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scarsnfevers · 2 months ago

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Gravity (16+)

Chapter VI of Wolfgang

summary: the days slipped by like whispers on the wind, yet the storm within you only deepened—slowly, relentlessly. And then, one afternoon, as the sky dimmed beneath a veil of clouds, one of the three long-awaited triggers came to find you, crossing the threshold like fate itself.

genre: werewolf!chan x werewolf!reader (most of the time)

chapter word count: 7k

chapter warnings: mature/strong language, sexual insinuations

!minors do not interact!

The day passed in fragments. You drifted through it like a ghost, caught somewhere between the lingering touch of a dream and the cold clarity of reality. The sun had risen and crossed the sky without your notice, and now, as evening crept in with long golden shadows and a hush that settled over the trees, you still hadn't quite found your footing. It had taken you most of the morning to convince yourself to leave your bed. Even longer to silence your wolf’s sulky, yearning presence inside you.

She’d been restless all day, pacing the edges of your thoughts, brushing up against your awareness with the same insistence a wild thing has when denied something it’s claimed. You’d told her to be quiet more times than you could count. She hadn’t listened once. You’d hoped that movement would help — that action might shake the dream loose from your bones.

So you’d cleaned. Stripped the bed. Folded laundry. Swept the floors. You even tackled that one cabinet in the kitchen you’d been avoiding for months — the one overflowing with mismatched mugs and spices you never used. But even as your hands moved, your mind wandered. You’d be halfway through folding a shirt when a flash of memory would take you by the throat — the press of warm lips at your neck, a voice growling your name in the dark. You’d pause, heart racing, breath caught in your chest, as if your body still expected to be touched. Later, when the restlessness grew unbearable, you’d slipped out of the house and into the woods.

The forest welcomed you in its quiet, indifferent way. Twilight bled through the trees in streaks of lavender and soft amber, dappling the forest floor with light. The scent of pine, of damp earth and fallen leaves, wrapped around you like a balm. You walked without direction, just letting your feet move, breathing in the silence, hoping it would soothe something in you. But even here, they followed you.

Not physically — not yet — but in sensation. In memory. The cool breeze that kissed your skin felt too much like a hand brushing your thigh. The rustle of branches overhead reminded you of a deep groan pulled from a throat, primal and raw. You groaned under your breath and rubbed at your face. "Get a grip," you whispered to no one.

But your wolf only huffed a laugh inside you — smug and knowing. You hated how she was right. Hated more how you felt it, too.

You turned back home just as the light began to fade entirely, the woods slipping into that hushed stillness that came before true night. Back inside, the house was quiet. Warm. The scent of the tea you'd left steeping earlier still lingered faintly in the air, mingling with the lavender you’d dabbed on your wrists out of habit. You kicked off your boots at the door, your muscles aching pleasantly from the walk. But your chest felt tight. Unsettled.

There was a restlessness in your limbs, a hum beneath your skin that hadn't gone away since you’d woken up. You’d hoped the day would dull the edges of it, but all it had done was stretch it out — soften it into something quieter, deeper. You padded into the kitchen and poured yourself a new cup of tea, curling your hands around the ceramic as if warmth alone could ground you. Leaning against the counter, you stared out the window into the darkening trees, letting your thoughts unravel.

The dream had been unlike anything you'd ever known. Not just a fantasy, not some fleeting nighttime illusion — it had felt like a memory from another life. A truth spoken in the language of skin and breath and soul. They’d touched you like they knew every inch of you. Held you like they’d been waiting forever. Looked at you like they recognized something you hadn’t even known was missing. And your body… your wolf had responded as if it had simply been waiting for them to return. You swallowed hard and looked away from the window, suddenly overwhelmed. This wasn’t normal.

Dreams weren’t supposed to leave you aching. Weren’t supposed to leave your skin missing something that had never really been there. And yet — here you were.

You made your way to the living room, tea in hand, and sank onto the couch. The same couch where you’d fallen asleep the night before. Where it had all started. You hesitated a moment, staring at the cushion beside you like it might still hold some imprint of them — of you, tangled and gasping, breathless and undone. Your cheeks flushed, your throat tightening. You shook your head and pulled your knees to your chest, cradling the mug between them. Steam rose in slow curls, and you watched it disappear into the dim room. Your wolf was quiet now, but not gone. She lay just beneath the surface, content for the moment, but her presence was a constant thrum — a reminder.

Of who you were. Of what you’d felt. Of who had awakened it.

You ran a hand through your hair, exhaling slowly. You didn’t know what came next. Didn’t know if this was fate, or just a trick of the subconscious. But something inside you had shifted. Something irreversible. And the part that scared you most? You didn’t want to undo it. Not really.

Because no matter how much it unnerved you…

You wanted to feel it again. That heat. That closeness. That belonging. That sense that you were no longer alone in the dark. Outside, night had fully fallen. The forest was still. Silent. But something told you — deep in your bones, in the primal, knowing part of you — that the quiet wouldn’t last forever.

Something was coming. And this time… you weren’t sure you’d resist it.

The fire crackled quietly in the stillness of the night, sending tendrils of warmth curling into the cool forest air. The flickering orange light played across the weather-worn wood of John’s old cabin, throwing soft shadows across the gathered group. A faint breeze rustled the trees surrounding the clearing, carrying with it the familiar scent of pine, earth, and pack. The night was quiet, calm—almost deceptively so.

Chan sat a little removed from the others, perched on a thick log at the edge of the firelight. His elbows rested on his knees, hands loosely clasped, eyes fixed on the flames but not really seeing them. He wasn’t brooding, not exactly—just listening. Observing. And thinking. He always thought too much.

Minho was stretched out on a flat stone across from him, one knee drawn up, the other leg extended. He poked idly at the fire with a stick, sending a small burst of sparks into the air, his expression relaxed but his eyes alert. Hyunjin sat to his left, long legs folded beneath him, a thin smirk playing on his lips. He looked particularly pleased with himself tonight, and Chan already knew why. “She’s different,” Hyunjin said, breaking the brief silence. “You can feel it, can’t you?”

“You only saw her for five minutes,” Minho replied, dry as kindling. “What exactly did you feel, aside from hormones?” Hyunjin shrugged, unbothered. “Doesn’t take long to notice when someone walks like they don’t belong, but still fits anyway. She’s not trying to prove herself. She just… is.” Changbin let out a low laugh from where he was leaned back against a tree trunk. “Sounds like someone’s smitten.” Hyunjin didn’t deny it, and that alone made Chan glance up. “Didn’t say I wasn’t,” Hyunjin said. “But it’s not about that. You felt it too, right? When she looked at you?”

Minho gave him a flat look, but the flicker in his eyes said more than words. He had felt something, even if he refused to name it.

Chan exhaled quietly, his fingers tightening slightly. The air around the fire was thick with unspoken thoughts. They were all circling the same thing, even if they hadn’t named it yet. Y/N. Her presence had been brief, but it had stirred the balance. And wolves didn’t take well to imbalance. Minho’s voice cut through the quiet again, this time with a sharper edge. “It’s one thing to be curious about someone new. It’s another if she actually joins the pack.” “Why?” Changbin asked, raising a brow. “She’s strong. Smart. Got a steady energy. That’s not a bad addition.”

Minho tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “She’s also a woman. An unmated female Alpha, dropped right into the middle of a den of unmated Alphas, Omegas and Betas. You don’t think that might… disrupt things a little?” There was a beat of silence. The fire popped. Changbin grinned. “You’re not wrong. Could make for some interesting mornings.” Minho rolled his eyes, but his voice held a hint of amusement. “You’ll survive, Bin. I’m more worried about the others.” “Hyunjin?” Changbin teased. Hyunjin raised his hands. “Hey, don’t look at me. I’ve got self-control.” “Bullshit,” Minho muttered.

Chan finally spoke, his voice low but firm, the kind that made ears perk instinctively. “It won’t matter unless she chooses. And if she does… we’ll deal with it.”

All eyes turned toward him, but he didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. There was something in the way he said it—measured, careful, but edged with something deeper. A weight none of them could quite place. The firelight danced in his eyes, hiding and revealing in equal measure. Minho leaned back again, gaze flicking skyward. “She hasn’t chosen yet. That says something too.”

No one answered.

Above them, the moon had begun its slow climb, glowing silver between the trees. The night deepened, and with it, the tension that lay curled beneath their skin, coiled like a wire, waiting. The fire had burned lower now, casting a deeper shade of amber across their faces, shadows flickering over strong jaws and narrowed eyes. The silence that lingered between Minho’s last words and the crackle of flames was taut—like the wire of a bow pulled too far, one heartbeat away from snapping.

Then, footsteps. Quick, light, familiar.

Jisung stepped into the firelight, hoodie half-zipped, strands of his dark hair clinging damp to his forehead as if he’d just come from a run. He paused only briefly, eyes scanning the group before dropping to the half-empty bottle beside Hyunjin and nudging it with the toe of his boot. “You guys started without me?” Changbin leaned back with a smirk, his hand lazily lifting in welcome. “Took you long enough. Was starting to think you got lost in your own damn woods.” Jisung gave him a sideways glance, then dropped onto a log beside Hyunjin, his gaze flicking toward Chan and Minho—both unnaturally still, eyes locked like wolves posturing in the moments before a fight. It didn’t take much to pick up on the tension.

“What’s going on?” Jisung asked, slower this time, eyes narrowing. “I thought this was a chill night.” Minho’s lip curled, subtle and sharp. “We were just discussing how one woman can unbalance a whole pack.” Hyunjin let out a breath, almost a laugh, though it held no humor. “You make it sound like she’s already chosen.” “She hasn’t,” Chan said quietly, but there was a weight to his voice now, like iron beneath velvet. “But that doesn’t mean we’re not already reacting to her.”

Minho turned to him fully, firelight licking the sharp lines of his face, the steel behind his words impossible to ignore. “You’re reacting. We all are. Even the ones pretending not to.” Chan didn’t flinch. He didn’t have to. His silence was its own kind of force. Jisung’s brow furrowed, a low hum vibrating in his throat. “She’s not even part of the pack yet.” “And if she joins?” Minho countered, gaze never leaving Chan’s. “She’s not just any Alpha."

“Minho’s not wrong,” Changbin said with a wry chuckle, dragging his palm down his face. “Shit’s going to get complicated. Imagine mating season with her in the middle of us.” Jisung let out a short bark of laughter. “You’re assuming she’ll want any of us.” “She’ll want one of us,” Hyunjin murmured, quiet, but it carried. That was the unspoken truth. That was the weight in the air none of them could shake. Chan finally broke his stillness. He leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs, hands clasped—knuckles white. “If she chooses someone,” he began, voice low, “we all need to be prepared for what that does to the rest of us.” Minho’s jaw clenched. “You saying that because you think she’ll choose you?”

Chan’s eyes snapped up, the fire caught in them now, glinting like embers beneath ash. “I’m saying that because we’re all dancing around a fire that’s already burning,” he said, and his voice didn’t rise, but it didn’t need to. “We’re pretending it’s manageable. It’s not.” Silence. Even the wind seemed to still. Minho leaned forward, slow, deliberate. “You think you’d be better for her? You think you can keep your control when she looks at you like that?” “She needs more than instinct,” Chan replied, steel coating every syllable. “She needs someone who won’t lose himself to the pull.” Minho’s lips thinned. “Don’t talk to me about control.” And just like that, it shifted. Not with claws or snarls, but with heat—something older, deeper, pressing through the veins of every Alpha gathered. Their wolves stirred beneath skin and bone, muscles tensing, scents sharpening. The air bristled. Jisung tensed, glancing between them.

Changbin stood up.

“Alright,” he said, voice raised just enough to be heard over the pulse that had begun to thrum through them all. “That’s enough posturing for one night.” Neither Minho nor Chan looked at him. “Seriously,” Changbin added, stepping between them, posture easy but firm. “I’m all for growling and glowering when it’s needed, but this?” He gestured to the fire. “This was supposed to be a moment to breathe. She’s not even here, and we’re already ready to tear into each other.” Minho exhaled sharply, tearing his gaze away first. Chan followed a beat later, his fingers flexing once before they stilled. For a moment, no one spoke. The fire crackled, throwing sparks toward the sky. The night around them pulsed with quiet wildness, a whisper of something approaching.

Changbin dropped back onto his log, tone lighter. “She’ll make her choice. Until then, we keep our heads.” Minho stared into the fire. “Easier said than done.” Jisung smirked, nudging him. “You just don’t want her picking Chan.” Minho didn’t respond. But he didn’t deny it either. Chan remained silent, gaze fixed on the flames—but his wolf stirred, not in anger now, but in something more primal. Anticipation. Longing. The ache of something just out of reach, and the knowledge that if he let it slip through his fingers, he’d never stop chasing it.

The late afternoon sun spilled across the cracked road like honey, warm and golden, but Chan barely noticed it. His hands sat loosely on the steering wheel of the pickup, but his knuckles were tight from how often he had flexed them during the drive. The open window let the breeze in—earthy, cool, laced with pine and the fading smoke of something burned earlier that day. A scent he should have felt comfort in. But it did nothing to quiet his thoughts. He had driven this stretch of road dozens of times. It was a short run into town and back, a familiar errand for Maria—her usual list of things that only he seemed to remember without writing down. Coffee beans, soap, that one brand of herbal tea she swore John could taste the difference in. Routine. Easy.

But nothing about today had felt easy.

His thoughts had been too loud. The night before lingered like a stain he couldn’t scrub out of his mind. Minho’s words—sharp and too pointed. The way everyone had danced on the edge of something dangerous, like fire licking too close to dry leaves. And worse than the tension between the pack was the tension within himself. The way he’d reacted. The way his wolf had paced behind his ribs, all restless fury and want, coiled around a need he didn’t want to name. He should have let it go. Should have focused on the road, on Maria’s list, on anything but the memory of Y/N’s scent. But that was the problem, wasn’t it? He could still smell her, even though she wasn’t here. He could feel her—imprinted like claw marks along his senses. Chan drew in a slow breath through his nose, as if doing so would steady him. It didn’t. If anything, it reminded him of last night again. Of that quiet, lingering possibility that had uncoiled in his chest when Minho had said what they were all too afraid to admit:

She could unmake them. And she didn’t even know it. His foot eased off the gas unconsciously. He blinked, realizing too late that he’d taken the wrong turn. Or maybe it wasn’t wrong at all. Maybe it was the road his instincts had chosen, not his mind. The gravel crunched beneath the tires as the forest opened slightly, and then, there it was—her cabin, nestled in the hush of trees, as if the earth itself held its breath around her. Chan exhaled slowly, the sound tight. He should turn around. But he didn’t. The truck rolled to a stop before he could decide otherwise, the engine ticking softly as he cut the ignition. The sudden quiet felt louder than any roar. He sat there for a moment, fingers drumming once against the steering wheel, then curling into a fist. His wolf was thrumming now, a low pulse that echoed through bone and blood. He stepped out. The air shifted.

It was subtle—but immediate.

Last time he had been here, there had been a quiet stillness to the clearing, like something untouched. But now… now the air felt charged, electric, like the breath of a storm waiting just beyond the horizon. It slid over his skin, raising goosebumps at the nape of his neck. The wind carried something else, too. Something familiar. Something far too tempting.

Lilac. Wildflowers. And summer rain on dry earth.

But not like last time. It was stronger now. Fuller. It wrapped around him before he even reached the steps of the porch, winding through his senses and threading beneath his skin. It hit something primal inside him—and he hated that it made his breath catch. Chan's boots echoed quietly on the wooden steps as he approached the front door. The cabin looked the same. But it felt different. The curtains were open, light spilling through them, casting soft shadows against the walls. He could hear the gentle creak of wood—somewhere inside. But no footsteps. No movement.

He raised his hand to knock—

The door opened before he could touch it. And there she was.

Y/N stood in the doorway, her hand still on the knob, lips parted in something like surprise. Her hair was a little damp, pulled into a loose braid that curled over her shoulder. She wore something simple—a faded tee and soft cotton pants—but it didn’t matter. She glowed in the threshold, lit by the afternoon sun, her scent washing over him in a dizzying wave. It hit him like a punch to the chest. Not just the scent. But her eyes.

There was something in them he hadn’t seen before. Something unreadable. Guarded. Like a secret she hadn’t meant for him to see. He tried to speak. Nothing came. Her brows lifted slightly, uncertain. “…Chan?” It was barely above a whisper, and yet it rattled through him. He blinked once. Twice. Then swallowed, forcing words out of a throat suddenly too dry. “Hey.”

Smooth. Real smooth.

She blinked back, confusion threading through her expression now. “Did… did something happen?” He shook his head, too fast. “No—I just—I was nearby. Thought I’d check in.” A lie. But not entirely. Y/N tilted her head slightly. “You drove all the way out here to check in?” Chan shifted on his feet, heat crawling up the back of his neck. “I was doing errands for Maria. I didn’t plan to, I just… ended up here.” She said nothing for a moment. And then, slowly—“Do you want to come in?” He hesitated. Everything in him screamed no. But he nodded.

“Yeah.”

She stepped back, holding the door open. And as he passed her, the scent hit him again—sharper this time, like the first crack of thunder before a downpour. His wolf growled low in his chest, not in warning. In need. He clenched his jaw and walked inside. The cabin was quiet, bathed in soft afternoon light. The air was warm, but not stifling. Something simmered here, though. A tension he couldn’t place. He felt it in the walls, in the way the shadows stretched just a little too long, in the way her presence filled the space. He stopped in the center of the room, turning slightly as she closed the door behind him.

Neither of them spoke.

Her eyes found his again, and he saw it—that flicker. That guarded thing behind her gaze. She was hiding something.

And maybe he was too.

You hadn’t expected anyone. Not today.

The cabin had been quiet all morning, the kind of silence that settled between the trees like mist—thick, almost sacred. You’d moved through it like someone still sleepwalking, wrapped in the lingering haze of last night’s dream. Even hours later, it clung to you like smoke. You’d tried to push it away. To breathe through it. To forget. But it wasn’t the kind of dream that faded easily. You hadn’t dared look at your bed again after waking. The sheets still tangled from your restless sleep. Your skin still too warm in places it shouldn’t be. And your thoughts—your thoughts had been a mess of half-remembered touches and heat and them. The way their voices had sounded in the dream, lower than usual, hoarse with need. The way their hands had moved over your skin, reverent and sure.

The way—

You’d locked it away. All of it. Or at least, you thought you had. Until the knock came.

Or rather—it didn’t.

Because before he could touch the door, your hand was already on the knob. Already turning it. Already opening. And then you saw him. Standing on your porch, framed by sunlight and shadow, was the man you had dreamed about. The man whose voice had whispered against your skin just hours ago. The man whose name had left your mouth in the dark with a gasp you couldn’t forget.

Chan.

Your breath caught, sharp and sudden. And just like that, it all came rushing back. Every image. Every sound. Every stolen second. The dream hit you like a tidal wave. His mouth on your neck. His breath in your ear. The heat of his body pressed into yours, pinning you to something you didn’t recognize, but had begged for all the same. You blinked. Once. Twice.

“...Chan?”

You hated how your voice sounded—thin, surprised, maybe a little breathless. He looked just as startled to see you. But something else moved across his face, too. Something unreadable. He said something. You barely registered the words. Your heartbeat was too loud. Why was he here? He hadn’t come the last time uninvited. And yet now—without warning—he stood there, shoulders broad in the soft cotton of his faded shirt, one hand still half-lifted in what must’ve been his intention to knock.

“I was nearby,” he said, eyes not quite meeting yours. “Thought I’d check in.”

You almost laughed. Liar, your wolf growled.

You didn’t know why he was here, not really. But you knew that wasn’t it. Still—you stepped aside. “Do you want to come in?” You didn’t know why you said it. Courtesy, maybe. Or some fragile hope that you could handle whatever this was. That you were stronger than the dream. You weren’t. Not when he walked past you and his scent curled into your lungs like smoke—the wild sea and salt and that maddeningly warm thing that was just him. Not when your inner wolf surged forward so fast it made your hands tremble.

He moved into the cabin, slow, cautious. And you stood frozen for a moment at the door, eyes on his back, on the curve of his shoulders, the shift of muscle beneath his shirt. You swallowed hard. Then closed the door. The soft click sounded louder than it should have. Chan stood a few steps inside, his gaze drifting over the room like he needed something to focus on. His fingers flexed at his sides, a restless twitch he likely didn’t notice. The quiet stretched, soft and uncertain. For a moment, the only sound was the distant rustle of leaves outside and the faint hum of the old ceiling fan above. You cleared your throat gently, arms crossed loose over your chest in a way that felt both casual and protective. “So… how’s everyone? The others, I mean.” Chan’s eyes flicked to yours. A small pause. “They’re good.” He gave a quick, practiced smile, the kind that barely touched his eyes. “Same as always. Loud. A little restless, maybe.”

Something about the way he said it made your brows twitch. There was an edge there—faint, but present. Like the truth was being held back, tucked behind his teeth. You didn’t press. Not yet. Instead, you nodded slowly, stepping past him toward the kitchen area. “That sounds… about right.” You glanced over your shoulder. “Do you want something to drink? Water? Coffee?” “Water’s fine. Thanks.” You moved to the cupboard, filling a glass at the sink. You could feel him watching you. Not in a heavy way, but… attentive. A stillness in him that felt too focused to be casual.

When you turned and handed him the glass, your fingers brushed. Just briefly. But it was enough. Electricity. Not the kind that sparked loud and bright—but the kind that hummed beneath the surface, slow and magnetic. His gaze met yours, steady and unreadable, but something flickered behind it. You stepped back first. Chan took a sip of the water, cleared his throat. “The mountains are quieter this week,” he offered, tone lighter now. “Fewer hikers. Guess the off-season’s finally settling in.”

You nodded, grateful for the shift. “Yeah, I noticed. It’s been almost too quiet.” “That’s not necessarily a bad thing.” “No,” you agreed, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I guess not.” A beat passed. The tension between you softened—just a fraction. Enough to breathe in. He leaned a shoulder against the doorframe now, more relaxed than he had been minutes ago. “You settling in alright?”

You hesitated, then gave a slow nod. “Yeah. I mean… it’s different. But it’s peaceful here.” “You’re not used to peaceful?” You shrugged. “Not really. But I like it.” You glanced at him, something curious stirring beneath your calm expression. “Is it always like this with the pack? The quiet… the space?” Chan exhaled a small laugh, soft and amused. “Not really. You’ve just caught us on a rare stretch. Normally someone’s arguing over food or chasing someone through the trees. Changbin and Hyunjin got into it yesterday over a piece of smoked jerky.” You raised a brow. “Seriously?” Chan nodded, a crooked smile touching his lips. “Dead serious. You’d think we were starving.”

You couldn’t help it—you laughed. The sound slipped out before you could think to contain it, and Chan blinked, clearly surprised by the sudden warmth in your expression. “I guess that explains the noise,” you said lightly, glancing down. “Yeah. We’re not exactly subtle.” He paused. “But it’s not all chaos. There’s… order. Usually.”

“Usually?”

His gaze sharpened a little at the word. He looked like he wanted to say something—but didn’t. Instead, he took another drink of water and let the question hang unanswered. You didn’t push again. Something told you that whatever he wasn’t saying—he’d only offer it when he was ready. Another moment passed, quiet but not uncomfortable. You moved to open a window, letting in a breeze laced with pine and earth. It swept through the cabin, stirring the curtains and the air between you. When you turned, you caught Chan watching again—this time not looking away. You tilted your head slightly. “What?” The young man blinked, straightened just a little too fast. “Nothing. Just… you seem different.” Your brow furrowed faintly. “Different how?” He hesitated. Then: “Less guarded. Than the first day, I mean.”

You considered that. “Maybe.” A beat. “Or maybe I’m just tired of hiding.”

