Chapter Text
Gyuvin isn’t surprised. These days, nothing in the classroom shocks him anymore.
“It’s mine! You are stealing!”
If Gyuvin were keeping score, today would be the fastest yet: not half an hour since recess ended, and someone’s already crying…again. He considers jotting it down on the corner of the whiteboard—“New Record: part two, 12:20 p.m.”
Behind him, the counter snaps back just as loud: “No! You are. You bully! You hog it. Mrs. Park says you have to share.”
Gyuvin’s marker falters mid-stroke on the whiteboard.
Yujin.
“Boys!” Park Jihyo’s voice snaps from her desk. She rises, planting her hands on her hips before striding over to where Yujin and his seatmate, Byung Junseok, sit hunched over, eyes wet, lips pressed into frowns.
Gyuvin is already capping the marker closed before Jihyo can start her lecture.
When he turns, he finds Yujin with his hands clutching a toy car tight enough that Gyuvin wouldn’t be surprised if his fingers started cramping. Beside him, Junseok looks about two seconds away from jumping over and tackling him for it.
Jihyo kneels down to meet their eyes. “Boys, what did I say?” she prompts—tone flat enough to warn she won’t entertain a tantrum.
Gyuvin can’t help but admire that composure. Since he started shadowing her a few months back, she’s shown him how to handle the chaos the kids always seem to spring on them—even before the clock hits eight. Somehow, no matter how bad the morning gets, Jihyo never loses her grip. She makes it look easy.
Today, though… It hasn't been easy at all. At least not for Gyuvin. His head still throbs from the racket at recess, a dull ache pressing at his temples; the smear of ink across his palm from where he dropped the marker earlier lingers like proof of how scattered his focus has been.
He exhales slowly. Maybe it’ll blow over on its own. Maybe it won’t.
His gaze settles on Yujin, and the instant he catches the first tear cutting down his cheek, Gyuvin feels his stomach tighten. Serious enough, then.
“Mrs. Park. It-It’s not f-fair!” Yujin protests. He turns away when Junseok tries to steal the car away again.
The other boy huffs and says, “He takes it all the time. He’s the one hogging it, not me.”
“There’s more than one car,” Jihyo reminds them—gesturing to the box of toys in the corner.
Since it is the eve of winter break, Gyuvin had laid the toys out a little early, letting them scatter into play while he queued up the afternoon movie—something they did right before vacation began.
“Why don’t you take the other one, Junseok? Or maybe you can take turns, hm?”
Junseok doesn’t budge. His eyes stay locked on the bright red car clutched in Yujin’s hands. Gyuvin feels the tension coil before it snaps — the stubborn set of Junseok’s jaw, Yujin’s shaky grip, the way their small shoulders square as if neither wants to give in.
And then, too fast to stop, Junseok lunges forward, fingers clawing around the car. Yujin yelps, resisting, but the plastic slips and scrapes across his knuckles. The sharp edge catches his skin. He stumbles back, tears spilling faster now, the car wrenched free from his grip.
The room stills for a beat, every pair of eyes snapping to the two boys in the corner. Gyuvin feels his chest tighten — the dull ache in his head sharpening into alarm.
He’s moving before he thinks, crossing the room in quick strides toward Yujin. The boy is already crying, shoulders trembling, his wide eyes fixed on Junseok, who’s now receiving Jihyo’s firm reprimand.
Gyuvin helps Yujin straighten up, and as soon as Yujin notices him, he stumbles forward and buries himself in Gyuvin’s hold, arms winding tight around his neck.
“Aish, Yujinie,” Gyuvin pats his back. He stands at once, adjusting Yujin in his arms. Jihyo meets his eyes, gesturing lightly toward the hall with her head, before turning back around to deal with Junseok.
Gyuvin carries Yujin out, weaving past the other children who’ve gone quiet after the scuffle. The hallway feels cooler, the hum of distant voices a relief against the classroom’s heavy silence. He sets Yujin down gently by the wall and crouches to meet his eyes.
“Are you okay?” he asks, taking the boy’s hand to examine it. The palm is flushed but unbroken—no cut, no blood. Relief loosens his shoulders as he cups Yujin’s trembling fingers in both of his own.
“Hyungie,” Yujin whispers, his lip quivering. “It’s not my fault. Don’t tell Appa, please. I swear it wasn’t my fault.”
“Hey, no, no,” Gyuvin murmurs quickly, smoothing a hand over Yujin’s hair. “Don’t worry, baby. It’s fine. Nothing to tell. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I’m sorry, hyungie,” Yujin sniffs, the words wobbling, and Gyuvin’s expression softens despite the ache in his chest.
From the moment Yujin first found words, he never once called Gyuvin what he technically was—Uncle. To him, Gyuvin was always hyung, or hyungie, the title spilling out with the unthinking trust he saved for only a few.
It made Gyuvin proud, but mainly tender to the point of ache, because it meant Yujin had never seen him as out of reach.
“It’s okay,” Gyuvin soothes, dipping forward to scent Yujin, brushing his cheek against the boy’s neck before pressing a kiss to his brow. He folds him close again. “You were the one who got hurt. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
A muffled noise slips from Yujin, and Gyuvin isn’t sure if it’s agreement or something else altogether.
“Hyungie…” Yujin’s voice comes out shaky. “Appa’s gonna be mad at me.”
Gyuvin frowns. “Why would he be mad?”
Yujin sniffs hard. “Because I cried.” His fingers clutch tighter at Gyuvin’s shirt as he pulls back.
