Chapter 10 #2
"It registered," I said firmly. "She's been thinking about all of us.
She knows Hwan-hyung is the bright one, even though there's more beneath the sunshine.
She knows Jin-ho-hyung is quiet and thoughtful.
She knows I'm the maknae." I paused, glancing at Jae-won-hyung and Min-jun-hyung.
"She said she's watched our performances.
Read our interviews. She's been paying attention even while she was running. "
"She has?" Min-jun-hyung's voice was soft with wonder.
"She wants to know who we really are," I repeated, because it felt important, because it was the thing that had cracked her walls more than anything else I'd said.
"Not the idol version. The real us. That's why I suggested letters.
So we can tell her things we wouldn't tell interviews. Things that are actually true."
Jae-won-hyung was quiet for a long moment, his expression thoughtful. Then he nodded slowly, some of the tension bleeding out of his shoulders.
"Okay," he said, his voice carrying the weight of a decision made. "We honor her request. Letters. Food. No pressure. No showing up at her door uninvited." He shot me a look that was equal parts stern and relieved. "Though apparently convenience stores are fair game now."
"I didn't plan it," I protested, but I couldn't help the small smile that tugged at my lips. "I was just buying ramyeon."
"Sure you were." But there was no heat in Jae-won-hyung's voice, and when he reached out to ruffle my hair — a gesture I usually hated — I found I didn't mind so much this time.
"I'll start cooking," Min-jun-hyung announced, already heading back to the kitchen with renewed purpose.
"Something nourishing but not too heavy.
Soup, maybe. And some side dishes she can eat cold if she's not up to reheating things.
I'll portion it out so she doesn't have to worry about cooking for days—"
"Don't overwhelm her," Jae-won-hyung cautioned, but there was a softness in his voice that undercut the warning. "Start small. One meal. See if she accepts it before you fill her entire refrigerator."
Min-jun-hyung waved a dismissive hand over his shoulder. "She hasn't been eating properly. You heard Tae-min. She needs nutrients, calories, proper food to fight the soul sickness. I'm not going to let our omega starve just because we're trying to give her space."
Our omega. The words sent a thrill down my spine, the crimson bond pulsing in response.
"Letters tonight," Jae-won-hyung decided, looking at each of us in turn. "Everyone writes something. Something real, like she asked. Something she wouldn't learn from interviews." His gaze lingered on me. "Tae-min showed her it was possible. Now we follow through."
"What do I even say?" Hwan-hyung asked, running a hand through his hair. The vulnerability in his voice made something ache in my chest. "How do I put everything I'm feeling into a letter?"
"Start small," Jin-ho-hyung suggested quietly. "You don't have to explain everything. Just... tell her something true. Something that matters to you. She's not expecting perfection."
"She's expecting us," I added. "The real us. Flaws and all."
Hwan-hyung nodded slowly, some of the panic in his expression easing. "Okay. Okay, I can do that. Something true. Something real." He looked at me. "Thank you, Tae-min-ah. For not messing this up. For listening to her."
The words hit me harder than I expected. I was used to being thanked for performances, for hitting high notes, for being the golden maknae who could do everything perfectly. I wasn't used to being thanked for listening.
"I just did what anyone would do," I mumbled, suddenly embarrassed.
"No." Jae-won-hyung's voice was firm. "You did what she needed.
You gave her space without abandoning her.
You shared something real without demanding she do the same.
You respected her boundaries while still reaching out.
" He paused, something flickering in his expression.
"I'm not sure any of the rest of us would have handled it as well. "
I stared at him, stunned. Jae-won-hyung didn't give compliments lightly. Didn't acknowledge when someone did well unless they'd really, truly earned it. To hear him say that I'd done something the others couldn't...
"I..." I didn't know what to say.
"He's right." Min-jun-hyung had paused in the kitchen doorway, his expression warm. "You did good, Tae-min-ah. Really good."
"Our maknae," Hwan-hyung added, and for once the word didn't feel diminishing. It felt like a title I'd earned. "All grown up and handling pack business like a pro."
"Shut up," I muttered, but I couldn't stop the smile spreading across my face. "I just talked to her. It wasn't that hard."
"It was exactly that hard," Jin-ho-hyung said quietly. "And you made it look easy. That's a skill, Tae-min. Don't dismiss it."
The bond thrummed in my chest, warm and content, and I realized that for the first time in my life, I didn't feel like the baby of the pack.
I felt like an equal. Someone who'd contributed something important.
Someone who'd done something the others couldn't. Someone who'd helped bring our omega one step closer to home.
"Letters," Jae-won-hyung repeated, breaking the moment with practiced efficiency. "Everyone write something tonight. Min-jun, finish the food. We'll deliver both tomorrow morning — early enough that she'll find it when she wakes up, late enough that we won't disturb her sleep."
"Who's delivering?" Hwan-hyung asked.
"I will." Min-jun-hyung's voice brooked no argument. "I'll leave it at her door, knock once, and leave before she can answer. No pressure. Just... letting her know we're here."
"And that we're listening," I added. "That we heard what she said and we're honoring it."
"Exactly." Jae-won-hyung's expression softened slightly. "This is how we earn her trust. One small step at a time. One letter. One meal. One proof that we're not what she fears."
