Chapter Text
Ever since Hanbin was little, he knew he wasn’t the son his father wanted.
His father’s gaze lingered too long on him, not with pride but with scrutiny, searching for something that wasn’t there. Hanbin was too soft, too trusting—his mother’s son through and through. Not the sharp-edged heir an alpha should be.
Among towering figures draped in authority, he was the odd one out, too small in an entire family of alphas and lunas that were bred for dominance. His uncles carried their lineage in their very stance, his cousins exuded courage, and his father—his father had never once stumbled under the expectations that now loomed over Hanbin like a shadow he could never outrun.
And worst of all, Hanbin was gay.
At fifteen, the truth festered and grew, impossible to ignore. It wasn’t just that he fell short of his father’s expectations—it was that he would never, could never, be the son his father wanted. No strong, dutiful husband to a luna. No heir to carry on the family’s legacy. Just a disappointment carved into his very being.
His father’s reaction was swift and brutal in its silence. A clenched jaw. Averted eyes. The air between them turned sharp enough to cut. Hanbin didn’t need to hear the words to understand. He was a failure before he’d even had the chance to prove himself, and his father? His father never took failure well.
All Hanbin wanted was to take Matthew, Gyuvin, and Gunwook and disappear—to leave behind the suffocating expectations, the cold disappointment in his father’s eyes, and build something of his own.
He imagined it sometimes, late at night when the house was too quiet, the walls pressing in around him. The four of them running through endless stretches of wilderness, their own rules, their own way of living. No more proving, no more pretending. Just them, free in a way Hanbin had never been.
But dreams were just that—dreams. And the reality of his father’s grip on him, on all of them, was a chain he wasn’t sure he could break.
That was when his father laid out his proposition.
If Hanbin wanted to be more than a disgrace, if he wanted even a sliver of respect, he would have to earn it. Tradition demanded it. No son of his would be handed a legacy—Hanbin would have to fight for his place, prove he wasn’t just the weakest link in a long line of alphas.
His uncle’s lands were up for grabs, and with his father’s influence, securing the territory would be easier. But not easy. It was a test, an ultimatum disguised as an opportunity. Either Hanbin stepped up, took what was meant to be his, or he faded into irrelevance, a failure in both his father’s eyes and the eyes of the packs.
He needed to prove his place as an alpha by fighting for a luna. A spectacle of dominance, strength, and tradition—one that had been upheld for generations.
Hanbin rejected it entirely. The idea of battling for the right to claim a territory he didn’t want was unbearable. It wasn’t just that he had no interest in the role they forced on him. It was that every part of it felt wrong, a betrayal of who he was.
But when he turned seventeen, the choice was no longer his. Tradition had already carved his path, and there was nothing he could do but fall in line.
The harsh grips of expectation dragged him forward, step by reluctant step, toward a fate that had never truly belonged to him.
And deviating from that? That was a risk he couldn’t afford to take.
── ⋆⋅☾⋅⋆ ──
The earth is damp beneath Hanbin’s paws, the scent of morning rain still clinging to the undergrowth. He runs through the trees at an easy pace, letting the cold air whip through his fur, his breath curling in the crisp dawn.
This—this is the part of his week he clings to, the only time he allows himself to exist without thought. His wolf form is part of him, after all, and running through the wilderness like that part of him yearns for is all the healing Hanbin needs sometimes.
The stream murmurs beside him, cutting through the forest like a vein of silver, swollen from last night’s summer rain. He follows it instinctively, paws skimming over slick leaves, ears tuned to the rustling branches overhead.
He picks up his pace, letting the run clear his head. Then his paw catches.
His momentum wrenches forward before he even registers what happened. A jolt shoots up his leg, his chest hits the ground with an unceremonious thud, and before he can right himself, he slides a few inches through damp leaves and mud.
For a second, he just lies there, blinking at the sky. A drop of water falls from an overhead branch, landing squarely on his snout.
Well. That was stupid.
With a grunt, he pushes himself upright, shaking out his fur. His paws are caked with wet soil, and his hind leg throbs slightly, but nothing feels out of place. When he turns, his ears flick back in mild annoyance.
A fallen tree. Thick, freshly downed, sprawled right across the path. It wasn’t there before.
Hanbin lets out a fast breath, padding over to inspect it. The bark is rough, the exposed wood pale where it splintered. No scent of another wolf nearby, no sign that someone dragged it here—just an inconvenient bit of nature getting in his way.
Still. He nudges it once with his nose, just to be sure.
Hyung! Gunwook’s voice cuts through his thoughts, an impatient call through their bond. Matthew hyung wants you back.
Why couldn’t he tell me himself? Hanbin snorts.
Gunwook’s response is immediate, exasperated. Because he knows you’ll listen to me faster.
Hanbin laughs internally, shaking out his fur again before stepping around the fallen tree. Fair enough.
Tell him I’m on my way. He glances once more at the broken trunk, then flicks his tail to shake off the last of the impact before easing into a steady trot. His leg twinges slightly, a dull reminder of the fall, but it’s nothing he can’t walk off.
Gunwook, apparently not satisfied with just a confirmation, grumbles, You sure? Because Matthew hyung said if you don’t get back soon, he’s making me drag you back myself.
