Chapter Text
The night clings to you like a damp rag as you drag yourself through the alley after your shift at the bar, the sharp click of your heeled boots scraping against uneven pavement. Your jacket is zipped tight over your too-short skirt, but it does little to keep the cold from seeping in. Exhaustion weighs heavy in your limbs, pulling at every step.
This shortcut is the only way you’ll make it home before dawn, but the alley is a mess. Overflowing trash cans choke the narrow path, the stench of rot thick in the air, sticking to the back of your throat with every breath.
You spot two hybrids hunched over a bin, ears twitching as they rummage for scraps.
Their feral eyes lock on you under the sputtering bulb, panic flashing before they bolt like startled rats, vanishing deeper into the dark.
You keep walking. In this world, hybrids are nothing but slaves, collared and owned by humans who buy them for work, pleasure, or status. The lucky ones get kept; the rest end up abandoned, haunting alleys, scavenging to survive or pleading with passersby to claim them before the authorities drag them off.
You'd never had a hybrid. Couldn't afford one. Couldn't even afford to properly feed yourself most of the time, honestly. The bar paid just enough for rent and ramen (on good weeks). On the bad ones, all you had were late-night prayers that the power wouldn’t get cut off.
You veer into the next alley, narrower and colder. An older woman emerges from a shadowed doorway, bleach-blonde hair stark under the streetlight, long coat swishing around her legs as she wobbles on sky-high heels. A silhouette peels from the darkness; a lean boy bunny hybrid, black ears flopping slightly as he blocks her path.
He says something out toward the woman. His voice is quiet, too quiet for you to make out the words from where you are. The woman recoiles immediately.
"Fuck off, filthy mutt," she spits, shoving past, coat flapping like a dismissal.
His shoulders slump, but those endless doe eyes snap to you. Up close, he’s pretty—devastatingly so. Dark, messy black hair clings to his pale forehead, a black hoodie hanging loose over his lean, taller frame, torn trousers slipping low on narrow hips. A fresh bruise shadows his cheekbone, vivid purple against skin so white it almost glows. His lips are full, slightly parted, breath uneven—and above it all, dark bunny ears twitch faintly, tense and alert.
Your heart clenches, caught between pity and unease, as you try to slip past him. “Excuse me.”
He shifts, blocking you. 'Wait. I'll make you feel so good. I'm... good with my tongue. Please.' His voice dips low, ears twitching forward.
Your stomach drops.
He is young. Younger than you, maybe. Definitely younger. Tall but thin. Lean in the way that isn't natural, but is the product of too many missed meals.
''I really don't have money,' You say, clutching your bag.
''Please.'' The plea cracks, and before you can dodge, he crowds your back against the rough brick wall.
You gasp as the stone digs into your spine, his taller frame pinning you with peer desperation. His mouth finds your neck, lips warm and insistent, they move against your skin with a practiced, mechanical precision; kissing, open-mouthed, trailing slowly up toward your jaw.
He smells like rain and his soaked hair brushes your cheek, droplets cold on your skin. He must've stood here through the earlier downpour.
You push his chest, hands fisting the wet hoodie. "Stop—"
But he captures your lips, kissing deep and messy. His tongue slips past resistance, teasing yours with expert flicks. One hand cups your jaw, angling perfectly; the other braces the wall. You shove harder, but he chases, nipping your lower lip, sucking it soft and swollen until your knees weaken.
He's too good. Knowing just how to unravel reluctance.
His hand shifts, no longer bracing the wall, and instead slips beneath the edge of your jacket, brushing against the bare skin of your waist. The touch is cold at first, then burning, sending a sharp shiver through you that you can’t control.
A sound almost escapes you. You force it down, breath catching, and jerk your head back, breaking the kiss.
But he doesn’t stop. His lips drag down, grazing your jaw before pressing against your throat again, slow and insistent. You feel his breath shudder against your collarbone. His body is close enough that you can feel how cold he is, how the hoodie does nothing against the night air, how his body almost leeches warmth from yours as he presses in. He is doing this to survive.