We scattered after that — Min-jun-hyung to his cooking, the rest of us to find paper and pens and quiet corners where we could figure out how to put our hearts into words.
I ended up in my room, sitting at my desk with a blank sheet of paper in front of me and a pen in my hand.
The crimson bond pulsed steadily in my chest, a constant reminder of the girl across the city who was probably lying in her nest right now, reading our previous letters or maybe just trying to survive another night of soul sickness.
What did I tell her that she wouldn't learn from interviews?
I'd already told her about hating being the youngest. About being overlooked and talked over. About learning to read between the lines because no one thought to ask what I wanted.
What else was there?
I stared at the blank page for a long time. Then, slowly, I started to write.
Keira,
I don't really know how to write letters. I've written songs, but that's different — songs can hide behind melody and metaphor. Letters are just... words. Naked and honest and nowhere to hide.
You asked for real. So here's something real:
I was terrified before I debuted. Not just nervous — terrified.
I was convinced I wasn't good enough, that I'd gotten lucky in the audition, that any day someone would realize I didn't deserve to be there and send me home.
Every practice, every performance, every critique felt like confirmation that I was a fraud.
Do you know what helped? Not logic. Not people telling me I was being irrational. What helped was doing the thing I was afraid of and finding out it didn't destroy me. Performing on stage and not dying. Letting my hyungs close and not being rejected.
You're afraid that bonds will consume you. That letting us in will mean losing yourself. I understand that fear — I do. But I also know that fear lies. It tells you the worst will happen when usually, it doesn't.
The only cure for fear is experience. Is doing the thing you're afraid of and finding out what actually happens.
I'm not asking you to trust us yet. I'm just asking you to give us a chance to show you that we're not what your fear says we are.
Also, Min-jun-hyung is making you food. Please eat it. He's been stress-cooking for days and if you don't eat it now that he can share it with you, he might actually combust.
— Tae-min
P.S. Thank you for letting me walk you home. It meant more than you know.
I read over the letter twice, wincing at some of the phrasing, wondering if I should rewrite the whole thing. But she'd asked for real, and real wasn't polished. Real was messy and awkward and sometimes said too much.
I folded the letter carefully and went to find an envelope.
In the kitchen, Min-jun-hyung was surrounded by containers, his hands moving with practiced efficiency as he portioned out soup and side dishes and what looked like homemade rice balls.
His forest-and-cedar scent was warm with purpose, the kind of focused calm he got when he was taking care of someone.
"That's a lot of food," I observed.
"She hasn't been eating," he said without looking up. "Her body is fighting five incomplete bonds. She needs fuel." He paused, adding another container to the pile. "I'm not overwhelming her. I'm being practical."
"I didn't say anything."
"You were thinking it." He finally looked up, his expression softening. "Thank you, Tae-min-ah. For finding her. For being what she needed."
"I didn't plan it," I reminded him.
"Maybe not. But you didn't mess it up either." He turned back to his packing, his movements careful and precise. "That matters more than you know."
I left him to his cooking and wandered back to the living room, where Hwan-hyung was curled up on the couch with a piece of paper, his pen moving in fits and starts.
Jin-ho-hyung was in his usual corner, writing steadily, his expression distant in the way it got when he was lost in words.
And Jae-won-hyung was at the dining table, staring at a blank page with an intensity that suggested the page had personally offended him.
"Having trouble?" I asked, sliding into the chair across from him.
He glanced up, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "How do you tell someone you'd burn the world for them without sounding like a stalker?"
I snorted. "Maybe don't lead with that."
"Helpful." But his expression had lightened, some of the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. "You really think this will work? Letters and food?"
"I think it's what she asked for," I said carefully. "And I think she's trying. Really trying. She just needs us to meet her where she is instead of demanding she come to us."
Jae-won-hyung nodded slowly, his gaze dropping back to the blank page. "When did you get so wise, maknae?"
"I've always been wise," I said lightly. "You just never noticed because you were too busy treating me like a baby."
He looked up sharply, something flickering in his expression — surprise, maybe, or recognition. "Is that how it feels?"
"Sometimes." I shrugged, trying to keep my voice casual. "But I get it. You're the pack alpha. Protecting us is what you do. Just... maybe trust me to handle things sometimes? I'm not going to break."
Jae-won-hyung was quiet for a long moment. Then he reached across the table and squeezed my shoulder, a rare gesture of physical affection from a man who usually showed love through action rather than touch.
"I'll try," he said quietly. "You've earned that."
I ducked my head to hide my smile. "Thanks, hyung."
"Now go away and let me figure out how to write a letter that doesn't sound insane."
I laughed and retreated to my room, the crimson bond warm in my chest.
Tomorrow, Min-jun-hyung would leave food at her door.
Tomorrow, she'd read our letters. Tomorrow, she'd have proof that we were listening, that we were honoring her request, that we were willing to be patient even though every instinct we had was screaming at us to go to her, to hold her, to fix everything.
One step at a time.
One letter.
One meal.
One proof that we were worth trusting.
I lay back on my bed and stared at the ceiling, the crimson bond pulsing steadily in my chest, and let myself hope that it would be enough.