To Hanbin, Gunwook will always be the small middle schooler he met him as, all wide eyes and eager energy, trailing behind him with Gyuvin, like shadows. Even though he’s long since grown into his six-foot frame, all muscle and confidence, his stature now rivaling Hanbin’s, it’s still hard to take a threat like that seriously.
Drag me back? Hanbin huffs, trotting a little faster. You forget who taught you how to fight?
Yeah, yeah. Gunwook’s tone is dismissive, but Hanbin can feel the grin behind it. I also remember the times I knocked you on your ass. Twice.
Hanbin lets out an amused huff. Once.
Twice.
Once, Hanbin repeats, more stubborn now.
Gunwook doesn’t argue this time, but Hanbin can hear his amusement through the bond as it settles into a comfortable hum. He shakes himself out again, paws picking up speed as the treeline begins to thin, the scents of home growing stronger.
Hanbin slows his pace as the treeline gives way to open space, paws pressing into the well-worn path leading to the den. And there, standing on the porch with his arms crossed, is Hao—clearly unhappy about something.
Hanbin instantly relaxes at the sight of him.
His wolf form melts away as he shifts back, rolling his shoulders as he stretches out of the lingering ache in his muscles. The irritation he felt earlier, the dull throb in his leg from the fall—none of it matters now.
Hao hands him a bundle of clothes that Hanbin immediately starts dressing in. And Hao’s eyes flick over him, sharp as ever, scanning for something, and Hanbin knows exactly what’s coming.
“You’re limping.”
Hanbin huffs, stepping on the foot like that alone will disprove it. “Barely.”
Hao’s frown deepens. He doesn’t move from where he’s standing, but Hanbin can feel the weight of his stare pressing down on him like a silent demand. It’s unfair, really, how easily Hao can pull him apart without saying a word.
Hanbin sighs, leaning in slightly—just enough to brush against Hao’s shoulder, the smallest, most instinctive reassurance. “Tripped over a tree. That’s all.”
“Uh-huh.” Hao still isn’t convinced. His arms stay crossed, but the tension in his shoulders eases, just a little. “And let me guess—you weren’t even paying attention.”
Hanbin grins. “Not my fault it wasn’t there yesterday.”
Hao pouts, but there is a fondness creeping into the exasperation. He wants to stay mad, Hanbin can tell, but it’s a losing battle. Still, he tilts his head toward the door. “Inside. You can be reckless later.”
“What’s got you so grumpy?” Hanbin beams, pressing a kiss to Hao’s lips. “Last I saw you, you were snoring into the pillow.”
Hao doesn’t pull away, his frown firmly in place. “How about you ask the monsters you call a pack in the kitchen right now?”
That explains the faint scent of something slightly burnt hanging in the air. Hanbin winces. “Do I even want to know?”
“You better,” Hao mutters, intertwining their fingers and tugging him inside. “Because if I have to suffer, so do you.”
Hanbin chuckles but lets himself be pulled along, the warmth of Hao’s hand against his skin making it impossible to take any of this too seriously.
It’s Saturday.
So when Hanbin hears how loud the house is from the inside, he’s not too surprised. It’s expected. Usually, everyone is either dead asleep or up and causing mayhem. Today, it’s clearly the latter.
The second he steps in, the noise hits him all at once—voices overlapping, footsteps thudding, the distinct clatter of something metal hitting the floor (which no one seems concerned about). The kitchen is full of movement.
Yujin is running around, half-dressed, waving a spoon in one hand and dramatically declaring that he doesn’t want eggs today—except now he does the moment he sees his appa, but only if Hanbin makes them.
Ricky is sitting on the counter again (he does this a lot), legs swinging lazily as he flips through the phone they had bought him last week. He’s making absolutely zero effort to help, fully immersed in whatever he’s reading—until he glances up, notices Hanbin, and smirks like he’s been waiting for this exact moment. “Took you long enough. Thought you got lost.”
Hanbin rolls his eyes, but before he can respond, Yujin slams into his leg, clinging to it like a koala. “Appa! Eggs!”
Matthew, in the middle of reorganizing every single cabinet in the kitchen, barely looks over. “You’re making them,” he tells Hanbin like it’s already been decided.
Hanbin glances at Gunwook, who’s been roped into the ordeal, arms full of plates as he eyes the growing disaster. “This wasn’t my idea,” Gunwook says immediately, shifting blame before anyone can accuse him.
Hanbin sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. He did just come back from a run, but apparently, rest is out of the question. “You know, I almost died out there,” he announces, mostly for dramatics. “Tripped over a whole tree.”
No one is impressed.
“That’s nice,” Ricky says, now typing at record speed, and Hanbin wonders where Gyuvin has disappeared off to. He wouldn’t be surprised if that’s who Ricky is texting right now.
“Appa, eggs ,” Yujin whines, pulling out the cutest pout Hanbin has ever seen—one that rivals even Hao’s.
Hao crosses his arms from beside him, looking unimpressed as ever. “See? Monsters.”
“Gege!” Yujin suddenly turns, eyes wide with righteous betrayal. “I asked you first, and you said no!”
Hanbin raises an eyebrow, amused as Hao barely flinches. “Did I?”
“Yes,” Yujin stomps his foot, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “I said I wanted eggs, and you said—” He rattles off something in Chinese, too fast and too indignant for Hanbin to even attempt to catch.
