Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

🧛🏻❤️🐺

Spring stretches slowly across the city—not in one grand sweep, but in the small things: the soft haze of green returning to the trees, the perfume of the blossoms drifting through the wind, the way the sun lingers just a little longer each day. Jeongguk starts to associate all of it with Jimin. As if, somewhere along the way, Jimin became the season itself.

They don’t define what’s happening between them, at least not yet. Not with words.

But they talk more, sometimes daily—quick text exchanges between errands, a shared photo of something that reminds one of the other—a book in a window display, a wolf-shaped cookie at a café, a child’s drawing pinned to a bulletin board that looks suspiciously like a vampire with glitter on its cheeks.

They meet occasionally. Coffee. Lunch. A walk once, late in the afternoon, by the Han River. Always brief and careful, but never rushed.

Jeongguk gives Jimin a few gifts here and there. Some more tea blends, because Jimin had mentioned he liked the ones Jeongguk gave him. Essential oils, because Jimin likes to do skin care. Flowers. A scarf. Because there’s no need to pretend they don’t mean anything anymore. He’s courting Jimin, in the old, old-fashioned wolf way he grew up with.

Jeongguk never pushes, though, not even when his wolf claws beneath his skin, aching for more.

Aching for more because it already knows. It’s chosen Jimin. The moment it stopped seeing only the threat and started searching for the sweetness in his scent, it had already begun. That slow unfurling, that certainty.

But Jimin is not a wolf. Jimin is steady and old and thoughtful in ways Jeongguk still barely understands. He doesn’t leap when he can walk. He doesn’t rush towards something he hasn’t fully examined. He wants to be sure, not only for himself, but for Jeongguk too. For Bora. For everything this could be.

And Jeongguk, for all his instinct and intensity, respects that.

He waists.

He doesn’t tell Bora. Not because he’s hiding Jimin, but because he doesn’t know yet if this fragile, slow-building thing is something that will last. And if it doesn’t—if it breaks—he doesn’t want her to lose something else she loves.

She sees Jimin everyday again, even if he’s no longer her teacher. The new school year arrived softly, easing them all into new routines. And Bora was placed in another classroom with another teacher, a sweet human lady that speaks as softly as snow falling on the ground. Bora didn’t cry, she didn’t even pout, but on that first day back, she wandered through the hallway with a deep furrow on her brow, looking as determined as she ever was, until she found who she was looking for.

“Jimin seonsaengnim!”

Her voice was breathless when she saw him, arms already flung wide. And Jimin crouched down like always, ready to catch her.

“You’re not mine anymore,” she said seriously, hugging him tight, “but you’re still the best.”

Since then, it’s become a ritual. Every morning, before going to her new classroom, Bora finds Jimin. Sometimes he’s standing outside the staff lounge, sometimes walking between classrooms with an armful of papers. But she always finds him. And she always hugs him, tight, fierce, like it’s the most important part of her day.

And Jimin crouches down and speaks to her like she’s still the most important part of his job, his gaze soft, smile warm. He brushes her hair back from her face while speaking to her and listens to her attentively. Jeongguk never knows what they’re talking about when Bora finds him out in the patio, where he can still see them, it’s too hard to when there's always so much noise around, but he knows it’s something kind and funny, if the way Bora lights up is anything to go by.

And Jimin always looks up and finds Jeongguk. Without fail. And Jeongguk always holds still. He doesn’t wave nor approach. His wolf howls in his chest because of it—even begs—but Jeongguk doesn’t move. Because Jimin never breaks that gaze. Not right away. He holds it. And even from a distance, Jeongguk can feel the quiet shift in it—like a door slowly opening, inch by inch, day by day.

He knows what it means. But he also knows now is not the time yet. But soon. And he can wait. Because this isn’t a chase, not a tug of war between instinct and hesitation. It’s a rhythm. And they’re still learning the beat of it.

Jimin needs time. And Jeongguk is starting to understand that sometimes, the sweetest things come slow.

🧛🏻❤️🐺

The apartment isn’t exactly clean, but it’s warm, cozy. There are toys still tucked under the coffee table, a plush fox half-buried beneath a throw pillow, colored pencils on the dining table, one of Bora’s tiny socks inexplicably clinging to the back of the couch.

Jimin had noticed the clutter when he first walked in, it was kind of hard not to, and Jeongguk had looked mildly horrified for half a second, but Jimin had just smiled and said:

“It’s cute.” And he meant it.

Now, dinner is done and there are leftover rice bowls and fruit they didn’t finish sitting on the counter that they’re too lazy to clean. And now they’re tucked into the couch, not saying much. There’s a drama playing on the TV, lowly and half-forgotten, whatever is going on there fading into the background.

They sit side by side, close, a blanket draped over both their legs. It’s one of Bora’s—because of course it is—patterned in faded pastel colors, with little wolves drawn in simple, childlike strokes. It smells like fabric softener and crayon and something that belongs to home.

The lights are dim, and the warmth between them is the kind that sinks into the skin without needing permission.

Jimin sits with one leg tucked beneath him, posture relaxed. Jeongguk can feel the edge of his knee pressing faintly into his thigh. He doesn’t know how long they’ve been sitting like this, letting silence stretch between them like a thread that neither of them wants to pull too tight. But Jeongguk’s heart has been fluttering in the same low, slow rhythm for what feels like hours.

Eventually—slowly, carefully—he lets his head tip. It lands softly on Jimin’s shoulder, his cheek pressing into it, warm and solid beneath the fabric of Jimin’s sweater.

Jimin doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t shift away. Instead, he moves. Just a little. Elbow brushing his, wrist sliding into the empty space between them. His fingers find Jeongguk’s forearm, then his hand, and slowly, gently, Jimin interlocks their arms.

It isn’t romantic. Not exactly. Not in the way movies write it. There’s a scattering of brightly colored toys on the rug. A plastic cup half-full of apple juice forgotten on the counter. The faint scent of bubble bath lingering from when Jeongguk had cleaned up the bathroom after Bora left for her sleepover.

But the weight of Jimin next to him feels grounding. The warmth of the blanket and the scent that fills every inch of the space is almost enough to lull him to sleep. Almost.

Because Jimin’s scent is stronger tonight. Or maybe it’s just more noticeable, since they're so close. So close that Jeongguk can trace every layer, the clean, cold metal undercut of vampire, muted now like just a memory; the lemon balm and rosemary that linger in his clothes and his hair; and that sweet undertone that his wolf keeps zeroing in on, like it’s the first bloom of spring under the melting snow.

Jeongguk doesn’t even mean to move. It’s instinct more than thought, a subtle tilt of his head, a shift that presses his nose just a little closer to the curve of Jimin’s neck. He breathes in softly once, and then again… and again… Just a little deeper each time, to ground himself and memorize something without even realizing.

And with a particular sniff, Jimin twitches beside him. He jolts slightly and lets out a surprised yelp and a breathy giggle after it, caught off guard. 

“Jeongguk—!”

Jeongguk freezes.

His eyes snap open, and his entire body goes stiff, like his soul just tried to flee from his skin. He lifts his head a little, mortified. He blinks at Jimin, who’s looking at him with something between confusion and delight. They’re still arm in arm under the covers.

“You just… sniffed me,” Jimin says, grinning.

“I—I didn’t mean to,” Jeongguk blurts, ears already pink, voice small with embarrassment. “I didn’t even realize I was doing it, I just—You smell nice… and warm. And I guess I was tired, and—”

Jimin blinks, then his grin sharpens playfully. “Were you about to bite me?”

“No!” Jeongguk nearly shouts, his face burning. “Of course not. Moon—It’s a wolf thing. Not a vampire thing. Not a biting thing. It’s called scenting.”

Jimin tilts his head, amused but curious. “Scenting.”

Jeongguk nods quickly, still trying to disappear into the couch. “Yeah. It’s—it’s a comfort thing. A way to feel close, to feel safe. Or to offer trust. Or claim familiarity, I guess. It’s not weird. Or—I don’t know. Maybe it is weird. But I didn’t mean to make it weird.”

There’s a pause. Then, Jimin says, voice quiet but steady, “It’s not weird. You can… scent me, if you want to.” And Jeongguk blinks like he’s trying to make sure he heard it right.

“Are you sure?” he asks, voice quiet but earnest.

Jimin tilts his head again again just slightly, meeting his eyes. “Yeah.” he says. “I’m sure. Besides, you’re not the only one who wants to be close.”

Jeongguk swallows. Something flutters deep in his chest—not nerves exactly, but something close, like want. Like gratitude. Like quiet relief. He wants this, and Jimin is giving him space to take it.

Still, he hesitates a moment longer before saying, “Then—hold on. This will be more comfortable.”

He shifts on the couch slowly, untangling their interlocked arms only to shift behind Jimin instead. Gently, carefully, he wraps an arm around his waist and pulls him in, closing the space between them. His other hand settles lightly on Jimin’s knee, the blanket draped over both their legs shifting with the movement. It’s not a lie, but it’s also not the whole truth. It’s more comfortable, definitely, but like this, he’s the closest to Jimin than he ever thought he would be.

And then he leans in, heart loud in his ears and presses his face into the curve of Jimin’s neck. Jimin is warm, solid, and his scent, up this close, is something Jeongguk could drown in. But more than that, it’s his. It’s the scent his wolf has begun to recognize as safe. As wanted. As something to protect.

He rubs his nose there first, barely brushing the skin. A slow, quiet drag along the curve of Jimin’s neck. His cheek follows, the lightest press of skin to skin. Jimin stills at first, goosebumps raising across his arms, but he doesn’t pull away. He leans back instead, just slightly, giving Jeongguk more of him. Trusting him.

His own scent—warm pine and loamy soil, green things crushed underfoot, the crisp sharpness of early morning in the woods—begins to bleed into the space, curling slowly around Jimin’s. Together, their scents smell like forest and light. Like the first bloom of a lemon flower after rain. Like rosemary crushed between warm palms, honey over pine needles, sun filtering through canopy.

His wolf hums in approval, low and full, curling around the warmth of it, pressing in deeper. Jeongguk rubs his nose against the soft skin beneath Jimin’s ear, dragging his cheek lightly along the curve of his throat. He moves slowly, reverent in every motion, scenting not just to soothe, but to remember.

Jimin exhales a soft sound—not really a laugh, not really a sigh—and Jeongguk huffs against his skin, a smile tugging at his lips.

