Archive of Our Own

The house was quieter than usual. 

Not silent—there was still the low hum of the TV, the soft clatter of dishes from the kitchen, the occasional murmur of conversation—but it felt… settled. The kind of calm that came at the end of a long day, when everyone had run out of energy to be loud about it. 

Jin moved easily between the stove and the counter, the smell of something warm and familiar filling the space. Jimin and Taehyung were stretched across the couch, half-watching something neither of them seemed particularly invested in. Jungkook sat on the floor nearby, back against the couch, scrolling through his phone, occasionally chiming in just enough to keep himself included. 

Namjoon had a book open in his lap. 

He hadn’t turned the page in a while. 

Yoongi sat off to the side with his laptop, headphones pushed back just enough to stay aware of the room. 

And Hoseok— 

Hoseok was laughing at something Jimin had said when it shifted. 

It was subtle enough that no one else reacted. No sound, no movement—just something off, like a note just slightly out of tune. His laughter faded a second too early, his attention drifting inward as he tried to catch whatever it was that had brushed against him. 

A feeling. 

Not his. 

That was the first thing that registered. 

Hoseok’s gaze lifted, instinctively scanning the room—not for movement, but for source—and it landed on Jieun. 

She sat a few feet away, still in that quiet way that didn’t look wrong unless you were paying attention. Not frozen, not tense—just… distant, her focus slipping in and out of the room like she wasn’t fully anchored to it. 

He watched her for a second longer, the unfamiliar weight of it settling somewhere just behind his ribs. 

“…hey,” he said finally, softer now. 

Jieun blinked, like she’d been pulled back from somewhere else. “Hm?” 

Hoseok tilted his head slightly, studying her more carefully. “You okay?” 

It wasn’t casual. 

Not really. 

Jieun hesitated for just a fraction of a second before nodding. “I’m fine.” 

Hoseok didn’t answer right away. 

Because she wasn’t lying. 

But she wasn’t right either. 

“You don’t feel fine,” he said, quieter this time, more certain. 

That pulled the others in. 

Jungkook looked up from his phone. “What?” 

Jieun let out a small breath, somewhere between amused and tired. “I am fine,” she insisted, though there was something thinner in it now. 

Taehyung’s gaze shifted to her then, sharper than it had been before, something in his expression settling as he watched her a moment longer than the others did. 

“No, you’re not,” he said simply. 

The room stilled slightly at that. 

Jieun glanced at him, brows pulling together faintly. “I said I’m fine.” 

Taehyung didn’t look away. 

“You’re lying.” 

He didn’t say it harshly. 

If anything, his tone was almost gentle—like he wasn’t accusing her, just stating something that felt obvious to him. 

Jieun held his gaze for a second longer, something flickering across her expression before she exhaled softly, the resistance easing just a little. 

“…it’s nothing,” she said. “It just feels weird.” 

Hoseok leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, his attention still fixed on her. “Weird how?” 

Jieun frowned faintly, trying to find the right way to explain something that didn’t fully make sense even in her own head. 

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Just… off. Like something’s—” 

She trailed off again. 

Because she didn’t like the word that wanted to come next. 

Namjoon watched her carefully, then filled it in for her. 

“—there?” he offered quietly. 

Her eyes flicked to his. 

“…yeah.” 

That was enough. 

Namjoon finally closed his book, marking his place without looking away. “There as in someone?” he asked. 

Jieun shook her head immediately. “No. Not like that.” 

Because it wasn’t. 

If someone had been physically there, she would’ve known. 

This was different. 

Distant. 

Subtle. 

Like being observed from somewhere she couldn’t quite reach. 

Jin’s voice cut in from the kitchen, grounding the moment just slightly. “You’ve had a lot going on lately. Could just be your brain catching up.” 

Jieun nodded, like she wanted that to be the answer. “Yeah. Probably.” 

The conversation began to shift again after that, slowly returning to something more normal, the others letting it go just enough not to dwell on it. 

But Hoseok didn’t. 

Now that he’d noticed it, he couldn’t un-feel it. 

It lingered—quiet, persistent—moving in small, almost untraceable shifts. Moments where it pressed just a little closer before pulling back again, like something testing distance rather than closing it. 

Watching. 

And then— 

it brushed him. 

Not fully. 

Not directly. 

Just enough. 

Hoseok’s hand stilled against his knee, his expression not changing even as something behind his eyes sharpened, his awareness snapping into place. 

His gaze flicked toward the window. 

Then the door. 

Then back to Jieun. 

Because whatever it was— 

it wasn’t just watching her. 

Not anymore. 

......

The studio was quieter than usual. 

Not silent—the music still played low through the speakers—but relaxed, the kind of calm that came after hours of practice when everything started to blur into instinct instead of effort. 

Jungkook was still running through a section under his breath. Jimin stretched off to the side, correcting him without fully committing to it. Taehyung had claimed the floor, staring up at the ceiling. 

Hoseok stood near the mirror, adjusting something small, running it again until it felt right. 

Jieun leaned back against the wall, arms loosely crossed, watching. That nagging feeling still in the back of her head. 

It was still somewhat normal. 

Familiar. 

Which was probably why it stood out so much when it wasn’t anymore. 

The door opened. 

No knock. 

No hesitation. 

Jieun’s head turned immediately, the reaction instinctive more than anything else, her brows already pulling together. 

“…you’ve got to be kidding me.” 

Hermes didn’t even slow down. 

“—and I’m telling you, if he thinks that counts as proper instruction, then standards have really dropped since you left—oh, hey.” 

He stopped mid-sentence like he’d just remembered other people existed, glancing around the studio with casual interest. 

Jieun pushed off the wall, already walking toward him. 

“…no,” she said, more tired than sharp. “No, absolutely not—what are you doing here.” 

Hermes pointed vaguely behind him. “Door was open.” 

“It was not.” 

“Felt open.” 

She closed her eyes briefly, exhaling through her nose. 

“That’s not how doors work.” 

He waved that off, already moving further into the room like that entire exchange hadn’t mattered. 

“Anyway, camp’s been weird,” he continued, like she hadn’t said anything at all. 

Jieun blinked. 

Then tried again. 

“Hermes.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Why are you here.” 

“Checking in,” he said easily, pacing like he had somewhere to be—which, apparently, was here. “Also, they replaced you, which you probably assumed, but still worth mentioning because—honestly? Not great.” 

