoulder, then gently, just barely resting there. A silent I see you. I stay with you. His eyes flicked to Chan, wet, warm and aching, before he slipped out the door without a sound.

One by one, the others followed. Not with anger. Not with judgment. With a certain almost holy quiet, each giving the moment back to its owners.

Jeongin rose next, gathering the blanket from his lap, folding it once, twice, into neatness. He did not speak. When he turned, his gaze met Chan’s, calm and impossibly kind. There was no surprise in it. Only inevitability. Acceptance. A nod that said I will not interfere.

Jisung remained frozen longer than the rest, eyes glassy, caught halfway between disbelief and something deeper. He blinked, wet-lashed, and let out a breath that buckled in his chest. Not quite a sob. He brushed a sleeve across his cheek and stood with soft, unsteady movements. As he passed, he didn’t look at Chan, only at Seungmin.

Changbin stayed the longest. Not because he refused to leave, but because he did not yet trust his own legs to carry the weight of what had shifted. He stood by the fire, silent, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the coals. When he finally turned, his gaze flicked to Chan just once, the barest grounding, a silent you’d better not hurt him, before he followed the hall into the dark.

Hyunjin was not in the room. When he had left, no one saw. Perhaps that was mercy. Or warning.

Only Minho remained. He did not stand. Did not speak. Simply watched Seungmin, unmoving, unreadable, as if measuring an equation only he understood. His thumb tapped lightly once against the armrest, then fell still. At length, he inhaled, soft, inaudible, and rose. His final glance went not to Chan, but to Seungmin.

When he turned and left, there were no footsteps, only the light shift of air as the door eased shut.

They were alone.

Chan did not move. Neither did Seungmin.

He remained seated, breath caught somewhere between ribs and throat, lips parted with the imprint of a kiss that had not yet left his skin. His eyes, still dark, still widened by shock, fixed on Chan’s, as if anchored there, as if any break in gaze might unmake him.

Chan’s voice, when it came, was quiet. Unsteady only at the edges. “I didn’t do it to take from you.”

A tiny flicker in Seungmin’s brow.

“I need you to know that,” he continued softly. “It wasn’t… impulse. And it wasn’t possession.” His breath hitched once. “It was truth. I couldn’t hold it quietly anymore.”

Seungmin’s throat moved on a swallow. His hands lay still in his lap, but a tremor hummed through his fingertips. The fire popped once in the hearth. Outside, a breeze brushed the windowpane with a hollow sigh.

Chan drew a slow breath. “You don’t have to understand it. Or return it. Or even acknowledge it.” His jaw tightened, gentling his voice. “But I won’t pretend it isn’t there.”

Seungmin didn’t speak. But his eyes softened under the weight of Chan’s honesty. His shoulders rose on a breath that trembled, not with fear, but with recognition, as if something deep within him had finally been called by name. Chan remained very still. If he reached again, it would undo everything. So he waited.

Seconds passed. Or minutes. Time blurred around the held breath between them.

Then, Seungmin moved. Not with certainty. Not with decision. With instinct.

He stood, slow and near-silent, gaze never leaving Chan’s. For a heartbeat, he simply hovered there, unsure, before something within him gave way.

He stepped forward. His arms lifted. And he folded himself, quietly, into Chan’s chest.

Chan’s breath broke.

He didn’t move, didn’t dare, only let Seungmin press his forehead against his collarbone, fingers bunching weakly in the fabric at his back. No words. No explanations. Only one truth: he had not run.

Chan lowered his chin, just enough to ghost against Seungmin’s hair. He did not hold him tighter, though every part of him wanted to. He waited, spine taut, breath caged.

Seungmin remained. His heartbeat was uneven against Chan’s ribs.

They stayed like that, unresolved, unspoken, unbroken, as the last embers crackled low in the grate and the house, at last, exhaled.

Chan closed his eyes.

I have loved you quietly, he thought, steady now. Never again.

The house, ever watchful, did not creak nor chide. It only eased softly, as though it remembered the quiet warning it had offered Chan once before. Wanting has consequences. But now, with Seungmin’s arms around him, there was no sense of correction or resistance. Only a calmer kind of knowing, as if the walls themselves accepted what had come to pass.

Some love was never meant to stay hidden.

Chapter Text

He hadn’t meant to sleep. Morning still found him, pale through the curtains, quiet in the room. Seungmin lay on his back and waited for the old heaviness that used to sit on his chest when he woke. It didn’t come. Something else did. Warmth that hadn’t cooled yet. It sat under his ribs and made his breath feel too full.

He remembered more by feeling than by order. The way Chan’s hand had rested at his jaw. The press of a forehead to his own. Standing close enough to share air. He had stepped forward when he should have stepped back. He had stayed.

They didn’t speak after the hug. They stood there for a while, long enough for the room to settle around them, and when Seungmin finally let go, Chan didn’t try to keep him. A nod. Space offered back. He left on steady feet that didn’t feel steady at all.

He turned his head on the pillow and looked at the door. It was closed. No one stood there. He was grateful for the quiet. He lifted a hand and touched the line of his jaw where Chan’s thumb had been, then let his hand fall to his collarbone and stay there, counting the slow rise and fall.

He had said he loved them. He had said it like a fact he could place on the table and leave alone. He hadn’t thought about what happened after. He hadn’t thought about love coming back toward him and taking its hold. Several of them had said it to him now, each in their own way. He didn’t doubt they meant it. He just didn’t know what to do with being the one they meant it to.

Seungmin pushed the blanket down and sat up slowly. The weight in his chest came with him. Not painful. Just there. He pressed his palms to his thighs and kept still until the small rush in his ears eased.

He didn’t feel afraid. He felt crowded by something he hadn’t made room for. He had tried very hard not to take too much from any of them. He had tried to be light in the spaces they gave him. Being loved by so many felt bigger than he knew how to hold without dropping it.

He thought of them by name because that was the only way it made sense. Love didn’t look the same on any of them. It didn’t sound the same. It was steady in some, loud in others, careful where it needed to be. All of it had been placed in his hands without him asking for it.

All except Minho. Pride hadn’t said it. Seungmin wondered about that in the clean light of morning, the way you check a healed scar to see if it still pulls. Maybe Minho didn’t feel it at all. Then he remembered the garden. The way Minho had caught him without making a moment of it. The way he didn’t rush him. Things grew there even when no one spoke about them.

Seungmin let out a slow breath and looked at his hands. He didn’t regret last night. He didn’t have answers either. He was here. That would have to be enough for now.

He thought about getting up. His body shifted like it meant to move, but the moment he sat forward, the weight in his chest dragged him back down. The blanket slipped to his waist as he folded in, one arm wrapping around himself without thinking. The pillow behind him still held the shape of his head. He didn’t hide his face. There was no reason to.

The room was quiet in a way that made sound feel like intrusion. Morning light seeped in through the curtains, thin and colourless, settling over the floorboards and the edge of the bed. It should have felt calm. It didn’t. Something inside him felt too full, pressed tight against bone.

A tear escaped, slow and steady. There was no sharpness in it, no panic, no urgency. Just an ache he couldn’t swallow back. He let it fall. It was easier than pretending.

He had been left before. Forgotten before. He knew what people meant when they said forever. Parents who never looked back. Someone who once promised he wouldn’t leave, right up until the door closed anyway. An aunt who tried to stay and still couldn’t. Seungmin had survived by learning not to expect more than what was given.

Now they loved him. They had said it like it was fixed, like it wouldn’t change. Maybe they believed that. Maybe they could. They weren’t human. They didn’t have to be careful with time.

He was human. Time would take him long before it ever touched them. He would grow old. They wouldn’t. He would leave them, one way or another. Or worse, he wouldn’t leave at all. He would stay, and they would decide he didn’t need them anymore once he stopped breaking. What then? What was he to them if not something to hold together?

He didn’t fear dying. He feared staying. Staying long enough to watch them drift when he no longer fit. Staying long enough to see their warmth turn into patience. Pity. Distance. He could live with being forgotten. He wasn’t sure he could live with being left while still here.

What if it disappears?

The thought didn’t cut. It settled, like it had always been waiting. It would make sense, wouldn’t it? To finally hope, only to watch it go too.

He stayed curled a while longer, letting the quiet settle around him. His thoughts drifted, not backward into moments, but outward, to them. All of them. It was the only way he could make sense of the weight in his chest.

Felix came first. Warmth that never asked for anything back. A place to rest without earning it.

Jisung followed, loud in every way except the ones that mattered. Trust that never questioned whether Seungmin would stay.

Jeongin, with the kind of understanding that didn’t need words. Someone who looked without pressing, who knew how to leave space untouched.

Changbin held rooms together. He held people together. Steady not because he was unafraid, but because he refused to let anyone fall alone.

Minho was different. Quiet in a way that never pushed, never pried. Pride didn’t speak love. It showed it. Slowly. Patiently. Like something planted in soil, growing whether anyone noticed or not.

Chan was the only one who stopped waiting. Who chose to speak instead of stay silent. Who made love into something that could stand in a room and be seen.

Seungmin drew in a breath. He sat up again, slower this time. The air tasted different now that he’d named them. Not easier, just honest. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and let his feet find the floor. The wood was cold.

He stood.

He didn’t know why he moved, only that he did. Across the room, to the drawer he hadn’t opened since the day Hyunjin gave the painting to him and told him not to look until he was ready. Ready for what, he hadn’t understood then.

He reached for the handle.

Stopped.

His hand hovered there, fingers curled just short of touching. His pulse thudded once, low in his throat. He could face Chan’s confession. He could face his own fear. But this, being seen through Hyunjin’s eyes, felt heavier.

What if Hyunjin had painted someone he wasn’t? What if he had let them all believe he was more than he could be? What if everything he felt was only relief, not love?

He wasn’t ready to see himself the way Hyunjin already had.

-

They had laid the table like they always did when they wanted him to know he belonged. Eight places. One empty. Plates set, knives aligned, glasses clear and waiting. No food. No wine. The room felt too clean around it, like the air had been scrubbed down to the bone.

No one moved at first.

Felix sat with his hands together on the table, fingers threaded, pressing hard enough that the tips had gone pale. He kept looking toward the hallway and then back to the empty plate beside Chan’s, as if he could will time to fold and deliver Seungmin into the chair meant for him. Gluttony learned early to take what the world offered and make a feast of it. He could live on crumbs if he had to. He didn’t know what to do with a future that might starve him on purpose.

Jisung tried twice to speak. Both times it stopped in his throat before it reached his mouth. Sloth was not laziness; it was the body’s surrender when everything felt too heavy to carry. He was thinking about effort, about the kind that doesn’t have an end point. He stared at the table and wondered what it meant to keep going when there wasn’t a finish line, when forever had just been turned into something with a door.

Jeongin watched the grain of the wood. Envy learned to see what other people had and imagine its weight long before it ever touched his palms. He wasn’t jealous of Seungmin. He was afraid of a life where mortals got to die beside the people they chose and he did not. He traced the pattern with his eyes like it might answer something if he memorised it hard enough.