“Sounds like something I’d say.” Hao doesn’t even try to deny it.
Yujin lets out a dramatic gasp, turning back to Hanbin with full offense. “Appa, look at him! He’s so mean to me!”
Hanbin, who has lived through years of this exact scenario, sighs. “Then why am I making the eggs?”
“Because you love me?” Yujin blinks up at him, pulling out his best I am adorable face.
Hanbin stares at him. Yujin stares back.
“…Fine,” Hanbin concedes, already making his way to the stove. Yujin cheers, victorious, while Hao just shakes his head like this is exactly what he expected.
But then—quietly, casually—Hao slides up next to him, reaching for a pan like he hadn’t just refused to make eggs five minutes ago. Hanbin doesn’t comment on it, just smirks a little as he watches Hao crack an egg.
“Where’s everyone else?” Hanbin asks, grabbing the whisk.
Hao hums, flipping an egg neatly onto a plate. “Jiwoong is on the phone with Jihye. Taerae’s asleep.”
Hanbin isn’t surprised. “And Gyuvin?”
Ricky, still seated on the counter, grins without looking up from his phone. “Busy.”
Confused, Hanbin narrows his eyes. “Busy where?” Ricky just smirks, offering no further explanation. Hanbin turns back to the stove. He’ll deal with that after breakfast.
Beside him, Hao plates the eggs effortlessly, then crouches down, holding it out. “Here, Yujinie.”
The pup, who had been waiting at their legs the entire time, practically lights up.
“Thank you, gege!” Yujin beams, but instead of just taking the plate, he reaches up, grabs Hao by the neck, and pulls him in to press a quick, affectionate kiss to his cheek.
Hao smiles faintly, though Hanbin can tell from his reddening ears that he is more affected by the pup’s affection than he would ever let on.
Hanbin must acknowledge that it has been slow, this—them. Hao easing into the space Hanbin carved for him, Yujin grew attached in the way only a child can, trusting and wholehearted.
At first, Hanbin had wondered if it would take time, if Yujin would hesitate around someone new, if Hao would keep his distance like he always did with things that felt too close, too fragile.
But here they are now.
It’s been three months since the pack had arrived from Seoul—since the last time they had experienced such life-threatening danger. Three months ago, they barely had time to breathe, let alone settle. Everything had been about survival, about making it through the next fight, the next threat, the next impossible choice.
Now, Yujin still tugs Hao down like it’s second nature, like there was never a time when Hao wasn’t here. And Hao—who keeps everyone at arm’s length, who treats affection like something fragile—lets himself be pulled in without hesitation.
Hanbin watches, warmth creeping into his chest. Then he smirks. “Aww, look at you. Softie.”
Standing, Hao clicks his tongue, brushing off the moment like it’s nothing. “Shut up and flip your eggs.”
Taerae strolls in a moment later, Jiwoong right beside him. Hanbin sends them a brief nod in greeting before the witches move to help set the kitchen table. It’s just routine at this point—no one asks, no one assigns tasks. They just do what hasn’t been done.
After all, somewhere between Hao sliding up beside him and Yujin’s relentless demands, Hanbin has wordlessly transitioned into making food for everyone. Hao, too. Not that he ever agreed to it, but—well, here they are.
Behind them, Ricky scoffs. “Finally,” he mutters, though it’s a complete contrast to the giddy smile he was just shooting at his phone. Gyuvin, completely unaware that Ricky is trying his hardest to hold back a grin, walks past the door threshold and beelines toward him.
The two kiss. No one reacts.
Hanbin doesn’t even blink as he takes a sip of his coffee. This is just the background noise of his mornings now.
Not even Yujin spares them another glance, the pup who used to make a big deal about it—mock gagging, covering his eyes, making dramatic ew noises. Now, he just focuses on shoveling eggs into his mouth.
By now, he’s mastered the art of half-listening to Gyuvin and Ricky’s endless bickering while doing literally anything else.
“That’s not what you said last night,” Gyuvin says, voice full of mock offense.
“That was last night,” Ricky replies without looking up from his phone. “This is today.”
Hanbin does not ask. He’s learned.
As Hao goes to join the witches at the table, Hanbin focuses on his coffee, letting the noise blend into the background—until Yujin, who had migrated back towards the alpha from his chair, tugs at his sleeve, insistent.
“Appa.”
Hanbin hums, eyes still on the machine. “What’s up?”
Yujin tugs harder. “Appaaaaa.”
Hanbin finally glances down. Yujin is serious. Or at least, as serious as a seven-year-old with egg on his cheek can be. Whatever this is, in his little mind, it’s Very Important™.
“Yes, baby,” Hanbin leans down, wiping Yujin’s face clean with his thumb. “Did you want more?”
“No,” Yujin grins, tilting his head as if that was a silly assumption to make. “I wanted to ask what we’re doing today.”
“I don’t know,” Hanbin says, turning to Gunwook who is now serving his own plate. “Do you work today?”
“Yeah,” Gunwook replies. “Just two hours though. I’m doing inventory. Nothing too crazy.”
“Do you need the car, then?” Hanbin asks.
Before Gunwook can answer, Gyuvin interjects. “We can take you,” he says casually, nudging Ricky. “We’re taking Yujin to the bookstore anyway.”
