Chapter Text
The world ended with a collapse.
One minute, Yoongi had been dragging himself through the forest, paws catching on thorns, ribs caved in under the weight of cold and emptiness. And the next—
Nothing.
No more pain. No more scent of blood. Just quiet. He thought it was death. At first. He hoped, maybe. But death didn't feel like this.
Because when he opened his eyes, it wasn’t dark. It was warm.
The ceiling above him looked like honey-stained wood, its beams slightly crooked, old, safe. Light danced across the grain in soft amber flickers, as if from lanterns or a hearth. The air was thick with the scent of herbs—sweet marigold, sharp mint, crushed sage.
He didn’t move. Couldn’t.
His fingers twitched before the rest of him did—fingers, not paws. His breath caught. He was human. He had shifted back at some point without realizing. And he was… dressed.
Soft linen brushed against his skin, a tunic too big for him and a blanket tucked carefully under his arms. He didn’t remember any of that. The last thing he remembered was his legs giving out and the soil rushing up to meet him.
His heart thudded wildly against the cage of his ribs. This wasn’t the afterlife. This was a room. A real place. Quiet. Still.
He was alive.
His eyes scanned the space slowly—walls lined with jars, bundles of herbs hanging upside down to dry, a low fire in the hearth. And woven into it all, faint and constant: lavender
Omega scent. Calm. Unthreatening. He didn’t recognize it. He didn't recognize any of this.
The weight of the blanket felt strange. Heavy in a way that wasn’t bad, but unfamiliar. He’d spent so long sleeping on dirt, roots, stone—he didn’t know what to make of softness anymore. It almost made his skin itch.
The door creaked and he flinched before he could stop himself, his entire body tensing under the covers, breath hitching in his throat.
But it wasn’t a soldier. Not a warrior. Not some snarling Alpha here to throw him out. It was an omega.
Older—but not old. Mid-thirties maybe. Her hair was tied back in a low braid, her hands dusted with herb powder, her face lined not with age but kindness.
She paused when she saw him awake and smiled gently. Like he was a child. Like he wasn’t something broken and dangerous.
Yoongi didn’t say a word. He only stared. Because he didn’t understand. Why was she smiling? Why was he not dead? Why did he feel… better? The questions pulsed in his skull like bruises, but his lips wouldn’t move. They stayed sealed, dry and still, his eyes wide and unblinking.
She came no closer.
“I’m glad you’re awake,” she said quietly, her voice low and even.
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His throat felt like it had been sewn shut. It’s been so long since he was on his human form. So long since he used his actual voice and spoke words.
“You’re safe here,” she added, like it was something easy, like he was someone who knew what safety meant.
Yoongi’s gaze flicked downward—to his side. His body.
His wounds were gone. Or rather, healed. Clean bandages wrapped his thigh and ribs. The sharp sting that had once bloomed with every breath had faded to a dull throb. They’d patched him up. They’d taken care of him.
He looked at the woman again, and this time—really looked. Her posture was relaxed, her hands empty. There was no Alpha scent clinging to her, no warning in her stance. Just that same unbearable gentleness in her eyes. He didn’t know what to do with it. No one had ever looked at him like that other than his dad before.
He curled tighter under the blanket, jaw locked, nails digging into the fabric beneath him. Still, he didn’t speak. Because he didn’t trust his voice. Because he didn’t know what it would sound like—cracked or angry or terrified—and he didn’t want her to see any of it. So he stayed silent.
And the Omega, for whatever reason, didn’t push. She simply nodded to herself, as if his quiet was an answer, and moved to the far side of the hut.
“I’ll bring you water,” she said. “And food, when you’re ready. You don’t have to talk. Just rest.”
Yoongi turned his face to the wall. He didn’t know what this was. What kind of trap it might be. But he knew, deep in his chest, that it felt nothing like the cruelty he was used to. And maybe that was the most dangerous thing of all.
The Omega didn’t speak to him again. She simply moved to a low wooden table beside his bed, her fingers returning to the task she’d been tending to before he woke—pinching leaves from stems, sorting them into small clay bowls by color and scent. The rhythmic crush of dried petals beneath her palms filled the silence. Soft. Purposeful.
Yoongi stared at the line of her back, the quiet way her shoulders rose and fell. He had never seen someone move like that—unafraid, unhurried. Like there was no fear of what might happen next. He didn’t trust it. He didn’t trust her. He didn’t trust this place. But he didn’t close his eyes either.
His gaze wandered—slowly, carefully—to the bowls, to the flickering firelight on the floor, to the quilt folded at the foot of the bed, thick and worn and clearly handmade. Every stitch felt like a stranger’s hands. Everything smelled… clean.