Then, without thinking, he presses his lips there. A soft kiss. Just one. And then another. And another. Small, careful kisses dropped between slow breaths. His mouth brushes against warm skin, featherlight and unhurried. He moves between scenting and kissing, the two blurring, instinct and affection wrapping together like threads.

When his lips part slightly, teeth grazing the curve of Jimin’s neck in a soft nip, Jimin lets out a quiet sigh, tender and surprised. His fingers twitch lightly over Jeongguk’s where they rest on his stomach.

“You’re gonna make me squirm,” he laughs softly, “It tickles.”

Jeongguk smiles, a quiet huff against his skin. “Sorry,” he whispers.

He kisses his neck again. Then again. And again. Then he turns in Jeongguk’s arms. The blanket slides, the space between them narrows. Jimin looks up at him, eyes warm and unreadable. His scent, now laced with forest, still blooms in Jeongguk’s nose.

Jimin reaches up, brushing his fingers along Jeongguk’s jaw. And Jeongguk kisses him.

It’s careful, gentle—the kind of kiss that could disappear if either of them pulls away too fast. But neither of them does. Jimin kisses him back with soft pressure, mouth warm, eyes fluttering shut as their lips move together slowly.

They stay like that—curled together on the couch, their legs tangled loosely under the blanket, the faint sounds of the forgotten drama playing in the background. Jeongguk’s arms are still wrapped around Jimin’s middle, his head tucked gently near the slope of Jimin’s shoulder. Every so often, he presses another kiss to his neck, and jaw, and lips, each one softer than the last, his nose still brushing the scent he’s grown to crave.

But in the lull between kisses, Jeongguk’s voice breaks the quiet, low and thoughtful.

“Doesn’t it feel weird?” he asks softly, almost like he doesn’t want to hear the answer. “A vampire and a wolf?”

Jimin doesn’t answer right away.

He tilts his head a little instead, the movement allowing Jeongguk to nuzzle more comfortably into the curve of his neck. His fingers trail lightly over the back of Jeongguk’s hand, and when he finally speaks, his voice is calm, curious.

“Weird like unnatural?” Jimin murmurs. “Or weird like… unexpected?”

Jeongguk thinks for a second, then hums. “I don’t know. Both, maybe.”

Jimin shifts slightly, enough to turn and face him more fully, their foreheads almost brushing now. He doesn’t pull away from the embrace, and his hand doesn’t let go of Jeongguk’s.

“I think people like us were made to be strange together,” he says, a small, knowing smile on his face. “It’s not that weird when you’ve lived long enough to see all kinds of things.”

Jeongguk huffs out a soft laugh against Jimin’s cheek. “So I’m just another odd chapter in a long, weird book?”

Jimin shrugs playfully. “You’re more interesting than most, to be fair.”

Jeongguk leans forward, kisses the side of his neck again—slower this time, more affectionate than instinctive. Jimin exhales at the touch, something like a sigh slipping out.

“Do you ever think about how people look at us?” Jeongguk asks, not pulling away. “Not just vampires and wolves… but you and me.”

“I’ve thought about it,” Jimin admits, his voice a little quieter now. “Especially when I first started teaching. People assumed a vampire wouldn’t want to be around kids. Thought it was weird. Still think it’s weird.”

Jeongguk nods slowly, his cheek brushing Jimin’s collarbone.

“I didn’t understand it at first either,” he whispers.

“But you do now?”

“Yeah,” Jeongguk says. “Now I do.”

Another kiss, to the edge of Jimin’s jaw this time. He can feel how warm Jimin is in his arms, how soft. The tension that once used to creep into his muscles whenever he was near is gone, replaced by something quieter.

“I didn’t expect to feel anything for anyone after Bora was born,” Jeongguk says. “I didn’t know I could again.”

He shifts just enough to see Jimin’s face. His own expression is shy, cautious, but honest.

“I think I’m feeling it now. I’ve been feeling it for a while. But it’s only now becoming real.”

Jimin looks at him for a long moment, thoughtful, as if he’s measuring something inside himself.

“I’m not there yet,” he says,  quiet and honest. “But I want to be. And I like being close to you. I like this.” He squeezes Jeongguk’s hand once. “I want to keep trying.”

Relief fills Jeongguk’s chest like light through trees. He nods, leaning forward to press a slow kiss to the corner of Jimin’s mouth.

“Okay,” he whispers.

Jimin’s scent has changed too. Not wildly, but it’s warmer now. Blended through with Jeongguk’s own earthy pine, like sun-warmed woods in early spring. The combination makes something entirely new between them.

A promise, maybe.

They curl back together under the blanket, breathing steady. Jeongguk noses gently into Jimin’s neck again, and Jimin lets out the softest laugh.

“You’re gonna wear that spot out.”

“I like it here,” Jeongguk murmurs. “Smells like home.”

And this time, Jimin doesn’t laugh. He just closes his eyes and stays.

🧛🏻❤️🐺

Jeongguk is slouched on a chair in the break room, jacket off, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, tie loosened. His phone rests in one hand, his other fingers curled loosely around a mug that’s been sitting long enough to go lukewarm. It’s quiet except for the muffled hum of voices from a meeting down the hall and the occasional clack of keys from the reception desk outside.

The door swings open and Namjoon steps in, a folder tucked under his arm and his mug in hand—a personalized one with Eun’s handwriting that says World’s #1 Dad . He heads straight for the counter, sets the folder down, and starts refilling his coffee. His eyes flick toward Jeongguk once, then twice, a slow grin tugging at his mouth.

“So,” Namjoon says, stirring in sugar, “how’s it going with… you know.”

Jeongguk doesn’t look up. “Fine.”

“Fine?” Namjoon echoes, walking over to the table with his mug. “That’s all you’ve got for me? You’ve been seeing this person for a couple weeks, and the best you can do is fine ?”

Jeongguk takes a slow sip of his coffee, trying not to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

Namjoon smirks. “Is this the part where you try to be mysterious? ‘Cause you’re not. You’re glowing, man.”

Jeongguk scoffs. “I’m not—”

“You are,” Namjoon cuts in, leaning forward. “I see you. You get this… stupid little smile. And your scent, it’s—” He gestures toward Jeongguk. “Yeah. Don’t even deny it.”

Jeongguk’s mouth twitches before he can stop it. “We’re just… trying,” he says finally. “It’s still new.”

Namjoon’s brows lift. “And?”

Jeongguk hesitates. “And… I like him.”

Namjoon’s smirk widens. “So it’s a him. ” He takes a slow sip of his coffee. “Do I get a name yet, or are we keeping this top secret?”

Jeongguk hesitates. “I haven’t even told Bora. Not yet. I want to be sure before I bring him into her life.”

“That’s smart,” Namjoon says. “But… you’ve already brought him into yours.”

Jeongguk’s lips twitch. “That’s different.”

Namjoon tilts his head, studying him. “Is it? Because from where I’m sitting, you’re already in.”

Jeongguk glances at the folder by Namjoon’s elbow, as if it might offer an escape, but the truth slips out anyway, quiet but certain. “It’s Jimin.”

For a second, Namjoon doesn’t react — and then his eyebrows shoot up. “Wait… Jimin ? As in—”

“Bora’s teacher,” Jeongguk finishes for him.

“Holy shit.” Namjoon leans back in his chair, blinking, needing a moment to line up this new piece of information with the Jimin he already knows. “You mean… Yoongi’s Jimin?”

Jeongguk frowns slightly. “Yoongi’s Jimin?”

“He’s Jimin’s friend,” Namjoon explains, setting his coffee down. “I think they’ve been friends since…” He waves his hand. “Forever, basically. I thought you knew.”

Jeongguk blinks, the connection clicking into place. “I… didn’t.”

“Moon, that didn’t ever cross my mind.” Namjoon says, a hint of laughter slipping into his voice. “You’re seeing him.” He shakes his head, still processing. “Wow. This is… not what I expected you to say.”

Jeongguk shrugs, though his chest is warm at the unspoken approval in Namjoon’s tone. “Yeah. It wasn’t what I expected either.”

Namjoon studies him for a moment, something softer settling into his expression. “You know… now I get why you’re being careful with Bora. But also, knowing Jimin, I can say—if he’s in, he’s all in. And he’s… good. He doesn’t do things halfway.”

Jeongguk swallows, looking down at the swirl of coffee left in his mug. “Yeah. I’m starting to see that.”

Namjoon tilts his head. “Yoongi always says he’s got this way of making you feel… safe. Like you can let your guard down.”

Jeongguk huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head at how true that is. “Yeah. That sounds like him.”

Namjoon smiles, leaning back in his chair. “Well… guess I won’t have to introduce you two at some awkward dinner then.”

Jeongguk smirks faintly. “Guess not.”

But even as the conversation drifts back toward work, the truth of Namjoon’s words lingers—the reminder that Jimin isn’t just some unknown risk. He’s someone who’s already trusted and respected by people Jeongguk trusts himself. And maybe that makes taking the next step a little less terrifying.

Later that day, when Namjoon steps inside his apartment, he kicks off his shoes and hangs his coat and bag at record speed, running to the kitchen where he can hear the faint hiss of boiling water.

Yoongi is there, leaning casually against the counter while stirring something in a small pot. The steam curls lazily upward, catching the light from the under-cabinet lamp.

“You’re home early,” Yoongi says, not looking up from the spoon in his hand.

“Mm.” Namjoon hums, stepping in to press a quick kiss to his temple. “Smells good.”

“Tea for later,” Yoongi says, keeping his movements slow. “You’re the one always telling me to drink something calming before bed.”

Namjoon grins faintly. “Speaking of tea…” He draws the words out, watching the way Yoongi’s brow twitches with faint curiosity. “I think you’ll be proud of the kind I collected at work today.”

That earns Namjoon a sideways glance, Yoongi’s spoon pausing mid-stir. “Alright. Spill it.”

Namjoon leans one hand on the back of a kitchen chair, lowering his voice like they’re conspiring. “Jeongguk’s seeing someone.”

“Really?” Yoongi blinks once, caught off guard. “Didn’t think he was ready for that yet.”

“Oh, he’s more than ready,” Namjoon says, letting his grin grow a little. “And you’ll never guess who it is.”

Yoongi turns toward him fully now, arms crossing, spoon dangling loosely from his fingers. “…Who?”