Yujin gasps, visibly delighted. “We’re still going?!”
“Did you think I was lying?” Ricky flicks his forehead, smirking.
“No,” Yujin says, rubbing his forehead, but he also looks a little unsure.
“Alright, that settles that,” Hanbin says, nodding. “Gunwook’s getting dropped off at work, Yujin’s going to the bookstore—”
“I’m running that dance workshop today,” Matthew adds, stretching his arms. Every now and then, he goes a couple towns over to help in this small dance studio.
“Jiwoong and I are going into town,” Taerae offers, finishing the last of his coffee.
“Right, right,” Hanbin waves a hand. “And that just leaves—”
“I’ll stay,” Hao says simply, from where he sits next to Taerae, not even looking up from his mug.
Yujin turns to Hanbin, shooting him a toothy grin. “Do you want to come, Appa?”
Hanbin barely even thinks before responding—“I’ll stay too.”
Matthew snorts. “You agreed to that way too fast,” he says, smirking as he leans back against the counter.
Hanbin scoffs, grabbing his coffee like that will somehow make him look more casual. “No, I didn’t.”
“You so did,” Ricky chimes in without even looking at him, now occupied with swatting Gyuvin’s hand away.
Hanbin ignores them both, pointedly avoiding the way Hao glances at him, amused. Yujin, oblivious to all of it, claps his hands together. “Okay! So we’re all busy!”
Everyone settles in at the table, except for Matthew and Hanbin, who stay back to finish up the last of the food. Hanbin should focus on plating the last of the eggs, but his attention is elsewhere.
Hao, still seated by the witches, is practically bathed in morning light.
Hanbin can write wax poetry about him. About how his hair catches the glow, strands shifting between gold and brown, his fingers curled loosely around his coffee cup. He’s listening to something Jiwoong is saying, nodding occasionally, completely unaware of the way Hanbin is looking at him.
Hanbin bites the inside of his cheek in an attempt at self-control, gripping the counter a little tighter.
It’s been months, but it still sneaks up on him—the quiet realization that this is real. That Hao is here, with him, with them. That Hanbin doesn’t have to fight to keep him anymore.
For so long, Hanbin had braced himself for the opposite. For distance, for doubt, for the moment Hao would decide this wasn’t something he wanted after all. But that moment never came.
Instead, this did. Lazy mornings filled with the hum of conversation over breakfast, the familiar mess of a full house, the way Yujin fits so easily at Hao’s side. The way Hao fits here, period.
Hanbin doesn’t have to fight for this. Doesn’t have to hold his breath, waiting for the inevitable loss. But sometimes, it still feels like he does. Like the second he lets himself relax, the ground will give out beneath him. He’s never had something this easy, this right, without a price.
And maybe there isn’t one. Maybe that’s what unsettles him the most.
A sharp nudge to his ribs breaks him from his thoughts.
Matthew, smirking. “You’re staring.”
“No, I’m not.” Hanbin rejects immediately, tearing his eyes away as he grabs a serving spoon.
Matthew snickers, but he doesn’t push it. He just leans against the counter, watching as Hanbin goes through the motions of setting the last plate down.
── ⋆⋅☾⋅⋆ ──
Hanbin thinks Hao is beautiful.
Actually, he knows Hao is beautiful.
It doesn’t matter where he is or what he’s doing—Hao could be snoring with his mouth open, drenched in sweat, or running on two hours of sleep with a bad attitude. It wouldn’t change a thing. Hanbin would still look at him the same way, like he’s someone out of reach, someone worth staring at, someone worth everything.
Which is why, when the two of them have settled into this comfortable silence, sitting on the carpet floor—Hao skimming through one of the books he recently picked up, Hanbin pretending to read his—he finds himself watching instead.
The reading room is quiet, save for the occasional rustle of pages turning. Hao reads like the world around him doesn’t exist, like the space between the words is more real than anything else.
His posture is relaxed but composed, one leg tucked beneath him, the other stretched out just enough that his foot nudges Hanbin’s. He doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he does and just doesn’t care. He’s completely absorbed, fingers idly tracing the edge of the page, brows furrowing slightly as he reads.
Hanbin should be reading. Really, he should. But his eyes keep drifting, tracing the curve of Hao’s cheek, the line of his throat, the way his lashes flicker when he lingers too long on a sentence. The way his fingers turn the page, like he’s savoring every word.
There’s nothing performative about it. Hao just exists so effortlessly, and somehow, that’s enough to make Hanbin forget what he was supposed to be focusing on in the first place.
And it’s not fair, the way Hanbin could look at him forever and never get used to this.
Hanbin forces his eyes back to his own book, skimming a paragraph that might as well be in another language. He’s trying to focus, he swears, but it’s hard when Hao is right there, perfectly at ease, perfectly unaware.
“Oh!” Hao perks up suddenly, the tip of his finger pausing at a certain sentence. “Look, Hanbinie!” Hanbin barely has time to react before Hao scoots closer, pressing into his side as he tilts the book toward him.
Abandoning his own book—that he still hasn’t gotten past the first chapter of—Hanbin lets it rest on his lap, smiling without thinking when Hao settles against his shoulder.
“What am I looking at?” Hanbin asks quietly.