He didn’t belong here.
He didn’t know how long the silence lasted before the door creaked open.
“Ajumma Sangmi!”
A young voice burst into the hut like a gust of spring wind—bright and breathless, feet thudding lightly on the floor.
Yoongi flinched. He didn’t mean to. It just happened. The suddenness of it cracked something open inside his ribs, like a bird startled mid-flight. His hands curled tighter into the blanket without meaning to, muscles clenching around old reflexes.
The Omega, Sangmi, turned, her smile blooming as naturally as sunlight slipping through leaves. “Good morning, Jiminie,” she said warmly.
Yoongi didn’t move. But his eyes followed the sound to find a pup. Small. Too small to be a threat. Hair soft and sleep-fluffed, cheeks round with the last traces of puphood. He was dressed in a cozy brown tunic with sleeves too long, and his mouth was already twisted into a pout.
“Where’s Taetae?” the boy, Jimin, asked without pausing to breathe. “He promised we’d play today.”
“Taehyung went to find Hoseok,” Sangmi replied, brushing her hands clean of herb dust. “They went to the stream, I think. You can go find them and join them.”
Jimin’s bottom lip stuck out further. “No.”
She blinked at him.
“I don’t like Hoseok,” Jimin mumbled, crossing his arms. “He talks too much.”
Sangmi’s brows knit gently. “Jiminie, that’s not a very kind thing to say.”
“I don’t care,” the boy sulked, toeing at the floor with the tip of his shoe. “He always makes Taetae laugh and then they forget I’m there.”
Something about that made Yoongi's chest tighten. He didn’t know why. Maybe because it sounded so familiar. The feeling of being left behind. Maybe because the boy said it like he meant it, like the world should rearrange itself to his liking, and somehow—it didn’t seem bratty. It just seemed honest.
Yoongi watched, silent. Then, for the first time, Jimin noticed him. His eyes widened, round as moons. He stepped forward cautiously, craning his neck toward the bed, the stubborn pout vanishing in a blink.
“Who’s that?” he whispered.
Sangmi smiled, fond. “He’s resting. He was hurt.”
Jimin's mouth dropped open in soft horror. “Hurt?! Why? What happened?”
“I don’t know, a hunter found him collapsed and hurt near the borders.”
Jimin came closer, moving like a cub approaching something sacred. “So he is not from our pack?”
“No, he’s new here.”
“Is he okay now?”
Yoongi blinked.
The boy was staring directly at him. Eyes big and wet, lips trembling. “Why’s he not talking?” Jimin whispered. “Does it hurt too much?”
Sangmi didn’t answer. She only smoothed the boy’s hair, her hand gentle on his crown.
Jimin’s eyebrows pulled together like storm clouds gathering. He looked like he might cry.
Yoongi turned his face to the wall, throat tightening. He didn’t know why. Maybe because he didn’t understand that kind of worry. Maybe because no one had ever looked at him like that before—like they cared, like they hurt on his behalf. Maybe because the boy looked ready to cry for him. And that felt worse than pain.
He kept his face hidden, letting the shadow of the wall swallow him whole, while behind him, the boy’s voice cracked soft like thunder. “Is he gonna die?”
“No,” Sangmi said gently. “He’s going to be just fine.”
Jimin exhaled shakily, like he’d been holding his breath the entire time.
“Good,” he whispered, voice trembling.
And even though Yoongi said nothing, even though he barely moved, even though the blanket still shielded half his face— Something inside him shifted. Something cracked. Softened. Bent. And for the first time since he’d opened his eyes— He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to leave.
Jimin didn’t leave even Sangmi smoothed his hair and gently suggested he go outside and play, Jimin stayed rooted beside Yoongi’s bed, eyes glued to him like he was something fragile and precious—like one wrong movement might break him all over again.
Yoongi didn’t like it. He didn’t like the way that look tugged at something hollow in his chest. He didn’t like the warmth curling against his ribs from being seen—really seen—by this strange, spoiled little boy who frowned as if Yoongi’s pain personally offended him. He especially didn’t like that he… didn’t hate it.
“Does it still hurt?” Jimin asked suddenly, kneeling beside the low cot like he was getting ready to stay a while. “You don’t have to talk. Just blink if it does.”
Yoongi blinked once. Not because it hurt. Just because the boy asked.
Jimin frowned deeper, clearly unsatisfied with that answer. His eyes were wet again, and his mouth opened like he was going to say something else—something softer this time—but Sangmi returned to their side before he could.