He didn’t answer. But his eyes lingered, and for a moment, it felt like the whole room leaned toward something else—something quiet and unspoken that pulsed just under the surface. The silence wrapped around the two of you, soft and charged. You could feel it in the air, how it thickened between your bodies like the moment before a summer storm breaks. Not heavy, not yet. Just warm and waiting. Chan’s gaze flicked to your mouth for the briefest second, and then he looked away again, clearing his throat as if trying to shake something loose from his chest. “I should probably get going,” he said, voice low. Rough. You nodded, but didn’t move. Neither did he. Seconds passed like leaves drifting in slow water.

You didn’t know who stepped first—maybe him, maybe you. But suddenly the space between you had shrunk to something impossibly small. You could feel the heat of his body, the subtle shift of air between skin and clothing. His shoulder brushed yours when he reached for his keys on the small table beside the door. The touch was accidental, incidental—and yet not. Not when your breath caught. Not when his hand stilled. You turned your head slightly, slowly. So did he.

There was no grand motion, no sudden pull—only the small, almost imperceptible lean forward. The way his eyes dropped to your lips again and stayed there this time. The way your heart climbed higher into your throat, aching and loud. Neither of you spoke. Your hand brushed his when you reached to open the door for him. The contact jolted through you like a live wire. You didn’t mean to linger. Didn’t mean to let your fingers pause against his. But they did. And his curled. Not around yours. Not completely.

Just enough.

Enough for your eyes to meet again in that delicate, dangerous stillness. You could hear his breath now—faint and uneven. Could feel your own, stuttering inside your lungs. There was something behind his gaze now, something raw and barely held in check. Not need. Not yet. But want.

And you felt it, too. In the pull low in your belly. In the way your wolf stirred under your skin, slow and intent. You blinked first. Swallowed hard. “I—uh…” Your voice sounded different. Softer. Like you were afraid the wrong word might break the spell—or make it too real. Chan’s mouth parted slightly. “Yeah.” He took a step back then, but it was reluctant. Like it cost him something. You stepped out onto the porch, arms still loosely folded, though it felt less like a barrier now and more like a way to keep from reaching. Chan stood just a few feet away, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the trees as if grounding himself in their stillness. The keys in his hand shifted, metal clinking softly—fidgeting.

He glanced back at you then, eyes catching yours. His eyes scanned your face once more, slower this time. Not to study—no, it wasn’t that clinical. It was something softer. As if Chan was memorizing the way the late afternoon light caught in your lashes, or how the breeze tugged gently at a few strands of hair near your cheek. You had the strange urge to reach for him then—not to hold, just to touch. Just enough to know you weren’t the only one who felt it, this thing that sat quietly between the two of you, patient but waiting.

But you didn’t.

He made it easier when he stepped back. Not abrupt. Just enough to mark the boundary again, the unspoken line you both hadn’t quite crossed. “Rest well,” Chan murmured, voice rough at the edges now. A touch lower.

You nodded again, slower this time. “You too.” He turned, but before he reached the truck, he looked back over his shoulder. Just once. And in that glance—just a flicker of a heartbeat—you saw it again.

The weight of everything unspoken. The want neither of you dared name.

Then he was gone, boots crunching softly down the steps, the door of his pickup closing with a soft thud that somehow sounded final. You stayed where you were, arms folded tight again. Not from discomfort, but to hold something close. The scent of him still lingered in the air. That underlying burn of something electric. And as his engine rumbled to life and slowly disappeared down the winding trail, you stood a little longer on your porch, heart quiet but not calm. Because something had shifted.

You both felt it.

And it wouldn’t stay quiet forever.

The truck hummed beneath Chan's palms, tires humming against the dirt road in a steady rhythm that was more calming than it should've been. The windows were rolled halfway down, letting in the crisp forest air, though it did little to ease the tension that curled hot in his chest.

She was still with him.

Not physically. Not in the cab. But her scent clung to his clothes, soaked into his skin—lilac, wildflowers, that whisper of a summer storm. And something else. Something newer. Richer. It threaded through his senses like smoke, subtle and maddening. Not quite her usual scent. Not entirely. It had shifted. Deepened. And his wolf had felt it. He gripped the steering wheel tighter.

The beast inside him paced, restless and alert, pressing against the walls of his restraint like a caged thing. It had stirred the second she’d opened the door, eyes wide and soft, surprise blooming across her face like sunrise on fresh snow. And it hadn’t settled since. Not even when he’d stepped back. Not even now, with miles between them.

The radio whispered through the static, some old tune crooning low about longing and roads and things left unsaid. Chan barely heard it. Not really. He was somewhere between the curve of her smile and the ghost of her voice.

"Maybe I’m just tired of hiding."

He swallowed. Maybe he was too.

The trees thinned as he turned onto the path leading to the pack’s main cabin—John’s place, though they all came and went like it belonged to all of them. Late afternoon light slanted through the leaves, gold and quiet, stretching long shadows over the clearing. He saw them before they saw him.

Four figures, half-dressed and flushed from a recent run, stood laughing near the porch. Jeongin was still barefoot, shirt slung over one shoulder, cheeks red from exertion. Felix leaned against the railing, grinning at something Jisung had said, who himself stood with his hands on his hips, sweat-dark curls sticking to his forehead. Minho stood a little apart, tugging on a shirt but not bothering to pull it over his head yet. Jeans hung low on his hips, boots laced but scuffed, and his eyes were already on the road.

On Chan.

The truck rolled to a slow stop, engine ticking in the hush that followed. Chan threw it into park and stepped out, boots hitting the gravel with a soft crunch.

Heads turned.

Jisung wrinkled his nose dramatically, waving a hand in front of his face. "Damn, hyung. You reek." Felix laughed. "What’s that, lilac and thunderclouds? You go frolicking in a meadow or something?" Jeongin chuckled low, ducking his head. "That’s not meadow. That’s Scent. " Minho didn’t laugh. He stood there, still shirtless, arms crossed over his chest now, gaze narrowed just slightly. Not aggressive. Not challenging. But watchful. Chan met it without flinching, his own expression unreadable as he moved around the truck bed. The scent was still there, stronger now in the warm afternoon air. His wolf tugged at the leash again. “Just made a stop on the way back,” Chan said evenly, not offering more. He didn’t need to. They’d all caught it by now. Jisung exchanged a glance with Felix, eyes wide and a little amused, but said nothing. Minho didn’t move. Chan's jaw flexed, and for a second, the tension hummed louder than the forest around them. The wolf inside him shifted, ears perked. Minho’s scent was steady. Calm. But the way he stood—anchored like stone, like he might pounce or bolt or both—made it clear he’d felt the same thing Chan had.

That something had changed. Chan exhaled slowly and shut the truck door with a muted click. The air between the two Alphas simmered—quiet, watchful. Something just beneath the surface, held together by the thinnest thread of control. Then Jeongin laughed softly, the sound breaking whatever edge had started to build. “Someone’s got stories he’s not sharing.” Chan cracked a faint smile, finally tearing his gaze away from Minho. “Maybe later.”

And the tension faded, but only just. Like smoke from a smolder, not a fire.

Still burning underneath.

The screen door slapped shut behind Jeongin as he vanished inside with Jisung and Felix trailing close behind—still laughing, still damp with sweat and river water. The fading echo of their boots on the old wood floor vanished into the house, leaving only Chan and Minho behind in the cooling late-afternoon air.

Minho stood near the porch steps, back slightly turned, rubbing the towel over the back of his neck before slinging it over his shoulder. The sun caught on the damp lines of his skin as he reached for the faded black T-shirt draped over the porch railing. He moved with a sharpness, a purposeful tension that made Chan’s steps slow. Chan had just reached the base of the steps when Minho finally turned. "Don't," he said, his voice low—firm. The word cut across the quiet like a blade.

Chan stopped mid-step. The warmth of the late sunlight felt heavier now.

Minho tugged the shirt down over his head with one practiced motion. When he looked up, his eyes were already on Chan—dark, unreadable, but not cold. Not exactly. They burned too much for that. "You really went to see her?" Minho asked. The words came flat, but something beneath them—something buried deep—quivered, tense and vibrating. "After everything?" Chan didn’t respond right away. He kept his posture calm, shoulders relaxed, eyes steady. But Minho’s expression didn’t waver. "You told me to give her space," Minho continued, voice sharpening with every word, the volume low but growing. "Told me not to go to her, not to push. And now you just show up there?"

There it was—that familiar edge of controlled fury, laced with something else. Not just possessiveness. Not just rivalry. Betrayal, maybe. The kind that only happened when instincts got tangled with something more fragile. Minho stepped closer. Not threatening. Just close enough that Chan could feel the heat of his skin, the flare of his wolf—tense, alert. Somewhere deep inside Minho, it was growling. Soft but unmistakable. Chan exhaled through his nose. He hadn’t come back for a fight. "It wasn’t planned," he said quietly. “I was out running errands. I didn’t even realize where I was driving until I was already there.”

"Bullshit," Minho snapped, not loudly—but the word struck with enough force to make Chan’s jaw tense. "You think I can’t smell it on you? Her scent’s all over you, Chan." Chan looked away for a breath. He wasn’t proud of it. The way her scent had clung to his skin like a brand. Sweet and sharp and unforgettable. His inner wolf had clawed at his ribs the whole drive back. Still was. "You think I don’t notice the way you change when her name comes up?" Minho said. "I saw the way you looked at her that first day. You’ve been holding it back, but it’s there." Chan’s gaze drifted up to meet his. “And what about you?” That stopped Minho cold. “You’re acting like this is about me breaking some rule. But you wanted to go to her just as much. Don’t deny it.” Chan’s voice stayed even, but the words carried weight. He let them sit there, suspended between them like fog.

Minho’s lips pressed into a thin line. His nostrils flared, wolf still restless beneath his skin. For a second, it seemed like neither of them would speak. Just two alphas, hearts hammering behind calm faces, both too proud to admit how much the girl in the woods had gotten under their skin. Finally, Chan added, quieter this time, “She opened the door, Minho. What was I supposed to do? Walk away?” Minho’s eyes narrowed. “You could’ve.” Chan shook his head once, slowly. “No. I couldn’t.” Silence settled again—thick and humming with all the things they weren’t saying. Around them, the late afternoon deepened into gold. Cicadas buzzed in the tall grass. Somewhere in the distance, a raven cawed. Minho stared at him, hard. “So what now?” he asked. "You think she’s yours?" “No,” Chan said, steady as stone. “I think she’s no one’s. Not yet.” That gave Minho pause. “She’s still figuring out where she belongs,” Chan went on. “It’s not up to us to stake a claim.” Minho looked away, jaw shifting as though biting something back. His fingers curled at his sides, tension still thrumming beneath his skin. His wolf was close—too close—but he leashed it tight.

“She’s not just some lone Alpha out there, Chan,” Minho said, voice lower now, more grounded. “If she chooses the pack—if she stays—she’s going to change everything. You know that, don’t you?” Chan nodded, eyes on the horizon. “I know.” “And you’re okay with that?”

A beat passed.

“I don’t know,” Chan admitted. That honesty gave Minho pause. Something in his shoulders relaxed a fraction—not much, but enough to be seen.

Minho sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. The heat between them hadn’t vanished, not fully, but it was no longer burning. It simmered now. Controlled. “You’re not the only one who wants her,” Minho said, quieter. Less accusation. More truth. Chan didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. “I’m not backing down,” Minho added, turning toward the door. Chan let a ghost of a smile touch his lips. “Didn’t expect you to.”

Minho paused, hand on the doorknob. For a second, he looked back, eyes unreadable again. Then he disappeared inside with a final creak of the screen door, leaving Chan alone on the porch, the air still humming from the tension that had just passed between them.

The scent of her still clung to him. And despite everything, Chan didn’t shake it off.

He didn’t want to.

The days blurred.

They came and went like waves, crashing soft and slow against the shore of Chan's thoughts, pulling at something just beneath the surface. Nothing outwardly changed at the cabin—morning runs, meals shared around the table, late nights under the stars—but beneath it all, a current shifted. Minho didn’t say anything more. Not about her. Not about that night. But it hung there, between them, stretched taut and unspoken. A silence forged not from peace but from restraint. Like a blade balanced on its edge, shimmering with potential. Chan didn’t push it. Neither did Minho. That was the unspoken agreement. But their eyes met less often, and when they did, it lingered a moment too long. Their steps didn’t sync up the way they used to. They didn’t clash—but they didn’t fall into rhythm either.

Changbin noticed. Of course he did. He didn’t say much, just raised an eyebrow now and then, or threw Chan a glance from across the firelight that said, You think I don’t know? But he didn’t press. That was Changbin’s way. Loyal, quiet until it mattered. But his silence wasn’t blind. The nights were the worst. Chan would lie awake, eyes open in the dark, chest tight. Her scent was gone from his skin, finally, but not from his memory. It lingered in the curve of his thoughts. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her again—in the doorway, the quiet in her eyes, the rise and fall of her breath.

He remembered the stillness before she stepped closer. The warmth of her fingers brushing his arm. The sound of her voice when she said his name. It had been nothing. And everything. He’d walked away. But something of him hadn’t. They ran, those next few days. The whole pack. Through forest thick with new green, through golden light and low morning mist. Chan shifted easily, his wolf restless, needing the movement. The pulse of the wild helped. They skirted the southern ridge one evening, the moon full and cold above them, and from the hilltop Chan had seen the distant line of her chimney smoke curling into the night. Far enough not to disturb. Close enough to feel it. His wolf stilled.

But he didn’t go.

Jisung howled once, voice high and bright, and the others followed—Minho’s voice low and sharp beside his. For a moment, it was just the run. Just freedom.

But then the wind shifted. Her scent was faint. Carried across leaves, old wood, the earth. Barely there. But it hit Chan like a chord struck deep in his ribs. His wolf snapped its attention forward, eyes glowing beneath his skin. A sharp ache bloomed in his chest. Still, he kept running. He didn’t stop. Didn’t turn. Just ran harder, let the forest blur, let the wind carve away the sharp edges. When they finally slowed, heartbeats later, breath steaming in the night, he said nothing.

Neither did Minho.

But Chan felt his gaze again, lingering.

Back at the cabin, it was quiet. No one asked why Minho took his dinner outside, or why Chan stayed later in the woods. They all knew better. This wasn’t about rank or challenge. This was something else. Most nights, Chan didn’t dream. But when he did, it was of a door half-open and her shadow in the hall. Her voice, just out of reach. He wanted to forget. Or maybe he just wanted to go back. But neither was possible. So he stayed.

One morning, as dawn broke pale across the treetops, he stood at the edge of the porch, coffee cooling in his hand. The others still slept. The world was quiet.

Somewhere, a hawk cried out.

And for just a moment, he let himself wonder if she was awake too. If she stood at her own window, looking toward the trees. Toward them.

Toward him.

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scarsnfevers · 3 months ago

Text

Memories

Chapter I of Momentum

summary: as Minho and Jisung rise through the ranks, engines screaming beneath them and glory just within reach, you find yourself haunted by shadows of a past that refuses to stay buried — a parallel race of memories, mistakes, and the search for redemption.

genre: f1driver!minho x sportswriter!reader x f1driver!jisung

chapter word count: 5,2k

chapter warnings: mention of death, anxiety

The morning sun was merciless.

It hung low and bloated over the horizon, bleeding harsh white light across the paddock and turning the asphalt into a shimmering mirage. By eight o'clock, the heat had already wrapped itself around everything, thick and heavy, like a hand closing around a throat. The pit lane baked under it, metal gleaming painfully bright, the air itself vibrating with the low growl of engines idling, waiting, restless. The final practice session before qualifying was minutes away. It was the last chance — the last delicate thread of opportunity — to find the rhythm, the balance, the heartbeat between man and machine.

Minho sat strapped into his car, motionless except for the subtle rise and fall of his chest. The world outside his helmet was muffled now, a cocoon of engine noise, voices crackling over the radio, the sharp metallic screech of wheels being tightened and untightened. His hands rested lightly on the steering wheel, fingers tapping once, twice, a staccato rhythm betraying nerves he otherwise refused to show. Inside the cockpit, it was even hotter — a furnace built for speed. Sweat trickled down his temples, dampening the padding of his balaclava. The seat molded to his body, every inch a reminder of the hours they had spent together: Minho and the machine, inseparable, almost indistinguishable now.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jisung climbing into his own car. Same movements, same rituals. The last comfort of familiarity before stepping into the unknown. “Copy, Minho,” Camila’s voice crackled into his ear through the radio. “Out-lap and then push. Let's see where we are.” He thumbed the reply button once.

Short. Sharp. Ready.

The engine snarled when he fired it fully to life, shaking through his spine, through his teeth, until he was no longer sure where he ended and the car began. The green light blinked at the end of the pit lane.

Go.

He eased out onto the track, the tires whining in protest as they met the molten surface. Heat haze danced above the tarmac, warping the world into a dreamscape of shifting air and liquid light. The grandstands loomed, mostly empty still, but even they seemed to shimmer in the morning sun, banners hanging limp and heavy in the still air. The track felt different today. Meaner. More alive.

Minho eased through the gears, letting the tires and brakes come up to temperature, each movement careful, measured. In the mirror, a flash of white and red — Jisung’s car following, the two of them moving together like twin specters across the burning asphalt. Through the first complex of corners, Minho felt it immediately: the car was lighter, more eager at the rear, but still skittish — still whispering threats through the wheel when he asked too much, too soon. He talked to it under his breath, nonsense words, a private language meant to soothe.

Easy. Easy. I’ll find you. Just show me how.

He came down the back straight, the engine screaming at full song, the g-forces pressing him into the seat like an invisible hand. The cockpit trembled around him, but inside, Minho was still — pure focus, pure connection.

“Rear still lively mid-corner,” he reported coolly over the radio. “Front’s biting better though. Power delivery’s smoother.” A beat of silence. Then Camila’s calm reply: “Copy. Keep pushing. Let’s get delta times at full pace.” He nodded to himself, even though she couldn’t see it. Ahead, turn nine — one of the fastest on the circuit — loomed like a black gaping mouth. He held his breath and threw the car in at full commitment, trusting the tires, the downforce, his own hands. The back twitched, threatened, but held.

God, it was alive.

And so was he.

Jisung fought his own battle just a few corners back. His car — lighter, sharper now after overnight changes — danced under him like a spirited colt. Each corner entry was a negotiation, a delicate balance of trust and control. He leaned into it, feeling the tires’ protest, feeling the energy coil through the car like a drawn bowstring. The engine was better. Not perfect — still a slight lag on exit — but better. He muttered to himself inside the helmet, fragments of thoughts tumbling free.

Come on, come on, come on. You’re better than this. We’re better than this.

Through the quick left-right chicane, the car bobbed slightly over the curb, unsettling itself. Jisung adjusted instinctively, hands flickering on the wheel, catching the slide before it fully formed. The adrenaline hit like a punch to the chest — hot, sharp, addictive.

He laughed, breathless, inside his helmet. A ragged, exhilarated sound no one else would ever hear.

Over the radio, his engineer’s voice cut through. “Purple sector one, Jisung. Keep it up.” He grinned fiercely, baring his teeth like a wolf. He bore down on Minho’s car, the two of them weaving through the high-speed sections like predators racing each other toward an unseen finish line. No games yet — not yet — but the tension between them was palpable, even from a distance.

Minho pushed harder on his second flying lap, carving tighter lines through the corners, using every inch of the track. The car responded — reluctant at first, then with something almost like grudging approval. He could feel it: The delicate thread of connection beginning to knit itself together.

The rear still twitched under heavy load, especially in the high-speed sweepers, but it was predictable now. Manageable. He could live with it. He could race with it. “Lap delta improving,” Camila said in his ear, her voice clipped and sharp with excitement. “P3 on current pace.” Minho allowed himself a brief smile, hidden by the helmet.

Good. Good, but not enough. Never enough.

He dived into the final hairpin, locking the left-front slightly, feeling the vibration rattle up through his foot, but he corrected the slip without losing momentum. The car snarled out onto the pit straight, engine at full cry, and he barreled across the start-finish line into another timed lap.

Behind him, Jisung was relentless.

Where Minho was precise, almost surgical, Jisung was pure instinct — a creature of rhythm and aggression. He threw the car at the corners, daring it to protest, daring it to let go. It didn’t.

The overnight tweaks had transformed the machine into something sharper, more willing. The understeer that had plagued him yesterday was mostly gone, and even the engine’s hesitation was reduced to a manageable cough. Jisung rode the ragged edge of grip, feeling the tires begin to melt beneath him, feeling the whole car starting to protest under the relentless demands. But he pressed on, lap after lap, fueled by a wild joy he couldn’t explain to anyone who hadn’t lived it. This — this was life.

The car, the track, the heat, the risk.

Everything else was just waiting.

Minho pulled into the pit lane, the McLaren gliding over the blistering asphalt with a low growl. The heat shimmered above the tarmac, making the air thick and heavy, almost solid. Sweat trickled down his spine beneath the fireproof suit, but he barely registered it — his mind was still locked into the rhythm of the laps he'd just run, the near-surgical precision of every braking point and apex.

Beside him, Jisung was pulling into the adjacent box, the mechanics already stepping forward with practiced urgency. The pit was alive with motion: whirring drills, shouted updates, the scent of burning rubber hanging in the air like a ghost.

Minho pulled off his gloves as he climbed out of the cockpit, feeling the oppressive wall of heat hit him immediately. The sun was merciless even here, under the awning of the garage. He pulled his balaclava down around his neck, raking a hand through his sweat-damp hair as he spotted Camilla approaching, tablet in hand, expression sharp and focused. “How's the balance?” she asked without preamble, stepping closer to Minho as he peeled himself free of the car. He let out a breath, still half in the zone. “Better. The rear’s twitchy in the mid-corner, though. Especially through Turns 7 and 9. Feels like it’s breaking loose if I push.” Camilla nodded, tapping quickly on the screen. “Rear instability at load. Noted.”

“Understeer in the tight stuff too,” Jisung added as he slid out of his car, voice slightly muffled by his balaclava. His dark eyes flicked between Camilla and the gathered engineers, reading their body language like another set of data points. “Low-speed corners — car just doesn’t want to rotate.” Camilla’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully, already anticipating solutions. She turned and barked quick instructions to one of the race engineers hovering nearby, who darted off toward the rear of the garage.

Minho leaned against the nearest workbench, arms crossed loosely over his chest, eyes flicking to the telemetry screens. A river of data spilled across them — throttle traces, brake pressures, tire temperatures glowing hotter than the surface of the sun. He could see the problem clear as day in the numbers: the tires were overheating halfway through the lap, losing grip where they needed it most.

The mechanics were already swarming over both cars, adjusting suspension settings, checking tire pressures, re-taping sensors. Every move was calculated, urgent but efficient. No wasted time, no wasted energy. In less than an hour, they'd be rolling out for qualifying, and everything had to be perfect. “Front wing adjustment?” one of the lead engineers — Paulo — called out over the din, gesturing toward Jisung’s car. Jisung considered for half a second. “Yeah. Half a degree more flap. I need the nose to bite harder on turn-in.” Paulo nodded and turned away, relaying the order to the pit crew.

Minho shifted his weight, feeling the adrenaline still humming low in his veins. This was the part of racing that people didn’t see — the constant, grinding work between the moments of glory. The endless search for tenths of a second. It was addictive, in its own brutal way. Camilla stepped back toward them, glancing between her two drivers. "We’re going to soften the rear a click and tweak the diff settings for quali runs," she said briskly. "Should help with rotation without killing your traction out of the slow stuff." Minho nodded once, already adjusting his mental picture of the lap. He could feel the car changing under him even before the adjustments were made, his brain reshaping the muscle memory he'd just spent the morning reinforcing.