Hao taps at the page, his brows drawn together in what looks like genuine offense. It’s a passage about vampires, something ridiculous—some old text claiming that vampires lose their strength when exposed to the scent of a rose.
Hanbin stares at it for a beat, then snorts.
Hao huffs. “This is slander.”
“It’s a centuries-old text,” Hanbin says, amused. “I don’t think they had you in mind when they wrote it.”
“They should have.” Hao crosses his arms, sinking further against Hanbin’s shoulder.
His voice is serious, but the longer he talks, the more his irritation turns into something almost pouty. Hanbin bites back a grin, watching as Hao’s frown deepens, lips pushing out just slightly.
“Do you know how many times I’ve been around roses? I’ve been in entire gardens of them. Not once have I lost my strength.”
At this point, it’s less outrage and more indignant sulking. Hanbin can feel the warmth of him pressed close, the way he huffs after every sentence, his nose scrunching the tiniest bit.
It’s a sight Hao has started to show a lot more lately.
Before, he had always been composed—sharp words, sharp gaze, always holding himself a little too carefully, like he was afraid of giving too much away. But now?
Now, Hanbin gets this. Hao curled into his side, completely at ease, voice dipping into something lighter, more playful. The dramatic frowns, the quiet little hums of displeasure, the way he sinks just a bit deeper into Hanbin when he gets worked up over something ridiculous.
It’s a cute kind of softness Hanbin isn’t sure Hao even realizes he’s letting show.
Hanbin hums, tilting his head. “Maybe you’re just built differently.”
“I am built differently.” Hao shoots back immediately. And technically, he’s right. “But even before, when I was a full vampire—” he pauses, gesturing toward the passage with another dramatic frown — “bullshit.”
“I take it you like roses, then,” Hanbin says, watching as Hao continues to sulk, arms still crossed.
“I don’t dislike them. They’re just not my favorite,” he mutters, like that’s an important distinction.
“Then which ones are?” Hanbin asks.
Hao pauses, genuinely contemplative. His fingers tap absently against the book’s spine, his gaze unfocused as he thinks. It’s rare, seeing him hesitate over something so simple. For all his sharpness, all his quick wit, he always has an answer, always seems to know exactly what to say.
But now, he’s quiet, like he’s never really thought about it before.
After a moment, he finally says, “Daisies.”
Hanbin blinks. Then he smiles.
“Yeah,” he agrees, almost absentmindedly.
His mind drifts back to childhood—standing beside his mother as she arranged flowers, the scent of fresh stems and soil clinging to his hands. He remembers daisies scattered across the worktable. Soft, unassuming, but impossible to ignore.
“That suits you.”
Hao turns his head, peering up at him with an amused sort of curiosity. “How?”
Hanbin shrugs, but there’s something fond, knowing in his voice when he says, “They just do.”
Because daisies are uncomplicated. They grow in unexpected places, stubborn and bright, weaving their way into cracks in the pavement, fields, and roadsides alike. They don’t demand attention, don’t try to be anything other than what they are.
And Hao is like that, too. Beautiful in a way that sneaks up on you, that settles into your life before you realize how much space he’s taken. Strong without trying, standing tall in places where others wouldn’t think to bloom.
Hanbin doesn’t say all of that, though.
He watches as Hao blinks at him, unimpressed. Then, he complains, “That’s not an answer.”
Hanbin just laughs. Because it is.
It’s just flowers, just a simple question, but something about Hanbin’s certainty must keep Hao’s curiosity lingering because Hao watches him for a moment longer, eyes narrowed, like he’s trying to read between the lines of an answer Hanbin refuses to give.
Eventually, though, Hao lets it go.
“Hm.” He shifts slightly, settling more comfortably against Hanbin’s shoulder. “Well, your favorite is probably something boring, like lilies.”
Hanbin gawks, offended. “What’s wrong with lilies?”
“Nothing.” Hao’s lips twitch like he’s holding back a smirk. “But they seem like the kind of flower you’d like. Too serious. Too composed. All… proper and delicate.”
Hanbin rolls his eyes, nudging Hao’s knee with his own. “You just made that up.”
Hao hums, flipping another page. “Maybe.”
“It’s calendulas,” Hanbin says suddenly.
Hao pauses, fingers still resting against the edge of the paper. “Which ones are those?” he asks softly. “I don’t know the Korean name.”
Hanbin resists a grin. “I’ll show you later,” Hanbin promises, pressing a kiss to Hao’s forehead.
Hao tilts his head, considering this, before nodding like it’s an acceptable answer. “Okay.” He sags further against Hanbin.
He easily returns to the steady rhythm of turning pages, eyes scanning words that Hanbin is convinced he actually absorbs. Unlike himself.
Hanbin stares down at his book—still stuck on the same damn paragraph. Maybe he should give up and get a different one. Or maybe—
“Hanbin, can I ask you something?”
Hanbin straightens, a barely-there shift in posture, but enough to signal that he’s listening. Really listening. Hao doesn’t ask things lightly, not when his voice sounds like this.
“Of course, gege,” Hanbin says softly, his voice gentler now, like he’s trying to smooth out the tension that’s settled on Hao’s face—tension that seemed to appear from nowhere. Or maybe it had been there all along, just quiet, just waiting.
Hanbin puts both of their books aside on the carpet, not caring where they land. Then, without thinking, he wraps his arms around Hao and pulls him closer.