She knelt slowly, her hands gentle as they brushed against the edge of the blanket Yoongi had bunched in his fists. Her voice was low, respectful.
“Do you think you can eat something now?”
Yoongi hesitated. His eyes flicked from her face to the bowl in her hands—steam rising from it, something thick and fragrant and real. Not foraged roots or cold stolen meat. Not scraps.
Food.
His stomach twisted sharply at the scent, and he realized suddenly, violently, how hungry he was.
He didn’t speak. But after a moment, he nodded—once. Slow. Careful.
Sangmi smiled like that was the best thing she’d heard all morning. She turned, retrieving a smaller bowl, and then… a stick?
No. It wasn’t a stick. It was something carved and polished, rounded at one end, strange and foreign in shape. He eyed it warily as she set it into the bowl. It made a soft clink against the edge.
Yoongi stared at it like it might bite him.
Jimin, beside him, leaned in eagerly. “Oh!” he gasped. “Is it hard to move? I can feed you if you want!”
Yoongi’s eyes widened in pure horror.
He shook his head so fast it made the blanket slip from his shoulder.
Sangmi let out a quiet laugh—not mocking, just warm—and gently pulled the bowl closer to herself. “It’s alright, Jiminie. Let’s not overwhelm him, okay?”
Jimin pouted but nodded, scooting back only a little.
Then, Sangmi dipped the carved spoon into the bowl and lifted it slowly toward Yoongi’s mouth.
He blinked at it, uncertain, suspicious. But the scent rising off the food was too tempting to resist. Something warm and broth-like, soft vegetables and shredded meat—seasoned in a way that made his stomach growl loud enough for Jimin to hear.
Yoongi flushed. Looked away.
But when the spoon hovered near his lips, he leaned forward—just barely—and took the bite.
It was— Good. Too good.
The taste bloomed across his tongue, earthy and sweet, soft but hearty. It settled in his stomach like something sacred, and his fingers curled into the blanket tighter as he swallowed, slow and careful, like it might vanish if he wasn’t gentle with it.
He looked down again at the bowl. Then at the spoon. Then, with cautious fingers, he reached for it himself.
His hands were clumsy. He held it too low on the handle. His wrist twisted wrong. But he managed to scoop another bite—barely—and raise it to his mouth.
It felt strange. Unnatural. Like learning to walk on a new set of legs. But it worked.
Sangmi smiled again and sat back, letting him take his time.
Jimin clapped softly, delighted. “You’re really good at that!”
Yoongi didn’t react. But he kept eating. And with every bite, the knot in his chest loosened a little more. He still didn’t speak. But he didn’t hide his face anymore, either.
Yoongi set it down the empty bowl with both hands, as though it were something precious, something that might break if touched too carelessly.
He didn’t look up. He didn’t know how. The food had filled the hollow ache in his stomach but had done nothing to soothe the sharp, bone-deep ache of uncertainty that still rattled beneath his ribs. He was full. But still starving—for understanding, for safety, for something he didn’t have a name for.
Before he could sink too deep into that feeling, Jimin spoke again. “Can I stay here?”
Yoongi blinked. Looked at him.
The pup had his hands clasped together, tilting his head with the dramatic sincerity only small children could muster. “Like… right here?” Jimin gestured to the edge of the bed. “Just for a bit? I’ll be quiet!”
Yoongi didn’t know what to say. So he didn’t say anything. He stared for a long second, unsure what kind of answer Jimin was waiting for.
Eventually, he shrugged. And that was enough.
Jimin's face lit up like the sun breaking through clouds. "Yay!"
He clambered up with little grace but full enthusiasm, crawling to the space beside Yoongi and plopping himself down with a puff of blankets and a satisfied sigh. His warmth radiated off him like a little fire, unafraid, unfiltered.
“So,” he began, swinging his legs. “Are you really gonna stay here?”
Yoongi said nothing.
“Do you like soup?”
Nothing.
“Do you know Taehyung?”
Still nothing.
It didn’t stop him.
Jimin just kept talking, words spilling like river water—soft, curious, harmless. His voice didn’t grate. It filled the space. Not too loud, not too demanding. Just there.
And Yoongi… let him. Until— The scent. It hit him all at once. Strong. Dominant. Heavy.
Alpha.
Yoongi stiffened like a branch cracking under too much weight, his whole body going rigid.
The scent pressed down over the threshold of the hut, thick and authoritative—not hostile, but immense. Familiar in the way thunderstorms were familiar: vast and impossible to ignore.