Jisung was sipping from a water bottle, his free hand resting on his hip, fingers tapping an unconscious rhythm against his suit. He caught Minho’s eye and offered a wry smile. “Hot enough for you?” Minho snorted quietly. “Feels like we're driving on the surface of Mercury.” “Good,” Camilla said dryly, glancing at the ambient temperature reading. It had climbed another two degrees since they'd come into the pits. “Means everyone’s suffering. Keep your heads. Heat management is gonna be key.” They both nodded, no real need for words. They knew the game. Survive the heat, find the grip, push where it mattered.

Across the garage, another mechanic flagged Camilla down, holding up a torque wrench and gesturing animatedly toward the rear suspension setup. She grimaced slightly but went to join the conversation, already ten steps ahead, already calculating. Minho watched her go for a moment, then turned back to his car. One of the younger mechanics, Benji, was crouched by the front left, adjusting camber settings with careful precision. "How's she looking?" Minho asked, voice low but carrying over the garage noise. Benji glanced up, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his glove. "Solid. Temps are a nightmare though. We might need to open up the cooling just a touch if the track gets any hotter." Minho gave a short, approving nod. "Keep me posted."

Nearby, Jisung was deep in conversation with another engineer, pointing at something on the tablet — a specific sector where the car was losing time under braking. The intensity never dropped from his face; there was no joking now, no easy smiles. Just focus, raw and absolute.

Minho understood it. They both lived for this: the relentless pursuit of the perfect lap.

The minutes ticked by, a controlled chaos of final preparations. Tires were wheeled out of their blankets, gleaming and sticky with heat. Final checks were run and re-run. Radios crackled to life, voices calm and precise despite the ticking clock. Camilla returned, pulling her gloves tighter, her face set. “Alright,” she said, gathering Minho and Jisung close, voice low but urgent. “Quali’s gonna be brutal. Track temp’s still climbing, air’s thin. Maximize your out laps — you’ll only get one clean shot before the tires go.” Minho nodded, jaw tight. “One shot’s all we need,” Jisung said, a ghost of a grin flickering across his face.

Minho smirked faintly, feeling the familiar burn of competition — not against Jisung, not really. Against himself. Against the clock. Against the elements that wanted to strip them both down to the bone.

The garage thrummed with a restless energy, like a living thing holding its breath before a storm. Final checks were underway, the last tweaks being made, but the mood had shifted — sharpened — in the minutes before qualifying. There was something electric in the air now. Heavy. Serious. Minho was tightening the cuffs of his gloves when he caught a glimpse of movement near the entrance to the pit. A familiar figure cutting through the haze and bustle with quiet authority.

Ron Dennis.

The McLaren team principal moved with a controlled kind of purpose, his crisp white shirt barely touched by the oppressive heat, his expression a careful balance between ironclad focus and something more — something almost fatherly. Minho straightened instinctively, and beside him, Jisung did the same, the two drivers exchanging a glance that needed no words. They had known Ron long enough to read his moods. And today, he wasn’t here to exchange pleasantries.

Ron reached them in a few easy strides, his hands folding neatly behind his back as he looked between them. For a moment, he said nothing — just studied them with those sharp, calculating eyes that missed nothing and weighed everything. “Gentlemen,” Ron said, voice even, but carrying an unmistakable gravity. “It’s time.” Minho and Jisung nodded almost in unison. Ron’s gaze flicked past them to the cars, then returned, locking onto them with a force that demanded undivided attention. “You know the drill,” he continued. “But I’m going to say it anyway. Because it matters.” His voice dropped slightly, just enough to cut through the noise of the pit. “You’re both fast. You’ve both proven that. But speed means nothing without control. Without awareness.”

Minho felt his chest tighten slightly, not from nerves, but from the sheer weight of what was about to begin. Ron stepped closer, his tone sharpening. “This track — this heat — they don’t forgive mistakes. You make one wrong move, push a fraction too far beyond the limit, and the car won’t save you. The tires won’t save you. Nothing will.” Silence settled briefly around them, broken only by the distant scream of another engine revving on the far side of the paddock. “Drive smart,” Ron said, his gaze moving to Jisung. “Use your head. Trust your instincts, but don’t let pride get the better of you. Not here. Not today.” Jisung nodded once, sharp and serious. No trace of the easy grin he sometimes wore. This was the version of him that came alive when the stakes were highest.

Ron turned to Minho next, holding his gaze a beat longer. “And remember — the fastest driver isn’t the one who takes the biggest risks. It’s the one who knows when not to.” Minho exhaled slowly, feeling the truth of it settle deep in his bones. There was a pause then — a breath, a heartbeat — before Ron’s posture shifted, the steel in him softening just slightly. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, a rare thing for a man like him, before speaking again. “There’s been... reminders, over the years,” he said quietly, almost more to the air than to them. “Of how fine the line is. How fast things can change.” The words hovered, thin and brittle, carrying a weight that needed no further explanation. Beside Minho, Jisung shifted, the meaning sinking in without being spelled out. Ron’s voice steadied, returning to its usual certainty. “Respect that. Every corner. Every lap.”

There was nothing more to say.

Minho felt the moment land inside him, anchoring itself deep. A silent vow. Jisung reached for his helmet, slow and deliberate, as if feeling the same invisible chord pull tight inside him. Ron straightened, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve with mechanical precision. “You’re ready,” he said, a final note of quiet certainty. “You always were.” And just like that, he stepped back, giving them space. The world around them seemed to surge back into motion. Radios crackled. Mechanics barked final instructions. Engines roared to life.

Minho turned to Jisung, meeting his teammate’s eyes for a beat — a silent understanding passing between them.

Drive fast. Drive smart. Bring it home.

Then Minho pulled on his helmet, the world narrowing to a tunnel of breath and sound and heartbeats. The familiar weight settled over him, heavy and protective, cutting him off from everything except the car and the track. Jisung was doing the same, movements fluid, efficient, ritualistic. The pit crew swarmed, pulling tire warmers free, checking harnesses, signaling ready.

Camilla’s voice came over the radio, calm and clear despite everything. “Alright, Minho. Jisung. We’re good to go. Let’s make it count.” Minho slid into the cockpit, hands finding the wheel like a second skin. The seat molded to him, the vibrations of the car thrumming into his body before the engine even fired. The track beyond the pit wall shimmered under the relentless sun, a ribbon of danger and opportunity. Somewhere deep inside, Minho felt the tension coalesce into something sharp and pure.

Not fear. Focus. This was life.

This was the only thing that ever mattered.

He glanced once at Jisung, saw the faint nod of readiness, and returned it with one of his own. The light above the pit lane flashed green. It was time.

You sat higher up this time, near the center of the main grandstand where the view stretched wide and unbroken over the pit lane and out onto the endless sweep of asphalt beyond. The morning sun was merciless already, heavier than yesterday, pouring over the circuit in waves that shimmered against the tarmac. The stands had filled overnight, a patchwork of colors and flags, the buzz of thousands of voices weaving into the thick, vibrating air.

It smelled like rubber and oil and sun-warmed metal — a scent so deeply stitched into your memory it was almost a comfort. Your notepad rested against your knee, pages already filled with tight, slanted handwriting. Observations, lap times, patterns only half-formed. You’d been watching since the first session began, tracking the flow of the weekend like following the current of a river.

Ferrari had looked nearly untouchable. Lotus, too, had thrown down lap times that shimmered with potential. But your pen stilled when you caught the flash of white and red slicing out from the McLaren garage. Two cars, crisp and bright like a promise, rolled out onto the pit lane. Your heart gave a small, traitorous lurch before your mind caught up.

McLaren.

New drivers.

A gamble, everyone had said — pulling from Formula 3, from F2000 — skipping over the usual polished ranks of veterans in favor of raw, uncut speed.

You leaned forward, elbows braced against the metal rail in front of you, forgetting for a moment the heat prickling at the back of your neck. The two McLarens moved with a kind of restless energy, weaving gently to warm their tires, merging into the pulse of the track. You found yourself tracking them almost without meaning to, eyes narrowing against the glare. There was something different about them.

Something alive.

Lap after lap, you watched them. The first few were measured, cautious — feeling out the track, the conditions. But then, like a stone catching the right current, they began to flow. Corners that had bucked and snarled against other drivers, forcing small corrections, lifted for them, as if yielding. The McLarens didn’t just drive; they danced — carving perfect, impossible lines, almost daring the track to trip them. Your hand found the pen again, but the words wouldn’t come. Not yet. Because something inside you was moving too — something small and fierce and half-forgotten. You knew this feeling. The breathless lift as the engine responded without hesitation. The thrum of the it through your bones, the exact, electric awareness of tire against tarmac, of balance teetering on the edge of chaos and yet never falling.

For a few heartbeats, you weren’t sitting in the stands anymore. You were out there, with them.

Flying.

It was thw car with the 98 on it you picked out first — the way it carried itself through the high-speed corners, precise and sharp like a blade drawn across silk. The Car with the 20 on it followed, a heartbeat later, more aggressive in his approach, wrestling the car’s weight with a daring that bordered on reckless, but somehow never crossed the line.

You smiled, not even realizing it at first. Around you, the crowd was a living thing — gasps and cheers folding into the roar of the engines. But it felt distant. Your world had narrowed to two flashes of white and red against the blistering grey.

And then —

the spell broke.

Your gaze snagged on the towering leaderboard overlooking the straight. For a second, your brain didn’t catch up. The numbers flipped, adjusted — a living testament to the session unfolding.

P4 — 98, Lee Minho.

P7 — 20, Han Jisung.

You blinked, heart giving a strange little jolt. For rookies — for anyone — it was staggering. Against the Ferraris, against the Lotuses and the Brabhams and the veteran names stitched into the fabric of Formula 1 like old scars — they were holding their own. No, they were doing more than that. You pressed your notepad flat against your thigh, steadying yourself against the sudden rush of adrenaline that wasn’t entirely your own.

You had seen drivers rise. You had seen talent shimmer and then burn away under pressure.

But this —

This was something different. This was arrival.

You inhaled, slow and careful, feeling the heat sear the air in your lungs. Without letting yourself overthink it, you rose from your seat, tucking the notepad under your arm. The decision was easy, instinctive. You needed to be closer. You needed to see.

The path toward the paddock wound down along the back of the grandstands, half-hidden in shadow, the world shifting around you — from the roar of the track to the tense, humming energy of the team areas where every second mattered. You moved quickly, weaving through groups of officials and VIP guests, the McLaren garage already in your mind like a magnet pulling you forward. The qualifying session wasn’t over yet. The real story was just beginning.

And somehow —

you knew it was going to be one worth chasing.

You pushed deeper into the paddock, the air closing in around you like a living thing.

The hum of engines roared and dipped in the distance, vibrating through the ground under your boots. Overhead, the heavy fabric banners of the teams rippled and snapped in the breeze, flashes of scarlet, black, white, and gold against the washed-out blue of the afternoon sky.

You weren’t the only one drawn here. The press had descended like crows, cameras slung from their necks, notebooks clutched to chests, moving in sharp, eager flocks from Ferrari to Lotus, and now — unmistakably — toward McLaren. You didn’t even need to ask why.

It was obvious in the electric buzz threading through the air. The two rookies — Lee Minho and Han Jisung — had done what nobody thought possible.

Fourth and seventh. On their debut weekend.

You found yourself smiling, almost despite yourself, weaving through the throng, elbow brushing elbow, shoulder scraping against camera bags and sharp words muttered in half a dozen languages. It wasn’t easy.

Bodies pressed close, the heat of ambition and adrenaline palpable in the tight, shifting space between garages. Journalists jostled for position, lenses pointed toward the McLaren box like weapons, waiting for the two young men to return, to catch the first breathless words off their lips, the first gleam of triumph — or fear — in their eyes. You ducked your head, slipping between a pair of photographers shouting over each other, the roar of an engine swallowing their words whole. Almost there.

Just a few more steps and you would—

“Wait— excuse me—”

A hand brushed your arm. You stiffened instinctively, half-turning. A man stood there, slightly older, his press badge swinging from a frayed lanyard around his neck, eyes wide with something dangerously close to recognition. “Aren’t you—” he began, breathless, his voice cracking slightly over the noise.

“Y/N L/N?”

For a heartbeat, you simply stared at him. The sounds of the paddock — the engines, the shouting, the metallic thrum of tools against machinery — faded into a low, static hum in your ears. You opened your mouth to deny it, to wave him off — but the words wouldn’t come fast enough. The journalist’s face lit up with certainty, and he shook his head, smiling like he’d just unearthed a long-lost treasure. “No— no, I’d recognize you anywhere,” he insisted, voice rising with excitement.

“I followed your whole career. FIM World Championship. The 125cc — the 250cc. You were the first woman to win two world titles back-to-back in the 125s, and then again in the 250s. God, you were unstoppable on a bike.”

You swallowed hard, your hands tightening around the spine of your notepad.

Motorcycles.

Not cars.

The shriek of two-stroke engines, the tilt of the world beneath you at two hundred kilometers an hour, the brutal ballet of leaning into a corner with your knee inches from the asphalt. The years had rolled past like freight trains, loud and unstoppable and merciless, and you had thought — foolishly — that they had carried your name away with them. That here, among four wheels and different wars, you would be anonymous.

Safe. But here you were.

Exposed.

You shook your head, forcing a small, strained laugh. “You must be mistaken,” you said, but it was weak, even to your own ears. The man smiled again, this time almost gently, like he was seeing something fragile and precious, and he took a half-step closer.

“No mistake,” he said firmly.

“I was there. I watched you race. You were supposed to move up to the 500cc class, weren’t you? Honda contract and everything. You were going to take on the best in the world... until the crash—”

You flinched. Just slightly. But enough.

The journalist saw it. And so did everyone else.

Around you, heads turned. Curious faces, cameras lowering, microphones swiveling.

The chatter shifted, fragmented, then sharpened toward you like heat toward a flame.

“Wait— is that really—?”

“Y/N L/N?”

“I thought she disappeared—”

You stepped back, but there was nowhere to go. The press surged around you, the smell of sweat and ink and urgency filling your nostrils. Questions battered you from every side, sharp and unrelenting. “Why did you retire after the accident?” “Were you planning a comeback?” “Are you scouting for a team?” “How do you feel about the rookies today?”

Voices overlapped, rising in pitch, in hunger.

The sudden attention hit you harder than any crash ever had. You could hear the McLaren engines cutting off in the bay, the sharp hiss of cooling brakes, the clatter of tools and voices preparing for the debrief — but it was distant, unreachable. The world had closed around you like a net.

You caught a glimpse — just a glimpse — of Minho’s car nosing into the box, its bodywork streaked with dust and glory, and Jisung’s a beat behind, sliding to a perfect halt.

But they might as well have been on the other side of the world. The journalists pressed closer, scenting blood. Some already had recorders raised, flashes sparking against the lingering afternoon light.

Every eye was on you now.

You stood frozen in the middle of the chaos, heart hammering against your ribs, hands numb where they clutched your notepad.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not today. Not here. You weren’t supposed to be anyone anymore. Just another face in the stands. Just another pen scribbling quietly in the background. But here you were. Dragged back into a spotlight you had long since abandoned, a spotlight you weren’t sure you ever wanted again. And the worst part — the part that twisted deep in your chest, cold and bitter —

was the tiny voice whispering in the back of your mind.

You miss it.

You missed the roar, the speed, the feeling of flying faster than fear. You missed the way the world blurred at the edges when you hit the perfect line.

You missed being seen.

You missed being known.

The journalist who had first recognized you leaned in slightly, lowering his voice in an almost conspiratorial way, as if trying to offer you a lifeline. “You should tell your story,” he said. “People would want to hear it.” You met his gaze, feeling the weight of it settle around your shoulders.

Maybe they would.

Maybe they wouldn’t.

But right now —

you weren’t ready to be a story. Not yet.

With a breath that felt too tight in your chest, you forced a step back. Then another. And another.

The crowd shifted reluctantly, murmuring, cameras still clicking in staccato bursts like gunfire, but you didn’t stop. You ducked your head, muscles tight, slipping sideways through a gap between two cameramen, heart hammering so loudly you could hardly hear the questions still flung after you. You didn’t stop until you hit the edge of the paddock, where the asphalt gave way to gravel, and the security barriers loomed. Without looking back, you pushed past them, through the checkpoint, into the wider world beyond. The noise dulled behind you, swallowed by distance and the rising hum of another car screaming down the main straight.

You kept walking. Past the trucks. Past the hospitality tents. Past the last lingering shadows of the paddock.

You didn’t slow down until the grandstands were little more than a smear against the sky. Only then did you breathe — truly breathe — the air sharp in your lungs, raw and real. You were gone.

This time, it wasn’t just from the spotlight. It was from them. From everything.

And maybe, just maybe —

from the version of yourself you had once been.

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scarsnfevers · 3 months ago

Note

Loving both the Wolfgang series and Momentum series! I look forward to reading them as you continue them.💌 Thank you for sharing your ideas and putting them into great works of art.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart for your kind words. It honestly means so much to me to know that the stories are finding a place in your heart. Momentum slowly gaining traction feels a bit like watching a quiet dream come to life — something I once only hoped for. Your support touches me deeply, and I’m truly grateful to be able to share these moments and stories with you.

#thank you ❤️#RaeFullOfJoy

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scarsnfevers · 3 months ago

Text

Nothing Happend. (18+)

"I bet you grew up in a big city, running schemes, hanging out in swanky bars like this one." – "You must be thirsty." – "You're saying I'm wrong?"

synopsis: salt clung to your skin like a memory, the ocean's breath whispering secrets against your neck as the sun bled gold over the endless horizon. You wandered through the unpredictable tides of pirates and promises, each wave pulling you deeper into something you couldn’t quite name. And then there was him—sharp-eyed, carrying storms in his bones and ghosts in his gaze. You never meant to fall into his orbit. But here, aboard a ship caught between dreams and danger, you learned that some hearts don’t beat—they burn.

pairing: zoro!chan x crewmember!reader (mentions of jeongin as luffy, changbin as usopp and jisung as sanji)

genre: smut, nostalgia, semi strangers to lovers

warnings: mature/strong language, alcohol use, heavy smut, fingering, unprotected sex, dom. Chan, various positions, he just can't get enough of you

word count: 6,9k

!minors do not interact!

The sun was a molten coin suspended in a sky of polished brass, its light rippling over the crests of the waves in glittering shatters. The Going Merry groaned softly beneath your boots, the ship’s timbers shifting like a slumbering creature stirred by the sea’s slow breath. You leaned against the starboard railing, fingertips brushing worn wood, eyes narrowed against the blinding glint of sunlight on water.

You’d stopped trying to count the days at sea. The horizon had long since lost its shape—just an endless smear of blue on blue. But today… today felt different. The wind had changed. Subtly. Not in strength, but in mood. As though it whispered secrets just out of reach.

Behind you, the canvas sails fluttered like wings. Above, gulls circled—though you hadn’t seen land in days. That in itself was strange. Too strange to ignore. You tasted the salt in the air, sharper than usual. Brighter. Almost… seasoned.

A low thud echoed across the deck.

Boots.

You didn’t need to look. You knew that gait by now. Steady, measured, unhurried—as if time itself slowed to keep pace with him.

“Still staring at nothing?” Chan’s voice was dry, edged with something you couldn’t quite name. It was the kind of tone that made people listen closer, not louder. You glanced over your shoulder. He stood a few paces behind you, arms crossed, one hip tilted lazily against a barrel. The wind tousled strands of green hair across his forehead, casting shadows over his eyes. “Maybe it’s not nothing,” you said. He tilted his head, gaze shifting out over the water. “Doesn’t look like much.” “Exactly.”

A beat. Then he pushed off the barrel, slow and fluid, moving beside you. Together, you stared into the horizon—where, now that you looked more carefully, something was beginning to take shape.

It was faint. Faint enough that if you blinked, it might vanish. But it was there. A blur of color too vivid for open ocean. Not an island. Not a ship. Something in between.

You leaned forward slightly.

“Do you see that?”

Chan didn’t answer right away. His fingers curled absently around the hilt of one of his swords, the leather wrapping dark against his hand. You saw his eyes sharpen, his shoulders still. Watching. Calculating. “Yeah,” he said at last. “I see it.” “What do you think it is?” “No idea. But it shouldn’t be there.” He wasn’t wrong. There was no reason for a structure that bright, that… designed to exist out here. This part of the sea was supposed to be empty—open waters, unbroken tides, scattered wind currents and little else. But now the silhouette was growing. Slowly. Rising like a hallucination from the foam.

Somewhere behind you, a door slammed open.

“GUYS! GUYS!”

You turned just in time to see Jeongin—burst onto the deck, straw hat barely hanging on as the wind whipped through his hair. His eyes were wide with something halfway between excitement and curiosity. “Do you see that?!” he cried, spinning on his heel mid-run and pointing dramatically out toward the strange formation.

“We’re looking right at it,” you called back.

“It’s a floating—thing! It looks like a—like a—like a giant fish!” Jeongin grinned so wide it almost looked painful. “Are we going there?! Are we stopping?! Please tell me we’re stopping!” “You don’t even know what it is,” Changbin muttered from somewhere up near the bow. He had one foot propped on the rail and his slingshot looped around his wrist, though his posture was more cautious than usual.

“But what if it’s got food?” Jeongin argued.

That made everyone pause.

Food.

Your stomach twisted a little at the thought. Rations had been thin lately. Even your own cooking experiments had devolved into heated debates about whether boiled seaweed counted as “creative cuisine.” “...It does smell like something,” you murmured.

Now that you were closer, it was undeniable. The scent drifted through the air like a siren’s call: sizzling oil, roasted garlic, sweet smoke, grilled meat. And something else—lemon? Orange zest? Citrus notes dancing on the wind. “Is that... rosemary?” you added, blinking at how absurdly good it smelled.

Jeongin’s eyes widened. “Is that a yes?! Are we going?!” Chan grunted. “Doesn’t mean it’s safe.” “Come on, Chan.” Jeongin stepped up beside him, tipping his head back so his hat fell to his shoulders. “We can’t not check it out. What if it’s some kind of rare sea chef palace?” “Or a floating death trap,” Chan replied flatly.

“You always say that.”

“And one day I’ll be right.”

You held up a hand before they could start another verbal sparring match. “Look, we need food. We need a break. Whatever that place is, it’s the first sign of anything we’ve seen in days. We at least sail closer.”

No one argued.

The Going Merry creaked beneath the shift of wind, as if it, too, was ready to rest. The sails billowed, adjusting course. Water churned beneath the keel as the ship angled toward the strange floating structure now looming larger with each heartbeat.

As you approached, the full absurdity of the building came into view. It was shaped like a fish. A massive one—its mouth agape, its scales glinting in iridescent hues of blue, red, and gold. Architectural flourishes spiraled along its back like stylized fins. Windows blinked like curious eyes, and painted signs in languages you didn’t recognize swirled across the hull. Music—live, chaotic, jazzy—poured from the upper decks, mixed with bursts of laughter and shouting. The whole thing floated on a platform held aloft by massive pontoons, bobbing gently on the waves like it belonged there. Like it owned the sea.

A waiter in a pink uniform leaned over the railing above and waved nonchalantly with a white cloth. You stared up at him, speechless. “This is real,” you said under your breath. “Yup,” Jeongin chirped. “And it smells like steak. I’m going.” The gangplank extended with a satisfying clunk, attaching itself automatically to a small boarding dock that had unfolded from the lower deck. Someone on the fish-building had clearly been expecting guests.

Or just didn’t care who showed up.

Jeongin was first off the ship, practically skipping. Changbin followed reluctantly, muttering something about “bad vibes” and “trap music.” You turned toward Chan. He hadn’t moved. His jaw was tight, brow furrowed. You recognized the look—the one that meant he was watching everything. Calculating escape routes, analyzing risks, memorizing exits.

You stepped closer. “We’ll keep an eye out. Together.”

His eyes flicked to you. For just a second, something softened in them. Then he nodded once.nTogether, you stepped off the Going Merry.