Changbin’s jaw was set. Wrath could carry a room single-handed if it needed to, could stand in the doorway and make the storm stop on command. He had tried to pick fights with worse things than time. Time had never lifted its hands. He sat with his shoulders squared and his fists closed on his knees and looked like he was ready to break the table in half just to prove he could break something.

Hyunjin’s gaze was somewhere past the opposite wall. Lust was not just hunger; it was the ache to keep what was beautiful, to hold it still long enough to learn it. He was already cataloguing the ways the years might touch Seungmin if they let them. He didn’t flinch at the image. He only held it carefully, the way you hold a glass that’s been cracked but not shattered, and tried to decide whether art should be made of it.

Chan sat with his palms flat against the table, one on either side of his untouched plate. Greed had finally said something out loud it had kept in its mouth for too long. He did not take it back. He did not move to take more. He stared at the wood and kept his breathing measured and thought about the shape of his mouth against Seungmin’s and about not asking permission to love him and about what it means, truly, to keep what you claim.

Minho leaned back in his chair. Pride did not fill silence with comfort and did not cut it down with answers. He let it stand. His eyes were on the doorway. He had always been careful with language; once spoken, it could not be recalled. He would not waste it on softening what needed to be sharp.

They all knew the words from the book. They had known them long before the pages were read out loud. It had never happened. It could. Not by a trick. Not by a punishment. By a choice. One time only. If the bond held. If the love was real enough to make the choice mean something. No return. No undoing. Not a story you told and then forgot, an end you lived all the way through.

Felix’s fingers tightened. “If he asks—” His voice was small, the edge of it already breaking.

“Don’t put the question in his mouth,” Jisung said, quiet, like even that was work.

Changbin exhaled through his nose and set his jaw again. “We should have an answer anyway.”

Jeongin didn’t speak. He didn’t look away from the wood.

Hyunjin tapped his fingertip once against the rim of his glass and stilled.

Chan kept his hands where they were.

The house held its breath around them.

Minho did not look at any of them when he finally spoke. He kept his eyes on the space Seungmin would fill if he walked through the door, and he didn’t raise his voice to make the words land. He didn’t need to.

“If he asks us to stay,” Minho said, “we choose our last life.”

Chapter Text

The house knew when he left his room. It didn’t shift its floorboards under his feet or close a door he hadn’t touched. The hallway lay still in front of him like a promise kept. Moonlight fell in thin rectangles across the runner, the picture frames watched without speaking. It had been a while since the kiss in the lounge. No one had asked Seungmin for anything in the days after. They set plates down and left them. They passed him in doorways like the air itself had turned careful.

He ate when Felix left food by the door. He slept when his body forced him to. He carried a weight he couldn’t name from hour to hour. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t regret. It felt heavier than both.

They had all told him they loved him. Not always with the word, but in ways he could not pretend not to understand. Warmth. Trust. Knowing. Protection. Fire. Love placed in his hands like they weren’t afraid he’d drop it.

All except Minho.

It should have been enough, six kinds of love, each set down without condition. Wanting anything beyond what he’d already been given felt wrong. Selfish. Like asking for another hand when both of his were already held. But something in him still waited. Something asked.

Not for a favourite. Not for a promise.

Just for proof that Pride saw him too.

He moved down the stairs and followed the corridor on bare feet. The sunroom door was open. Of course it was. The house had a way of arranging itself around what needed to happen.

The room wasn’t lit, but it wasn’t dark either. Glass from floor to ceiling held the night like water. Moonlight laid itself across the rug and the low table and the long chaise by the windows. Minho sat there, upright, one elbow on the armrest, gaze already lifted toward the door as Seungmin stepped over the threshold.

He didn’t look surprised, just steady.

Seungmin stopped just inside. For a moment he stood with his hand on the doorframe and thought: I can still leave. No one will follow me down the hall. They’ll let me try again another night.

He didn’t leave.

He crossed the room on quiet feet and sat, not at a distance, not beside. He leaned fully, without asking, until his body was against Minho’s, until his head found the space where shoulder met collarbone. His breath shook once and then settled. Minho didn’t lift a hand to him. He didn’t shift away either. He held still the way strong things hold when you lean your weight against them: braced, careful, and sure.

The house settled around them. The glass made no sound. The night pressed close to the panes as if it, too, were listening.

They had given him so much already. He had tried to be light in return. To take up less room than he was offered. He wasn’t sure how to ask for more without becoming something he didn’t want to be.

He didn’t lift his head when he spoke. His voice went no higher than breath.

“Why haven’t you said it?”

Minho didn’t answer. Not at first. Pride always heard the things people tried not to say. He let the question live between them for a few heartbeats. Then, gently moving from under Seungmin, he stood.

Warmth slipped from Seungmin’s shoulder where Minho’s body had been. Cold air rushed into the space left behind. Seungmin stayed where he was for a moment, palms pressed to the chaise as if that might anchor him to the room. He could have remained there. He could have let Minho walk away and told himself this was enough.

He stood too.

Not to block him, just to meet him. Moonlight drew a pale line between them. Minho turned to face him, but didn’t step back. Their eyes caught and held. There was nothing sharp there. No impatience. Only something measured, and careful.

The words shook loose before Seungmin could find a safer way to carry them.

“Do you love me?”

He didn’t dress it in apology. He didn’t soften it. He asked it like it was the only way forward. Pride didn’t startle. He didn’t rush. He held Seungmin’s gaze like a weight, testing whether the boy in front of him could bear the thing he was asking to be given.

When Minho spoke, it wasn’t an answer.

“Do you?”

Not to challenge. To level them. If Seungmin wanted truth, he would have to stand inside it too. Seungmin’s throat tightened. He didn’t look away.

He nodded.

They moved at the same time. No pull. No command. Only the kind of gravity that happens when two bodies decide to stop pretending there’s a choice. Seungmin lifted his hand to Minho’s chest and spread his fingers over the fabric, feeling the steady thud beneath his palm. He wasn’t searching. He was confirming. Minho’s hands found his waist, firm, a silent this is where you belong. Their foreheads almost touched. Minho didn’t lean in all at once. He left Seungmin every chance to step back.

He didn’t.

The first press of their mouths wasn’t heat. It was weight. A slow, certain kiss that refused to rush. Seungmin’s fingers curled against Minho’s shirt. A sound caught in his chest and didn’t quite make it out. Minho exhaled through his nose, steadying the tremor that tried to escape him.

Minho’s other hand rose to cradle Seungmin’s jaw, thumb passing once across his skin like a question. Seungmin leaned into the touch as his answer.

They broke apart only when breath made them. They didn’t go far. Their foreheads rested together. Air moved between them in small, uneven pulls.

Minho’s voice came low. “Does that answer your question?”

A laugh slipped out of Seungmin without him meaning it to. It broke on the edge of a sob and found a softer shape on the way. He was still looking at Minho’s mouth when he spoke.

“Yes,” he said, his voice shaking. “But… I still want to hear you say it.”

Minho went very still. Not in refusal. In consideration. Pride was careful with language. Once spoken, it could not be recalled. He studied Seungmin’s face as if learning it again. Then his mouth softened into something that felt like surrender.

“I don’t love easily,” he said. “I don’t love lightly.” His grip tightened at Seungmin’s waist. “But I love you.”

The breath left Seungmin all at once. His fingers fisted in Minho’s shirt and pulled without meaning to. Minho stepped in the inch that was left. The next kiss wasn’t tentative. It was slow, and sure, and deep enough to make Seungmin’s knees go weak. Minho held him steady through it, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth before guiding him back again. Seungmin rose onto his toes and pressed closer. Heat gathered where their chests met. Minho didn’t ask for more. He didn’t take it either. He kissed him like something he didn’t intend to put down.

They didn’t end it forcefully, but let it end when it was ready. Foreheads touching. Eyes closed. Standing. Breathing. The house listened the way old places do when they recognise something they were built to hold. The panes made no sound. The air felt steadier than it had when Seungmin walked in.

He closed his eyes.

Minho didn’t let go.

The house kept the silence for them, breathing their love into the atmosphere.

-

Seungmin woke to the sound of steady breathing. The room was washed in the faint gold of early morning, the light soft enough to blur the edges of everything it touched. For a long moment, he just lay there, feeling the warmth against his side, the weight of an arm looped around his waist.

Minho had stayed.

After the kiss, Seungmin had taken his hand and, without a word, led him through the quiet halls. Neither of them spoke; they didn’t need to. When they reached Seungmin’s room, Minho didn’t hesitate. They’d kissed again, slower this time, hands finding faces, shoulders, the safety of what they’d just confessed. It wasn’t frantic or searching. It was a series of small confirmations: this is real, this is now, this is us. When they finally stopped, they had simply lain down, clothes still on, bodies drawn together until sleep took them.

Now, Minho’s face rested inches from his own. His features had softened in sleep, no guarded stillness, no calculation. Just peace. The kind of peace that Pride never showed the world.

Seungmin’s heart ached at the sight. He lifted a hand and brushed a stray strand of hair away from Minho’s forehead, fingertips barely grazing his skin. Minho hummed at the touch, quiet and instinctive, and leaned into it. The sound made Seungmin smile. He traced the memory of last night with the pad of his thumb across his own lips, the way they’d met again and again until words didn’t matter. How had he ever doubted? The love had been there all along, hidden in every careful look, every unspoken act, every time Minho stayed close even when he pretended not to care.

He let his hand settle lightly against Minho’s cheek, watching the faint rise and fall of his chest. Pride had finally set down his armour, and the room felt still in its knowing. Minho stirred when Seungmin’s fingertips brushed his cheek a second time.

A faint sound rumbled in his throat. “You’re staring.”

Seungmin smiled into the quiet. “You’re finally still enough to look at.” His voice was a whisper, playful but soft.

“Mm.” Minho’s eyes stayed closed. “Dangerous habit. Pride doesn’t sleep well under inspection.”

“You’re doing fine.”

“That’s because you exhaust me.”

Seungmin laughed, a real sound this time, small and breathy. The vibration of it against Minho’s chest made him open his eyes. For a moment they only looked at each other, the space between them golden with early light.

“I meant what I said last night,” Minho murmured.

“I know.”

He hesitated, thumb tracing idle circles at Seungmin’s waist. “You realise I’m not the only one who does. They all look at you the same way.”

“I know that too.”

“Good.” Minho’s mouth curved, almost shy. “Just don’t forget I saw you first.”

Seungmin rolled his eyes, smiling. “You didn’t. Lust definitely did.”

Minho snorted. “He notices everyone. I pay attention.”

“That’s what you’re calling it?”

“Careful,” Minho warned, the corner of his mouth lifting. “You’re testing a sin before breakfast.”

The laugh that escaped Seungmin then was lighter than he’d felt in days. Minho’s answering grin was brief but real before he tugged Seungmin closer, burying his face in his hair. The bed creaked once, a content sound.

Outside, the old house shifted its weight, as if warmed by the sound of them. Curtains stirred though no window was open, light pooling a little brighter across the floor.

Minho’s voice came muffled against Seungmin’s skin. “Go back to sleep.”

Seungmin’s reply was almost a hum. “Only if you stay.”

“Always.”