“What is it?”
“We had talked about this before,” he murmurs, almost like he’s trying to remind himself.
Hao bites his lip, just briefly, just enough for Hanbin to notice. Hanbin doesn’t even think before reaching out, brushing his thumb over Hao’s lower lip, rubbing gently until he lets go.
Realizing that Hao was waiting for him to reply, Hanbin hums in acknowledgment. They’ve talked about many things these past months. And they’ve failed to talk about just as many.
His mind flickers back to two weeks ago, when Hao had woken up in the middle of the night from a nightmare.
It had been one of the hardest nights as of late. Seeing Hao like that, so lost, so raw in a way he rarely let himself be, had left something heavy in Hanbin’s chest.
That was when he learned just how much Hao had been holding in. How troubled he’s felt these past months. And now—now Hanbin wonders if this is about that. If Hao has finally found the words for whatever had been sitting in his mind that night.
But nothing could surprise him more than the words that do leave Hao’s mouth.
“How much money do I have?”
Hanbin blinks.
“What?” he blurts, his brain scrambling to catch up. Then, realizing how that might have sounded, he shuts his mouth, clears his throat. “I mean, uh. What do you mean, gege?”
Hao scrunches his eyes shut, like he was expecting a big reaction, like he’s bracing himself. “I don’t mean it like that. It’s just…” he sighs, turning his head up to look at Hanbin properly. “I know you bought Quanrui and me phones last week.”
Hanbin relaxes immediately. Oh.
“Did you want a different one?” he rushes to offer. He hadn’t thought much about it at the time—just grabbed something functional, something easy for them to use. The vampires had said they didn’t care which ones they got. They only needed them to stay in touch with Kuanjui, after all.
But now, Hanbin wonders if maybe he should’ve asked more.
“No, no,” Hao shakes his head, almost amused by the alpha’s eagerness. “Not that. Thank you, by the way.”
“Of course, love,” Hanbin kisses him before pulling away. “If not that, then…did you want the money back?”
Hao looks genuinely taken aback. “What?”
Maybe that’s it.
Maybe Hao has been restless without the money in his hands, without the security of having it physically with him.
When Hanbin had retrieved it from the ATM all those months ago, Hao had insisted that he keep it—a “safety deposit,” he’d called it. A precaution, something to fall back on if they ever needed it. And since then, if the vampires ever needed anything, they’d ask Hanbin to buy it using that money.
But now, Hanbin wonders if that arrangement had ever truly felt right to Hao.
He curses himself internally.
It’s not his money. It was never his to hold onto. And Hao and Quanrui aren’t his prisoners. They don’t have to ask him for the things they need.
How had he not thought of this before?
“I’m sorry, gege,” he says. “I can give it to you. I am not trying to keep it from you.”
“Aish, Hanbinie.” Hao reaches up and flicks Hanbin’s forehead lightly—not hard, just enough to make his point. “It’s not that either. I don’t care if you have it or not. We all live here. It’s everyone’s, okay?”
Hanbin wouldn’t ever take that money from them, wouldn’t have even considered it his to begin with. But he also knows how insistent Hao can be—how firm he is in the things he’s already decided.
So, Hanbin nods faintly. Accepting, even if he’s still thinking it over.
“Okay.”
“Now, if you would let me finish,” Hao intones. “I was going to say that I know you bought us phones last week. And I just wanted to know…I’m just wondering uhm, how much we have left?”
Hanbin tilts his head, relaxing slightly. This was it? Just that?
“We have plenty,” he assures him easily. “Did you want me to buy you something else? I can go to town tomorrow.”
Hao takes a slow breath, considering, before finally speaking.
“Is there a place around here where I can buy… a violin?”
Hanbin stares at him for a second, thrown. He wasn’t expecting that.
He straightens a little, studying Hao’s face, but Hao doesn’t look at him. His gaze remains fixed downward.
“Or…” There’s the slightest hesitation, a faltering in his voice before he continues. “Maybe you could ask Jihye. If they ever recovered one from the aftermath.”
Hao isn’t talking about just any violin. He’s talking about his. The one that had been left behind, lost in the wreckage of everything they barely escaped.
And Hanbin knows, instinctively, that this isn’t just about music.
“I don’t know, Hanbinie. I’ve just… I feel like I’ve been floating around aimlessly. Like… I don’t know who I am anymore. Whether the person I was was ever the real me. Because the me of now…”
That night.
Hao had whispered those words into the dark, voice hoarse, barely there. A confession dragged out between deep, uneven breaths, between the moments where he tried and failed to control himself after waking up from another nightmare.
And now he understands.
Hao is looking for something of himself. For his past. For what he lost. For the first love that once defined him.
For a second—just a second—Hanbin wonders if he can ever admit to Hao that he sees the same thing he does. That even now, even here, even after everything—Hao is still floating. Still waiting. Still not quite home. And Hanbin, helplessly, wants to be the one to change that.
A violin isn’t just an instrument to him. It’s a reminder of who he was before everything burned.
But Hanbin doesn’t answer right away.
He should tell Hao he’ll ask Jihye. Should promise to look into it. Should say something that gives him what he’s asking for.
But instead, he watches the way Hao’s fingers press idly against the fabric of his pants, curling and uncurling like he’s trying to soothe himself. The way his shoulders remain just a little too still, like he’s waiting for something, bracing for an answer he’s not sure he wants.