Without thinking, Yoongi moved. His hand shot out and wrapped around Jimin’s arm, yanking the boy close against his side in a protective grip. He didn’t growl. Didn’t snarl. He just held. Shielded. Whatever was coming, he’d take it.
But Jimin only blinked at him in confusion. Then, with a grin that lit his face like a festival torch, he turned toward the door and chirped, “Appa!”
The word struck Yoongi like a slap.
The door opened, and in stepped the Alpha. He was tall. Broad. Eyes sharp but not cruel. Hair tied back loosely. The air changed around him as he entered, like the space knew to make room for him.
Jimin bounced in place. “Why are you here? Did you come to take me? But I wanna stay!”
The Alpha looked at them—really looked. His gaze moved first to the boys curled up in the nest of blankets, then to the Omega, who rose from her stool and offered him a respectful bow.
“Pack Alpha Park Jihyun,” she greeted calmly, hands folded before her.
Pack Alpha.
Yoongi’s vision tunneled. His breath caught and snagged in his throat like barbed wire. His fingers trembled where they gripped Jimin’s arm, and he couldn’t stop them. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. This was it. This was the part where the kindness ended. He had trespassed. He had survived. But now the Alpha had come. Judgment. His body began to shake.
Sangmi noticed first. She turned quickly, eyes scanning Yoongi’s face, and her voice came swift and careful. “He’s still overwhelmed,” she said gently. “It might be better if you came by a bit later.”
Jimin blinked up at her. “Why?”
Alpha Jihyun frowned, and his voice was low, measured. “Did he tell you anything?”
“Not yet,” she replied, still soft, still calm.
The Alpha’s gaze returned to Yoongi, and Yoongi wanted to disappear. Shrink. Dissolve.
“Where did you come from?” Jihyun asked, not harsh, but heavy enough to flatten Yoongi’s lungs.
Yoongi didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His mouth wouldn’t open. His shoulders curled inward, teeth gritted against the silent scream rising in his chest.
Sangmi stepped forward slightly. “I believe it would be best,” she said, firmer now, “to give the pup time. Let him adjust. Heal.”
Yoongi stared at the blanket in his lap like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.
Jimin pouted again. “Is he gonna stay?”
“We don’t know yet, sweetheart,” the Alpha said. “But that’s why I came. To check on him.”
“Can I stay too?” Jimin asked brightly, already curling himself closer to Yoongi. “Taetae went to play with Hoseok, and I don’t wanna go.”
Jihyun sighed—long-suffering, but fond. “Fine,” he relented. “But don’t bother him, Jimin-ah.
Let him rest.”
“I will!” Jimin promised, smiling as he leaned his head carefully against Yoongi’s shoulder. “I’ll just stay. Like this. Quiet.”
Yoongi didn’t move. He barely breathed. But somewhere beneath the ache of panic and confusion… He didn’t let go of Jimin’s sleeve. And he didn’t push him away.
The door closed and the Alpha’s scent faded with it—still thick in the air, but retreating. Like a thunderstorm rolling past the ridge instead of striking down where it stood.
And just like that, Yoongi could breathe again. Not easily. Not completely. But enough. Enough to feel the tremble in his hands stilling. Enough to feel the pounding of his heart slow, just a little. Enough to know he had survived this, too.
Jimin didn’t seem bothered at all. He was still pressed lightly at Yoongi’s side, soft and humming with contentment like a small animal nesting for the winter.
Yoongi couldn’t understand him. Didn’t understand how someone so small could smile so brightly in the face of something so big. How he could speak to an Alpha like that. How he could exist so freely in a world Yoongi had only ever known as dangerous.
The silence settled again. Warm. Tired. Then— “Oh no!” Jimin suddenly sat up, horrified. “I forgot!”
Yoongi tensed automatically, bracing for something bad.
But Jimin just gasped, clutching at his own cheeks. “I didn’t even introduced myself to you yet! That’s so rude!”
He whipped around to face Yoongi with big, earnest eyes and a dramatic bow of his head.
“I’m Park Jimin,” he declared proudly, like a title. “I’m eight. My favorite food is strawberry rice cakes, and I don’t like bees or when Hoseok hogs Taetae. And you’re—?” He tilted his head expectantly, waiting.
Yoongi stared at him.
Jimin’s eyes didn’t waver. They just shone—open and full of hope, like he really, genuinely wanted to know.
And for some reason Yoongi didn’t understand, it wasn’t so hard anymore. Not to breathe. Not to speak. Not to say, softly—
“Yoongi.”
Jimin’s face lit up like the sunrise over snow.