Namjoon lets the pause stretch, watching Yoongi’s curiosity sharpen. “Jimin.”

The reaction is instant — Yoongi’s eyebrows shoot up, his eyes widening just enough to be noticeable. “Wait. Our Jimin?”

“The one and only.”

Yoongi’s head jerks back a fraction. “No way. You’re telling me Jeongguk—the I can’t believe you’re friends with a vampire Jeongguk—is seeing our Jimin?”

Namjoon chuckles, settling into the chair at the table. “I’m telling you, they’re… trying. Jeongguk likes him. A lot.”

Yoongi just stares for a moment, his scent shifting with genuine surprise. “Holy shit. That’s… wow. Didn’t see that coming.” He shakes his head once, almost to himself, and sets the spoon down with a faint clink. “I mean—I know Jimin. It’s not very surprising to me that he’s seeing someone. But Jeongguk? When he first got here, he was—” Yoongi waves a hand vaguely, “—you know. Guarded. And now this?”

“Things changed, I guess,” Namjoon says. “In this case, they did a lot.”

Yoongi hums, still looking a little dazed. “ Jeongguk and Jimin. That’s… kind of wild. I’ve known Jimin for years, and I didn’t think I’d ever hear that sentence.”

Namjoon’s brows lift. “You’re not worried?”

“No,” Yoongi says after a pause, his tone firming. “Just… surprised. I mean, I trust Jimin. If he’s giving Jeongguk a chance, he’s already serious about it. But damn—I need a second to picture it.”

Namjoon grins, leaning back in his chair. “Told you it was good tea.”

Yoongi picks the spoon back up, but his smirk lingers. “Good tea,” he echoes, shaking his head like he still can’t quite believe it.

🧛🏻❤️🐺

Parks are nothing like the forest. The grass is trimmed too short, the trees are spaced too evenly, growing in organized little rows that feel more like decoration than shelter. Even the air smells different—thinner, cleaner in a way that almost feels artificial, touched by pavement and the scents of the strangers passing by, all filtered by the light breeze.

But even then, this is where Jeongguk feels the most at ease in the city. Even though they’re in the middle of Seoul, surrounded by skyscrapers and traffic, it’s quiet here. Not silent like the woods used to be, but quieter than anywhere else. 

Children’s laughter fade into the distance. A jogger's footsteps patter by like a heartbeat. Somewhere, birds chirp in a few trees, their song mingling together with the muffled sound of honks and sirens behind them.

It's not the forest, but it's close enough.

And on days like this—when the air smells clean, the sky is open, and spring is in full bloom—Jeongguk likes to stay outside. And he finds it easier to breathe. 

Especially now that he has Jimin here too.

They're sitting under a board tree on a checkered blanket, food packed in small containers beside them, the last of lunch eaten lazily and with no urgency. It's been two weeks since their first kiss back at Jeongguk's apartment, and though nothing has moved too fast between them, everything feels warmer, easier, like the space between them has been softened.

And now, with Bora off for scouts for the afternoon, they have an opportunity to spend time together closely again. Something that doesn't demand much of them, just presence and warmth.

Jimin sits beside him, legs folded neatly and back straight like that was the easiest, most natural and casual position in the world. His hands rest gently over his knees, fingertips just brushing the fabric of the blanket. He hasn't moved in a while. His posture is so still, so effortlessly balanced that it looks sculpted—like he's been meditating in temples for centuries. Which, knowing Jimin, Jeongguk wouldn't completely rule out.

Jeogguk lies beside him on his side, one arm folded beneath his head, just watching him, almost in awe. The sunlight filters down through the trees above them, dappling Jimin's skin in golden patterns, and Jeonguk has to blink against the sudden warmth in his chest. He's never seen anyone sit so still for so long.

And, eventually, curiosity wins.

“You okay?” he asks, low and careful.

Jimin’s lashes twitch, and a second later, his eyes slowly open. He turns his head just enough to look at Jeongguk, and a faint smile curves at the corners of his lips.

“Yeah,” he says, voice soft. “Just resting.”

“You weren’t even breathing,” Jeongguk points out, still propped on one elbow.

“I didn’t need to,” Jimin answers, and then after a small pause, adds, “It’s something vampires can do. When we’re low on blood—not starving, just… starting to feel it—we slow everything down. No movement, no breath, no burn. It conserves energy.”

He tilts his head, looking up at the branches above. “It’s kind of like hibernating, I guess. But conscious. I like doing it outside when I can. The sun’s still a little gentler now, and the breeze helps.”

Jeongguk watches him, his mouth parted slightly. “You’re low now?”

“Not dangerously,” Jimin says, lips quirking in a faint smile. “Just… lower than usual. It’s manageable. I don’t like drinking unless I have to, and this helps me stretch the time in between. Keeps my senses sharp too.”

Jeongguk nods, processing. He tries to imagine what it must feel like, that quiet stillness, the full-body quiet of instinct and control. It’s so far from anything his wolf knows.

“Does it hurt?” he asks softly.

Jimin’s smile deepens, just barely. “No. It feels… clean. Like everything is quiet and mine.”

Jeongguk is quiet for a beat, watching the way the breeze plays with the hem of Jimin’s sleeve, how even the smallest movement of air seems to slide over him rather than stir him. There’s something reverent about it—it’s not the kind of peace Jeongguk finds when he’s moving through the woods, but a stillness that feels old, practiced, almost sacred.

He shifts up onto one elbow, then sits fully, legs crossed to mirror Jimin’s.

“Do you think I could do it? The stillness thing.”

“You?” Jimin says, amusement thick in his tone, arching one of his brow. “You’re a puppy. A very sweet, very squirmy, very warm-blooded puppy.”

Jeongguk snorts. “So that’s a no?”

“It’s a miracle you’ve been sitting still for the last twenty minutes.”

But Jeongguk only shrugs, undeterred. “Doesn’t mean I can’t try.”

Jimin watches him for a moment, eyes soft. Then he leans back slightly, bracing his weight on his hands, posture still elegant and composed despite the casualness of the movement.

“Alright,” he says, tilting his head. “Try. But if you last longer than a minute, I’ll be impressed.”

Jeongguk accepts the challenge. He rolls his shoulders back, stretches his neck once and closes his eyes.

He tries to imagine what it’s like to feel quiet inside. To still the constant hum of his wolf, which is always listening, always sensing, always waiting. The ground beneath him is warm through the blanket, the breeze gentle on his skin. He focuses on his breath, the way it flows in and out of him. He tries to slow it down.

Fifteen seconds in, his left knee twitches. He ignores it.

Thirty, and the itch behind his ear suddenly becomes unbearable.

By the time the forty-five seconds hit, his wolf stirs with a low huff of impatience, and Jeongguk lets out a breath, shoulders slumping as his eyes crack open.

Across from him, Jimin is smiling like someone who just won a very small, very affectionate bet.

“That was forty-nine seconds,” Jimin says, lifting a single elegant brow.

“Was it?” Jeongguk asks, stretching one leg out and rubbing the back of his neck. “Felt like five minutes.”

“You twitched at twenty-eight.”

Jeongguk groans and drops backward onto the blanket, arm over his face. “Unbelievable.”

“Very believable,” Jimin laughs, the sound low and musical. Then, after a pause, his voice gentles. “But still. You really tried.”

Jeongguk peeks at him from under his arm. “You didn’t think I would?”

Jimin hums. “I thought you’d joke about it. You didn’t.”

“Didn’t want to,” Jeongguk says, dropping his arm. “I like learning about you.”

That earns him a soft smile, like melted spring light. Like he's still trying to figure out what to do with a wolf who says things like I like learning about you and doesn’t even flinch while meaning it. And for a moment, Jimin doesn’t say anything at all.

Then, without a word, he shifts. He moves with that same feline grace he always has, the kind that Jeongguk pretends he’s used to now—but he isn’t, not really. Jimin unfolds his legs and stretches them out slowly, then lies down on his side beside him, propped up on one elbow.

Jeongguk turns his head to look at him, blinking in the sunlight.

“You’re gonna make this worse,” he says quietly.

“How?”

“Lying next to me like that.”

Jimin smiles, slow and amused. “Worse how?”

Jeongguk flushes. “I’m trying to be still.”

“I thought you gave up already.”

“I was gonna try again.”

“Oh,” Jimin says, voice a little too innocent. “My mistake.”

But he doesn’t move away.

Instead, he lets himself fully lie down beside Jeongguk, arms folded loosely under his head, gaze up at the sky now. Their elbows just barely touch. Their sides are warm where the blanket is beneath them.

After a minute of silence, Jimin says, “You don’t have to try so hard, you know.”

Jeongguk glances at him. “To do what?”

“To understand. To meet me halfway. I know you weren’t raised for this.”

“This?”

“This,” Jimin says again, gesturing vaguely between them—this closeness, this softness, this learning one another from opposite corners of the world.

Jeongguk swallows. “I want to.”

And Jimin doesn’t reply right away. But then he moves his hand to rest it near Jeongguk’s. Their fingers brush, not quite holding. Not yet.

“I know,” Jimin says finally, so softly it could be mistaken for a breeze. “That’s why I’m still here.”

And the wind moves again, the sun shifts behind a passing cloud, and neither of them says anything at all. Their fingers remain barely brushing, but full of warmth and intent. The space between their hands is small, yet thick with meaning. That whatever this thing between them is, it hasn’t dulled. If anything, it’s grown heavier. That that first kiss wasn’t an accident.

“Can I…” Jeongguk starts, voice low, chest fluttering. He doesn’t finish the sentence. But Jimin doesn’t need him to.

He shifts closer, slow and graceful, until their arms press lightly together. His face tilts, eyes soft and steady, and he whispers, “Come here.”

Jeongguk does, with all the urgency of someone who’s been thinking about this since the last time it happened. He leans in until their noses brush, breath warm in the cool spring breeze, and then their lips meet—gentle at first, like they’re relearning the shape of it.

Jimin kisses like he’s careful with everything, like he’s holding something valuable between them. His hand comes up to rest on Jeongguk’s cheek, thumb brushing under his jaw. Jeongguk melts into it, a soft sound escaping him as he tilts further in, letting himself get drawn deeper.

The kiss deepens, slow and unhurried, and somewhere between the brush of mouths and the flutter of breath, Jeongguk’s hand finds Jimin’s and holds it fully, fingers brushing the back of it with all the care and gentleness in the world.

