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It’s quiet, and late, when the creak of the doorhinge stirs Hanbin from what was already a light sleep. For a moment, he keeps his eyes closed, waiting to see if it was just his ears playing tricks, if a dream might pull him back under like a current dragging sand from the shore.
But his omega instincts are always primed more at night – something Zhang Hao says is related to his developmental hyper-independence , whatever that’s supposed to mean – and he knows the sounds of the other omegas in his nest like the back of his hand. He can hear Hao’s soft, even breaths, Matthew’s quiet, rhythmic snoring like a bear in hibernation. Their youngest, unpresented Yujin, has a heartbeat that's rabbit-fast even in his sleep.
But there’s something else, too, a little softer, shakier. And the scent, citrus so sweet it almost stings, sharp in how it cuts through the gentler pack-woven scents of the nest.
Hanbin tilts his head and opens one eye, peeking over his shoulder at the doorway.
There’s barely any light seeping in past the silhouette from the hallway light they always leave on, just in case. That on its own tells Hanbin a lot. There’s only one person in this house broad enough to fill that doorway, who’d be standing there at a time like this.
He sits up and turns to sit sideways on the bed, muffling a yawn in the back of his wrist. “Gunwook-ah?” he whispers, quiet, careful not to disturb the others in the nest.
“Binnie-hyung?” whispers Gunwook back across the dark, empty space of the room. That’s new; he’s only just recently adjusted to the pack enough to start shortening Hanbin’s name. “I’m so sorry I woke you up, I can go–”
“Don’t be silly,” Hanbin chides, not unkindly, and gets up to go meet Gunwook at the door. Gunwook backs up as Hanbin approaches, which means Hanbin can slip out into the hallway and close the door behind him.
Gunwook looks exhausted, dark rings under his red-rimmed eyes, and he’s got the stuffie that Taerae gave him on his first night clutched firmly in his left hand, the crocodile’s soft snout somewhat crumpled in his fist. If he was Matthew or Taerae, a little shorter and leaner, Hanbin would lean down to get on his level. As it is, he tilts his head, tries to project that same sense of comfort through his scent alone.
“I couldn’t sleep, hyung,” Gunwook admits finally, voice breathless. “Had nightmares and the room felt empty and – I just needed to see you.”
Hanbin’s chest aches, that heavy, hushed, borrowed grief, the kind that made Hao ask him if he was sure he wanted to take on a packless alpha in the first place. At the same time, he can’t imagine if Gunwook were somewhere else, somewhere a grown alpha would be absolutely expected to soothe themself back to sleep, where a pack leader might not even have time to talk through the day, much less in the middle of the night. So many packs these days with too many mouths to feed and not enough space to breathe or cuddle one another. So many packs where cubs wake up and cry themselves back to sleep, too.
“I’m so glad,” Hanbin tells Gunwook, instead of saying any of that out loud, “that you came and got me. I’m sorry you’re having such a tough night. Finding hyung was the right thing to do, okay?”
Gunwook takes a shaky, emboldened inhale, like that praise is all it takes to put him on the verge of tears. “Okay.”
“Can I touch you?” Hanbin asks softly. Gunwook nods, and when Hanbin wraps an arm around Gunwook’s shoulders to lead him, Gunwook leans into the touch like he’s starving for it. Which he probably still is. No one’s touch-hunger is easily cured, not even an alpha’s. Hanbin doesn’t have to be one to know that.
The kitchen is dark, but Hanbin flips on Hao’s little salt lamp in the corner of the counter, painting them both in gentle pink-toned light. “Sit,” he tells Gunwook, nodding towards one of the barstools. Gunwook does, wrapping his arms around his stomach with his crocodile held tight to his midriff.
Hanbin turns away, and takes a breath. He knew if he wanted to lead a pack as an omega, he’d have to work three times as hard, be able to pull all the weight a pack alpha would and then some. He watched so many films about packs, listened to so many podcasts in his first few years of college, has held Hao and Yujin and Gyuvin and Matthew through similar-but-different late nights or moments of tired neediness. He knows what to do, by now.
So, it’s muscle memory that leads him to the fridge. Milk, then Gyuvin’s favourite honey from the pantry, in the little glass jar shaped like a bear. Whenever it gets empty, he rinses it and takes it back to the local markets for a refill, and usually comes home glowing, and with flowers.