There’s a strange kind of helplessness in it, a quiet, aching distance that Hanbin never quite knows how to close. “There’s a music store in town,” he says, voice even, like the thought has only just occurred to him. “I know the guy who runs it. Jaehyun. You remember him right?”
Hao’s eyes lift at that, searching his face. Hanbin holds his gaze.
“We could go,” Hanbin continues. “Not just to look—I mean, if you wanted to.” If Hao wanted to start again. If he wanted something that belonged to him.
Hanbin would do anything for him. That much has never changed.
There’s a beat of silence where Hao simply sits there, wrapped in Hanbin’s embrace with his mind drifting far away and his body tense. Hanbin waits, then, slowly, he leans in, nuzzling against Hao’s jaw, taking in his scent.
One of the downsides of Hao not being a werewolf is that Hanbin can never quite tell what’s going on in that head of his. There’s no bond to clue him in, no natural way to read his emotions like he would with another packmate.
One day when they mate, maybe it’d be a bit different. Mating would change things, at least in some ways. It wouldn’t be the same as it is with werewolves. But it would be something.
And the other downside—the one that frustrates him more than he’d ever admit—is that no matter how much he scents Hao, how deeply he breathes him in, it will never work the way it should. It will never calm Hao the way it calms him.
But that doesn’t stop Hanbin from trying. It’s instinct, after all.
Hao lets him, unmoving as Hanbin presses closer, burying his face against his neck, breathing him in like it might be enough.
Hanbin nuzzles in deeper, his nose brushing against the curve of Hao’s throat, where his scent is strongest. He breathes in slow, steady, letting the familiarity of it settle in his chest.
Hao’s scent is unique: a little sharp, a little sweet, something that lingers even when they are apart—but well, they rarely spend time apart.
Hanbin chases it anyway, pressing closer, his lips barely grazing skin as he takes him in. He’s not expecting it to do anything, not really. Not the way it should. Not the way it would with a werewolf.
But still—Hao softens. Just the slightest bit, but Hanbin feels it. The tension in his shoulders eases, his head tilts ever so slightly to the side, like he’s giving in. Hanbin drags his nose along Hao’s jaw, until he finds the spot just beneath his ear and lingers there, pressing a soft kiss there.
“Baobei,” Hanbin breathes, a gentle attempt at reminding Hao that he’s still here, he always will be.
“Hanbinie,” Hao replies, like he’s made up his mind. “I…I would love to go see it.”
“Okay,” Hanbin whispers.
“But…” Hao pauses, biting his lip again. “Maybe not tomorrow?” He offers, like he’s scared of the reaction.
“Of course,” Hanbin replies. “Whenever you’re ready.”
“Whenever I’m ready,” he echoes, absently, like he’s still rolling the thought around in his head.
Hanbin leans in again, pressing his forehead gently against Hao’s temple, a silent promise.
And for now, that’s enough.
── ⋆⋅☾⋅⋆ ──
“Seok Matthew. It’s not funny.”
“I disagree. I think it’s hilarious,” the beta laughs, leaning lazily against the car door, his grin wide and unapologetic.
Hanbin frowns, crossing his arms. “I’m telling you that I’m freaking out, and that’s all you have to say in return?” The bright sun beats down on them, the heat lingering on his skin, but not even that is enough to make him retreat inside.
“To be fair, hyung,” Gunwook interjects, his voice muffled slightly as he focuses on the task at hand. “I find it hilarious too.”
He’s crouched down, changing the tire on one of the pack’s cars—something that, realistically, Matthew could have done himself, but instead had roped Gunwook into helping.
Apparently, the tire popped on Matthew’s way back home, and instead of handling it like a responsible adult, he had called for assistance.
And since Gunwook can never say no to Matthew, here he is. Sweating under the sun, fixing a tire, and now witnessing Hanbin have an existential crisis while Matthew laughs at him.
“It’s just cute that you finally came to this conclusion,” Matthew amends, no less entertained. “I’m pretty sure we all could smell how in love and, dare I say, interested you are in him. Courting and mating? I thought you were already doing that.”
“I haven’t,” Hanbin grumbles. “We just…we never got around to talking about it. We never really talked about labels or-or anything surrounding that. We just settled into what we are now.”
Matthew snorts, shaking his head. “That’s the most Hanbin way of handling things.”
Gunwook hums in agreement, a smirk tugging at his lips. “No wonder the pack assumed you two were already there. You act like it.”
Hanbin sighs, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly flustered. “It’s not like we needed to say it. It just… happened.”
Matthew leans forward. “Sure, but does he know that? Because if you’re waiting for him to bring it up, I think you’ll be waiting a long time.”
“I know.” He does. Hao rarely asks for things outright, always hesitant, always holding back. And Hanbin—he never wanted to push.
Matthew rolls his eyes. “So, what? You’re just gonna hope he magically figures it out?”
Hanbin groans. “I will talk to him. It’s just—timing, okay?”
Gunwook snickers. “Right, because you’re so good at that.”
The disrespect.
Matthew hands Gunwook a water bottle almost absentmindedly before scrutinizing Hanbin.