“You talked!” he chirped, bouncing on the mattress. “You talked! You have a name! I love that name. Yoongi. It’s nice. It sounds like…” He tilted his head. “It sounds like winter.” Yoongi blinked, unsure how to respond to that.
But Jimin didn’t wait. He leaned closer again, bursting with a new round of questions. “Are you still in pain?”
Yoongi shook his head, voice barely above a whisper. “No.”
“Are you okay now?”
Yoongi hesitated. Then nodded, just once. “Fine.”
“Why were you hurt?”
That one made him pause. His fingers twisted in the blanket again, but Jimin waited quietly this time, no pressure, no impatience—just a pup asking, and another pup deciding if he wanted to answer.
“Bear,” Yoongi muttered eventually, glancing down. “It attacked. I ran.”
Jimin’s eyes widened. “A bear?”
Yoongi gave a tiny nod.
“Alone?”
A slower nod this time.
“For how long?”
Yoongi’s throat tightened. His voice scraped raw, but he answered. “Long time.”
Jimin made a small, sad sound in his throat. His little hand reached over like he wanted to touch Yoongi’s arm—but then stopped halfway, hovering. Respecting space.
“How old are you?” he asked instead, softer now.
“Ten.”
“I’m eight!” Jimin grinned, clearly delighted by this. “That means you’re older. That’s good. You can teach me stuff.”
Yoongi blinked at him. “Like what?”
“I dunno.” Jimin giggled. “You survived a bear.”
Yoongi didn’t laugh. But something inside his chest loosened—almost like he might’ve, if he knew how.
Jimin smiled again, smaller this time. Warm. He didn’t say anything else. Just leaned back against the wall, shoulder to shoulder with Yoongi in the blanket nest, like it was the most natural place in the world for him to be.
It was quiet again. That slow kind of quiet where the air itself seemed to pause, wrapped around them like warm wool. Jimin had finally stopped asking questions—leaning lightly against Yoongi’s side, legs crossed beneath him, fingers idly playing with the frayed corner of the blanket. The boy was humming under his breath. A little melody. No words. Just sound.
Yoongi had let his eyes fall half-shut. Not asleep. Just... resting. Letting the heaviness of full belly and safety settle over him like snowfall. Letting himself pretend, just for a moment, that this wasn’t temporary. That he could let his body go soft, his mind stop spinning. Then— Pain. Blinding, sharp.
A startled groan broke from his chest as something pressed down hard into his upper thigh, right where the wound still throbbed under layers of cloth and bandage.
Jimin gasped and scrambled back, the blanket tangling around his legs. “I didn’t—I thought
—!”
Sangmi was there before Yoongi even fully registered the noise. Her lavender scent shifted fast—calm to alert, laced with sharpness like pine needles. She was kneeling beside him in seconds, eyes scanning his face, hands hovering but not touching.
“What happened?” she asked, firm but gentle.
“I didn’t mean to,” Jimin was already saying, voice high and trembling. “I thought it was the bed—I didn’t know he was lying there—he didn’t say—”
“I’m okay,” Yoongi said quickly, too quickly, trying to sit up and failing. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”
But Jimin was already crying. Not loudly. Just that soft, silent kind of crying—eyes glassy, lips trembling, shoulders shaking like he was trying not to make it worse by being loud. And somehow, that was worse than the pain itself.
Yoongi shifted, wincing, and reached out blindly. His hand found Jimin’s arm. Small. Warm.
“I’m okay,” he said again, quieter now. “You didn’t mean to. I’m not mad.”
Jimin sniffled. “You made a noise.”
“I do that sometimes,” Yoongi muttered, lips twitching just slightly. “Doesn’t mean I’m dying.”
Jimin wiped his face with his sleeve, eyes red and still shining. “I thought I hurt you so bad.”
“You didn’t.”
“I’m sorry.”
Yoongi shook his head. “It’s okay.”
Sangmi gave him a quiet look—something between approval and sadness—then gently peeled the blanket back to check the injury. Her hands were careful, her scent soothing again. Familiar now. Not dangerous.
After a long moment, she pulled the blanket back into place and offered him a small bowl of water to sip from, then returned to her stool.
He drank slowly, watching Jimin from the corner of his eye. The boy was curled up now, legs tucked under him like he wanted to disappear, eyes still watery. Yoongi didn’t like it. Didn’t like that he made that expression. That he caused it.
“Thank you,” Yoongi said to Sangmi after a minute, voice rough.
She smiled gently. “You’re welcome.”
Then, her gaze turned thoughtful. “You’ve been speaking a little now,” she said softly. “If you feel ready… I can ask a few things. You don’t have to tell the Pack Alpha yourself if that makes you nervous. I’ll speak for you, if you want.”