“I promise you, Yujin. That is probably the last thing Hanbin hyung would ever get you in trouble for,” Gyuvin exhales a chuckle. “Crying is a way to relieve yourself, you know? It’s biologically supposed to make you feel better. I read about it once.” He gives Yujin’s damp cheek a playful pat. “You know how Gunwookie always cries? Even at the smallest things? Well, that’s just how his body likes to chill out.”
Yujin blinks at him through the blur of tears, a hiccup catching in his throat. “Really?”
“Really,” Gyuvin nods, smiling softly. “It’s your body’s way of taking care of you. Like sweating when you’re hot, or yawning when you’re tired. Crying lets everything out so it doesn’t stay stuck inside.” He tips his head, trying to catch Yujin’s gaze. “That’s smart, right? Not weak. Smart.”
“Then… why does it feel bad?”
“Because feelings aren’t light, baby. They’re heavy. But crying is how your body sets them down for a little while. You just have to let it happen.” He rubs slow circles into Yujin’s back. “That’s why your appa and I would never be upset with you for crying.”
The boy’s shoulders tremble once more, but the sound he makes this time is softer, closer to a sigh than a sob.
“So let it out, okay?” Gyuvin encourages, brushing a thumb under Yujin’s damp cheek before settling his hands on the boy’s small arms. “I know that was your favorite toy. And even though you two should be sharing it, what Junseok did wasn’t right. He shouldn’t have gotten violent with you.”
He tips Yujin’s chin up with gentle fingers, coaxing his eyes to meet his own.
“Your appa will understand, and he’ll probably have a very serious talk with his parents.”
Yujin shifts on his feet, still holding fast to the hem of Gyuvin’s sleeve. “Serious?”
“Mm,” Gyuvin leans in conspiratorially, resting his elbows on his knees so their faces are level. “Appa Hanbin serious. You know what that means.” His brows arch dramatically as he whispers, “The eyebrow.”
Yujin sputters out a wet laugh, half-choked by another sniffle. Gyuvin ruffles his hair, letting it stick up every which way.
“See? That’s it. One look, and even the strongest alphas surrender. Junseok’s parents won’t stand a chance.”
Yujin’s giggle falters into a shaky breath, the sound thinning as quickly as it came. He scrubs at his face with his sleeve, leaving damp streaks across the fabric. Gyuvin gently catches his wrist before he can make a mess of it, tugging a tissue from his pocket instead—comes in handy in moments like these. He presses it into Yujin’s palm.
“Here. Better than your shirt, right?”
Yujin nods, dabbing clumsily at his cheeks. Gyuvin keeps one hand resting steady on Yujin’s shoulder.
“Feeling better?” Gyuvin asks softly. Nothing cuts him deeper than seeing tears spill from Yujin’s eyes. The pup had always held a sacred corner of his heart, and since starting his internship, being able to watch over him had felt like one of its greatest privileges—something Hanbin never failed to appreciate.
Even if the alpha’s own classroom was only across the hall.
There’s no doubt Hanbin sensed the ripple of distress; if Gyuvin feels it this strongly, Yujin’s appa must feel it tenfold. Still, he hopes Hanbin also catches the calm settling now.
“Ready to go back in?” Gyuvin asks, scenting him again, relief loosening his chest when Yujin nods. “But you two aren’t sitting together today, okay? It’s the last day before winter break—you have to enjoy it!”
“Where am I gonna sit then?” Yujin pouts, lower lip jutting out as he scuffs his shoe against the floor.
Gyuvin tilts his head, pretending to mull it over. “Well, some of the other kids are sitting alone. What about Leeseo? You haven’t been her desk partner in a while.”
Yujin wrinkles his nose. “She talks too much.”
“Better than Junseok hitting too much,” Gyuvin points out, raising his brows. “Besides, she always shares her snacks with her partner, doesn’t she? I saw the tangerines yesterday.”
That makes Yujin pause, his pout wobbling as if he’s trying not to give in too easily. “…Only if she really shares,” he mutters at last.
“Oh, she will.” Gyuvin gives him a conspiratorial grin, brushing a stray lock of hair from Yujin’s forehead.
The pair make their way back inside the classroom, and Gyuvin is pleased to see the tension has already thinned. Jihyo has the kids back in their seats, the box of toys tucked safely out of reach, and the low buzz of chatter has softened into something closer to routine. Junseok sits sulking at his desk, shoulders hunched, but at least he’s quiet.
Yujin hesitates in the doorway until Gyuvin gives him a gentle nudge forward, guiding him toward Leeseo’s desk. She greets him with a small smile, pushing her pencil case aside to make room. To Gyuvin’s relief, Yujin slides into the chair without protest this time, still a little red-eyed but calmer.
One crisis down. For now.
When Gyuvin finally settles down at his own desk in the corner of the room, Yujin is bent over his notebook beside Leeseo, already distracted by her chatter.
The rest of the day goes uneventful.
The kids stay calm, breaking into giggles only during the loudest scenes of the movie they picked. Gyuvin hands out the snacks a parent dropped off that morning and crouches beside Minji to help wipe her desk when juice runs across it.
It’s safe to say the day didn’t end in a total disaster.
He is relieved once the last bell rings—Yujin clinging close as they cross the threshold of the school doors and spot Hanbin at the entrance. The alpha is smiling with a parent, his face coloring when their child shyly presses a gift into his hands. Hanbin bows his head in thanks, sending them off with a wave.
The instant Yujin catches sight of him, he wriggles free from Gyuvin and darts forward, colliding with Hanbin’s legs in an embrace—an unruly habit he shows no sign of unlearning.