Chapter Text

Late morning sunlight pooled through the thin curtains, gold enough to make the dust motes look alive. Seungmin was already up, barefoot on the rug, half talking to himself, half talking to the wardrobe.

“Everyone’s been moping,” he said, tugging drawers open like a man on a mission. “I’m declaring a mandatory breakfast.”

Minho leaned against the doorframe, still rumpled from sleep, watching the chaos with that quiet amusement only he could manage. “You’re declaring?”

“Yes.” Seungmin turned, hair sticking up at the crown, grin bright. “You’ve had your dramatic night. It’s my turn to bring joy back to this house.”

Minho hummed, non-committal, until Seungmin shoved an armful of clothes at him. “Help me pick something. You have taste, right?”

“That’s debatable.”

Seungmin rolled his eyes. “Come on, Pride. Prove your title means something.”

With a resigned sigh that fooled no one, Minho crossed the room. He sorted through the pile, fingers brushing fabric, occasionally glancing at Seungmin’s expectant face. “This,” he said at last, holding up a soft dove-grey sweater. “And these.” He tossed a pair of comfortable pants onto the bed, then noticed the ridiculous socks Seungmin had pulled from a drawer, bright stripes of coral and sky blue.

“You’re wearing those?”

“Obviously.”

Minho’s mouth twitched. “Figures.” He reached out and straightened the collar of the sweater once Seungmin pulled it on, letting his fingers linger just long enough to make Seungmin look up at him.

“There,” Minho said quietly. “Perfect.”

“Aren’t I always?” Seungmin teased, but the warmth in his chest stayed.

He caught Minho’s hand before he could retreat to the doorway again. “Come on. We need to find Felix. He’s in charge of pancakes.”

Minho pretended to groan but didn’t let go as Seungmin dragged him into the corridor. The late morning light followed them, stretching along the hall as though the house itself approved of the noise.

They didn’t make it halfway down the corridor before Seungmin slowed, their hands still linked. Minho arched a brow.

“What now?”

“Nothing,” Seungmin said, turning to face him. “You just look less terrifying in daylight.”

Minho gave a low sound that might have been a laugh. “Keep talking, see what happens.”

Seungmin only grinned wider. “You’ll still make me breakfast?”

“I’ll make sure Felix does,” Minho said, but he squeezed Seungmin’s fingers once before letting go.

Seungmin used the freedom to bump his shoulder into Minho’s chest, playful. “You’re supposed to say something sweet before I run off.”

Minho leaned down, voice soft enough to brush his ear. “You already look happy. That’s enough sweetness for today.”

Seungmin flushed, muttered something about arrogant men, and tugged him the last few steps toward the kitchen.

-

The kitchen smelled like warm sugar and sunlight. Felix was already there, sleeves pushed up, humming under his breath as he stacked plates. When he turned and saw them, the wooden spoon slipped from his hand.

“Seungmin!”

Before Seungmin could react, Felix had crossed the room and wrapped him in a hug that was more of a squeeze than an embrace. “You’re okay,” he said, voice cracking.

Seungmin laughed against his shoulder. “I’m fine, I promise. Better than fine.”

Felix pulled back, eyes bright. “Good, because I was this close to storming your room with an emergency breakfast tray.”

“Actually,” Seungmin said, still smiling, “that’s kind of why I’m here. I want everyone together. Proper breakfast. Laughter, chaos, the works.”

Felix pressed a hand to his heart. “A man after my own gluttonous soul. You, sit there. I’ll start batter. We’re doing pancakes, eggs, everything.”

Minho made a quiet noise that might have been approval. “I’m going to get dressed before you rope me into chopping fruit,” he said. Seungmin nodded, watching him disappear down the hall.

Felix was already moving, hands flying as he talked. “We’ll do juice and coffee and maybe those little pastries if the oven behaves—oh, and the big pan for hash browns!”

Seungmin listened, beaming, until Felix turned to grab another bowl. “I’ll leave you to it?”

Felix waved the spoon at him. “Go gather your hopeless romantic boys. Bring them down before I eat everything myself.”

Seungmin laughed, warm and easy. “Jisung’s closest; I’ll start there.”

“Tell him there’s extra syrup if he behaves,” Felix called after him.

-

Light spilled through the high windows as Seungmin made his way down the hall, bare feet whispering across the polished floorboards. The quiet hum of Felix’s singing drifted faintly from the kitchen, mixing with the distant creak of settling wood. Everything felt warmer. Brighter. The stillness of the last few days had lifted, replaced by something that almost sounded like laughter waiting to happen.

He found Jisung exactly where he expected. In the lounge, cocooned in a fortress of blankets that nearly swallowed him whole. Only a mess of brown hair and the tips of his fingers poked out from the top of the pile. The rest was pure burrito.

Seungmin smiled and crouched beside the couch, leaning in until he could see the faint rise and fall of Jisung’s chest. “Hey,” he whispered. When that got no reaction, he leaned closer and pressed a quick kiss to the tip of Jisung’s nose.

Jisung made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a squeak, eyes flying open. “What—who—Seungmin?!”

Before Seungmin could laugh, Jisung launched forward, the blankets wrapping around both of them as he collided with enough force to knock them off balance. They landed in a heap on the rug, Jisung already babbling half awake. “You can’t just—what if I died of cute overload? You’d have to explain that to the others!”

Seungmin was laughing so hard he could barely breathe. “I’ll take my chances.”

Jisung blinked, still clinging to him. “You’re actually smiling. Like, full-on smiling. Did we win something? Did someone die? Wait—don’t answer that.”

“Nothing happened,” Seungmin said, brushing a bit of hair out of his face. “It’s just… a good morning.” He leaned forward and kissed Jisung’s cheek, then the other, quick and soft. “Come have breakfast with me. With everyone.”

Jisung blinked again, then grinned, the sleep still in his eyes but the warmth unmistakable. “Breakfast with everyone? That sounds suspiciously wholesome. Who bribed you?”

“Felix,” Seungmin said, standing and tugging Jisung up by the hand. “Pancakes. Possibly hash browns.”

“Hash browns!” Jisung pumped a fist in the air, already halfway untangling himself from the blanket. “Okay, okay, I’m up. I’ll brush my hair, maybe. Probably not.”

Seungmin laughed. “Just bring yourself. That’s enough.”

“Aw, don’t get mushy on me,” Jisung said, slinging an arm around him as they walked out of the lounge. “You’ll ruin my reputation as the lazy one.”

“You are the lazy one,” Seungmin teased.

“Exactly,” Jisung said, grinning. 

They laughed their way down the hall toward the kitchen, the sound of it echoing softly through the house. The walls didn’t answer this time, they didn’t need to. The house was already awake.

-

The kitchen had transformed in the few minutes Seungmin had been gone. Felix already had three pans going, humming to himself like an orchestra conductor. The smell of butter and sugar hit first, then the faint hiss of batter meeting heat.

Jisung stopped in the doorway, blinking. “You’ve been busy.”

Felix turned, spatula in hand, eyes bright. “Perfect timing! You can help.”

Jisung pointed at himself. “Help? As in… labour?”

“As in,” Felix said, shoving a mixing bowl into his arms, “you’re strong and you have opposable thumbs.”

Jisung groaned dramatically, but he was smiling as he reached for the whisk. “Fine, but if I burn anything, it’s your fault.”

“Sweetie, you could burn water and I’d still be proud,” Felix said sweetly, patting his shoulder before turning back to the stove.

Seungmin leaned against the doorframe for a moment, watching them. The sight filled him with an ache that wasn’t sadness, just the quiet joy of having this, after everything.

“I’m going to get Changbin,” he said over the sound of sizzling butter. 

Felix nodded without looking up. “Watch your step, it’s cold down there.”

Jisung immediately piped up. “Don’t get lost! If you die, I’m not finishing these pancakes.”

“I’ll try to survive,” Seungmin called back, laughing as he crossed the room.

Felix’s voice followed him: “Bring him up hungry!”

The basement door creaked when Seungmin opened it. The air that drifted up was cool and a little damp, the scent of old wood and earth mixing with the warmth of the kitchen behind him. As he started down the narrow steps, Jisung’s exaggerated complaints about whisking echoed faintly through the doorway.

“Felix, this batter’s fighting back—how is this legal?”

The sound made Seungmin smile all the way down into the dim light below.

The air grew cooler as Seungmin descended the narrow steps. Light from above reached only halfway down; the rest came from a single bulb that swung faintly, throwing soft shadows across stacks of boxes and old furniture. The scent of dust and oil mixed with something metallic. It was quieter here, almost too quiet after the bright kitchen.

Then came the sound: a steady clank, a low breath, the muted rhythm of weights being lifted.

Seungmin followed it around a corner and stopped. Changbin was there, shirt damp with sweat, arms taut as he brought the barbell up with practiced ease. For a heartbeat Seungmin only watched; the strength, the focus, the sheer presence of him.

“Morning,” Seungmin said lightly.

Changbin startled so hard the bar hit the rack with a clatter. “Holy shit, Seungmin—” He spun, wide-eyed. “You can’t just sneak up on a guy mid-rep! I nearly dropped a dumbbell on my foot—hell!”

Seungmin burst out laughing, and before he could apologise Changbin was already crossing the room and sweeping him into a hug that lifted him clean off the ground.

“Don’t ever do that again,” Changbin muttered into his shoulder, voice rough with more feeling than he probably intended to show. “The house has been too damn quiet without you. Hated it.”

Seungmin’s arms tightened around him. “I missed you too.”

Changbin set him down but didn’t step back. For a moment they just looked at each other, the weight of everything unspoken softening between them. Then Changbin leaned in, brushing a quick, warm kiss against his lips, brief but sure.

When he pulled back, Seungmin smiled up at him. “Gonna call me baby again?”

Changbin snorted, embarrassed. “Shut up. It slipped.”

“Mm-hmm,” Seungmin teased. “You’re blushing.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “maybe don’t sneak up on me half-naked next time.”

Seungmin laughed, the sound echoing softly off the concrete walls. “Breakfast’s ready soon. Come up before Felix feeds everything to Jisung.”

That earned a grin. “If Jisung eats my share, I’m throwing him in the lake.”

“Promises, promises.”

Changbin grabbed a towel and followed him toward the stairs, muttering good-natured threats under his breath. Behind them, the basement light flickered once and steadied.

-

By the time Seungmin and Changbin climbed the last few steps, the kitchen sounded like a small circus. The scent of frying butter and sugar hung heavy in the air, mingling with the sound of Felix’s humming and Jisung’s dramatic groaning.

Minho was back too, neat and composed again, standing near the counter with his arms folded as he observed Jisung attempting to flip a pancake.

“You’re going to launch that thing into orbit,” Minho said dryly.

“Relax,” Jisung muttered, squinting at the pan. “I’ve got perfect wrist control.”

Felix snorted. “That’s what he said last time, right before the pancake landed on the light fixture.”

“Hey! That was an experiment!”

The next flip came with too much force. The pancake somersaulted, missed the pan completely, and landed half on the counter, half on the floor. Jisung stared at it in despair.

Minho made a small noise that might have been a laugh. “Flawless technique.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Felix said, though he was smiling too.

