The next few days blurred together in a haze of anticipation and anxiety.
We kept to the plan — letters and food, no pressure, no pushing. Min-jun woke up before dawn every morning to prepare meals, packaging them carefully in containers with detailed heating instructions and little notes that made me smile despite the ache in my chest. Tae-min picked up our letters and dropped off Min-jun's food, always leaving before she could see him, always returning with that same desperate hope shining in his eyes.
We texted her. Carefully, gently, never demanding a response but always letting her know we were there.
I sent her videos of my failed cooking attempts — deliberately exaggerated for comedic effect, Min-jun's exasperated yelling in the background genuine as I "accidentally" set a pan on fire for the third time. She responded with a laughing emoji, and I stared at that tiny digital image for far too long, the golden amber bond warming in my chest.
Jin-ho sent her lyrics, fragments of the song he was writing for her, and she sent fragments back. I watched him light up every time a notification came through, his usually stoic expression softening into something almost tender as he read her words.
Tae-min sent memes. Stupid, ridiculous memes that made no sense and required no response. But she responded anyway — sometimes with more memes, sometimes with a simple "lol," sometimes with nothing but a string of emoji that made Tae-min grin like he'd won the lottery.
Jae-won sent the least, but what he sent mattered. A single message each morning:How are you feeling today?And when she responded —tired, scared, slightly better, still trying— he'd show us, his expression carefully neutral but his thunderstorm scent flickering with something that looked almost like relief.
She was trying.
She was letting us in.
Slowly, carefully, one small step at a time — she was opening the door.
I wrote her a second letter on the third day. Poured everything I'd been thinking about onto the page — the childhood survival mechanism, the mask that became identity, the exhaustion of being bright when all I wanted was permission to be dim. I told her about my parents' divorce when I was twelve, how I'd blamed myself for not being happy enough to hold them together. I told her about the panic attacks I still had sometimes, hidden in bathroom stalls and empty practice rooms, where I couldn't stop smiling even as tears streamed down my face because the mask had become so ingrained I didn't know how to take it off.
I told her she was the first person who'd ever seen through it without me having to explain. I told her that the golden amber bond in my chest felt like the first real thing I'd experienced in years.
Tae-min took the letter with the morning food delivery, and I spent the rest of the day vibrating with nervous energy, unable to sit still, unable to focus on anything except the desperate hope that she'd read my words and not run.
Her response came that evening — not a letter, but a text.
Hwan. I read your second letter. I don't know what to say except... thank you. For trusting me with that. For letting me see the parts you keep hidden.
I think I understand the mask thing. I've been wearing one too. Different from yours, but the same in all the ways that matter.
I'm sorry you learned to smile to survive. But I'm glad you're learning that you don't have to smile all the time. Not with us. Not with me.
I read the message three times, then four, then five. My vision blurred with tears I didn't try to hide, and I pressed myphone against my chest like I could somehow feel her through the screen.
She understood. She saw me, and she understood, and she wasn't running.
"You okay?" Jin-ho's quiet voice came from the doorway of my room, and I looked up to find him watching me with concern in his dark eyes, his notebook clutched against his chest.
"Yeah," I managed, my voice thick with emotion, a watery laugh escaping me. "Yeah, I'm... I'm good. She texted me. About my letter." Jin-ho crossed the room and sat beside me on the bed, close enough that our shoulders touched. He didn't say anything, didn't ask to read the message, just sat there in quiet solidarity while I tried to pull myself together.
"She sees us," I said finally, echoing what Jin-ho had said about her lyrics days ago. "She really sees us."
"She does," Jin-ho agreed, his voice soft. "And she's not running anymore."
"She's trying," I whispered, the words feeling like a prayer.
"She's trying," Jin-ho confirmed, and I heard the same desperate hope in his voice that was burning in my own chest. "And so are we."
We sat there in silence for a long time, two alphas bound to the same omega, waiting for her to be ready to let them in. For the first time since this had all started, I let myself believe that maybe — just maybe — she would.
Chapter Thirteen
MIN-JUN
The bond bloomed in my chest like a flower unfurling toward the sun. I stood on the sidewalk outside the restaurant, my hand pressed against my sternum, trying to catch my breath. The morning air was cool and damp against my face, but I barely felt it. All I could feel was her — the new connection pulsing alongside the ache that had been there since I'd first seen her photo, since I'd first understood that she was ours and she was running.
She'd been right there.
