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 wecould 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 Ialso 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