Seungmin leaned against the doorframe, watching them all for a moment before stepping in. “You’re supposed to wait for me before you ruin breakfast,” he teased.

“Seungmin!” Felix’s face lit up, and he hurried over to squeeze him again, quick but fierce, as if he still needed the reassurance of touch. “Changbin too! Perfect, we’re almost complete.”

Changbin lifted a brow. “If anyone mentions protein pancakes, I’m leaving.”

Felix shooed him toward the table. “Sit. You can do dishes later.”

Jisung, still crouched beside the fallen pancake, looked up. “Five-second rule?”

“Absolutely not,” Seungmin said, laughing as he headed towards the hall.

The kitchen filled with motion again, Minho quietly rescuing the batter from Jisung, Felix juggling too many pans, Changbin rummaging for mugs, Seungmin in the middle of it all, alive and bright and laughing.

-

Seungmin could still hear Jisung grumbling about pancakes as he went. The air in the corridor was bright and clean, carrying the faint smell of sugar and coffee; even the old floorboards felt lighter under his feet.

In the library, Jeongin sat curled up on the window seat, knees drawn close, eyes half-closed as he let the music fill the space.

Seungmin paused in the doorway. For a second he just watched the way Jeongin’s hair caught the light, the way his thumb tapped idly against his knee in time with a song that seemed to be playing in his mind. Then he crossed the room and spoke quietly.

“Hey.”

Jeongin looked up, surprise melting quickly into a smile. “Hey yourself.”

“Didn’t think I’d find you so quickly,” Seungmin teased, settling beside him.

“I’m easing into the day,” Jeongin said. “The house feels different.”

“It does,” Seungmin agreed. “Better.”

For a heartbeat they sat in the small silence that followed. Then Jeongin’s hand found his, fingers twining easily. Seungmin squeezed back, leaning in until their foreheads brushed. The kiss was soft, an exhale more than a motion, but it lingered long enough to make Jeongin smile against his mouth.

When they parted, Seungmin stayed close. “We’re having breakfast. Everyone. Felix is already cooking and Jisung’s pretending to help.”

Jeongin laughed, low and fond. “That sounds dangerous.”

“It’ll be chaos,” Seungmin said. “Come with me anyway.”

Jeongin nodded, standing with him. Their hands stayed linked as they stepped into the sunlit hall. “Lead the way, captain.”

Seungmin grinned. “Only if you promise not to run when you see the state of the kitchen.”

“No promises,” Jeongin said, but he followed, their shoulders brushing as they walked back toward the noise and warmth that waited for them.

The closer they came to the kitchen, the louder it grew. Pots clattered, Felix laughed at something Jisung said, and someone, probably Changbin, was threatening bodily harm if another pancake landed on the floor.

At the doorway, Jeongin slowed, the noise washing over him like sunlight. “They sound happy,” he said quietly.

“They are,” Seungmin replied, smiling.

Before they could step in, Changbin spotted them. “There he is!” He crossed the room in three strides and promptly ruffled Jeongin’s hair until it stood up in wild tufts.

“Changbin!” Jeongin sputtered, swatting at his hands. “You just undid all my effort!”

“You had effort?” Changbin teased, grinning. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Minho, standing by the counter with his mug of coffee, didn’t look up from where he was supervising Jisung’s latest attempt at cooking. “If you two start wrestling near the stove, I’m leaving.”

“Aw, come on,” Felix said, flipping a pancake neatly this time. “This is wholesome content!”

Jisung, wielding the spatula like a weapon, pointed it at Seungmin. “You better not expect me to clean up after this breakfast, Mister Ray of Sunshine.”

Seungmin laughed, stepping closer. The whole kitchen smelled like butter and coffee and something that felt like home.

Minho finally looked up. “You actually convinced everyone to get out of their rooms,” he said, a hint of pride hidden under the dryness.

“Someone had to,” Seungmin replied, almost mischievously.

Minho started to reply, but Seungmin was already closing the space between them, rising onto his toes to press a quick, gentle kiss against his lips.

For a heartbeat, the kitchen froze.

Felix gasped. Jisung’s spatula clattered to the floor. Jeongin blinked, mouth falling open.

Changbin was the first to recover.

“WHAT THE FUCK—” he yelled, voice echoing off the tiled walls.

Minho, to his credit, didn’t flinch. He just blinked once, set his mug down carefully, and said, “Apparently it’s a good morning.”

Seungmin was already laughing, stepping back toward the doorway. “I’m going to get Chan before you all combust.”

Jisung pointed after him, scandalized and delighted. “You can’t just drop that bomb and leave!”

“Watch me,” Seungmin called over his shoulder, grinning.

As he disappeared into the hall, the kitchen erupted again, Felix’s laughter, Jisung’s dramatic groaning, Changbin still sputtering in disbelief, and Minho shaking his head with the faintest trace of a smile.

-

The laughter from the kitchen faded as Seungmin made his way down the quiet corridor toward Chan’s study. The door stood half open, the faint scratch of pen against paper carrying into the hall. Morning light spilled through the tall window, falling across stacks of notes and open books.

Chan sat at the desk, head bowed, glasses slipping down his nose as he wrote. The lines between his brows were still there, but softer than they’d been in weeks.

Seungmin leaned against the doorframe for a heartbeat, just watching the familiar rhythm of Chan’s hands, the way he looked so grounded and calm when he worked.

“Hey,” Seungmin said quietly.

Chan looked up, surprise flickering into warmth. “You’re up.”

“It is almost noon,” Seungmin teased, stepping closer.

Chan chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fair. How’s everyone? The kitchen sounds like a zoo.”

“It is,” Seungmin said. “A happy one.”

He stopped beside the desk, close enough that Chan’s chair brushed against his knees. Chan turned a little to face him. “About last night,” he began, “I wanted to—”

But Seungmin leaned down and kissed him before the apology could take shape. It wasn’t a long kiss, just a quiet press of lips that silenced everything else.

When he pulled back, he smiled. “I love you too.”

For a second Chan only stared, and then the light came into his eyes, slow, bright, impossible to hide. He laughed softly, breath catching halfway through, and wrapped his arms around Seungmin’s waist, pulling him close until his forehead rested against Seungmin’s stomach.

“You’re so damn cute,” he murmured. “How do you make everything feel okay again?”

Seungmin smoothed a hand through his hair. “Maybe it’s my turn to look after you for a while.”

Chan looked up at him, still smiling, eyes warm enough to make Seungmin’s chest ache. “You already do, baby.”

Seungmin’s laugh was quiet and a little shy. “Come on. Breakfast. Felix has declared it a festival.”

“Is that why it sounds like someone’s being murdered with a spatula?”

“Probably Jisung,” Seungmin said. “Minho’s supervising. Sort of.”

Chan rose from the chair, still holding Seungmin’s hand as they stepped into the light-filled hall.

“Lead the way,” he said.

Seungmin squeezed his fingers. “Only one more to collect.”

The smell of syrup and butter reached them before the doorway did. By the time Seungmin and Chan stepped into the kitchen, breakfast was almost finished. Plates covered every surface; Felix moved between pans with practiced chaos, and Jisung was dramatically arguing that his pancakes were “aesthetic, not burnt.”

Minho was seated at the table again, coffee in hand, looking every bit the long-suffering overseer. Jeongin and Changbin were setting forks and cups, still trading jokes under their breath.

Seungmin stopped just inside the threshold, watching them all—the light, the laughter, the simple ordinariness of it—and felt something warm unfold in his chest.

Felix noticed him first and practically squealed. “There’s our sunshine! Everyone look, he’s smiling again!”

That earned a round of coos and teasing from the others. Jisung clutched his heart. “It’s blinding. Somebody put sunglasses on him.”

Seungmin laughed, cheeks pink. “You’re all ridiculous.”

“Adorable,” Felix corrected, beaming. “Now come taste this and tell me it’s not perfect.”

“Soon,” Seungmin said. “I still have one more to collect.”

Minho raised a brow over his mug. “Lust is going to think you’re staging an intervention.”

“Maybe I am.”

The table erupted in good-natured snickers as Seungmin backed toward the doorway. “Set the table,” he called. “I’ll be right back.”

He slipped out before anyone could protest, the laughter following him into the hall. Upstairs, the house quieted again; the smell of breakfast faded into the faint trace of candle wax and paint that always clung to the upper rooms.

Hyunjin’s door was closed, but light spilled from underneath, a thin band of gold against the dark wood.

Seungmin lifted his hand to knock.

-

Hyunjin’s door opened before Seungmin could knock.

He stood there barefoot, eyes wide and glassy, hair loose around his shoulders. For a second he just stared, and then with a choked laugh, he pulled Seungmin into his arms so tightly that the air rushed out of both of them.

“Hyunjin,” Seungmin gasped, half-laughing, half-winded.

Hyunjin only held him closer, voice shaking. “You’re okay. You’re really okay.”

“I told you I was,” Seungmin murmured, smiling against his shoulder.

Hyunjin pulled back just enough to look at him, hands trembling slightly as they framed Seungmin’s face. “You scared me. I—” His words dissolved as Seungmin rose on his toes and kissed him, silencing every fear left unspoken.

The kiss wasn’t gentle at first. It was urgent, almost desperate, weeks of longing, fear, and devotion colliding until Hyunjin’s hands were at Seungmin’s waist, pulling him close, and Seungmin’s fingers were tangled in his hair. They broke apart only when breath demanded it, both of them flushed and trembling.

Hyunjin exhaled, almost a laugh, almost an apology. “I’m sorry. My lust always—”

“It’s okay,” Seungmin said quickly, brushing his thumb over Hyunjin’s cheek. “You’re happy. I can feel it.”

That earned a soft, breathless laugh. “You make it impossible not to be.”

Seungmin giggled, cheeks pink. “Come to breakfast with me?”

“Only if you promise to sit beside me.”

“I promise,” Seungmin said, tugging gently at his sleeve. “Everyone’s waiting.”

Hyunjin arched a brow, the familiar glimmer of mischief returning. “Then we shouldn’t keep them waiting, should we?”

Before Seungmin could react, Hyunjin crouched down and hooked his arms around Seungmin’s legs.

“Hyunjin—!”

Too late. The taller boy lifted him easily, settling him against his back as Seungmin squealed and laughed.

“Hold on, darling,” Hyunjin said over his shoulder, grin audible in his voice. “You wanted breakfast; you’re getting an entrance.”

They descended the stairs in a burst of laughter and footfalls. The moment they reached the kitchen doorway, all conversation stopped.

Jisung blinked first. “Are you kidding me?”

Felix clapped his hands in delight. “Oh my god, look at them!”

Minho groaned, already rubbing his temples. “Of course Lust made it a production.”

“Put him down before you drop him!” Chan called, though he was smiling too.

Hyunjin shot a look over his shoulder, dramatic as ever. “As if I would ever drop him.”

Seungmin slid off his back, laughing so hard he nearly stumbled. “You’re all ridiculous,” he said, breathless, taking the seat nearest to Hyunjin as promised.

Felix set down the last plate with a flourish. “Alright! Everyone’s here. Sit, eat, and no one mention the smoke alarm ever again.”