'Wait—stop,' You pant.
He pulls back slightly, dark eyes locking on yours, breath ragged. You fumble for your wallet, fingers clumsy as you pull out the last of your cash. Pressing it into his palm. 'Here. Buy food. Please, just... eat something.'
His fingers curl around the money, but confusion clouds his gaze. He looks down at it. Then back up at you. The bruise on his cheek looks worse up close. You can see the fine detail of it–the way the skin had broken slightly over the bone. Someone had hit him hard. Recently.
Where do you want me?" he asks, voice low.
You blink. "What?"
"Where." He glanced down the alley, then back at you. "Here? Or— somewhere else?"
The realization hit you like cold water.
He thinks this is a transaction. That the money is a down payment. That you’ve given him something and now you expect something in return. Because that’s how it works. That’s the only way his world works. Humans don’t just give. They buy. They trade. Every kindness has a price tag, and he’s already calculating what he owes you.
"Oh—no. No, no, that's—" You shake your head quickly, heat rising in your face. "You've got it wrong. I don't want anything from you. I was just—"
You pause. He is staring at you like you are speaking in a language he'd lost the translation for.
"I don't want anything," you repeat, quieter this time. "You look like you need it more than me. That's all."
"Do you really think I'm gonna take your money for free?" Hurt sharpens his tone, ears pinning back.
You open your mouth but he starts talking, faster now, stepping back like you had burned him. "You really despise me that much? Rather throw money at me like pity than let me earn it?" A bitter sound escapes him. "Hybrids earn what we get. You think I don't know what this looks like?" He gestures at himself, and the motion is furious, self-loathing, like he is presenting evidence to a jury. "Am I so repellent that you'd rather throw cash at me so I'll just fuck off—"
"What? No, that's not—" Your voice comes out strangled. Guilt hits you so hard it feels physical, a fist closing around your throat. And in your peripheral vision you see it: the bills crumpled in his hand, clutched so tight his knuckles have gone white, and suddenly they look filthy, something you'd done wrong, something you should have known better than to offer so carelessly.
“You don’t know what it’s like,” he says, looking down, voice tight. “You get to walk around with your money, your choices… your decency.” His fingers curl slightly, like he wants to throw the cash back but can’t. “But I don’t. I don’t get to just exist without earning my place.” He lets out a shaky huff, jaw clenching. His eyes flick back up to yours. “You think this is kindness, but you’re just making it worse. Because now I owe you, and I can’t even pay it back, because you won’t let me.”
A single drop hit the pavement between you.
Then another. You felt the first fat raindrop land on your shoulder, soaking instantly through the thin fabric of your jacket, cold as a needle. Then one on your cheek and the back of your neck.
He stops talking. He lookes up at the sky for half a second, just long enough for the lamplight to catch the hollow beneath his eyes where it seems that proper sleep hadn't been in a long, long time. He looks back at you, but his expression had closed. Gone flat. The anger had burned through whatever fuel it had found and now there is just a raw, exhausted emptiness underneath it, and somehow that is worse.
"Forget it," His voice is barely audible, swallowed almost immediately by the rain.
He reaches out. Opens his fist. He holds the wet bills toward you.
You look at the money in his outstretched hand. Rain pools in his open palm.
And for one second–one shameful, honest second, you hesitate. Because you need that money. Tomorrow's lunch. The electric bill you're already behind on. You look at those bills and your brain does the math automatically, the broke-person math that never turns off, the constant low hum of can I afford this, can I survive without that...
But then you look at him.
Ears flat. Shoulders curled in. Standing in front of you with his palm outstretched like he's offering back the only thing of value he's been given in what might be weeks, because he'd rather go hungry than owe a debt he can't repay.