When they part, it’s only by an inch. Their foreheads touch. Jimin’s lashes lower. Jeongguk’s heart races in his chest, but his wolf is quiet, peaceful, sated, still.

They stay close for a while, stretched out side by side beneath the shade of the tree, their hands still linked, shoulders occasionally bumping as they shift just slightly to keep the closeness intact. The warmth between them feels different now, it’s not just because of the spring sun, but because of the soft, lingering press of lips.

Jeongguk glances sideways, his gaze falling on Jimin’s profile, the relaxed line of his jaw, the faint smile still hovering there, the way his eyes flutter open and closed like he can’t decide whether to stay fully in this moment or drift further into it. And maybe it’s the kiss, maybe it’s the breeze, or maybe it’s just been sitting at the edge of his mind all this time, but Jeongguk finds himself speaking before he can second-guess it.

“Do you… need to drink blood soon?”

Jimin’s eyes flutter open fully this time, and he turns his head toward Jeongguk, blinking once. Then, slowly, that smile curves just a little higher—fond, slightly amused.

“You’re still thinking about that?” he teases gently. “Should I be flattered or concerned?”

Jeongguk flushes. “I didn’t mean—I wasn’t, I just—I don’t know. You said earlier you were running a little low, and I guess it’s been on my mind.”

Jimin nudges his shoulder lightly against Jeongguk’s.

“It’s okay. You can ask anything you want.”

Jeongguk relaxes a little, but still looks sheepish. “I’m just… curious. You don’t really talk about it unless I ask.”

“I don’t talk about it much at all,” Jimin admits. “Most people don’t want to know. Or they want to know for the wrong reasons.”

Jeongguk shifts closer again, their hands still tangled between them. “I want to know because it’s you .”

That softens something in Jimin’s expression. He breathes in slowly, then lets it go.

“I don’t drink very often. Maybe once a week? Sometimes less, if I’m being stubborn or busy. It depends how much I use—strength, speed, healing. The stillness helps conserve. So does food, sleep, sunlight.” He pauses, then adds with a faint grin, “And good company.”

Jeongguk blinks. “I help with that?”

“You do,” Jimin says simply, as if it were obvious.

Jeongguk’s thumb brushes gently over the back of Jimin’s hand, mind turning over everything he’s just learned. He hesitates—just for a second—then asks, quietly:

“Do you still feed?”

He meets Jeongguk’s gaze steadily, then nods once.

“Yes. Not very often, but yes.”

Jeongguk swallows, gaze flicking briefly to Jimin’s throat before darting back up. “From… people?”

“Donors,” Jimin clarifies with a soft, even tone. “Registered ones, mostly. Some from the community, some outside of it. I have a couple I trust. They’re well-compensated, and it’s always safe. Clean. Regulated.”

Jeongguk nods, lips pressed together in something that’s not quite discomfort, just—unfamiliarity. He doesn’t want to be weird about it, and he’s trying, but it must show anyway. The tension in his shoulders, the faint twitch of his jaw. And Jimin must sense it too, because he watches Jeongguk’s face closely, then smirks—too knowing.

“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?” he says. “Trying very hard to be cool right now.”

Jeongguk glances at him, startled. “What?”

“You’ve gone quiet, but your ears are burning. It’s adorable.”

“I’m not—I’m just—I was curious,” Jeongguk stammers, a little too fast. “I’m not judging you, I swear. I just—I’ve never met anyone who—”

“Drinks blood?” Jimin supplies, voice teasing but kind.

Jeongguk groans, face flushed. “You’re making fun of me.”

“No, no,” Jimin laughs, his tone warm and affectionate now. “Okay. Maybe a little.”

Then, grinning, he leans in just enough to say under his breath, “You sniff my neck like it’s a buffet, but I’m the weird one?”

Jeongguk chokes. “Jimin!”

“I’m just saying—”

“I wasn’t sniffing you like a buffet!”

“You buried your entire face in my neck.”

“It was scenting!”

Jimin hums, eyes sparkling with amusement. “It sounded a little like whimpering too.”

“Jimin—!”

“And a bit like purring, too.”

Jeongguk falls back onto the blanket with a groan, covering his face with one arm as if shielding himself from the sheer force of his embarrassment. Jimin laughs, in that open, delighted way he rarely does, like something about Jeongguk brings it out of him whether he wants it or not.

Still sprawled, Jeongguk peeks at him through his fingers. “I cannot believe I’m being mocked for something my species does instinctively. ”

“I’m not mocking you. I like it. It's sweet,” Jimin says, grinning, and Jeongguk lowers his arm a little and side eyes him. “It’s nice to know someone wants to be close to me for something so… simple.”

That softens something in the air between them. They stare at each other for a long moment. Jeongguk can feel his wolf pacing contentedly under his skin, tail wagging, quiet and warm. He reaches up with his free hand, brushes Jimin’s hair from his forehead, and then, gently, leans in to kiss the corner of his mouth.

When he pulls back, Jimin is smiling again.

Jeongguk grins, tilting his head. “So I’m not that weird for sniffing you?”

Jimin laughs, head falling back. “You’re absolutely weird. But you’re mine now. So it’s fine.”

And Jeongguk’s heart stumbles all over again, because no one’s ever said mine like that to him before.

After a beat, Jimin glances down, his eyes gleaming and cheeks high. And even though there’s no color on his cheeks, Jeongguk can tell he’s getting a little shy.

“Speaking of that…” he murmurs, voice low.

Jeongguk tilts his head. “Yeah?”

Jimin meets his gaze, small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Can you do it again?”

Jeongguk blinks. “Do… what?”

Jimin clears his throat softly, his fingers tightening just slightly in Jeongguk’s hand.

“The scenting.”

Jeongguk’s wolf perks up immediately, tail practically thumping in his chest. And Jeongguk himself—flushed, a little flustered, unsure if he’s allowed to grin this wide—blinks at Jimin like he can’t believe what he just heard.

“You want me to?”

Jimin nods, not breaking eye contact. “If you want to. I liked it. It felt…” His voice drops, gentling even further. “Nice. Like you were really there. With me.”

Jeongguk swallows hard. He’s not sure what to say— I’m always with you feels too much, too soon, but he feels it. He feels it in the way his wolf stirs eagerly beneath his skin, not territorial but tender.

“Okay,” he breathes. “Yeah. Just—c’mere?”

Jimin doesn’t hesitate this time. He shifts closer on the blanket, moving between Jeongguk’s bent legs and settling comfortably against his chest. Jeongguk wraps his arms around him gently, slowly, easing him in, and Jimin leans back into the touch without a word.

Jeongguk keeps his nose pressed to the slope of Jimin’s neck, breathing him in slowly. The scent is familiar now—rosemary and lemon balm, touched with something cleaner, crisper today, like early sunlight over dew-wet leaves. It coils around Jeongguk’s senses, grounding him, warming him from the inside out.

He nuzzles gently, cheek dragging over Jimin’s soft skin, then presses a kiss to the curve where his neck meets his shoulder.

Jimin breathes in softly. He tilts his head further, welcoming it. His hand lifts, fingers curling into the back of Jeongguk’s hoodie as if to keep him there, steady and close.

Jeongguk’s lips brush again, higher this time, near the pulse point. Another kiss—firmer. Longer. Then a third.

Jimin makes a soft sound in the back of his throat, almost like a hum, and turns slightly in Jeongguk’s arms until they’re face to face. The air between them is full of warmth, and something more. Their noses brush. Jeongguk feels Jimin’s breath on his lips.

Then, without a word, Jimin leans in.

The kiss is gentle, slower than their first, deeper than their second. It tastes like spring wind and too-warm tea, like sunlight and clean cotton and home. It’s unhurried and quiet, lips moving softly together like they’ve done this dozens of times before. Jeongguk’s hand slides up Jimin’s back, holding him closer, and Jimin’s fingers curl against his neck, thumb brushing the shell of his ear.

Their mouths part only slightly, then meet again. And again.

In between kisses, Jeongguk noses at Jimin’s cheekbone, back to his jaw, burying his face there like he can’t help himself. He’s scenting again without thinking—soft drags of his cheek and mouth over warm skin. But this time, Jimin doesn’t giggle. He doesn’t tease.

He just holds onto Jeongguk’s hoodie with both hands and exhales a shaky breath, eyes fluttered shut.

“It’s okay,” Jimin murmurs, lips brushing Jeongguk’s temple. “You can keep going.”

And Jeongguk does.

He kisses his way from jaw to throat again, letting himself linger, letting his wolf press in, to memorize and to melt. His heart is fluttering in his chest, but his body is calm, and his wolf is content in a way it rarely is, the kind of peace that comes from being exactly where it wants to be.

Jimin lets his head rest on Jeongguk’s shoulder after a while, one hand still resting lightly on his chest. Neither of them says much. They don’t need to.

They sit wrapped up in each other, beneath dappled shade and the soft hush of wind in the leaves, and it feels, somehow, like the world has grown smaller, quieter, just for them.

🧛🏻❤️🐺

It’s late August, the tail end of summer break, and the morning light comes soft through the kitchen window—in a way that makes you feel like time has stretched just a little, just for you.

Bora is sitting at the table in one of Jeongguk’s old oversized t-shirts, cross-legged in her chair, finishing off a piece of leftover birthday cake. The pink frosting has left a smear along the corner of her mouth and a dot on her cheek, but she doesn’t seem to notice, or she doesn’t care. Her hair’s still messy from sleep, and she hums quietly to herself between bites, blissfully content.

Yesterday had been all noise and chaos—kids shouting, friends gathered, frosting on furniture, too many juice boxes on the floor. She’d run around for hours, sweaty and smiling, cheeks flushed and hair sticking to her face. Jeongguk had barely kept up, but he hadn’t minded. Her happiness had spilled into every corner of their home.
Now, in the soft lull of the morning after, it’s just them again.

Jeongguk leans against the counter with a mug cupped between his hands, watching her.

Tomorrow will mark eleven months since they left the pack behind and came to the city—nearly a year since he packed everything they owned into the back of his car and drove toward a life that, at the time, felt as terrifying as it was necessary. At the time, he thought he’d have to harden himself, learn to live small and to survive on the outskirts of a world that didn’t make space for people like him and Bora—a single alpha father with a territorial little girl and too many instincts he didn’t know how to shut off.