“Yujin,” Hanbin sighs, glancing down with a stern look. The pup only beams back, flashing his wide-toothed grin.
“Hyung,” Gyuvin mumbles as he steps up, giving no warning before throwing his arms around him.
With his son clinging to his legs and his brother wrapped around him, Hanbin exhales, “I take it today was rough.”
“Not the worst,” Gyuvin corrects, releasing him. Hanbin arches a brow, disbelief written across his face, then looks down at his pup.
“And what about you?” he asks, lifting Yujin into his arms. “You were upset,” he reminds, tapping his son’s chest with two fingers.
Yujin shakes his head quickly, hiding in the crook of Hanbin’s neck. Hanbin, unconvinced, tilts his head toward Gyuvin for an explanation.
“Just a small argument,” Gyuvin waves it off. “I’m sure Jihyo will talk to you about it later.”
Hanbin nods, appeased. “I’ll call her later tonight. I’m afraid we can’t stay longer. Gunwook clocked out early and he is particularly hungry.”
Gyuvin internally winces with him.
“Right. Then let’s go,” Gyuvin emphasizes, earning him a chuckle. “Before Gunwook starts gnawing at whatever he finds.”
₊˚⊹ 𖥔 ˖ ࣪
Going home from school is always the same.
It’s routine. It’s safe. It’s easy.
They tumble into Hanbin’s car and click their seatbelts, swing by Gunwook’s work, sometimes for Taerae or Jiwoong if errands keep them in town, and then head straight back to the house.
The immediate relief Gyuvin feels as soon as they cross their border is one he feels in his bones.
The sun is still high, soft light spilling over the wide stretch of yard, catching on the pale siding and the windows that always seem to gleam brighter than others. Gyuvin remembers visiting this house when he was younger, trailing after Hanbin through the front door and staring around as if the walls themselves breathed.
Even then, it had struck him: this was what a home was supposed to feel like. The one place where he never had to watch where he stepped nor what he said.
Hanbin parks the car, and the usual rhythm resumes, seatbelts unclicking, doors swinging open, the shuffle of footsteps across the drive. Yujin darts ahead toward the porch steps just as Gunwook wraps an arm around Gyuvin’s shoulders.
“I’m really hoping dinner is ready,” the boy says. He has a faint smudge of dirt on his cheek that Gyuvin wipes off—he looks more worn out than usual.
Business at the mechanic shop has been steady, but Gunwook has the tendency of overworking himself.
Gyuvin scoffs as they walk through the door. “Did you not have lunch?”
Shoes are toed off in a line by the wall, bags dropped carelessly on the bench. The air smells faintly of detergent and the last traces of dinner prep—something Gunwook clearly is happy about.
“It was so good I got hungry again,” Gunwook retorts. “Hyung!” he calls loudly through the house.
“Oh, you’re here!” a voice calls back from the kitchen.
Behind them, Hanbin is helping Yujin out of his coat, the young boy setting his backpack right where he always leaves it.
He has his own routine too: take off shoes, drop off his bag, go eat to his heart's content, and then return to grab his homework and camp in the dining room until it’s done.
Gyuvin is always the one helping him if he needs it. After all, he’s the one teaching some of the lessons in class nowadays. And Hanbin is always there to watch or simply smile whenever he sees his brother interacting with his son.
And Gyuvin internally beams from it.
Following in Hanbin’s footsteps, right into teaching, wasn’t something Gyuvin stumbled into; it was a choice planted years ago. As a kid, he’d watched Hanbin stand tall against every whisper and sideways glance, choosing the classroom anyway, choosing kindness anyway.
For Gyuvin, it had been proof that strength didn’t have to roar to be real. And if Hanbin could carry that truth with him every day, then maybe Gyuvin could too.
Right as everyone starts to migrate toward the kitchen, Gyuvin spots Jiwoong coming out from the storage room, a box in his arms. “Hyung,” Gyuvin greets as he approaches. With a quickness, he takes the box into his own arms, relieving Jiwoong from the weight.
“Aish, Gyuvin,” Jiwoong says, ready to take it back.
“How was your day?” Gyuvin asks simply, ignoring the protest as he turns toward the stairs.
Jiwoong knows better than to argue; with a resigned sigh, he falls into step behind Gyuvin on the stairs. “Nothing interesting,” he says finally. “A few new commissions came in, so Taerae and I need to take stock before we head into town tomorrow.”
“Oh, can I come with you?” Gyuvin asks, grinning over his shoulder. They reach the workspace, and Jiwoong pulls the door open, gesturing for him to go first.
Gyuvin sets the box down on the table just as Jiwoong closes the door behind them. “Sure,” he replies easily. “But we’ll be meeting with some of the elder witches—if that’s alright with you.”
Gyuvin nods without a flicker of hesitation. As a half-witch, he’s long since grown used to the covens scattered across these parts. His father is a Kim witch, after all, and the family ties run wide, messy, and endless, weaving him into lineages he’ll never fully keep straight.
Which, interestingly, makes him and Kim Jiwoong distantly related—though they look nothing alike, no matter how much Gyuvin tries to convince everyone.
He’ll point at their matching dark eyes, or the faint tilt of their smiles, insisting, “See? Family resemblance!” while Jiwoong rolls his eyes and Taerae stares unimpressed.
He has more luck convincing people with Hanbin, considering they’re actually half-brothers—though plenty still say they don’t resemble each other either.
In Gyuvin’s opinion, he would’ve thought his wolf side would’ve made more of an appearance in his features. Broader shoulders, sharper lines, something that gave him away at first glance. Instead, it’s Hanbin who carries the Sung look, strong and reliable, while Gyuvin is left tracing his reflection for signs of the Sung wolf in him, hoping for proof he’s cut from the same line, even if it hides too deep to see.
