Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The room was pitch black when he woke up.

Woke up might have been generous. It felt less like waking and more like his mind clawing its way back from somewhere deep and heavy, dragging the rest of him along a few seconds too late.

He shifted. Slow. Uncoordinated. Like his body didn’t quite belong to him yet. His thoughts lagged behind the movement, sluggish and unfocused, struggling to catch up as a quiet groan slipped from his throat. The sound was rough, barely more than breath, but it echoed louder in the silence than it should have.

Everything ached. Not sharply, nothing that clean, but in a dull, full-body way that made it hard to tell where one sensation ended and another began.

He moved again, this time guided more by instinct than awareness, pressing into the warmth beside him.

It was warm. Really warm.

Not just the kind that came from blankets or trapped heat– but something steady. Solid. Close enough that he could feel it through the haze, through the lingering fog in his head. The warmth sank into him. Into his bones. Like stepping inside after being out in the cold too long.

His body reacted before his mind did, easing toward it without hesitation, like it had already decided this was safe. His fingers twitched weakly against whatever he was pressed into, barely registering texture– just warmth, and the faint give beneath his touch.

He exhaled, slow and uneven, and sank a little further in.

For a moment, he didn’t question it. Didn’t question where he was. Half asleep, his mind didn’t bother with things like that. He just stayed there, half-aware, half-gone, letting the warmth pull him under again, even as something in the back of his mind started, faintly, to stir.

A soft breath left him as he settled, heavy and slow, his body sinking without resistance. For a moment, he almost drifted right back under. It would’ve been easy.

He breathed in, pressing his nose deeper into the warmth against him. The smell of old leather and musk filled his lungs– thicker now, more noticeable– and he instinctively shifted closer, chasing it without thinking.

It was steady.

Close.

Not fading like it should have been. 

He sank into it anyway. His mind sluggish and unfocused as his eyes cracked halfway open. The movement was slow. Heavy. Like, even that was too much effort.

And still–

something about it wasn’t right.

It was too dark. He couldn’t see anything, just pitch black, with faint shapes edging his vision. With a quiet huff, he let his eyes fall shut again. Zanka shifted, trying to settle more comfortably, but this time, something tightened against him.

Resistance.

He frowned faintly.

That was… new.

A soft breath left him, heavier this time, as his brain finally started dragging itself awake. His tongue slid slowly across the front of his teeth, the motion absentminded, the tip lingering against his fangs as a dull ache pulsed through his canines.

He brought a hand up, intending to wipe the sleep from his face– Except he couldn’t. His arm didn’t move. His brow furrowed slightly as the sluggish realization trickled in. His hand was pinned against his stomach, held there without any give.

But… what was pinning it there?

He groaned softly, the sound rough in his throat, before tugging at his arm again, this time with a little more effort. The movement didn’t free him. Instead, it shifted the warmth pressed against him. That same steady, too-present heat moved with him. Adjusted.

Reacted.

His eyes fluttered open again, this time awake enough to try and focus through the dark. He squinted slightly, straining to make sense of shapes that wouldn’t quite form, trying to figure out why he couldn’t move, why the warmth felt wrong now.

The answer should have shocked him. Normally, it would have. 

He craned his head back, his nose pressing up against what he assumed was a chin. 

But Jabber was pressed up in front of him, his arms wrapped tightly around his torso, locked in place like he had no intention of letting go. Not loose. Not careless. Firm.

Intentional.

Their legs were tangled together so thoroughly that Zanka couldn’t tell where his ended and Jabber’s began. There was no space between them. None. Every inch of him was pressed up against solid warmth, held there, contained. His arm trapped awkwardly between their stomachs, was pinned uselessly in place, caught with nowhere to go.

He tried pulling it again. It didn’t budge. Not even a little. After a moment, he let out a slow breath and stopped trying, the effort draining out of him as quickly as it came. He was too tired. Not just tired, he was exhausted.

The kind that sat heavy in his bones, that made even small movements feel like too much. His body didn’t want to fight it. Didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to think. 

Why was he so tired?

He lay there for another moment, just enjoying the warmth pressed around him, before his brain finally decided to be helpful.

Hey, let's go over what happened yesterday.

The memories came back slowly.

First was waking up that morning. The heat, the heaviness sitting in his body like something had crawled into his bones. Then class. Sitting there while it only got worse.

The texts he’d sent to Jabber. Short ones. Awkward ones. Something about them had made his stomach twist strangely, though he hadn’t been able to explain why. He remembered making notes during class, too. Notes with Jabber in mind.

Then the memories shifted again.

The library.

The heat crashing over him all at once. The pain of it. The way it had made his muscles lock and his thoughts blur together.

The fear.

Not of the heat itself– but of someone else finding him like that. Someone other than Jabber.

He faintly remembered Jabber helping him to his car. The door opening. Being guided into the seat. The click of the buckle snapping into place. But everything after that…

Fuzzy.

He tried to push through the haze, forcing his mind to dig deeper. But the moment he did, another wave of drowsiness rolled over him, heavy and warm. The scent of leather and musk around him deepened. And his thoughts started slipping away again. His body relaxed deeply, his shoulders slumping slightly as he reacted to the scent surrounding him.

Whatever had happened… it didn’t really matter right now. He was tired. He just wanted to sleep. And if he couldn’t remember it, then it probably wasn’t that important anyway. If he really needed to know, he’d figure it out later.

Maybe that was just the sleepiness talking. Maybe he was being stupid about it. But right now? He just didn’t care enough to try and remember.

He felt a shift around him, then the arms that had been wrapped haphazardly tightened slightly, pulling him closer. He didn’t fight it, burying his face in the crook of Jabber’s neck and inhaling deeply. His eyes fluttered closed, and a warm hand pressed against his back, rubbing slow, gentle circles.

It was impossible to resist sleep, not that he was really trying to begin with. 

A soft hum left him as he melted into the darkness, drifting back under as the motion continued, steady and warm against his back.

.

.

.

Zanka woke up slowly. 

The usual blinding sunlight that spilled through his blinds wasn’t there. In fact… it was darker than he expected. His eyes were still closed, and his head throbbed softly– well, more than his head.

Everything ached.

A low groan slipped past his lips as he shifted again. The bed felt… wrong. Not heavy, not hot, but crowded. Like someone had taken all his blankets and clothes and dumped them over him as a prank. He was tangled in layers of fabric, struggling to find his own space.

His hand rose automatically to rub the sleep from his eyes as he tried to push himself up. A sharp sting cut across his lower back, making him hiss and pause. Slowly, carefully, he opened his eyes.

This wasn’t his room. He looked down at himself, eyes widening as his brain slowly came online. This wasn’t his bed. The clothes he wore weren’t his either.

Where the hell was he?

His gaze darted around the unfamiliar room, trying to piece together what had happened. His hand brushed against a piece of fabric. He glanced down for a moment, trying to make sense of it, but the room, the clothes, the memory– it all felt wrong, unsteady, like he was waking in someone else’s dream.

It was a plain old shirt. Nothing remarkable about it. But for some reason, he grabbed it and brought it to his face before breathing it in.  He didnt know why he did that, but it just felt right. 

He took another deep inhale before he stopped. A small flush of heat crossed his face as he realised he was sniffing a shirt. A shirt that didnt even belong to him.  The scent of leather and musk and clove dragged another memory deep from his mind. And this time, this memory was clear. 

Extremely so. 

He remembered his heat starting, how he had found safety in the study room as he waited for Jabber to find him. 

He remembered getting into the car, how he needily smelled jabber, how he used his hand to try and get himself off as they drove to their apartment. 

His face flushed hotter as the memories flooded his mind. The way he clung to him as they made their way up the stairs, how he moaned and kissed into his neck. How Jabber had to distract him with that shirt, he grip tightened around said shirt in his hand as he suddenly realised why he wanted to smell it so bad. 

The memory continued, about how he laid in his bed, in the bed he was still in, and tried to get himself off as Jabber had ran to the bathroom.  

Then, how his pants and underwear were stripped off him. His head throbbed at the memory. Then, the feeling of embarrassment was over taken by shame.  He remembered how he begged Jabber to help him.  How he moaned his name and abused his throat. How he forced him to fuck him. 

He swallowed hard, feeling this faint ache in the back of his throat from how hard he was moan and screaming the day before.  “Just what did I do…” he questioned to himself. 

He wasn't just embarrassed, or ashamed, but he hated himself. How could he loose control like that? How could he take advantage of Jabber like that? There was no way he would ever want to be his friend after what he’d just done. Hell, if he was being honest, he was still trying to wrap his head around the fact that Jabber had wanted to be his friend in the first place.

Friends.

The word sat wrong, sinking heavy in the pit of his stomach, twisting in a way he couldn’t quite name.

Another wave of pain rolled up his spine as he shifted, forcing a quiet breath through his teeth as he dragged the blanket off his legs. He ended up sitting in the middle of the large mattress, posture tense, like even being still didn’t quite help.

He looked down at himself, brows pulling together slightly as he tried to figure out what he was even wearing. A dark purple hoodie hung off his frame, the fabric a little too big on him. Some kind of bug design spiraled down the sleeves, the pattern catching his eye as he pushed the cuff back just to properly see his hands.

His gaze drifted lower.

To his legs, or more specifically, the sweats he was wearing. They were dark brown, almost black, the fabric loose enough that he could already tell they wouldn’t stay up without the drawstring. He could feel it pulled tight around his waist, snug enough to keep them in place, but barely.

Zanka frowned faintly.

If they weren’t tied, they’d probably slip right off him. He lifted the hem of the hoodie slightly, fingers hooking into the waistband of the sweats as he peeked underneath.

…Thank god.

He let out a quiet breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He was wearing underwear. Not his, obviously. Pink and red hearts were scattered across the fabric. Zanka stared at them for a second longer than necessary, his expression flattening.

Jabber definitely had some… interesting taste in fashion.

He glanced around again, this time really taking in the room he was in. The entire place smelled of them. Of leather and insense, damp earth and musk tangling together so much so, that one wouldn't be able to smell whose room this actually belonged too by smell alone. 

The bed was full of clothes, something that he faintly remembered wasn't there the day before. Hoodies, shirts, hell even some boxers were piled around him like some kind of nest. 

Jabber must have dumped them on the mattress for him. 

Zanka had never nested before. Not properly. Not like this. Never had the safety to do so. He knew what it was supposed to be, though. Everyone did. It wasn’t just instinct, it was… intimate. Soft in a way that required trust. Safety.

Something shared. Usually with a partner.

The thought hits him harder this time.

His eyes squeeze shut, breath catching as something heavier rolls through him, shame, sharp and suffocating, curling in his chest. Because that’s the part he can’t get past. Nesting wasn’t just something you did. It was something you did with someone you loved. Or someone who loved you.

And Jabber-

Zanka’s throat tightens.

Jabber would want that with someone he actually loved. Not just liked, not just tolerated, not just someone who happened to be there when everything went wrong. He needed somebody he actually had feelings for, because Zanka, as much as it hurt to think, was sure Jabber's feelings were just a result of instincts going haywire. His confession was out of the blue if he was being honest, and it was hard to actually believe it actually held any truth to it.

He needed someone he chose. Someone he actually wanted. Someone he could look at and not have to question it.

Zanka presses his lips together, something twisting uncomfortably in his chest. Because that someone… isn’t him.

Not really.

Whatever happened between them- whatever this is- it isn’t that. It can’t be. It’s too messy, too tangled up in instinct and confusion and things Zanka doesn’t even fully understand himself. Jabber deserves something… clearer than this.

Something real.

Not a situation where Zanka is clinging to him because his body won’t settle down. Not something driven by pheromones and proximity and timing. Not something that feels like an instinct driven mistake. 

Zanka’s fingers tighten in the fabric of the hoodie, knuckles faintly whitening.

Jabber would want to do this with someone he actually loved.

The thought repeats, quieter this time, but heavier.

Someone he’d choose. Someone he’d bring close on purpose, not because they needed him, but because he wanted them there. Someone he wouldn’t hesitate over. Zanka swallows hard.

Because Jabber does hesitate with him.

He can feel it in the pauses, in the careful way he moves, in the way everything between them feels like it’s being handled instead of… felt. Like Jabber is being patient. Not certain. And that’s enough to make Zanka’s chest ache. Because it means this was never meant to be his.

He squeezes his eyes shut tighter, shoulders curling inward.

He shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be wearing this. Shouldn’t be building something that looks so much like what belongs to someone else.

And the worst part-

Is that even knowing all of that… He still wants it to be him anyway. He sighs as his eyes drift back to the walls, taking in the clutter all at once.

Posters taped up everywhere. Layered over each other, edges curling, bands he doesn’t recognize staring back at him in loud colors and sharp angles. None of it matches, none of it feels organized, and somehow it all fits anyway.

Thick black curtains hang over the window, blocking out most of the light. Normally that would’ve made his chest tighten, would’ve made something old and unpleasant stir under his skin.

But it doesn’t.

Not here.

A small shelf is crammed against the wall, overflowing with books, vinyls, games stacked, shoved, barely contained like they kept multiplying faster than they could be put away. Zanka blinks at it.

Just how much junk does he need? 

The thought comes, but it doesn’t land with any real bite. Because the longer he looks, the more it feels like something else.Not junk. Just… lived-in. His room is nothing like this. Clean. Sparse. Controlled.

Empty.

This is the opposite in every way. Messy, crowded, filled with too many things and too many pieces of someone else’s life spilling into every corner. And somehow, It’s comforting.

Zanka shifts slightly where he’s sitting, his fingers brushing absently against the fabric of the hoodie. He doesn’t like dark rooms. Not usually. Not after–

He cuts the thought off before it can fully form. Because this isn’t the same, the darkness here isn’t suffocating. 

Its the kind that settles around you instead of closing in. The kind that feels warm instead of cold, like it’s been shaped by someone actually living in it, existing in it, leaving pieces of themselves behind without trying to hide them. It doesn’t feel empty. It feels… safe.

Zanka exhales quietly, shoulders lowering just a fraction as he sinks into it without realizing.

It’s strange.

How a room that should make him uneasy… Ends up feeling more like somewhere he could stay. His breath hitched as he shifted again, shallow and uneven as the pain settled in properly, no longer dulled by sleep. It wasn’t just one place. It was everywhere.

A deep, lingering soreness that wrapped around his hips and dragged down his thighs, settling heavy in his muscles like he’d been pushed far past his limits and then left there. Every small shift made it worse- sharp in some places, dull and throbbing in others, and it took him a second to even steady himself upright.There was this shuddering tingle than ran across his chest everytime he shifted as the fabric of the baggy hoodie brushed against his skin. 

“…Damn it…” The words came out under his breath, strained.

His grip tightened unconsciously on the shirt still tangled in his fingers, knuckles going faintly white as another wave rolled through him. His body reacted before he could stop it, his shoulders tensing, his back stiffening like bracing would somehow lessen it.

It didn’t. If anything, it made him more aware of it. The ache, the weight of it. The way it lingered inside, impossible to ignore no matter how still he tried to stay. His jaw clenched. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, exhaling slowly through his nose, trying to force it down, push it aside, like it was just another inconvenience. Something minor.

It wasn’t. And that only made his expression twist further.

“…Tch.”

Carefully, more carefully this time, he shifted again. Testing, adjusting, trying to find any position that didn’t make his muscles protest. His movements had lost all their earlier sharpness, dulled down into something slower, more deliberate.

Weaker.

That thought hit harder than the pain did.

His eyes flickered down briefly, like he was checking himself again without meaning to, before snapping away just as fast. No. He wasn’t–

He stilled as that faint, prickling sensation spread again- subtle at first, but impossible to ignore once he focused on it. It wasn’t exactly pain, and not quite discomfort either. Just… there. A strange sensitivity that made his skin feel too aware of itself.

His brows drew together.

“…What now.”

Hooking a finger into the collar, he pulled the hoodie down just enough to look, his gaze narrowing as he scanned over his chest. There was nothing obvious at first- no marks, no bruising- but as he shifted slightly, the feeling sharpened just enough to make him pause.

That’s when he noticed it. Swollen. Not by much, but enough that it felt wrong. Different. Like his body wasn’t reacting the way it was supposed to.

His expression tightened, irritation flickering across his face as he let the fabric fall back into place more abruptly than necessary, like covering it would somehow make it less real. It didn’t. If anything, it only made him more aware of it, lingering under the surface along with everything else that hadn’t settled since last night.

His hands flexed absently at his sides, and the dull ache there finally registered. His fingers twitched slightly, soreness settling into his palms and knuckles like he’d used too much force and was only now feeling the aftermath.

And just like that, the thought hit him.

Jabber.

His gaze dropped, his grip tightening faintly as his mind tried to piece things together. He remembered fragments- pressure under his hands, resistance, the shape of a throat beneath his grip—and his stomach twisted at the realization.

“…Shit.”

The word came out low, rougher than he intended. Everything after that point was hazy, broken apart into flashes that didn’t quite connect. Heat. Exhaustion. That heavy pull of sleep dragging him under whether he wanted it or not.

He couldn’t remember how it ended.

Didn’t know how far it went.