But the truth is… his world has expanded in ways he never thought it would.

He’s softer now. Quieter in his fears. He laughs more. Sleeps easier. The constant tension that lived under his skin back then has thinned out, replaced by something gentler. Not peace, maybe, not yet—but the beginning of it.

And somehow, without him even realizing it at first, Jimin became a part of that.

Their first real conversation feels both recent and impossibly far away. Jeongguk still remembers the stiffness of his posture that day, the way he couldn’t stop his wolf from bristling. And yet, that version of him feels distant now—like someone else entirely. Since that day, since their first shared lunch, the quiet dinners and late-night texts and slow blooming of something more, Jeongguk has been learning how to exist without always preparing to defend himself.

He still doesn’t know if Jimin realizes how much he changed his life.

They haven’t rushed anything. Their relationship has been careful, built brick by brick, trust layered over uncertainty. Jimin hasn’t met Bora outside of his teacher role yet—something Jeongguk decided early on to wait for, not out of fear, but respect. He wanted this thing with Jimin to have roots first. He wanted it to be real.

And now it is.

Jimin is part of his days, his thoughts, his routine. His scent clings to a few of Jeongguk’s sweaters that stay hidden in the back of his wardrobe during the day and clings on his body when he goes to sleep at night. His voice lingers in the quiet after phone calls. The steadiness of his presence, even from a distance, has become something Jeongguk finds comfort in.

And Bora, sitting in the morning sun with frosting on her face, already adores him without knowing.

Jeongguk knows it’s only a matter of time now. The question isn’t if, it’s when.

He watches her finish her cake and lick the fork clean. Her little wolf scent is bright this morning—sugared and content. She’s safe. She’s happy.

And maybe… maybe it’s time to tell her.

He takes a quiet breath, feels the flutter of nerves settle under his ribs, and smiles.

Maybe today is the day.

Bora finishes her last bite of cake with a pleased little hum and pushes the plate away, arms stretching over her head like a cat. Then, as she always does when the morning is soft and the world feels quiet, she slides off her chair and pads over to Jeongguk without a word, looping her arms around his middle and burying her face into his side.

Jeongguk sets his mug down and wraps his arms around her instinctively, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

Lately, she’s been doing this more often—not just in the mornings, but throughout the day, slipping into his arms at random moments like she’s trying to memorize him. And he doesn’t mind. He never does. She’s always been clingy—possessive, even—but there’s been something extra about it these past few weeks. Something in the way she looks at him a little longer, or curls into him a little tighter. Like she’s waiting for him to say something he hasn’t found the words for yet.

She nuzzles her face closer into his shirt and inhales deeply.

“You smell different today,” she had mumbled a few weeks ago, just an observation.

“Do I?”

“You smell different lately,” she continued, pulling back only slightly to look up at him. “It’s nice. You smell like sunny days. Or like something warm from the oven. But also like trees still. Just… softer trees.”

He had huffed out a quiet laugh. “Softer trees, huh?”

She nodded seriously.

The truth is, his scent has changed. Not only because he now carries a bit of Jimin with him. But also because it’s mellowed. Warmed. His wolf is more settled now, less bristled, less sharp. The instinctive tension that used to cloud has ebbed away. What remains is quieter and deeper. Familiar in a way he never expected.

And Bora has been pointing it out ever since. She tells him he smells like happy. Like the flowers outside at the park. Like fresh fruit on a warm day. Sometimes, she tilts her head curiously, clearly trying to place the shift in his scent. Wolves can always tell, even young ones. Especially young ones.

She doesn’t know the reason for it. Not yet. But Jeongguk knows she’ll understand. She always does. Because she’s a part of him—in scent, in spirit, in the way her little arms wrap tight around his waist and hold him like he’s the center of her whole world.

He smooths her hair back gently, and for a moment, lets the silence settle.

Then he takes a breath— one he didn’t even realize he was holding—and says softly, “Can I tell you something, pup?”

She blinks at him, then nods. “Okay.”

He takes a small breath. “It’s not a big deal,” he starts, because he doesn’t want her to think it is. “But it’s something I wanted you to know.”

Bora doesn’t let go of him—in fact, she leans a little closer, like she’s bracing herself for something serious. Jeongguk can already feel a slight shift in her scent, the tiny spike of something a little more instinctual. A little possessive. That part of her that’s always been just his.

And he gets it. They’ve always been together, just the two of them. That’s all she’s ever known.

“So…” he says slowly, choosing his words carefully, “you know how we do stuff together, like eat dinner and go to the park and read stories at night?”

She nods, small smile tugging at her lips.

“Well,” he continues, “Appa has been doing some of those things with someone else, too. Just sometimes. Not like you and me, but… kind of like making a new friend. A grown-up friend.”

Bora tilts her head. “Like Namjoon and Yoongi samchon?”

“Sort of,” Jeongguk says, scratching the back of his neck. “But not just a friend.”

Bora’s eyes narrow just a little, thoughtful. Her nose scrunches, like she’s trying to figure out what he’s saying, and her arms tighten around his waist, just barely.

Jeongguk smiles softly and rests his hands on her back, rubbing small circles there. “It doesn’t change anything,” he says, quiet and steady. “You’re still my number one. You’ll always be my number one. No matter what.”

Her scent flutters again—still a little guarded, a little pouty, but curious now too. Not closing off, just trying to understand.

“Do I know them?” she asks.

Jeongguk chuckles under his breath. “You do. Kind of.”

Her head pops up at that. “Who is it?”

Jeongguk doesn’t answer right away, because he doesn’t want to overwhelm her. He’s still watching her face, her little frown, the slight pink deepening in her scent. He knows she’s trying to make sense of all of this.

“It’s someone appa met here,” he says finally. “After we moved to the city. And I wasn’t sure at first, but… they’ve been kind. And patient. And funny sometimes, too. And being around them makes appa feel really good. Really calm.”

She rests her chin on his shoulder again, like she’s thinking really hard. And even though he can still feel that little thread of protectiveness in her scent— that silent mine that all pups carry for their parents —there’s something else, too. Something like acceptance. A little shift in the wind.

“Okay,” she says.

Just that. Not a big grin. Not a thousand questions. But not resistance either.

“Okay?” he asks, smiling.

She pulls back a little to meet his eyes. “But if I don’t like them, it’s over.”

Jeongguk laughs, loud and bright. “Deal.”

And she nods like she means it, then hugs him again—tighter this time. Her scent is settling, wrapping around him like it always has, like she’s still his girl. His pup. But maybe now with enough space in her heart to let someone else in.

For a while, he doesn’t move and doesn’t say anything. Just lets the warmth of his pup, the steady little rhythm of her breath, settle him.

But his own heartbeat is loud inside of him. Louder than it’s been in a long time. And he knows she can hear it.

He knows she is hearing it, from the way she climbed up on his lap when he sat on the chair and her cheek pressed tighter into his chest, her little fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt like she’s anchoring him there.

“You’re handling this really well,” he says eventually, his voice quiet but raw. “Better than I thought you might… Thank you.”

Bora pulls back just enough to look up at him, blinking like she doesn’t understand why that’s such a big deal. “…Why would I not?”

Jeongguk exhales a soft, almost shaky laugh and brushes a strand of hair behind her ear. “Because it’s always been just us. Since the very beginning,” he says simply, cupping her cheek gently, thumb brushing over skin still a little sticky with frosting. “And I guess I thought that… you might not want to share me. Even a little bit.”

Bora frowns at that, thoughtfully. Then she leans forward again, arms snaking around his neck this time, not his waist, like she wants to hug him properly.

“I don’t care if I have to share.” Jeongguk blinks, caught off guard. She continues, simple and soft: “Because I know you’ll always love me the same. You’ll always take care of me the same.”

It knocks the breath right out of him.

Jeongguk holds her tighter, eyes closed for a moment, breathing her in like she’s the only air he’s ever needed. She smells like milk, cake and morning air, and all the steady, grounding things that make up his world. His chest aches in that quiet, warm way—the kind of ache that comes from being cracked open, gently, by love.

“Thank you,” he says against her hair. “Thank you, pup.”

His throat tightens, and for a second, he can’t say anything. Just pulls her in again, arms wrapped tight around her small frame, pressing his lips to the top of her temple like it’s the only thing keeping him together.

But Bora, still wrapped up in his arms, doesn’t notice. Or maybe she does, in the way children always sense everything but never stop moving through the world with full hearts and full voices.

She shifts a little, getting more comfortable, her cheek squishing into his collarbone. “I was never scared of anything, you know,” she says, like it’s just another thought, like it’s no big deal.

Jeongguk leans back enough to look at her, to see her face, how she looks totally unaware of how much she’s already said.

“I never get scared,” she continues with a little shrug. “Because you always take care of everything so nicely. Like… even when we moved, and I didn’t know anyone yet, it was okay. Because you were there. And I wasn’t even nervous on my first day of school! You made my lunch look like a bunny.”

Jeongguk huffs out a laugh, tears threatening behind his eyes, even as he presses another kiss to her temple.
She doesn’t stop.

“And even when I got sick last time and my tummy hurt, you stayed up with me the whole night and rubbed my back until I felt better. You always do stuff like that. So I don’t need to be scared of anything.”

Her voice is so matter-of-fact, like it’s just the truth of the world. And to her, it is.

Jeongguk’s throat tightens. He can barely speak past it.

“I’m really lucky,” she adds, quieter now. “That you’re mine.”

Jeongguk doesn’t say anything for a long moment—he’s afraid that if he tries, his voice might break. So he just cups her cheek again, gently, and leans their foreheads together.

“You’re mine too, baby,” he whispers. “Always.”

Bora smiles, clearly pleased with herself, and then lets go of him all at once, untangling herself from his hold, turning back toward the counter like nothing life-changing had just happened.

“Can I have another piece of cake, appa?”

Jeongguk laughs, watery and warm. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Yeah, you can.”

And as she hums her way toward the fridge, dragging her little stool over to reach, Jeongguk stays there on the dining chair, heart full to the brim with something that feels like peace.

His little girl’s okay. So they’re okay.

And maybe now, he can finally take that next step forward.

🧛🏻❤️🐺

It’s just past ten when Jeongguk and Bora arrive at the park. The air is thick with sunlight and the gentle hush of summer slipping toward its end—cicadas hum somewhere in the trees, and the breeze carries the humid warmth of sunbaked grass and the first hints of turning leaves.