Your fingers close around his wrist. Firm enough to stop him, to push his hand back toward his own chest.His dark eyes flick to your face. Wary. Waiting for the catch.
"Let's go to my place. It's two blocks away.''
Surprise flickers across his bruised face, his eyes widening for a fraction of a second before he nods and steps back.
You lead, heels splashing puddles, his footsteps shadowing yours as rain blurs everything toward your flat. As soon as you get to the building, the damp chill seems to settle right into your bones. Water streams off your jacket in heavy rivulets, soaking through to your skin. You can feel his eyes on you, heavy with unspoken expectation, as you fumble with keys. The lock sticks as always, gritty old steel fighting back, and finally, after a few frustrated tugs, you shove it open.
The stairwell smells stale and mildew. The apartment is on the third floor, at the end of the hall. Your apartment isn't big, but it has enough space for a sagging couch, a kitchenette, a bedroom that's more closet than anything plus a small bathroom.
You flick on the single bulb overhead, casting shadows that stretch long across the wood, and kick off your boots by the door, toes aching from the shift.
The bunny steps in behind you, dripping on the worn wood. Without a word, he bends to peel off his sodden boots. Then he moves to unzip the black hoodie. He shrugs it off, letting it drop to the floor with a dull thud.
Your breath hitches.
Underneath, he doesnt have anything but a lean torso marked by jagged scars. thin white lines crisscrossing his ribs and shoulders, remnants of who knows what abuse. Bruises bloom darker on his arms, pale skin stretched tight over muscle that's wiry.
He stands there, bare-chested and shivering. His wet black hair is plastered to his forehead. Heavy drops of water run down his neck, over the scars on his collarbone, dripping onto the floor. His huge, dark doe eyes are shadowed with exhaustion, but they are fixed on you with a stubborn intensity. Waiting for the command.
You swallow hard, running a hand through your own soaking wet hair to push it back from your face. Clothes are plastered to your body, freezing cold.
Your gaze flicks to the small radiator. The towel you’d hung there earlier, hangs freshly washed, still faintly warm. You grab it without thinking and toss it toward him.
He doesn’t catch it.
It slips through the air and lands near his feet with a soft sound.
“Just… dry off or something,” You mutter.
He looks down at the towel, then back at you, teeth sinking into the inside of his cheek.
"I can make tea..."
He straightens, glossy eyes locking on yours, ears drooping slightly over his messy black hair. ''I won't be useless,'' he murmurs, voice low and edged with resolve, stepping closer.
You instinctively take a step back, as he aproaches, then another, until the back of the sofa presses against your butt, stopping you short. There is something in his look that silences you. Something fragile. You can’t push him away when he already looks this broken.
And suddenly he’s there, on his knees in front of you, hands sliding up your bare legs under the skirt, pushing the fabric higher. Your breath hitches as his fingers hook into your panties, tugging them down with efficient pull, exposing you to the cool air.
'Wait—' You start, but his mouth is already there, head vanishing under the hem of your skirt, tongue pressing flat against your pussy in one long, wet lick that makes your knees buckle.
He eats you out like it's his profession. Skilled, unrelenting, lips sealing around your clit with gentle suction while his tongue circles and flicks, dipping lower to thrust inside you, tasting every fold, black ears tickling your thighs. Wet sounds fill the small space, his nose bumping your mound as he works deeper, one hand gripping your thigh to hold you steady while the other braces your hip. Pleasure coils tight and fast, unbidden, your body betraying any denial as slick heat builds between your legs.
You didn't want this. Didn't ask for it, but oh God, it feels good. His mouth hot and urgent, drawing gasps from you that echo off the walls.
Your hands flail, grasping the arm of the couch behind you to stay upright, fingers digging into the fabric as your legs tremble. It's hard to stand straight. The intensity hits you like a wave, your pussy throbbing under his assault.