Jieun dragged a hand lightly down her face. 

“That’s not—okay, I don’t—” she let out a small breath. “That’s not why I’m asking.” 

“He’s very textbook, by the way,” Hermes continued, completely unfazed. “Like technically correct, but no instinct, no adaptability—just ‘stand like this, shoot like this,’ and then acts confused when it doesn’t work—” 

Jieun stepped into his path again, slower this time, more deliberate. 

“Hermes.” 

He stopped. 

Looked at her. 

“Yeah?” 

“…why are you here,” she repeated, patient in a way that felt practiced. 

He opened his mouth— 

“Don’t say the door was open.” 

“…felt open,” he finished anyway. 

She stared at him for a second. 

Then let out a quiet, resigned exhale, dropping her hand back to her side. 

Behind her, the room had gone quiet in that same confused way. 

Jungkook leaned slightly toward Jimin. “…is that Lin Manuel Miranda?.” 

“Maybe,” Jimin murmured back. 

Taehyung pushed himself up onto his elbows, watching more openly now. “The guy from Hamilton?” 

“Yeah.” 

Jieun tipped her head back slightly. 

“Hermes,” she said again, this time with emphasis. 

There was a brief pause behind her as the name actually registered this time. 

“…oh,” Jungkook said. 

“…oh,” Jimin echoed. 

“…oh,” Taehyung added. 

Hermes, meanwhile, was already continuing like nothing had happened. 

“Anyway, the archery situation is bad,” he said. “Not catastrophic, but definitely not up to your standard, which—honestly, rude of them—” 

“I’m not going back,” Jieun cut in, a little softer this time. 

“I didn’t say you were.” 

“Then you can stop talking about it.” 

“I can’t,” he said easily. “It’s relevant.” 

“It’s probably not relevant.” 

“It is to me.” 

She let out a small, breathy laugh, more disbelief than amusement. 

“That’s not how relevance works.” 

Hermes grinned. 

“Sure it is.” 

Jieun shook her head slightly, like she’d decided arguing that part wasn’t worth it. 

“…okay,” she said. “You have—like—five seconds to explain why you’re here before I start making you leave.” 

“That feels aggressive. You sure you’re not Ares’s kid” 

“It’s really not.” 

Hermes considered that. 

Then snapped his fingers lightly. 

“Right. Okay. Focus.” 

And then— 

he stopped. 

Mid-thought. 

His attention shifting past her. 

Toward— 

Hoseok. 

“…oh.” 

The shift was subtle. 

But immediate. 

Jieun noticed it right away, her expression tightening just slightly. 

“…no,” she said. 

Hermes tilted his head, studying Hoseok now with clear interest. 

Hoseok blinked. “…what.” 

Hermes pointed at him. 

“You’re the one that glows, right?” 

Silence. 

Jieun stepped forward without thinking, the exasperation fading into something more focused. 

“How do you know that,” she asked. 

Hermes didn’t answer right away, still looking at Hoseok like he’d just confirmed something interesting. 

“It’s obvious,” he said. 

“It is not obvious.” 

“It is if you know what you’re looking for.” 

“That doesn’t answer my question.” 

“It kind of does.” 

“It doesn’t.” 

Hermes blinked at her, like he was deciding whether that was worth arguing. 

“…okay, fair,” he said finally, before snapping his fingers lightly. “Right—what I actually came to tell you.” 

Jieun narrowed her eyes slightly. “You mean besides breaking into the studio.” 

“Door—” 

“Do not.” 

“—felt open,” he finished anyway, unfazed. “Yes. Besides that.” 

She pressed her lips together, already regretting asking. 

“Fine,” she said. “Go ahead.” 

Hermes nodded once, like he was about to deliver something important. 

“People are talking,” he said. 

Jieun didn’t react immediately. 

“…you said that already.” 

“Yes, but now I’m elaborating,” he replied. “Different statement.” 

“That’s not—okay, just—continue.” 

He brightened slightly, like he’d been given permission again. 

“Right, so—Apollo’s pretending he didn’t do anything,” he said. “Which is objectively false, and everyone knows it’s false, but he’s committed, I’ll give him that—” 

Jieun shakes her head blinking “ what-” she breaths out 

“—and then there’s the rest of them, who are trying to figure out what exactly he did, because no one got a full explanation, which is honestly rude—like if you’re going to break pattern, at least be clear about it—” 

Jieun dragged a hand down her face. 

“Hermes.” 

“Right, right—focus,” he said, not sounding focused at all. “Anyway, the general consensus is confusion, mild concern, and—” 

He paused, tilting his head slightly. 

“—interest.” 

Jieun’s expression flattened slightly. 

“…what are you talking about?” 

That earned her a look—quick, surprised, like he hadn’t expected that question. 

“You don’t—” he stopped, recalibrating almost instantly. “Right. Okay.” 

“Hermes.” 

“I thought he told you,” he said. 

“Told me what?” 

“Wow,” Hermes muttered. “That’s—okay, that’s actually kind of impressive, even for him.” 

Jieun’s confusion sharpened, not quite concern yet, but close enough to be noticeable. 

“What did he do.” 

Hermes opened his mouth— 

then immediately got distracted again. 

“Anyway,” he said instead, “he’s pretending he didn’t do anything, which would almost work if it wasn’t so obvious something changed—” 

“Hermes.” 

“I’m getting there.” 

“You are not getting there.” 

“I am absolutely getting there.” 

Jieun stared at him for a second, then exhaled slowly. 

“…start from the beginning.” 

Hermes nodded, like that was reasonable. 

“Right. So—no one got a full explanation,” he said. “Which means everyone’s working off partial information, which is never great, because then you get speculation, and speculation leads to—” 

“—Hermes.” 

“Right. Focus.” 

He snapped his fingers lightly. 

“The point is,” he said, a little more grounded this time, “something changed.” 

Jieun’s gaze sharpened slightly. 

“…changed how.” 

Hermes gestured vaguely toward the room, toward them. 

“That’s what they’re trying to figure out. Everyone’s watching you guys.” 

“I still don't fully understand what's happening but you could have led with that.” 

“I did,” he said. “You just interrupted me.” 

“I interrupted you because you were talking about archery instructors.” 

“That was relevant context.” 

“It was not relevant context.” 

“It was to me.” 

She stared at him. 