The dock felt strange under your feet—solid, but too smooth. Too clean. The music was louder here. Clinking glasses, bursts of laughter, the sizzling of something being seared. The scent hit you like a wave—so rich your mouth watered involuntarily.

You climbed the curved entry steps, hands brushing a banister shaped like a fish spine. The doors before you swung open not with magic or machinery, but with the welcoming chaos of a place alive. And then, framed in gold script above the arch, you saw it. The name. Baratie. It shimmered in the fading sunlight like an invitation.

Or a warning.

The moment you stepped through the archway into the Baratie, the noise hit you like a wall. Laughter, loud and unfiltered. Glasses clinking. A woman’s voice shrieking with delight. Silverware against porcelain. Someone was arguing about a stolen lobster. Somewhere in the back, a piano tripped over a jazz melody that felt half-drunk but dangerously alive.

The space stretched wide and theatrical, ringed in color and opulence that shouldn’t have belonged on the sea. Deep cherrywood beams crisscrossed the vaulted ceiling. Lanterns swayed on chains, their golden light bathing the room in warmth and the illusion of grounded comfort. Crimson velvet curtains framed windows you hadn’t noticed from outside. Every table was mismatched and deliberate—like the owners had collected them from shipwrecks and royal chambers alike.

It smelled like heaven. Like garlic butter and roast duck and citrus and sea salt and secrets you weren’t supposed to taste.bThe hostess barely spared you a glance. "Sit where you want. No brawling, no yelling, and if you break a chair, you bought it." Jeongin was already halfway across the floor, heading for a circular booth tucked against a curved wall, arms spread like he was claiming territory. Changbin rolled his eyes but followed. You and Chan moved slower.

His eyes scanned everything. Not just the people—though there were plenty. Pirates, rich merchants, fishmen, drifters, dreamers. But also the exits, the corners, the way shadows fell in places too carefully. It was second nature by now. He didn't trust easy.

You didn't either.

Still, the booth was semi-secluded. Good lines of sight. And the table was already set with gleaming cutlery and folded napkins shaped like roses. You slid in beside Changbin. Chan took the end, back to the wall. Always.

"Okay," Jeongin breathed, practically bouncing. "Tell me we get to eat everything." "That depends," you said. "On how much money you actually have." He blinked. "I thought you had the money." "I thought you did."

A beat of silence. Chan sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

You were just about to start debating whether stealing utensils could be considered compensation when a voice cut across the space. Not loud. Not demanding. But effortless. Smooth as aged whiskey over ice. "Evening, gentlemen. Lady." You turned—and saw him.

Tall. Slim. Blond hair curled behind his ears in soft waves, his black dress shirt rolled up to the elbows with the casual elegance of someone who knew he looked good. A pristine white apron tied around his waist. One hand rested on his hip; the other held a small notepad he didn’t seem to need. Eyes like honey and heat.

"Welcome to the Baratie. My name is Jisung and I'm your waiter for the evening." Jeongin leaned forward instantly. "Do you have meat?!" The waiter arched an eyebrow. "We do. Though it comes in many forms. Be specific or you’ll end up with sweetbreads." "Steak! Big steak. With butter. And garlic. And..." He squinted, sniffing. "Is that rosemary I smell?" Jisung smirked. "Good nose. Yes, rosemary." "Then I want that!" Jisung scribbled something lazily into the notepad. Then his gaze flicked to Changbin.

"For you, sir?" Changbin crossed his arms. "Do you have anything... normal?" "Define normal."

"Like... a sandwich."

"We have duck confit with citrus marmalade on toasted rye."

"...Sure."

Another scribble.

Jisung leaned over the table with a charming—if slightly smug—smile, pen poised above his notepad. “And for you?” he asked, glancing at Chan. “Something strong, I bet.” Chan didn’t even blink. “Whiskey. Neat.”

Then he turned to you. He met your gaze, his eyes softening slightly. "And for the lady?" You tilted your head slightly, the candlelight catching in your eyes as you matched his gaze. Steady. Unbothered.

"Chef's recommendation," you said. His smile curled slowly, like warm caramel drawing across cool porcelain. Not cocky—just a little too confident. "Ah," he said, voice smooth. "Adventurous. I like that."

He took a slow step closer, his notepad lowering to his side. His eyes flicked from your face to your lips and back again—not subtle, but calculated. He rested one hand lightly on the table’s edge, leaning in just enough to drop his voice into something that felt private, velvet-wrapped.

"If you ever get tired of spice," he said, “I make a dessert that’s not on the menu. Sweet, rich… unforgettable.”

It hung there. The invitation wrapped in sugar and charm. He knew exactly what he was doing. You arched an eyebrow. "Oh?" you said lightly, voice dry as salt. "Do you serve it with flattery and disappointment on the side?" The line landed like a well-aimed dagger—swift, elegant, and without venom. His smirk faltered—just a flicker—and then he laughed, soft and surprised. "Touché," he said, scribbling your order without missing a beat. "I’ll stick to the specials, then." "Good idea," you murmured. He turned smoothly, striding away with a grace that said he’d recover quickly—but you'd definitely unsettled him more than he'd expected.

There was a beat of silence at the table.

Then—

"Pfft—wow," Changbin snorted, pressing his fist to his mouth. "Absolutely brutal."

"Did you see his face?" Jeongin leaned in, eyes wide. "He looked like you kicked his puppy." Chan exhaled through his nose, amusement flickering in his eyes. He tilted his head toward you with something between admiration and mischief. "Didn't even flinch. Impressive." You could feel the heat creeping up the back of your neck, rising beneath your collar. You reached for your water glass and took a slow sip, if only to stall the blooming flush in your cheeks.

"I didn’t mean to embarrass him," you said finally, lips twitching despite yourself. "It just… came out." "Please," Changbin said. "You didn’t embarrass him. You educated him." "Yeah," Jeongin added, grinning. "Lesson one: Don’t flirt with someone who can outwit you before the appetizers arrive." You sighed “Can we all just agree I handled it with dignity?” "You roasted him with dignity," Chan said, voice dry. "With style," Changbin added.

You groaned softly, but you couldn’t stop the smile tugging at your lips. It bubbled out of you before you could stop it, half-laughter, half-resignation.

"Gods," you muttered. "I hate you all."

"No you don’t," Chan said without looking at you.

And maybe you didn’t. Maybe, right here in this ridiculous floating restaurant filled with chaos and charm, you felt something you hadn’t in a while. Something that tasted dangerously close to home.

The last of the plates were cleared, leaving behind only wine-splashed linens and the distant murmur of satisfied guests. The scent of garlic, seared meat, and something faintly citrusy still clung to the air, stubborn as saltwater. Around you, the Baratie was beginning to hum again with the rhythm of the sea—a place never quite quiet, never fully still.

Jeongin had started entertaining himself by trying to stack the bread rolls on top of one another, with Changbin offering loud, mostly unhelpful commentary. You watched them for a moment, the simple joy of it pulling a smile to your lips.

"Think we’ve earned a drink?" Chan’s voice was soft beside you, quieter than the clatter around the dining floor. You turned slightly in your seat. He was watching you, elbow resting on the edge of the table, his fingers absently toying with a toothpick. His eyes were calm, but the way his brow tilted just a little upward gave him that look—thoughtful, focused, like he saw more than he said. You nodded. "Definitely."

He stood without fanfare, waiting just long enough for you to rise before the two of you slipped away from the others. Neither Jeongin nor Changbin paid you much mind, too engrossed in an increasingly unstable bread tower. The air grew cooler as you stepped outside. A light breeze drifted across the deck, carrying the scent of open water and something faintly floral from the lanterns hanging overhead. The sky above was ink-dark, streaked with the faint shimmer of stars, and the soft creak of the ship beneath your boots reminded you just how far you were from land.

Chan didn’t speak right away. He led you up the winding stair to the upper deck, where the night was quieter, the noise of the dining floor muffled beneath your feet. There was a narrow balcony railing along the edge, the perfect place to lean, watch, breathe. He gestured to a small table tucked beneath a faded lantern. Two wooden chairs stood opposite each other. He waited until you sat, then took the seat directly across from you.

He disappeared briefly into a corner bar station still manned by a yawning server. A few exchanged words, a small grin, then he returned with two short glasses, liquid glinting amber in the low light. He handed you one. "Careful. It's stronger than it looks." You clinked your glass gently to his. "Cheers." The first sip burned pleasantly, warmth threading down your throat and spreading outward, slow and sure. You exhaled and let your gaze drift over the ocean.

"So," you said after a moment. "Be honest. Did you think we'd make it this far?" Chan chuckled softly, his voice low and even. "I thought we’d make it somewhere. I just didn’t expect it to feel like... this." "Like what?" He paused, rolling the drink gently between his palms. "Like something I don’t want to lose." That made you glance over. He wasn’t looking at you, not quite, but there was something in his expression—an openness, rare and unguarded. The kind that made you sit a little stiller, listen a little closer.

"You don’t say things like that lightly," you said. "No," he agreed. "I don’t."

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It felt like space being made—for thought, for meaning. The wind tugged gently at a strand of your hair. You took another sip. "You’re different up here," you murmured. "Quieter." He smiled faintly. "You're just noticing that now?" You shrugged. "I think... it's easy to forget you're watching. You blend in until you don’t. And then it’s like you see everything."

Chan tilted his head. "That’s a nice way of saying I make people nervous." You laughed, shaking your head. "No. It’s a nice way of saying you’re not easy to fool." That made his lips twitch. He leaned back slightly in his chair, the wood creaking beneath him. His eyes stayed on the water, but his voice had softened, losing that edge of tension it so often carried.

"You held your own tonight. With the waiter." You gave a small groan. "Don’t remind me." "Why not? It was kind of impressive." "It was mortifying." "You didn’t look mortified." You sighed. "That’s because I’ve mastered the art of internal screaming." Chan chuckled, the sound like gravel shifting underfoot—warm, grounded. He glanced at you finally, eyes catching the lantern light. "You don’t let people push you around," he said. "I like that." You looked down at your drink, unsure what to say to that. So he added, more quietly: "It means I don’t have to worry about you the same way."

Your fingers tightened slightly around the glass. "But you still worry," you said. He nodded. No denial.

You let the truth of that sit between you a while. The sea stretched endlessly beyond the railing, soft waves lapping against the hull. Somewhere below, laughter echoed faintly. A violin began to play from the main floor, its notes drifting upward, fragile and wandering.

You leaned forward, resting your forearms on the table. "Do you ever miss it?" "What?" "Stillness." He was quiet a moment longer than you expected. "Sometimes," he admitted. "But I think I’d miss this more." You nodded slowly, understanding curling in your chest like smoke.

When he shifted in his seat, his boot nudged lightly against yours under the table—subtle, but deliberate. You didn’t move away. The stars above blinked down, distant and watchful. You sat there, eye to eye, the sea in front of you and something quieter—gentler—settling in the space between your breaths.

The sea had softened with the setting sun, waves turning to gentle laps against the hull of the floating restaurant. From where you sat across from Chan, the low hum of laughter and clinking glasses from the dining area below drifted up to the upper deck. Lanterns swung lazily overhead, their warm golden glow throwing flickers of light across Chan’s face, dancing over the faint scar on his cheekbone and the slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

The table between you strewn with the remnants of your drinks—half-finished glasses of something spiced and warm, perfect for easing into the calm of night. Chan leaned back with the air of someone who rarely let himself relax, one arm stretched along the back of the seat, eyes gleaming beneath the fringe of his green-streaked hair.

“You ever play a drinking game?” he asked casually, but there was a glint of mischief behind the question.

You tilted your head, amused. “Is that your idea of a date?” His smirk widened. “Only if I win.” You raised an eyebrow. “And what do you get if you do?” Chan chuckled, low and quiet. “Maybe I’ll figure that out later. For now, it’s just about knowing you better.”

You watched him for a moment, the way his fingers tapped idly against his glass, the gentle way he looked at you—like he wasn’t really seeing the busy deck or the crew laughing below, but just you. The thought sent a small flutter through your chest. He leaned forward slightly, voice softening. “What are you carrying around that’s so heavy?”

You glanced down, the question brushing a little too close to places you hadn’t shown anyone. Your fingers curled around your drink. “You have no idea.” Chan’s eyes didn’t leave yours. “I bet I do. I bet I know more about you than you do about me.”

A small laugh escaped you, the tension breaking just slightly. “Yeah, right. You’re an open book.” “Care to prove it?” he said, straightening in his seat. “I guess something about you, you drink. You guess something about me, I drink.” You smirked. “Go ahead. Tell me all about myself.”

Chan took a moment, his gaze wandering as if he were replaying moments in his head. Then, “I bet you grew up in a big city, running schemes, hanging out in swanky bars like this one.” You let the smile curl slowly on your lips, shaking your head as you lifted your glass. “You must be thirsty.” He blinked. “You’re saying I’m wrong?”

“I grew up in a small village. Barely a village. Just a handful of houses in the center of a tangerine grove. Drink.” Chan lifting his glass in mock defeat. “Alright, alright.” He took a sip, letting the flavor linger before setting it down. “Your turn.”

The wind brushed past, carrying the scent of salt and citrus from somewhere below. You studied him for a beat, narrowing your eyes like you were peeling back layers he didn’t realize he had. “Okay,” you said. “But I had you read all the way back in Orange Town.” You leaned in slightly, elbows resting on the table. “I’ll bet you didn’t have any friends as a kid.”

Something in Chan’s expression faltered—not entirely, just a flicker of something behind the eyes. He hesitated. “I had friends,” he said quietly. “Swords don’t count,” you said with a wry grin. He huffed a laugh, then looked away for a second, letting his fingers trace the rim of his glass. “I had one friend.”

That surprised you. Not because you didn’t believe him—but because of how he said it. The weight behind those words wasn’t light. There was a history there, buried like the bones of a shipwreck. You reached for your own glass. “Hell, one more than I had.” The two of you drank, a soft silence settling in afterward.

You let your gaze wander for a moment, over the edge of the ship, where the ocean glistened like melted starlight. The breeze carried the occasional burst of music from inside the restaurant, soft piano chords and the muted thrum of voices. But none of it quite reached you—not really. Not with Chan across the table, watching you like he was reading lines in a book only he could understand.

“Your friend,” you said eventually. “Still around?” Chan’s jaw tightened just slightly. “No. Not anymore.”

You didn’t push. The look in his eyes said the story was too old and too painful to spill just yet. Maybe not ever. Still, the quiet hung between you like a thread, fragile but real. He cleared his throat, trying to soften the mood. “Alright. My turn again.” You gestured grandly. “Take your best shot.” Chan’s lips twitched. “You were the type of kid who stole books from libraries. Probably had a whole stash hidden under your bed.” You laughed, the sound startling even yourself. “Okay, yeah. That’s not fair. That’s cheating.” He held up both hands. “Does that mean I’m right?” You sighed, then took a slow drink. “Maybe.” Chan grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

It went on like that for a while—quiet guesses and quieter truths. Sometimes you were right, sometimes he was. The drinks weren’t strong, but the warmth built slowly, buzzing beneath your skin. It wasn’t just the alcohol, though.

It was him.

The way he leaned forward when you spoke, elbows braced, chin resting on his hand like he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. The way he laughed when you teased him, soft and a little self-deprecating. The way his eyes softened whenever you let a truth slip through the cracks.

The sky darkened gradually, the stars beginning to pepper the heavens. From your seat, you could see the moon rising over the horizon, casting a shimmer over the water. The kind of view that would’ve felt too big, too distant to touch—if not for the boy sitting across from you.

“I think,” you murmured, letting your fingers trail lazily around the rim of your empty glass, “that I should head back to the Merry.” Chan looked at you, his hand wrapped around the final shot—amber liquid catching a flicker of golden light. “You want company?” he asked, voice casual, but there was a thread of softness beneath it. Not insistence. Just the unspoken echo of I'd like to.

You met his eyes. Steady. Warm. “Sure,” you replied with a nod, the corner of your mouth curving. “You’re buying the last round, anyway.”

He smiled at that, tipping the shot back with a practiced motion. The glass clicked against the table with finality. The night air outside was cooler than you expected, salty and fresh from the sea, curling through your hair and coaxing a slight shiver from you as the two of you stepped away from the Baratie’s glow. The path to the dock was quiet—just the gentle lap of water and the distant echo of laughter from somewhere inside the floating restaurant. Your footsteps on the wood were slow, unhurried. Neither of you spoke at first. It wasn’t awkward silence. Just… comfortable.

You glanced at him, the way his arms swung slightly at his sides, the breeze ruffling through his green hair. He looked almost peaceful. “I think you cheated,” you said suddenly, turning your head just enough for him to catch your grin. “No way you guessed the book thing.” Chan’s brows lifted in mock offense. “Cheated? I’ll have you know I’m an excellent reader of people.” “Oh, sure,” you said, snorting. “Master of observation." “You said I was an open book,” he shot back. “Clearly, I’m just better at keeping things to myself.” You rolled your eyes, bumping your shoulder against his. “Next time, maybe I’ll bring books and test you properly.” He chuckled, a low sound in his chest, and for a moment, you just walked.

The Merry was quiet when you reached her, the familiar silhouette of the ship nestled at the dock like a waiting friend. Jeongin and Changbin were nowhere to be seen—still at the Baratie, most likely, or off exploring some corner of the floating restaurant. Chan didn’t seem surprised by the absence, and neither did you. You climbed aboard easily, the gangplank creaking gently under your steps. The ship rocked just enough to remind you she was alive. As you made your way across the deck, you felt your balance sway a little more than it should have—alcohol and sea motion conspiring to trip you up. You caught yourself quickly, laughing under your breath.

“Remind me not to drink with you again,” you said, half over your shoulder. “Oh, come on,” Chan teased, following closely. “We had fun.” “Dangerous kind of fun,” you replied, your voice light. “The kind that ends with someone falling overboard.” “Good thing I’m an excellent swimmer.” “Are you?” He grinned. “Guess you’ll have to push me in sometime and find out.” You snorted, shaking your head. “Tempting.”

“You ever think about it?” Chan asked eventually, voice low. “How weird it is… that we all ended up here. You, me, Jeongin… even Changbin.” Jeongin’s laugh rang out somewhere from the corners of the Baratie, bright and boyish. Changbin’s voice followed, loud and familiar. “All the time,” you admitted. Chan nodded slowly, then looked back at you. “You don’t seem like you’re running anymore.” The words landed somewhere deep.

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you looked out at the sea, felt the breeze brush your cheek, tasted the bittersweet flavor on your tongue. “Maybe,” you said. “Maybe I’m finally just… heading somewhere instead.” He smiled at that, soft and proud.

Your feet brought you to the hallway where the crew’s cabins were tucked away, the lanterns flickering gently against the wooden walls. The soft creak of the ship filled the silence, accompanied by your slowed footsteps as you came to a stop in front of your door. You turned, leaning slightly against the frame. Chan stood just a pace away, his arms loosely crossed, expression unreadable in the soft glow of the lantern. But his eyes didn’t leave yours.

“Thanks,” you said quietly. “For walking me back.” Chan tilted his head a little. “Of course.” The air between you shifted. Not tense. Just—charged. Like a breath held too long. Like the world around you had gone a little quieter, waiting.

“I didn’t expect this,” you admitted, almost more to the shadows than to him. “This?” he echoed. “This.” You gestured vaguely between the two of you. “Us. Talking. Laughing. Drinking stupid games on a floating restaurant.” He smiled slowly. “Yeah. Me neither.”

And then, just barely, he took a step forward. Only half of one, really, but you noticed it. The flicker in his eyes wasn’t just reflection. “Should probably say good night,” you murmured. “You should,” he agreed.

But neither of you moved.

The creak of the wood. The soft hum of waves. The warmth of that final drink lingering in your veins. You couldn’t quite breathe. Not properly. And still, his eyes stayed on yours.

Like maybe he couldn’t either.

Another quiet moment passed. Then he said, almost too casually, “You know, I’m glad you’re here.” You met his eyes. There wasn’t any teasing in them now—just something honest. Something real.

“Me too,” you whispered.

That was all it took.

You closed the distance, your hand finding his collar before he could answer. Your lips brushed his — once, then again, firmer, as if daring him to pull back. He didn’t. Chan stood frozen for half a second, breath caught in his throat. But then his hand came up, gently curling around the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair. And when he kissed you back, it wasn’t tentative.

It was hungry.

A sound escaped the back of his throat — something like a sigh and something like a growl — and he moved forward, pressing you back until your spine met the wooden wall. His body aligned with yours in a way that felt too easy, too right. Chans other hand landed on your waist, holding you like he was afraid you might vanish.

The wall was cool against your back, but his mouth was warm. Chan's kiss deepened with every passing breath, with the kind of quiet desperation you hadn’t seen in him before. You felt it in the way his fingertips brushed over your cheek, down your arm, anchoring himself in your presence.

When you parted for air, both of you stood there for a moment — dazed, breathing hard, the space between you charged and trembling. Chan leaned his forehead against yours. “You sure about this?” he asked, voice hoarse, barely above a whisper. You didn’t hesitate. “Are you?” His answer came not in words, but in the way his hand found the door behind you, pushing it open. The cabin swallowed you both, lanternlight casting flickers of amber across the modest room. It smelled faintly of salt and citrus, your coat slung across a chair in the corner, and the mattress soft against the far wall beckoning like something out of a half-remembered dream. But you didn’t reach for it yet.

Instead, you kissed him again — slower this time, more deliberate. His hands traced the curve of your back, steady and sure, and your own found the hem of his shirt. The cloth slid upward, your knuckles brushing the warm skin beneath. You felt him shiver under your touch, and it sent a matching wave through your spine. Piece by piece, clothing fell away — a glove, a belt, the fabric of the day shed like the weight of old armor. Each movement was unhurried, reverent, like unwrapping something sacred.

Your eyes searched his, and in the flickering glow of the lantern, you saw the storm of emotions raging there: want and wariness, hope and hunger. Chan's mouth was hot and demanding, but his touch remained tender, almost reverent.

His fingers brushed your bare shoulder with a feather-light touch, and even that sent sparks flaring under your skin. His eyes drank you in, as though he was trying to memorize every curve, every shade of want on your face. Chan hovered, his lips just above yours, breath mingling, warm and trembling with restraint. You closed the distance, pressing your mouth to his — a silent command, a desperate plea. The kiss deepened instantly, all softness turning to heat, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips before slipping inside, tasting, exploring.

Hands roamed. Eager now, hungry. His palms spanned the curve of your waist, your hips, your thighs — he held you like a man who had been starving, who now sat before a feast and didn’t know where to begin. He laid you back with slow insistence, your skin sliding against cool sheets, his body hovering above you like a storm about to break. Your legs parted willingly, thighs cradling Chan's hips as his hand slipped between your bodies. Fingers explored you — warm, calloused, precise — sliding down your belly, brushing over the sensitive bundle of nerves with practiced ease. You gasped, your hips arching instinctively into his touch. He groaned against your throat, voice thick with need. “You’re already so wet.”

You answered with a moan, your hands fisting the sheets as he circled your clit, slow and rhythmic, coaxing pleasure out of you with devastating patience. His fingers slid lower, found you open, ready. He pressed one inside, then another, curling them just right — watching your face as you writhed beneath him, as your thighs shook and your breath quickened. “You like that,” Chan murmured, voice rough, reverent. “Gods, look at you…”

Your body sang under his touch, pleasure blooming fast and hot. He kept working you, steady and sure, until the heat coiled tight and unbearable. You moaned his name as your climax crested and broke — sudden and overwhelming. Your body trembled beneath him, thighs clamping around his wrist as your back arched and a strangled cry tore from your lips.