Suddenly he hooks one of your legs over his shoulder, the muscle there flexing under your calf as he tilts your hips forward. His tongue plunges even deeper into your soaked entrance. You yelp. The new angle letting him fuck you with it, swirling and probing your walls.
One of your hands that was grasping the couch now dives under your skirt. You grab a fistful of his damp hair, trying to shove him away. But he groans into your core, the vibration rumbling through your clit, refusing to detach, tongue thrusting relentlessly, slurping up your arousal, as his bunny ears twitch wetly between your thighs.
You know this is wrong. Your mind screams it even as your pussy clenches around his invading tongue. The heat of his breath overwhelming your senses.
In a surge of panic, you seize his long ears, and yank his head back hard. His head emerges from under your skirt, dark eyes locking onto yours with a feral intensity. His lips are plump and rosy, swollen from the sucking, your juices smeared across his chin and cheeks in a glossy sheen. He looks utterly wrecked, wild and unhinged, breath coming in heavy pants.
Your leg stays draped over his shoulder, pussy exposed and throbbing, suddenly cold without his mouth sealed to it. A trickle of your slick runs down your thigh. You pant heavily, heart racing as you stare down at him.
"You don't like it?" He rasps, his voice husky and edged with challenge, tongue darts out to lick a stray drop of your slick from his lower lip.
"It's great, really," you breath out, voice shaky, as your grip loosens on his ears just a fraction, "but that's enough."
"But I didn't finish," he murmurs, eyes narrowing as he leans in again, trying to bury his face back against your heat. You tighten your hold on his ears again, holding him back inches away, the wet fur slipping through your fingers.
"Let go," he growls, a hint of whine threading through the command.
After a moment of hesitation, you release his ears reluctantly, and in an instant, he's diving back in. His teeth sink into the soft flesh of your inner thigh, a sharp sting that makes you hiss, the pain blooming hot and immediate under his molars before his tongue soothes it with a broad lick.
You gasp, but before you can react, his tongue shoves deep inside your pussy, burying to the hilt in one brutal thrust, fucking your walls with insistent strokes that make you throw your head back, a sharp cry escaping as the pleasure overwhelms you. Your knees buckle, your body arching as you nearly collapse on the spot.
One of his hands clamps around the leg over his shoulder, fingers digging into your thigh with bruising force, while he pushes you back, pinning your ass against the solid back of the couch. The fabric yielding under your weight, letting you slump against it for support as he spreads you wider.
Dazed, your hand dives back into his hair, not pushing this time but yanking him closer, pulling his face flush against your heat in a haze of need. He moans into your cunt, the sound muffled and vibrating through your sensitive nerves, his tongue drilling deeper, with a rhythm that make your vision blur.
You'd heard whispers that bunnies were infamous for their stamina in bed, wild lovers who could go all night, but you never imagined this; This voracious, mind-melting devotion, his mouth turning your resistance to ruin.
You moan, the pleasure twisting sharper, a tear welling in the corner of your eye from the overwhelming stretch of his tongue spearing you open.
You are close. Warmth pooling inside of you, impossible to ignore. He senses it, pulling back just enough to whisper hot against your pussy, "Cum for me," before his teeth graze your outer lips in a teasing bite, gasping into your folds as he laps harder, faster.
You can't take it anymore. Your walls flutter wildly around him, release crashing through you in violent spasms, thighs quaking over his head as you soak his face, the sweet tang of your cum flooding his mouth. He keeps licking through it, drawing out every aftershock, until you're a boneless, panting mess.
He drags one final, languid lick through your spasming pussy. You slump fully against the backrest of the coach now, all flushed and trembling, skin prickling with sweat. Slowly, he rises from under the hem, while your leg slides off his shoulder.
His cheeks are flushed, lips parted, chin slick. He lifts the back of his palm to his mouth and wipes slowly, smearing away the mess absentmindedly.
He stays on his knees.
His hands rest on his own thighs, and he looks up at you with those dark doe eyes. His eyes search your face carefully, almost anxiously, like he’s trying to read something you haven’t said yet.