Sometimes it bothers him; sometimes he lets it go. Most days, he just laughs it off, the way he always does, but the wondering never quite leaves.
“We can finally get some updates on what gossip is going around in the witch world,” Gyuvin wiggles his eyebrows, leaning his waist against the side of the table.
“Does your Appa not let you in on it?” Jiwoong chuckles as he begins unpacking jars of herbs from the box.
“He never asks for enough information,” Gyuvin shakes his head, feigning exasperation.
In truth, Kim Minho has never been the type to linger on rumors or scandals; he passes along only the barest facts, boiled down until they lose all flavor. His wife, Chaeyoung, is another story—she always manages to fill in the spaces he leaves out, weaving context and color into the news until Gyuvin can actually make sense of it.
“You’re lucky,” Jiwoong exhales with a shake of his head. “Do you know how often I sit through my eomma talking on and on about the council?”
“Yeah, that’s why I can be on the phone with Jihye for like three hours straight,” Gyuvin intones, a little too proud of himself.
“That reminds me,” Jiwoong says as he crosses the room to slot jars of herbs into the cabinet. “She said she has info about that spell you asked from her.”
“Really?” Gyuvin blurts, too quickly, his voice cracking on the word. He clears his throat and tries again, smoothing his tone as if that could undo the slip. “Oh—really? That’s… that’s good.”
Jiwoong glances back at him, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Not sure what you asked for, but she seemed pretty giddy about it.”
Gyuvin waves a hand too casually, the tips of his ears already warm. “You know how she is. Gets excited over everything.”
Oh does Jiwoong know that too well.
The older witch says nothing, only smirking before turning back around to fidget with some of the jars.
Kim Gyuvin! Matthew’s voice bursts through the pack bond, sharp enough to make Gyuvin flinch.
Damn. What was he pouty about now?
Yes, hyung? Gyuvin replies quickly, straightening as if he’s been caught slacking.
Your food is going to get cold and I cannot guarantee that our Gunwook doesn’t eat it all, Matthew muses, smug.
The thought alone has Gyuvin blanching.
He can laugh and tease Gunwook for having the appetite of a starved wolf, but when it comes to his own plate—
On my way! he fires back, already shoving off the table like his life depends on it.
₊˚⊹ 𖥔 ˖ ࣪
The day has really been looking up.
After the disastrous morning where he was rocking a mad headache, the incident in class, and the heavy sense of dread he kept pushing to the back of his mind—Gyuvin figures things are turning around.
Once the plates were cleared, he’d spent most of his time helping Matthew and Gunwook clean the kitchen, before moving on to Yujin’s homework, and then holding the ladder steady while Hanbin replaced one of the light bulbs from the porch. One task bled into the next, the house buzzing with small demands, and Gyuvin weaving through each of them without complaint.
By the time the house finally quiets, he ends up on one of the porch chairs. From the porch, the sounds drifting out—Yujin chattering, Gunwook laughing too loud at something Matthew said—make him smile without even trying.
That is what he loves the most. Being around his family, his pack, people he loves with his entire heart.
He leans back in the chair, eyes on where the woods catch the last bits of daylight. Their territory stretches out past the tree line, the kind of view he never gets tired of.
Protected by the kind of love he never doubts.
He wants more of it, though he’d never admit that out loud. Not to Hanbin, not to Jiwoong, definitely not to Gunwook, who would tease him into the ground. Which is exactly why he hasn’t told a soul about the spell Jihye promised him.
A charm for love, or maybe just a little nudge toward it. For someone he shouldn’t be thinking about as much as he does—another intern at the school, a crush he pretends doesn’t matter whenever anyone might notice.
Out here, though, it matters. The idea of it hums quietly in the back of his mind, tucked safe where no one can pry. He sighs, stretching his legs out, pretending he isn’t smiling at the thought.
It’s only been a few months, but to him, it’s felt like an eternity.
They don’t even see each other that often—just in the break room when schedules line up, or in the hallway between classes, or out on the playground during recess when their kids collide. A few words here, a laugh there. Nothing that should matter as much as it does. But somehow, those passing moments have taken up more space in his chest than he’d like to admit.
That’s why he asked Jihye for the spell. Not anything wild or binding—he isn’t that foolish—but a charm for courage, just enough to steady his voice the next time he wanted to ask if she’d like to stay after with him, or to keep talking past the usual hello. A charm to keep his love contained, not suppressed, just… controlled enough that it can manifest in ways that will have things go as he wants them to.
He hasn’t told a soul, because he knows what they’d say. That he’s reckless. That he loves too easily. That it’ll only end the way it always does. And maybe they’d be right.
But he’s a hopeless romantic full of hope, the type that refuses to die no matter how often it’s bruised.
His heart doesn’t wait politely to be asked—it leaps, it clings, it gets itself kidnapped in the smallest of ways. He pretends he’s in control of it, but really, it runs ahead of him, too eager, too trusting. Always giving itself away before he can decide if it’s safe.
And it feels good to sit with that sweetness, to let himself imagine what it could mean—until the memories creep in, uninvited. The other times. The other faces. The familiar ending where he’s left holding too much, again.
His chest tightens, and for a second he almost laughs at himself—how could he still be surprised when his heart keeps tripping into the same snare? But then he breathes, stubborn as always, and shakes the thought off. This time doesn’t have to be the same. This time could be different.
It has to be.
“What are you doing out here being all mysterious?”