He didn’t stop right away — his fingers slowed but stayed inside you, drawing out every aftershock with gentle, teasing strokes. Your breath stuttered. You whimpered, already sensitive, already aching in a different way now. When Chan finally pulled his hand back, his fingers glistened with you. He brought them to his mouth and sucked one clean, watching you the whole time. “Beautiful,” he murmured. He kissed his way down your body, lips warm and slow — your breast, your stomach, the inside of your thigh — until he was kneeling between your legs, hard and ready. He didn’t wait long. The head of his cock nudged at your entrance, and you reached down, guided him to where you wanted him.

“Please,” you whispered. “I need you.”

With a low growl, he pushed into you in one slow, controlled stroke. Your breath caught. Chan was thick, stretching you inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt, his hips pressed flush to yours. His eyes fluttered shut, a groan rumbling from his chest. “You feel so good,” he muttered against your skin.

He began to move, slow at first — a steady, deliberate rhythm that pushed the air from your lungs. Your body welcomed him, still tender and sensitive from your climax, each thrust sending soft ripples of pleasure across already-spent nerves. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, your nails grazing his back as his pace built gradually — deeper, harder, more insistent.

The bed creaked beneath you. The sound of skin against skin, his labored breath, your soft moans filled the space like music.

Then he pulled out without warning.

You gasped, blinking up at him — but Chan flipped you easily onto your stomach and coaxed you up onto your knees. One strong hand gripped your hip, the other steadied himself as he slid back into you from behind, filling you again in one deep, powerful stroke. You cried out, fingers curling into the sheets as he set a harder rhythm now, his thrusts fast and unforgiving, each one hitting deep. Your body rocked beneath him. Chan's hand slid up your spine, then tangled in your hair, pulling your head back to expose your throat.

“You feel incredible,” he growled, biting softly at your neck. “I could lose myself in you.” His pace became relentless — his need taking over, raw and feral. You moaned for him, pleasure still humming low in your belly, a steady throb of sensitivity without the pressure of another peak. Your limbs trembled from the intensity, from the ache Chan left in his wake. He grunted your name, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, and then he was coming — with a deep, broken moan and one last thrust that pushed you both to the edge.

He collapsed over your back, panting, chest heaving against your spine. For a moment, all was still. The only sound was the rush of your breathing, the beat of your hearts in sync.

Then, carefully, he withdrew. The absence of him left you hollow and sore in the best way.

Chan didn’t go far — just shifted to his back, dragging you with him until you were sprawled across his chest. His cock, still slick and flushed, twitched against your thigh, already beginning to harden again. “You’re insatiable,” you murmured against his throat. “So are you,” he said with a wicked smile, flipping you over in one smooth motion. Now you were straddling him. You grinned, reached down between your bodies, and slid him back inside you — slow and deliberate, savoring the stretch and fullness, the way his hands gripped your hips and his head tipped back.

You began to move — not chasing another climax, but simply because it felt too good to stop. Your hips rolled lazily, taking him deep, grinding down in slow, teasing circles. Chan groaned, his hands sliding up to your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples until your breath hitched. “Fuck… you feel like heaven.”

You rode him like worship, like ceremony. Hips rolling, rhythm steady, letting the sensation build with every pass. His fingers slid up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples. You gasped at the touch, hips stuttering. His eyes darkened with heat. “Don’t stop. You’re perfect like this.” You didn’t. You moved harder now, skin slapping against his, your breath rising in ragged pants. You weren’t chasing a climax, not yet—it was all about the movement, the slick heat, the way you were joined so deeply.

Then he sat up without warning, his arm around your waist pulling you against his chest. Chan's mouth found your throat, your collarbone, your shoulder—kissing, nipping, tasting. You wrapped your arms around him as he thrust up into you, your legs tightening around his hips. Each movement was deeper like this, more intimate. You felt every inch of him. When your pace began to falter, your thighs trembling from the effort, Chan gently reversed your positions. You expected him to take you from behind again—but instead, he guided you onto your side, facing him.

Spooning had its tenderness, but this—this was different. You lifted your top leg slightly as he slid into you from the side. The angle was unexpected, exquisite. You gasped, clutching at his shoulders. "Better?" he asked, voice dark velvet against your mouth. "Yes," you whispered. It was slow, languid, but deeper than anything before. He held your gaze as he moved, one arm curled beneath your neck, the other hand gripping your thigh, guiding your leg higher over his hip. He was fully inside you, filling you perfectly, every thrust pressing against your most sensitive place.

You were surrounded by him—his breath on your skin, his body wrapped around yours, his length buried deep. The rhythm was slower now, almost torturously so. But it built with maddening precision. Chan kissed your shoulder, your collarbone, your cheekbone, never looking away. Your moans were swallowed in his mouth, and you felt yourself unraveling—every thrust driving you closer to that edge again. “You feel so good,” he whispered against your lips. “So tight and warm."

But just when the crescendo seemed imminent, Chan pulled back slightly, a wicked gleam in his eyes. "Turn with me," he murmured. He guided your leg further upward and gently rolled, until you were partially on your back, his body angled above you. With one swift movement, he hooked your leg over his shoulder, bending you open for him. Then he moved. Faster. Rougher.

The shift was jarring and breathtaking. Every thrust now hit with precision, deep and unrelenting, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your cries turned guttural, your hands gripping the sheets—or him—anything to keep you grounded. He groaned as he watched you unravel. "You take me so well... every time." You could only gasp, head tossing back as the rhythm pushed you beyond the edge of control. Chan leaned down slightly, the new angle making it even more intense, his chest grazing your breast, his mouth finding your jaw, your throat, whispering filthy praise against your skin.

“Fuck—you’re so beautiful like this,” he rasped. “Falling apart on my cock.” You felt the coiling heat in your belly begin to burn white-hot. Your muscles tensed, thighs shaking, the orgasm rising like a storm on the horizon. “Let go,” he whispered against your ear. “Come for me, love.” And you did.

The climax rolled through you in waves—deeper than before, slower, drawn out like silk unraveling. Your whole body tensed, then shuddered with release, and you sobbed his name into his mouth.

Chan kissed you through it, slowing just enough to let you feel every pulse, every aftershock. And only when you relaxed, body heavy and trembling in his arms, did he allow himself to chase his own end. A few more thrusts—urgent now, almost desperate—and he groaned, his release catching him hard. Chan held you tightly, hips stuttering as he spilled inside you, forehead pressed to yours. The world narrowed to just the two of you. Nothing else mattered.

He didn’t pull away right away—just stayed there, buried inside you, wrapped around you, the rhythm of his breath matching yours.

Finally, when the trembling slowed and your hearts found their pace again, he brushed a kiss to your brow. “Stay here tonight,” you whispered. Chan looked at you, body still humming. “I wasn’t planning on leaving.” He smiled, the look in his eyes was something different now—softer, almost reverent.

And then he kissed you again—unhurried, like the sea brushing the shore, as if time itself had decided to wait a little longer.

Not an end. Just the hush before the next wave.

203 notes · View notes

scarsnfevers · 3 months ago

Text

São Paulo

Prologue of Momentum

summary: while you were finding your footing in the quiet routines of life behind a desk, two nameless figures were burning their names into the asphalt of Formula 1. Among thunderous engines and fading legends, fate steered your paths together — igniting a story destined to leave its mark on the roaring heart of racing history.

genre: f1driver!minho x sportswriter!reader x f1driver!jisung

chapter word count: 2,8k

chapter warnings: mention of death

You had never liked landings.

The sudden lurch in your stomach, the tremor in your bones as the wheels scraped against asphalt — it was a violence you could never get used to. And yet, as the battered plane touched down at Congonhas Airport, you found yourself gripping the armrest not out of fear, but out of anticipation. It was the start of something, though you didn’t yet know what.

Outside, São Paulo simmered in the heavy embrace of late March heat.

The air curled against the windows, thick and relentless, carrying with it the electric pulse of a city that had not yet healed. Senna’s shadow still lingered in every corner, stitched into the soul of the place like a wound that refused to scab over. You felt it pressing against your skin the moment you stepped outside: the smell of exhaust, sun-scorched concrete, and a collective heart still in mourning.

The taxi you hailed was a relic from another decade, its upholstery cracked and brittle, the driver silent save for the occasional mutter in Portuguese. He didn’t need to ask where you were going. Not today. The Autódromo José Carlos Pace called all kinds — journalists, fans, ghosts — and you were just another pilgrim making the journey.

You leaned your head against the window, feeling the vibrations of the city bleed into you.

Billboards streaked past: beer ads, race team sponsors, political slogans peeling at the edges. The city sprawled endlessly, chaotic and aching and alive. Somewhere, a samba tune crackled over a cheap radio. Somewhere else, the sirens screamed. And above it all, the skyline shimmered like a mirage, heavy with the weight of heat and history. You closed your eyes briefly, letting it all sink into your bones. It had been a long time since you had been anywhere near a race track. Not since —

You forced the thought away, focusing instead on the way the city shifted and transformed the closer you got to the Autódromo. The buildings grew smaller, sparser. The trees leaned over the cracked roads, casting dappled shadows that danced across the hood of the taxi. Somewhere in the distance, faint but unmistakable, the roar of engines rolled across the hills. You exhaled slowly, your pulse quickening.

You could leave the track, you could hang up your leathers, you could swear a thousand oaths and make a thousand promises. But the truth was simpler, colder: the motorsport never really left you. It lived in your blood, clinging to the inside of your ribs, a phantom you could never quite outrun.

The taxi rattled to a stop at the gate.

Security was lax this early in the weekend — a casual nod to your press credentials, a muttered welcome, and you were through. The track stretched out before you, sun-bleached and merciless. The grandstands loomed mostly empty, their seats like rows of expectant faces, waiting for a story to unfold.

You tightened your grip on your satchel, feeling the reassuring weight of your notebook inside. This was your new life now: observer, chronicler, outsider. A pen instead of a throttle, a question instead of a starting flag.

You weren’t sure yet if it was enough.

The heat clung to you as you made your way toward the stands. The scent of hot rubber and fuel stung your nostrils, familiar and half-forgotten, like a song you used to hum in another life. Somewhere beyond the garages, engines screamed into life — high, sharp, mechanical wails that set your teeth on edge and your heart to racing.

The first practice session was well underway.

You found a spot high in the stands, where the cracked plastic seats were still warm from the sun but gave you a clear view of the track. You sat, letting your bag fall to the ground beside you with a soft thud, and drew out your notebook. The pages fluttered briefly in the breeze before you caught them, smoothing them down with careful fingers.

Your pen hovered above the paper, uncertain. For a moment, you just watched.

The cars — sleek, vicious things — carved brilliant, impossible lines through the corners. Their liveries blurred against the asphalt, colors bleeding into one another like brush strokes on a fevered canvas. Every downshift, every acceleration, every desperate lunge for grip sent tremors through the stands, through your chest. You could taste the tension in the air, sharp and metallic.

Even now, so early in the weekend, the stakes were written into every turn. They weren’t just fighting the track. They were fighting themselves, their machines, the ghosts of men greater than them — ghosts that still haunted these bends, these straights, these walls.

You wiped a bead of sweat from your temple, feeling the sun crawl a little higher in the sky.

The light shifted slowly, almost imperceptibly, casting longer, lazier shadows across the circuit. The stands remained mostly empty save for a scattering of other journalists, a few diehard fans with sunburned faces and camera lenses as long as rifles.

You scribbled a few notes, half-formed thoughts about speed and fear and the kind of insanity it took to sit in one of those machines and stare death in the face for the sake of something as fragile as glory. The words didn’t come easily. They rarely did these days. Maybe you had left too much of yourself behind. You shifted, stretching out your legs, and let your gaze wander. Beyond the track, the paddock buzzed quietly.

You could see team trucks, their liveries polished to a gleam, parked in precise, disciplined rows. Mechanics in matching shirts hunched over spare parts, their faces set in deep lines of focus. Every now and then, a driver would appear — a flash of color, a glint of helmet or fireproof suit — before disappearing again into the hive.

Your heart kicked once, hard against your ribs.

The paddock. The place where everything and nothing happened. Deals struck, dreams shattered, futures decided in the space between pit boards and hospitality tents. You closed your notebook carefully, tucking it back into your satchel, and rose from your seat.

The training session droned on in the background, the engines screaming and wailing and falling silent in unpredictable bursts. The track would always be there. The real stories lived behind it.

You made your way down the steps, your shoes clattering against the metal. The air grew heavier the closer you got to the garages, thick with the smells of hot oil, scorched tires, and the metallic tang of sweat and steel. The world narrowed to the paddock gates, where a single guard lounged in the shade, lazily checking passes.

You flashed your credentials again, heart thudding in your ears, and he waved you through without a second glance. Inside, the atmosphere changed immediately.

The paddock was its own strange kingdom — vibrant, secretive, alive. Laughter rang out from somewhere to your left, punctuated by the clatter of tools. A cluster of engineers argued animatedly over telemetry sheets. A group of drivers lounged in the shade of an awning, sunglasses perched precariously on their noses, postures loose and lazy but their eyes sharp, always calculating.

You walked slowly, savoring the texture of it all.

The sun had dipped slightly now, casting everything in a softer, burnished light. Shadows pooled beneath the trucks, stretched long across the pavement. The engines from the track still howled in the background, a constant, comforting white noise. You drifted closer to the pit lane, weaving through the slow, measured chaos. Mechanics zipped past you, carts laden with spare tires and carbon fiber panels. PR assistants barked into radios. Reporters leaned into quiet conversations, their recorders tucked neatly in their palms.

No one looked twice at you. You were just another ghost with a notepad.

You paused near one of the garage entrances, letting your gaze skim the names painted in crisp letters above each bay. Some familiar. Some new.

And somewhere, in the golden haze of the late afternoon, two names you didn’t yet know — two futures you hadn’t yet imagined — waited to collide with your own.

You just didn’t know it yet.

The air inside the pit lane was heavy, soaked with the scent of gasoline, warm rubber, and something metallic that clung to the back of your throat. Engines snarled in the background like restless beasts, vibrating through the concrete beneath their feet. Mechanics bustled about with clipped voices and quick hands, the whirr of drills and the clatter of tools a chaotic symphony that somehow still made sense — the heartbeat of a race weekend just beginning to stir.

Minho sat on a low wall near the entrance to his team’s garage, his fireproof suit tied loosely around his waist, arms bare and glistening faintly with sweat. He wiped a hand across the back of his neck, leaving a smudge of grease on his skin, but he didn’t seem to notice. His helmet sat beside him, forgotten for the moment, as he stared across the pit lane at the track shimmering under the late afternoon sun.

There was a crease between his brows, a tension in the set of his jaw that hadn’t been there this morning.

“It’s too light at the back,” he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else.

Jisung crouched beside one of the front tires of his own car just a few meters down, running his fingers carefully along the edge where the rubber had already started to scuff and wear. His brown hair was damp and curling slightly at his temples and there was a distracted frown on his face. He glanced over his shoulder at Minho, catching the low frustration in his tone.

“Still?” Jisung asked, standing and wiping his hands on the thighs of his suit. He didn’t wait for an answer; he could tell. The way Minho’s left foot tapped restlessly against the ground gave it away.

Minho exhaled slowly, almost a hiss. “It’s twitchy as hell. Especially into the mid-speed corners. I feel like I’m chasing the car, not driving it.”

The words hung between them, heavy and unwelcome.

Jisung understood better than anyone. His own machine hadn’t been cooperative either. The balance was off, subtle but stubborn — enough to pull at the corners of his concentration during every lap. The engine notes weren’t quite right either; he could feel it, a slight hesitation when he demanded full throttle, like a cough held too long in a smoker’s lungs.

He leaned his back against the pit wall beside Minho, staring out across the pit lane where the golden haze of the sun was beginning to deepen into the colors of late afternoon. Mechanics shouted to one another, wheels spun in the air as pit stops were practiced, and somewhere a whistle cut through the noise, sharp and shrill.

“It’s like...” Jisung paused, searching for the right words, his hands gesturing vaguely in the thick air. “Like it’s alive, but pissed at me for waking it up.”

Minho cracked the ghost of a grin, the first real smile he'd managed all day.

“That bad, huh?”

“Worse,” Jisung said, running a hand through his hair and letting his head tip back for a second against the wall, eyes closed. “Feels like it’s about to bite me if I push it one inch too far.”

Minho scrubbed a hand over his face, smearing more dirt into the creases. They sat there in a shared silence, the kind born not of defeat but of careful, simmering calculation. Every movement of their machines spoke to them, if they listened closely enough. Every shudder through the wheel, every breath of resistance from the engine, every fraction of hesitation in the tires told them something vital.

And both of them had spent too many years not to listen.

A sharp metallic clank snapped Minho’s head up, and he turned to see their lead mechanic, a woman named Camila, striding toward them with a clipboard tucked under one arm and a thin sheen of sweat glistening on her brow. Her dark hair was tied back into a low, practical knot, and there was grease streaked across the front of her overalls.

“You two gonna sit there looking pretty all day?” she barked, though there was a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

Minho rose to his feet in a lazy, catlike movement, rolling his shoulders back to shake off the stiffness.

“Depends,” he said. “You fix my car yet?”

Camila snorted, flipping the clipboard over and shoving it toward him. “Fixed? No. Adjusted? Maybe. We tweaked the rear wing angle, softened the rear suspension by half a click. Should make the back end a little less wild.”

Minho’s eyes scanned the notes quickly, absorbing the changes. His lips pressed into a thin line.

“It’s a band-aid.”

“Until we get more data, everything’s a band-aid.” Camila shot him a knowing look. “Unless you wanna be the guy who bins it into the wall first session.”

He grunted, conceding the point. Across the pit, another engine fired to life, a guttural roar that vibrated through the soles of their shoes, into their bones. Minho glanced toward it instinctively, nostrils flaring slightly at the scent of burning fuel and hot metal.

God, he loved this. Even when it was maddening. Even when the car fought him every inch of the way. Maybe especially then.

Jisung pushed off the wall and ambled over, peering at the clipboard over Minho’s shoulder. “What about my engine?” he asked, voice light but with an edge buried underneath. Camila’s smirk faded, and she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “We ran diagnostics. It’s not mechanical,” she said. “Might be mapping. We’re adjusting the fuel mix for the next session — see if it smooths out the power delivery.”

Jisung chewed the inside of his cheek, weighing that. Not mechanical was good. Sort of. It meant there was still time to fix it. It also meant the solution might not be straightforward. He hated not having control. Out there, at 300 kilometers an hour, a second’s hesitation could turn into a lifetime of regret.

The sun dropped lower, stretching long golden fingers across the pit lane. Shadows sharpened, and the glint of the cars — those gleaming, fragile machines — caught the light like fireflies trapped in glass. The engines snarled and growled, alive and hungry.

Minho picked up his helmet, his fingers brushing over the glossy paint. His reflection stared back at him from the curved visor, distorted and ghostlike.

“You feel it too, right?” he asked quietly, almost to himself.

Jisung tilted his head, frowning.

“What?”

Minho nodded toward the track, toward the haze of heat lifting from the asphalt, toward the stands where the ghosts of races past still whispered in the rattling banners and empty plastic seats.

“The weight of it,” Minho said. “Like the track’s... watching. Waiting.”

Jisung didn’t laugh. He understood. God, he understood better than he could ever say. Every racetrack had a memory. Every pit wall, every corner, every tire barrier had soaked up the history of triumph and disaster, of split-second mistakes and impossible saves. Of lives.

Here, especially, the echoes of loss were louder. Louder since that day last year, when the world had cracked open for everyone who loved this sport.

He shivered, despite the heat.

Camila clapped a hand on each of their shoulders, dragging them back to the moment.

“Enough brooding, you two. You’ve got a job to do. Make friends with your cars — or at least pretend you like each other long enough to get through qualifying.” She turned away with a brisk nod, barking new orders at the mechanics still swarming over their machines like bees.

Minho exhaled slowly, his breath stirring the hot air in front of him. He tucked his helmet under one arm and started toward the car, each step feeling heavier than the last, the way it always did just before he slid into the cockpit and gave himself over to the machine completely.

Jisung watched him go, then turned back to his own car, standing there under the glare of the setting sun like a slumbering dragon.

He reached out and rested his palm flat against the carbon-fiber bodywork, feeling the faint, residual warmth of the engine beneath his skin.

“You and me,” he whispered under his breath. “We’re gonna figure this out.”

Because there was no other choice. Because the wheels kept turning, and the world didn’t wait for anyone.

Not even for those it had already broken.

masterlist | chapter I (soon)

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scarsnfevers · 3 months ago

Text

Momentum — Masterlist (18+)

synopsis: while you were learning to navigate the unfamiliar confines of your new life behind a desk, two unknown souls were carving their destiny on the grand stage of Formula 1. In a world of roaring engines and fleeting legends, your paths intertwined, setting into motion a story that would soon echo through the annals of racing history.

content info: f1driver!minho x sportswriter!reader x f1driver!jisung, nostalgia, slow burn, love triangle dynamics, smut, mature/strong language, mentions of accidents, more to be added

word count: open

warnings: mature language, mentions of death, alcohol, mentions of car accidents/crashes, smut, strong language, more to be added

authors note: I simply couldn’t let it go. After watching Senna on Netflix (highly recommended!), I knew I had to write a story with Minsung set in the world of Formula 1. As always, it’s packed with plenty of story — and later, with some heavy smut. Hope you enjoy it!

minors do not interact!

CHAPTERS

Prologue: São Paulo

Chapter I: Memories

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scarsnfevers · 3 months ago

Note

YES ANOTHER GREAT CHAPTER. Has y/n met the whole pack now?? Or is Han left?? I'm so excited for where the story is gonna go next. That runs gonna release something in all of them and im stoked to see it. Have a lovely weekend!!!

Hey Annon! I'm so happy you enjoyed this chapter too! It seriously means the world to me <3 Y/N hasn’t met the whole pack just yet — Jisung, Felix, and Jeongin are still waiting in the wings! But don’t worry, she’ll definitely cross paths with them in the upcoming chapters, and I can't wait for you to see how those moments unfold!

#RaeFullOfJoy

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scarsnfevers · 3 months ago

Text

Bond dreams (18+)

Chapter V of Wolfgang

summary: their scents clung to the air like ghosts, weaving through your thoughts and curling around your senses. You drifted into the quiet streets of Fox River where the mist hugged the pavement and the lamps flickered like watching eyes. But even the stillness, even the faded charm of the town, couldn’t quiet the gnawing hunger of the wolf that stirred within you.

genre: werewolf!chan x werewolf!reader x werewolf!minho x werewolf!changbin, mentions of werewolf!hyunjin & werewolf!seungmin in the beginning

chapter word count: 5,2k

chapter warnings: smut, foursome, oral (female receiving), fingering, overstimulation

minors do not interact!

Two days.

It had been two days since they stood in your home, their presence still woven into the very bones of the cabin, like a scent you couldn’t scrub clean if you tried. Two days, and yet their traces lingered—faint but stubborn. A breath of clear mountain air, the wild sea and campfire, of sun-warmed skin and wild forests. Two days, and your wolf hadn’t stopped pacing beneath your skin. You understood why. At least part of you did.

Their scents had been heady, unfiltered, something ancient that spoke to the places inside you language could never reach. Their nearness had stirred something more than curiosity; it had rattled something loose. Something hungry. But it wasn’t just that. You kept reminding yourself. It wasn’t just biology. It wasn’t just the coil of instinct, the easy temptation of power and the raw safety that radiated off them in waves. It was the way Chan had watched you like the world might tilt if you looked away. The way Minho had seen you—truly seen you—behind all the careful walls. The way Changbin had smiled, not with expectation or assumption, but with hope. And because of that—because it was more—you needed space.

You needed to breathe.

Which is how you found yourself in Fox River on a soft gray afternoon, your boots crunching across the uneven pavement of the town square, the air brushed with the faintest kiss of rain. Fox River wasn’t much. It had a single main street that cut through the middle like a scar, a handful of side roads that bled off into the trees, and a smattering of stores clinging to life with stubborn pride. Most of the houses were tucked away far beyond the town limits, swallowed by the forests that stretched for miles, wide and wild ....and unforgiving.