It hits you: He’s waiting for a reaction. The way a worker waits for a supervisor to inspect the job. The way a dog waits to be told it did the trick right.
You're still breathing hard. Your fingers grip the edge of the couch cushion, knuckles white, chest heaving. "You did well," you manage, voice a little shaky.
His ears twitch. Straight up. Completely vertical, almost comically fast, the dark fur catching the light. "Really?"
"You… yeah. You did really well." You nod, swallowing, still catching your breath. "You deserve a meal," you add softly, hoping it’ll make him eat with you.
His head tilts slightly, brows furrowing as he searches your face. “I do?”
You straighten a little, tugging your skirt down over your thighs, trying to pull yourself together. “Yeah,” You breath out. “I… I’ll make us something.”
Your gaze slips, unintentionally, over his bare, skinny abs, and then downward, noticing the bulge in his pants where his palm rests. Heat creeps up your neck. Your eyes flick around the room for a moment, cheeks burning. Embarrassment creeps in. You clear your throat. When he doesn’t move or say anything more, you add, “You can stand up.”
He blinks, gaze flicking down at his own knees pressed to the worn wood floor. Then back up at you.
“You don’t have to stay down there,” you murmur, watching him.
You can see the war happening behind his eyes. The trained instincts, drilled into him for obedience and control, clash with something new: this unfamiliar thread of kindness, the gentle permission you’re giving. He doesn’t know how to respond, how to act when softness isn’t met with command or expectation.
Slowly—very slowly—he begins to rise, careful, almost reverent, eyes never leaving yours. Like he's waiting for you to revoke the permission mid-motion, to tell him to get back down, to change your mind.
“Yeah… okay,” you mumble, more to yourself than to him, shifting awkwardly as you step toward the kitchen. You don’t know what to do with yourself. You look around, your gaze drops, and lands on the grey towel still crumpled on the floor.
“You know what…” you mutter, bending down quickly to pick it up. You walk back to him and hold it out. “Take this,” you say, voice steadier now. “Go to the bathroom. Shower." You point toward the bathroom so there’s no confusion. "There's hot water—well, warm water, the landlord's water heater is questionable... Just turn the handle to the left. Take your time. I'll make something for you to eat."
For a second, he just stares at the towel.
Then, slowly, he reaches out, fingers brushing the fabric before gripping it. He nods once.
You turn away. Then stop. Your eyes drop to his clothes: The soaking wet hoodie on the floor, the ruined trousers clinging to his legs, torn and filthy and probably the only things he owns. The thought of him putting them back on after a shower makes your stomach turn.
“Wait—” You snap your fingers lightly, already pivoting. "Hold on. Don't— just wait a second."
He freezes mid-step, one hand on the bathroom doorframe, ears snapping upright.
Before he can respond, you’re already moving, disappearing into your room. You dig through your drawers, pushing past your own clothes until you find something that’ll fit: An oversized blouse and a pair of basketball shorts your ex left behind.You hesitate for a second, staring at them. Then you grab them and head back out.
He’s still standing where you left him. You hold the clothes out. “Here. Change into these. Put your wet stuff in the washing machine. I’ll deal with it later.”
There’s a small pause before he answers, voice quiet. “…Okay.”
He takes the clothes, and then turns, disappearing into the bathroom. The door clicks shut.
A beat of silence.
Then the shower starts. The pipes groan and rattle loudly through the walls, making you wince. You hate how everything in this building sounds like it’s about to fall apart any second. Ancient. All of it.
You let out a slow breath. Then you turn and head to your room. Your clothes are still plastered to your skin, cold and heavy, and you peel them off mechanically, dropping the whole damp pile into the corner without a second thought.
You reach for the first things your hands land on: a big sweater from a second-hand shop, black with faded pink straps stitched across it, soft from too many washes. You pull it over your head, then grab a pair of shorts and slip them on, finishing with your worn slipper shoes.