Didn’t know if Jabber had–

His fingers curled tighter before the thought could finish, tension creeping into his shoulders. But then he hesitated, something in his expression shifting as another realization surfaced, quieter but just as unsettling.

He didn’t feel dirty.

The thought came unexpectedly, cutting through everything else. After what little he did remember, he should have felt it, that lingering discomfort, that grime that stuck no matter how clean things actually were. But it wasn’t there.

If anything, he felt… clean.

Too clean.

If fact, he felt extremely clean. Like somebody had wiped him down while he slept. His eyes flicked down at himself again, slower this time, as the pieces started to line up in a way he wasn’t sure he liked. The idea of Jabber wiping his body clean sent another wave of embarrassment though him. 

“…He…”

The word trailed off before it could fully form, something complicated tightening in his chest, caught somewhere between irritation and something he refused to examine too closely. His shoulders shifted slightly, the hoodie settling around him as he looked away.

The thought looped through his head in a tight, relentless circle, each step laid out with the same rigid clarity he used to keep himself together.

First he needed to get out of here.

Then the pharmacy.

And then Engin. Apologize, for how he messed up, for how much of a disappointment he ended up being again. And after that–

His jaw tightened.

After that he could figure out somewhere to disappear. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere deep enough that he wouldn’t have to deal with the weight of this sitting on his chest every time he tried to breathe. The idea settled too easily. Too neatly.

Maybe… maybe he could transfer something to Jabber first.

The thought came softer, slipping in between the harsher ones like it didn’t belong with them. His fingers twitched faintly at his sides as it took shape, his mind latching onto it with the same precision.

He had savings, stocks, all legally in his name and he could do what he wanted with it. He would just transfer one of his stocks, preferably something in the medical feild as he rememebered Jabber talking about forensics, and let him do whatever he wanted with the money.

It wasn’t much, but it was something.

An apology.

For the mess. For dragging him into it. For, well, everything.

His throat tightened.

It wouldn’t fix anything. He knew that. But it didn’t matter, It was the least he could do. Something concrete. Controlled. A way to balance things out, even just a little, even if it didn’t actually make up for what he did.

Because right now- His thoughts stuttered, the clean sequence starting to fray at the edges. Right now nothing felt balanced. Nothing felt contained.

The steps were still there, but they were slipping, overlapping, tangling together as his breathing started to hitch again. The more he tried to hold onto them, the less stable they felt, like they were built on something that was already giving out under him.

First get out.

Pharmacy.

Engin.

Apologize.

Fix it.

Disappear.

His chest tightened, sharper this time, the order breaking apart as his body refused to follow the neat structure his mind was trying to force onto it.

Because he wasn’t moving. He wasn’t leaving. He wasn’t doing any of it.

His fingers curled weakly, his breath catching again as that hollow, dropping feeling dragged him further down, pulling him out of the plan before he could even take the first step.

And suddenly, even something as simple as sitting there felt like too much.

A loud clatter in the kitchen pulled him out of his thoughts. He froze, half-sitting, weight braced on his hands as he listened. Footsteps. Then the soft shuffle just outside the door.

A hesitant knock.

Silence.

More shifting, then the doorknob rattled lightly before turning, the door creaking open like whoever was on the other side was trying not to be heard. A head peeked in.

Jabber.

He looked… off. Too careful. Too unsure. Like he was stepping into a room that wasn’t his. “Oh, thank god your awake.” he said, almost relieved. 

Why would Jabber be relieved? Shouldnt he be angry at him? Hate him? Demand him to fix what he did?

He took a step inside, fully pushing the door open as he fully walked in, flicking on the lights. The first thing Zanka noticed was the wooden tray in his hands. Then second the mound of food that sat on top of it.  The third, the fact that he couldn't smell Jabber. Like he was holding back his scent. 

That made him feel queasy for some reason. Sick almost. But he didnt deserved to smell him, not after what what happened. He needed to apologize for what he did, apologize for how he took advantage of him, and how he forced him to do stuff he didn't want to do. He needed to say sorry, and just hope Jabber forgave him.  He swallowed thickly, suddenly nervous now that he was here. 

Jabber stepped fully into the room, stopping a few feet away from the the bed.

“Hey–”

“Hey–”

They spoke at the exact same time.

The word hung in the air between them like something fragile that neither of them knew what to do with. Silence followed immediately after.

Well… this is awkward.

Jabber opened his mouth again, then hesitated, his hand coming up to rub awkwardly at the back of his neck.

“S-Sorry. Continue.”

“I- no. It’s nothing, go ahead.” Zanka said quickly.

His nerves got the best of him. The words rushed out before he could stop them. He couldn’t bring himself to mention what had happened between them. Couldn’t even bring himself to hint at it.

Because if he said it out loud–

If he actually acknowledged it–

It would make it real.

And that would mean he would have to let go of what they had, whatever the hell you could call it, and shamefully, Zanka didnt want to lose that. Not yet at least.

Jabber’s gaze lingered on him for a moment longer than it probably should have. He took in the way Zanka was sitting stiffly in the middle of the bed, shoulders slightly hunched like he was trying to make himself smaller, like a small dog caught getting into something he wasn't supposed to be in. Then his eyes drifted down to the clothes scattered around him, the blanket half tangled around his legs.

The room felt strangely quiet. Not peaceful quiet, the heavy kind. Like something was sitting between them that neither of them wanted to touch.

Jabber considered pushing it. Making Zanka speak first. The tension in the room made it obvious there was something sitting on the tip of his tongue. But the way Zanka’s fingers curled slightly into the blanket…

The way he wouldn’t quite meet his eyes…

Yeah. Pushing probably wasn’t a good idea. So Jabber didn’t. Instead, he shifted his weight slightly where he stood, the floor creaking faintly under his foot. 

“Uh…”

He had already been through a lot, Jabber reminded himself. And he had told himself, that no matter what, he would be there for Zanka. Even though what they did was obviously nothing more that instinct for him. And that hurt to say.  His grip shifted on the tray in his hands as he drew in a slow breath, like he was bracing himself.

“Well I– uh… I made you something to eat,” he said as hebrought up the tray slightly. “I did some research and read that carbs and meat are good for after, uh…yeah” His voice trailed off.

Smooth. Real smooth, man.

Jabber pressed his lips together for a second before continuing, pushing through the awkwardness.

“Anyways, I went to Costco and got some chicken. I, uh… wasn’t sure if you liked eating meat off the bone or not, so I took it apart for you. Made sure there weren’t any chewy bits in it either.”

“I also added more season to the chicken, I know technically its already seasoned but I didnt want it to be bland, and uh, seasonings has calories in them right? So uh, so harm in adding some I thought.”

Zanka didn’t say anything. He just sat there on the bed, staring at him while he talked. Which, somehow, made everything ten times more nerve-wracking. Jabber kept going anyway, words spilling out in a slightly uneven stream.

“I also cooked you some rice– or uh. Quinoa. The fancy stuff. I just used whatever you had in the cupboard. Hope you don't mind. ” He motioned vaguely with the tray as he spoke. “I boiled it in bone broth- that I also got from Costco. I read online that protein is good for you..”

He took a step forward, clearly hesitant to move closer. The floor creaked softly under his weight as he approached the bed, carefully setting the tray down in front of Zanka.

Up close, the silence somehow felt even louder.

Jabber immediately dropped his gaze to his hands, fiddling with the rings on his fingers, twisting one of them around and around his knuckle.

God, why was he so nervous?

“It also said online that fruit was good for hydration,” he added quickly. “So I got you strawberries. I hope you like strawberries, you seem like a strawberry guy so I bought like… three pounds of them. So– uh– just let me know if you want more.” He exhaled softly, rubbing the back of his neck again as the words finally stopped coming. And the quiet rushed right back in. Jabber risked glancing up at him again.

“…Sorry,” he muttered after a second. “I’m talking a lot.”

He shifted his weight again, glancing around the room like he was searching for something, anything, to focus on. If he could just latch onto something else, maybe he wouldn’t feel like he was about to crawl out of his own skin.

His eyes landed on the old gym shirt still clutched loosely in Zanka’s hands, like it had gaiven him something to talk about. Jabber’s brows lifted slightly before his gaze flicked back up to Zanka’s face.

“Oh– uh, your clothes are in the dryer right now,” he said quickly. “I didn’t want to go into your room and snoop through your closet or anything, so I just… dragged out some of my older stuff.”

He gestured vaguely toward the hoodie and sweats Zanka was wearing.

“You can keep them or throw them away. They weren’t expensive or anything.” His fingers went back to his rings again, turning one around his knuckle. “I mean- not that I’m saying you should throw them away,” he added awkwardly, immediately feeling like he needed to clarify. “They’re clean and everything. I just meant like- if you don’t want them or whatever. They don't even fit me anymore so um.. Yeah.”

God, he needed to stop talking.

Jabber rubbed the back of his neck again, glancing off to the side for a moment before forcing himself to look back at Zanka. His voice came out quieter this time.

“I just didn’t want you waking up in… the same stuff.”

The sentence hung there, unfinished in a way that made it painfully obvious what he meant. Another small silence crept into the room.

Jabber shifted on his feet again, clearly fighting the urge to fill it with more rambling.

Zanka shifted slightly on the bed, fingers tightening a little around the old gym shirt still in his hands. His mouth opened like he was about to say something.

“Ja–”

“Also–”

They both started speaking again at the same time.

Jabber stopped immediately. “Oh– shit. Sorry.” He lifted a hand a little in surrender, awkward smile tugging at his mouth like it would make this situation any less awkward for the both of them. “What were you gonna say?”

Zanka hesitated.

The words he’d been about to say sat heavy in his throat. About earlier, about what happened between them. About the way everything between them suddenly felt different now. His fingers curled tighter into the fabric of the shirt.

No. Not right now.

“…Uh,” Zanka said instead, glancing away for a moment. “Could I get a drink?”

Jabber blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Then he completely froze.

“Oh–”

His eyes slowly dropped to the tray sitting in front of Zanka.

The chicken from costco that he had absolutely torn apart trying to make it easier for him to eat. The fancy rice, or quinoa, whatever the hell Zanka had bought to eat. The bloody mound of strawberries that Jabber spent so long cutting into easy bite-sized pieces for him. 

But no drink.

“Oh my god, I didn’t bring you a drink.” He looked genuinely horrified, like the oversight was something to be ahasmed about. “I- hold on.” The words came out fast as he turned on his heel almost immediately. “I’ll- yeah. One second.”

And then he was gone. Jabber practically bolted out of the bedroom, his footsteps quickly disappearing down the hall. The room fell quiet again. Zanka sat there for a moment, staring at the doorway where he’d disappeared through.

Then his gaze slowly dropped. The tray was right in front of him. The smell hit him a little stronger now that the room was quiet. Warm chicken. The smell of rich broth from the quinoa. The faint sweet smell of strawberries that had been delically mounted on the plate. 

His stomach twisted suddenly.

Hard.

Zanka blinked, looking down at the food like he was seeing it for the first time. And then it hit him.

Oh.

He was starving. Not just a little hungry. Starving. His stomach gave a quiet, traitorous growl as if to confirm it. Zanka pressed his lips together slightly, staring down at the tray. He hadn’t realized just how hungry he actually was until right now.

A minute later, hurried footsteps came back down the hall. Jabber appeared in the doorway again, slightly out of breath, a glass clutched carefully in his hand.

“Sorry– sorry,” he said as he walked back in. “I didn’t wanna just give you tap water.”

He stepped up to the bed and carefully held the glass out to him.

“It’s orange juice.” Jabber hesitated a second before adding, a little awkwardly, “Figured… vitamins and stuff, that's always good for you. Right?”

Zanka took the glass from him, their fingers almost brushing before Jabber pulled his hand back quickly.

“Thanks,” Zanka murmered.

Jabber nodded once, then once again seemed to forget what to do with himself. He hovered there for a moment before awkwardly lowering himself onto the edge of the bed, leaving a noticeable amount of space between them. His hands immediately found his rings again, twisting one around his finger as his foot bounced lightly against the floor.

“You should probably eat,” he said after a moment, gesturing toward the tray. “I read that you’re supposed to eat after.”

He didn’t elaborate. He didnt need too. Zanka knew what he was referinging too. The silence that followed was almost painful to sit in.

Zanka stared down at the food. Jabber stared at the floor. And neither of them spoke.

The only sound in the room was the faint clink of metal as Jabber kept absently fidgeting with his rings. The tension in the air was thick enough to choke on. Zanka shifted slightly, the movement making the tray rattle softly. His stomach twisted again.

God, he really was hungry.

He glanced sideways at Jabber, who immediately looked away the moment their eyes almost met.

Right.

This clearly wasn’t going to get any less awkward. So Zanka decided to just get it over with. He reached forward, grabbing the fork off the tray.

Jabber’s foot stopped bouncing. 

Zanka speared a small piece of chicken and brought it to his mouth, chewing slowly. Jabber watched him out of the corner of his eye, trying very hard not to make it obvious. “…Is it okay?” he asked after a second, the question slipping out before he could stop himself.

Zanka paused mid-chew when Jabber spoke.

For a second it looked like he might not answer at all. His eyes stayed on the tray, chewing slowly, like he was thinking about the question a little harder than necessary. Then he swallowed.

“…Yeah,” he said quietly.

Jabber straightened a little.

“Yeah?” he repeated back, like the confirmation that he didn't fuck this up relieved him. 

Zanka nodded once, taking another bite before answering again.

“It’s..good.”

The words were simple, but they hit Jabber harder than he expected. Some of the tightness in his shoulders eased almost immediately.

“Oh. Good,” he said quickly. “Good.”

Silence slipped back in again. Zanka kept eating, slower at first, like he was still a little unsure of himself. But after a few more bites, that hesitation faded.

Because the food actually was good.

The chicken was warm and tender, broken up into easy pieces just like Jabber said. No gristle, no weird chewy parts. The quinoa was soft and soaked with the rich taste of broth, and it had just enough salt that it didn’t taste bland.

The strawberries were washed clean, cut up into clean slices so its easier to eat. 

For some reason, even with the simplicity of the meal, it felt like the best thing in the world at the moment. Zanka always had freshly cooked meals, but everything was calculated down to the last calorie. Everything bland and green. 

But this was different. It tasted what he assumed other people meant by a ‘good home-cooked meal’.

His stomach felt like it had been waiting for this his entire life. Zanka didn’t even realize how quickly he started eating until he paused to take a drink of the orange juice.

Across the bed, Jabber noticed. He tried not to stare, really he did, but it was hard not to notice the way Zanka was eating now. The earlier hesitation was gone, replaced with quiet, focused bites. Something about that made a strange mix of relief and nervous energy twist in his chest.

“Uh,” Jabber said after a moment, rubbing the back of his neck again. “There’s more if you want it.”

Zanka glanced up briefly.

“In the kitchen,” Jabber clarified quickly. “I made extra. I didn’t know how hungry you’d be.”

Zanka looked back down at the tray, taking another bite. “…You went to Costco for this?” he asked after a moment.

Jabber huffed a small, awkward laugh.

“Yeah.”

A small pause.

“They sell everything in like… apocalypse quantities,” he added. “So you’re probably gonna be eating chicken for the next week. I bought 3 of em.”

Zanka snorted softly before he could stop himself. The sound surprised both of them. Jabber blinked. Zanka immediately looked back down at the tray again, like the food had suddenly become extremely interesting.

But the tension in the room loosened– just a little. 

It didnt take long for Zanka to finish eating, the fork he was given scraping against the plate loudly in the silence. . 

“Are you done?”  Jabber asked after a minute of awkward silence. 

Zanka set the fork down against the plate before straightening his posture. He glanced up at him as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, realising just how he was eating while jabber was just staring at him like some sort of endangered animal in a zoo. 

He pushed the tray away from his lap, a faint flush tinting his cheeks as he let out a quiet ‘yeah’. 

Jabber nodded, more so to himself, before standing up and gingerly taking the tray from his lap. He stood there for a moment, like he was deciding if he should say something else. 

But he didnt. 

He turned heel and left the room, the soft clatter of the plate and the cup rattling in the kitchen. 

Zanka let out a breath that he didnt know he was holding. 

He finally looked up from his lap, eyes landing on the spot where Jabber was sitting, the indent of his weight already leaving the mattress. He then glanced at the door, the faint sound of Jabber in the kitchen messing around echoed in the apartment. 

“Alright… Let's get this over with,” he mumbled to himself. 

He shifted his weight,  a dull ache thrumming from his lower back as he slowly made his way to the edge of the bed. Having to push away the swarm of clothes out of his way as he swung his legs off the side. 

He looked down, noticing that he was wearing socks too. His brows furrowed as he wiggled his toes slightly. 

One pair a striped sock, and the other was purple with some kinda anime character on it. He pulled the leg of the pants he was wearing up slightly to get a better look at them. They were both the same size, going up his calf. 

He let out a small laugh, because who actually owns socks that arnt just black? 

He stopped himself, forcing the small smile that played on his lips to stop. He didnt have the time to be laughing about socks. Didn't have the right too. 

He let go of the pants leg before he pressed his palms against the mattress, but he paused as he felt some fabric under his palm 

It was that same shirt he had a moment ago. 