Seungmin looked around the table, the seven sins and one fragile human, sunlight catching in their hair, laughter spilling between them like music. His heart felt too big for his chest.

“I…” He paused, smiling at them all. “I’m really glad we’re all together.”

For a second, the silence held a soft, shared heartbeat of understanding.

Then Felix raised his glass of orange juice. “To together.”

They echoed him one by one, glasses clinking, smiles wide.

And, because it was inevitable, Changbin broke the moment with a groan. “Okay, great, heartfelt, beautiful, but if nobody lets me eat in the next three seconds, I’m flipping this table.”

Jisung immediately cheered. “Do it!”

Felix smacked his arm. “Don’t encourage him!”

Minho muttered, “Every breakfast with you people is chaos.”

Seungmin laughed until his sides hurt, surrounded by warmth, by love, by everything he’d never thought he could have. And for once, it felt like the house itself was laughing too.

Chapter Text

Evening crept in soft and slow, the way it always did after a perfect day.

Seungmin sat on the edge of his bed, one hand curled around his mug, replaying the laughter that had filled the kitchen that morning; Minho’s dry humor, Jisung’s dramatics, Changbin’s cursing between mouthfuls of pancakes. For the first time in weeks, the house had felt alive.

The echo of it lingered in him like sunlight after rain.

His gaze drifted toward the drawer beside the bed. The one that had stayed closed for too long. Inside, beneath a folded scarf, waited the painting. Hyunjin’s painting.

He hadn’t dared look at it, not that day in the garden when Hyunjin had pressed it into his hands, not in the quiet nights since. He’d told himself he wasn’t ready to see how Lust saw him. But after today… after the laughter, the warmth, the kisses and confessions, something in him had settled.

He wanted to see it now.

He wanted to see it with Hyunjin.

Setting the mug aside, Seungmin opened the drawer. The scent of paper and old wood met him, and there it was. Carefully wrapped in soft linen, edges smudged faintly with paint. He hesitated for a heartbeat before sliding it out, cradling it like something fragile.

A small smile tugged at his lips. “Alright, Hyunjin,” he murmured to himself. “Let’s see what you’ve been hiding.”

The hall was quiet when he stepped out. The last traces of sunset cast long amber streaks along the floor, guiding him toward the familiar door at the end of the corridor, Hyunjin’s.

When he knocked softly, there was a pause, then the gentle sound of footsteps. The door opened to reveal Hyunjin in loose linen and bare feet, hair tied back carelessly, a faint smear of paint on his wrist. The room behind him glowed gold from candlelight, easel standing tall in the corner, brushes scattered like fallen stars across the table.

“Seungmin?” Hyunjin’s voice softened. “You look like you’ve come to confess a crime.”

Seungmin held up the wrapped canvas, shy smile flickering. “Maybe I have.”

Hyunjin blinked, then smiled, slow and tender. “You’re ready?”

Seungmin nodded. “If you’ll see it with me.”

The look that crossed Hyunjin’s face could’ve stopped time. He stepped aside, wordless, hand sweeping gently to invite him in.

The air inside smelled like oil paint and candle wax, faintly sweet, like Hyunjin himself. Seungmin set the painting on the table between them, unwrapping it slowly. The linen fell away with a whisper, and his breath caught.

There he was.

Not the version of himself he saw in mirrors, not the tired boy who’d stumbled into this house and its sins. Hyunjin had painted him alive: eyes half-lit, hair curling softly over his brow, surrounded by light that seemed to come from within. The colours seemed to glow like crystals, holding all the things about himself he never believed were there.

Seungmin’s throat tightened. “Hyunjin… this is…”

“Everything you are,” Hyunjin finished, voice barely a whisper.

Seungmin turned toward him, tears stinging at the corners of his eyes. “You see too much.”

“I only painted what was already there.”

The words broke something gentle inside him. He stepped closer, close enough to feel Hyunjin’s breath against his lips, close enough for the painting to glow in their shared light.

For a while they just stood there in the hush of candlelight, the painting between them.

Hyunjin’s brush-stained fingers still hovered near Seungmin’s cheek, as if the image he’d painted wasn’t enough, as if he needed to trace the living version to believe it.

Seungmin’s pulse thrummed under his skin. “You make me look like I belong to the light,” he whispered.

“You do,” Hyunjin said simply.

Something in those two words pulled Seungmin closer. He lifted a hand to Hyunjin’s wrist, guided it to his jaw, and the distance between them vanished. The first kiss was careful, testing, then deeper, softer, until their breathing tangled. Hyunjin’s other hand found Seungmin’s back, the warmth of it seeping through fabric, anchoring him.

They moved without thinking. The painting was forgotten on the table; the world became candle glow, slow heartbeats, the soft drag of breath between them. Hyunjin tasted like wine and sweetness, like the air right before rain.

Seungmin’s fingers wandered, through Hyunjin’s hair, down his shoulders, tracing the ink that curved beneath his shirt sleeve. Hyunjin shivered, caught the hand, kissed the palm, then pressed it to his chest where his heartbeat stuttered.

When Seungmin looked up, his eyes were dark with something new. “Hyunjin…”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to. Hyunjin’s mouth found his again, hungrier this time, all breath and heat. They stumbled back until the edge of the bed met Hyunjin’s legs, and the two of them fell into it together, laughter and breath tangling.

Seungmin braced his hands against Hyunjin’s chest, feeling the rise of his breath beneath his palms. For a heartbeat they hovered there, close enough for warmth to pulse between them, for Seungmin to feel every inhale shiver through the other’s ribs. Then he shifted, sliding forward until their legs tangled and the thin space between them vanished.

Hyunjin’s breath hitched. Seungmin could feel it, the tremor that ran through both of them as their bodies found a rhythm all their own, slow and instinctive. Fabric brushed fabric, heat gathering where they met, and the world narrowed to that single, aching point of contact.

Hyunjin’s hands came to Seungmin’s waist, steadying him, guiding the smallest movement. His voice caught somewhere in his throat, a sound that wasn’t quite a word, just raw feeling. Seungmin swallowed it with another kiss, chasing it, chasing him, until their laughter faded into breathless, unspoken want.

For a moment the world felt suspended, held together by the press of palms, the slide of breath, the thrum of something wild and new sparking between them.

Then Hyunjin stilled. His hand tightened briefly at Seungmin’s waist, not to pull him closer but to hold the moment still.

“Wait,” he whispered, voice raw. “Not yet.”

Seungmin froze, searching his face.

Hyunjin cupped his cheek, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. “I want this,” he said. “I want you. But I want to remember tonight as the first time you let me hold you, all of you, not the first time I lost myself.”

The words melted whatever heat still burned between them. Seungmin smiled, small and understanding. He pressed his forehead to Hyunjin’s. “Then hold me.”

So Hyunjin did.

They stayed like that, tangled in quiet laughter and uneven breaths until the candle burned low. When exhaustion finally pulled at Seungmin’s limbs, Hyunjin eased him under the blankets and climbed in beside him.

They lay on their sides facing each other, the room dipped in gold and shadow. The last candle trembled near the bedside table, throwing lazy arcs of light across Hyunjin’s hair.

Hyunjin’s hand rested against Seungmin’s cheek, thumb drawing slow half-circles as if he was still painting him, only now with touch instead of colour. Their noses almost brushed when Seungmin whispered, “You know, if this is what waiting feels like, I don’t mind it.”

Hyunjin smiled, the corners of his eyes soft. “Waiting for what, my darling?”

“For when we stop pretending we don’t want to rip each others clothes off.”

Hyunjin blinked, scandalised for exactly two seconds before the laughter bubbled out of him. “Excuse me—who are you and what have you done with my sweet, shy Seungmin?”

Seungmin giggled, cheeks flushing. “He’s evolving.”

“Dangerous.” Hyunjin’s voice dropped to a whisper, playful but reverent. “I create a masterpiece and it turns around to torment me.”

“You love it,” Seungmin murmured.

Hyunjin’s gaze softened again. “I do.”

They fell quiet then, just tracing each other’s faces in the low light, memorising what calm looked like. The house was still, the night humming around them, as though even the walls were exhaling.

When Seungmin’s eyes finally fluttered closed, Hyunjin leaned forward, brushing a kiss against his forehead. “Goodnight, my love,” he whispered.

Seungmin smiled without opening his eyes. “Goodnight.”

-

Hyunjin woke to stillness.

At first he thought it was the ordinary kind, the quiet that came when the candles burned low and the house finally settled. But the air felt wrong, heavier somehow, like the walls themselves were holding their breath.

He shifted, blinking away sleep. Seungmin lay a few inches away, turned toward him, face half-buried in the pillow. The light from the window silvered the curve of his cheek, but his skin looked too pale beneath it.

“Min?” Hyunjin whispered.

No answer, just a faint crease in Seungmin’s brow. His breathing sounded shallow, uneven. Hyunjin reached out, brushed the hair from his forehead, and the moment his fingers touched him, he froze.

Too warm.

“Hey,” he tried again, a little louder. “Wake up for me baby.”

Seungmin stirred, lids fluttering open. For a heartbeat his eyes didn’t focus; when they finally did, they were glassy, unfixed. “Hyun…?”

“I’m right here.” Hyunjin kept his voice soft. “You’re burning up. What’s wrong?”

Seungmin blinked, slow, disoriented. “Everything’s moving.” He swallowed hard. “I — my head’s spinning.”

Hyunjin sat up fully, hand at the back of Seungmin’s neck. “Okay, easy. Deep breaths.”

But Seungmin tried to sit, and the motion sent him lurching forward. Hyunjin caught him, heart jolting. “Whoa, I’ve got you.”

The sound of Seungmin’s breathing changed; quick, shallow, panicked. His fingers curled in Hyunjin’s shirt as if to ground himself.

“I don’t— ” He stopped, swallowed again, then barely got the words out. “Feel sick.”

Hyunjin slid off the bed, guiding him up slowly. “Come on. We’ll get to the bathroom, yeah? It’s alright.”

The short walk felt endless. Seungmin leaned into him, every step unsteady, his weight trembling. The tiles under their feet were cold. Hyunjin could feel the tremor of Seungmin’s muscles through the fabric of his clothes.

When they reached the toilet, Seungmin gripped the edge like it was the only solid thing in the world. A moment later the nausea hit, sudden, violent. Hyunjin moved behind him instinctively, one arm around his waist, the other sweeping the hair from his face.

“It’s alright,” he murmured over and over, barely hearing his own words. “I’ve got you, it’s alright.”

The world narrowed to the harsh sound of breathing and water running. Hyunjin rinsed a cloth and pressed it against the back of Seungmin’s neck, whispering his name until the tremors eased.

When it finally passed, Seungmin slumped against him, shaking with exhaustion.

“Sorry,” he breathed.

“Don’t.” Hyunjin held him tighter. “You don’t apologise for being human, remember?”

He waited until Seungmin could stand again, then helped him back to bed. The house felt strange on the way, quiet but alert, like it was listening. A candle near the doorway flickered hard and steadied, as if trying to keep its flame.