Your hair is still damp, clinging in wet strands down your back. You gather it up lazily, twisting it into a loose bun, securing it with a pen you snatch off the nightstand, too tired to bother looking for a proper hair tie.
Then you head to the kitchen.
You stand in front of the open fridge. The light illuminates what you already know is there (almost nothing.)
You work with what you have. Some leftover meat. A half-wilted green onion, edges soft but still usable. A couple of mushrooms. You slice everything quickly, efficiently, like you’ve done this too many times before. Soy sauce. Mirin. A small knob of ginger, grated in.
You fill a pot with water, setting it on the stove, the quiet clink of metal grounding you as the flame flickers to life.
By the time the noodles have softened and the broth has taken on that simple, savory smell, you’re already reaching for the bowls, moving quickly, efficiently.
Just as you’re about to serve, the bathroom door opens.
You glance up. The bunny hybrid steps out barefoot, damp hair clinging to his forehead. The oversized blouse you gave him hangs comfortably on his frame, sleeves brushing past his wrists. The basketball shorts sit low on his hips, and for a moment, you notice how much comfier and fresher he looks than before.
He sniffs the air. A small, sharp intake through his nose, his head tilting slightly to the side, and his ears perk up,. His eyes drift toward the stove, where steam curls from the pot and pork sizzles softly in the pan.
“I’m—almost done,” you say quickly, turning back to the pot, ladling the broth into the two bowls. You arrange the pork on top in uneven slices, fan the mushrooms beside them, scatter the green onions across. You grab chopsticks for both of you, hesitating for a second before adding a spoon to each bowl too, just in case.
Then you carry everything over to the coffee table by the sofa, setting the bowls down carefully. You lower yourself onto the fluffy carpet, crossing your legs. You pat the floor.
"Sit down."
He does. No hesitation this time, or maybe just less of it. He lowers himself onto the carpet across from you, legs folding awkwardly beneath him, and his eyes drop immediately to the bowl in front of him. He stares at it. The steam curls up from the surface, and his dark eyes track it like it might disappear.
It's not a feast. Not even a proper recipe. Just sad-pantry udon. But it’s warm. And it’s better than nothing.
You pick up your chopsticks and spoon. "Eat," you say. "Before it gets cold."
You dig in, slurping the noodles as your gaze flicks up to him. Across the table, he picks up his chopsticks. His grip is wrong. Fingers positioned awkwardly, the sticks held at an angle that makes them look more like weapons than utensils. You realize he might not even know how to use them. Still, somehow, he manages to hook a few noodles and lift them to his mouth.
He takes the first bite, and his eyes widen. A low, involuntary sound slips from the back of his throat as he swallows.
Then he starts eating fast. Too fast.
The chopsticks are abandoned within seconds. He grabs the spoon. Noodles barely make it to it before he’s pulling them in, swallowing quickly, barely chewing. The broth follows in hurried gulp. The spoon scraping the bottom of the bowl, tilting to catch every last drop
You stop eating.
Your chopsticks hover halfway to your mouth, noodles dangling from them, forgotten. You just... watch him: The way his ears stay up the whole time, trembling slightly with each motion. The way his throat bobs when he swallows, the pale column of it working rhythmically. You watch him eat like a person who has been starving. Because he has been starving.
Before you’re even halfway through yours, he’s done. The bowl is empty. Not a drop of broth left. He looks up at you, cheeks flushed, eyes wide.
You look at your own bowl. Half-full. Noodles swelling in the cooling broth, the pork going soft. You put down your chopsticks and push your bowl across the table, until it stops in front of him. “Here. Eat mine. "
"That's yours," he says, eyes flicking to you, suspicious, hesitant.
"Im not hungry."