Gyuvin startles, whipping his head toward the voice. Taerae is leaning against one of the porch pillars, casual as ever, like he’s been there the whole time. Gyuvin hadn’t even noticed the door creak open.
“Oh, hyung,” Gyuvin says quickly, straightening in his chair as if that will make him look less suspicious. “When did you come?”
“Long enough to see you staring into space like some tragic poet,” Taerae answers dryly, arms folding across his chest.
Gyuvin rolls his eyes. “I wasn’t.”
“Right,” Taerae says before settling down on the chair next to him—clearly not opposed to joining him in staring in space, too.
They sit in silence for a long while before Taerae speaks up again.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Taerae remarks as nonchalantly as he can.
Gyuvin smiles. “What, you miss me talking your ear off already?”
“I’d never admit it,” Taerae replies, mouth twitching, “but the silence is suspicious.”
It’s such a Taerae thing—never pressing too hard, just offering an opening if Gyuvin wants to take it. It’s why their bond has always been easy: Gyuvin talks too much, Taerae listens too well, and somehow it balances out.
Gyuvin sneaks a glance at him. “Today was hard, that’s all,” he says. “Let’s just say I am very glad winter break is here.”
“Well, for me, I am very not glad,” Taerae closes his eyes. “I can already imagine the next couple of weeks.”
“Hey,” Gyuvin nudges him. “It’s the holidays. We got to celebrate!”
“Yeah, and you know who is going to come after that,” Taerae starts. Gyuvin winces, already guessing. “Yeah. Mmm-hm. I’m lucky that she can’t actually come for the Long Night. Blessed as can be! Except she might be coming after!”
“Sorry,” Gyuvin sighs. He means it, too. It is, at least partially, his fault.
Kim Jihye had told them she couldn’t make it for the holidays this year—something about complications with the Kim witch council.
But Gyuvin had pushed, just a little.
He’d asked if she could come, even for Jiwoong’s birthday. He’d been so excited at the thought of seeing her again—and, if he was honest, finally getting the spell—that he’d managed to forget what her presence meant for Taerae most of all. He’d let his own eagerness overshadow the weight it would carry for someone else.
Taerae shrugs. “Not your fault,” he says and Gyuvin purses his lips in thought. “I’m married to her son. I have her as my mother-in-law for life. There’s no running from her either.” He mimes a crushing motion with his hands, face twisting into mock horror. “She’d just grab me and trap me if I tried. She just loves to see me suffer.”
Gyuvin snorts despite himself, shoulders easing. “That’s dark, hyung.”
“It’s honest,” Taerae deadpans, but there’s a glint in his eyes. “Consider this my holiday spirit.”
“Fine,” Gyuvin relents, dragging the word out before turning his gaze back toward the woods. His skin prickles with an itch, a low tug under his skin: the craving for his wolf form. It’s been too long since he last shifted. When his nerves get tangled like this, running on four legs is the only thing that smooths them out.
“You’re thinking hard again,” Taerae observes after a beat. He doesn’t look over, but Gyuvin can feel the weight of the remark anyway, like Taerae has read the thought straight from his face.
“Nah,” Gyuvin replies quickly, shaking his head. “Just zoning out.” He stretches his arms overhead until his shoulders pop, then lets them drop back into his lap like nothing’s wrong.
Taerae hums, clearly unconvinced but not interested in pushing. He leans further back in his chair, eyes half-closed. The porch settles into an easy quiet again, cicadas buzzing at the edge of the woods.
Gyuvin lets the silence stand, content to pretend—for now—that nothing was on his mind at all.
₊˚⊹ 𖥔 ˖ ࣪
“No! Hey, Gyuvin! What the fuck?!”
Gyuvin laughs loudly, his stomach already hurting from the strength of it.
Gunwook is not amused. When the game on his phone abruptly ends with him in last place, Gunwook elbows Gyuvin in the chest—hard.
“Ow!” Gyuvin exclaims as he barely manages to catch himself before he falls off the edge of his bed, though that doesn’t stop him from laughing again.
“You think it’s funny?” Gunwook says, shoving him once more for good measure.
“Yeah, actually!” Gyuvin wheezes, trying and failing to smother his grin. His eyes are watering, shoulders shaking. “You lost to me—again!”
Gunwook’s jaw tightens, but his glare falters when Gyuvin can’t stop cackling. “You’re so dead next round.”
“Sure, sure,” Gyuvin snorts, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “That’s what you said the last three times.”
Gunwook narrows his eyes, but the corner of his mouth betrays him, tugging upward. “Shut up.”
Gyuvin chuckles one last time before setting his phone on his nightstand. “How about we sleep? I’m exhausted and I promised Jiwoong hyung I’d go to town with him in the morning.”
Gunwook huffs, making no move to leave Gyuvin’s bed. He picks up his phone again and begins to scroll through Youtube.
“Ya. Did you hear me?” Gyuvin flicks his forehead.
It does no damage.
“Yeah, I did,” Gunwook replies, though it’s clear he just wants to mess with him. “What about it?”
“You’re gonna sleep here or what?” Gyuvin says, grabbing his comforter and wrapping himself in it.
Gunwook shifts onto his side, thumb still moving on the screen, face lit in blue. “I’m fine here.”
“That’s not an answer.” Gyuvin stares at him from under the blanket, hair sticking up in every direction.
“Doesn’t need one,” Gunwook says.
Gyuvin exhales in surrender. His hand gropes for the lamp switch, fingers brushing the familiar ridge of the nightstand. He flicks the light off, the room swallowing them in darkness. Only the faint glow of Gunwook’s phone remains, casting restless shadows across the ceiling.