“…unbelievable.” 

Hermes grinned. 

“I get that a lot.” 

Behind her, Jungkook leaned slightly toward Jimin again. “…he talks like this all the time?” 

“Judging by her reaction- yes,” Jimin murmured. 

“I don’t like it.” 

“I kind of do,” Taehyung added quietly. 

“That’s concerning.” 

Hermes ignored all of them, his attention drifting briefly back to Hoseok again, curiosity still lingering there before snapping back to Jieun. 

“Anyway,” he said, like he hadn’t just completely shifted topics again, “that’s the important part.” 

She let out a quiet breath. 

“…who is ‘everyone,’” she asked instead. 

Hermes made a vague motion with his hand. 

“Depends who you ask,” he said. “Some of them think it’s harmless, some of them think it’s not, some of them are just curious—Aphrodite’s having a great time, by the way—” 

“I don’t like that.” 

“You shouldn’t.” 

“Stay on track.” 

“I am on track.” 

“You are not on track.” 

“I’m circling the track.” 

“That’s not the same thing.” 

Hermes paused. 

“…fair.” 

Then kept going anyway. 

“Athena’s already thinking about it,” he added. “Which means she’s going to want to see it for herself—she doesn’t trust secondhand information—” 

Jieun stilled slightly. 

“—and Ares is pretending he doesn’t care,” Hermes continued, “which means he definitely does—” 

“Hermes.” 

He stopped. 

Looked at her. 

“Yeah?” 

“Point.” 

A beat. 

“They’re going to come see you.” 

She exhaled slowly, tension threading just under the surface now. 

“…great.” 

“Yeah,” he said, not sounding particularly concerned. “I thought you’d want a heads-up.” 

Jieun gave him a look. 

“…okay.” 

Because there wasn’t really anything else to say. 

Hermes nodded once, like that wrapped everything up. 

“Cool,” he said. 

A beat. 

Then— 

he glanced around the room again. 

“Nice studio, by the way.” 

And just like that— 

he was gone. 

No sound. 

No warning. 

Just....not there anymore. 

Silence settled in immediately after. 

Jungkook blinked. “…did he—” 

“Yeah,” Jimin said. 

“…okay,” Taehyung added softly. Raising his hand. “I have questions.” 

Jieun rubbed her temples lightly. 

“Get in line.” 

.....

The feeling didn’t go away. 

If anything, it settled in more comfortably, like it had decided it wasn’t going anywhere—and now that she’d been told to expect it, it didn’t even bother pretending to hide. 

Hermes’ voice lingered longer than he had. 

People are talking. 

They’re going to come see you. 

Jieun still didn’t fully understand what he’d meant. 

Not really. 

Chiron had called it rare, not dangerous. Unusual, not wrong. And nothing about the past few days had felt like something was about to happen—just… different. Subtly. Quietly. 

On the surface, everything had gone back to normal. 

Jin was calling everyone to eat, moving through the kitchen like nothing had changed. Jimin and Taehyung were halfway through an argument that didn’t actually matter. Jungkook was pretending to listen while scrolling, occasionally chiming in just enough to stay involved. Namjoon still hadn’t turned his page. 

It looked the same. 

It sounded the same. 

It felt off. 

Jieun let it sit there instead of chasing it, her attention drifting just enough to keep track of it without making it obvious. It didn’t feel close—not in the way danger did—but it wasn’t distant either. More like something… leaning in. Watching. Waiting for something. 

She reached for her glass, fingers closing around it— 

and paused for just a second. 

The feeling didn’t spike. It didn’t grow. 

It just… narrowed. 

Like it had found what it was looking for. 

Jieun exhaled softly through her nose, more irritated than anything else, and finished the motion like nothing had happened. She didn’t look up right away, didn’t give it the satisfaction of a reaction—not until the air shifted. 

This time, it wasn’t subtle. 

It didn’t crash into the room or announce itself in any obvious way, but it pressed in all the same, heavier now, like the space itself had tightened just slightly around them. 

Conversation faltered. 

Then stopped. 

Jungkook’s phone lowered. 

Namjoon’s book stilled. 

Jin turned halfway from the kitchen. 

Her gaze moved across the room once, slow and deliberate, like she already knew what she was going to find and was just confirming it. 

And there he was. 

Leaning against the far wall like he’d always been there, like he hadn’t just appeared out of nowhere in a locked house. Arms crossed, posture loose, expression relaxed in a way that felt entirely too comfortable for someone who had just invited himself in. 

His eyes met hers. 

And his grin widened. 

Jieun stared at him for a beat, unimpressed. 

“…seriously?” 

That got his attention. 

Not the reaction he’d expected. 

His brows lifted slightly, amusement flickering sharper as he pushed off the wall, taking a few slow steps forward like he had all the time in the world. 

“Well,” he said, voice easy, almost entertained, “that’s not exactly the welcome I was hoping for.” 

Jieun crossed her arms. 

“Did you want a formal invitation?” she asked flatly. “Because I’m pretty sure breaking into my house disqualifies you from that.” 

Behind her, the room had gone very still, the others watching the exchange like they’d missed several very important steps. 

Ares’ grin didn’t falter. 

If anything, it deepened. 

“Is this how you greet family now?” he asked, glancing briefly past her before settling his attention back where it belonged. “Bit cold, don’t you think?” 

Jieun let out a quiet breath, more exasperated than anything else. 

“You don’t visit,” she said. “You show up unannounced, usually because something’s about to go wrong.” 

“Wow,” he said lightly. “That’s a little harsh.” 

“It’s accurate.” 

That seemed to amuse him more than anything else, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer before shifting, slower this time, more deliberate. 

He looked at the others. 

Really looked. 

Jieun didn’t turn to follow his gaze. 

She didn’t need to. 

She could feel it—the way his attention moved, the way it weighed, the way it lingered just a second too long on each of them like he was deciding something. 

Her jaw tightened slightly. 

“Don’t,” she said, not raising her voice. 

Ares’ attention flicked back to her immediately, interest sharpening. 

“I haven’t done anything,” he replied. 

“Yet.” 

That earned a soft huff of a laugh. 

“Relax,” he said, tone almost conversational. “If I wanted to start something, you’d know.” 

“That’s not reassuring.” 

“It’s not meant to be.” 