He instinctively grabbed it, like there was somebody else controlling him. He scowled at himself, he didnt understand why he was so drawn to the shirt, but the moment he saw it it made him feel weird not holding it. 

Like there was some sort of bird trying to escape his ribcage. But the moment he had it in his hand, the moment he smelled the pheromones soaking it, it made him feel on top of the world. Like nothing bad could happen to him. 

He shook his head before pushing himself off the bed, and maybe he had went up a little too fast. 

Because the moment he left the mattress his legs gave out from underneath him and he stumbled down. 

One knee hit the floor hard, which sent a shock of pain through him, but the sudden movement also shot a wave of pain straight down his spine. Hell it wasn't even his spine that hurt, or his lower back. But he hurt deep inside too. 

This deep throbbing ache that throbbed hard deep inside him. Not the same ache as the day before, when his heat had started. No, it wasn't the hurt of want, but everything that came after it. 

He caught himself before he could fully collapse, caught in the weird pose, torso twisted as he clung to the side of the bed, knee painfully pressed into the hardwood floor. 

He didnt make a huge racket, but the sound of him falling was obvious, the sound of water running shut off in the kitchen before he heard Jabber running down the hall. He barreled through the door, the door itself slamming against the wall and making a small dent where the doorknob hit wall. 

“Are you okay?!”

Zanka was in the middle of working himself up when Jabber was already by his side, hand reaching out to help.

Jabber hesitated for a moment, hands just a few inches away from the man in the floor, before a small pained sounds escaped him. And that was all he needed to hear to help. 

He gently hooked his hands under neath Zanka's arms before slowly hauling him back up to the mattress. Jabber kneeled down immediately, pulling up the sweat pants to take a look at his knee before looking up at Zanka. 

It didnt seem like it would bruise. 

“Shit- sorry. I thought- I don't know what I thought…” He let go ff the fabric, before taking his hands off him, now extremely aware of how close they are. “Sorry. Are you okay?”

Zanka could feel his ears turn red for how mortified he was to be seen in such a weakened state. 

He always took pride on his strength. Spending hours every week in the gym, pushing himself past limits just to say that he could handle himself no matter the situation. But here he was, losing his balance like some sort of baby animal trying to walk for the first time. 

It was shameful. 

Zanka turns his head, avoiding eye contact entirely. One hand still clutching the shirt like a lifeline, the other tangling in the sheets beneath him.

“Y-yeah,” he swallows hard, forcing his voice to steady. “I’m fine. I just… lost my balance, that’s all. I’m fine.”

Jabber watches him, trying, just once, to catch his gaze.

He doesn’t. Zanka doesn’t even try to look at him.

It stings more than he expects.

But-

That’s okay.

Jabber exhales quietly, letting the moment settle instead of pushing it. “You should get some more rest,” he says after a beat.

He stands, giving Zanka the space he’s so clearly asking for without saying it. For a second, Jabber just lingers there in the middle of the room, looking down at him, like he wants to say something else, but doesn’t.

Then his gaze shifts toward the closet.

“I’ve got more clothes you can use,” he says, already moving. “I’ll put them on the bed.”

A pause.

“You can stay in here and just… rest.” Another small hesitation. “..I’ll leave you alone.”

That makes Zanka look at him.

“No–” he starts quickly, gripping the shirt tighter in his hand before biting down on his bottom lip.

The room feels tense again almost instantly. And the way Jabber is looking at him—

It makes Zanka’s chest ache.

He looks, for lack of a better word, like someone had just kicked his dog and stole his ice cream. Confused. Hurt. Careful in a way that feels too heavy to be casual.

Why does he look like that?

“I’m fine,” Zanka insists, a little more firmly this time. “Like I said, I just lost my balance. I’m good.” He lets out a breath and shifts again, only now noticing the dull ache settling into his knee. “…I need to go to town anyway,” he adds quickly, like he can talk his way out of the moment. “So I’ll get out of your hair, I just-”

He tries to stand.

This time he gets a little further, but not enough. His leg gives him just enough resistance that he has to drop back onto the bed before it becomes a real attempt. At least he doesn’t fully fall this time.

Small victories, right?

Jabber moved on instinct. A step forward, hands lifting like he’s going to catch him, then stopping himself halfway, like he’s afraid touching him would only make it worse.

Zanka notices that too. And somehow, that makes everything feel even heavier.

Jabber’s hands hover for a second longer before he slowly lowers them again, jaw tightening slightly as he keeps his distance.

“…You don’t need to go anywhere right now,” he says quietly.

Not a command. Just… steady, laced with concern that Zanka couldnt quite figure out where it came from. Like he’s trying not to scare him off.

His eyes flick briefly to Zanka’s knee, then back to his face, trying to search for a answer how how he should proceed.

“You’re still shaky,” he adds, quieter this time. Jabber’s gaze flicked over him again, less assessing now, more certain. “Just sit for a bit.”

A beat.

Then, like it was the simplest thing in the world, “I’ll go for you. What do you need? I’ll get it.”

Zanka looks up at him, breath catching slightly. That had not been part of the plan.

The plan was simple: leave, recover, apolgize, disappear into public space like nothing had happened, and relocate to a completely different apartment where he could pretend this entire situation never existed.

Preferably one without emotional entanglement or borrowed clothes.

He swallows.

“No– I need to go to the pharmacy,” Zanka says quickly. “I’m fine, I promise.”

Jabber doesn’t argue. Instead, he’s already moving.

He crosses the room and starts sorting through a laundry basket like it’s the most normal thing in the world, pulling out clothes without hesitation. Not just any clothes, things that clearly carry his scent the strongest, handled like it’s instinct rather than thought.

Zanka watches him, confused.

“…What are you doing?”

Jabber doesn’t look up. “Getting you more of my clothes.” he replied softly, like it was routine.

“That’s not-”

“Anyways,” Jabber cuts in smoothly, still digging through the basket. “I also needed to run to the pharmacy.”

Zanka blinks.

“You–what?”

Jabber finally glances over his shoulder, expression completely even as he picks up another shirt. “Yeah,” he says, like it’s obvious. “I was going anyway. So I’ll just grab whatever you need while I’m there.”

There’s a beat.

Zanka stares at him.

“…You were?”

“Yep.”

Jabber turns toward him just as he sets the pile of clothes down beside the bed.

Zanka’s eyes snap to it immediately, and something in him shifts.

Jabber doesn’t miss it, the way Zanka swallows, the way his breathing catches like he’s trying to stay ahead of something his body is reacting to faster than his mind can process.

The scent is faint, but it’s there. Leather and musk, softened by fabric and time, curling around the edge of the bed like it belongs there. Like it was always meant to be there.

Warm. Familiar in a way that doesn’t feel safe so much as… too easy. Too inviting. His instincts twist against him, turning the simple idea of staying into something dangerously tempting.

Zanka’s chest tightens. His throat goes dry, and he swallows roughly as he forces himself to breathe properly, forces his thoughts back into place before his body decides for him again.

Not now. Not here. Not with this.

His gaze drags up slowly, reluctant, like it takes actual effort just to look away from the pile of clothes.

“No,” Zanka says.

The word is quiet, but firm.

Jabber pauses.

Zanka steadies himself, jaw tightening as he pushes through the rest. “I want to go– I need to go.” A breath catches in his throat, barely slipping through. “I’m just… going, okay?”

The last part comes out rushed, like if he doesn’t say it fast enough, he might lose the ability to say it at all.

Like he was trying to convince himself just as much as Jabber.

Jabber didn’t answer right away. He just looked at him, not confused or surprised, just quietly assessing him like he was trying to decide how this would end before it actually did. His gaze lingered on Zanka’s posture- the stiffness, the careful way he held himself, like he was one wrong shift away from falling apart.

“…Right,” he said at last.

Not agreement, not really, more like resignation.

Zanka frowned. “What’s that supposed to–”

“I’m not stopping you,” Jabber cut in, voice even. No edge to it this time. No bite. Just final, like he’d already made up his mind.

That alone made Zanka hesitate more than an argument would’ve.

After a moment, Jabber added, “Just let me drive you…please.”

Zanka went still.

There it was again. Not really a request, not in the way it was said. More like something already decided, just waiting for Zanka to catch up to it.

His irritation rose on instinct, ready to push back, to shut it down, to make it simple again, but it didn’t land properly. Not when Jabber was looking at him like that. Not when the silence between them felt heavier than any argument.

Jabber didn’t let things go. Zanka had figured that out pretty early on. Stubborn, worse than him in some ways, except Jabber didn’t wear it like a fight. He just waited. Like time would do the work for him.

“…I can get there myself,” Zanka muttered, but it came out thinner than he meant it to, like he was testing the words more than actually standing behind them.

Jabber didn’t respond. He didn’t push, didn’t repeat himself, he just kept looking at him, steady and unmoving, like he was willing to wait as long as it took.

That silence stretched, thin and tight, until it was impossible to ignore.

Zanka exhales through his nose, gaze slipping off to the side as his shoulders tense. He holds out for a second longer, like he’s trying to win something neither of them named, before finally giving in.

“…Fine.”

The shift in Jabber is subtle, but it’s there. Some of the tension in his shoulders eases, like he hadn’t realized how tightly he was holding himself until now. He doesn’t say anything right away, though. Instead, he steps closer and bends down, grabbing Zanka’s shoes from where they’d been neatly lined up at the edge of the bed and setting them in front of him.

“You can keep that shirt if you want.”

Zanka’s head snaps up, caught somewhere between confused and embarrassed. He knows exactly what Jabber’s talking about– he just doesn’t want to acknowledge it.

His grip tightens instinctively around the fabric before he forces it to loosen, even though he can’t actually make himself let go. As much as he tells himself he should, his fingers refuse to cooperate.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mutters after a moment, voice rough and just a little too quick.

Jabber meets his gaze, holding it for a second like he’s deciding whether to call him out on it, but then he just straightens up again. His hand comes up to rub the back of his neck, fingers dragging there in a restless, uncertain way.

“I– look, it’s fine,” he says, forcing a casual shrug. “Just keep it. I’m not gonna miss it.”

It sounds easy.

Too easy.

His eyes flick down to the shirt still clutched in Zanka’s hands, and he hesitates before adding, “Though… it’d probably be better to wear it than just carry it around.”

The moment the words leave his mouth, he goes still.

Why did I say that.

There’s no way–

“Okay.”

Jabber blinks.

For a second, he just stares at him, like his brain stalled trying to process what he’d heard.

“…Okay,” he repeats, a little too quickly. “Cool. Cool, yeah.”

He turns around immediately- too fast to be natural- shoving his hands into his pockets as he faces the wall, eyes locking onto a poster like it suddenly matters more than anything else in the room.

Well hello there, David Bowie.

His foot started tapping lightly against the floor, restless energy bleeding out in small, repetitive movement as he waited.

This felt… familiar. The way Jabber had turned around, just staring at the wall while Zanka dressed behind him.

Zanka’s gaze lingered on his back for a moment before flicking toward the bathroom only a few feet away. When he’d agreed, something he hadn’t even meant to do, the word slipping out before he could stop it. He’d assumed he’d just go in there. Shut the door. Put some space between them.

That would’ve made sense. But moving now would make it more awkward, not less. So he said nothing. 

Slowly, he hooks his fingers into the hem of the hoodie and pulls it up and over his head. The fabric drags against his skin before slipping free, and the cooler air hits him immediately, sending a faint shiver down his spine.

For a second, he just sits there.

Then his eyes lift again, back to Jabber. Hes still turned. Still facing the wall. Not looking as he taps his foot against the floor.

Zanka hesitated before bringing a hand up to his chest, fingers pressing lightly into the soft skin like he was checking if it was real. His brows pulled together, confusion settling in as he took a slow breath.

They were… sensitive. More than that. Swollen.

His thumb brushed over one without thinking, and he stilled, breath catching at the unfamiliar sensation. He didn’t remember reading anything about this, not in any textbook, not in anything he’d studied about heats or their aftermath- and he definitely hadn’t experienced it before.

Zanka frowned faintly, lowering his hand after a moment. He’d have to look it up later. When he was alone. He shifted, fumbling with the shirt in his hands. His fingers caught awkwardly in the fabric as he tried to find the right way to pull it on, twisting it once, then again before finally getting it straight. His jaw tightened slightly at the unnecessary struggle before he slipped it over his head.

A soft sound escaped him the second the fabric brushed across his chest- barely there, more breath than voice and he froze, like he could take it back if he stayed still long enough.

The material was still warm. That was the first thing he noticed. Not just warm, but familiar in a way that made something low in his stomach pull tight. His breath hitched, shoulders going rigid as the feeling settled deeper than it should have.

Across the room, Jabber, who had been very seriously pretending to be invested in a very one-sided psychological debate with his David Bowie poster, went completely still. 

Zanka didn’t need to look to know why.

Still, his gaze flicked up anyway, catching the way Jabber’s shoulders had tensed, like he was actively stopping himself from turning around. Like every instinct in him was pulling him back, and he was choosing not to listen.

But he didn’t move. Thank god.

Zanka let out a quiet breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, his grip tightening briefly in the fabric before he forced his hands to relax. And the moment he did, the feeling shifted. It wasn’t sharp anymore. Not overwhelming, not suffocating, not something that made his thoughts knot up on themselves.

It was… softer.

Like a warm weight settling over his shoulders, easing into him without resistance. It sank in slowly, wrapping around something in his chest he hadn’t realized was wound so tight. Comforting. Too comforting.

His brow furrowed slightly at that. For just a second, just long enough to be dangerous, it made him think maybe things wouldn’t be as awkward as he’d been bracing for. Like whatever had shifted between them didn’t have to sit so heavy.

Like maybe–

His jaw tightened.

It’s just a shirt. The thought came fast, almost defensive. Leftover instinct. That’s all. His body was still coming down from his heat, still off-balance, still looking for something familiar to latch onto. That was it. Nothing deeper. Nothing worth thinking about.

He huffed quietly under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “…Stupid,” he muttered, barely audible. His expression settled into something more guarded as he tugged the hoodie into place properly, pulling the sleeves down and adjusting the fabric like that alone could fix whatever had shifted inside him.

Silence stretched.

Then stretched a little more.

Zanka cleared his throat, the sound louder than it should have in the quiet. That was when Jabber finally turned around, abandoning his very serious mental debate with the poster, at least for now.

His gaze lingered longer than it should have.

Zanka sat at the edge of the bed, leaning forward slightly, palms braced against the mattress like he was grounding himself there. 

The sleeves hung too long over his hands, the collar dipping loose near his collarbone. It didn’t fit him right. And that was exactly why it looked so good.

Jabber’s breath caught, barely noticeable, but there.

God damn.

The thought came too easily. Something in his chest tightened, sharp and sudden, before settling into something warmer. Heavier. It curled low in his ribs- pride, maybe. Possession, if he was being honest with himself.

Because Zanka was here. In his room. Wearing his clothes, smelling like him.

It was subtle, but it was there- the faint trace of leather and smoke woven into the fabric, clinging to Zanka now just as much as the oversized hoodie did. Anyone paying attention would notice. Would know.

Jabber swallowed, jaw tightening slightly as the thought settled in.

Mine.

The word slipped in uninvited. And that’s where it caught. He stilled, the echo of it lingering just a second too long before something in him recoiled. His teeth pressed into the inside of his cheek, sharp enough to ground him, to cut through it before it could settle any deeper.

No.

Another feeling followed close behind, colder this time. Uneasy. It twisted against the warmth until he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

Guilt. Probably.

Or something close enough to it. 

Zanka didn’t belong to him. Didn’t matter how he looked sitting there. Didn’t matter whose clothes he was wearing, or how easy it would be to pretend otherwise for just a second too long.

He didn’t.

Jabber exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing the thought down, forcing himself to sit with it instead of pushing past it like he usually would. Because as much as it irritated him- persistent, inconvenient- he knew it was true.

He just… didn’t know what that made them.

Not strangers.

Not nothing.

But not–

His gaze flicked back to Zanka, catching the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers pressed into the mattress like he was holding himself together. Jabber’s expression softened slightly, something quieter settling in as the edge of that earlier feeling dulled.

Yeah. Whatever this was… it wasn’t simple.

He stepped forward, then dropped down onto one knee.

Zanka’s attention flicked to him as Jabber reached for his shoes, setting them carefully in front of his feet. He didn’t look up, just focused on the laces, loosening them with slow, deliberate movements like it gave him something to hold onto.

Zanka tensed, but didn’t argue. Fighting him over this felt pointless, especially with the way Jabber was acting. So he let him.

He shifted, slipping his feet into the loosened shoes, the movement awkward in the heavy quiet between them. And the silence lingered. Zanka glanced down at him again, irritation creeping in despite everything.

Why wasn’t he saying anything? Jabber always had something to say. Usually too much. Usually enough to get on his nerves within seconds. But right now? Anything would’ve been better than this.

Zanka’s gaze lingered longer than it should have.

It started small, just watching Jabber’s hands as he worked the laces loose and retied them, movements a little clumsier than usual, like his focus wasn’t entirely there. But then it dragged upward without permission, catching on the way his lashes dipped when he looked down, the faint tension in his brow as he concentrated on something as simple as tying a knot.