“Are you not tired?” Gyuvin asks, turning toward him with a frown, though he’d never push him away. Gunwook’s fidgeting betrays him—something is eating at him, whether he admits it or not.
Gunwook’s thumb stalls on the screen before he locks it, the light disappearing. In the dark, his breathing sounds uneven.
Hm.
“Not really,” Gunwook mutters finally, shifting onto his back. The mattress dips, springs creaking with the weight of him.
Gyuvin waits, hoping he’ll say more. He wants to ask what’s wrong—knows he should—but the words catch in his throat. So he just watches, eyes adjusting to the faint outline of Gunwook’s profile against the ceiling.
“Someone was hitting on me at work today. Well, confessed to me.”
The words are flat, like they cost him nothing, but Gyuvin notices the way Gunwook’s hand knots tighter into the blanket.
Gyuvin’s first instinct is to laugh—because really, it’s so obvious why anyone would—but the sound dies in his throat. He stares at Gunwook’s silhouette in the dark instead, trying to read his face when there’s almost nothing to see.
“Who?”
“One of the guys,” Gunwook reveals. “Which is crazy ‘cause he was being all homophobic last week, calling me all sorts of names. And now, all of a sudden he’s in love with me?”
“Wait, wait,” Gyuvin sits up quickly, eyebrows raised as the picture begins to form in his head. “A coworker? Do you mean one of your coworkers that is double your age, or Jisung?”
“No, no, not Jisung,” Gunwook says, telling Gyuvin all he needs to know. His jaw works once, twice, before he adds, quieter, “I… didn’t know how to turn him down. Not without making it awkward.”
“Who was it?” Gyuvin asks. The ceiling fan hums above them and for a few seconds it’s all Gyuvin can hear.
Gunwook drags a hand over his face, palm pressed hard into his eyes like he could scrub the whole thing out of existence. “Does it matter?”
“Yes,” Gyuvin says, harsher than he intended. He doesn’t back down, leaning forward, blanket slipping from his shoulders. “If some asshole is saying shit one week and hitting on you the next, I want to know who.”
“You sound like you’re about to fight him.”
“Maybe I am,” Gyuvin shrugs. “Is that why you clocked out early today?”
“Yeah…” Gunwook replies. “It was during lunch, you know? I was eating—which, I didn’t lie, I actually was hungry—and all of a sudden he comes up and starts saying all this stuff. I genuinely was just in shock, food in my mouth and just confused. Because who wouldn’t be? And all I can do is look down at my plate and just…”
Suddenly, Gunwook’s mouth snaps shut.
“Just what?” Gyuvin presses, voice caught somewhere between careful and demanding.
“I think you were right, hyung,” Gunwook admits quietly.
It takes a while for Gyuvin to understand what exactly he means. His eyes trace the line of Gunwook’s jaw, the way his mouth presses shut after the words slip out, like he already regrets them.
And then it hits. A memory of their half-joking conversations, the way Gunwook always deflected, always rolled his eyes when Gyuvin teased. The way he’s fidgeting now, restless in a way that has nothing to do with being hit on at work.
“Oh,” Gyuvin says softly, the single syllable escaping before he can stop it.
Gunwook doesn’t move, doesn’t confirm or deny.
“Wow.” Gyuvin rubs at the back of his neck, repeating, “Wow.”
“Is that all you have to say?” Gunwook exhales, almost sad.
“I didn’t think you’d accept it this quickly,” Gyuvin says. “That it took some closeted, homophobic relic of a man confessing to you to make it sink in—it’s just… kind of unbelievable.”
“How do you think I feel?” Gunwook says. “The entire evening I couldn't stop thinking about it. The spoon, hyung. The fucking spoon. Everything in that moment reminded me of him.”
Gyuvin shifts uneasily under the blanket, throat dry. “That’s… yeah. That’s a lot,” he says, the words faltering. “To come to terms with all at once.”
Nice going, idiot. That’ll definitely make him feel better.
Gunwook lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Tell me about it. I can’t even pick up a spoon without…” He stops himself, teeth clicking shut.
“I’m sorry,” Gyuvin offers, though he knows it won’t do much good. Nothing he says can untangle the existential crisis happening beside him—especially not one built on realizing you’re in love with someone you’ve already decided you can’t have.
“What do I even do, hyung?” Gunwook exhales. “On one hand, I have one guy who just confessed to me, waiting for my response, while my mind is so distracted by another that I can’t…”
Finally, Gunwook lets out a low, shaky laugh.
“It’s pathetic. I couldn’t even hear what that guy was saying. I was sitting there with my spoon in my hand, staring at rice, and all I could think about was him. Like every detail was pointing me back to him—the food, the way it tasted, the fact that he’d probably packed it without thinking twice.”
He presses the heel of his palm against his eyes again, like that might stop the words from spilling, but they keep coming.
“It’s so stupid, right? I shouldn’t even feel this way. It’s not like it’ll ever… it’s not like he’ll ever…” His jaw locks, and he doesn’t finish, but the ache hangs there anyway.
“You don’t owe anyone an answer right now,” Gyuvin says carefully. “Not him, not… not yourself, even.”
Though he and Gunwook fit like pieces of a puzzle, they couldn’t be far from different.
Gyuvin is loud, shameless, and cares with his entire being. If he loves, he loves completely. If he wants someone, he shows it, even if it ends messy. Better to leap and bruise than sit around wondering what it might’ve been.
Gunwook isn’t like that. Gunwook keeps everything locked down until it bursts, until it spills out sideways in the middle of the night with words he can barely say. And now, hearing him speak like this, Gyuvin can see the difference between them more clearly than ever.