It was perfect.

The remoteness had been what drew you here in the first place—what made it feel safe enough to build something new. Even now, weaving through the handful of shops with a worn canvas bag slung over your shoulder, you could feel that sense of rightness hum against your bones. You hadn’t bought much. Some dried herbs. A bar of handmade soap that smelled faintly of mint and pine.

A new kitchen knife, the blade sharp and clean and waiting for the work of your hands. Small things. Necessary things. You told yourself it was enough. You told yourself you felt lighter already. The sun had long slipped behind the trees, leaving the sky a deep, bruised violet, streaked with the last pale traces of day. The world was soft in this hour—edges blurred, colors muted.

It suited you.

You crossed the parking lot toward your truck, the worn soles of your shoes brushing over patches of gravel and grass. Your canvas bag swung gently against your side, the rhythm of your steps steady, familiar. And then you smelled them. You stopped mid-stride, breath catching.

Jasmine. Cedarwood.

The faintest curl of woodsmoke and fresh rain. It hit you like a stone to the ribs—sharp, sudden, vivid enough to drag you backward through memory. The slam of water against glass. The knock at the door. A face half-shadowed by dripping hair, eyes dark, wide and waiting.

The Pizzaboy.

Before you could fully process it, another scent braided through the first—sharper, brighter, almost biting in its sweetness.

Blood orange. Juniper.

New. Unfamiliar.

Your wolf pricked its ears, alert, curious. You lifted your gaze. Two figures stood by a battered sedan a few rows down, caught in the soft, dying light. The one you recognized immediately—the same easy stance, the same mop of messy dark hair. The other was leaner, his posture tighter, more reserved. The Pizzaboy—Hyunjin, you remembered now, though you weren’t sure how—lifted his head first. A flicker of surprise crossed his face.

Then, slowly, he smiled. Cautiously. Hopefully.

You felt it ripple off him—nerves, tangled with something warmer. He started toward you, hands loose at his sides. The other boy hesitated a beat before following, his steps measured, careful. You didn’t move. You let them come.

Close enough now that the scents wrapped around you fully, peeling back the human layers to reveal what your wolf already knew.

Omega.

Beta.

The difference between them and the three who had filled your home was stark, immediate. Their energy was smaller. Not lesser—never that—but quieter. More cautious. More attuned to the careful balance of presence and permission. You softened your stance instinctively, angling your body just slightly sideways, a silent gesture of nonthreat. Your wolf, still keyed high from the memory of the other scents, settled with a faint grumble. Hyunjin stopped a respectful distance away—close enough to speak, far enough that you wouldn’t feel boxed in. “Hey,” he said, voice a little rough, a little shy. “Um… it’s really good to see you again.” You tilted your head, studying him.

The last time you’d seen him, he’d been a dripping, half-drowned thing, standing awkwardly on your porch with a box of pizza and a heart too big for his chest. Now he looked dryer, cleaner, but no less earnest. He shifted his weight, cheeks flushing pink under your gaze.

“I’m Hyunjin, by the way,” he added, like you might’ve forgotten. “Yeah, I—” he started, then stopped, laughing under his breath in a way that was self-conscious but genuine. “I guess you already knew that.” You couldn't help but smile, “Yes, I do.” You let your eyes flick to the other boy, who stepped up beside him with a short, almost reluctant nod. “Seungmin,” he said shortly. His voice was even, but his scent betrayed him—wariness sharpened with something like curiosity. Beta, you thought again. You tucked the canvas bag tighter against your hip, letting the quiet stretch just a beat longer than necessary.

Testing. Measuring. They didn’t press. They didn’t push. Good.

You let your mouth curve, just barely. “Y/N,” you said. Simple. Uncomplicated.

Hyunjin’s shoulders loosened visibly at the sound of your voice. The three of you stood there for a moment, the dying twilight wrapping you all in its soft, forgiving light. Not quite strangers. Not quite anything else yet, either. But it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was… tentative. Fragile, maybe. A thread waiting to be tied—or broken.

You shifted your stance again, adjusting the strap of the bag against your shoulder. “You two live around here?” you asked, voice low, nonchalant. Hyunjin nodded, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Yeah. Just outside town. Toward the north side.” His hand moved absently, as if gesturing to something only he could see. Seungmin gave a small shrug, his thumb hooking into the strap of the worn backpack slung over his shoulder. “Pretty far out,” he added. “Most of us are. It’s quieter.” You hummed under your breath, a small sound of agreement. You understood better than most why wolves stayed away from the clustered mess of human life. It was easier on the senses. Easier on the instincts.

Hyunjin tugged at the sleeve of his jacket, glancing sideways at Seungmin before daring another step closer. “You, uh—” he started, then cleared his throat. “You settling in alright?” You caught the edge underneath the words. Not just small talk. Something deeper.

The unspoken currents of pack, of territory, of belonging. The ache in your chest stirred again—faint, but there.

You thought of the cabin, still steeped in the scent of Alphas who had made the walls feel smaller without even trying. You let yourself smile, just a little. “I’m getting there.” Hyunjin’s shoulders eased at your answer, though a thread of nerves still clung to him, light and jittery.

“We’re, um…” He hesitated, his gaze flickering to Seungmin for backup. Seungmin shifted slightly, his stance relaxing as he picked up the thread Hyunjin struggled to find. “We’re part of the same pack,” he said simply. “The one Chan leads.”

At the sound of the name, something inside you settled. No surprise. Only a quiet click of understanding.

Of course.

The way their scents carried that same steady undertone. The way they moved—with a quiet deference, but also a tether, invisible and strong, to something bigger than themselves. You gave a slow nod, letting your expression remain easy, open. There was no need to press further. Some things didn’t need to be said out loud. “I figured,” you said, voice low, almost amused. Hyunjin’s lips twitched into a shy smile, and Seungmin gave a small, approving nod, as if pleased you hadn’t made it awkward. For a beat, the three of you stood there, the evening stretching soft and golden around you, the first hints of night curling at the edges of the sky.

No tension. No pressure.

Just the fragile weight of something new, hanging in the warm, drifting air. And for the first time in days, the restless pull of your wolf eased, just a little. Not enough to forget. But enough to breathe.

Hyunjin shifted again, his fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket, like he was gathering courage. His eyes flickered up to meet yours, wide and earnest. “So—” he began, then gave a soft huff of breath, as if deciding there was no delicate way to say it. “Changbin mentioned... he invited you to run with us?” You blinked, surprised by the sudden shift, but nodded once, slow and steady. The memory of that moment��Changbin’s mischievous grin, the spark in his dark eyes—flickered through you like the brush of a hand. "Yes, that's right," you paused for a moment before nodding. “That’s... great,” Hyunjin said, and it sounded like he meant it. But then he hesitated, the smile faltering just slightly around the edges. Hyunjin pressed on, his voice softer now. “It’s just— We’re not sure yet if... we’ll be part of it.” You tilted your head slightly, curiosity sparking.

Seungmin cleared his throat, a rough little sound, and when he spoke, there was a tightness in his voice that hadn’t been there before. “Bringing someone new into the pack,” he said, “it’s... tricky sometimes.” Not hostile. Not unkind. Just honest. And maybe a little afraid. The way wolves always danced around the edges of newness, testing the air, testing each other. Old instincts, older than language. You felt your wolf stir in acknowledgment, the part of you that understood the push and pull of belonging better than words ever could. You let the silence stretch for a beat, letting them see you weren’t angered.

That you understood. Then you smiled again—small, but real. A flicker of warmth through the cooling air.

“I get it,” you said quietly. “No hard feelings.”

And you meant it.

Because some things, the important things, couldn’t be rushed. Not loyalty. Not trust. Not the slow, inevitable weaving of something real. Hyunjin exhaled, the sound almost a laugh, like he hadn’t realized until just now that he’d been holding his breath. Seungmin shifted again, like the ground beneath his feet still wasn’t entirely steady, but some of the sharp edges in his posture softened. The sky above you deepened into violet and indigo, the last scraps of daylight bleeding away into the waiting arms of night. And somehow, standing there with them, the world didn’t feel quite so heavy.

Hyunjin offered you another smile, softer this time, tinged with something that looked a lot like relief. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, the movement almost boyish.

But before he could speak, something changed.

You saw it — the way both guys tensed, just barely. A flicker across their shoulders, a tightening at the edges. As if they had heard something you hadn’t.

Something silent.

A summons threading through the cooling evening air. Hyunjin’s head tilted slightly, as if listening. Seungmin’s nostrils flared, muscles taut beneath his jacket like a wire drawn tight. The moment passed in a heartbeat, but it left a ripple in its wake — a vibration against your senses, a shift you couldn’t name. Hyunjin turned back to you, his smile apologetic now, tinged with something close to regret. “Well,” he said, voice low, hurried, but still sincere, “I’m really looking forward to seeing you again.” Beside him, Seungmin gave a short nod, more reserved, but the glint in his eyes was genuine. “It was good meeting you.” Seungmin said, his voice a little rough, like he wasn’t used to quick goodbyes. You smiled at them both — a small, honest thing — and tucked the fabric of your tote bag more securely into the crook of your elbow.

“Yeah,” you said. “You too.”

Hyunjin lifted a hand in a little wave, Seungmin offering a brief tilt of his chin in farewell. Without another word, they turned away, steps quickening as they crossed the parking lot toward their car, parked near the tree line.

You watched them go. The echo of their presence lingered — a soft pressure in the air, a ripple across your senses.

You let out a breath you hadn’t meant to hold and turned toward your car. The parking lot was nearly empty now, save for a few scattered vehicles gleaming under the streetlights. The sun was gone, swallowed by the horizon, leaving the sky draped in deep purples and bruised blues.

Your boots scuffed quietly against the asphalt as you walked, the tote bag bumping lightly against your side. Behind you, the sounds of town slipped away — the murmur of distant conversation, the dull thud of a door closing somewhere. The ordinary, familiar sounds of Fox River settling into night.

And yet—

You couldn’t shake it.

Couldn’t leave the feeling behind so easily, no matter how many steps you took. Their scents still clung faintly to your skin, carried in the folds of your jacket. The weight of their cautious hope, their guarded trust, pressed against your ribs like a secret you weren’t ready to put down yet. You reached your car, unlocking it with a soft beep. The sound was oddly loud in the gathering quiet.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, you set the tote bag down beside you, fingers lingering on the worn fabric a moment longer than necessary. You closed the door, shutting out the cool night air — but not the heaviness that had settled somewhere deep inside your chest.

You started the engine. The radio crackled to life, a low murmur of static and half-formed melodies. You didn’t turn it off. Didn’t turn it up, either. You just sat there for a moment, hands resting on the steering wheel, breathing in the remnants of twilight and something else.

Something new. Something you weren’t sure you were ready for.

And then, with a quiet exhale, you pulled out of the lot and drove into the deepening night, the lights of Fox River dwindling behind you like the last embers of a fire.

The night fell softly around you, wrapping the cabin in a hush that felt thick enough to touch. The kind of quiet that made even the old floorboards seem reluctant to creak. Inside, it was warm — the rich, toasty kind of warmth that seeps into your bones after a long day of pretending you weren’t still the new girl in town.

You'd made yourself a cup of tea — the real stuff too, none of that half-hearted herbal nonsense — and claimed the battered couch as your kingdom. A knitted throw was tangled around your legs, soft and slightly fraying at the edges, just the way you liked it. The TV flickered across the small living room, casting shifting shadows across the wood-paneled walls.

'The Vampire Diaries' played in front of you — a show you'd seen enough times to quote entire episodes, though that never stopped you from watching it again. Something about the reckless drama, the impossible hair, and the serious lack of unattractive people made it the perfect background noise for nights like this. You sipped your tea — careful, because you’d already scorched your tongue once tonight — and let yourself sink deeper into the cushions.

On screen, Damon was doing his brooding thing. Elena was being all soft-eyed and complicated. And Stefan... well. Stefan was brooding too, but with more guilt. Classic.

You found yourself smiling against the rim of your mug. Seriously — what was it about these actors? Had the casting director just raided the nearest magazine shoot and called it a day? It was borderline offensive. Not a single bad hair day between them. No one looking vaguely puffy or uneven under the harsh lighting. It was like the universe had decided some people just got to win the genetic lottery twice. You huffed a soft laugh, setting your mug down on the end table with a soft clink. Unfair didn’t even cover it.

Your gaze drifted from the screen, caught somewhere between the flickering images and the steady crackle of the heater kicking on. And like a thread tugging loose, your mind wandered. You thought, not for the first time, of them.

Of Chan’s quiet, grounding presence.

Of Minho’s sharp eyes.

Of Changbin’s warm laugh, wrapping around you like a sweater you didn’t realize you needed.

And, unexpectedly —

Hyunjin.

The thought brushed past you like the flick of a feather, soft and uninvited. You blinked, shoulders shifting under the blanket. Hyunjin’s face — wide, honest eyes and that slightly crooked grin, like he wasn't quite sure if he should be smiling yet — surfaced in your mind’s eye with an ease that was almost suspicious. You snorted quietly to yourself.

Seriously?

One polite conversation and you were already handing out mental screen time like candy? Your wolf stirred inside you, a low, lazy stretch that buzzed faintly against your skin. Not a growl, not a snap — just a slow, content hum.

Approval.

The kind that made the corners of your mouth tug upward against your will. Traitor, you thought at it mildly. But you weren’t fooling either of you. You shook your head, more amused than anything else, and reached for your tea again. The mug was warm against your palms, grounding in a way that had nothing to do with caffeine and everything to do with the simple, stubborn comfort of small rituals.

Hot drink. TV. Warm blanket. Simple. Safe.

And yet—

You sipped slowly, letting the steam curl up against your face, and acknowledged — if only silently — that maybe, just maybe, reality wasn’t such a terrible place to be after all. Especially not when it included the possibility of new faces. New laughter. New belonging, however tentative and delicate it might still be.

On the TV, some new plot twist unfurled — betrayal, heartbreak, another completely unnecessary shirtless scene (not that you were complaining) — but you barely noticed.

Your mind was elsewhere.

Caught between the scent of jasmine still clinging faintly to your jacket, the lingering warmth of cautious smiles, and the not-so-quiet agreement of the wild thing coiled comfortably beneath your ribs. The thing that knew better than you did sometimes. The thing that whispered of pack and belonging and the dizzy, dangerous sweetness of being known. You exhaled slowly, blowing a ripple across the surface of your tea, and let yourself sink back against the couch. For now, this was enough.

Warmth. Laughter.

The distant promise of something more. You smiled to yourself again — a small, secret thing — and let the night close around you, soft and full of possibility.

The world blurred into soft twilight.

The television's light flickered faintly across the living room, forgotten, as your breathing grew slower, deeper. You shifted once beneath your blanket, the warmth cocooning you, and a drowsy sigh escaped your lips.

Sleep welcomed you like an old lover — gentle, patient, inevitable. The edges of reality softened, melted away, and the moment your consciousness slipped free, something inside you stirred.

It started with a scent — sharp, wild, masculine.

It curled around you like smoke, teasing, tempting, pulling you deeper. You floated, weightless, until the world reformed around you, vivid and dreamlike. You were no longer in your living room. You stood barefoot in a clearing bathed in silver moonlight, the grass cool beneath your feet. The air was thick, almost humming, heavy with unseen promise.

Before you could move, before you could even breathe properly, you felt them. Not saw — felt. The slow, magnetic pull of them, like gravity itself had shifted to center around you.

Chan.

Minho.

Changbin.

Their names whispered themselves across your mind, soft as a lover’s sigh. They didn’t approach you as much as they materialized — stepping through the shadows like the inevitable force they were, each movement fluid, predatory, beautiful. Their eyes burned into yours, dark and endless, and your heart stuttered in your chest.

You couldn’t run. You wouldn’t.

Your wolf within you keened, pushing you forward, pushing you toward them — toward home.

Chan reached you first.

There was no hesitation — only the slow, deliberate slide of his fingers along your jaw, tilting your face up to his. The simple contact set your skin aflame. Minho came next, circling you like a slow orbit, his hand grazing the bare skin at the small of your back, lingering just long enough to make your breath hitch. Changbin’s presence was a weight at your side, solid and sure, his gaze pinning you in place more effectively than any hand could.

You were surrounded. Caged. Cherished.

You trembled — not in fear, but in anticipation so thick it tasted metallic on your tongue.

The first kiss was like a spark.

Soft.

Tentative. As if asking permission. But the second was deeper — demanding — and you surrendered without a fight. Hands slid over you, reverent and greedy at once. Mouths mapped the curve of your neck, the line of your collarbone, the sensitive hollow behind your ear. Clothes dissolved from your body, as natural and inevitable as the tide pulling sand from the shore. You were bared before them, every inch of your skin tingling under their worshipful touch. Chan’s mouth trailed down your throat, his teeth grazing your pulse point with exquisite care. Minho’s fingers brushed the underside of your breast, teasing, while his gaze — hooded and dark — never left yours. Changbin pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your wrist, then your hipbone, then lower still, each touch branding you in ways you would never recover from.

They didn’t rush you. Didn’t overwhelm. They unfolded you.

Patiently.

Ruthlessly.

You gasped as strong hands gripped your thighs, lifting you effortlessly, spreading you open to their hungry eyes. One of them — you couldn’t tell who anymore — pressed a slow, lazy kiss between your legs, and your body arched off the ground in a helpless, instinctive offering. Their mouths worked in concert — licking, kissing, tasting — until you were nothing but sound and light, trembling and begging in a language made only of moans and whispered names.

Fingers slid into you — slow, thick, unrelenting — while another mouth suckled at your clit with devastating precision. You cried out, sharp and broken, and were immediately soothed by soft kisses against your stomach, your breasts, your throat. They murmured to you — soft, low, unintelligible — but you understood the meaning instinctively.

Ours.

The orgasm built inside you like a living thing, clawing at your insides, desperate to be released. And when it came, it tore through you violently — your back arching, your fingers digging into strong shoulders, your cries echoing into the humid, heavy night. But the dream did not end.

Your body was passed from one set of arms to the next, each touch grounding you even as it ignited you all over again. Hands skimmed your thighs, thumbs brushing your nipples until they ached. Tongues traced lazy patterns across your skin, making you shiver, making you sob with want.

One of them — Minho, you thought — entered you with a slow, devastating roll of his hips, and your body welcomed him instinctively, slick and eager.

Another — Chan, maybe — kissed you deeply, swallowing your broken gasps, stroking your hair back from your sweaty forehead.

Changbin’s hand wrapped around your throat — not tight, just enough to make you feel his strength, his control — as he whispered filth and praise into your ear.

You lost yourself in them completely. In the rhythm.

The heat.

The sounds of skin against skin, gasps and growls, the wet slap of bodies colliding in frantic, desperate need. You came again, each orgasm crashing into you with almost painful intensity, leaving you shaking, crying, begging for more.

And they gave it.

When you could no longer move, they moved for you — lifting you, adjusting you, guiding you until you were lying boneless and sated among them, their bodies still tangled with yours, their skin damp against your own.

Someone — Chan, you thought — kissed your temple. Another — Minho, maybe — pressed a hand low against your abdomen, as if claiming you even now. Changbin’s hand traced lazy circles along your thigh, grounding you to this impossible, perfect moment.

The world began to blur again, softening at the edges, the sensations dissolving into light and warmth. You floated, weightless once more, their names echoing through your mind like a promise.

Yours.

Forever.

The world peeled away in slow, trembling layers.

You surfaced from sleep with a soft, broken gasp, your body shivering beneath the thin blanket thrown haphazardly over you. The living room was dark now, save for the faint, flickering glow of the television screen, its muted light casting restless shadows along the walls.

For a moment, you didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Your heart hammered violently against your ribs, so loud you were almost sure it could be heard beyond the four walls of your apartment. Your skin was flushed and oversensitive, every inch of you tingling with phantom touches that no longer existed. You lay there, dazed, the remnants of the dream still thick and cloying in your mind.

Fragments clung to you — the press of strong hands, the scrape of teeth against your throat, the low, reverent growls against your skin. Heat pooled low in your belly, vivid and humiliatingly real. You squeezed your eyes shut, as if the darkness behind your lids could somehow erase the memory. But it was useless.

The sensations were burned into you, stitched into the very fabric of your being, and they refused to be forgotten.

You shifted beneath the blanket, your thighs brushing together, and a soft, helpless whimper escaped your throat at the sudden rush of remembered pleasure.

Gods, what had that been?

A dream — just a dream — and yet it had felt more vivid, more real, than anything you had ever experienced awake. The faces floated before your mind’s eye — Chan, Minho, Changbin — their touches, their mouths, their bodies moving against yours in a rhythm older than time itself. Your inner wolf stirred sluggishly inside you, dragging herself up from the depths where she usually slept. She pressed against you, nuzzling insistently, her emotions raw and simple: longing, frustration, hunger.

You shook your head sharply, more to silence yourself than her, and forced your sluggish limbs into motion. The television’s faint buzz filled the heavy silence, a low drone that seemed impossibly loud in your heightened state.

You reached for the remote with a hand that trembled slightly, switching it off with a muted click. Darkness swallowed the room, thick and absolute. Only the faint silver of the moon, peeking through the half-closed curtains, offered any illumination now.

You sat there for a moment longer, staring blankly at the blackened screen, your body still humming with aftershocks you couldn’t will away.

Finally, with a soft, frustrated sigh, you pushed yourself upright. Your legs wobbled slightly as you stood, and you pressed a hand to the back of the couch to steady yourself. The cool wood against your palm grounded you somewhat, anchoring you to the present. It didn’t help nearly enough. Your skin still burned, still remembered — phantom hands still traced your body, mapping every secret place as if you belonged to them. You shuffled toward your bedroom, your steps slow and heavy, the quiet thud of your bare feet against the floor the only sound in the hush of the apartment. Your wolf whined softly inside you, rubbing against the edges of your mind, stubborn and restless.

You crossed the threshold into your bedroom, flicking on the bedside lamp. Soft, golden light spilled across the room, gentle and forgiving.

You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror — flushed cheeks, tousled hair, eyes still wide and glassy with unshed emotion.

You barely recognized yourself.

You looked…Awakened. Marked.

Shaking your head again — more desperately this time — you peeled off your clothes with clumsy fingers. The fabric stuck to your overheated skin, and the cool kiss of the air against your bare body made you shudder.

You grabbed the nearest oversized shirt — one of your favorites, soft and worn — and pulled it over your head, the familiar scent of home doing little to soothe the ache lodged deep within you.

Still trembling slightly, you crawled into bed.

The sheets were cool against your flushed skin, and you buried yourself beneath them, curling onto your side with a soft, involuntary sigh. You closed your eyes tightly, willing sleep to take you again — but this time, gently, dreamlessly. But it wasn’t that easy.

Every time you drifted near the edges of unconsciousness, the dream resurfaced. The scrape of stubble against your thigh. The low, possessive growl of your name. The heavy, relentless press of bodies against yours.

Your wolf was relentless, tossing those images back at you like sparks from a fire, fanning the embers that still glowed too bright inside you.

You groaned quietly, pressing your face into your pillow. You weren’t naive. You understood what this meant. Bond dreams didn’t happen without reason. Not with this kind of intensity. Not with this kind of… inevitability. Your soul had recognized theirs. And part of you — the deep, feral part you usually kept locked away — had already decided.

They are ours.

The thought was terrifying. And exhilarating. And completely, utterly impossible to ignore.

You lay there, heart pounding, breath shallow, listening to the sound of your own racing pulse in the dark. You should have been angry. Confused. Scared. But mostly, you felt…

Empty.

Lonely.

Like something inside you had been touched — awakened — only to be left aching and hollow in its absence.