Jieun rolled her eyes slightly, shifting her weight onto one leg, her irritation settling in more comfortably now that she knew exactly what she was dealing with. 

“What do you want?” she asked. 

Ares tilted his head, considering her like that was a more complicated question than it should have been. 

“Just looking,” he said after a second. 

“Creepy.” 

“Curious,” he corrected. 

She didn’t buy that for a second. 

“Since when are you curious?” 

His smile sharpened just slightly. 

“Since your father decided to get creative.” 

His gaze drifted then—not lazily this time, but with more intent—as it moved across the room again, slower, more deliberate. 

It passed over Jin, over Jungkook, over Namjoon— 

before pausing. 

Jimin. 

Ares’ head tilted just slightly, something thoughtful settling into his expression as he studied him in a way that felt far too precise to be casual. 

“…huh.” 

Jimin blinked, immediately aware of the attention but not entirely sure what to do with it. “Uh—hi?” 

Ares ignored that. 

“Adaptive,” he said instead, like he was stating a fact more than offering an observation. “Fast, too. Your body adjusts quicker than it should—recovers, compensates, learns.” 

Jieun’s irritation sharpened slightly. 

“Don’t,” she said. 

Ares didn’t look at her. 

“Reminds me of the old soldiers,” he continued, almost idly. “The ones who survived long enough to become dangerous.” 

Jimin stared at him, halfway between confused and concerned. “I don’t—think that’s a normal comparison?” 

“It’s a good one,” Ares replied. 

Then, finally, his gaze flicked back to Jieun, the faintest hint of amusement returning. 

“He’d make a strong fighter,” he added. 

A beat. 

“If he wasn’t so small.” 

Jimin froze. 

“…rude.” 

Jungkook let out a short laugh he didn’t quite manage to hide, immediately ducking his head like that would save him. 

“That’s—okay, first of all—” Jimin started, visibly offended now. 

Jieun didn’t even look at him. 

“No,” she said, more firmly this time, stepping just slightly into Ares’ line of sight. “We’re not doing this.” 

Ares blinked once, like he found that genuinely entertaining. 

“I didn’t say I was going to do anything.” 

“You didn’t have to.” 

That only made him grin wider. 

“Yeah,” he said, almost to himself. “That tracks.” 

Jieun didn’t react to that, but her patience was wearing thinner by the second. 

“Do you have a point,” she asked, “or are you just going to stand there and narrate your thoughts?” 

That got a real laugh out of him. 

“I missed this,” Ares said, shaking his head slightly. “You always this pleasant, or am I getting special treatment?” 

“You broke into my house,” she replied flatly. “You’re lucky I’m being this polite.” 

“Polite,” he echoed, amused. “Right.” 

His attention shifted back to her fully then, something a little more deliberate settling into it—not threatening, not quite, but no longer casual either. 

“Word gets around,” he said. 

Jieun stilled, just slightly. 

Not enough for anyone else to catch. 

But enough. 

“About what,” she asked, even though she already knew. 

Ares tilted his head, watching her like he was enjoying this part. 

“You,” he said simply. 

A beat. 

“And them.” 

He didn’t gesture, didn’t need to. The implication hung in the air all the same, heavier now that it had been said out loud. 

Jieun let out a slow breath through her nose, unease starting to settle in behind the irritation. 

“Hard not to notice,” he continued, pacing a step or two like he was working through the thought out loud. “Seven soulmates, all suddenly a little more… more interesting than they should be, not to mention they’re your soulmates. And you know how the gods are- always watching you a littile closer than the rest.” 

He glanced around the room again, not lingering this time, just acknowledging. 

“People talk.” 

“Gods gossip,” she corrected. 

Ares grinned. 

“Even worse.” 

Jieun rolled her eyes, but there was something sharper behind it now, her attention narrowing as the pieces clicked into place faster. 

“How many?” she asked. 

That seemed to amuse him. 

“How many what?” 

“How many of them are talking about it.” 

Ares considered that for half a second longer than necessary, like he was deciding how much he felt like sharing. 

“…enough,” he said finally. 

Not helpful. 

Intentionally. 

Jieun’s jaw tightened slightly. 

“And you decided to ‘check in,’” she said, tone dry. 

He shrugged one shoulder. 

“Figured I’d see it for myself,” he admitted. “Everyone’s got opinions, but I like forming my own.” 

“That’s concerning.” 

“It should be.” 

That earned the faintest huff of a breath from her, more exasperated than anything else. 

Jieun shifted her weight slightly, crossing her arms again, settling into the irritation now that the situation had fully clarified. 

“Next time,” she said, “try calling first.” 

Ares’ grin widened. 

“Where’s the fun in that?” 

Jieun didn’t bother responding to that, her expression unimpressed as she held his gaze like this was nothing more than an inconvenience instead of what it actually was. 

Ares watched her for a second longer than necessary. 

Then his expression shifted. 

Not softer. 

But… sharper. 

More interested. 

“You know,” he said slowly, almost thoughtfully, “most people don’t talk to me like that.” 

Jieun raised a brow. “Most people don’t break into my house.” 

“That’s not the point.” 

“It feels like the point.” 

Ares huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head slightly, but there was something different behind it now—less amused, more… assessing. 

“It takes a certain kind of nerve,” he continued, his voice lowering just a fraction. “Talking to a god like you’re not even a little worried about what he might do.” 

Jieun didn’t flinch. 

Didn’t look away. 

“If you were going to do something,” she said evenly, “you wouldn’t be standing there talking about it.” 

he laughed. 

Short. 

Real. 

“Yeah,” he said, almost to himself. 

Jieun just shrugged one shoulder, like it wasn’t that deep, even if they both knew it was. 

Ares studied her for another moment, the irritation he might’ve felt at her tone not quite landing the way it should have. 

“If anyone else said that to me,” he said, tilting his head slightly, “I’d be a lot less patient.” 

“I figured,” she replied. 

His grin came back, slower this time, less playful and more deliberate. 

“…but I get it,” he added after a beat. “You’ve dealt with worse.” 

Jieun didn’t answer that. 

Didn’t confirm it. 

But she didn’t deny it either. 

And that— 

that was answer enough. 

Ares let out a quiet breath through his nose, something that almost sounded like approval, even if he wouldn’t have called it that out loud. 

“…still annoying,” he muttered. 

Jieun snorted softly. “You’ll live.” 

“Debatable.” 