Jeongguk walks slowly, one hand tucked into the pocket of his hoodie, the other holding onto Bora’s. She skips a little as she walks, like she can’t quite contain herself, even though she’s trying to be normal about it. He can feel it in the squeeze of her hand, the little glances she keeps throwing up at him, the way her steps never quite settle into a rhythm.

It was Jimin’s idea to meet at the park—open air, sunshine, lots of space, somewhere Bora already loves, and the closest thing they have to what home used to be. When Jeongguk had messaged him right after his conversation with Bora—and after crying a bit in his bedroom—, a simple I think it’s time , Jimin hadn’t asked twice.

Just a Are you sure?

And Jeongguk was. As sure as he could be.

Now, the weight of that decision settles somewhere between his ribs. It doesn’t feel wrong, not even close, but it does feel big. Like standing on the edge of something and knowing the next step will change everything.

Bora breaks the silence first.

“Do you think they’re here already?” she asks, peering around the path ahead, her voice low like they’re part of a secret mission.

Jeongguk hums noncommittally. “Maybe. We’ll see.”

“Is this person nice?” she asks, more careful now. Like the question really matters.

Jeongguk glances at her and nods. “Yeah. He is.”

She looks at him for a beat longer before returning her gaze to the path ahead. “Do I know him?”

He hesitates. “You’ve met him. Kind of.”

Bora hums. “Hmm. I’ll figure it out.”

She keeps looking. Her brows furrow a little, like she’s imagining all the possibilities of who this mystery person could be. She doesn’t ask again, doesn’t press, but Jeongguk knows her mind is spinning. She’s always been brave, always been curious. And right now, she’s both.

It’s not that he doesn’t trust her with the truth, he just wanted this moment to be theirs, something that could unfold naturally. Something that, for once, didn’t have to be explained in advance or anticipated into pieces.

As they round a curve in the path, the trees open into a smaller clearing with a bench half-shaded by a low-hanging tree, Bora’s steps falter for a second. Then, as if her brain catches up with her heart, she gasps softly and lets go of Jeongguk’s hand without hesitation.

“Jimin seonsaengnim!”

Her voice rings out bright and clear across the park, carrying the familiar joy that always blooms when she spots him during school hours. It’s instinct—the way she runs, the way her feet know the path before her mind catches up.

“Bora—” Jeongguk calls after her, too late.

She’s already halfway across the grass, her curls bouncing as she runs, and Jeongguk’s heart lurches in his chest with something tighter than panic, more vulnerable. Like all the breath he had stored up for this moment scattered into the wind as soon as she let go.

Because she doesn’t know. Not really.

Jeongguk never told her who they were meeting—only that it was someone important, someone he wanted her to get to know. He thought maybe she’d guess as soon as she saw him. That maybe she’d ask. But instead she saw Jimin and assumed it was a coincidence, that the universe dropped Jimin into their morning like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Jeongguk watches as she throws herself at Jimin and he catches her without hesitation, his arms wrapping gently around her as he lets out a soft laugh, low and warm. 

“Well, this is a surprise,” he says as she throws herself into a hug, arms wrapping tightly around his middle. “What are the odds?”

Bora laughs against his shirt. “What are you doing here?”

“Me?” Jimin raises a brow, feigning innocence as he pats her back. “I could ask you the same.”

Jeongguk walks toward them slowly, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans, unsure if he should smile or look apologetic or pretend this isn’t terrifying. His wolf is restless beneath his skin—ears perked, tail wagging gently, unsure whether to pace or curl up in the grass beside them.

Jimin meets his eyes briefly over Bora’s head. There’s no surprise in his expression. No pressure, either. Just a soft look in his eyes that tells him he doesn’t have to rush anything.

“Appa,” Bora calls, still clutching Jimin’s hand like he belongs to her too. “Look who I found! Isn’t it funny?”

“Yeah,” Jeongguk says, voice softer than he intends. “Funny.”

Jimin meets his eyes then, just for a second. His gaze is calm. Steady. And there’s the barest twitch at the corner of his lips, as if to say, I got you. We’ll go slow.

“Want to join me?” Jimin gestures to the bench, then the space in the shade just beside it, where a folded blanket and a canvas tote bag rest on the grass. “I was thinking of having a little picnic.”

“Do you have snacks?” Bora asks immediately, eyes sparkling.

Jimin lifts his tote bag and grins. “Only the best ones.”

That’s all it takes. She sits herself right down on the edge of the blanket like she’s done it a hundred times before, legs crossed, ready to claim this space as her own. Jeongguk slowly lowers himself beside her, still scanning Jimin’s expression—careful, composed, but his eyes flicker toward Jeongguk with affection.

He’s playing along for Jeongguk’s sake. Giving him time to find his footing. Letting Bora settle. Letting this settle.

The three of them sit in a loose triangle under the shade, the breeze brushing gently over their faces. Jimin reaches into the tote and pulls out a few small containers—rice cakes with black sesame, peeled fruit packed in chilled boxes, a thermos with what smells like barley tea.

Bora claps softly when she sees the triangle kimbaps. “These are my favorite!”

“I remember,” Jimin says, handing her one wrapped in foil. “You’ve told me once at school.”

She leans against him with a pleased hum and starts to unwrap her snack. Jeongguk feels his heartbeat slowing. He didn’t expect it to feel so natural. So easy. 

He watches as Jimin smooths the blanket, careful not to let anything tip over, as Bora chatters beside him. Every so often, Jimin glances at Jeongguk—just a flicker, just enough to check in. And every time, Jeongguk feels the knot in his chest loosen.

They stay like that for a while. Jimin passes around the tea in small paper cups, even though Bora only takes one polite sip before deciding to stick to her banana milk. Jeongguk leans back on his hands, watching the exchange with a quiet smile. He still hasn’t spoken much—he’s mostly let the moment carry itself, watching Bora as she clings to Jimin’s sleeve like she does at school, completely unaware that anything about this is unusual.

Or maybe she does know something’s different. Maybe she’s just pretending it isn’t. Like Jimin and he are.

They don’t tell the real reason they’re there out loud. But it hovers in the air anyway. 

Then Jimin shifts slightly, sitting upright, brushing invisible crumbs from his lap like he’s preparing for something important.

“You know,” he says casually, looking out over the park like he’s just thinking out loud, “I heard a rumor.”

Bora looks up from her kimbap, instantly intrigued. “What kind of rumor?”

Jimin tilts his head thoughtfully. “I heard that someone—someone very brave, very smart, very small—turned five years old just a few days.”

Bora gasps. “I did!”

Jeongguk snorts softly, covering it with a fake cough.

Jimin pretends to be stunned. “You? No way.”

“I did!” she insists, already wriggling in place, her hands flailing for emphasis. “It was my birthday yesterday. We had cake. With pink frosting. And I got a toy bunny with glitter wings.”

“Well, in that case—”

He pulls out a small wrapped package from beneath the food containers. It’s neatly done, with simple paper and a pale ribbon. He holds it out toward her like he’s not entirely sure she’ll take it.

Bora blinks at it. Then gasps again, softer this time.

“For me?”

Jimin shrugs, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Only if you’re really five. I don’t give gifts to four-year-olds. Too risky.”

“I am !” She snatches the package, holding it delicately like it’s made of glass. “I really am!”

Jeongguk feels her scent brighten—sugar-sweet and pink, like frosting and happiness. His chest tightens, but in the best kind of way. He looks over at Jimin, who meets his eyes for a moment, still smiling gently.

Thank you , Jeongguk wants to say. Not just for the gift. But for being here. For making this easy. For making it feel right.

But he doesn’t say it. He just lets the moment linger, soft and steady, as Bora begins to untie the ribbon

It’s tied just snug enough to make her grumble under her breath, and Jeongguk leans forward, half-ready to help, but Jimin lifts a finger subtly, a gesture that tells him to let her try. So he stays back, smiling faintly as she tugs the knot loose with full determination.

The gift beneath is small, rounded, and soft—a plush toy, its fabric a warm tawny brown with oversized ears and tiny stitched paws folded neatly in front of it. Its little nose is slightly upturned, and its eyes are embroidered in a way that makes it look half asleep and full of secrets.

Bora freezes for half a second. Then, her mouth drops open.

“It’s a fox !” she gasps, lifting it carefully, reverently, as if it might melt if she squeezes it too hard. She turns it over in her hands, marveling at the long tail and enormous ears. “It’s so tiny. And its ears are huge .”

“It’s a fennec fox,” Jimin says, his voice playful, his smile soft. “Smaller than most foxes, but really fast. And really clever.”

“She’s so cute,” Bora breathes, already deciding the plush is a girl. “Her fur’s like sand. Look, Appa—look at her little paws!”

Jeongguk chuckles, leaning in to examine the toy with her. “Yeah. She’s adorable.”

“I thought,” Jimin says, voice light as he tucks a stray ribbon into the empty gift bag, “maybe she could be Soop’s best friend.”

Bora presses the fennec fox plush to her chest and leans closer to Jimin, smiling so wide it’s almost shy. “Soop is gonna love her.”

“You think so?”

“Mm-hmm,” she hums, still beaming. “He was sad yesterday‘cause I forgot to bring him to the living room for my birthday party. But I think she’ll make him feel better. Thank you, seonsaengnim.”

Jimin nods seriously, caressing the top of her head. “She looks like she’d be good at that. Taking care of people. Foxes are smart like that.”

Bora sighs, full of contentment, and gently places her new friend next to her on the blanket, carefully positioning her so she’s “comfortable.” Then she takes one of the triangle kimbaps from the small tray Jimin had laid out, unwrapping it slowly, like this whole morning is now a ceremony that needs to be cherished.

Jeongguk watches her, her pink cheeks and glowing eyes, and then looks at Jimin again. There’s a quiet sort of pride in the way Jimin sits, watching her with a pleased smile on his face. Like it mattered to him that she liked it. That he did something right.

And he did. Jeongguk doesn’t think anyone’s ever chosen something so perfect for her without even asking.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Jeongguk murmurs after a beat, voice just low enough that Bora can’t hear. “Seriously.”

“It’s okay.” Jimin shrugs, turning his cup of tea between his fingers. “She’s easy to care about.”