He heats the stove and makes a soft noise that doesn’t really mean anything, somewhere between a hum and a purr. Just enough that Gunwook doesn’t have to worry that Hanbin’s silent in an angry way. He’s learned that, too, the way that an alpha who wants to please this badly will fill any uncertainty, any gap, look for any sign of omega displeasure because that might mean being left, or rejected. If Hanbin doesn’t telegraph every feeling, his presence alone will make everything worse.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, still with his back to Gunwook, focused on heating up the milk on the stove. “Any of it?”
Gunwook clears his throat. His scent bleeds tangerine anxiety, permeates the kitchen like he’s what’s cooking on the stovetop. “It’s stupid,” he prefaces, and Hanbin doesn’t correct him even though it’s an unnecessary disclaimer. “Was just about…before, and whatever, dumb shit.”
Hanbin hums again, this time just to show he’s listening. He fishes a spoon out of the drawer next to the sink, to stir in the honey when the milk is hot enough.
“It’s so stupid,” Gunwook continues, emphatic. “Like, the past is in the past. I’m doing good now. No reason to be hung up on it.”
Hanbin considers his answer for a long moment before he replies. When he does, he’s careful to keep his tone light, curious. “You don’t think so?”
“I just wanna sleep,” Gunwook insists, and it’s muffled now. Hanbin glances over his shoulder; Gunwook’s put his forearms up on the counter, crocodile tangled between them, and buried his face in the stuffed toy’s belly. His shoulders are tense with frustration, but his scent is still scared. The two paired together tell a story. Just like how when Gunwook first arrived, his scent and his body told two different stories, one of someone who had to be big, strong, and sure to survive, and one of someone who didn’t want to be the last choice again.
“You must be exhausted,” Hanbin says.
“I – yeah, I guess I am.”
Hanbin doesn’t ask Gunwook which mug is his favourite, because Taerae and his beta sixth sense already scoped it out when Gunwook had been here for a week. The one with the red checker print, like a picnic blanket or a warm plaid shirt. Carefully, Hanbin pours in the milk, stirs in the honey, and carries the mug by the handle to the countertop. “Be careful for hyung, okay? This is hot.”
Gunwook lifts his head, shaggy hair in his eyes. Hanbin should check in with Ricky to see if they need to organise more haircuts for the pack. Not that Gunwook has to have one, if he doesn’t want one, but Hanbin suspects he won’t outright ask. Gunwook’s eyes flicker from the mug to Hanbin’s face, then back again. “This is for me?”
“Did you think I was making myself a midnight snack?” Hanbin asks fondly, and when Gunwook’s scent flushes with embarrassment, he pushes the mug closer. “Not as good as Hao's, but it works a treat on making you sleepy. It’s how he got me through my final exams when the stress kept me up.”
Taking the cup, Gunwook eyes Hanbin warily, the specific way he always does when anyone here openly admits some sort of weakness. Hanbin’s trying to do it more often, for that reason. When he sips it, his tired eyes widen just slightly. It must be good, because he drinks more right away, even though it’s still hot.
For a moment they’re both quiet, Gunwook focused on the warm milk, Hanbin focused on Gunwook, and on thinking. Mulling things over, like what Gunwook’s said so far. The nightmares, needing to be near pack, his bedroom feeling empty.
“How about,” Hanbin posits, “we build a pillow fort for the others to find in the morning. Like a surprise. Wouldn’t be a bad way to start off a Saturday, right?”
The incredulous look he gets in response almost makes him laugh. Gunwook clears his throat, but if there’s one thing Hanbin’s learned about him by now, it’s that his face has subtitles whether he wants it to or not. He’s clearly trying to find something respectful to say, and coming up blank. “We could,” Gunwook tries, politely, “but, uh, why? Would we?”
Hanbin shrugs, trying not to smile too wide. “Matthew’s been working too hard lately, so I was trying to think of something comforting. I was planning on doing it anyway, but it’ll be easier with someone stronger than me to move things around...” He trails off, and pauses.
Hook, line, sinker. Gunwook, who responds to being competent the way a cattle dog responds to something to herd, lights up, lets go of the stuffed crocodile for the first time all night. “I can help, hyung.”