That pulled the faintest hint of a smile from her, quick and gone, but there.

Ares’ gaze lingered on her for a moment longer, like he was committing something to memory, before he let out a quiet breath through his nose. 

“Alright,” he said, almost casually, like he hadn’t just dropped into her life uninvited. “I’ve seen what I needed to.” 

Jieun’s arms stayed crossed. “Great. Feel free to leave.” 

That earned the faintest curve of a smile. 

“Still working on that hospitality,” he muttered. 

“Still not invited,” she shot back. 

Ares huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head slightly before his attention shifted—not lingering this time, just a brief acknowledgment of the others in the room, like he hadn’t forgotten they were there. 

Then his focus returned to her. 

The amusement didn’t fully leave. 

But it dimmed. 

Just enough. 

“Careful,” he said, tone quieter now, more deliberate. “You’ve somehow got more attention now then when you were a kid” 

Jieun didn’t react outwardly, but something in her stilled. 

“I noticed.” 

His gaze held hers for a second longer. 

“…not all of it’s as patient as I am.” 

Jieun’s jaw tightened slightly, but her voice stayed even. “I’ll keep that in mind.” 

Ares nodded once, like that was all he needed. 

“Good.” 

There was a beat. 

Then, just as easily as he’d appeared he wasn’t there anymore. 

No sound. 

No movement. 

Just gone. 

The pressure in the room lifted with him, not all at once, but enough that the space felt like it could breathe again. 

Silence settled in behind it. 

Jimin was the first to break it, his voice quieter than usual. “…okay.” 

A pause. 

“…what just happened.” 

Jieun exhaled slowly, some of the tension she hadn’t acknowledged finally easing from her shoulders as she uncrossed her arms. 

“Ares,” she said simply. 

“That does not help,” Jungkook said immediately. 

“It’s supposed to,” she replied. 

“It didn’t,” Jin added, stepping further into the room now, his usual composure just slightly off as he looked between her and the empty space Ares had occupied. “He just—what—he just appears?” 

“Yeah.” 

“And that’s normal?” 

“For him.” 

“That’s worse.” 

Yoongi leaned back slightly, eyes still fixed on the spot where Ares had been, his expression thoughtful rather than alarmed. 

“He wasn’t here to fight,” he said. 

“No,” Jieun agreed. 

That didn’t make anyone feel better. 

Namjoon closed his book slowly, setting it aside as he stepped closer, his focus sharp now, piecing things together quickly. 

“You said ‘attention,’” he said. “As in… more than just him.” 

Jieun hesitated. 

Just for a second. 

“…yeah.” 

“How many?” Jungkook asked. 

She huffed a quiet breath, something between tired and annoyed. 

“who knows?” 

“That’s not an answer,” Jimin said. 

“It’s the only one I have right now.” 

That didn’t settle it. 

If anything, it made the room feel heavier again—less immediate danger, more looming uncertainty. 

Taehyung, who had been quiet through most of it, finally spoke, his gaze still fixed on where Ares had stood. 

“He wasn’t lying,” he said. 

Jieun glanced at him. 

“No,” she agreed. “He wasn’t.” 

Hoseok hadn’t moved much since Ares left, his expression quieter now, more inward as he processed what he’d felt—what he’d noticed—and how it had changed the second Ares showed up. 

“…it’s still there,” he said finally. 

That pulled everyone’s attention back to him. 

Jieun stilled. 

“…what is?” Jungkook asked. 

Hoseok frowned slightly, like he was trying to pin it down. “That feeling. It’s not as strong, but it didn’t go away.” 

Jieun’s expression shifted, just slightly. 

More focused. 

More certain. 

“Yeah,” she said quietly. 

Because now she knew. 

This wasn’t a one-time thing. 

This wasn’t just Ares. 

Jin let out a slow breath, running a hand through his hair. “Okay,” he said, like he was trying to ground himself. “So. We’ve got—what—gods just… dropping in now?” 

Jieun gave a small, humorless smile. 

“Gods I hope not.” 

Silence settled again. Not empty this time. 

.....

A few days passed. 

Not enough for the memory of Ares to fade, but enough for it to settle into something they could live around. 

They didn’t talk about it constantly. There wasn’t much to say that hadn’t already been said. No plan to make, no way to stop something like that from happening again. So instead, they adjusted—subtly, instinctively—learning how to exist with the knowledge that they weren’t as alone as they’d thought. 

Breakfast helped. 

It always did. 

The routine of it, the familiarity—Jin moving easily around the kitchen, the quiet clatter of dishes, Jimin half-asleep at the table, Yoongi already on his second cup of something caffeinated—kept things grounded in a way nothing else really could. 

Jieun sat with them, quieter than usual but not withdrawn, her attention split between the conversation and something just beneath it. The feeling hadn’t left completely after Ares. 

It had just… changed. 

Less intrusive. 

More distant. 

But still there. 

Watching. 

Waiting. 

She didn’t comment on it this time. 

Neither did Hoseok. 

They didn’t need to. 

The others were aware enough now to read the silence for what it was. 

Jin set another plate down, glancing around the table as he did. “Eat before it gets cold,” he said, like that was still the most important thing in the room. 

Jungkook reached for something immediately. “You say that like we ever wait.” 

“You don’t,” Jin replied. “That’s the problem.” 

Jimin made a soft noise of agreement, not fully awake but committed enough to the conversation to contribute. 

Jieun glances around the room taking in the sight of her soulmates with a fond smile on her face before pausing- freezing. There were a few chairs that ussually sat empty on the other side of the table. This time though- one wasnt empty.  

Athena sat there like she’d always been part of the room. 

No sound. 

No shift in the air like before. 

Just— 

presence. 

Composed. Still. Entirely at ease. 

Her posture was straight, hands resting lightly against the table, her attention already fixed on them—on all of them—with a focus that felt less like watching and more like studying. 

Jieun’s hand stilled halfway to her cup. 

She didn’t react immediately. 

Didn’t speak. 

But something in her posture shifted, subtle but distinct, her shoulders straightening just slightly as recognition settled in. 

“…Lady Athena,” she said, voice quieter, more formal than it had been with Ares. 

Athena didn’t acknowledge the greeting right away. 

Her gaze moved instead, slow and deliberate, taking them in one by one like she was cataloging something. 

Not judging. 

Not quite. 

But evaluating. 