Jimin immediately perked up. “You don’t have to be scared of my appa! He’s the best appa in the world!”
Yoongi didn’t respond.
“My eomma is waaaaaay scarier,” Jimin added proudly. “When she’s mad, even appa listens to her.”
Yoongi blinked. Something tight in his chest eased—not because he was less afraid, but because Jimin… was trying. In that simple, stubborn, innocent way.
He looked at Sangmi and gave the smallest nod. “I’ll talk,” he said. “To you.”
She nodded once, calm. “Alright. Start when you’re ready.”
Yoongi looked down at his hands. They were smaller than his father’s. Thinner. Paler. He clenched them once, then slowly opened his fingers.
“I’m a rogue,” he began, voice dull. “Have been since I was born.”
Jimin leaned closer again, quiet this time.
“My dad and I lived alone in the forest. We weren’t part of any pack. He used to belong to a pack years ago but he left and he never told me why. Just said it was safer off out of it.” Sangmi said nothing. Just listened.
Yoongi continued. “Three seasons ago… he died. Pack wolves attacked for accidental trespassing their land. I ran. He didn’t.” His throat ached. He swallowed. “Since then, I’ve been alone. I survived. I know how. I… got used to it.”
Silence. Not cold. Just full.
“I got attacked by a bear. It was big and strong. I got hurt. Then I ran as far as I could. I was tired and in pain and I didn’t mean to trespass your land. I didn’t even know I crossed a border. I was just… running. Trying to get away.”
He glanced up, meeting her gaze for the first time since he started speaking. “I didn’t mean to break rules. And I’m grateful—for the food, for the care. I know I don’t deserve it, but thank you.”
Her expression softened, like warm water washing over cold stone.
“I’ll leave,” he said next, trying to sound steady. “Right now. I can walk. I’ll go.”
“What?” Jimin gasped, sitting up sharply. “No!”
Sangmi raised a hand gently. “Yoongi, wait.”
“You can’t go,” Jimin insisted, eyes wide again, lips quivering. “Where will you go? You don’t have a pack. You’ll get hurt again.”
“I can handle it,” Yoongi mumbled. “I have before.”
“But you shouldn’t have to!” Jimin burst out. “You don’t have to go! My appa is a good pack alpha. He’ll let you stay! I’ll ask him!”
“No,” Yoongi said quickly, sharper than he meant. “I can’t stay.”
The silence that followed stretched too long.
Jimin looked like he’d been slapped. “But… why?” he asked, voice small now. “Don’t you… like it here?”
Yoongi looked down again. Because liking it makes it worse when I lose it. Because being warm once makes the cold sharper when it comes back. Because he doesn’t deserve this.
But he didn’t say any of that. He just said, “It’s not mine.”
Sangmi stood then, her movements slow and careful. “You’re safe here,” she said softly.
“And I’ll talk to the Pack Alpha. You don’t have to make any decisions right now. Just rest.”
Jimin didn’t move. Yoongi didn’t either. But in that tiny space between them—just a few inches of blanket and shared breath—something hung in the air. Something neither of them understood, but both of them felt.
Night came soft and slow.
The healer’s hut dimmed to a quiet hush, lit only by the embers of the fire and a single lowburning lantern on the far wall. Outside, the forest whispered—wind rustling through leaves, the distant hoot of an owl, the subtle hum of life beyond the walls. Inside, Yoongi sat in silence, half-upright on the cot, legs curled under the thick blanket that still smelled faintly of mint and marigold.
He’d slept. Not deeply. Not well. But enough for his body to feel less like it was unraveling.
Jimin was gone when he woke. Just… gone. No lingering scent, no pup-ish hum echoing in the air, no weight beside him on the mattress. It was like the boy had never been there, except for the wrinkle in the blanket where he’d curled up and the faintest trace of warmth that hadn’t quite faded.
Yoongi didn’t ask where he went. Didn’t want to. Didn’t want to want it.
He sat there now, staring at the firelight flickering along the cracks in the wooden floor, letting his thoughts churn slow and heavy in his skull. Every now and then, the pain in his thigh reminded him it was still there. Still healing. Still not enough to let him run, even if he wanted to. Not yet. He hated that. He hated needing anything.
The door creaked softly.
Yoongi looked up without lifting his head, just his eyes—sharp, tired.
The omega healer stood at the threshold, holding a cup of something warm and herbal. Her scent carried in behind her, soft and subtle—like lavender left in the sun too long.
“Yoongi,” she said gently. “Would it be alright if the Pack Alpha came in to speak with you?”