Half an hour later, Gunwook steps back from the blanket and pillow fort now occupying most of the shared living room, spanning the sofa to the television cabinet, supported by commandeered chairs and spare blankets from the linen cupboard. He puts his hands on his hips, critically assessing his work. Hanbin glances up from his phone. From where Hanbin’s perched in the corner, it looks great, but he thought that fifteen minutes ago. “Happy?”
“Not yet,” Gunwook mutters, chewing his lip and crossing his arms. His shoulders are looser now, movements more fluid, and his scent doesn’t have the bite and the sting to it that Hanbin noticed before. “I feel like the roof is still uneven.”
Hanbin tries not to laugh, nods instead. “Ah, I see. Well, let me know if you need me to do anything.”
“I got it,” insists Gunwook. By the looks of things, he’s already performing some structural adjustments, propping an extra cushion up, tugging a blanket more taut. It reminds Hanbin of watching Hao fuss over the nest when he’s going into preheat, not that he’d ever tell Gunwookie that. He wouldn’t want to wound his alpha pride, not when he’s working so hard to make things nice for the rest of the pack the next morning.
Or rather, this morning. Checking the time on his phone, Hanbin sees they’re solidly past midnight and into the early hours. He crosses his legs, settles in, and tips his head back to rest against the wall.
He’s not sure if he dozes off or not, but when Gunwook’s voice declares, “I think it’s finished,” he does jolt a little. Blinking and refocusing his gaze, Hanbin sees the pillow fort now lit by a lamp Gunwook must’ve repurposed from his bedroom, with Gunwook’s crocodile the crown jewel in the entryway. The overall completed project appears, Hanbin must admit, incredibly welcoming and cozy.
“It’s beautiful, Gunwook-ah,” he encourages. “Oh, the others are going to be so excited.” He stretches, muffles a yawn into the back of his hand. “Just seeing it is making me want to snuggle up and relax.”
Glowing, Gunwook yawns too, like he caught it off Hanbin. He sits down heavily in front of the fort, just peering into it for a moment.
“Well,” says Hanbin, “there’s only one thing left to do.”
Gunwook blinks, frowns, like he’s worried he forgot something important.
“We have to test it,” Hanbin says. He nudges Gunwook’s back gently with his socked foot. “Go on, in.”
“Hyung, omegas first,” Gunwook says, stubbornly chivalrous, as if their entire pack dynamic doesn’t turn all those expectations on their heads, but Hanbin doesn’t fight him on this particular point. Instead, he gets down and crawls into the mountain of pillows and blankets.
Once he’s flopped on his back, looking up at the overlapping hems and differing patterns and fabrics, Gunwook wriggles in beside him. Gunwook’s broad, but the space is big enough to fit Hanbin and Matthew and Hao, and probably Yujin (so then Gyuvin too, and then likely Ricky because otherwise he’ll feel left out). So there’s plenty of space, but Gunwook curls up to Hanbin’s side, tucks his head under Hanbin’s jaw to scent his throat, and his whole body goes limp. It’s like all the exhaustion from the night, the bad dreams and the building project, has caught up to him at once.
Hanbin raises a hand and carefully cards his fingers through Gunwook’s hair. “You did a good job,” he murmurs, quiet.
Gunwook swallows. “I did?”
“Such a good job, thank you so much, sweetheart.” To make sure Gunwook won’t doubt it, Hanbin closes his eyes, breathes deep, and lets himself purr. It used to be a tricky thing to find in himself, but lately, it’s always there when he wants it, no searching required. Like it’s running laps in his chest just waiting to be given to his boys who need it most.
Within minutes, Gunwook is fast asleep, no more crease in his brow, his breath warm against Hanbin’s clavicle, his crocodile toy still standing guard at the pillow fort’s door. Hanbin doesn’t stop. He lets the sound hum through the blankets and the cushions and Gunwook, like that alone can help him rest, exhale, forget being forgotten. Like the rest of the world, like being misunderstood and left behind and told no, was a blip, an anomaly, and Gunwook’s real place is here. Like Hanbin can love anything bad that’s ever happened right out of him, if he only tries hard enough.
Hanbin kisses Gunwook’s forehead, and turns out the light.