Hyunjin tucked the blanket beneath Seungmin’s chin and smoothed the damp hair from his forehead. Seungmin’s lashes trembled with each uneven breath, his skin still too warm beneath Hyunjin’s palm.

A soft knock.

Hyunjin looked up. The door opened just enough for Jeongin to slip inside, blanket around his shoulders, eyes wide and clear despite the hour.

“I’m sorry,” Jeongin whispered, already crossing the space. “I felt the tether change.”

Hyunjin exhaled like he’d been underwater. “He woke dizzy. Sick. It hit so fast.”

Jeongin was at the bedside in a heartbeat. He knelt, set a cool hand to Seungmin’s wrist, then his temple, listening more than touching. Whatever he felt made his mouth press thin, but his composure stayed gentle.

Hyunjin’s throat tightened. “Can you stay while I get Chan?”

Jeongin nodded, already reaching for the cloth Hyunjin had used, rinsing it in the bowl and laying it fresh across Seungmin’s neck. “Go. I’ll keep the thread steady.”

Seungmin stirred at the coolness, a faint sound leaving him. Jeongin bent close, his words barely breath. “You’re okay. I’m here.”

Hyunjin squeezed Jeongin’s shoulder, thank you, please, I’m trusting you, all without saying a word. Jeongin looked up and gave a single, certain nod.

“I won’t leave him,” he said.

Hyunjin forced himself to stand. At the doorway he glanced back. Jeongin had settled on the edge of the mattress, one hand loose over Seungmin’s, eyes half-closed like he was listening along a line only he could hear. The candle’s flame steadied.

-

Hyunjin didn’t quite remember leaving Seungmin’s room. One minute he was pressing a trembling hand to Seungmin’s cheek, whispering that he’d be right back, the next he was half-running down the hallway, heart hammering so hard it felt like it might split him open.

The dizziness hit before he even reached the stairs. The world tilted violently, his stomach turning to stone. He barely caught the banister in time, breath tearing from his lungs. It wasn’t just panic, he could feel it, a cold pulse through his veins that wasn’t his own.

By the time he stumbled into the study, the edges of his vision were hazy. “Chan—” he started, but his knees gave out.

Minho was faster than thought. He crossed the room and caught him by the shoulders just before he hit the floor. “Hyunjin! Hey, look at me—what’s going on?”

Chan was already moving from the desk, his calm fracturing. “Is it your head? Are you sick?”

Hyunjin shook his head, swallowing hard. “It’s—” His voice broke, the words caught between his breath. “It’s not me. It’s him.”

Chan froze. “What?”

“Seungmin,” Hyunjin gasped, clutching his chest. “It’s coming from him. I can feel it—like the world’s slipping sideways—” He stopped to drag in a shaky breath, tears brimming from sheer overwhelm. “Something’s wrong.”

Chan’s composure shattered. “You left him alone?” His voice cracked mid-sentence, too sharp, too terrified.

Hyunjin flinched, shaking his head. “No, Jeongin’s with him. He’s not alone.”

That steadied Chan just enough for reason to seep back in, but only barely. His hand came up to his mouth, eyes darting to Minho. “Tell me exactly what’s happening.”

Hyunjin’s hands trembled as he spoke. “He woke up burning, dizzy. Could barely stand. I tried to help him walk, but he nearly collapsed. I stayed until he fell asleep again, but—” He pressed a hand to his temple. “I can still feel it. The fear. The sickness.”

Minho’s frown deepened. “Dizzy…” He hesitated, the memory snapping into place. “He felt like that once before.”

Chan’s head whipped toward him. “What?”

Minho nodded slowly. “It was about a week ago. We were out in the garden. He got lightheaded and said it felt like the ground was moving. I helped him inside and Bin stayed with him until it passed. He promised us he’d tell us if he felt like that again.”

Chan’s eyes went distant, troubled. He sank down into the nearest chair, elbows braced on his knees. “His aunt had spells like that too,” he said quietly.

Hyunjin looked up, glassy-eyed. “What do you mean?”

Chan’s voice was soft, almost reverent. “Months before she… before she left the house. She’d get dizzy, sometimes collapse. Said it was just exhaustion.” He swallowed hard. “But she knew she was dying. That’s why she went away, she didn’t want us to see it.”

The room went still.

Hyunjin’s breath hitched, tears breaking loose as his hands balled into fists. “Don’t—don’t say that.”

Chan’s tone gentled, but his eyes were rimmed red. “We need to be honest about what we’re seeing, Hyun.”

“He’s not her,” Hyunjin choked out, voice cracking like glass. “He’s not going to fade like she did. I won’t let him.”

Minho reached out, steady and certain, his palms warm against Hyunjin’s shaking arms. “He won’t,” he said. “We won’t.”

Hyunjin nodded weakly, dragging in a ragged breath, but the tears wouldn’t stop. His whole body trembled, like Seungmin’s sickness was bleeding through him in every heartbeat.

Chan stood again, moving close enough to rest a hand on the back of Hyunjin’s neck, grounding him. “You did the right thing. He’s not alone, and we’ll take care of him.” His voice softened even more. “I promise.”

Minho’s voice followed, low but certain. “We’ll keep him safe. All of us.”

The house shuddered faintly around them. A candle fluttered, throwing gold and shadow across their faces, as if it too was listening.

For a long moment, none of them spoke, only the sound of the wind brushing against the windows, and the uneven rhythm of Hyunjin’s breath. Then Chan’s voice, barely above a whisper:

“We stay with him. Until this passes. Until we know what we’re fighting.”

Chapter Text

The house felt heavy with sleep.

Dawn crept slowly through the curtains, the light pale and unkind. Every breath of it seemed to carry the echo of the night before, whispers of fear still clinging to the walls.

Hyunjin sat curled on the lounge, wrapped in a throw blanket that did little to hide the tremor in his hands. His skin looked almost translucent in the morning light, a faint sheen of sweat still on his forehead. Minho sat beside him, steady and quiet, one arm draped along the back of the sofa in case Hyunjin swayed again. Chan paced a few steps away, rubbing the bridge of his nose, his expression tight with exhaustion.

The sound of footsteps pulled all three from their thoughts.

Felix appeared first, still in his sleep shirt, hair a soft tangle of curls. Jisung followed a beat later, yawning until he saw their faces, then the sound caught in his throat.

“What happened?” Jisung asked, instantly alert. “What—why does he look like that?”

Hyunjin tried to smile. “Bit of a rough night,” he said weakly.

Chan sighed, finally stopping his pacing. “It’s Seungmin,” he said. “He fell ill a few hours ago. Dizzy, weak, sick to the stomach. Hyunjin was with him when it happened, he felt it too.”

Felix’s face drained of colour. “He’s… sick?” His voice cracked, breath catching like he couldn’t quite get it out.

Hyunjin’s gaze softened. “Jeongin’s with him now. He’s resting.”

That didn’t help much. Felix’s lower lip trembled; Jisung reached for his shoulder instinctively, but Felix was already moving toward the kitchen, muttering to himself as tears welled in his eyes.

“He needs food,” Felix said, more to the counter than anyone. “Something warm. Gentle.” His hands shook as he reached for the kettle. “Hyunjin too, you’ll both need something to settle your stomachs.”

Jisung followed, still in disbelief. “Felix breathe, okay? We can, uh, we can help. What do you need?”

Felix wiped his eyes with the back of his wrist, already pulling out trays. “Tea. Toast. Maybe something light if they can keep it down.” He paused, glancing at Hyunjin in the lounge, who watched him silently from under the blanket. “Honey helps, right? It’s soothing.”

Chan sank into a chair finally, hands clasped tight between his knees. “You don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do,” Felix interrupted softly, a small tear slipping free. “He’d do the same for me.”

The house seemed to exhale around them, the tension shifting as Felix moved with quiet determination. Jisung joined in, clumsy but earnest, pulling cups from the shelf, fetching the honey jar, chattering nervously to fill the silence.

At the sofa, Minho pressed a mug of water into Hyunjin’s hands, the glass clinking faintly against his rings. “Sip,” he said quietly.

Hyunjin obeyed, gaze unfocused, voice soft. “It’s not just him. The house feels… afraid.”

Minho didn’t argue. “Then let it be,” he murmured. “Fear means it still cares.”

The kettle whistled in the background. Felix’s quiet crying mixed with the gentle clatter of breakfast being built from love and panic both.

-

By the time the tea had finished steeping, Felix’s tears had dried into faint salt tracks across his cheeks. His hands still shook, but the rhythm of caring had steadied him; the clink of cups, the smell of honey, the slow spread of warmth as he arranged everything onto the tray.

Minho hovered beside him, quiet but watchful, his steady presence the only thing keeping Felix from falling apart again. He took the heavier tray from Felix’s hands before he could protest. “You’ll spill it,” Minho said, voice gentle but firm.

Felix blinked, half-offended, half-grateful. “Then you can carry Seungmin’s. I’ll take Hyunjin’s.”

Jisung had moved to the sofa by now, crouched in front of Hyunjin with that open, puppy-soft concern that made his every word sound like a hug. “You look like death,” he muttered, then immediately winced. “I mean, like, really beautiful death? Like, gothic painting death—”

Hyunjin’s laugh was hoarse but genuine. “I get it, Sungie.”

Jisung sighed in relief and sat beside him, tucking himself under the blanket. “Good, ‘cause I’m not leaving you. You’re way too pretty to pass out again.”

Hyunjin rested his head lightly on Jisung’s shoulder, the smallest smile ghosting across his lips. “You’ll keep me warm, then?”

“I’ll keep you smothered in affection.”

Chan watched from across the room, leaning on the back of an armchair. The sight eased something sharp in his chest, at least one of them was laughing again. “Stay put, both of you,” he said quietly. “He doesn’t need a crowd when he wakes.”

Jisung nodded. “We’ll keep an eye on him from here.”

Felix emerged from the kitchen with a tray balanced in his hands, tea, toast, small bowls of fruit and honey. He placed it gently down on the coffee table in front of Hyunjin, casting him a small smile. Felix glanced toward the stairs, then at Minho. “You ready?”

Minho nodded once, holding the second tray. “Let’s go.”

They moved carefully through the hall, the old wood creaking underfoot. The morning light had softened, pale gold seeping through the windows. As they neared Seungmin’s room, the house seemed to hush around them, the air heavier but no longer frantic.

Jeongin looked up when they entered. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, one hand resting lightly on Seungmin’s arm. His eyes were tired but calm. “He’s been dozing on and off,” he said quietly. “Temperature’s still high, but he’s breathing easier.”

Felix set the tray down on the bedside table and brushed his fingers through Seungmin’s hair. “You scared us,” he whispered. “Don’t do that again.”

Minho placed his tray on the desk, the wood creaking softly beneath it. “He won’t,” he said, mostly to himself. Then, glancing at Jeongin: “You’ve been here all night?”

Jeongin nodded. “Didn’t want him waking alone.”

Felix smiled faintly, watery but warm. “Good. He shouldn’t ever have to.”

The three of them stood there for a while, the quiet filled only by Seungmin’s slow breaths and the soft hum of the house around them, its heartbeat gentle again, as if soothed by the sight of care.