You curled tighter into yourself, pulling the blanket over your head like it could somehow shield you from your own mind.

Sleep came eventually, not as a peaceful embrace, but as a slow, grudging surrender. And even then, somewhere in the murky depths of your dreams, you could still feel them — warm, strong, waiting.

Calling you home.

202 notes · View notes

scarsnfevers · 3 months ago

Text

Scents.

Chapter IV of Wolfgang

summary: in your eyes, mending the old boiler was no pressing matter — until three Alphas appeared at your threshold, their presence heavy as a storm, and you suddenly thought otherwise.

genre: werewolf!chan x werewolf!reader x werewolf!minho x werewolf!changbin

chapter word count: 7k

chapter warnings: mature language

author's note: I've read through this part multiple times, but my mind has been a little crowded lately. If a few mistakes slipped through, I hope you’ll still enjoy the chapter!

The morning air was still cool when you finally opened your eyes. A silver sheen of light slipped past the curtains and stretched across the floor like a slow exhale. Your room smelled faintly of pinewood and old books, familiar now, comforting in a way the city never had been. You lingered beneath the blankets longer than usual, not out of laziness, but necessity—your sleep had been thin, your mind too restless for full rest.

The dreams clung to your memory like morning mist: glimpses of fur and teeth, shapes moving between trees, a clearing you didn’t recognize but somehow knew. The lake in the center of it all, silent and deep, had felt like the still eye of a storm. Around it, faces—not quite familiar, not quite strangers—flickered like firelight. Wolves, though they didn’t always wear the shape.

You sat up slowly. There was no fear clinging to your ribs, just a low hum of something unsettled, something stirred. But the cottage around you remained unchanged—wooden beams, old floorboards, dust motes dancing in shafts of morning light. You breathed in the calm of it, and it held. The wolves from your dreams stayed where they belonged.

The kettle sang gently in the kitchen. You moved through the space barefoot, the wooden floor cool beneath your soles, and fixed yourself a cup of tea—something herbal, something grounding. The scent of honey and lemon balm followed you as you stepped out onto the porch. The forest opened before you in gold and green. The sunlight spilled through the branches like warm water, dappled and quiet, and you let it fall on your skin as you sank into the old rocking chair with a sigh. The mug was warm in your hands. The book in your lap had already been read, but today it didn’t matter. The story could wait. Today wasn’t for rushing.

Today was for breathing.

The world moved slower out here. Birds called lazily from the treetops. A breeze stirred the leaves like whispers. Somewhere in the distance, a woodpecker knocked out a rhythm that only made sense to him. You sipped your tea and let yourself listen—not just with your ears, but deeper, the way wolves did. The way you had almost forgotten how to. Your wolf had settled sometime in the night. After pacing, after circling, after shaking off the scent of something new and unfamiliar, she had curled beside your ribs and gone quiet again. But the memory of yesterday still lingered.

Changbin.

Even the name felt strange on your tongue. There had been something about him—beyond the obvious strength, beyond the fact that he carried his wolf like a second skin. There had been a steadiness in him that didn’t push. That didn’t try to dominate the air between you.

That wasn’t always the case.

You thought back to the city. To crowded elevators that reeked of cologne and tension. To office meetings where voices grew sharp, where wolves squared off over nothing, because that’s what power did in cages—it clawed at whatever it could find. Alpha energy coiled in too-small spaces, suffocating everything soft, everything still. Your bosses had been wolves. Not always openly, not always proudly, but you had known. You could smell it. The unspoken battles, the forced hierarchy, the way the air would thicken like fog when one stepped too close to another. Posturing. Growling beneath polite words. Every handshake a contest. And in the middle of it, you. Trying to breathe through your own presence. Trying to keep your wolf folded small in your chest, because there was no room for her there. Not really. Leaving had been the only thing that ever made sense.

You blinked and exhaled. Let the past fall away like dust. The forest didn’t care what kind of wolf you were.

The forest simply was.

And you were part of it, now.

You closed your eyes for a moment, tilting your face to the sun, letting it kiss the corners of your thoughts. The warmth soaked in slow, gentle. The scent of pine and damp earth grounded you. The mug cooled between your fingers, but you didn’t mind. The tea had long gone lukewarm, its once comforting steam now a faint memory on your skin, but the silence around you held something warmer still. Time had moved without you noticing. You’d been caught between pages and birdsong, between the rustle of wind through pines and the occasional snap of a twig in the underbrush. It had been a good kind of silence. One that let your thoughts stretch and breathe.

And then you checked the time.

Your thumb tapped the side button on your phone, waking the screen to a pale glow that made you blink. It was later than you thought. Afternoon sunlight stretched long and golden across the porch, softening the edges of the world. You blinked again. Huh? He’d be here soon.

Your inner wolf stirred.

Not with the usual guarded tension. Not with the tight, defensive coil in your belly that came from being around another of your kind. No, this felt…different. It wasn’t fear. Wasn’t even wariness. More like—anticipation. Your chest tightened in a strange, unfamiliar way, and your thumb hovered over your phone screen a second longer before you clicked it off and stood. You weren’t going to meet him again in a hoodie and joggers. Absolutely not. You had standards. Even if those standards had been folded into the bottom of your dresser for the better part of two seasons. Inside, the cabin air was cooler, filtered through the shade of the trees and the open windows. You padded toward the bedroom with a determined stride, already peeling off your hoodie and tossing it onto the bed with a huff.

The closet door creaked when you pulled it open, revealing your modest collection of clothing that now felt woefully inadequate. You stood there, staring, hands on your hips. "What does one even wear when a borderline mythical alpha is coming over to fix your boiler?" you muttered aloud. A dress? Too much. He’d think you were trying. A skirt? God, no, you weren’t a Disney character waiting to be courted in the woods. Shorts? Too casual. Also, your legs had seen sunlight approximately three times since spring. That was a public hazard.

You shoved a few hangers aside with growing dismay. Flannel? Predictable. That one t-shirt with the faded wolf print? Too on the nose. Another hoodie? Absolutely not. You were not wearing another hoodie. Eventually, your fingers landed on a soft, slightly crumpled floral blouse—lightweight, easy, but still put-together. You pulled it out and gave it a shake. It would do. Paired with your favorite dark jeans and a clean pair of sneakers, it gave off a vibe of I didn’t try too hard but also I don’t look like a swamp creature.

Victory.

You changed quickly, tugging the jeans up with a little hop and twist maneuver you’d mastered over the years, nearly tripping over the sleeve of the blouse in the process. Graceful as ever. "Yep. Real alpha material here," you mumbled, catching your reflection in the bedroom mirror with a wry grin. Still, something fluttered at the base of your throat when you looked at yourself. Not bad.

You made your way to the bathroom, flicked on the light, and stared at yourself in the mirror.

And paused.

The face that looked back at you was the same one you saw every day. But now, framed by the gentle floral pattern of the blouse and the soft curl of your hair, it felt like it belonged to someone else—someone a little softer, a little more open. You reached for the makeup bag. Then hesitated. "Why am I doing this?" It was a fair question. You weren’t going on a date. This wasn’t prom. This was a boiler repair. And yet…your hand moved. Just a little mascara. Maybe a touch of concealer. Nothing wild. You weren’t trying to impress him. It was just about looking awake. Looking alive. Looking like the woods hadn’t entirely feralized you after a few weeks alone. Your wolf rolled her eyes from somewhere deep inside. You ignored her.

By the time you stepped back from the mirror, you looked... like yourself. But maybe a version of yourself who hadn’t spent the last week talking mostly to trees. You exhaled slowly.

He’d be here soon.

And that thought again—warm and electric, buzzing under your skin. You weren’t ready.

But you also didn’t want to wait.

So you stepped out of the bathroom and let the house settle around you. The cabin was quiet, the kind of quiet that always came before a shift. And in the distance, though you couldn’t hear it yet, you imagined the sound of tires crunching gravel.

The tires hummed low against the gravel road, a steady rhythm that filled the quiet inside the truck. The forest sprawled on either side of them, branches arching overhead like reaching arms, filtering late afternoon sunlight into golden slants across the windshield. Dust curled in lazy spirals behind them, fading into the hush of the woods.

Chan sat in the passenger seat, his head resting lightly against the cool windowpane, eyes half-lidded but alert. The kind of quiet that filled the truck wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the quiet of understanding, the calm between storms, or maybe the silence before something unknowable. Changbin was behind the wheel, hands loose on the steering wheel but his gaze unwavering, sharp as ever. In the rearview mirror, Minho sat in the backseat, his arm propped against the window, his fingers tapping a slow, thoughtless beat against his thigh.

None of them said much. They didn’t need to. Words weren’t always necessary among Alphas. Especially not when things ran this deep. When instincts had their own conversations in the spaces between.

Chan closed his eyes for a moment and exhaled. He hadn’t been sure about coming. Not really. When Changbin had asked, something in his voice had made it impossible to say no. It wasn’t desperation. No, Changbin didn’t beg. It had been more of a certainty. Like he already knew Chan would come. That he needed him to. And truthfully, Chan owed him that much—more, even. Still, there was a part of him, buried low and tight in his chest, that wondered if this was a mistake. He didn’t know her. Didn’t know what kind of life she was trying to carve out here at the edge of nowhere, in the bones of an old cabin wrapped in moss and memory. But he knew this: if she was here, then she had her reasons. Wolves didn’t run without cause.

Changbin downshifted smoothly as the road began to narrow. The trees grew denser here, the path winding and uneven. A squirrel darted across their way, its small body a blur in the underbrush. Chan opened his eyes again, blinking slowly as he straightened in his seat. He didn’t know what he expected. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. "It should be just up ahead," Changbin said, his voice low, nearly swallowed by the hum of the tires and the rustling of trees. It was the first thing any of them had said in nearly thirty minutes. Minho made a sound in agreement from the backseat, almost a grunt. Chan glanced into the side mirror and caught his expression—neutral, composed. But the tension in his shoulders hadn’t gone unnoticed.

They were going to swap a boiler. That was it. In, out. Help a lone wolf, then go home. Simple. But things were rarely simple in their world. Especially not when the air itself started to feel like it was waiting for something.

Chan shifted, resting an elbow on the door, fingers brushing the side of his jaw. The silence resumed, though now it buzzed faintly, like electricity on skin. The last bend in the road came into view. Changbin eased the truck around it, gravel crunching beneath the tires.

And then, there it was. The cabin.

It sat nestled between tall trees, partially shadowed, partially glowing beneath the waning light. Smoke curled faintly from the chimney. The porch looked newly swept, and the windows reflected the forest like dark mirrors. Flowers dotted the edge of the clearing, swaying slightly in the breeze. Chan sat up straighter. Something shifted. It was barely a whisper, a prickle down his spine, a hum beneath his skin.

The scent. Not strong. Faint, but undeniable. Floral and earthen and something far more elusive. And though no one said it aloud, the atmosphere shifted subtly in the cab. Whatever lay ahead wasn’t just a boiler.

And maybe—just maybe—Chan had known that all along.

The mug you had long since abandoned still sat on the low table, half-forgotten and cool, its floral print soft beneath your fingertips whenever your hand brushed it. Afternoon sunlight filtered in through the gauzy curtains, dust motes dancing golden in the hush of the living room. You'd been pacing—though not visibly. Your body remained mostly still, curled against one end of the couch, legs folded, a book balanced on your knee. But your mind wandered, your wolf restless beneath your skin, stirring like wind rippling through tall grass.

You didn't know how long you had been sitting like that—reading the same paragraph over and over—until a flicker of movement through the window caught your eye. Your head turned slowly, fingers tensing on the spine of the book.

The pickup truck.

It rolled into view like a slow tide, tires crunching against gravel and packed earth, the soft growl of its engine familiar now. But your breath still caught. Not because of the truck itself—no. You knew what, or rather who, was inside.

Changbin.

The air around you seemed to shift. He was back. He said he would be. You had expected that. And yet your body didn’t believe in expectations—only instincts. And those were flaring now like dry leaves catching fire. Your wolf stirred. Not out of fear. Not entirely. Excitement. Anticipation. A gentle kind of tension curling at the base of your spine. You closed the book carefully, as though the small gesture could silence the drumbeat of your pulse. It didn’t.

He was here.

You stood, breathing in deeply—once, then again—steadying yourself with the same grounding techniques you used during full moons and fragile mornings. Your fingers found the hem of your blouse and smoothed it, your jeans snug but not too tight, comfortable but presentable.

The moment the door creaked open your nostrils flared and the outside air swept in, you were met with a new storm of scent. He wasn’t alone. Salt. The sea, but not calm—one that promised thunder on the horizon. Dark skies and distant lightning. It clung to the air like tension before a storm. Cornflower and freshly cut grass. Something sharp and cool, grounded by warmth beneath it. Glacier ice, snow violets and icy mountain air—quiet but undeniably there. Your wolf rose so fast it nearly startled you.

Alphas.

More than one.

You stood frozen, your palm pressed lightly against the doorframe. It wasn’t fear. Not quite. It was something else—tight and warm and impossible to name. You exhaled slowly. You could do this. It was just the boiler.

Just the boiler.

You stepped out onto the porch slowly, resisting the urge to flinch at the invisible wall you felt yourself crossing. The air was charged—alive—and for a moment, you swore the whole forest was holding its breath with you.

They had just climbed out of the truck. Three of them.

Your gaze found Changbin first. Familiar. Steady. His expression softened, shoulders dropping in a way that told you he’d been holding tension since before he arrived. “Hey,” he said with that same quiet ease, like you hadn’t both walked away from something fragile yesterday. You nodded back. “Hey.” But your eyes had already moved to the man standing beside him.

He was a little bit taller than Changbin, but there was something broader in his presence. He had dark eyes that didn’t move too quickly, as if he studied before he spoke. His dark hair fell in soft, effortless waves and the way he stood—balanced, still—made something twist in your gut. It wasn’t just Alpha energy. It was… older. Rooted. Controlled. His gaze met yours and held it. A silence stretched between you—barely a second, but full and tangible. He stepped forward and extended a hand. “Chan,” he said, voice low, warm. It rolled through you like distant thunder.

You stared at his hand for a breath too long before taking it. Warm. Strong. His grip was firm but not aggressive, his skin calloused but his touch careful. Like he knew his strength and had no need to prove it. Your wolf stilled, ears flicking, then slowly lay down again—not in submission, but in observation. “Y/N,” you answered, your voice was steadier than you’d expected. His eyes didn’t leave yours. Not once. And for a flicker of a moment, something softened there—just beneath the surface. Not pity. Not challenge. Recognition, perhaps. Or maybe the same quiet conflict that was gnawing at you now. You stepped back just a little, just enough to keep breathing clearly.

The next man didn’t need to introduce himself. Not right away. His scent had wrapped around you like ivy the moment you’d stepped outside. Cool yet liberating, but laced with something unspoken. A thread of iron will. He didn’t smile, nor did he offer his hand immediately. But he nodded.

"Minho."

His voice was softer than Chan’s, low and smooth, almost lazy if you didn’t pay attention to the watchfulness behind it. You returned the nod, your eyes flickering between the three of them. Three Alphas. Each different. Each potent in their own way. Your wolf wasn’t used to this.

The forest was quiet, save for the distant chirp of birds and the gentle rustling of leaves in the wind. But the clearing in front of your cabin felt too full, like the air had thickened. You inhaled again—on instinct—and there it was: their presence. Not overwhelming, not unkind, but there.

The air in the cellar was cooler, edged with the scent of stone and damp earth, a stark contrast to the shifting blend of warmth and musk that followed the three Alphas as they descended the creaking wooden stairs behind you. You’d led the way, only out of habit, and now you stood a little off to the side, your back against the slightly clammy stone wall, hands folded loosely in front of you as the metallic scent of old piping and rust teased your senses.

Changbin was already moving. He didn’t need to say much—he rarely did when it came to practical things like this. He gestured toward the hulking metal cylinder squatting in the corner of the cellar like some sleeping beast and spoke over his shoulder, his voice low but clear.

“We need to unhook the intake first, then drain it out. Chan, give me a hand on this side. Minho, can you check the valve connection? If it’s corroded, we’ll have to cut through.”

The two men didn’t hesitate. Chan nodded once and rolled up the sleeves of his black shirt, revealing forearms corded with lean strength and lightly dusted with freckles. He moved with a quiet precision, his footsteps barely audible on the cement floor. Minho gave a soft grunt of agreement, already crouching to inspect the lower pipes, his dark hair falling slightly into his eyes before he tucked it back with one gloved hand.

You remained where you were, a little more still than you intended to be. Your voice came softer than expected. “If there’s anything I can help with, just let me know.” Changbin glanced up, one corner of his mouth lifting in a brief, familiar smile. “We’ve got it, but thanks. Maybe just… keep an eye in case we need an extra hand.” You nodded, relieved but not entirely settled. Your gaze lingered on the three of them—the way their movements were wordless, a rhythm born of long familiarity. Even in silence, they communicated. A gesture here. A glance there. It was the kind of coordination that only came from years of shared experience… or pack. That word lingered longer than you wanted it to. Pack. The very thing you’d walked away from.

You let your eyes drift, trailing over the worn edges of the cellar, the single dangling bulb casting flickering shadows across the floor. The boiler groaned softly as its metal shell cooled, the pipes hissing now and then as the pressure adjusted. The men worked steadily, the occasional clang of tools against steel echoing faintly through the room.

Your thoughts, however, were anything but steady.

They came unbidden, like water seeping under a door—soft at first, then insistent. Faces from your dreams the night before. Unfamiliar, yet hauntingly vivid. Golden eyes in the underbrush. The sharp snap of twigs underfoot. The lake at the heart of the forest, still and black like a mirror held to the sky. And then there was that sensation again—not fear, not entirely—but the sense of being watched. Of being… known. The cellar was too quiet for those thoughts. Or perhaps too loud.

You inhaled deeply, willing yourself back into the present. But the scent in the air grounded you in something else entirely. Chan’s scent was strongest now—closer than before. Salt and storm, the faintest hint of crushed cornflowers and grass, subtle and sharp all at once. There were other notes there too—worn leather, warm skin, something vaguely spiced that made your heartbeat shift. Not faster. Not slower. Just… aware. You pressed your shoulders more firmly into the wall.

Minho’s scent was was completely different. You'd never noticed how glacial ice smelled before, but now it seemed more real than ever. And Changbin… earth and fire, grounded and comforting in a way that made your heart ache unexpectedly. You clenched your jaw. This was fine. You were fine.

Just a boiler. Just three Alphas. Just memories clawing their way through the surface of your mind like roots splitting stone.

The metal of the wall behind you was beginning to feel too cold against your spine. Or maybe your skin was too hot. Either way, you shifted, trying to clear the fog pressing at the edges of your thoughts. You glanced over just in time to see Chan reach for a wrench, his fingers brushing against Minho’s for the briefest second. There was no flinch. No tension. Just quiet ease. It unsettled something in you, the way they fit into each other’s space without thought. Pack. Again.

Your wolf stirred, not with hostility, but something else entirely. Curiosity. Longing. Wariness. It was a slow turn of the head, ears perked, body tensed but not aggressive. You exhaled through your nose.

Don’t.

Don’t feel.

Don’t remember.

Your thumb rubbed unconsciously along your palm. A nervous tic you hadn’t indulged in for months. You looked toward the small rectangular window near the ceiling. Pale light filtered through the smudged glass, casting faint patterns on the floor. The forest waited beyond. Open air. Silence. And that’s when you knew you couldn’t stay.

“I’m gonna… get some air,” you said, your voice softer than intended but not trembling.

Three heads turned toward you—Minho first, eyes narrowing slightly, always alert. Changbin next, pausing mid-motion, brow creasing faintly. Then Chan, his gaze unreadable, but heavy in a way that made your pulse skip. “Alright,” Changbin said simply. You didn’t wait for anything more.

You turned and climbed the cellar stairs, feet almost too quick on the wood. The door creaked softly as you stepped into the house’s cool shade. You didn’t pause there either. Not until the front door opened and you stepped out into the embrace of the late afternoon air. It was like walking into water. The air was crisp, touched with the earthy scent of pine needles and something faintly sweet—maybe flowers blooming somewhere along the tree line. You inhaled deeply, the oxygen burning just slightly in your lungs. It cleared the fog in your mind.

But not all of it.

Because even now, as you leaned against the porch railing, fingers tightening around the worn wood, you could still feel them. Not physically. Not in scent. But in presence. In the echo of something deeper. You let your eyes fall shut. The forest was quiet. A bird called, distant and singular. Somewhere behind the cabin, the old wind chimes clinked together, soft and hollow. But beneath it all, the pulse of your own body betrayed you.

It wasn’t just nerves. It was recognition. It was resonance. And it terrified you more than any nightmare ever could. Because it didn’t feel like danger. It felt like something worse.

It felt like home.

The hum of metal against metal echoed softly through the cellar, a low, repetitive clinking that blended with the rhythm of movement as boots scraped against concrete and tools clicked into place. The air was cool, tinged with the scent of rust, old stone, and faintly—just faintly—the unmistakable presence of her. It clung to the walls like mist. Something floral and bright, tempered with caution and quiet strength.

Chan tightened the wrench in his grip, shifting his weight as he crouched beside the old boiler. His fingers were slick with dust and grit, but his focus remained steady. Sort of. Because even though he was staring down at the junction between pipe and steel, his thoughts were somewhere else entirely.

Or rather—on someone.

He exhaled slowly, blinking sweat from his lashes as he leaned back for a moment, stretching his spine. The dull ache that followed was welcome. It grounded him. Behind him, Changbin cursed under his breath. "This thing's older than me," he muttered, tugging with more force at one of the fittings. "Stubborn as hell." Minho, perched on an overturned crate, legs lazily stretched out, quirked a brow but didn’t move to help. Not yet. Chan let out a small huff. "You're doing fine." Changbin grunted. Then: "You feel it too, don’t you?"

The question hung in the air, heavy and unexpected. Not like a hammer blow—but like the sudden stillness of the woods when something large steps between the trees. Chan didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached for the next tool. Changbin didn’t wait for permission to go on. "It’s like—standing next to her—" He paused, exhaling sharply. "It’s almost painful." Minho finally shifted. He sat forward, elbows on knees, his eyes sharp now, glinting with something older than curiosity. "It is."

Chan stilled.

"Not because she’s weak," Changbin continued, the words half-whispered, half-wrestled from his chest. "She isn’t. It’s the opposite, actually. There’s something… drawing. Like her wolf doesn’t even try to hide. Or maybe it’s just waking up. Either way, it calls. And it’s hard not to answer." Minho nodded slowly. "She doesn’t even know, does she?" "I think she does," Changbin murmured. "Just… not fully. Not yet."

Chan stayed silent, eyes fixed on the exposed pipes. He could feel the truth of it sinking deep beneath his ribs. The way the air changed when she entered a room. The way his wolf stirred—not in hunger or dominance, but in awareness. Recognition. He wasn’t a man who rushed things. He’d learned long ago that some bonds formed like lightning—and others like roots, deep and slow.

And yet.

He remembered her eyes when she looked at him, when he gave her his hand. The way her voice held steady even when her scent betrayed her unease. The battle she fought, moment by moment, and still she stood her ground. He respected that. Respected her. And that made it harder.

The quiet hum of tools echoed through the cellar—metal clinking against metal, Minho murmuring something under his breath as he adjusted a valve, and Changbin hunched over the old boiler, sleeves rolled, the muscles in his forearms flexing with each movement. But Chan’s focus had already slipped. He hadn’t said much since their voices had died down, not after what Bin had confessed—what Minho had echoed. There was truth in their words, sharp and unexpected. The kind of truth that stirred something deeper than thought. Something older. Instinctual.

He leaned a hand against the cool stone wall, gaze drifting toward the stairs.