His dreads slipped forward with the motion, brushing over his shoulder, the gold cuffs woven through them clicking softly together. The sound was quiet, but in the silence between them, it felt louder than it should have.

Zanka swallowed.

His eyes dropped briefly, instinctively, taking in the rest of him. The black turtleneck hugged close to his frame, chains layered over it in that messy, deliberate way Jabber always wore them, like he hadn’t tried at all but still got it right. The jeans were worn in, faded at the edges, familiar.

Too familiar.

Zanka forced his gaze away before it could linger any longer, jaw tightening slightly as he tried to steady himself.

He should say something.

Anything.

Break this.

Because the silence sitting between them wasn’t just quiet, it was thick, suffocating, pressing in on him in a way that made his chest feel tight. Like if he didn’t cut through it soon, it would swallow the both of them whole.

His fingers curled slightly against the fabric in his hands.

He already knew how this would go.

He’d bring it up- awkward, blunt, probably wrong, and Jabber would laugh it off. Make a joke. Deflect, like he always did when something got too real. And then… that would be it.

Not all at once.

But slowly.

They’d stop talking as much. Stop being around each other like this. The edges would dull, the space between them stretching wider and wider until it didn’t feel natural to close it anymore.

Until Jabber just… lost interest.

Because why wouldn’t he?

Zanka’s stomach twisted, something heavier settling in his chest as the thought fully took shape.

Who would want to stay after that?

After what he’d done.

After losing control like that, letting instinct take over, letting something ugly and raw push past everything he was supposed to have control over. Years of discipline, of training himself not to react, not to falter and it had all meant nothing in the end.

His grip tightened.

He’d dragged Jabber into it.

Whether Jabber said it was fine or not, whether he brushed it off or pretended it didn’t matter, it didn’t change what it was. Didn’t change the fact that Zanka had needed something in that moment and taken it without thinking about anything else.

About him. About what he might’ve wanted.

A bitter feeling curled low in his chest.

After he hurt him.

Zanka’s throat felt tight, his gaze fixed somewhere off to the side now, like he couldn’t quite bring himself to look at Jabber again.

Not when he already felt like he knew how this would end.

“H-”

“Right. Pharmacy.”

Jabber stood up quickly, like the thought had just clicked into place, brushing his hands over his knees out of habit before pulling his phone from his pocket. The screen lit up his face for a second as he unlocked it, already moving on, already shifting the moment forward.

Like nothing had been said. Like nothing needed to be.

Zanka’s lips pressed together.

A small thing, but it lingered. That quiet, sinking feeling of being… missed. Or ignored. He couldn’t tell which was worse. Maybe Jabber hadn’t heard him. Maybe he had and just… chose not to respond.

Zanka didn’t know.

And if he was being honest with himself, he didn’t know what he had expected either.

“…Okay,” he said instead.

Quiet. Flat. The word slipping out more like compliance than agreement, like he was bracing himself to be moved along rather than choosing it.

Because the longer he stood there, the less he actually wanted to go.

The idea of stepping outside, of being seen, of having to function like everything was normal. It made something in his chest tighten again, faint but persistent.

But he didn’t argue.

Didn’t push back.

Zanka straightened slowly, forcing his posture upright even as his body protested immediately. A sharp line of pain dragged down his spine the moment he moved, followed by that dull, throbbing ache that hadn’t fully settled anywhere, it just existed everywhere at once.

He ignored it.

Pushed through it like he always did.

His hand braced briefly against the bed as he stood, just for balance, just for a second, then dropped like it hadn’t happened at all.

Fine.

He was fine.

He just needed to get this over with.

His knees faltered for half a second before he forced himself to stand properly or as properly as he could.

He brushed his hands down the fabric of the hoodie, palms damp with nerves, trying to ground himself in something real. Something that wasn’t just… thoughts.

His eyes flicked toward the door.

“…We should go,” he muttered, voice quieter than he meant it to be.

Jabber didn’t argue.

He just gave a short nod and moved first, crossing the room and pulling the door open, holding it there without looking back. Waiting.

Zanka followed.

Each step felt a little too heavy, a little too aware, but he pushed through it anyway, slipping past him and out into the hallway.

They didn’t say anything.

Not when the door shut behind them. Not as they moved through the apartment. It wasn’t until they passed the kitchen that Zanka’s gaze shifted.

The mess was still there.

Dishes, containers, the remnants of what Jabber had made for him earlier, left out and half-cleaned at best. It looked like he’d dropped everything in the middle of it.

Because of him.

Zanka slowed slightly, guilt tugging at him again.

“I can-” he started, the words automatic, already forming.

“Don’t,” Jabber cut in, not harsh, just… firm.

Zanka paused.

Jabber didn’t look at him, just grabbed his keys from the counter. “I’ll deal with it later. When we get back.”

Like it wasn’t a big deal. Like none of it was. Zanka hesitated for half a second before giving a small nod. “…Okay.”

And that was that. They left the apartment.

The stairwell was quiet, their footsteps echoing faintly as they started down. Zanka kept his hand close to the railing, just in case, even if he didn’t fully grab it.

The first few steps were fine. Then the pain hit. It shot up through his legs and into his spine, enough to make his breath hitch, but he swallowed it down, jaw tightening as he kept moving.

Each step worse than the last. But he didn’t say anything. Didn’t slow down. 

Didn’t let himself.

By the time they reached the bottom, there was a faint tension in the way he held himself, but he forced it still, forcing his body back into something that looked normal.

The cool air outside hit him differently, sharper somehow, but he ignored that too as he walked around to the passenger side and pulled the door open. He slid into the seat with a quiet exhale, careful in a way he hadn’t been before, pulling the door shut behind him.

A second later, the driver’s side opened. Jabber got in, keys already in hand.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Just the quiet click of the door and Jabber put the keys in before turning over the engine. He rolled the windows down to let the cool air rush in from outside. 

There was another awkward stretch of silence before Jabber tightened his grip on the steering wheel and pulled out of the parking lot before heading to their destination. 

At some point, jabber twisted the audio nob, turning on some music just the fill the music, and for once Zanka was happy to have something playing. 

It didn’t take long for them to reach the pharmacy.

By the time Jabber found a parking spot and cut the engine, Zanka was already reconsidering everything.

The place was packed. People moving in and out, cars pulling through the lot, too much noise, too much movement. Even just watching it from the passenger seat made something in his chest tighten faintly.

And his body wasn’t helping.

Every bump in the road on the way there had sent another sharp reminder through him, pain flaring up his spine, settling heavy in his hips, in his legs, in places he didn’t want to think about too closely. It hadn’t faded yet. If anything, sitting still made him more aware of it.

Maybe it would just be easier to stay here.

Stay in the car. Avoid the crowd. Avoid the looks. Avoid… everything else.

“…Can you go in for me?” he asked.

Jabber’s head turned toward him immediately, quick and a little surprised, like the question caught him off guard after how hard Zanka had pushed to come along in the first place.

But he didn’t argue.

“Yeah. Sure.”

He reached down, unbuckling his seatbelt, the click loud in the quiet of the car before he pushed the door open slightly. Still, he hesitated for a second, glancing back at Zanka.

“What do you want?”

Zanka stilled.

The question shouldn’t have been hard. It was simple. Straightforward.

But the words didn’t come as easily as they should have.

“Just-” he started, then paused, forcing himself to keep going. “Pain medication. And…”

His throat tightened slightly.

“…after-heat suppressants,” he muttered, quieter this time, gaze dropping away.

“Okay.”

He rolled the windows up before stepping out fully, shutting the door behind him. For a second, he lingered there, glancing back through the glass and giving Zanka a quick once-over, like he was checking something he couldn’t quite put into words.

Making sure he was okay. Or at least… okay enough.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, then turned and headed inside.

Zanka watched him go for a second longer than he meant to.

Then he leaned back into the seat, the quiet of the car settling around him again, heavier now that he was alone.

Alone. 

It wasn’t dramatic, nothing visible, but Zanka felt it immediately. His shoulders dropped a fraction, the tightness in his chest loosening just enough for him to notice how bad it had been before. The air didn’t feel as thick anymore, didn’t press in on him the same way.

God.

He sank back into the seat, fingers curling loosely around the seatbelt still stretched across his chest, like he needed something to hold onto even now.

For a moment, he just sat there.

Breathing.

Trying to let his body settle into something that resembled normal.

His tongue dragged absently over his fangs, and the dull ache there sharpened just enough to make him wince under his breath. He paused, pressing his tongue more deliberately against one, testing it.

Yeah. That probably wasn’t going away on its own.

He exhaled quietly through his nose, tilting his head back against the seat as he tried to relax. But the second he took a deeper breath, he regretted it.

The scent hit him all at once.

It had been there before. Faint, buried under everything else, but now, with the windows up and no outside air moving through, it was stronger. Settled. Lingering.

Jabber.

Leather and iron. Musk and clove. Dark, heavy, unmistakable.

And underneath it?

Himself.

Damp wood, incense, something softer, edged with that lingering sweetness that hadn’t fully burned out of his system yet. The two scents had soaked into the car, into the seats, into the very air itself, layered over each other in a way that made it impossible to separate where one ended and the other began.

It wrapped around him, heavy and all consuming. Too familiar to be comfortable.

Zanka’s stomach twisted.

Something low under his skin stirred at it, unwanted and uninvited, just enough to make his pulse pick up, just enough to make him shift in his seat like he could physically escape it if he moved the right way.

He couldn’t.

Because it wasn’t just the smell. It was what came with it.

The way he’d leaned into Jabber while he drove, too close, too needy. The quiet, broken sounds he hadn’t meant to make, slipping out anyway. The way his body had betrayed him over and over again, no matter how hard he’d tried to hold it together.

His grip tightened on the seatbelt.

Heat crept up the back of his neck, spreading across his face as the embarrassment settled in fully, thick and suffocating.

God.

He felt sick.

The silence between them now only made it worse. The fact that they hadn’t talked about it, hadn’t even acknowledged it, left everything hanging in the air, unresolved, festering in the back of his mind.

And he wasn’t going to be the one to bring it up.

No way. He’d rather choke on it than say it out loud. But if Jabber brought it up..

His stomach turned again at the thought.

Either way, there was no good outcome. Just different versions of the same humiliation.

Zanka dragged a hand down his face, breathing out slowly, trying to ground himself again, but it didn’t stick.

Because underneath all of it something else shifted. A strange, uneasy pull settled in his chest without warning.

It wasn’t sharp. Not painful.

Just… wrong.

Like something had been there a second ago and suddenly wasn’t. Like he was missing something he couldn’t name, and his body didn’t like it.

His brows pulled together slightly.

What—

He took another breath, slower this time, trying to steady himself.

The scent hit him again. Stronger this time and something in him responded immediately, too quickly, too instinctively.

Zanka stiffened.

No.

He pushed himself upright, shifting in the seat again like that would help, like putting distance between himself and the fabric would somehow dull the effect.

It didn’t.

If anything, it made him more aware of it.

More aware of how easily his body could slip back into something he did not want to deal with right now.

“Okay,” he muttered under his breath.

Yeah. No.

He wasn’t staying here.

He reached down quickly, unbuckling the seatbelt with a sharp click before leaning over to grab the keys from where Jabber had left them. The movement sent a small jolt through his body, pain flaring briefly, but he ignored it, pushing through as he shoved the door open.

The outside air hit him immediately.

Cooler.

Cleaner.

He stepped out, shutting the door behind him a little harder than necessary before resting his hand against the hood of the car, head dipping slightly as he took a steadying breath.

In.

Out.

Better.

Still not great, but better.

After a second, he pushed himself upright again.

Then forced his legs to move, shoving his hands into the hoodie pocket as he made his way through the store. It stunk, pheromones thick everywhere, which only made him feel worse. The overwhelming scents wrapped around him, making him nauseous, his teeth ached more with each passing second.

Though for a split second he could smell a faint whiff of leather and musk. Jabber. 

He followed more on instinct than anything, hurriedly walking down alsies, pushing through a small crowd of people before but he found the man stuck in line, basket slung over at his elbow, scrolling on his phone as he waiting in line. 

He rushed up without thinking, weaving past someone with a muttered apology before stopping at his side. There wasn’t any hesitation after that, no second-guessing, no pause to reconsider. He just… moved.

Pressed in slowly, fitting himself against him like it was instinct.

Like it was needed.

The scent hit him stronger this close, thick, grounding and the tight, restless panic that had been clawing at his chest eased almost immediately. It didn’t vanish all at once, but it unraveled fast enough to make his breath catch. His shoulders dropped, tension bleeding out of him as he leaned in further without realizing it.

His face pressed into Jabber’s shoulder.

Quiet. Thoughtless.

Jabber tensed.

Not sharply but just enough to show he felt it. His head turned slightly, glancing over his shoulder like he was checking who might be watching, like he was half-expecting someone to say something.

No one did.

And Zanka didn’t move. So Jabber didn’t push him away.

They just stood there.

In line. Like this.

Zanka huddled into his side, holding close like the world outside of that space didn’t matter, like the only thing anchoring him was right there. His grip wasn’t tight, not clinging but it was certain. Unquestioning.

Jabber’s fingers twitched at his side before settling, resisting the urge to touch him back too openly.

“Thought you didn’t want to come inside?” he murmured after a moment, voice low just enough for Zanka to hear, nothing more.

There was something careful in it. Light. But not careless.

Because he could feel it. The way Zanka relaxed into him. The way his breathing had evened out. 

It wasn’t subtle.

Jabber’s gaze flickered downward briefly, catching the top of his head where it rested against his shoulder. His jaw tightened just slightly. “Changed your mind?” he added, quieter this time.

He didn’t pull away. Didn’t lean in either. But he stayed exactly where he was, balanced on that thin, fragile line between giving space…

…and not wanting to lose this.

He bundles up against him without thinking, the movement instinctive, quiet, unguarded. Like his body made the choice before his mind could catch up. Closing the space, pressing in like that’s just where he’s supposed to be.

Jabber goes still.

Not pulling away, just… locking up for a second, like his body doesn’t know how to process it. His shoulders tense under the sudden closeness, breath catching as Zanka settles in against him, solid and warm and real.

For a moment, he doesn’t touch him.

Then his fingers lift, hesitant, and catch on the hem of Zanka’s hoodie. Just the edge. Careful. Not pulling him closer, he doesn’t trust himself with that, but holding on, like a quiet anchor. Like if he lets go, he might lose whatever this is.

His grip tightens, just slightly.

Zanka doesn’t move.

That’s what gets him.

Jabber’s gaze drops again, tracing the way Zanka’s leaned into him, the way he hasn’t corrected it– hasn’t shoved him off, hasn’t snapped something sharp to put distance back where it ‘should’ be. He’s just… there. Close. Breathing steady. Comfortable.

Too comfortable.

And Jabber’s chest twists. Because he likes him. That’s the problem. That’s always been the problem.

His thumb shifts against the fabric, rubbing once, absent and nervous. Why is he doing this? The thought creeps in before he can stop it. Is it… real?

Or–

His jaw tightens slightly.

–or is it just instinct?

Pheromones. That stupid, inconvenient pull that messes with your head, makes things feel softer, closer, easier than they actually are. Makes you lean in when you shouldn’t. Makes you want things that aren’t really yours.

Jabber’s grip on the hoodie falters for half a second, then steadies.

Because if it’s that… if it’s just that–

Then it doesn’t mean anything. And he hates that idea more than he should.

His gaze flickers over Zanka’s face, searching for something, anything that looks like awareness, like choice. Not just reaction. Not just chemistry or instinct or some invisible pull doing all the work for him.

“…Zanka,” he almost says.

But the word never makes it out. Because what’s he even supposed to ask?

Do you like me?

Or is this just your body deciding things for you?

His throat tightens, and he swallows it down.

Instead, his fingers curl a little tighter into the fabric, holding on, not enough to stop Zanka if he pulls away, just enough to feel that he’s still there.

Still choosing to stay. At least… it feels like a choice.

Jabber exhales slowly, tension sitting heavy in his chest. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t push. Doesn’t test it. Because if this isn’t real…

He’d rather have this moment, fragile and uncertain, than hear the answer and lose it completely.

Jabber, if he was being honest with himself, was relieved to have him there.

The thought of leaving Zanka alone after what happened had sat wrong with him from the start, something heavy and sour curling in his chest. Guilt, maybe. A trace of shame. Like he’d be walking away from something he shouldn’t.

But worse than that– far worse– was the quiet, giddy feeling underneath it all.

Zanka chose him.

Even if it wasn’t conscious. Even if it wasn’t really a choice.

Jabber’s jaw tightened slightly, his grip on the hem of the hoodie shifting as that thought settled in deeper than it should have. He hated it. Hated how something so small, so technical could worm its way into something that felt this… personal.

Because he knew better.

Knew Zanka wasn’t seeking him out. Not really.

Just the pheromones. The pull. Biology doing what it always did, stripping things down to instinct and dressing it up as something softer.

And still..

That ugly, instinctive flicker of pride lingered. Low. Persistent. Hard to ignore.