-

The first thing Seungmin felt was warmth; thick, syrupy warmth that held him still.

The second was ache, a deep pulse behind his eyes that made everything hazy and slow. He blinked against it, the room resolving in blurred light and shapes that trembled at the edges.

Someone’s hand slid gently through his hair.

Someone was humming.

“Morning, sunshine,” Felix whispered. His voice wobbled with relief, rough from crying.

Seungmin turned his head toward the sound. Felix sat on the edge of the bed, his smile small and shaky. Jeongin was beside him, quiet and steady, a hand resting over Seungmin’s wrist like an anchor.

“Hey,” Seungmin rasped. “Why are you—” His throat caught, raw. “Why are you all here?”

Minho’s low voice came from the desk by the window. “Because you scared the hell out of us.”

Felix laughed weakly. “You’re sick, Min. You were burning up. We had to make sure you were okay.”

The words landed strangely in his chest. His gaze darted around the room, confusion knitting his brow. “Wait, Hyunjin? Where’s Hyunjin?”

Felix hesitated. Jeongin’s hand tightened instinctively around his.

“He’s downstairs,” Felix said carefully. “With Jisung. He’s resting.”

Seungmin blinked hard. “Resting? What—why?” His breathing quickened; he tried to push himself up, but Minho was already beside him, hands firm on his shoulders.

“Easy,” Minho said. “He’s okay.”

Seungmin’s eyes filled, panic spilling through the grogginess. “Did I make him sick? He—he feels things, he—”

Felix shook his head quickly. “It’s okay. He just took on too much last night, that’s all. He’s exhausted. He’s fine.”

“But—”

“Hey.” Jeongin leaned closer, his voice soft but sure. “Hyunjin’s fine, Min. I promise. He’s tired, but stable. Nothing’s wrong with him.”

The words sank in slowly, heavy but soothing. Seungmin’s body loosened under Minho’s hands, the panic leaving as quickly as it had risen.

Felix reached for the cup on the tray, poured a small measure of tea, and held it out. “Sip this, yeah? Then you can yell at him later for scaring you.”

That earned a weak laugh from Seungmin, though his eyes were still wet. “You swear he’s okay?”

Felix smiled faintly. “On my life, sweetheart.”

The first sip of tea burned, but in the way that made his throat feel alive again. Jeongin’s thumb rubbed slow circles over his wrist.

“You can see him later,” Minho murmured. “But for now, just breathe.”

Seungmin nodded, the dizziness fading little by little. The house seemed to breathe with him, the air warmer now, gentler. As he sank back against the pillows, Felix tucked the blanket to his chin. “Sleep a bit longer. We’ll keep watch.”

Seungmin’s eyelids fluttered. “Tell Hyunjin I’ll be mad if he’s still pale when I wake up.”

Felix laughed quietly. “You got it, boss.”

The house sighed again, softer this time, like it had been waiting for that promise.

-

Hyunjin sat curled on the corner of the couch, a blanket draped loosely around his shoulders. His colour had returned a little, less ghostly, more human, but the exhaustion still clung to him like a second skin. His fingers twisted the edge of the blanket again and again, eyes unfocused on the patch of sunlight stretching across the rug.

Jisung sat beside him, both hands wrapped around his own mug of untouched tea. The quiet had lasted for too long. When his voice finally came, it cracked mid-sentence.

“Hyun… you don’t think—” He stopped, swallowed, tried again. “You don’t think it’s the same thing, do you? That thing that made his aunt sick?”

Hyunjin blinked, the words landing like stones. He turned his head slowly, studying Jisung’s face. Jisung’s eyes were glassy, rimmed red, his lips trembled as though saying the words had broken something loose inside him.

“I just…” Jisung’s voice dropped to a whisper. “She had those dizzy spells too, right? Before she got really bad?”

The sound that escaped Hyunjin wasn’t quite an answer, more a breath, more pain than air. He reached out and cupped the back of Jisung’s neck, thumb rubbing small circles against the skin.

“Hey,” he murmured. “Breathe for me.”

Jisung shook his head, a tear sliding free. “What if it’s happening again? What if he—”

Hyunjin pulled him in without a thought. Jisung went willingly, collapsing against his shoulder, muffled sobs shaking through him. The contact sent a faint echo through Hyunjin’s chest, grief on top of fear, amplified until he had to close his eyes against it.

Across the room, Chan stood near the window, his posture deceptively calm. Only the tension in his jaw betrayed him. The light caught on his hands, clenched too tightly at his sides.

“He’s young,” Jisung said into Hyunjin’s shoulder. “He’s supposed to be fine.”

Hyunjin stroked his hair, voice a low thread. “He will be.” But the certainty wasn’t there.

Chan turned then, expression unreadable. “His aunt’s illness was… long,” he said, the words careful. “It took months before anyone understood what was happening.”

Jisung lifted his head, face streaked and pale. “So you do think it could be that?”

Chan didn’t answer immediately. His gaze dropped to the floor, and for a moment, he seemed a thousand miles away. “I think,” he said finally, “we don’t have the right to panic before we know.”

Silence followed, heavy and brittle. Hyunjin’s thumb kept tracing circles against Jisung’s neck, grounding both of them.

The door banged open.

Changbin filled the doorway like a storm, hair dishevelled, hoodie half-zipped. “Alright, what the hell is going on? Felix said Seungmin’s sick?”

Jisung jumped, Hyunjin flinched at the noise. Chan raised a hand immediately. “Binnie, quiet.”

Changbin stopped mid-stride when he saw Hyunjin’s pale face and Jisung’s tears. “Oh.” The anger in his tone dropped to worry. “Is it bad?”

Chan sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck. “He fainted last night. Dizziness, fever. We don’t know what’s causing it yet.”

Changbin frowned, his chest rising with a deep breath. “And Hyunjin?”

“Empathy backlash,” Minho’s voice answered from the hall, soft but certain. He stepped in behind Changbin, carrying another mug of tea. “He’s getting better now.”

Changbin exhaled through his nose, the kind of sound that belonged to someone fighting off panic. Then he crossed to Chan, resting a broad hand on his shoulder. The gesture was gentle, startlingly so.

“We’ve got him,” he said, firm as a vow. “All of us. Nobody’s letting anything happen to that kid.”

Chan nodded once, jaw working, eyes shining faintly despite himself. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

The house hummed faintly at that, a sound like breath easing after too long held. For the first time since dawn, the air didn’t taste like fear.

Chapter Text

It had been a few days since the night the house forgot how to breathe.

Since the panic, the dizzy spell, the quiet fear that had filled every shadow.

Now, sunlight returned like a promise.

Seungmin was still on a kind of unofficial bed rest, though everyone knew “rest” had long stopped meaning actual sleep. It meant Hyunjin’s hand resting against his back when he sat up too fast, Minho’s watchful eyes whenever he left the room, Felix hovering with cups of tea that never seemed to empty.

And slowly, so slowly, he began to feel whole again.

The trembling had faded, replaced by an itch to move, to laugh, to be more than the fragile thing they’d all been afraid to touch. He could breathe without the heaviness now. Eat without worry. Smile without anyone rushing to steady him.

When he walked through the halls that morning, the house felt lighter too. The hum beneath his feet wasn’t anxious anymore, it was warm, curious, playful. Like it knew he was healing and was holding its breath to see what he’d do next.

-

The kitchen was already alive before Seungmin even stepped in. Sunlight pooled across the counters, catching in floating specks of flour like glitter suspended in honey. Felix was halfway between humming and barking orders, brandishing a wooden spoon like a sceptre. “No, Hyunjin, that’s baking soda, not powder—”

Hyunjin blinked at the jar in his hand. “They look the same!”

“Do they taste the same?!” Felix screeched, snatching it back.

Minho leaned against the pantry door with his arms folded, looking entirely too pleased. “You invited him to help. This is on you.”

Seungmin laughed, bright and unguarded, the kind of sound that still startled the others sometimes because it was so new again. “What are we making?” he asked, padding barefoot to the counter.

“Cookies,” Felix declared, instantly softening when Seungmin came close. “Classic ones. Simple. Safe. Foolproof.”

“That’s brave, considering who you invited,” Minho muttered.

“Shut up, you’re on measuring duty.”

Seungmin rolled his sleeves and perched on the counter, legs swinging, watching as Felix poured sugar into a bowl. The scent of vanilla hung heavy in the air. Hyunjin hovered behind him, too close, chin almost brushing Seungmin’s shoulder.

“You sure you’re okay to bake?” Hyunjin murmured, fingers ghosting along Seungmin’s waist.

Seungmin smiled, soft but sure. “I’m fine, promise. I’ve been bored.”

“You just want an excuse to steal chocolate chips,” Minho said, moving past them to grab the flour.

Felix clucked his tongue. “If anyone steals anything before the dough’s done, I’m revoking taste-testing privileges.”

Hyunjin gasped in mock horror. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.”

Seungmin grinned, watching the two of them bicker while Minho quietly weighed the ingredients. It was absurd and wonderful, this tiny chaos that smelled like butter and love. He reached over to mix the sugar and butter, wrist brushing Hyunjin’s. Their eyes met briefly, Hyunjin’s smile turning lazy.

“Here,” Hyunjin said, voice low. He guided Seungmin’s hand on the spoon, fingers curling around his. “You have to cream it like this, slow and steady.”

Felix turned, caught them, and groaned. “Can we not make everything sound like foreplay?”

Minho coughed into his fist, pretending not to smile.

Hyunjin winked. “You’re the one blushing, Lix.”

Before Felix could retort, Seungmin turned on the mixer. The speed dial slipped under his flour-dusted fingers. A heartbeat later, the kitchen exploded into a cloud of flour.

Everyone froze.

Then Felix screamed, Hyunjin started laughing so hard he nearly fell over, and Minho swore under his breath while wiping white dust off his face.

Seungmin sat there, stunned, then cracked; laughing helplessly, body shaking, head falling forward against Hyunjin’s shoulder.

Felix clutched his chest like a martyr. “You’ve ruined my masterpiece!”

“You’ll live,” Minho said dryly, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him. “Barely.”

Felix tried to scowl, but there was a smile tugging at him too. He grabbed a handful of flour and tossed it right at Hyunjin.

“Hey!” Hyunjin sputtered, blinking through the white powder.

Seungmin laughed so hard he almost slipped off the counter. Minho caught him easily, hands steady on his waist. “Careful,” he murmured, voice low enough that it barely cut through the noise.

Seungmin met his eyes, cheeks flushed, breathless from laughter. “I’m fine.”

Minho’s thumb brushed the edge of his jaw, sweeping away a streak of flour. “Yeah,” he said softly. “You really are.”

Felix groaned loudly in the background. “I said no flirting while the butter melts!”

Hyunjin immediately kissed Seungmin’s cheek, leaving a faint white imprint of flour behind. “Too late.”

The house hummed, faint and content, like it was smiling too.

-

It started with good intentions. Changbin had decided that the mountain of washing could no longer be ignored, Jisung had decided he was “emotionally supportive but not physical labour supportive,” and Chan had decided that the house might actually strangle them if they didn’t do something about it soon.

Seungmin had decided he wanted to help.