One of them would take the chance without thinking. The other has already decided he can’t.
That’s what hurts the most—knowing Gunwook is capable of feeling this deeply, but not willing to reach for it.
“You can’t live like that forever, Wook,” Gyuvin says after a long silence. “Keeping it all in, convincing yourself it’s impossible. If it’s really there… you have to give yourself a chance. Even if it scares you. Even if it doesn’t work out.”
“But is it worth ruining everything over it?” Gunwook counters softly. “It’d destroy it all, hyung.”
“It wouldn’t—”
“You don’t know that.”
“And neither do you,” Gyuvin snaps.
His heart beats too fast, adrenaline sparking even though they’re lying down, saying nothing more than the truth they’re both too stubborn to bend around. He can almost see Gunwook’s eyes in the dark, and it makes his chest ache.
Because maybe they’re both right. Maybe reaching out could ruin everything. Or maybe it’s the silence between them—the things they’ll never say—that will.
“Let’s just sleep,” Gunwook says curtly.
Gyuvin doesn’t argue, knowing they both have gone through enough for the day. He simply rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling until the blurred shadows bleed together.
₊˚⊹ 𖥔 ˖ ࣪
Gyuvin remembers the first time he ever made someone else cry.
He’d been a young boy, still too clumsy on his feet.
Areum had just been a baby then—tiny, fragile, with fists no bigger than marbles. He’d reached for her, too rough, not understanding the difference between holding and grabbing. She’d wailed instantly, red-faced and loud, the kind of cry that made everyone rush in at once.
He had recoiled, ignored how Hanbin reached for him right as their parents reached for Areum instead, and ran into his room.
He hadn’t meant to make her cry.
He didn’t want to hurt her. Eomma was already anxious about how Gyuvin might handle the idea of a new sibling, about him losing his place as the youngest in the house. He was already going through it with his appa’s side of the family, and most of his eomma’s attention fixed on the baby had left him uncomfortable in ways he couldn’t articulate.
But Gyuvin didn’t want Eomma to think he hurt Areum on purpose. He didn’t even understand what happened.
He curled his hands into fists and hid by the side of his bed, hoping that if he folded himself into a ball, he could disappear into thin air.
That’s how Sung Jisoo found him.
Shoulders hunched and cheeks wet, Gyuvin knew it was his eomma as soon as she opened the door—her scent both calming and stressing him. He didn’t want to get lectured. I didn’t mean it, he repeated into his knees.
“Gyuvin-ah,” she said gently.
He didn’t lift his head. His fists dug harder into his temples. He could feel the hiccups starting, the hot sting of another round of tears.
“My love,” Jisoo called.
Gyuvin remembers the softness of her tone, how it instantly had him exhaling in relief.
Finally her hands came, sliding over his knotted fists until her thumbs rested on his knuckles.
She rubbed them slow, coaxing instead of scolding. “See these hands?” she said quietly. “They’re soft because they were made for hugging. Don’t ever stop hugging people, okay?”
Gyuvin peeked at her through wet lashes, still hiccuping. “But I made her cry,” he whispered.
“I know,” Jisoo had said. “She cried because she’s a baby. Babies cry when they’re scared. That doesn’t make you bad.”
She smoothed his fists open, one finger at a time, until his palms were flat against her own.
“If you keep your hands closed, you’ll forget what they’re for. But if you keep holding on—keep hugging—people will always know your hands are safe.”
He sniffled, blinking at her through tears.
“You’ll grow,” she continued, her voice warm like a blanket tucked around him. “You’ll get stronger, taller, louder. But these hands—” she pressed his palms gently, “—they’ll still be soft if you use them the right way. They’ll be good for holding, for protecting, for showing people you care.”
Her smile was small, but it reached her eyes.
“Don’t run away from that, Gyuvin. Don’t be afraid of what you’re meant for. If you’re too scared to touch, you’ll only feel lonelier. And you don’t deserve to be lonely.”
The words hit him harder than any scolding ever could.
Gyuvin carried them without trying. The years slid past, but the memory never dulled. Time had made it harder to believe, but not impossible. Sometimes, the memory felt close enough to touch—like her hands might still be smoothing his fists open, teaching him again what they were meant for.
As if she were still there in the room with him, reminding him of something he could never quite let go of.
Because there is always the fear of breaking what he touches, of reaching too quickly, of pressing too hard. But the memory exists to push against that fear. To remind him that what looks like clumsiness isn’t cruelty, that softness isn’t lost even when he stumbles. Perhaps his hands have always been meant for more than he knew how to trust.
Truthfully, he is scared. No, it’s not that his hands could hurt.
But one day they will fail to hold on at all.
₊˚⊹ 𖥔 ˖ ࣪
When Gyuvin wakes a few hours later, it’s no shock to see how cramped the bed has become—he and Gunwook draped carelessly over one another.
They’re tall men, six feet apiece, and it shows. Gyuvin doesn’t really mind, though it does mean risking a sudden jab to the ribs or an accidental head-butt in the dark.
Gyuvin rubs at his face, the puffiness obvious as he pushes himself upright. “What…” he mumbles, still foggy.
Beside him, Gunwook rests easily, breathing steady in the hush of the room.
Unfortunately, Gyuvin can’t say what exactly woke him. There’s no residual throb in his ribs, no sharp bruise forming from one of Gunwook’s unconscious flails, the sort of thing that usually jars him awake.
It isn’t noise either—no sudden bang from the kitchen, no door creaking open, no storm rattling the windows.
The night around him is calm, unnervingly so.