Zanka was pressed against him, close enough that Jabber could feel the steady warmth of him, the weight of his body leaning without hesitation. No resistance. No edge. Just… trust. Or something that looked enough like it to mess with his head.

His fingers tightened slightly in the fabric again.

He should move. He knew he should.

Give Zanka space. Let him think clearly, without all of this, without him muddying it. Let whatever this was settle into something real, or nothing at all.

That would be the right thing to do.

The fair thing.

Jabber exhaled slowly, tension pulling tight across his shoulders.

But he didn’t move.

Because the other part of him, the louder part, the one he kept trying to shove down didn’t want space. It wanted the opposite.

His grip shifted, not pulling, but firmer now. More certain.

It wanted to keep him here.

To hold onto every inch of this closeness and not let go. To lean into it instead of away. To take that fragile, uncertain thing Zanka was offering whether it was real or not and make it his.

The thought hit sharper than he expected, and he stilled slightly, breath catching.

Possessive. Ugly. Honest.

Jabber swallowed hard, gaze dropping again, like if he looked too closely at Zanka, he’d cross a line he couldn’t come back from.

“…You should have some space,” he murmured, the words quiet, almost reluctant.

But his hand didn’t let go.

Didn’t loosen.

If anything, his fingers curled just a fraction tighter into the fabric, betraying him completely.

Like he was hoping–

Zanka wouldn’t listen.

Zanka didn't react immediately, just shifted against him like he suddenly realised what he was doing. But he still didn't pull away.

“It was stuffy.” Zanka mumbled out, like that explained the closeness between them, or even answered anything at all. 

The line moved in front of them, and they shuffled a few feet forward. 

They stood there in silence, the bustle of the store around them giving enough background noise that neither wanted to break. 

The line inches forward, slow and dragging, but Jabber barely notices it.

He’s too aware of the weight pressed into his side.

Too aware of how Zanka hasn’t let up- not even a little.

By the time they reach the front, he’s already tense again, something tighter sitting under his skin. Not panic this time.

Something sharper. More focused.

His turn.

Jabber steps forward, and the shift makes Zanka move with him automatically, still close, still anchored. His jaw tightens just a fraction at that, but he doesn’t say anything.

Instead, he starts unloading the basket.

One thing after another, a little too fast. A little too much.

Bottles. Boxes. More than anyone reasonably needed for one trip.

Pain relievers. Pain patches. Scent blockers. 

His movements are controlled, but there’s an edge to them, something restless, almost agitated in the way he sets everything down.

“Mood stabilizers,” he adds, already reaching for the next thing.

“Hormone rebalancers.”

Another box.

“Something for,” he pauses, barely a second, like he’s debating whether to say it out loud, “..canines.”

The words come out flatter than the rest.

Then two large bottles of electrolytes hit the counter with a heavier thud than necessary.

“For hydration.”

Like that part needs explaining. For a second, it looks like he’s done.

Then he reaches back into the basket, finds something else and adds it to the pile anyway. A single pack of gum.

Overkill.

He knows it, but he doesnt stop. 

Because it’s easier to focus on this. On fixing, on managing, on handling it than it is to acknowledge the way Zanka is still pressed into his side like none of this is strange.

Like it’s normal.

Like he is what Zanka needs.

Jabber exhales slowly through his nose, one hand braced against the counter as the other lingers near the pile, fingers flexing slightly like he’s resisting the urge to add even more.

“…And omega suppressants,” he says finally, voice lower now, more controlled. That one lands differently.

Quieter.

His gaze flickers down for half a second toward Zanka before snapping back forward like it didn’t happen.

A beat passes.

Then, a little more stiffly, like he’s forcing it out,  “That should be all.”

Zanka stiffens almost the second the pile finishes growing.

It’s too much.

Too obvious.

The weight of it settles all at once. The boxes, the labels, the way it all lines up too neatly into something that anyone with half a brain could piece together. His face heats, a sharp, creeping flush that he can’t quite stop, and he immediately reaches up, dragging the hood of the oversized hoodie further over his head.

Like that’ll help. Like that’ll hide anything.

He angles his face down, pressing a little more into Jabber’s shoulder, not quite hiding, but close enough to pretend.

The pharmacist looks over everything. Then at them. There’s a pause, just long enough to feel it.

Not outright rude. Not exactly judgmental. But aware.

Zanka feels it anyway.

“…Do you need an after pill as well?”

The question lands lightly, almost routine.

Zanka goes completely still.

Jabber hesitates.

It’s small, barely noticeable but it’s there. His fingers flex slightly against the counter, gaze flickering down for a fraction of a second as the question actually registers. Not just the words, but what they imply. What they assume.

He thinks about it. Briefly. Seriously. Because if there’s even a chance–

His jaw tightens. Then he shakes his head.

“No.” The answer comes out steady, controlled. “…Didn’t–” he stops himself, like he’s deciding how much he actually needs to say here, especially with Zanka practically glued to his side, “..that’s not necessary.”

Short. Final.

He doesn’t elaborate.

His hand shifts slightly, just brushing against the fabric at his side, close enough to feel him there, like he’s grounding himself again after the question.

Zanka, meanwhile, sinks a fraction further into him, hood pulled low, face hidden.

If he could disappear into the fabric entirely, he probably would.

Jabber exhales quietly through his nose, tension settling back into his shoulders as the moment passes, but it lingers anyway– thick, awkward, unspoken.

His fingers curl slightly against the counter again.

“…That’s everything,” he adds, quieter now.

But he doesn’t move away.

And neither does Zanka.

The pharmacist doesn’t start scanning.

He looks over the pile again, slower this time, lips pressing into something almost amused. His gaze flicks to Zanka half-hidden, hood up, tucked into Jabber’s side and lingers there just a second too long.

Then he huffs, shaking his head.

“Yeah… you really don’t need all of this.”

His finger taps against one of the boxes, then another, like he’s counting them off.

“A couple painkillers would do it. Omegas always think it’s worse than it is.”

Zanka freezes.

It’s immediate, the way his shoulders pull in, the way his face turns further into the fabric like he can hide from the words if he just doesn’t look.

The pharmacist doesn’t stop.

“They get dramatic about it,” he goes on, tone casual, dismissive. “Happens all the time. You’ll be fine without half this stuff.”

Silence.

For a split second, it hangs there, thick and uncomfortable.

Jabber doesn’t move.

Then his fingers curl slowly against the edge of the counter, knuckles going faintly white.

“…Ring it up.”

Flat.

The pharmacist glances at him, brows lifting slightly, like he hadn’t expected pushback.

“I’m just saying-”

“I didn’t ask.”

That cuts sharper.

Jabber turns his head just enough to look at him now, and there’s nothing uncertain in it anymore. No hesitation, no second-guessing.

Just something cold.

“You don’t know what he needs,” he continues, voice low, controlled in a way that makes it worse. “And you don’t get to decide it.”

The pharmacist scoffs lightly, like it’s not a big deal, like this is routine for him.

“Hey, I see it all the time, just trying to save you some mon-”

“And I’m telling you to ring. It. Up.”

Each word lands harder than the last.

Jabber’s hand presses flat against the counter now, tension running straight through his arm, but he doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t need to.

It’s in the way he says it.

Final.

Beside him, Zanka has gone quiet. completely still, tucked in close like he’s trying to disappear. Jabber shifts slightly, just enough that his side presses more firmly against him. Not obvious.

But deliberate. A silent I got you. 

His gaze doesn’t leave the pharmacist. “Or do I need to find someone else who can do their job?” he adds, quieter now, but heavier. That does it.

The pharmacist’s expression tightens, annoyance flickering across his face before he finally starts scanning the items, movements a little sharper than before.

No apology. But no more comments either.

Jabber doesn’t relax. Not until the first item beeps across. Then the last item scans, the receipt prints, and Jabber doesn’t waste a second. He grabs the bag in one sharp motion, doesn’t look back, doesn’t say anything else to the pharmacist even though he wished he could just over the counter and put him in his place. His jaw is still tight as he turns, already pulling his phone out with his other hand as they head for the door.

Zanka follows close. Of course he does.

By the time they’re outside, Jabber’s already typing on his phone. Fast, precise, each tap a little harder than it needs to be. A bad review. blunt, cutting, and very specific.

He doesn’t even reread it before posting.

The whole drive back is quiet.

Zanka stays close again, not quite touching this time, but near enough that the space between them feels intentional. Like he’s resisting the urge more than anything else. His fingers twitch once or twice against his own sleeve, like he’s debating closing the gap again.

Jabber notices. But he doesn’t say anything.

His grip on the wheel stays firm, shoulders still carrying that leftover tension, but it’s dulled now-redirected into something quieter, steadier.

Jabber wanted to say something, tell him to ignore the bastard who said all that useless stuff, that he wasn't being dramatic, but he didnt. 

By the time they get back, it’s settled into something almost routine. He grabs the bag, heads inside, already moving toward his room without thinking too much about it.

Zanka follows.

Again, without thinking.

Jabber makes it halfway through the doorway before he realizes he’s not alone. He glances back, a flicker of confusion crossing his face as Zanka lingers just behind him, like it’s the most natural thing in the world to be there.

For a second, it looks like he might question it. He doesn’t. Instead, he just exhales lightly through his nose and pushes the door open the rest of the way.

“Sit,” he says, nodding toward the bed.

Simple. Casual.

Like this is normal.

Zanka listens immediately. No hesitation, no pushback, he just moves, sitting down on the edge of the bed, hands settling loosely in his lap. Waiting.

Watching.

Jabber pauses for a second, bag still in hand, eyes flicking over him like he’s trying to figure something out and choosing not to. Then he turns away.

“Stay there,” he adds, quieter now, already moving to grab something for himself. The bag rustles as he sets it down nearby, starting to dig through it, but his attention isn’t fully on what he’s doing.

It keeps drifting back. To the fact that Zanka followed him here. To the way he just… listened. To the way he’s still sitting there now. And for a brief second, something unreadable flickers across Jabber’s expression.

He doesn’t comment on it. But he doesn’t send him away, either.

Jabber sets the bag down on the bed beside him, the plastic crinkling as he pulls it open again. For a second, he just looks at everything he bought. It’s a lot. Too much, probably. He doesn’t comment on it.

Instead, he starts sorting. Separating things into smaller groups like if he organizes it, it’ll make more sense. Like it’ll feel less… excessive.

“This first,” he mutters, more to himself than anything, grabbing one of the electrolyte bottles and cracking it open.

He steps closer, holding it out.

Zanka takes it without hesitation.

“Drink.” Then a couple of pills are pressed into his free hand. “These too.”

There’s no room to argue in the way he says it, not harsh, just… certain. Focused.

Zanka listens.

Jabber watches just long enough to make sure he actually takes them before moving on, already reaching for the next things.

The patches. He hesitates for half a second, then steps in closer again. “Hold still.” His fingers brush against Zanka’s side as he lifts the fabric just enough to place the first pain patch on his hip, pressing it down firmly but not rough. His touch lingers a second longer than necessary, like he’s checking it’s secure.

Then another.

Scent blockers next.

Those take a little more care, a little more precision. His movements slow, deliberate, the earlier tension shifting into something quieter, focused in a different way as he places them on the dedicated areas that the instructions on the box told him to place. 

Zanka doesn’t move, doesn’t even pull away. He just sits there, drinking when told, holding what he’s given, letting Jabber handle the rest like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Like he trusts him to.

That thought flickers through Jabber’s head, brief and dangerous, but he shoves it aside and reaches back into the bag. The tooth gel. He pauses, hesitation evident before he continues. The cap twists open with a soft click, but his hand stills after that, hovering for a second like he’s suddenly unsure.

“…This might sting,” he says, quieter now. Not really a warning but more like… hesitation.

Zanka adjusts the bottle in his hands, shifting slightly before tilting his head up.

And then-

He bares his teeth.

Not aggressive. Not sharp in the way it could be.

Just… open. Exposed.

Trusting.

Jabber stills.

For a second, he just looks.

At the canines- sensitive, aching, probably. At the way Zanka’s holding himself still despite it. At how close he is now, close enough to feel his breath, to catch the faint shift of his scent even through the blockers. He swallows thickly, trying to keep his nerves in check. 

“…Don’t bite,” he mutters, softer than before, like the words are more for himself than anything.

Then he moves.

One hand lifts, fingers brushing lightly against Zanka’s chin to steady him, not gripping, just guiding. His other hand brings the gel closer, slower now, like he’s giving him time to pull back if he wants to.

Zanka doesn’t. So Jabber leans in.

Close enough that their breaths almost mix. And gently, carefully, he applies it along the edge of one canine, slow and precise, making sure not to press too hard.

It’s quiet. The kind that stretches, thick with something neither of them says out loud. Jabber’s focus is locked in, but there’s something else under it now. Something  more aware, more careful in a way that has nothing to do with the task itself.

His thumb shifts slightly against Zanka’s chin as he finishes one side. Lingers. Then moves to the other.

Just as slow, just as careful. And when he’s done… he doesn’t pull away right away.

There’s a beat.

A small one.

Where he’s still close enough to feel the warmth of him, still holding him there lightly, like he forgot to let go.

Then it clicks.

Jabber pulls back just enough to put space between them again, clearing his throat quietly as he caps the gel.

“…Done,” he says.

But his voice isn’t as steady as before.

And his hand, when it does drop, takes a second longer than it should. Zanka is quiet for a while after that.

Too quiet.

Sitting on the edge of Jabber’s bed, still wrapped in everything he’s been given, like he hasn’t quite decided whether he’s allowed to move yet.

Jabber is halfway through packing things back into the bag when Zanka shifts.

Just slightly.

A change in posture more than anything else.

“I should… go to work,” Zanka says at last. “I need to talk to Engin.”

His voice is low. Uncertain in a way that doesn’t quite match the rest of him.

Jabber pauses.

His hands stop moving. For a second, something tight flickers across his expression- quick, almost invisible- but it’s there.

Work.

Right.

Apologize. Explain. Clean it up.

Quit.

That’s what Jabber assumes. It settles in his chest immediately, sharp and uncomfortable in a way he doesn’t fully like.

“Yeah,” he says after a beat, too controlled. “Okay.”

He doesn’t stop him.

Doesn’t ask.

Doesn’t say don’t go even though the words are right there, sitting heavy behind his teeth.

Instead, he just closes the bag.

“Give me a second.”

.

.

The drive is quiet again. Zanka sits beside him, same as before, but something about it feels different this time. Less instinctive. More purposeful. Like he’s decided something.

Jabber notices.

His hands stay on the wheel, steady, but his jaw is set in that same restrained way it was at the pharmacy like he’s holding back way more than he’s saying. He keeps glancing over, just briefly. Trying to read him.

Zanka didn’t look panicked, and that was what made it sit so wrong.

There was no frantic edge to him, no visible unraveling, no sense that he was about to bolt or break. Instead, he stood there with this quiet, unsettling composure, his posture held straight despite the strain it clearly put on him. The tension hadn’t disappeared, it lingered in the tight set of his jaw, in the faint curl of his fingers at his sides but it wasn’t fighting anymore.

It had settled into something heavier.

Something resigned.

Like whatever storm had been tearing through him earlier had already burned itself out, leaving behind this hollow kind of calm. Not relief. Not stability. Just… acceptance.

And that was worse.

Because panic could be interrupted. It could be pulled apart, redirected, soothed.

This didn’t feel like something that wanted to be stopped.

It felt like something that had already decided how it was going to end and was just waiting for it to happen.

Because Jabber had already decided, somewhere in the back of his mind, that this was going to end with Zanka telling Engin he’s quitting. Walking away. Severing it cleanly, like none of it had mattered.

Like he hadn’t mattered.

His grip tightens slightly on the steering wheel. He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t intervene. Just drives quietly as his mind races through every possible way this was going to end.

.

.

The shop comes into view sooner than he expects. Familiar. Bright. Though the dreadful vibe around them seems to mirror the store, the parking lot is empty besides Engin’s convertible.

Jabber parks but doesn’t move right away.

Zanka does.

He’s already reaching for the door before Jabber even fully turns the engine off.

That’s what finally makes something in Jabber shift. Not panic. Not relief. Something stuck in-between, like he was waiting for the ball to drop. They reach the front of the shop just as Riyo and Fu are finishing whatever argument they were half-having over coffee.

Riyo looks up first, then she pauses. Her eyes land on Zanka, on the hoodie, oversized and unmistakably Jabber’s, and her expression shifts into something closer to disbelief than amusement.

“…No way,” she says slowly.

Fu glances over, then back at his cup like he’s already decided not to get involved.

Riyo points, not even subtle about it. “You don’t– you don’t let people wear your clothes.” Her gaze snaps to Jabber. “That’s like… your thing! You’re weird about it.” she wildly gestures with her hand, like maybe she had gone crazy and was trying to make sure she was still somewhat sane.  

Zanka stiffens immediately. His hand goes to the hem of the hoodie hes wearing on instinct, fingers curling into the fabric like he suddenly remembers he’s wearing it in public. His ears go faintly red as he looks between them, clearly trying to shrink out of the conversation.

“I–” he started, then stopped. There wasn’t anything he could actually say. How could he even start to explain why he was wearing Jabbers clothes like this? He just wanted to go inside. Talk to Engin. Fix it. Get all of this over with.