Sunlight poured through the tall window beside the laundry sink, casting soft gold across the tiled floor. The air smelled faintly of detergent and warm fabric. Jisung was sitting in an empty laundry basket, knees tucked up, mumbling something about “moral support” while Changbin hung shirts on the rack.

“You’re doing that wrong,” Jisung said, chin on his knees.

Changbin froze. “Excuse me?”

“I’m just saying, if you hang them that way, they’ll crease.”

Changbin dropped the peg, very deliberately. “Oh? You wanna do it then, genius?”

Jisung grinned. “Absolutely not.”

Chan sighed from the ironing board, shaking his head. “You two fight like old people.”

Seungmin, leaning against the bench, laughed. “They are old people. They just hide it better.”

“Watch it, human,” Changbin warned, but the smile tugging at his mouth ruined any threat in it.

Chan looked over his shoulder, eyes soft. “You sure you’re okay to be up and about?”

“I’m fine, promise.” Seungmin smiled. “Felix said I’m officially ‘beyond fragile.’”

Jisung gasped. “Beyond fragile! That’s like… level three of recovery!”

Seungmin snorted, tossing a towel at him. “I’ll throw you in the wash next.”

Jisung caught it, clutching his heart. “Abuse. I’m telling Hyunjin.”

“Good,” Seungmin said sweetly. “He’ll probably help.”

Chan’s quiet laugh filled the air, warm and real. “God, I missed this,” he murmured, soft enough that Seungmin almost didn’t hear it.

Seungmin looked over, catching Chan’s gaze. For a moment, the teasing fell away. “You don’t have to keep worrying, you know,” he said gently.

Chan smiled, faint and tired. “Yeah. But I probably will anyway.”

Before the moment could turn too serious, Jisung launched himself dramatically onto the pile of freshly folded laundry. “Mine now,” he declared, arms spread wide.

“YOU LITTLE—” Changbin dove after him, the pair collapsing into laughter and tangled sheets.

Seungmin covered his mouth, giggling helplessly as Jisung disappeared beneath a pillowcase. “You’re both children!”

“Children with great abs!” Changbin yelled from under a blanket.

Chan groaned but couldn’t stop smiling. “We’re never getting this laundry done.”

Seungmin sank down beside him, their shoulders brushing. “Maybe that’s okay.”

Chan looked at him, eyes soft again. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Maybe it is.”

The room was full of laughter again. Pure, ridiculous, healing. The house hummed in approval, the walls warm with joy.

-

The library was still, dust dancing lazily in the light that slanted through the high windows. Afternoon warmth pooled over the armchairs and book spines, and Jeongin sat curled in his usual spot, knees drawn to his chest, half-reading, half-somewhere else entirely.

Seungmin hovered in the doorway for a moment, watching him. There was something so peaceful about the sight, his first tether surrounded by silence, but the peace didn’t reach his eyes.

“Mind if I come in?” Seungmin’s voice broke the quiet.

Jeongin looked up quickly and smiled, soft and bright, but it didn’t hide the relief in his expression. “You don’t have to ask. You never have to ask.”

Seungmin crossed the room and dropped into the seat beside him. “Still. It feels polite.”

They sat together in companionable quiet for a while, the sound of pages turning the only noise. Then Jeongin closed his book, fingers tightening around the cover.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

Jeongin’s voice wavered. “Are you really okay? Like… really okay?”

Seungmin frowned gently. “You’ve been talking to Chan, haven’t you?”

“I don’t need to,” Jeongin said, gaze flicking up to meet his. “I felt it. The tether. That night, it wasn’t just sickness, Min. It felt like… you were fading. And you can’t do that.”

The words cracked at the edges. Jeongin blinked hard, but the tears came anyway, quiet and raw. Seungmin’s heart twisted.

“Hey, hey—come here.” He reached for him, pulling Jeongin into his arms. The younger boy pressed his face into Seungmin’s shoulder, trembling.

“It’s not normal,” Jeongin whispered. “You’re human, but that—what happened—humans don’t just go cold like that. You have to promise you’ll tell us if it happens again. Please. Promise you’ll try to get better.”

Seungmin swallowed, stroking his hair. “I will. I promise.”

For a while they just stayed there, quiet, clinging, the kind of silence that feels sacred. Jeongin’s tears soaked into Seungmin’s shirt, and Seungmin didn’t care; he just held him tighter, letting himself feel the thrum of their heartbeat against each other.

When Jeongin finally pulled back, his cheeks were wet but his eyes were steadier. Seungmin smiled faintly, brushing away the last tear with his thumb.

“Thank you for caring so much,” he murmured. “You know, all this worry made me realise something.”

“What?”

“I could really use a bath.”

Jeongin blinked, caught between a laugh and disbelief. “A bath?”

Seungmin nodded, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “A hot one, with bubbles. And you’re coming with me.”

Jeongin’s jaw dropped. “You’re kidding.”

“Not even a little.” Seungmin stood, offering his hand. “You’ve earned it after worrying yourself sick. Come on.”

Jeongin stared for a heartbeat longer, then let out a breathless laugh and took his hand. “You’re impossible.”

“Mm, but you love me anyway.”

“Unfortunately,” Jeongin said fondly, and let himself be led from the room.

-

Steam gathered in thick curls above the bath, rising to the ceiling like clouds caught between candlelight. The scent of lavender hung in the air, soft and heavy, the same kind Hyunjin always used when someone needed soothing. Jeongin knelt beside the tub, testing the water again even though it was perfect. His movements were deliberate, like he was afraid to break the quiet spell that had settled over the room.

Seungmin leaned against the doorframe, arms folded loosely, lips curved into something half-tired and half-amused. “You fuss more than Felix does.”

“I don’t want you getting dizzy again,” Jeongin said softly without looking up.

That simple sentence made Seungmin’s chest ache. He crossed the space between them and crouched beside Jeongin, resting a hand on his arm. “You don’t have to worry so much.”

Jeongin finally looked at him, eyes bright but rimmed with something vulnerable. “I do, though.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, it was thick with understanding. Seungmin brushed a thumb under Jeongin’s eye, and Jeongin leaned into the touch before catching Seungmin’s wrist gently, like grounding himself.

When Seungmin began to undress, it wasn’t shy, and it wasn’t bold. It was trusting. Jeongin helped him unbutton his shirt, each motion slow, almost meditative, like he was untying a knot. The air grew warmer around them, the sound of fabric slipping away muted by steam. Jeongin’s fingers traced over Seungmin’s skin in absent-minded patterns, never possessive, only gentle, as though he were memorising proof that Seungmin was here and breathing and safe.

“You’re beautiful,” Jeongin murmured.

Seungmin’s reply was barely a whisper. “So are you.”

When Jeongin undressed, Seungmin mirrored him, fingertips brushing his shoulders, careful not to make it something it wasn’t. It was tenderness exchanged, like a vow between souls.

The bath welcomed them with a sigh, water rippling as they sank in together. Jeongin sat behind Seungmin, letting him rest back against his chest, the curve of their bodies fitting in quiet harmony. The warmth loosened Seungmin’s muscles, coaxed the tension out of him. He closed his eyes as Jeongin ran his fingers through his hair, slow and rhythmic, combing the water down to his neck.

“I hate when you scare me,” Jeongin said softly, his lips brushing against Seungmin’s damp hair.

“I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.” Jeongin’s voice wavered. “But promise me you’ll tell someone next time, even if it’s just a headache. I can’t…” He stopped, swallowing. “I can’t lose you too.”

Seungmin turned in the water until he faced him, their knees bumping under the surface. He reached up, cupping Jeongin’s cheek with wet fingers. “Hey. Look at me.”

Jeongin did, eyes shimmering.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

They stayed like that, forehead to forehead, until words became unnecessary. The candles flickered lower, casting them in amber light. Somewhere in the house, a floorboard creaked, the kind of sound that made it feel like the walls themselves were exhaling in relief.

When they finally rose from the water, it wasn’t because they wanted to. The air was cool against their skin, and Jeongin wrapped Seungmin in a towel with the same care one might give to something sacred. His hands lingered only to make sure Seungmin was warm.

-

The bedroom was softly lit, curtains drawn back enough for moonlight to spill across the floor. Someone had changed the sheets while they were bathing; the bed looked inviting, freshly made, the quilt turned down.

Jeongin noticed first. “They really don’t let you lift a finger, do they?”

Seungmin smiled, brushing his hair from his forehead. “They love you too, you know.”

“Sure,” Jeongin said with a little shrug. “But you’re the reason they remember what love feels like.”

The words hit deep. Seungmin didn’t answer, he only reached out, fingers finding Jeongin’s hand and giving a small tug. They climbed into bed together, lying on their sides so close their foreheads nearly touched.

The sheets smelled of sun and something floral. Jeongin’s hair was still damp, curling against his temples. Seungmin reached out and tucked a stray strand behind his ear.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“For what?”

“For this. For loving me.”

Jeongin’s smile was small and fragile but true. “Always.”

He reached out then, fingertips tracing the faint line of Seungmin’s jaw, down to his collarbone, then stopping there, a simple motion, soft enough to make Seungmin’s eyes sting.

They didn’t need to say anything else. The house hummed around them like a lullaby, the faint vibration of approval in the walls. Seungmin’s breathing slowed first, his hand still resting over Jeongin’s heart.

When Jeongin finally drifted off, the house dimmed its lights, the world holding still, as if even time itself refused to disturb them.

-

The kitchen was the only room still awake.

A single light over the stove threw a circle of gold across the tiled floor, and the faint hum of the fridge filled the silence like a heartbeat. Changbin sat at the table with one leg tucked under him, a tub of melting ice cream between them and two spoons that kept clinking softly against the carton.

Felix was perched on the counter, curls falling into his eyes, cheeks flushed from laughter. “You definitely ate more than half,” he accused, nudging Changbin’s knee with his foot.

“Liar,” Changbin said, mouth full. “You’ve got a bottomless pit in there somewhere.”

Felix grinned, the corners of his mouth shiny with sweetness. “You love it.”

“Yeah,” Changbin admitted, smiling before he could stop himself. “I kinda do.”

The teasing faded into a softer quiet, broken only by the occasional scrape of a spoon and the slow ticking of the clock above the sink. The house had gone utterly still, as if it too was listening.

Felix stared at the spoon in his hand for a long time before speaking again. “Binnie?”

“Mm?”

“If we choose to… stay with him,” Felix said carefully, “and Seungmin doesn’t get better… what happens to us?”

The question hung there, fragile as the steam still curling from the kettle. Changbin didn’t answer right away. He looked at Felix, the way his lashes caught the light, the way he was trying to stay brave and failing.

He reached across the table, fingers brushing Felix’s first before folding over them completely.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But if he doesn’t get better…” He hesitated, squeezing Felix’s hand tighter. “Then I’d rather have one human life with him than an eternity without.”

Felix’s breath hitched, just enough that the candlelight flickered with it. He turned their hands palm to palm and held on like a promise.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Me too.”

They sat like that until the spoons stopped clinking, until the hum of the fridge became the only sound left. The ice cream melted forgotten between them, sweetness turning to something softer, something almost like peace.