“You’ve all developed independently,” she said, as if continuing a conversation no one else had been part of. “No external training. No structured guidance.” 

No introduction. 

No explanation. 

Just— 

questions disguised as observations. 

Jungkook blinked. “…hi?” 

That earned the faintest flick of her attention, though it didn’t linger. 

“Inconsistent control,” she continued, her gaze shifting now—briefly—to Hoseok, then Jimin, then Taehyung. “But stable enough not to be immediately dangerous.” 

Jieun inhaled slowly through her nose. 

“Lady Athena,” she repeated, more pointed this time. 

That got her. 

Athena’s attention returned to her, sharp and focused now, like she’d been waiting to see how long it would take for Jieun to interrupt. 

“You’ve adapted well,” Athena said. 

Almost a praise. 

Jieun inclined her head slightly. “I’ve had practice.” 

“That’s evident.” 

There was a pause. 

Then Athena leaned back slightly, her attention shifting again, this time more deliberately as she looked at them as a group. 

“Your abilities,” she said. “Explain them.” 

Straightforward. 

Direct. 

Like she expected an answer. 

Jimin glanced at Jieun. Jungkook did the same. 

Jin didn’t move, but his posture had gone just a little more alert. 

“…that’s a little forward,” Namjoon said carefully. 

Athena’s gaze flicked to him, something almost interested settling behind it. 

“And yet,” she said, “you’re all still here.” 

Not a threat. 

Just a statement. 

Jieun exhaled quietly, setting her cup down before it could betray the slight tension in her grip. 

“He means,” she said, tone more even now, stepping into the space between them without physically moving, “you could start with why you’re asking.” 

Athena studied her for a moment. 

Then— 

the faintest hint of approval. 

“Direct,” she said. 

“I try.” 

A beat. 

Then Athena answered. 

“Because your existence,” she said calmly, “is currently being discussed by every major divine power worth noting.” 

Her gaze moved across the table again, slower this time, more focused. 

“Apollo’s influence is clear,” she continued. “But incomplete. Fragmented across multiple individuals rather than centralized.” 

Her eyes settled briefly on Jieun. 

“Unusual.” 

Jieun didn’t argue that. 

Because it was. 

“…and you’re here to figure out what that means,” she said. 

Athena didn’t respond right away. 

Her attention had already shifted. 

Not broadly this time. 

Not across all of them. 

It narrowed—precise, deliberate—until it settled on one person. 

Namjoon. 

He didn’t move at first, but something in his posture adjusted almost imperceptibly, like he’d felt the weight of it before she’d even fully focused on him. 

Athena tilted her head slightly, studying him with a level of attention that felt less like observation and more like dissection. 

“Yours is the most refined,” she said. 

Not a compliment. 

A conclusion. 

Namjoon blinked once. “I’m not sure what—” 

“Intuition,” she clarified, cutting cleanly through the uncertainty. “Pattern recognition beyond learned experience. You anticipate outcomes before they fully form.” 

Silence settled around the table again, heavier this time—not confused, not chaotic, just… aware. 

Jieun didn’t move. But internally her stomach dropped. 

Because this was exactly what she’d been hoping wouldn’t happen. 

Athena’s gaze sharpened slightly, like she was watching not just what he said, but how he processed the question, how he reacted to being seen so clearly. 

“You adapt quickly,” she continued. “Faster than should be possible without prior exposure.” 

Namjoon let out a quiet breath, something measured slipping into place as he met her gaze more steadily now. “I read a lot.” 

That earned the faintest flicker of something from her. 

Amusement. 

Brief. 

Dismissed just as quickly. 

“This isn’t learned,” she said. “It’s inherent. Amplified.” 

Jieun’s fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the table, the only outward sign of the tension threading through her now. 

Too much. 

She was seeing too much. 

Athena leaned forward just slightly, not invasive—but focused in a way that left very little room for anything to go unnoticed. 

“You don’t just understand information,” she said. “You organize it. Instinctively. You identify structure where others see fragments.” 

Namjoon didn’t answer that. 

Didn’t deny it either. 

Jieun forced herself to stay still, to not interrupt, to not step in too early and make it obvious but every instinct was telling her to cut this off. 

Athena’s gaze lingered for one second longer, then shifted. Like she’d gotten what she needed. 

Jieun exhaled, barely. 

“…interesting,” Athena said. 

The word was quiet. 

Measured. 

But it carried more weight than anything else she’d said so far. 

Jieun didn’t like that. 

Not at all. 

Athena straightened again, the intensity of her focus easing just slightly, her attention broadening back out across the room as if she’d simply been confirming a theory. 

Then, just as suddenly as she’d appeared— she was gone 

Jimin blinked first, his gaze still fixed on the chair like he expected her to reappear if he stared long enough. 

“…okay,” he said slowly. 

A beat. 

“…I feel like I just got analyzed.” 

“That wasn’t analysis,” Jungkook muttered. “That was dissection.” 

Yoongi huffed quietly. “Felt like being picked apart by a scientist.” 

“That’s exactly what that was,” Jin added, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. 

Jieun let out a slow breath, some of the tension she’d been holding finally slipping free as she leaned back slightly. 

“Yeah,” she said. “She has that effect on people.” 

Namjoon stayed quiet. 

Not unsettled. 

But thoughtful in a way that meant he was already replaying everything she’d said, pulling it apart piece by piece. 

Jieun glanced at him, just briefly. 

And tried not to think about the way Athena had said interesting. 

......

The house had settled into something quiet by the time evening set in. 

Not silent—there was still the soft hum of the TV in the background, the occasional shift of movement—but calm in a way that didn’t feel forced. The kind of quiet that came when no one felt the need to fill it. 

Everyone had drifted into their own space. 

Jimin and Taehyung had somehow managed to share one of the armchairs, curled in opposite directions but still leaning into each other, half-focused on their phones, half-focused on whatever quiet conversation they’d been having. 

On the couch, Namjoon sat with a book open in his lap, though he hadn’t turned the page in a while. Jin rested against his shoulder, reading over his arm like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

Yoongi sat nearby, laptop open, attention split between what he was working on and the weight leaning into his side—Hoseok pressed comfortably against him, peering at the screen. 

“You’re doing that thing again,” Hoseok murmured. 

Yoongi didn’t look up. “What thing.” 