Jabber notices the shift immediately. His expression tightens just slightly, not at Riyo, not even at the comment, but at Zanka pulling inward like that. How he hides behind him without even thinking about it. 

Jabber didn’t even look at her.

Before Riyo could keep going, he stepped forward just enough to block her line of sight, putting himself between them without making a big show of it. It wasn’t aggressive, not really, but it was deliberate. Very intentional, a quite ‘your in the way and need to back off’

Then he turned his back to her completely and faced Zanka.

“Go inside.”

The words cut cleanly through everything, flat and to the point, like he wasn’t giving the moment any room to stretch out further.

Zanka blinked, caught off guard by how quickly it shifted.

“Talk to Engin,” Jabber added, like it was the only thing that mattered right now. “I need to talk to her real quick.” There was no hesitation in it. No room to argue. Just a quiet certainty that made it feel already decided. His hand came up, catching lightly on Zanka’s sleeve, not pulling, just a brief, grounding touch before letting go. “I’ll in come after,” he said, lower this time.

It’s not dismissive. Not a dismissal of the situation, or of him. Just… moving him out of the line of fire. Zanka hesitated, then nodded. However awkward, he was grateful for the escape route. 

He slipped past them,  glancing out of the corner of his eyes as he watched the red head stare between Jabber and himself before heading down the stairs and pushing the door open. The warmth and noise of the shop swallowed him up almost immediately as he disappeared inside.

Behind him, the door hadn’t even fully shut before Jabber finally turned back.

“…Don’t even start,” he says quietly.

Riyo looks like she absolutely intends to start. Fu takes another sip of coffee, watching quietly from the sidelines. Riyo leans back against the wall again, coffee cup dangling loosely from her hand as she watches Jabber stare after Zanka through the shop door.

Then she tilts her head. “Who even is he? Your new fuck buddy?”

Jabber visibly straightens at that, like the question physically catches him off guard. “No– I–..we aren’t,” he says quickly. Too quickly. “He’s my roommate, his name is Zanka.” A pause. “We aren’t like that, just..friends.”

Riyo snorts straight into her drink. “Yeah, right.” She holds out her hand expectantly.

Jabber blinks. “What?”

“Your phone.”

He hesitates, already reaching into his pocket. “Why? Where’s yours?”

“Inside. Died earlier. I need to look something up.”

He hands it over without much thought.

“Anyway,” she continues casually, like she didn’t just hijack his device, “you wouldn’t even let me borrow an old T-shirt, and he’s wearing your hoodie. The one you spent like- what, two hundred dollars–”

“Three hundred,” Jabber corrects automatically, flat and immediate, like he was fully offended that she got the price wrong.

Riyo pauses.

“…Three hundred,” She repeats it slowly, like she’s building a case in real time. “Three hundred dollars on a custom hoodie you only wear on special occasions, and this guy is just walking around in it like it’s nothing.”

Jabber’s jaw tightens slightly. 

“It’s not–”

Riyo waves the hand holding her coffee dismissively, still typing with her other as she attempts to guess his password. “Yeah, yeah, ‘it’s not nothing,’ whatever.” Then, without looking up, she adds, “Give me your phone password.”

Jabber stares at her. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

She finally glances up at him over the rim of her cup. “You already handed it to me.”

Jabber exhales through his nose, clearly regretting his life choices, then mutters the code. Riyo immediately inputs it and starts tapping again.

“So…” she says, tone shifting into something more pointed, “what’s going on between you two?”

Jabber stiffens again. Riyo continues swiping like she’s not even watching him anymore.

“He looked like he got run over twice,” she adds casually. “And you look like you’re about to fight someone who even breathes near him wrong.”

Jabber’s hand twitches at his side. “That’s not–” he starts, then stops, because explaining it out loud somehow feels worse. Riyo hums, still focused on the screen.

“Mhm.” Riyo leans back against the wall, coffee in one hand, Jabber’s phone in the other, already scrolling like she owns the device. Her eyes flick back toward the shop door Zanka disappeared through, then to Jabber still standing there like he’s half a second away from following.

Then she snorts.

“So are you guys dating or what?” Riyo asks, like she’s tossing it out casually even though there’s nothing casual about the way she’s watching him. “I can’t think of any other reason you’d let someone wear your clothes.”

Her mouth curls around the rim of her cup, barely hiding the grin tugging at it.

“You guys look cute together,” she adds, like she’s just making an observation and not actively poking at him. “Like two abandoned kittens stuck in the rain or something.”

Jabber’s head snaps slightly like the question physically shocked him.

“No,” he says immediately. “We’re not dating.” A beat. “He’s just..my roommate.”

Riyo squints at him.

“…Right.”

She takes a slow sip of her coffee, then tilts her head toward the door again. “Because your ‘roommate’ is currently inside wearing your two-hundred-dollar emotional support hoodie.”

Jabber doesn’t even hesitate. “Three hundred.”

Riyo pauses mid-sip. Then she slowly looks at him.

“…You corrected the price again.”

Jabber doesn’t even hesitate.

“Don’t dissrespect the price.”

Riyo squints at him.

“That’s not the point.”

“It is if you’re going to get it wrong.”

A beat passes. Riyo stares at him for a second longer, then lets out a short laugh through her nose. “Okay, yeah,” she admits, shaking her head slightly. “That one is kind of insane.”

Jabber’s shoulders ease a fraction, like at least this argument is one he understands how to win. But Riyo doesn’t let it settle there, instead she points at Jabber with the phone now.

“But you won’t let me borrow a shirt. I could be dying in the street and you’d be like ‘sorry, that’s a limited drop.’”

Jabber crosses his arms. “That’s different.”

“How?”

“It just- it just is. Okay?”

Riyo blinks. Then immediately grins.

“Oh my god.”

Jabber narrows his eyes slightly. “What.”

“You don’t let people borrow your stuff,” she says, shifting gears, circling back instead of the previous line. “Like, at all. I’ve known you for years and I’ve never even gotten past ‘no’ with a hoodie, but him?” She jerks her chin toward the shop door. “He’s just walking around in your $300 sacred artifact like it’s normal.”

“That’s not–”

“And yet,” she cuts in, sharper now, grin widening, “you’re standing here acting like it’s completely reasonable!”

Jabber exhales through his nose. “He’s my roommate.” like that explained it.

Riyo pauses. Then leans forward slightly. “Oh?”

Jabber immediately adds, “That’s all.”

Riyo leans back again, satisfied, like she was winning a fight Jabber didnt know he was fighting. “Right. Just the roommate getting the VIP hoodie treatment.”

“It’s not a treatment,” he mutters.

Fu finally chimes in, nervously. “Kinda looks like a treatment..”

Jabber shoots him a look and Fu just shrinks back and hides behind his coffee. Riyo doesn't push it further, just sips her coffee again, watching him with that annoying, knowing look people get right before they decide to absolutely not drop something.

Riyo finally shifts her attention fully to the phone in her hand, lifting it slightly as she opens the search engine. Mid sip of her coffee, she pauses.

Jabber's search history is right there, sitting pretty on the screen like it was just begging her to look through. And, of course, she looks. Not even subtly, she wouldn't be Riyo if she wasn't just a little bit nosy.

⌕ pharmacy near me

⌕ is it illegal to sneak into Costco with no membership

⌕ how to shop at Costco no card

⌕ cisco chicken

⌕ nearest Costco near me

She glances up briefly at Jabber, who’s still standing nearby with his hands now in his pockets, shifting his weight like he’s already halfway out of the conversation.

Then she looks back down again. Scrolls further down, her expression slowly changes.

⌕ best food for omegas after heat

⌕ what is nesting, and how to make one step by step

⌕ how to deal with the aftermath of an omega heat

⌕ how to stop reacting to pheromones alpha

Her brows rise a little higher with each line. “…Oh,” she murmurs under her breath. She keeps going, she’s not even pretending this is about her original search anymore.

⌕ how to impress your crush

⌕ alpha and omega relationship advice

⌕ what does it mean when you like your roommate

⌕ how to help with a omega going through emotions

A slow sip of coffee, a longer pause. Then, still scrolling:

⌕ do omegas have a low alcohol tolerance

⌕ mall near me

⌕ does weed make your dick smaller

She stares at that last one for a second longer than necessary.Then lowers the phone slightly.

“…Okay,” she says, tone flat with amusement. “That one feels unrelated but I respect the curiosity.”

Riyo scrolls no further, there’s nothing left that feels useful, just spiraling evidence and late-night panic Googling about dumb stuff she can only imagine Jabber looked up while stoned off his ass. She exhales through her nose, still smirking as she finally looks back up at Jabber.

“So,” she says, slow and pointed. “Is that why you were asking if I had a Costco membership?”

Jabber's attention snaps to her, then to the phone as he realises what she was talking about.  He snatches the phone from her grasp as he glares at her. “Mind your business.” he huffs out. 

Riyo hums knowingly as she takes another sip of her coffee. 

“So… just friends?” she presses again, quieter now but sharper. “Is that what he wants? Because it seems like you’re head over heels for him.”

Jabber pockets his phone and, after a beat, lets himself fall back against the wall beside her. He stares forward for a moment like he’s weighing whether or not to say anything at all. “I… no,” he admits finally, voice lower. “I offered to be friends. It’s- it’s complicated.”

The tension in his shoulders eases slightly as the words come out, like saying them aloud takes some of the pressure off. Riyo watches him over the rim of her cup, then takes a slow sip.

“So,” she says after a moment, “if you like him, why are you friend-zoning yourself? What- does he not like you or something? You are kinda annoying..”

Jabber lets out a long, exaggerated sigh, dragging a hand down his face like he’s trying to physically wipe the conversation away.

“I don’t think he likes me the same way I like him,” he says at last.

His voice tightens slightly on the admission, but he doesn’t stop himself from continuing. Once it’s out, it’s out.

“And it’s… weird,” he adds, gaze dropping for a second before flicking away. “He’s got stuff he’s dealing with. I don’t know…”

The last part comes out quieter, less certain, like the more he says it out loud, the heavier it gets. Less like a complaint and more like something he’s been carrying without realizing it.

His shoulders sag a little.

Not dramatically. Just enough to show it’s been sitting on him longer than he’s been admitting.

He pauses, breath steadying.“It doesn’t matter what he feels about me,” he continues quietly. “I promised him I’d be in his corner no matter what. So that’s what I’m doing.”

A beat.

“I’m just… being a supportive friend.”

She snorts into her cup, “Doesn’t matter my ass,” she continues, leaning back against the wall again. “I’ve known you for years and I’ve never seen you this torn up over somebody. Why don’t you just confess?” She tilts her head, eyes softening slightly as she looks at her friend. “Let him know how you feel. With the way he’s soaked in your scent, it’s not like he’d mind.”

“...I already confessed,” Jabber admits softly, like the memory itself is something he’d rather not hold too tightly. Silence drops in.

Then–

“What?!” 

Riyo nearly drops what’s left of her cup, pushing off the wall. “What do you mean you already confessed? Did he reject you? Why would–” She stops mid-rant. Her eyes narrow slightly as she actually looks at him. “…Why would he say no,” she continues slower now, trying to be delicate about the situation, “when you two smell like you’re already dating?”

Jabber’s shoulders stiffen. Riyo tilts her head, thinking out loud in the worst possible way.

“Is he like… not into you romantically?” she asks, then squints. “Or is it one of those ‘only physically, no emotional processing allowed’ situations?”

That lands wrong immediately. Jabber bristles, “He’s not like that,” he says quickly, sharper than before. Then, after a beat, he exhales. “I just… it’s complicated. I’m giving him time to figure out what he wants. That’s all.”

Riyo watches him for a moment, then lets out a long sigh and leans back against the wall again. Not teasing this time. Just thinking. “…Right,” she says finally, quieter. “So you told him, and now you’re just… waiting in limbo outside a record shop like it’s normal.”

Jabber doesn’t respond. Riyo glances toward the door Zanka disappeared through, then back at him. A pause settles between them again, heavier this time. Then Riyo pushes off the wall slightly, softer now.

“You know,” she says, “supportive friend is cool and all.” A beat. “But you’re not actually good at pretending you don’t care. You tend to go crazy when you hold yourself back.”

“But,” she says, softer now. “Well… I hope it goes well between you too. Whatever happens just know I got your back Jab.”

Jabber just nods. The silence stretches after that, longer this time. Less playful. More suspended. Riyo takes a sip of her coffee, eyes drifting back toward the shop door.

Fu doesn’t say anything either. Jabber shifts his weight once. Twice. Then, quieter, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud at all.

“…Would we actually be a cute couple?...”

Riyo chokes slightly on her drink. There’s a pause, then she slowly turns her head toward Jabber. “…Are you asking me or the universe?”

Jabber exhales through his nose, already regretting the fact that he said anything at all. “Just- shut up,” he mutters, crossing his arms tighter. “If you’re not going to be useful.”

Riyo blinks. Then, instead of snapping back, she just studies him for a moment. The teasing drains out of her expression a little, replaced with something more thoughtful. “…Huh.”

Jabber side-eyes her. “What.”

She tilts her cup slightly, watching him over the rim. “You don’t usually ask stuff like that out loud,” she says. “You usually just… decide things in your head and act like everyone else will eventually catch up.” Riyo continues, slower now.

“So I’m guessing this one’s actually bothering you.”

Jabber doesn’t answer immediately. That’s answer enough. Riyo lets out a small breath, then shifts back against the wall again, but her tone is less sharp now. Less teasing. “…If he makes you smile like that,” she says, nodding faintly toward his face like she’s seen it already, “then yeah.”

Jabber stiffens slightly. “What smile?”

Riyo snorts. “That one you’re doing right now like the mere thought of you two being a cute couple is enough to send you over the moon.”

He stops, immediately. Forcing his usual cool guy frown like it would save him some face. 

Riyo rolls her eyes, but not unkindly. “Yeah. That one.”

A beat passes. Then she tilts her head toward the shop door where Zanka went in. “But you really need to talk to him,” she adds more quietly. “Properly.”

Jabber looks away.

Riyo doesn’t let it drop. 

“Don’t just keep it in your head and hope it sorts itself out,” she says. “That never works the way you think it will. Hes probably confused too, you know.” Riyo glances at Jabber one more time, softer now. “Just… say it. Even if it’s messy.” A pause. Then, lightly again, she adds:

“Preferably before I end up having to decode your search history again.” she jokes. 

Jabber lets out a quiet scoff, but it doesn’t have much bite to it. “I’m not asking you to decode anything again. You're the one who snooped through my phone.”

Riyo hums, unconvinced. “You say that like you’re not actively building evidence against yourself in real time.”

Jabber glances toward the shop door, then back down at the sidewalk. “…It’s not that simple,” he mutters. Riyo pushes off the wall slightly, watching him, but she doesn’t interrupt this time. Jabber continues anyway, quieter.

“I did talk to him. Kind of. I just–” He hesitates, jaw tightening. “It didn’t go the way I expected. I wanted to confess under different circumstances.”

Riyo’s expression shifts, just a fraction.

“Okay,” she says carefully. “And?”

Jabber shrugs, like he’s trying to make it smaller than it is.

“And I didn’t push it. He was confused and tired.” His voice drops a little. “He didn’t say no…but he didn’t say yes either. I just… don’t want to bother him more with my feelings. Not right now.”

Silence settles again. Riyo watches him for a long moment before speaking. “You know what I think?” Jabber glances at her. Riyo tilts her head toward the shop door. “I think he already matters to you more than you’re letting yourself say out loud,” she says. “And I think you’re trying really hard to be patient so you don’t mess it up.”

Jabber swallows, like there’s something stuck in his throat he doesn’t want to name.

“But patience doesn’t mean silence forever,” Riyo continues, gentler now. “So just talk to him. Not hints. Not waiting. Not… whatever this is.”

Jabber’s eyes flick toward the door again. “…What if it makes it worse?” he asks quietly.

Riyo shrugs. “Then it was already there,” she says simply. “You just stopped pretending it wasn’t.” She reaches out, patting his shoulder lightly. “…Go inside and get your man,” she adds, nudging her chin toward the door. “Before I start charging you for therapy sessions.”

Jabber hesitates, then exhales.

“…If this goes badly,” he says flatly, pointing between her and Fu, “I’m blaming both of you.”

Fu, who has said maybe three words this entire time, looks genuinely startled. Riyo just smiles. “Fair.” And for once, she doesn’t sound like she’s joking.

Jabber pushes himself off the wall, then pauses, looking between the two of them. “…What are you guys even doing out here?” he asks. “Aren’t you supposed to be working?”

Riyo immediately makes a face, like the word ‘work’ itself annoys her. “Too Lily canceled her tour stop here,” she says. “And Engin is not taking it well.”

Fu finally steps forward a little, like he’s been waiting for his moment. “Engin’s so cool when he’s mad,” he says, a little too genuinely. Then, quieter, “But he’s been inside chain smoking for, like… an hour.”

Jabber lets out a small laugh, already picturing Engin somewhere in the shop, completely swallowed by a cloud of smoke thick enough to qualify as bad weather. “Sounds like he’s going through it,” he says lightly.