Yoongi hesitated. His fingers clenched the blanket tighter on instinct, but he forced himself to breathe—slow, shallow. He wasn’t cornered. He wasn’t alone anymore, but he wasn’t… hunted.
And the Pack Alpha had already seen him once. Hadn’t done anything.
He nodded. Just once.
The healer nodded in return, then stepped back.
A moment later, the door opened again—and he walked in. Pak Alpha Park Jihyun.
The scent that came with him was immediate—heavy, commanding, but not oppressive. Like rain over stone. It filled the space, thick and dominant but... not cruel. Not challenging. Not like the other Alphas Yoongi had crossed paths with, the ones who attacked him and his dad.
Still—his body reacted before his thoughts could catch up. Back straight. Muscles tight. Breath held shallow in his throat.
Jihyun said nothing for a long moment. He just stood there. Then, calmly, he stepped forward and took the stool the healer usually sat on, setting it a comfortable distance from the bed.
Not close enough to loom. But not far enough to pretend it didn’t matter.
Yoongi stared at the fire.
“I already know a few things,” the Alpha said after a pause, voice low but steady. “Healer Sangmi had passed on what you shared. That you lived alone with your father. That he’s gone. That you’ve been a rogue.”
Yoongi didn’t look at him. Not directly. But he nodded.
The Alpha let the silence settle again before speaking. “You can stay.”
Yoongi flinched like he’d been struck. He blinked, once, twice, then finally turned his face toward the man—just enough to meet his gaze.
“What?”
“You can stay here,” the Alpha repeated. “In this pack.”
“I didn’t ask to stay,” Yoongi said flatly, voice tight. “I said I’d leave.”
“I know.”
“Then why—”
“Because you’re a pup,” the Alpha interrupted gently, but firmly. “And it’s not safe out there for someone your age. Especially not injured. Especially not alone.”
“I was alone,” Yoongi snapped, then caught himself, jaw locking. “I did fine.”
“You were half-dead on my border.”
Yoongi swallowed hard. He hated that the Alpha was right. He hated even more that he couldn’t say anything to fight it.
“I didn’t trespass,” he muttered. “I told the healer—I didn’t mean to cross the border. I didn’t smell it. I wasn’t thinking. I was—hurting.”
“I know,” the Alpha said.
“I don’t want to be a burden.”
“You’re not.”
“I’m not your responsibility.”
“Not yet,” the Alpha said calmly. “But you could be.”
Yoongi looked away again, breath stuttering. That wasn’t an offer. Not really. It was a tether. It felt like being caught in a net spun of kindness instead of rope—and somehow, that made it worse. Because part of him wanted to lean into it. Part of him wanted to curl up and stay here and forget the world outside existed. But that wasn’t safe. Wanting was dangerous.
“You can decide when you’re healed,” the Alpha said finally, as if sensing the storm in Yoongi’s chest. “There’s no pressure. No demands. But for now—just rest. Let the healer help. Let Jimin sit with you if you want. We’re not going to force anything.”
Yoongi didn’t answer. Not right away.
The Alpha stood, his scent folding back around him as he moved toward the door.
At the threshold, he paused. “If you need anything,” he said without turning, “you ask the healer. And Yoongi—”
Yoongi glanced up.
“I’m glad you made it here.”
Then he left. The door shut behind him with a soft click.
Yoongi let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding and slumped back into the nest of blankets, pulse still pounding, blood still loud in his ears.
He didn’t know what to make of that. Didn’t know what to feel. Not yet. But it didn’t feel like a trap. And that—somehow—was worse than if it had.
The fire had burned low again. It was quiet in the healer’s hut—just the crackle of the hearth and the faint clink of herbs being sorted behind the partition. Outside, the world had slipped into the deep stillness of evening, the kind that always made Yoongi ache with the memory of what silence used to mean: cold, loneliness, hunger, nothing but his own heartbeat in the dark. Now, silence felt different. Not quite safe. But not sharp anymore either.
He sat propped up in the nest of blankets, leg still sore but not throbbing, chest still heavy but not suffocating. The Alpha was gone, and he hadn’t come back with chains or questions or the expectation of obedience. Just words. An offer. It still spun in Yoongi’s chest like a loose thread he didn’t know how to pull.
The door creaked open again.
Yoongi looked up, shoulders stiffening, gaze already bracing for something unfamiliar.
But it was Jimin. All wide eyes and puffy cheeks, breathless and grinning.
“Yoongiiii,” he sing-songed, slipping into the hut like a sunbeam. “Guess what!”
Yoongi blinked.