That shouldn't hit Jeongguk as hard as it does, but it does—deeo, right in his chest. The kind of feeling that settles in his bones.

Because yes, Bora is easy to love, Jeongguk has always known that. But hearing it out loud from someone else—from Jimin— does something to him. It’s not only that someone else sees her the way he does, or the gentle way Jimin says it, or the softness in his eyes.

It’s the fact that Jimin showed up at all. That he’s here, sitting cross-legged on a picnic blanket with scattered rice crumbs and orange juice that Bora accidentally spilled over him when he was filling her cup. That he picked out a gift that perfectly matched her. That he's not making this moment complicated or heavy with expectation.

He's just here. And something about that—about him—makes Jeongguk ache. Like a tug behind his ribs, like a muscle twitching to move. His wolf is beyond happy, yes, because Jimin is caring for his pup without wanting anything in return, just out of pure adoration for Bora. But it's starting to want, getting restless inside of him for completely different reasons.

It's not nervousness and gratitude blooming inside of him, not only that, but there's also longing . A deep, instinctive urge to reach across the space between them and press himself close. To wrap his arms around Jimin's smaller frame and bury his face in the curve of his neck. To inhale the sweet tang of lemon balm and rosemary and whatever softness lives behind Jimin’s collarbone. To scent and hold and cradle, not just because his wolf is soothed by Jimin’s presence, but because he wants to show affection. Because he needs to.

The ache is quiet, but persistent. He swallows it down, doesn’t move nor act on it. Not yet.

Instead, he watches as Jimin wipes a bit of orange juice off Bora's lip with a napkin and lets her chatter about how the fennec fox, that she still needs to choose a name for,  is going to have so many adventures with Soop.

And Jeongguk breathes in deep and slow, grounding himself and his wolf before he does something reckless like lean in and kiss the edge of Jimin's jaw in broad daylight and in front of his daughter.

Maybe late, he thinks. Because he still has a few things to do. Because the space between them is shrinking, and he thinks Jimin feels it too.

He catches Jimin's eye for a second, and Jimin gives him the smallest nod, quiet permission and encouragement, and then glances back down at Bora with a small smile.

The moment feels right. It's light and safe and open in a way Jeongguk couldn't have planned for, that couldn't be more perfect and right.

“Hey, pup,” Jeongguk says, nudging Bora’s back gently. “Can I tell you something?”

Bora looks at him with a dramatically sad expression, plush toy tucked against her chest. “You’re not gonna say it’s time to go, right?”

Jeongguk chuckles softly. “No, puppy, not yet.”

She narrows her eyes, now looking suspicious but intrigued.

“You remember what we talked about yesterday?” he says, voice low and even. “How I said there’s someone really special that I like?”

Her little face scrunches in thought. She hugs her fox closer, turning slightly to look at him with that observant stare she got from him.

“You mean your boyfriend?”she asks.

“Mm.” He nods, though his ears flush pink, and tries to hold himself back from looking at Jimin at the mention of the word boyfriend . “That I wanted you to meet him.”

Her eyes squint a little, curious. She glances around the park, then back to the blanket. “Are they here?”

“They are.” His voice is steady, careful.

Bora’s little brow furrows, and she looks around the park as if expecting a stranger to step out from behind a tree. Her gaze drifts across the blanket and lands on Jimin—who’s been watching quietly, a small, amused curve to his mouth—and her eyes go round.

“Jimin seonsaengnim?”

Jeongguk nods, his chest tight. “Yeah, pup. It’s Jimin.”

Bora gasps, eyes huge, and then she jumps around with a squeal. “I knew it!”

Jeongguk laughs under his breath, looking a little caught off guard. “You knew?”

“Mm-hmm.” She nods, hugging the plush fox closer to her chest. “Because, appa, sometimes you smell a little different. Just a little. And it’s not like anyone else’s.”

Jeongguk raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

Bora nods again, more confidently now. “And then… and then… every time I hugged Jimin seonsaengnim at school, I kept thinking, That smells a little like appa .”

Jimin blinks at her, looking just a little less surprised than Jeongguk, like he’d already expected this from her, and lets out a warm, delighted laugh.

“You kept sniffing me?”

“Yeah!” Bora says with no hesitation, grinning like she’s proud of it. “I didn’t know for sure, so I had to check. I hugged Jimin seonsaengnim a lot more just to see if I was right. It took a couple of days, but then I started believing it was true.

Jimin chuckles again, shaking his head slightly in amusement, his eyes flicking briefly to Jeongguk with a spark of mischief. His eyes say, clear as day, that this is what you get for burying your face in my neck every time we’re together.

Jeongguk feels the tips of his ears heat. His wolf is wagging its tail even though it’s bashful. He was too naive to think those little moments of scenting were really little, that they had been subtle, but of course they weren’t—not with his pup around. Wolves always know.

Bora, oblivious to his embarrassment, beams between the two of them. “I'm glad it’s Jimin seonsaengnim. He’s my favorite anyway.”

Then she scoots over until she’s sitting right between them, the fox plush in her lap. She grabs one of Jeongguk’s hands and one of Jimin’s, holding them tightly together in her small fists. “Now I get to keep both of you, right?”

Jeongguk’s voice softens, the lump in his throat making it almost hard to speak. “Yeah, pup,” he says, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. “If you want to.”

“Of course I do!”  she declares, swinging both their hands back and forth.

Jimin lets her, his thumb brushing lightly over her knuckles before he glances up at Jeongguk again. His smile is quiet and amused, but he looks just as happy and relieved as Jeongguk does.

Her gaze drifts between them for a moment, her small face thoughtful in that way Jeongguk has learned means she’s about to say something she thinks is important.

And then, a little dreamy, she sighs.

“I also knew you’d eventually fall for Jimin seonsaengnim’s puppy teeth as much as I do.”

Jeongguk blinks, a little thrown. “...What?”

“You know…” Bora starts, all seriousness now, “the ones we can see when he smiles. They look like puppy teeth. I’ve been saying that for so long . I like them. And I’m glad you do too.”

Jimin’s brows lift, caught between surprise and amusement. He glances at Jeongguk, and his lips twitch like he’s fighting a laugh.

Jeongguk can feel the tips of his ears heating. “Bora—”

But she’s not done. “Maybe… if he spends enough time with us…” She pauses for effect, her little wolf ears practically perking in her scent, “…his puppy teeth will grow into fully adult ones.”

That does it—Jimin laughs, low and warm. He tips his head back slightly, shoulders shaking once before he catches himself, looking at Bora with pure fondness. “That’s… not quite how it works.”

Bora frowns, unconvinced. “Are you sure ?”

“They’re not puppy teeth, darling. They’re actually fangs.”

Bora tilts her head, eyes narrowing in concentration. “Fangs?”

“Yes. They’re sharp, just like a wolf’s—maybe even more. And they can get bigger sometimes—when I have to eat.”

Her eyes go wide, fascinated. “They grow ?”

“A little,” he explains, easy and gentle. “Just enough to help me with certain foods.”

“What kind of food?”

Jimin glances towards Jeongguk, who’s already looking at him with raised eyebrows. There’s an underline of amusement behind their eyes, an unspoken conversation going on between them. He instantly is reminded of why he never really gave a proper explanation every time one of his students pointed out his fangs. Because what is he even going to say?

Turning back to Bora, Jimin keeps his tone gentle. “Special food,” he says. “Vampire food.”

Bora’s gaze sharpens as she processes that. “Like… super special? Or just special?”

“Super special,” Jimin says with a little nod, leaning closer like it’s a secret just for her. “Not something you’d see in the grocery store.”

She considers that for a beat, then hums in approval. “Okay. But I still think ‘puppy teeth’ is a cuter name than ‘fangs.’”

Jimin’s mouth twitches like he’s fighting a laugh. “I can’t argue with that.”

She looks satisfied with the vague explanation, and Jeongguk exhales slowly, the knot of tension in his chest loosening. Because at least she didn't ask to see Jimin’s fangs in action , he thinks. Jeongguk isn’t sure he would’ve been ready for that.

Bora stays wedged between them, legs stretched out in front of her on the blanket, and fennec fox in her lap, looking like it’s part of the audience. Her eyes stay on Jimin more often than not, and every now and then she tilts her head just so, that particular look she gets when she’s in full question-asking mode.

It starts simple.

“Do vampires like the sun now?” 

“Some of us do, with the right sunscreen.”

She nods, satisfied for the moment, before moving on.

“Can you run as fast as Appa?”

 “Faster,” Jimin answers with a playful little smirk.

Her gasp is dramatic. “No way.”

She pauses only long enough to take another bite of her cracker.

“If you had to, could you carry both me and Appa at the same time?”

Jimin pretends to consider it seriously. “I could try. You’d both have to promise not to wiggle too much.”

Bora grins, clearly picturing it in her head.

Jeongguk sits back through it all, listening, his wolf relaxed but watchful, purring quietly at how easy the exchange feels. Bora’s curiosity is pure, in a way that always seems to pull people in—and Jimin lets himself be pulled in without hesitation.

But then, after a short lull, Bora leans back on her hands and looks between them. Her expression is different now, it’s not mischievous anymore, just honest wonder.

“So…” she starts slowly, “if you’re not my teacher anymore…” Her gaze lingers on Jimin, searching, before darting briefly to her dad. “What are you to me now?”

The question lands heavier than the ones before, but not in a bad way. Jimin blinks once, the faintest flicker of surprise crossing his face. When he glances at Jeongguk just for a second, Jeongguk feels that shift in the air too. His wolf perks up—alert, tail swishing in slowly and measuredly—waiting to see how the ground between them will be walked on.

Bora, meanwhile, is clearly unaware of how carefully the two adults are considering her words. She just wants to know. 

Jimin holds her gaze for a moment, then smiles, not the teasing one he’s been giving her since the start, but something softer. “I think,” he says slowly, “I’m someone who cares about you a lot. And someone your dad cares about too.”

Bora blinks at that, mulling it over. “Like a friend?”

“Like a friend,” Jimin agrees, “but maybe more than that.”

Her little face scrunches in thought, and then her voice turns careful, testing the words before she lets them out. “So… are you part of our pack now?”

The question pulls Jeongguk’s attention fully to her, his chest tightening for reasons he can’t quite name. His wolf gives a slow, pleased thump of its tail, the soundless rhythm echoing in his ribs.