He lets out a breath, heavy with reluctance, as the remnants of the evening’s conversation return. The words linger like smoke in his chest, expanding in the dark until they’re impossible to ignore, a reminder he never asked for.
Maybe he shouldn’t have snapped like that. Gunwook had needed comfort, and Gyuvin had bristled instead, letting his pride spill into a moment that was never his to take over.
He’ll apologize in the morning—he doesn’t see another option. He owes him that much.
With that in mind, Gyuvin swings his legs over the edge of the bed, wincing when his feet meet the cold ground. He puts on his slippers and with quiet steps, walks over to the bedroom door and slips outside.
He needs just a little air. Luckily, winter break has officially begun, which means tomorrow morning is finally one where he doesn’t have to drag himself out of bed at dawn to get ready for school—a thought that always makes him laugh, since he’s the teacher, not the student. Get it? Haha. Uhm. Yeah.
Gyuvin drifts through the hallway, shoulders brushing the walls as he passes each room, his steps carrying him toward the stretch that runs along the far side of the house.
A windowsill rests there in the corner, indistinguishable from the others in the house, at least to anyone else. To Gyuvin, though, it’s the one that belongs to him, the place he favors most.
Curling up on the sill, his forehead thuds softly against the cold glass and he lets out a quiet grunt. Beyond the pane, the night lies still and unmoving. Whenever his nerves get the better of him, anxiety chewing away at his focus, this corner becomes his refuge. In a house that never seems to stop buzzing, the privacy here brings him a rare kind of peace.
He draws his knees tighter to his chest, the glass fogging faintly with each breath. For a moment, he can almost convince himself the walls aren’t so thin, that no one is waiting for him in the other rooms. It’s only him, the window, the dark stretch of sky.
Well. Maybe not just him.
Gyuvin’s eyes travel up high into the sky, as if drawn by the beauty of the moon itself.
“Hey,” he whispers quietly. “Long time, no talk.”
He doesn’t get a response. But sitting there, watching the clear, dark sky being illuminated by the moon gives him the comfort he needs.
“Goddess,” he gulps, addressing her with a tone of exhaustion. “It was kind of a mess today. Yujin got into a fight, cried his heart out. I fixed it, though. The kids were all over the place. Jihyo told me I don’t have to fix everything, that it’s not my job. But how am I supposed to just stand there? It’s not in me.”
Once the gates open, it’s hard to hold back. The words leave his mouth in quick succession, as if they’ve been waiting all day to be heard.
“Hanbin was tired again. He tries not to show it, but I see it. The way his shoulders drop when he thinks no one’s looking. His smile doesn’t last as long as it used to, you know? ”
Gyuvin’s finger trails along the edge of the window. His reflection stares faintly back at him, pale and blurred in the moonlight, and for a moment he feels as small as he did when he was a boy—palms pressed into someone else’s, waiting to be told they were still good, still safe.
With a shaky breath, Gyuvin continues.
“Things are getting tense. Appa Sung is getting restless again—” he says, feeling the need to clarify—he has two dads! The Moon Goddess can get confused, too, okay? “And I know it’s taking a toll on Hanbin. The Jungs are pretty annoying, too. It’s been the second time this month. Can you believe it? Can’t they just leave us alone?”
He huffs a quiet laugh through his nose, but it dies fast.
“I’ve been talking to Appa, trying to calm him down. He’s worried the Jungs will see us as weak. Which like… fair. But also, it’s no use stressing Hanbin hyung over it. I think it’s working, though. He hasn’t called Hanbin in, what, two weeks now? To complain about it. But he keeps telling me to come back home. Says Hanbin will fail as an alpha soon. That I should leave before it happens.”
A pause. His eyes close tighter.
“But he’s wrong. Hanbin won’t fail. Never.” His hand curls on the sill, knuckles pale. “I won’t leave him. No matter what Appa says, I believe in him. If you can give him more strength, please, please do. Take some from me even. I can’t stand knowing that he still has Appa breathing down his neck like that. And I can’t even do anything about it.
His voice cracks. “I’d give him everything if I could. My strength, my time, my sleep—I don’t care. He deserves someone to fight for him the way he fights for us. And if that has to be me, then let it be me. Just… please don’t let him think he’s alone in this. Don’t let him believe Appa’s words more than mine.”
He bows his head against the glass, eyes squeezed shut.
“If you’re listening, Goddess… don’t let him fall. Not him. I’ll take the weight instead. Please.”
The stars twinkle, scattered and unbothered, as if to say nothing at all.
He exhales, a little laugh caught in his throat: “You probably get tired of hearing me every night, huh?” His fingers drag lightly along the edges of the glass again, tracing nothing. “Same spot, same time, same complaints. I probably sound like a broken record. But sometimes I feel like you’re all I got.”
His lips part as if to say more, but only a sigh escapes. Gyuvin bites the inside of his cheek.
It feels good: saying all these things he’s long kept inside. He’d never dare utter a word of this to anyone. It doesn’t seem fair. Instead, he talks to the one person he knows he wouldn’t burden.
She listens. She does. Gyuvin knows she does. Because she somehow always sends him the strength he needs. She always shows him the right path to keep going, even if they never seem to be free.
Outside, the moon hangs over the treetops, a pale, unblinking eye.
For a moment he imagines that light falling on him is her touch, not just reflection, that each flicker of starlight is her answer.
“Send me strength,” he whispers once, hoping it’s enough.
His eyelids grow heavy as he feels his shoulders sag and his body lean into the corner of the window as if it might cradle him.
For a moment, it feels like he might slip back to sleep right there, but then—a knock.