Jimin didn’t wait for a response. “I brought someone!”
And then— Another pup stepped through the doorway behind him. Just a little taller than Jimin, hair a darker shade of brown, eyes sharp but not unkind. He moved with more calm than Jimin did, but there was an edge of playful curiosity to him—like a cat circling a new place, deciding if it liked the furniture.
“This is Taehyung!” Jimin said proudly, like Yoongi was being introduced to royalty. “He’s my bestest friend ever. He’s healer Sangmi Ajumma’s pup!”
Yoongi stiffened slightly at that. His eyes darted toward the back of the hut where the healer’s presence still lingered—her scent drifting warm and subtle from behind the curtain—but there was no movement.
“I told him about you,” Jimin went on, kneeling beside Yoongi’s bed without hesitation. “But not everything. Just that you’re here. And you’re my friend now. So he can be your friend too.”
Yoongi stared.
Taehyung stepped forward slowly, stopping just at the foot of the bed. His scent wasn’t strong —pups never were—but there was something warm and grounding about it. Familiar, somehow. Like earth after rain. Not a scent that pressed, just one that existed quietly in the space between them.
“Hi,” Taehyung said. “I’m not annoying like Jimin, I promise.”
“Hey!” Jimin squeaked indignantly, shoving his shoulder.
Yoongi didn’t know what to say. He wanted to sink into the mattress and disappear. Two of them now. Two strangers. Two voices. Two scents. It was too much. He wasn’t ready. He didn’t know what they wanted, or how long they’d stay, or how to tell them to go without making Jimin cry again. But he didn’t speak. Not yet.
Jimin had already started fidgeting with the edge of Yoongi’s blanket, pulling it up and tucking it around Yoongi’s legs like a pup preparing for a long stay.
“We came for dinner,” Jimin announced.
Yoongi blinked again.
“Eomma said we could eat here tonight,” Taehyung explained. “She’s bringing food in a bit. She wants you to eat with us.”
Yoongi opened his mouth—then closed it again. He didn’t remember agreeing to that. He didn’t remember wanting that.
Jimin settled beside him with all the grace of a falling leaf, tugging Taehyung to sit too, until the three of them were nestled together in the overstuffed mattress like pups in a den. It was stifling. And yet—somehow—not entirely awful.
Jimin started talking again. About how he and Taehyung had spent the morning chasing frogs by the stream. How Hoseok cheated at pebble games. How they found a tree stump shaped like a wolf’s snout. How Taehyung dared him to howl but he got scolded by his eomma.
Yoongi said nothing. But he listened. Watched the way Jimin spoke with his whole body— hands flying, eyes wide, cheeks flushed pink from excitement. Taehyung barely said a word, but he smiled now and then, nudged Jimin when he got too dramatic, corrected him with a quiet “that didn’t happen like that” that Jimin promptly ignored.
And for a moment—just a flicker of time—Yoongi didn’t feel like a ghost on the edge of the world. He felt like a boy. Hungry. Tired. Curled up with two loud pups and a sore leg in a room that smelled like herbs and ash.
The door opened again, and the omega healer came in with a tray balanced in her hands, steam curling from the bowls on top. Her scent arrived with her—soft and lavender-laced, like crushed petals at the bottom of a drawer. She smiled when she saw the three of them, and Yoongi couldn’t tell if she was surprised or not.
“Dinner time,” she said gently, setting the tray down on a low stool near the bed. “Eat up, before it gets cold.”
She handed out bowls and wooden spoons—mismatched, worn, clearly used a hundred times before.
Jimin immediately dug in. Taehyung waited. And Yoongi hesitated.
The food smelled good. Something with rice and broth and soft vegetables, mild and easy to chew. He wasn’t sure if it was the scent or the warmth or the fact that the other two were already eating, but eventually—slowly—he reached for the bowl handed to him.
It felt strange again, holding the spoon. Stranger still, eating with others. But he did it. Quietly. Carefully. Like if he made too much noise, it would all vanish.
“Is it good?” Jimin asked with his mouth half-full.
Yoongi nodded.
Jimin beamed. “Told you! Ajumma makes the best food. But she won’t let me help her cook anymore ‘cause last time I put cinnamon in the stew and Taetae almost cried.” Taehyung snorted into his bowl.
Yoongi’s lips twitched. Not a smile. But something. Something almost like it.
The three of them sat there, bowls warm in their hands, steam rising into the quiet space between them. Yoongi didn’t talk. But he didn’t flinch when Jimin leaned against him. And when Taehyung passed him a piece of steamed root from his own bowl, Yoongi accepted it with a quiet nod.