Jimin glances at Jeongguk again—a small flicker of something in his eyes, like he’s aware of just how much weight that word carries for both of them. Then he looks back to Bora, the corners of his smile lifting.

“I’d like to be,” he says gently. “If your pack would have me.”

Bora’s answering grin is immediate and bright, her small hand tightening around both of theirs. “We’d have you.” She nods decisively, as if she’s just made some official decree. “Right, appa?”

Jeongguk’s voice comes out quieter than he expects, but steady. “Right.”

The word hangs there, warm and steady, but the echo it leaves in his chest is deeper than he could’ve ever imagined.

Because it wasn’t so long ago that pack meant something very different to him. It meant a cluster of cabins tucked into the trees, a couple dozen wolves whose scents bled into each other until the air itself smelled like home. It meant the safety and weight of numbers, the certainty of a shared life, the background hum of belonging that was always there—until it wasn’t.

When they left, that sound went quiet. All that was left was him and Bora. Just two wolves in a city that didn’t feel like theirs. For months, pack was something he only carried in memory—something he kept alive for Bora’s sake in stories and scent and small habits, but never really had.

And now…

He glances at Jimin, who’s still holding Bora’s hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world, lemon balm and rosemary drifting softly in the warm air between them.

Now they have this.

It’s not the same kind of pack he grew up with—it’s smaller, stranger, stitched together from different worlds—but as he watches Bora lean into Jimin’s side with all the trust she has, his wolf recognizes it all the same.

And for the first time since leaving the woods, they’re not just the two of them anymore.

🧛🏻❤️🐺

A few months later…

The apartment is still waking up. Morning light spills in through the half-open blinds, pale and golden, cutting soft stripes across the kitchen floor. Somewhere outside, the city hums—a distant chorus of traffic and footsteps and conversation—but in here, it’s quiet except for the small sounds of their morning routine.

Bora is at the table, still in her pajamas, legs swinging against the chair as she takes exaggerated bites from a slice of toast. Crumbs gather in her lap, but she doesn’t notice, she’s too busy talking, her voice lilting from one thought to the next without pausing.

Jeongguk moves through the kitchen in steady loops—from the counter to the fridge, to the cupboard and back—the faint rustle of paper bags and the click of plastic lids punctuating her chatter. Every so often, he hums an answer, showing that he’s listening even if his hands are full.

Jimin is leaning against the counter near the stove, mug of tea cradled loosely in both hands. He’s watching the scene unfold with the kind of stillness Jeongguk has learned is never quite still. His eyes track every movement, every rise and fall of Bora’s voice, a small, easy smile on his lips.

“…and then Soop told Bom they have to sit together today because it’s a special day, but not too special because we still have school, but I think maybe it’s special enough for cake—”

“Cake?” Jeongguk asks, not looking up from where he’s tucking a small container into her lunch bag.

“Tiny cake,” she clarifies, holding her hands just barely apart, then leaning forward over her toast as if sharing a secret. “Like the ones with the frosting swirls on top.”

Jimin’s mouth curves, and he hides it behind his mug. “Sounds like a very important mission.”

Bora beams at him, crumbs clinging to her cheeks. “You get it.”

Jeongguk shakes his head but doesn’t correct her—he’s learned there’s no winning against her version of logic this early in the morning. He crouches to check the straps on her backpack where it’s propped against the table leg, his movements automatic after so long.

From his spot at the counter, Jimin tilts his head slightly, his gaze flicking between them. There’s something easy in the way he fits into the space now—there’s no hesitation about leaning where he is, no question about whether he belongs in the middle of their mornings. The lemon balm-and-rosemary trace of his scent threads faintly through Jeongguk’s and Bora’s and the smell of toast and the steam from his tea.

Bora takes another bite, swinging her legs a little faster, and starts in on a new topic before the last one’s even cooled. “Oh, and I need to bring both Soop and Bom today, because they can’t be apart yet. They have to learn about the school together so they don’t get shy.”

Jeongguk sighs softly through his nose but feels his mouth twitch upward anyway. He is crouched by the table, trying to zip the lunch bag without squashing the fruit container.

“We’ll see if there’s room.”

“There’s always room,” she says matter-of-factly.

Jimin hums in quiet agreement, and Jeongguk shoots him a mock glare over his shoulder, and Jimin says, voice light and easy.

“You know,” Jimin says, taking another sip of tea, “you could make this easier on yourself if you packed her bag the night before.”

Jeongguk looks up at him, one brow raised. “I try . But she keeps sneaking things out so she can fit more toys in.”

“That’s because I need them,” Bora pipes up immediately, as if she’s been waiting for her chance to defend herself.

Jimin hums, fighting a smile. “Of course you do.”

Their conversation is simple, but it fits into place as easily as every other morning has for months now. Nearly a year, in fact.

It’s been that long since they told Bora that they were together—and began officially dating a week after. She’d accepted it with the same bright certainty she approached everything she loved, and from there, the days began to stack up without them noticing.

Now, Jimin’s presence is as woven into their routine as the morning light spilling over the kitchen counter, as ordinary as Bora’s chatter and Jeongguk’s quiet hums of acknowledgment.

Today, though, is different. Because today is Bora’s first day of first grade.

Her backpack is a little bigger, her hair a little longer, her excitement buzzing in her scent even more than usual. She keeps bouncing in her chair, barely containing herself between bites of toast, already talking about the new friends she’s going to make and how she’s going to teach Bom, her fennec fox bestie, “everything about big-kid school.”

Jeongguk glances at Jimin, who’s still leaning against the counter, watching Bora with an expression that’s equal parts fondness and quiet pride. And Jeongguk thinks—not for the first time—that this is what their life has grown into. Not the life he had in the pack, but one he wouldn’t trade for anything.

He zips up the lunch bag and tucks it into Bora’s backpack, setting it by the door. “Alright, last check,” he says, turning toward her. “You’ve got your pencil case, your notebooks, your snack, and both Soop and Bom?”

Bora pops up from her chair like she’s powered by springs, her hair bouncing with the movement. “Yup! All ready!”

Jeongguk narrows his eyes like he’s scanning for something she might have forgotten. But she just beams up at him, the tip of her nose pink with excitement.

“Okay,” he says slowly, as if he’s finally convinced. “Let’s go, then.”

She darts to the entryway to pull on her shoes, bouncing from foot to foot as she wrestles with the straps. Her backpack is almost as big as she is, but she shoulders it with a little huff and then turns toward Jimin.

The moment her eyes land on him, her face lights up even brighter. “Bye, Jimin!” she says, and then she quite literally bounces over to him—little hops that make her bag sway side to side—until she’s right in front of him. She tips forward on her toes, looking up at him with wide eyes. “Wish me luck! I’m gonna make so many friends today.”

Jimin crouches down so they’re eye level. “You won’t need luck,” he says warmly. “But I’ll still wish it for you anyway.”

Bora grins so wide it almost scrunches her eyes shut, and before he can straighten, she throws her arms around his neck. “See you later!”

“See you later, darling,” Jimin murmurs back, giving her shoulders a gentle squeeze before letting go.

Jeongguk watches the exchange from the doorway, something warm settling in his chest. When Bora bounces back to his side, he lingers for a moment longer, stepping up to Jimin.

Without thinking too much about it—because by now it feels as natural as breathing—he leans in and kisses him. Just a brief press of lips, the kind that says I’ll miss you even if it’s just for half an hour.

“I’ll be back soon,” he says quietly.

“I’ll be here,” Jimin says, voice gentle and soft. Then, his mouth curves into a teasing smile. “Promise you won’t cry?”

Jeongguk huffs out a laugh. “I’ll try.”

They both know he probably will, at least a little. But it’s the day of first grade—that’s allowed.

Jimin still has a full week before kindergarten starts up again, and still Jeongguk has a few days off work—that he took not just to enjoy the end of Bora’s break, but to have these mornings with Jimin too. It’s rare for the three of them to have unhurried time together, and he’s been quietly savoring it: the smell of toast and tea, the sound of Bora’s chatter blending with Jimin’s softer replies, the faint trace of lemon balm in the air.

From the door, Bora calls, “Come on! We’re gonna be late!”

Jeongguk glances at Jimin one last time before heading out, his wolf content but not entirely still—because every time he leaves Jimin, it already counts the moments until he comes back.

As they walk down the street, Jeongguk glances up at the building and Bora waves wildly, nearly losing her balance, because they know Jimin is by the window even though he can’t see him from all the up there. The faint trace of Jimin’s scent clings to him, to Bora’s hair and jacket from her hug, and it feels like they’re carrying a piece of him along—like even apart, they’re still all together.

Because they’re a pack, Jeongguk’s wolf hums. And he never once questioned it ever since Bora had asked.

Bora skips at his side, humming under her breath, her backpack bouncing with each step. She’s so at ease, her scent happy and light, that it almost makes Jeongguk laugh at himself. Because standing here now, in the middle of the city that once felt too big, too loud, and too unfamiliar, he can’t quite remember what it was that made him so wary before.

He thinks back to those first days, to the way he used to tense the moment Jimin was near, to how he measured every word and step, always waiting for some reason to pull Bora closer and keep her away from him. It’s almost strange to recall how sharply his wolf had bristled, how certain he’d been that letting someone like Jimin into their lives would be a mistake.

Back then, it had been just the two of them. They’d left behind the comfort of a couple dozen wolves and stepped into a city where they had no one but each other. He’d been ready to keep it that way forever, convinced that small and safe was the only way forward.

But now Bora’s little hand is warm in his, swinging between them, and Jimin’s scent lingers on his skin, in her hair, in the air they leave behind them. It’s steadying, familiar, something that feels like it’s been part of them much longer than it actually has.

He realizes, with a quiet twist of his chest, that their world has grown again. Not back to the sprawling, busy hum of the pack they left behind. No, this is smaller, simpler, but it’s theirs. And Jimin is in it.

Jeongguk squeezes Bora’s hand gently, watching her skip a little faster toward the crosswalk, her face lit up with excitement for her first day of first grade. He can’t imagine telling her no to this. He can’t imagine going back to the days when Jimin wasn’t here to wave them off in the morning or to welcome them home at night.

He used to think their beginning was too rocky, too awkward, too unlikely to lead anywhere steady. Now, walking hand in hand with his pup and carrying Jimin’s scent on his skin, he knows he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

And he honestly has no idea what he was so afraid of.