It's a bit of a lie. Your stomach isn't full, and the smell of ginger and soy is still pulling at something low and empty inside you. But it's not your first meal of the day. You had cereal before your shift. A cheap granola bar on your break. The kind of nothing‐calories that keep you standing but don't actually fill anything.
But the way he's looking at the bowl... the way his fingers are still wrapped around his own empty one, lingering on the porcelain like he can't bear to let go of the last thing that fed him– makes you not want to eat.
“I ate while I was cooking,” you shrug, trying to sound casual. “I’m full. I don’t want this to go to waste. So eat.”
He stares at you.
That look again. The one that scans your face, hunting for the lie. You hold it. Keep your expression steady, hands relaxed on your knees, and you pray your stomach doesn't growl and ruin the whole act.
You exhale when his hand moves. He pulls the bowl toward himself. Slowly. He eats again. Less desperately this time. Not slow. You don't think he's capable of slow when it comes to food, but this is definitely more measured.
You watch him from across the table. Knees pulled to your chest, chin resting on your folded arms. The rain taps against the window in a rhythm that's starting to feel almost soothing.
You can't help but notice that he looks so much softer now.
Softer than how he looked earlier, when he was on his knees between your legs. The thought makes heat crawl through your neck.
You clear your throat. Loudly. Possibly too loudly. He glances up, spoon frozen halfway to his mouth.
You sit up straighter, uncurling from your ball, pressing your palms flat against your knees like you're grounding yourself. Your face is still burning. You hope he can't tell.
"Hey," you say. "I just realized something."
He waits. Dark eyes watching.
"I don't know your name."
His eyes flicker. The spoon hover above the bowl single drop of broth falls from its curved edge back into the soup with a soft plip. He looks at you like he's weighing whether this is safe. Whether he can give you an act of trust.
He swallows the food in his mouth. Hard. His tongue slides over his bottom lip, catching the salt left behind.
"Jungkook," he says finally.
Jungkook.
You repeat it over in your mind. You think it suits him.
"I'm Y/N," you say. Only fair. He gave you his name; so you give him yours.
He blinks. Then nods, his eyes scanning your face briefly, before his gaze drifts past you. Toward the window behind your shoulder, where a harsh white flash illuminates the room for half a second before fading.
You follow it
The sky outside is black, broken only by the occasional crack of lightning that bleaches everything for a split second. The wind howls. The rain hammers.The storm is rolling in fast.
You look back at him.
"Stay for the night," you say.
He looks at you. Ears flick. "What?"
"The storm." You nod toward the window. "It's not safe to sleep out there. You can take the couch."
He glances at the sagging couch. Then back at the window, where a crack of thunder rattles so loud the lightbulb overhead flickers. His jaw works. Something complicated passes behind his eyes. Not gratitude, not relief. Something harder.
"Why do you care?"
The question lands like a stone in still water. Raw demand of someone who's been burned by kindness too many times to accept it without interrogation.
You exhale. "No one should sleep outside when it's like this."
He stares at you for a long moment. Then his gaze drops to his hands, still resting around the bowl. "Im used to it."
You shake your head, pushing yourself up to your feet. “Don’t be stubborn. Just stay. One night won’t kill you.”
You reach up and pull the pen from your hair. The bun unravels immediately, damp strands falling heavy past your shoulders. You shake it out with one hand, fingers raking through the tangles.
He's watching you, curiously.
You pad toward the bathroom. Halfway there you stop, not turning around fully, just glancing over your shoulder. "Put the bowls in the sink when you're done," you say. "And use the blanket on the couch. It's not a request."
Your slippers tap softly against the floor as you continue to move, the sound quiet in the otherwise still apartment.
“Y/n.”
His voice stops you just as your hand settles on the doorknob. You glance back, slightly, hair swaying over your shoulder.
“I’ll be out in the morning,” he says quietly. “I won’t overstay.”
“Okay.”
“Okay,” he echoes.
For a second, you just look at him. Then you turn away and step inside. The door clicks shut behind you.