But even as he says it, his eyes drift back to the door.

Jabber inhales sharply, and freezes for just a fraction of a second.

He smells it before he can name it.

That sharp spike in scent. Wrong. Overwhelming.

Then he hears it.

Zanka’s voice, muffled through the shop door, words too tangled to understand properly, but the tone cuts clean through everything else.

Panic.

Real panic.

Jabber’s entire posture snaps.

The hesitation, the conversation, Riyo’s voice behind him, it all drops away at once.

“Zanka,” he says under his breath.

Then he’s moving.

He pushes off the wall hard enough that his heel scrapes the concrete, already turning before his brain fully catches up. Riyo barely has time to register the shift before he’s gone. down the steps, across the small landing, straight for the entrance.

“Hey!” she starts.

Too late.

Jabber slams the door open.

The sound echoes through the shop as he steps inside, eyes immediately scanning, fast, sharp, locked in.

He follows the scent, and makes his way down the hallway. 

.

.

.

“I’ll come in after you,” Jabber said.

Zanka hesitated for a moment.

His gaze flicked between Jabber and the red-haired friend beside him, who was now openly staring at Jabber like he had just said something completely incomprehensible. The reaction didn’t help the already awkward weight sitting in Zanka’s chest.

Still, he was grateful. Jabber had handled things. Had stepped in, taken control of the situation without making Zanka do it himself. That should’ve made it easier.

It didn’t.

Zanka’s fingers drifted down instinctively, catching the hem of Jabber’s hoodie. He toyed with it absently, small nervous movements he didn’t really think about, just something to ground himself while everything felt slightly off balance.

Of course people would notice. Anyone would.

But he didn’t say anything about that. Didn’t explain it. Just gave a small, uncertain nod instead.

“…Okay.”

Then he turned and started down the stairs, careful with each step, like his body was still remembering how to move properly after everything.

The further he got from Jabber, the more he noticed it again.

That feeling.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t sharp.

Just a quiet pull in his chest, subtle but persistent, like something inside him was leaning back toward the place he had just left. Toward the person he had just left.

Go back.

The thought wasn’t words exactly. More like instinct dressed up as suggestion.

Zanka swallowed it down.

The door to the shop opened with a soft jingle as he stepped inside.

The air hit him immediately.

Cigarettes. Stale and familiar, clinging to the shelves and counters like they had soaked into everything over time.

But Engin wasn’t at the front counter.

Zanka slowed slightly, eyes scanning the space out of habit more than intent.

His brows knit faintly as he stood there for a moment longer than necessary, listening to the quiet hum of the building.

Maybe he was in the break room.

That made sense.

He adjusted his grip on nothing in particular, shoulders still slightly tense, and started further inside, moving deeper into the shop instead of back out, even as that quiet pull in his chest lingered faintly behind him.

Zanka shuffled in, glancing down the aisle as if expecting someone to be there, but the store was empty.

Eerily so.

No music playing like it usually did. No background hum of conversation or movement. Just a heavy silence that made everything feel a little too exposed, like the space itself was watching him instead of holding him.

Like it knew things it shouldn’t.

He kept walking anyway, passing the main counter and heading deeper toward the back. His steps were slower than usual, not quite hesitant, but not fully steady either, like his body was still catching up to everything that had happened earlier.

Just before he reached the hallway that led to the break room, something caught his eye.

A mirror.

Tall, slightly narrow, leaning against the wall like it had been placed there temporarily and never moved again. Stickers lined its edges in uneven clusters, bright little decorations trying to soften something otherwise plain. Like a frame pretending to be casual.

But it wasn’t the stickers that stopped him.

It was the reflection.

Zanka didn’t mean to look at it properly at first. Just a passing glance, nothing intentional, but his attention snagged anyway, held there for a second too long before he could look away.

And suddenly he was just… there.

Zanka knew he felt like shit, that much was obvious with the dull ache that ran through him. But he also looked like it. 

He didnt even remember when his posture started slumping, his shoulders sagged as he stared at himself more. His hair was ruffled, not exactly messy but definitely not the controlled style he usually kept either. He could see small bags forming under his eyes from lack of good sleep, and the clothes were obviously huge on him. 

He knew Jabber's clothes were more on the baggy side, but now that he was staring at his reflection he could see just how badly the fabric draped off his frame.  He straightened up before reaching up and tangling his fingers into his hair to try and make it look less like he woke up a couple of hours ago. 

Then he adjusted the hoodie, pulling the strings around his neck so his collar bones would be so visable. Next he shoved his hands under the hoodie, grabbing the waistband of the sweats before tugging them up to his mid abdomen to try to make them look not as baggy on him.

He let go, and the sweats dropped right back to where they were before, hanging loosely on his lower hips.

He sighed, the sound low and tired as his hands dropped from the drawstring. It wasn’t going to get any better than this. No amount of pulling or adjusting would make the clothes fit right, and standing here obsessing over it wasn’t helping anything.

He just needed to get this over with.

His jaw set as he straightened, forcing some structure back into his posture despite the lingering ache in his body. It didn’t matter how he looked, and it didn’t matter how he felt. What mattered was getting to Engin and dealing with whatever came next and hoping, quietly and stubbornly, that Engin wasn’t already furious.

Not at him.

Not at Jabber.

The thought sat heavy in his chest, pulling his focus inward as fragments from the day before crept back in. His sister had never cared about things like that. Never cared how her pheromones affected anyone else, especially when she was trying to assert herself. People just had to deal with it, had to adjust, had to endure. That part wasn’t new. What bothered him was everything that came after.

Because he should have handled it better. 

He knew that, even if he didn’t want to admit it outright. He should have stayed, should have closed properly, should have at least tried to fix things instead of leaving it in that state. 

His hand tightened faintly at his side as that settled in. Engin had trusted him, or at least trusted him enough to give him the responsibility, and Zanka had barely made it through his first shift before proving he couldn’t handle it. He’d abandoned the store, left it unsecured, and forced someone else to pick up after him the next day.

A quiet exhale slipped past his lips, lacking its usual sharp edge.

At the very least, he had to try and fix it. Even if that just meant showing up, taking whatever Engin had to give, and not making things worse a second time.

His shoulders squared more deliberately now, grounding himself in the decision.

He needed to keep this job, that much wasn’t optional, at least till he could find something else, something that didnt have Jabber on the same schedule as him.

He took one last glance at himself before forcing his gaze away, like looking any longer would only make it worse. He could do this. He’d dealt with worse than an angry boss, worse than a screw-up on a first shift, and he’d been formally trained on how to apologize properly– how to take responsibility, how to de-escalate, how to make it sound sincere even when it scraped on the way out.

So why was he so nervous?

The question lingered longer than he liked, pressing at the edges of his thoughts until something quieter slipped through.

It wasn’t just about him.

His expression tightened slightly as that realization settled in, unwelcome but undeniable. He was used to this, used to being the one at fault, the one taking the blame, the one standing there and dealing with whatever punishment came after. That part didn’t bother him. It was simple when it was just him. Clean. Contained.

But this wasn’t just him anymore. Jabber had gotten pulled into it.

The thought sat heavy in his chest, a slow, uncomfortable weight that made his stomach twist. It wasn’t just that Jabber had to clean up after him, or that he might get questioned, or blamed by association. It was the fact that Zanka had been the reason for it in the first place. That his mess hadn’t stayed his own.

And that-

That made it worse.

Because taking a hit was easy when you were the only one standing there. He could brace for that, expect it, accept it without much thought. But dragging someone else down with him, even unintentionally, left a bitter, nauseating edge that he couldn’t just brush off.

His jaw clenched faintly.

He didn’t like that.

He didn’t like the idea of someone else dealing with consequences that should have been his. Especially not because of something he’d lost control over. He should have handled it better. Should have kept himself in check when it came to his sister, like he’d been trained to do.

Because that’s what it was. Training.

Years of it. Mental, physical, drilled into him until it was second nature. Don’t react. Don’t falter. Don’t show weakness.

And he still lost control.

His fingers curled slightly at his sides as he exhaled through his nose, forcing his breathing to steady. The tension didn’t leave, but it settled just enough to move through. Thinking about it wouldn’t change anything. It wouldn’t undo what had already happened.

All he could do now was face it and make sure it didn’t get worse.

So he stepped into the hallway, posture straightening on instinct, his stride evening out into something controlled and deliberate, like he was walking toward a punishment he’d already accepted.

The break room feels wrong the second he’s inside.

Not just quiet, stagnant.

The smell of cigarettes hit him the second he stepped in, thick and stale, clinging to the air in a way that made his nose wrinkle before he could stop it. But it wasn’t just smoke. There was something else tangled into it, something faint but unmistakable. Sweet in a way that didn’t belong– like a soft, almost ladylike perfume trying and failing to soften the harsher edge of smoked tobacco. It didn’t blend so much as sit on top of it, sharp in contrast, turning the whole thing into something heavier. More volatile.

Engin’s scent.

And it was everywhere.

Stronger than it should’ve been. Uneven. It pressed into Zanka’s senses in a way that felt wrong– agitated, restless, like it had nowhere to settle. The sweetness didn’t soothe, didn’t ground. It only made the sharpness worse, like sugar poured over something already burning. Zanka felt it before he could properly process it, his chest tightening as his heartbeat kicked up a notch, then another, thudding heavier against his ribs. His shoulders pulled in without him thinking, muscles going tight as his breath hitched and had to be forced back into something steady.

It didn’t stop there. A dull ache crept along his gums, pressure building faintly around his canines like they didn’t know what to do with the pheromones in the air. His jaw tightened on instinct, teeth pressing together as if that alone could keep the reaction contained. His skin felt too aware, nerves lit up in a way that made him want to either brace or pull away, he couldn’t tell which.

It wasn’t like–

His fingers curled slightly at his sides, nails biting faintly into his palms as he grounded himself.

It wasn’t like Jabber.

The thought slipped in before he could stop it, and he shoved it down just as quickly. Jabber’s scent had been heavy too, overwhelming in its own way, but it had settled instead of pressing in. It wrapped around him, warm where this felt sharp, steady where this felt like it might snap at any second. It had quieted something in him.

This did the opposite.

This made his pulse climb higher, uneven now, each beat just a little too hard. Not comfort. Not safety. Just tension, tight and crawling under his skin, edged with something that felt too close to fear. Zanka swallowed it down, forcing his expression flat as he kept moving, even as his body lagged half a step behind, still reacting.

Engin turned at the sound, a metal ruler loose in his hand, tapping irritably against his palm– light, rhythmic, but loud enough to carry across the room. The faint snap, snap of it cut through the space, sharp and precise.

And something in Zanka snapped with it.

His body reacted before his mind could catch up.

His spine snapped ramrod straight, shoulders locking into place as if pulled by invisible strings. His hands moved fast, too fast, pushing up his sleeves without fumbling, exposing the soft skin of his forearms before he even fully registered what he was doing. The motion was practiced, automatic, like muscle memory had taken over long before he had a chance to think.

By the time he realized it, his arms were already extended forward, palms up, open.

Offering.

“I’m sorry–” The words tumbled out too quickly, uneven and tight in his throat. “I should’ve stayed, I know that, I should’ve closed properly, it won’t happen again–” He didn’t stop. He couldn’t. The words kept spilling, tripping over each other as his breathing turned shallow and unsteady, his chest tightening as the pressure built.

“And it’s not– Jabber didn’t do anything wrong, he just–he was helping, it’s my fault, so if there’s– if there’s any punishment, it should be me, not him. I’ll take it, just– don’t–”

His breath caught hard, cutting him off mid-sentence as everything tangled together, too fast, too much. His fingers twitched slightly where they were held out, tension running through them like he was bracing for something that hadn’t come yet.

“Zanka.”

His name cut through everything, sharp, firm, enough to stop him in his tracks.

Zanka flinched like he’d been struck, his shoulders tightening even further as his entire body locked down harder instead of easing. His arms didn’t drop. If anything, they held steadier, posture straightening to the point of strain as he forced himself to stay exactly where he was.

He jutted his wrists out a little further, offering them up more clearly, blue veins standing out against pale skin.

“–Sorry, Sir.”

The correction came immediately, almost reflexive, his voice dropping like the mistake itself was something punishable. Even his breathing felt too loud now, too noticeable, like he was taking up more space than he should. He bowed his head instinctively, posture folding just enough to avoid eye contact, like an animal trying not to provoke something bigger, something waiting to strike.

His breathing broke completely, dragging in too fast, too shallow, each inhale stuttering like it kept catching on something in his chest. His vision blurred at the edges, the room tilting slightly as everything started to feel too loud, too close.

And then–

It spiked.

Not controlled. Not contained. Just everywhere at once.

They flooded the space in a sharp, overwhelming wave, thick with distress and panic, something raw and unfiltered that he couldn’t pull back even if he tried. It clung to the air the same way the cigarette smoke had, only heavier, more suffocating, pressing into the room, into the space between them, into him.

For a second, there was nothing but silence.

Then–

“What the hell are you doing?”

It wasn’t cold. It wasn’t measured. There was no calculated edge to it, just confusion, sharp and immediate, cutting through the tension in a completely different way.

Zanka didn’t move. His arms stayed exactly where they were, palms still up, still offered. If anything, his fingers tensed slightly, a small, involuntary twitch like he was bracing for something that hadn’t come yet.

Engin stared at him, the ruler still in his hand, his expression twisting as he looked between Zanka’s rigid posture, his outstretched arms- palms up- and the way he was standing there like he was waiting to be–

And then it clicked.

“…No.”

The word comes out low, disbelieving, like Engin can’t quite process what he’s looking at. His grip on the ruler falters, fingers loosening as something shifts fast and wrong in his chest.

“Hey–no, no, no–”

The ruler slips from his hand and clatters to the floor, the sharp crack echoing through the room as he drops it like it actually burned him. His hand comes up immediately after, not to strike but in a quick, uncertain motion, hovering uselessly in the space between them as he second-guesses it just as fast.

“I’m not– I wasn’t–” He cuts himself off, dragging a hand hard down his face, breath coming out uneven, his voice rough with something that sounds a lot like pure horror. “Why would you think I was going to hit you?”

Zanka doesn’t move. Doesn’t even flinch.

It’s like Engin’s voice isn’t reaching him at all. Like he’s not even here. And that’s what really sets something off.

Engin freezes for half a second, staring at him, something sharp and unsettled cracking through the panic. “Hey–hey, no, don’t do that,” he says quickly, voice unsteady now, stepping forward again before stopping himself just short. His hands hover like he doesn’t know where to put them. “Zanka–look at me. You’re not– you don’t have to–”

His pheromones.

Thick. Wrong. Overwhelming in a way that doesn’t match the situation. Zanka’s pheromones crash into the space like a physical pressure, sharp with distress and something deeper underneath it, something unstable, flooding the room too fast, too heavy to be normal panic alone.

Engin’s breath stutters without warning.

He tries to steady it, but it catches again immediately, his instincts reacting before his thoughts can catch up. His body goes tense in a different way now, confusion threading into the panic already there as his senses try to sort out what’s happening and failing.

“Hey– hey, no, don’t do that,” he says quickly, voice unsteady now, stepping forward again before stopping himself just short. His hands hover like he doesn’t know where to put them. “Zanka– look at me. Breathe– you need to breathe, Zanka–”

Nothing.

Zanka just stands there, arms still out, breathing so broken he can’t actually get any oxygen in, locked so tight he looks like he might shatter if anything touches him.

“Shit–” Engin mutters under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair, pacing a half step before forcing himself to stop. The air feels heavier now, harder to breathe through, Zanka’s scent pressing in from all sides in a way Engin can’t ignore no matter how hard he tries. It’s wrong in the way it spikes– too intense, too uncontrolled, not like heat, not like comfort, just raw overload.

It makes it harder to think.

“Zanka.”

Still nothing.

Engin exhales sharply, something close to panic fully settling in now, tangled with the biological overwhelm he can’t shut off. “You’re not in trouble,” he says, words coming faster now, rougher. “Do you hear me? You’re not in trouble, I’m not going to hit you, I’m not going to do anything– just–put your arms down, please–”

That last word slips out before he can stop it.

And that’s what really gives it away.

“Hey–” Engin steps forward again without thinking, then stutters to a stop mid-step like he’s just realized how that looks. How this looks. His eyes flick down to Zanka’s arms- still out, still offered- and his expression twists, panic sharpening again as the scent presses harder into him.

“Put your arms down,” he says quickly, too quickly, like he needs it to happen now before something else escalates.

Zanka doesn’t respond.

Engin’s breath hitches, frustration gone completely, replaced with something sharper, more frantic, more overwhelmed than anything else. “Zanka,” he tries again, voice rising without meaning to. “Put your arms down, I’m not going to hit you–”

He cuts himself off, shaking his head hard like he’s trying to physically reset the moment.

“I’m not– I’m not like that,” he pushes out, but it’s thinner now, strained, because Zanka’s scent is still everywhere and it’s making everything harder to parse, harder to keep steady. His hands lift again, then drop uselessly. “Please, I’m not mad at you, so– please–”

He stops, swallowing hard, dragging in a breath that doesn’t fully settle.