“Actually, I feel like you’ve been obvious enough, though.” He uses his fingers to gesture: “Being obnoxiously attached to the hip, check. Constantly—and I mean constantly— scenting him, check. Doing your weird little acts of service—”
“Weird?”
“—check. Following him everywhere, check. Cooking for him, check. Showering together, check. Being so lovey dovey that it hurts my eyes, check. I’d go on but I’d run out of fingers.”
“Just say you’re jealous,” Hanbi says lamely in reply.
“I am not,” Matthew huffs. “I'll have you know that your eomma called me yesterday to propose a mating for me. I’ve got options.”
Hanbin rolls his eyes. “Not another one.”
“A mating?” Gunwook asks with furrowed brows.
“Apparently she’s from the Han pack,” Matthew explains leisurely. “Daughter of a luna, around my age. She’s living in Seoul right now…and I don’t intend on leaving this pack anytime soon, or ever, so unless she plans on living here, I think it’ll be a bit complicated to do long distance.”
The Han pack. Of course.
And Hanbin’s suspicions are confirmed when Matthew winces, “I think your eomma is still hung up on forming an alliance because she keeps asking me to ask you about it, too.”
“I’m not mating into that pack,” Hanbin asserts.
“You’re not mating into any pack,” Matthew corrects. “You have a certain vampire to mate, not another werewolf.”
Sometimes Hanbin thinks Matthew is more enthusiastic about Hao and Hanbin than Hao and Hanbin themselves.
“I haven’t even told her yet,” Hanbin admits quietly.
Everyone knows by now what their pack had gone through with the Jeons. It had spread like wildfire throughout the other packs. His parents had called, his eomma less furious than his appa, but still enraged nonetheless.
Obviously, there have been rumors about Hanbin harboring two vampires, but none of it has been confirmed. And Hanbin had evaded the question each time.
Even after years, Hanbin still is what he once was: a coward.
“You’re going to have to eventually,” Gunwook sighs, standing up. He barely flinches when Matthew rubs the dirt from his cheek. “I’m sure she’s going to want to visit soon, especially since she missed Gyuvin’s birthday.”
Birthdays with the Sungs have always been a big deal. There would be a huge feast, a ceremony, and many, many gifts.
But for the past birthdays since the vampires have arrived, Hanbin had somehow managed to keep the celebrations between their pack. And it worked in their favor, his parents were busy, his sister was sick or on a trip with her friends. So Hanbin would make the excuse that maybe it’d be best for them to stay home.
“Jiwoong hyung’s will be a bit easier to avoid,” Matthew thinks aloud. “We can just say we are visiting Jihye. Your parents wouldn’t object to that.”
“It’s three months out though,” Gunwook frowns. “Are you going to keep it from them for that long?”
Hanbin isn’t sure. He isn’t sure about anything.
But deciding that he will officially start courting Hao comes with that question, too. When will he tell his parents?
He knows the reaction. He knows exactly what his parents would say. And somehow, knowing that makes it a bit less daunting. He won’t be surprised, or shocked when his parents disapprove strongly. But it doesn’t mean that it’s easy.
“Courting usually takes around a month, Hanbin,” Matthew says, like Hanbin wouldn’t know that.
Hanbin’s courted before. But it feels different this time around.
“It’s been nearly a year since they’ve arrived,” Matthew notes. “In the eyes of werewolves, you should be on your third kid.”
The reminder of just what traditional mating entails has Hanbin barely resisting a shiver.
“Hate to break it to you, hyung, but I don’t think that’s possible.”
Matthew smiles playfully at Gunwook. “Doesn’t mean he can’t try.”
“Okay, that’s enough,” Hanbin smacks the back of Matthew’s head lightly.
The hit doesn’t do any damage but Matthew still fakes a cry. “How rude. I’m over here supporting you and your fantasies that I can see from a mile away and this is how you treat me?”
“Wait, a baby vampire-werewolf would be so cute,” Gunwook joins in with a smirk.
“Yujin would be so jealous. He’s been asking me how he can make his teeth as sharp as Hao’s for days now,” Matthew shakes his head with pursed lips. “Pup was crying when I said nothing could help.”
Choosing to leave that topic for another time, “Whatever. Just…I guess I have to start slow?” Hanbin proposes.
Matthew looks at him incredulously. “If what you’re doing right now is not already slow, then what the hell are you doing?”
“He’s a vampire,” Hanbin states the obvious. “And he isn’t Korean. There must be some courting traditions he is used to. Maybe…maybe I can do some of that, too?”
“That’s actually a good idea,” Gunwook says. He takes another sip from his water before adding, “Maybe you should ask Ricky.”
Oh. Well. He could. But the thing is that Hanbin has never really discussed what he and Hao are with Ricky. Which Hanbin admits he should’ve done long ago. After all, Ricky is Hao’s brother. His approval matters more than anyone else’s.
“Yeah, I’m sure he’d be down to help,” Matthew says. “It’s not like he can judge, especially with how attached Gyuvin is to him. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say they’re on their way to courting, too. Ricky called him his boyfriend, which in werewolves’ eyes, they’re halfway there.”
In the eyes of werewolves, anything is a sign for mating.
“I’ll ask him,” Hanbin says. “Eventually.”
“Well, better do it soon,” Gunwook says. “If Gyuvin manages to do it before you, you won’t hear the end of it.”