Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
KEIRA
I woke to the smell of food.
For a moment, I thought I was dreaming. The fever had been giving me strange dreams lately — fragments of scent and warmth and hands that reached for me in the darkness.
But this smell was real. Tangible. The rich aroma of homemade soup drifting through my apartment, mingling with something savory and comforting that made my stomach clench with a hunger I'd been ignoring for days.
Food, my omega murmured groggily, stirring to awareness. Someone brought us food.
I pushed myself up from the nest slowly, my body protesting every movement.
The three bonds pulsed in my chest, a constant reminder of what I was trying to accept.
The fever was still there, burning beneath my skin, but it felt slightly less consuming than it had yesterday.
Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.
The clock on my nightstand read seven forty-three in the morning.
I shuffled out of my bedroom on unsteady legs, one hand braced against the wall for support.
My apartment was small — a tiny kitchen, a living area barely big enough for a couch and a coffee table, a bathroom I could almost touch both walls of if I stretched my arms wide.
But right now it felt enormous, the distance from my bedroom to the front door an insurmountable journey.
The food was waiting just outside my door.
It was left a neat stack of containers on the floor, along with a bundle of envelopes tied together with a simple string.
The containers were still warm, I realized as I knelt down to examine them.
Whoever had delivered this had done so recently. Maybe within the last hour.
Min-jun, my omega supplied, and I knew she was right.
The faint trace of forest and cedar lingered in the air near the door, barely detectable but unmistakably him.
He'd been here. He'd brought food. And he'd left without knocking, without demanding to see me, without pushing for more than I was ready to give.
Something in my chest loosened slightly.
I gathered the containers and the letters and carried them to my small kitchen table, my arms trembling with the effort.
There was so much food — a large container of soup that smelled like heaven, smaller containers of side dishes I couldn't identify, what looked like homemade rice balls wrapped carefully in cloth, and a thermos that was still warm to the touch.
A small note was tucked under the thermos, written in neat handwriting:
The soup is samgyetang — good for energy and healing. The thermos has ginger tea with honey for your throat. Everything can be reheated except the rice balls — eat those first. Please eat. You need strength.
— Min-jun
P.S. The containers are microwave-safe. There are heating instructions on the back of this note.
I flipped the note over and found detailed instructions for each dish — times, temperatures, which ones could be stored and for how long.
He'd thought of everything. Had anticipated that I might not have the energy to figure it out myself, that I might need guidance even for something as simple as reheating soup.
He takes care of people, my omega observed softly. That's who he is.
I set the note aside and reached for the bundle of letters, my fingers trembling slightly as I untied the string. Five envelopes, each one labeled with a name in different handwriting. Hwan. Jin-ho. Tae-min. Min-jun. Jae-won.
Five letters from five alphas.
Five chances to learn who they really were.
Open them, my omega urged gently. This is what trying looks like. Feel instead of push down.
She was right. I'd promised Jeni I would try. I'd promised Tae-min I would try. I'd spent three days hiding in my nest, telling myself I was preparing when really I was just avoiding. But this — reading their words, letting myself feel whatever came up — this was actual progress.
I opened Hwan's letter first.
His handwriting was messier than I expected — energetic strokes that slanted slightly to the right, like the words were racing to escape the pen.
There were a few crossed-out sections, places where he'd started a sentence and then changed his mind, and something about that imperfection made my chest ache.
Keira,
I've started this letter about fifteen times now. Jin-ho says I should just write what I feel, but what I feel is too big to fit on paper. So I'll start small, like he suggested.
Something real: The sunshine thing is a mask.
Not entirely — I really am happy a lot of the time.
I really do love making people laugh and filling awkward silences and being the bright spot in a room.
Sometimes it's exhausting. Sometimes I want to be sad or angry or quiet, and I can't, because everyone expects the sunshine.
If I'm not bright, something must be wrong.
If I'm not laughing, I must be sick. I've been performing "happy" for so long that sometimes I forget what my real emotions feel like.
Tae-min said you saw through it. That you knew there was more beneath the surface. I don't know how you knew, but... thank you. For seeing me. Even while you were running.
I'm not angry that you ran. I was hurt — I won't lie about that. But I understand now. Your fear makes sense. I just wish I could show you that I'm not what you're afraid of. That none of us are.
Eat Min-jun-hyung's food. He's been stress-cooking for days and he's driving us all insane.
— Hwan
P.S. I'm sorry too. For chasing you. For not giving you space to breathe. I'll do better.
I set the letter down and pressed my hand against my chest, where the golden amber bond was pulsing with something that felt like warmth. Like recognition. Like the beginning of understanding.
He's not what we feared, my omega whispered. He's just a person. A person who gets tired of pretending too.
I reached for Jin-ho's letter next. His handwriting was the opposite of Hwan's — precise, measured, each character formed with careful intention.
But there were still signs of humanity in it — a slight wobble on certain letters, a place where the ink had smudged like he'd rested his hand on the page before it dried.
Keira,
I'm not good with words when I have to speak them out loud. They get tangled somewhere between my brain and my mouth, and what comes out is never what I meant to say. But writing is different. Writing lets me take my time. Lets me find the right words instead of settling for the wrong ones.
I've read your lyrics. All of them. Not just the ones you submitted for the project — I found your older work too. The songs you wrote before anyone was paying attention.
You write like someone who's been lonely for a very long time.
I recognized it because I write the same way. There's a particular ache that shows up in words when the person writing them doesn't expect anyone to really hear them. A rawness that disappears once you start performing for an audience.
Your early work has that rawness. So does mine.
I think that's why the bond felt the way it did when it triggered. Not just biology — recognition. Finding someone who speaks the same language of loneliness. I'm not asking you to stop being lonely with us. I'm just asking you to consider that maybe you don't have to be lonely anymore.
— Jin-ho
P.S. I've been working on something new. A song. It's not finished yet, but it's yours when it is.
Tears were burning behind my eyes now, threatening to spill over. I blinked them back fiercely, but a few escaped anyway, tracking down my cheeks and landing on the paper. The ink smudged slightly where they fell, blurring the edges of his words.
He sees us, my omega breathed, something like wonder in her voice. Really sees us.
I set Jin-ho's letter aside and reached for Tae-min's, already knowing what I'd find there. We'd talked so much at the convenience store, had shared more than I'd shared with anyone except Jeni. His letter felt like a continuation of that conversation rather than a new beginning.
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 laughed despite myself, the sound watery and broken but real. He'd ended his letter the same way he'd ended our conversation — with something light, something that cut through the heaviness and reminded me that this didn't all have to be serious and scary.
He's good for us, my omega observed. He makes us laugh.