“The—” Hoseok gestured vaguely, “—you fixed something but you didn’t tell me what you fixed.” 

“I told you.” 

“You didn’t.” 

“I did.” 

“You absolutely did not.” 

Yoongi huffed quietly. “You weren’t listening.” 

“I was listening,” Hoseok insisted. 

“You weren’t.” 

Jieun, stretched out on the other end of the couch, didn’t bother opening her eyes at that, her head resting comfortably in Jungkook’s lap. 

“You weren’t,” she added. 

Hoseok gasped softly. “Wow. Betrayal.” 

Jungkook snorted quietly, one hand still loosely holding his phone while the other moved absentmindedly through her hair, fingers brushing slowly, rhythmically. 

Jieun smiled faintly, eyes still closed, letting the sound of them settle around her. 

It felt easy. 

Normal. 

Like nothing was waiting just outside of it. 

And then— 

something shifted. 

It wasn’t sharp, not like before, not something that demanded attention right away. It slipped into the room instead, quiet and subtle, like a change in temperature you didn’t notice until it was already there. 

Jieun’s eyes opened slowly. 

Across the room, Hoseok stilled just slightly, his head tilting like he was trying to catch something just out of reach. 

“…you feel that?” he asked, voice quieter now. 

Jieun exhaled softly. “Yeah.” 

No one moved right away. 

Because this didn’t feel like Ares. 

It didn’t feel like Athena. 

It was lighter. 

Warmer. 

And somehow that made it harder to trust. 

The moment stretched just long enough to settle— 

before a voice slipped into it. 

“…oh, this is adorable.” 

Soft. 

Amused. 

Entirely too pleased. 

Jimin looked up first, his expression shifting from relaxed confusion to something more uncertain as he turned toward the sound. 

“…hello?” he said, like he wasn’t entirely sure that was the right response, finding it weird that he’s gotten used to people randomly appearing in their spaces. 

Jieun pushed herself up slowly, not rushing it, her expression already changing as she turned. 

Aphrodite stood just behind the couch, one hand resting lightly along the back of it, her gaze moving across the room with open interest—not sharp, not assessing, just… taking it in. 

Like she’d walked into something she liked. 

“…Lady Aphrodite,” Jieun said, her voice steady, but quieter now. 

Aphrodite’s smile softened, something warm settling into it. 

“Hello, love,” she said, glancing briefly at the others. “You were always my favorite out of Apollos kids, always so polite” 

Jungkook blinked, sitting up slightly. “Wait—” 

“Don’t,” Jieun said softly. 

He stopped immediately. 

Aphrodite’s attention drifted again, slow and unhurried, her gaze moving from one person to the next—not analyzing, not measuring, just… appreciating. 

“You all settle into each other so easily,” she said, almost to herself. “It’s rare to see it this naturally.” 

Jieun didn’t answer. 

Aphrodite’s gaze settled on Taehyung like she’d found something she’d been looking for without realizing it. 

“…you,” she said softly. 

Taehyung didn’t move right away, still half-curled in the chair beside Jimin, but his attention shifted fully to her, his expression calm, curious in a way that didn’t quite match the weight of her focus. 

“Me?” he asked. 

Aphrodite took a slow step closer, not intrusive, but intentional, her head tilting slightly as she studied him more closely. 

“You feel people before they speak,” she said, her voice light but certain. “Before they even know what they’re going to say.” 

The room stayed quiet around them, the others listening now without interrupting, the earlier calm settling into something more attentive. 

Taehyung didn’t answer immediately. 

Didn’t deny it either. 

Aphrodite’s smile deepened, pleased. 

“That’s rare,” she continued. “Most people only react. You anticipate.” 

Jieun shifted slightly on the couch, not stepping in yet, but close enough that it was clear she was paying attention to every word. 

“It makes things easier,” Taehyung said after a moment, like he was thinking it through as he spoke. “Most of the time.” 

Aphrodite hummed softly. 

“And harder,” she added. 

That earned a small, quiet pause from him, his gaze flicking down for just a second before returning to her. 

“…sometimes,” he admitted. 

Her expression softened just slightly, like that was the answer she’d expected. 

“Careful with that,” she said. “It’s easy to lose track of where other people end and you begin.” 

Jieun’s posture tightened just a fraction at that, subtle but there. 

Before she could say anything— 

Aphrodite’s attention moved again. 

This time, it didn’t drift. 

It landed. 

On Jungkook. 

And something in her expression lit up immediately, interest sharpening into something brighter, more focused. 

“Oh,” she said, almost delighted. 

Jungkook stilled under that attention, his hand pausing briefly where it had been resting against Jieun’s hair. 

“…hi,” he asked, cautious now. 

Aphrodite didn’t answer right away. 

She just looked at him, like she was taking in something layered, something deeper than what was visible on the surface. 

“That one’s stronger than I expected,” she said, almost to herself. 

Jieun sat up a little straighter. 

“Don’t—” 

“I’m not doing anything,” Aphrodite replied lightly, though her attention never left Jungkook. 

Then, softer— 

“You attach deeply,” she said. “Completely.” 

Jungkook frowned slightly, like he wasn’t sure how to respond to that. “I—what does that—” 

“You don’t do things halfway,” she continued, her tone still gentle, but unyielding in its certainty. “Not people. Not bonds. When you choose something, you commit.” 

The room felt quieter now, the weight of her words settling more heavily than anything she’d said before. 

Jungkook didn’t answer. 

Didn’t need to. 

Aphrodite tilted her head just slightly, studying him a moment longer before her voice softened even further. 

“You’d burn for them,” she said. “Wouldn’t you?” 

There was no teasing in it. 

Jungkook’s jaw tightened faintly, his gaze dropping for a fraction of a second before he looked back up, not denying it. 

Not confirming it either. 

Aphrodite smiled. 

“Yeah,” she murmured. “I thought so.” 

Jieun shifted then, finally moving just enough to break the line of sight, her voice calm but firm. 

“That’s enough.” 

Aphrodite’s gaze flicked back to her, amused again, like she’d been expecting that. 

“I’m just observing.” 

“You’re prying.” 

“Same thing,” she said lightly. “Depending on how honest you are.” 

“It’s not.” 

Aphrodite laughed softly, clearly entertained, but she didn’t push further—not in the same way. 

Instead, she stepped back slightly, her attention widening again, taking all of them in this time with that same quiet appreciation as before. 