“I’ll be back in a moment,” he said, his voice low and steady, even if the air in his chest felt heavier than it should have. Minho gave him a brief glance, just a flicker of understanding. No questions. No need. That was how it always was between them.

The stairs creaked beneath his weight as he made his way up. The shift in air was immediate—cooler, cleaner. Wilder. The kind of air that held silence like breath, as if the forest itself was holding still.

He didn’t need to search.

Chan simply let go, just enough to let his instincts lead. It was easy. Too easy. Her scent danced in the air, unmistakable. Wildflowers crushed under bare feet, the ghost of lilac clinging to damp skin. And that pull of ozone—like the first crack of thunder on a summer night, when everything tensed in anticipation of the storm to come. It clung to the back of his throat, sharp and sweet all at once. She was already outside.

He stepped onto the threshold, the screen door easing shut behind him with a gentle click. The porch stretched before him in long, worn planks. She stood near the railing, one hand resting lightly against the wood, her gaze turned toward the treeline. There was no surprise in her posture, no shift of alarm. She knew he was there. She’d known the second he left the cellar.

Her head turned, slow and deliberate, and their eyes met. It was like everything else—the breeze, the forest, the soft rustle of pine needles—fell away for a moment. Chan didn’t move. He simply looked. Really looked. The way her eyes had quiet storm-clouds hidden beneath their surface, the way the sunlight brushed across her cheekbones, catching on the faint curve of a smile that wasn’t really a smile at all. She looked like she was trying to breathe again after holding her breath for far too long.

And gods, she smelled like—

No.

He clenched his jaw and took a slow breath, grounding himself in the rough texture of the wood beneath his shoes, the scrape of air across his lungs. She didn’t need that from him. Not now. Not yet.

“Hey,” he said, voice low. He took a step forward, not close enough to crowd her, but enough to close the gap of silence. “Are you okay?” There was a pause. Then, a breath. One she seemed to take all the way down to her ribs before letting it go again. “I just needed some air,” she answered, her voice soft. Still a little tight around the edges. Her eyes didn’t leave his. Chan nodded, leaning against one of the thick posts at the edge of the porch. He folded his arms loosely, allowing himself to watch her in the afternoon light. “It can get a little... crowded down there.” She huffed, not quite a laugh. “A little.”

The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t exactly easy either. It was full. Like the stretch of sky before a storm broke. A question unspoken. A tether not yet pulled.

Chan’s wolf was wide awake now. Low and still, curled in the hollow of his ribs, ears perked, eyes fixed.

It was aware of her the same way he was—keenly, reverently. Every inch of her. The subtle shift of her weight, the way her hands tightened slightly on the railing, the scent of her lingering in the air, warm and wild and laced with something sharper, something ancient. He swallowed around it, around all of it, and tried again. “Bin said you’ve been living here a while.” She nodded, her fingers trailing along the railing. “A couple weeks.” “Alone?” “Mostly.” That was enough. Enough to say what wasn’t said.

Chan glanced out toward the forest, then back to her. “It’s peaceful here.” “It is,” she said quietly. “That’s why I stayed.” Something passed between them then—just a shift in the air, no more than a heartbeat’s width. A ripple of awareness. Like his wolf leaned a little closer. Like hers did, too. And maybe she noticed it, because her eyes dropped to the ground for a second, lashes casting shadows against her cheek. Her fingers flexed slightly against the wood, then let go.

“You didn’t have to come,” she said, and it wasn’t accusing. Just... honest. Chan tilted his head. “But I did.”

“Why?”

That word hung between them, delicate and sharp. He considered the truth, then gave it.

“Because when someone like Changbin asks for help, you show up.” He let the words settle, then added, more softly, “And because something told me I should.” She looked up then, sharply. Their gazes locked again. Whatever she saw in him, it made her breath hitch just slightly.

And gods, she was beautiful. Not in a delicate, distant way. In a way that made his instincts sit up. Made his thoughts slow down. In a way that reminded him of full moons and bone-deep silence, of strength worn quiet, of nights so still the trees themselves seemed to listen. She looked at him then. And for a second, it was like she could see him. Not just the man standing before her, arms folded and eyes steady—but all of him. The coiled tension beneath his skin. The weight of restraint pressed tight between his shoulder blades. The low, quiet snarl of a creature held on a short leash just beneath his ribcage.

Chan blinked slowly, lowering his gaze just enough to break the moment. He reined himself in with a practiced breath, the kind that pulled tight across the chest and settled the wolf back into stillness. He couldn’t let it show. Not yet. Not with her. Not when she’d only just begun to let them in. So instead of stepping closer—of giving in to the way every part of him ached to feel her warmth, to catch her scent more clearly—he turned his body slightly, bracing his weight casually against the post.

"There’s a cabin," he said after a beat, his voice calmer now. Even. Anchored. "Deep in the woods, north of here. Hidden past the ridge line where the trees grow thick and the air runs colder. It belongs to John." He didn’t look at her as he said it. Not yet. Instead, his eyes traced the shadows spilling across the treeline, where the gold of the setting sun had begun to burn low, draping everything in the dusky hush of twilight.

"John took us in," he continued. "Back when we didn’t have anywhere else to go. We were... young. Lost, maybe. Not good at staying in one place. Not good at surviving without fighting for it."

Her voice broke the quiet. Soft. Curious. "Us?"

Chan glanced at her then, just enough to catch the way her brows had lifted slightly, the flicker of interest dancing in her gaze.

"How many wolves live there?"

A corner of his mouth lifted. Barely. But it was a smile, small and real. "Eight," he said. "Including me." That surprised her. He saw it in the way her shoulders straightened, in the slow blink that followed. A number she hadn’t expected. "So you’re a pack," she said, not quite a question. More like a realization spoken aloud. Chan nodded, the motion smooth and unhurried. "Yeah. We are." He watched as she absorbed that, the wind stirring loose strands of her hair, lifting them like threads of gold and ash. She didn’t speak right away. And he didn’t push her to. The porch creaked beneath her sneakers as she shifted her stance, wrapping her arms loosely around her waist. Her fingers tapped lightly against her skin, thoughtful, like she was trying to piece together something long forgotten. "I didn’t think wolves lived like that," she said eventually, her voice barely above the breeze. "Together. Peacefully. Like a family."

Chan’s gaze softened.

"It’s not always peaceful," he admitted. "We’re not exactly a quiet group. Too many personalities under one roof. We fight sometimes. We don’t always agree. But when it matters... we stand together." He looked out at the horizon again, jaw tight for a second before he added, more quietly, "That’s what John taught us. What he gave us. A place to belong."

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full of things unsaid. Of thoughts that wandered too far and emotions that reached deeper than words. Chan breathed out, slow. The wolf in him stirred again, just enough to make his skin prickle. Being this close to her—it was like trying to ignore the scent of rain on dry earth. Like denying the heat of fire when your hands were frozen. His instincts knew what she was. What she carried inside.

And they wanted her.

But he wouldn’t move. Wouldn’t rush. Instead, he asked, "What about you?" She tilted her head slightly. "What about me?" "Have you ever been part of a pack?" The answer took a while. Not because she didn’t have it—but because saying it out loud meant something. "No," she said finally. "I’ve always been on my own. Even before... everything." Chan nodded slowly. "It’s harder that way." "Sometimes safer." He didn’t argue. He knew she wasn’t wrong.

The wind picked up again, cool and sharp with the promise of nightfall. Somewhere far off, an owl called once, then again. The trees swayed gently, their leaves whispering secrets to the dark. Chan watched her as she breathed in, the curve of her shoulders rising and falling with the motion. Her profile was cut in soft gold, framed by the shifting light, and he knew—without fully knowing why—that this moment mattered.

Not just to him.

To her too.

Then came the voice, low but carrying—Changbin’s, from somewhere near the basement hatch. “Chan? Little help here?” The sound broke the quiet between them, not harsh, but grounding. A reminder of the world that still moved, of bolts that needed tightening and boilers that wouldn’t replace themselves.

Chan didn’t move at once. His gaze lingered on her for a beat longer. She hadn’t looked away, not even at the interruption—her eyes still on him, searching, maybe, or simply… present. He offered a small nod, barely more than a breath of movement, before his voice came, softer now. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

Then he turned, careful with his steps as though afraid the spell of the moment might snap if he moved too quickly. The wooden planks creaked beneath his weight, and the scent of lilac and summer storm stayed with him, clinging like dew as he disappeared back into the house.

Each stair down to the basement echoed with the unspoken, with the lingering weight of something just beginning to bloom.

The hours stretched quietly around you, thick with the scent of dust, sweat, and something far more primal. The basement echoed with the low murmur of voices, tools clinking, the occasional grunt of effort. You’d stayed to the side, pressed into the cool shadowed corner where the stone wall met timber, clutching a warm mug of tea between your palms as if it might ground you.

It didn’t.

Even through the steam curling gently upward, your senses remained painfully awake. Every breath filled with them—Changbin’s scent, heavy and sun-warmed like birch bark and spiced cedar, carried the smoky warmth of a campfire. Minho’s sharper edge, cool mountain air, clean and untamed. And Chan… his scent had settled into the corners of the room like a promise: Salt & Sea, tangled in the hum of a coming storm. They were everywhere. In the cramped space, there was no avoiding them, not truly. Their voices rumbled through your bones, not loud, but resonant in a way that made it hard to think. And your wolf—gods, your wolf—paced behind your ribs, restless and stirred. Not frightened. Not defensive. But Interested.

Drawn.

You hated it and craved it all at once.

You told yourself it was just biology. Just instincts. Just a bunch of overcharged reactions brought on by close quarters and three unfamiliar Alphas who smelled too good and took up too much space. It didn’t help. You stayed quiet. You didn’t trust your voice not to betray you, not to tremble in ways you couldn’t excuse. And none of them pushed you. Not once. They worked like they’d done this a hundred times before—Changbin leading the way, directing the others with casual authority. Minho moved with sharp precision, lifting, holding, tightening bolts like the machine answered to him. And Chan… Chan filled in the gaps, fluid and steady, always one step ahead, always watching.

You could feel it when his gaze flicked to you now and then, even if you weren’t looking. Like a shift in the air. Like your name had been spoken without a sound.

By the time the last tool clattered into the metal box and the boiler groaned softly to life, the sun was bleeding into the trees. Long shadows draped themselves over the forest floor, and golden light spilled through the kitchen window above the basement stairwell.

You’d retreated upstairs before they finished, your nerves frayed raw. The kettle had been warm, the tea a distraction. You’d taken it to the worn armchair near the window, letting yourself sink into the quiet as much as possible, wrapping the blanket around your shoulders like armor.

When the sound of footsteps on wood reached your ears, you looked up. The door creaked open, and the three of them emerged from the basement like a storm passing—sweat-dampened shirts, dust on their arms, satisfaction etched into the lines of their faces.

“It’s done,” Changbin announced, brushing his hands on his jeans. His voice still carried that rumble, like thunder distant but building. You set your mug down and stood, the blanket slipping off your shoulder. “Really?” Minho gave a short nod, wiping at his brow with the back of his hand. “Boiler’s out. New one’s in. Shouldn’t give you any trouble.” You hesitated for a breath. “And how much do I owe you?” Chan, still near the door, lifted a brow and let out a quiet huff that was almost a laugh. “Nothing.”

Your gaze jumped to him. “What?” He shrugged, easy and calm. “You don’t owe us anything.”

“But—”

Changbin cut in, half-smiling. “We volunteered. Remember?”

“That doesn’t mean—”

“It does,” Chan said, gentle but firm. His eyes met yours, steady and unreadable. “We don’t want anything from you.” Your wolf stirred again, uneasy and uncertain. Because it wasn’t just about payment. Not really. It was about balance. Safety. Control. And with them here, all three of them, it was hard to tell what ground you stood on. And yet… there was no deception in his voice. No push. Just truth. Just kindness.

Still, it didn’t stop the way tension coiled in the room like smoke. It was subtle, unspoken—but there. A hum beneath the skin, a pull you couldn’t name. They felt it too. You could see it in the way Changbin’s jaw ticked as he glanced at you and then away. In the way Minho’s shoulders were just a little too tense, his gaze lingering half a second too long. In the way Chan didn’t move at all, like every breath was measured. Three Alphas. And you.

The air was thick with unspent words, instincts barely caged. It wasn’t dangerous, not exactly. But it was volatile. It was real. Your wolf pressed closer, not anxious this time—curious. Almost playful.

You cleared your throat, breaking the spell. “Well… thank you. For helping.”

“Any time,” Minho replied, his voice softer than expected.

They lingered a moment longer, all three of them, as if some part of them didn’t want to go just yet. And some part of you didn’t want them to either.

But the sun was setting. The shadows deepened. And you were still learning where to place all this heat blooming beneath your skin. No one said anything for a beat. The silence wasn’t awkward—not quite—but it was filled with something thick and alive, like mist rolling off the pines in early morning light. Their scents still clung to the air, to your skin, to the wood of the house that had soaked them in like old memories.

Chan cleared his throat, voice soft. “We should get going. It’s a bit of a drive back.”

You moved toward the door together, the four of you, like drawn by some invisible tide. And as you reached it, the world seemed to narrow. The threshold was small, old wood and soft shadows—meant for a single body to pass through at a time. But you didn’t move that way. Instinctively, you paused. So did they. For the briefest breath, the air stilled. You were surrounded. Warm shoulders brushing yours. Chan stood just behind you, his chest close enough that you could feel the quiet thrum of his breath. Minho was to your right, gaze flickering toward you in your periphery, calm and unreadable. Changbin’s arm grazed yours as he reached past you to open the door, his fingers brushing the wood—brushing the air right beside your wrist.

The door didn’t open right away. No one said anything. No one moved. It was instinct, maybe. Or something deeper. Like wolves pressed close in a den, listening to the wind outside. Sensing a shift in the air, in each other. Your heartbeat slowed and quickened all at once. Your wolf stirred again, not with fear—but with awareness. Recognition. For a moment, you swore you could feel the heat of every breath, the weight of every presence around you. Three heartbeats. Three different rhythms. All syncing to the quiet pulse under your skin.

And then you pushed the door open, and the cool breath of evening spilled in. You stepped outside. But some part of you stayed right there, in that narrow sliver of space where nothing had happened—And yet everything had.

Crickets had begun to hum low songs between the grasses, and somewhere deep in the woods, a nightbird called out once, sharp and lonely.

Chan and Minho made their way to the pickup. You could hear the soft creak of the truck settling under their weight, the low clunk of the passenger door being opened. But Changbin didn’t follow them. Not yet. He stood on the porch, half-turned toward the steps, hands in his pockets. His eyes met yours, still burning warm.

“There is something you could do for us, after all,” he said suddenly, casually—but the tone of his voice made the hair on your arms rise. You blinked, heat crawling across your chest. “Oh?” Your voice came out steadier than you expected, but not without an edge of curiosity. Something inside you leaned forward. Not just your wolf. You. He tilted his head slightly, watching you like he was weighing the moment. Measuring something unseen.

“Run with us.”

It landed like a dropped match in dry grass. You froze. Not in fear. In something older, rawer. Behind him, Chan paused with one boot on the truck’s step, his hand tightening slightly around the open door. Minho turned halfway back around, brows lifted just a touch—as if even he hadn’t expected it. You didn’t answer at first. The words sank deep, winding their way into places you hadn’t let yourself look in a long time. Not since the city. Not since everything that came before.

“Run?” you asked, your voice a near-whisper, as if you might spook the moment if you spoke too loud. Changbin nodded. “Just once. No pressure. Just... us, the woods, the night.” He smiled, but this time there was a softness behind it.

Your wolf surged forward at the idea.

It was subtle, but you felt it—her ears pricking forward, her presence brushing up against the inside of your ribs like wind through tall grass. She didn’t push, didn’t growl. Just… waited. Eager.

And gods, when had she last felt eager?

You didn’t remember walking forward, but suddenly you were standing closer. Close enough to smell the warmth of the day on his clothes, the pine sap on his skin. Your gaze flicked past him, to Chan and Minho still watching, something unreadable flickering in both their expressions.

They weren’t stopping him.

And that said more than words ever could.

“You really want me to?” you asked, the sound low and unsure, and still—hopeful.

Changbin shrugged, but the movement was too deliberate to be careless. “We wouldn’t ask if we didn’t.”

It wasn’t just about the run. You both knew that.

It was a step.

An offering.

A thread being cast between you and them, silvery and soft, but strong.

You took a breath. Felt your wolf breathe with you.

“Alright,” you said, your voice a little stronger now. “I’ll run with you.”

Changbin’s smile bloomed, bright and sudden. “Good,” he said simply, before he turned and jogged down the steps toward the truck.

You stayed where you were, on the porch, arms folded gently around yourself as the last gold of the sunset kissed the edges of the trees.

Minho was already climbing into the back seat. Chan hadn’t moved. He stood by the passenger side, one hand still resting on the doorframe, his eyes locked on you like a tether.

When Changbin reached them, he said something you couldn’t hear. But both of them looked back one last time.

Your gaze met Chan’s again across the distance. Something pulsed between you—quiet, deep, and full of things unsaid.

And then, finally, he nodded once. Almost imperceptibly.

Not goodbye.

Just... soon.

The engine rumbled to life. You watched as the truck reversed, gravel crunching under the tires, and slowly rolled down the drive, disappearing beyond the bend of trees.

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy, nor was it empty. It was full—like something had just been offered to the earth and accepted.

You stood there for another moment, the night settling soft around your shoulders. The last threads of sun had gone. All that remained was dusk, and the cold edge of stars not yet visible. Your fingers curled around the edges of your sleeves, and still, your skin remembered the nearness of theirs. The warmth they carried. The space you had all shared at the door, unspoken and yet thick with meaning.

When you finally stepped back inside, the door gave a soft creak behind you and clicked shut like punctuation. A full stop.

But your body didn’t feel finished.

The kettle sat cold on the stove. The last dregs of your tea had gone tepid. You moved through the small living room like someone slipping back into clothes that no longer fit quite the same. Nothing had changed—and yet everything had.

You sat down on the edge of the couch, elbows to knees, fingers weaving together, brow pressed to your hands. And still, the feeling didn’t pass.

It lingered in the base of your spine. In the space behind your ribs. In the way your breath came just a little shallower now. You’d felt it the moment Chan had entered the room, quiet and steady like gravity itself. You’d felt it in the way Minho watched, never imposing, but never absent. You’d felt it in Changbin’s grin—sharp-edged but easy, as if mischief could be kind.

More than anything, you’d felt safe.

That word alone struck like a chord. Because it wasn’t one you used often. Not anymore.

You’d spent so long in the city with your senses braced. Your wolf curled tight inside you, silent, still. Every interaction calculated. Every brush of scent or proximity a potential trigger. You’d learned to step sideways around the presence of Alphas. To anticipate their posture, their tone. To avoid their eyes. To vanish behind polite nods and distance.

But not tonight.

Tonight, you had been seen.

Not studied. Not assessed. Seen.

There had been no demand, no pressure. Just quiet companionship. Shared glances that didn’t press. Scents that didn’t suffocate. They had come into your space like they knew how to carry themselves. And more than that—how to give you room to breathe.

And still, you had agreed.

Your head tipped back against the worn couch cushion, and you closed your eyes.

Run with us, Changbin had said.

And you had said yes.

You weren’t even sure why. Not completely.

It had come out before you’d thought. Before the part of you that measured danger and safety could catch up. Maybe it had been instinct. Maybe curiosity. Maybe the look in Chan’s eyes when he turned back, almost surprised. Or the way your wolf had leapt at the offer like it had been waiting for it all this time.

You hadn’t shifted in months. Not since—

Your breath caught. You didn’t finish the thought.

Instead, you focused on the memory of how your wolf had stirred. Not with fear. Not with warning. With want. Something curious, something aching. Something that said remember? and yes, that. The trees and the soil and the snap of paws against earth. The pull of the moon like a thread through your bones. The silence of the forest that wasn’t silent at all. You had once belonged there.

Maybe you still did.

Maybe—somewhere between the stillness in Chan’s eyes, the sharp wit in Changbin’s grin, and the cool steadiness in Minho’s silence—you had remembered.

You opened your eyes.

The room looked the same. Shadows long. Books on the shelves. The remains of tea in the chipped ceramic mug. But your pulse had shifted. Like something under the surface had realigned.

You weren’t sure what you had agreed to.

You didn’t know what it would feel like to run beside others again, to give your wolf that kind of freedom. That kind of company. That kind of trust.

But you wanted to find out.

You weren’t ready to name it. Not yet. The wounds you carried had never responded well to sudden labels or bright declarations. But this—this quiet thing blooming inside you, cautious and burning—felt worth following.

You stood again, crossed to the sink, poured the cold tea down the drain. Your hands were steady now. Your heartbeat had evened. But the air around you still shimmered with something just shy of wild.

You reached for the light switch. The room fell into shadow.

And somewhere, deep in the forest beyond your window, a breeze stirred the trees—soft, low, like a song half-remembered.

Your wolf lifted her head inside you, ears pricked.

Listening.

Waiting.

And this time, you didn’t tell her no.

The forest rolled past in a blur of shadow and twilight. Tall silhouettes drifted by the windows, silent and watchful, their branches swaying in the breeze like they were whispering things only wolves could understand.

Chan kept one hand on the wheel, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. The headlights cut through the dimming light in long, pale ribbons, illuminating the winding path back toward the heart of the territory. His other hand rested casually against the window, fingers tapping in time with the soft hum of the radio, which murmured some old tune under its breath—barely more than background noise.

Minho sat in the passenger seat, arms crossed, gaze flicking between the trees and the faint glow of the dashboard. His expression was unreadable. But his scent had changed—lighter, sharper at the edges. Curious. Alert.

In the backseat, Changbin hadn’t stopped smiling. He lounged back like he had all the time in the world, one arm draped over the seat, the other tapping idly on his thigh in rhythm with a song only he seemed to know. The corner of his mouth twitched, the grin tugging there like it had made a permanent home. The quiet stretched. Comfortable, but charged. The kind that followed something significant—something you didn’t quite have words for yet.

Minho was the first to break it.

“So,” he said, voice smooth but not as neutral as he’d hoped. “Why’d you ask her to run with us?” He didn’t look at Changbin as he spoke, still watching the trees. But the shift in his shoulders, the slight lift in his scent—anticipation—gave him away.

Changbin didn’t answer right away. He let the question hang there, savoring it like a piece of ripe fruit. Then he chuckled. Low and pleased.

“Because neither of you idiots was going to do it.”

Chan huffed a quiet laugh, but he didn’t deny it. Minho turned his head then, finally meeting Changbin’s gaze in the mirror. “She just barely let us in the door,” he said. “You think she’s ready to run with us?” Changbin raised a brow. “She said yes.” “Maybe out of shock,” Chan offered, his voice calm but threaded with amusement. “You kind of threw it out there.” “And yet,” Changbin said, stretching out the words, “she still said yes.” That grin returned. Confident. But not arrogant. There was something else beneath it—something warmer. Like he was holding onto a secret that hadn’t fully bloomed yet.

Minho turned back toward the windshield. He didn’t reply, but the corners of his mouth tugged slightly upward. Barely there. Enough.

Chan’s fingers tapped once against the wheel. His eyes remained on the road, but something in his scent shifted too—something unguarded. Hopeful. “She’s different,” he said, after a moment. “Even after everything she’s been through… she still looks at the forest like it could belong to her.” “She doesn’t even realize she already belongs to it,” Changbin murmured.

No one spoke after that.

The music drifted on—low, steady. Outside, the forest thickened. The road narrowed. The last light of day lingered in bruised shades of violet and gold behind the trees, casting the world in a hush that felt almost sacred.

And in the quiet of the cab, where the air still held traces of her scent—soft wild things and something just barely untamed—they each felt it:

That something was beginning.

masterlist | prologue | chapter I | chapter II | chapter III

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