“…I’m not going to hurt you,” he says again, quieter this time but no less urgent, like he needs Zanka to believe it before anything else can go wrong.

Heavy footsteps thundered through the shop before the main door was slammed open, the bell above it ringing out sharply, still shaking when the sound of rushing movement followed. Jabber came in fast.

His eyes snapped through the room in an instant, locking onto Engin first. Standing too close, frozen in that uncertain half-step, hands still hovering like he didn’t know what to do with them. Then his gaze shifted, and everything in him went rigid.

Zanka.

Standing in the middle of the breakroom, holding his wrists out towards Engin like he was expecting something. Completely unresponsive in a way that didn’t look like anything normal.

Something in Jabber’s expression broke.

“What the fuck are you doing?!”

He moved before the words even finished leaving his mouth, rushing forward and shoving Engin hard enough to force him back a step without hesitation, no regard for how off-balance it made him. There was no calculation in it– just raw, immediate reaction. Protective instinct overriding everything else.

Jabber barely registered Engin stumbling back and hitting the ground hard. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except Zanka.

He crossed the space in two strides, dropping down into Zanka’s line of sight immediately, his voice shifting as he got closer, still sharp, but no longer aimed at anyone in the room except the situation itself.

“Hey– hey, look at me,” he said again, voice softer now, but it still didn’t reach him. Zanka’s eyes weren’t focusing. His breathing was still broken, arms still held out like he was waiting for something that wasn’t coming. “Zanka, talk to me. What’s wrong?”

Too far gone.

Jabber’s jaw tightened. “Okay,” he exhaled, forcing his voice down, trying again. “Okay, listen to me. Whatever you think is happening right now, it’s not that. You’re safe. You hear me? Safe.”

“Zanka,” he tried one more time, firmer, closer.

He looked into Zanka’s eyes, and what he saw made something in his chest tighten hard. His pupils were blown wide, so wide he couldn’t see the soft blue he usually got lost in. Just pure fear, swallowed in black.

“You’re not in trouble. You’re safe. You’re– ”

Nothing. Not even a flicker.

A sharp breath left Jabber through his nose, and for a split second something like frustration crossed his face, not at Zanka, but at the situation itself. Then it dropped. Decision made.

He moved in close and caught Zanka by the shoulder and the side of his head– careful, but firm enough that Zanka couldn’t drift further out of reach. He guided him forward into his space, into contact, into scent, into something real, pressing him frantically but fully against his chest so there was no distance left for panic to fill.

Zanka didn’t fight it. His arms, still held out, crumpled against the pressure between them, but he didn’t truly react, just went still, caught in it.

Jabber’s pheromones rolled out in a thick wave, musk and leather, sharp iron underneath it, flooding the space in a desperate attempt to anchor him, to pull him back from the edge.

“Breathe,” Jabber said quietly, steadying his voice. “Just breathe. Focus on me.”

For a second, nothing changed. Then it hit.

Zanka’s body jerked slightly as the shift registered, Jabber’s scent cutting through the overload like an anchor dropped into deep water. It didn’t fix everything. It didn’t soothe it cleanly. But it broke the loop.

His breath stuttered. His arms twitched. And then his hands came up, gripping hard at Jabber’s shirt like he was trying to confirm he was real, like the contact itself was the only thing keeping him from slipping back under.

It didn’t calm him, it cracked him open instead.

The panic didn’t vanish. It shifted. Fear surged up underneath it.

Zanka made a broken sound against him, his grip tightening as his whole body started shaking. His fingers clawed at the fabric now, not controlled anymore, just desperate, like he couldn’t decide whether to hold on or push away.

His breathing collapsed into something uneven and unstable again, but now it wasn’t distant.

And then it broke fully.

A strangled, shaking exhale left him, and he started crying– quiet at first, then harder, like whatever had been holding him together finally gave out under the sudden change. His legs buckled immediately, dropping beneath him under the weight of everything, but Jabber didn’t let him fall. Instead, he went down with him, keeping him close, steadying him as Zanka’s face pressed deeper into his chest.

Another thick wave of pheromones rolled off Jabber, grounding and heavy, filling the space around them. Zanka didn’t fight it. He breathed him in, Jabber’s scent flooding his senses as another soft sob broke out of him. His entire body shuddered as he tried to shift closer, like if he could get inside Jabber’s skin he would.

Everything around him faded.

He couldn’t even remember why he was inside the store anymore.

The only thing he knew was that Jabber was here.

Engin pushed himself up slowly, one hand still braced on the floor as he steadied his breathing. His eyes flicked between them, lingering on Zanka longer than anything else, still shaking, still buried against Jabber’s chest, still gone.

“I…dont know what happened,” Engin said, voice rough, careful. He didn’t step forward this time, but the intent was still there. “Just- he panicked. I didn’t mean to— earlier, I didn’t know—”

Jabber’s head snapped up.

The shift was immediate. Not loud, not explosive, but instinctive, like something in him physically pulled tighter around Zanka before his mind caught up.

“No.”

Engin blinked. “I’m not trying to—”

“Don’t.”

Jabber’s voice broke through sharper this time, not raised, but strained at the edges. Protective in a way that wasn’t about Engin anymore, it was about distance. Space. Anything that might shift wrong and make Zanka worse.

He adjusted his hold on Zanka without thinking, pulling him closer into his chest, hand firm at the back of his head. Zanka’s fingers tightened weakly in response, still trembling.

Jabber didn’t look away from Engin, but his attention kept slipping like he couldn’t fully afford to divide it.

“You’re not helping,” he said, quieter now, but it came out tight. “Just..don’t come closer.”

Engin stopped moving entirely.

Jabber exhaled through his nose, sharp, like he was trying to get air that didn’t feel right in his lungs. His eyes flicked briefly around the room again. It was too open, too many angles, too much leftover presence that wasn’t his.

Engin’s scent. The stale mix of panic. The space itself feeling too big for something this fragile.

Zanka let out another broken, uneven sound against him, and Jabber’s grip tightened slightly in response, instinctive.

That did it.

Jabber shifted his stance, turning his body more fully away from Engin, not aggressive, just protective, like closing a door that wasn’t physically there.

“Okay,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else. Then, louder, still rough around the edges:

“I need to get him out of here.”

His eyes flicked back to Engin again.

Not angry now. Just focused. Urgent.

“Just—move out of the way.”

A pause.

His voice softened slightly, but it didn’t lose its urgency.

“He can’t stay here like this.”

Engin nodded once, sharp and quick, like that was the only answer he could manage right now.

He took a step back.

Then another.

And then he stopped interfering completely, giving them space without hesitation, eyes still tracking Zanka for a second too long before he finally looked away.

Jabber didn’t wait for anything else.

He shifted his grip on Zanka, adjusting him higher in his arms so his face stayed tucked firmly against his neck, completely shielded from everything else in the room. Zanka didn’t resist, instead just clung weakly to him, still shaking, still half-lost in panic. 

“Hey,” Jabber muttered under his breath, softer now, not directed at anyone but him. “I’ve got you.”

He moved fast.

Out of the room, down the hallway, footsteps heavy and controlled even as everything in him felt tight and urgent. The world narrowed down to keeping Zanka close, keeping him covered, keeping him anchored.

They passed Fu and Riyo in a blur on the way up. Their faces turning, voices half-starting to ask questions but Jabber didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. Just kept going, one arm locked under Zanka’s back, the other steadying him against his chest.

No explanations. Not now.

Stairs came and went quickly under him, each step deliberate, careful not to jostle Zanka too much. Zanka’s grip tightened faintly again at one point, and Jabber adjusted immediately, leaning him closer.

“Almost there,” he murmured, more breath than sound.

Outside was colder. Sharper.

Zankas car was already there, still parked in the corner a good distance away from the front of the store. 

Jabber got the back door open and lowered himself in first, still holding Zanka tightly against him, then pulled him in fully so there was no gap, no distance. The door shut behind them with a solid, final click.

For a moment, everything was still.

Then Jabber exhaled.

And he let his pheromones fill the space.

Thick. Grounding. Immediate.

Contained by the car’s interior, it didn’t spread outward. It settled, saturating the space around them in something familiar, something stable, something that belonged to him and only him.

Zanka stayed pressed against his neck, still trembling, but no longer falling further away.

Jabber didn’t move yet.

He just held him there, breathing slow on purpose now, keeping his scent steady in the enclosed space, letting the world outside stay outside for a while.

Inside the car, the silence didn’t feel empty anymore.

It felt contained.

Zanka was still pressed tightly against Jabber’s neck, breath uneven but no longer spiraling, his body slowly settling in uneven stages, like his system was trying to remember how to exist outside of pure panic. The occasional tremor still ran through him, but it was softer now. Less violent. More like aftershocks than collapse.

Jabber kept one arm locked around him, the other resting firmly at his back, holding him in place without pressure. Just presence. Just contact.

The car was full of him now.

Jabber’s scent had saturated everything, thick in the enclosed space, but even through that Zanka’s pheromones were still there- unsteady, raw, not fully settled. They clung in a way that didn’t match what was happening anymore. Like his body hadn’t gotten the message that the danger was gone yet.

It pulled at something in Jabber anyway.

Not in a clear way. In a way that sat too low in his chest. Protective instinct, still lit. Still active. Still not fully shut off.

Jabber exhaled slowly through his nose, eyes unfocused for a second as he stared past the window without really seeing it.

What the hell even happened.

The thought didn’t come neatly.

It came in fragments.

Zanka in that room. Arms out. Not reacting. Not hearing anything.

Engin on the floor. The panic. The misread fear that had hit so fast it had almost changed the shape of the room.

And Zanka—

Zanka like he hadn’t been there at all.

Jabber’s grip tightened slightly without meaning to, just for a second, before he forced it back down again.

Zanka shifted faintly against him at the pressure, letting out a small broken breath, and Jabber immediately eased again, hand steadying at the back of his head like an automatic correction.

The phone in his pocket buzzed.

Once.

Then again.

Probably Engin. Or Riyo. Or both.

Jabber felt it through the fabric, the vibration sharp and insistent in a way that didn’t match the moment at all. He glanced forward, checking the rearview mirror as he saw Engin rush Riyo and Fu inside the store. More privacy, as much as they could get right now. 

He didn’t move to check it.

Didn’t even look down.

His attention stayed locked on Zanka, even as his thoughts kept circling back to what had just happened, unable to fully settle on any one explanation.

Because none of it had felt clean.

None of it had felt like something that should’ve escalated that fast.

Zanka’s scent still lingered in the car too, tangled with his own now, overlapping in a way that kept pulling at that same instinct in him, keep him close, keep him safe, don’t let anything touch this again.

Jabber swallowed once, slow.

His hand brushed Zanka’s head again, steadier now, more deliberate, like he was grounding both of them at once.

And he still didn’t look at his phone.

A while passed without either of them really moving.

The car stayed parked where it was, the outside world shifting slowly through the windows as the light dimmed into late afternoon gold, softening edges, cooling everything down from the intensity of earlier. The air inside had settled too, no longer chaotic. Just heavy in a quieter way.

Zanka’s breathing had evened out by now. 

Still a little unsteady, but human again. Present again.

His grip on Jabber’s shirt had loosened sometime earlier without either of them noticing exactly when. Now his hands rested more loosely, fingers no longer clawing but just holding on in a way that didn’t feel like desperation anymore.

Jabber stayed still for most of it, one arm still around him, the other resting lightly at his back. Not restraining. Just there.

Eventually, his voice broke the silence.

“You okay?”

It came out rougher than he probably meant it to, quieter than everything that had come before it. Careful in a different way now.

Zanka didn’t answer immediately.

His body shifted slightly first, like the question itself took a moment to register properly. Then he pulled back just enough to look at Jabber, slowly, like he was testing what reality felt like again outside of closeness.

There was a hesitation.

Small, but obvious.

Then a slight nod.

“…Yeah,” Zanka said, voice still low. Not fully steady, but real.

Another pause followed right after it, longer this time.

Because awareness was coming back in layers.

Where he was sitting. How close he was.

Jabber’s arm still around him. The way he was practically in his lap, straddling him without either of them having really adjusted it during everything that had happened.

The scent too- thick and overwhelming in the enclosed space, still wrapped around him, still clinging to him in a way that made it hard to separate where he ended and Jabber began.

Zanka’s expression shifted faintly.

Not dramatic.

Just a quiet tightening around the edges of his awareness.

Embarrassment, deep down, starting to surface but not strong enough to make him pull away in panic or reject it outright. More like a heat creeping up the back of his neck, making him suddenly aware of every inch of contact.

He swallowed.

His eyes flicked away.

For a moment, he stayed like that. Still close, still in place but no longer fully buried in Jabber the way he had been before.

Then, carefully, he shifted.

Just easing himself out of the position, hands briefly bracing against Jabber’s chest for balance as he slid back enough to sit more properly in his lap beside him instead of buried into him. The absence of contact made the space feel suddenly larger again, but not unsafe this time.

Just different.

Zanka finally looked at Jabber again just for a second.

His gaze dropped almost immediately afterward, unable or unwilling to hold eye contact any longer.

In the chaos of everything, Jabber’s turtleneck had slipped down without either of them noticing. Zanka only saw it once his focus fell too low, and when he did, something in him tightened.

The embarrassment hit late, dull and heavy, but it was quickly swallowed by shame.

Because now there was proof of it.

Bruising along his neck. Marks that lingered too long, too dark, too visible. Bites and hickeys that didn’t look tender or intimate so much as raw and overwhelming, like something had been taken too far, even if he could not fully place how.

His stomach twisted.

Right.

He should not be reacting like this.

He should not have needed that kind of comfort. Should not have let himself fall into it so easily.

His throat worked as he swallowed, and the thought came out before he could stop it.

“…Sorry,” he muttered, vague and unfinished.

At almost the exact same time, Jabber spoke.

“Sorry.”

Zanka blinked, confused, finally lifting his eyes again.

Jabber, on the other hand, reacted instantly.

“Sorry?” he repeated, sharper now, brows drawing together. “What the hell are you sorry for?”

Zanka flinched at the tone.

For a moment he just sat there, staring at his hands that were still firmly placed a gaint Jabbers chest like it had answers he could not say out loud. His thoughts felt too loud in his own head, tangled and heavy, like every option led to the same conclusion.

Why would he not be sorry?

After everything.

After how much Jabber had to step in, how much he had to handle, how he still stayed even when he clearly should not have been dragged into any of this.

Zanka swallowed hard.

His throat felt tight, like the words were getting caught on the way out.

“I’m,” he started, then stopped, voice breaking before he could finish.

He dragged the back of his hand across his nose quickly, trying to steady himself, but it did not really help. His eyes were still wet, lashes clumped slightly from earlier tears.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, quieter this time. “Because I ruined what we had. Our friendship.”

His fingers curled slightly at Jabbers sweater, tense, uncertain.

“I forced you to- to,” he tried, but the sentence fell apart before it could form properly. He shook his head once, like he was trying to reset it, then pushed through anyway.

“You’re just helping me because of instinct,” he said, voice barely steady now. “And it hurts. I don’t want to force you. I don’t want to force you to like me.”

The last words came out smaller, like admitting them cost something.

And then it hit Jabber.

Not all at once, but in a sharp shift in his expression as everything Zanka had been doing suddenly made sense. The way he kept avoiding eye contact. The way he looked like he was bracing for rejection that had not even been spoken yet. The way he had decided, somewhere along the way, that whatever was between them was already ruined.

Jabber opened his mouth, but he didn't get a chance to actually speak. 

The car door was yanked open.

Zanka was pulled out before either of them could react, dragged so abruptly that it took a second for his body to even register what was happening. A hand caught his hair, another locked around his arm, and he was hauled out of the car.

Jabber moved instantly.

He scrambled out after him, urgency snapping through him as he tried to close the distance, his attention locking fully onto Zanka being forced away.

Two men dressed in black were already at the second vehicle, shoving Zanka toward the open door.

Before Jabber could reach them, another man stepped directly into his path.

The punch came fast, snapping into his nose and throwing his head back. Blood filled his mouth and nose immediately. He tried to push forward anyway, but a second strike hit him in the stomach and folded him inward, cutting the air out of him.

He hit the ground hard.

For a moment, everything blurred. Sound dulled. His vision swam at the edges.

Through it, he could still see Zanka.

Still being dragged.

Still fighting.

“Z-Zanka,” Jabber tried, but it came out broken, barely audible.

The man standing over him shifted closer, blocking his view.

Jabber forced his gaze upward, refusing to lose sight, and was met with a kick that snapped his head sideways and sent him fully down again.

“Jabber!”

Zanka’s voice cut through everything, sharp and desperate even from a distance.

Jabber’s breath stuttered as he turned his head slightly, just enough to see him again through the blur. Zanka was struggling hard now, fighting against the men holding him, panic and resistance clear in every movement.

The guard over Jabber paused, watching for a moment as if deciding something.

Jabber tried to push himself up again, but his body would not cooperate fast enough.

“Zanka,” he managed again, weaker this time.

Zanka was shoved into the car.

His face was the last thing Jabber saw, twisted with panic and fear, still trying to fight even as the door closed on him.

Then the door shut.

And Zanka was gone.