“Your father made something very interesting,” she said. 

Jieun’s expression didn’t change. 

“They’re not something he made.” 

Aphrodite’s smile softened just a fraction. 

“No,” she agreed. “But what he did to them?” 

A small pause. 

“That is.” 

Jieun didn’t respond.

Because she still didn’t fully understand what that meant. 

And Aphrodite seemed to notice that too, her gaze lingering for just a second longer than necessary, something thoughtful flickering behind it. 

She straightened slightly, the shift subtle but enough to signal the moment was ending. 

“You know,” she said lightly, her attention drifting between them again, “for all the chaos this has caused—” 

Her smile curved, warmer now, almost fond. 

“—the Fates did a very good job with this bond.” 

Her gaze moved once more—briefly to Taehyung, then to Jungkook—like she was marking something only she could see. 

Then without warning she was gone. 

The warmth left with her. 

The room settled back into itself, but not quite the same as before. 

Silence lingered for a moment, stretching just long enough for everything to settle. 

For a moment, no one moved. 

Not because they were frozen just… thinking. 

Processing. 

Jungkook’s hand had stilled somewhere in Jieun’s hair, his gaze still fixed on the space Aphrodite had been standing, like he was trying to replay the last few minutes in a way that made more sense. 

Taehyung shifted slightly in the chair, quieter now, his attention turned inward in a way that meant he was still feeling it, even after she’d left. 

Yoongi leaned back just a fraction, his laptop forgotten for the moment as he exhaled slowly through his nose. 

Jungkook let out a quiet breath, finally looking away from the empty space, his hand resuming its slow, absent movement through her hair without him really thinking about it. 

“…so they’re just going to keep showing up?” he asked. 

Jieun hesitated. 

Because....probably. 

“…yeah,” she admitted. 

Another pause. 

Not heavy. 

Just… settling. 

Jin shifted slightly against Namjoon’s shoulder, glancing toward her. “And there’s nothing we can do about that.” 

Jieun huffed a small breath, something between tired and resigned. 

“Not really.” 

Taehyung tilted his head slightly, gaze drifting across the room again like he was testing the space for something that wasn’t there anymore. 

“…so this is just our life now,” he said. 

No one answered right away. 

Jieun closed her eyes briefly, letting that thought settle in a way she wasn’t entirely ready for. 

“…looks like it,” she said quietly. 

 .......

The beach was quiet. private enough that it felt like they had their own space carved out of it. The sound of the waves filled in everything else, steady and grounding in a way nothing had been the past few days. 

It had been Jin’s idea. 

A break. A distraction. Something that wasn’t gods appearing unannounced in their living room. 

And, for the most part, it was working. 

Jimin’s laugh carried easily over the water as he splashed toward Taehyung, who retaliated immediately, already moving before the water even reached him. Jungkook was in the middle of it without hesitation, fully committed in the way he always was, and Jieun—despite herself—had gotten pulled in just as quickly. 

She tried to dodge, failed, laughed anyway. 

For a moment, it felt easy again. 

Back on the sand, Namjoon sat with a book open in his lap that he hadn’t turned in a while, Jin leaning beside him as they watched the chaos with quiet amusement. Hoseok was stretched out nearby, propped up on his elbows, still half-commenting on timing and movement like he couldn’t quite turn that part of himself off, even here. 

Yoongi sat a little apart from them. 

Not far. 

Just enough. 

Close enough to hear everything. Far enough not to be pulled into it. 

His attention drifted between the shoreline and the water without really settling, the steady rhythm of the waves filling in the quiet spaces between voices, between movement, between thought. 

It was peaceful. 

Or at least—it should have been. 

The change was subtle. 

So subtle no one else would have noticed it. 

But Yoongi did. 

Because the rhythm shifted. 

The waves didn’t stop, didn’t crash harder, didn’t draw attention to themselves in any obvious way—but something underneath them changed, like a second pattern layered beneath the first, just slightly out of sync. 

He stilled without meaning to, his head tilting just enough to listen more closely. 

And then— 

“…you heard me coming” 

The voice was low, calm, and close enough that it didn’t belong to the distance. 

Yoongi didn’t turn right away. 

“…yeah,” he said, because there wasn’t much point pretending otherwise. 

There was a pause, quiet but not empty. 

“Interesting.” 

That was enough to pull his attention away from the water. 

When he turned, Poseidon was already there, standing a few steps behind him as if he’d always been part of the shoreline, his presence not interrupting the space so much as settling into it, steady and unmoving in a way that made everything else feel smaller by comparison. 

The ocean didn’t react. 

But it felt— 

aware. 

Yoongi held his gaze for a moment, steady in his own way, before letting out a quiet breath. 

“I figured if any of the gods followed us here it’d be you” he said. 

Poseidon’s expression didn’t change much, but there was a faint acknowledgment in it. 

Jieun hadn’t noticed. 

Not yet. 

“…you’re not here for me,” Yoongi said, his voice quieter now, more certain. 

“Not primarily.” 

Yoongi shifted slightly in the sand, leaning back on his hands, not tense but not entirely relaxed either. 

“…then why start with me.” 

Poseidon’s gaze followed his earlier glance, resting for a moment on the water, on the movement, on the people within it, before returning. 

“Because you noticed first,” he said. “You listen.” 

Yoongi didn’t argue that. 

Didn’t confirm it either. 

There wasn’t much need to. 

“You don’t react,” Poseidon continued. 

“I do.” 

“Not outwardly.” 

Yoongi’s gaze dropped briefly to the sand before lifting again. 

“…there’s no point reacting before you understand something.” 

“That’s one way to approach it.” 

“It’s the useful way.” 

Poseidon inclined his head slightly, like he didn’t disagree, his attention steady rather than probing. 

“…you carry it instead,” he said. 

Yoongi didn’t respond. 

Because he didn’t need to. 

Poseidon already had his answer. 

“You’d hold steady,” he added, the words simple, certain. 

Yoongi’s jaw tightened faintly, his gaze drifting once more toward the water, toward them—toward Jieun, still laughing, still unaware. 

“…someone has to,” he said. 

Poseidon followed that line of sight, watching for a moment without speaking, taking in the easy chaos, the movement, the connection that hadn’t been broken yet. 

Then his attention returned. 

“You trust them.” 

“Yeah.” 

“You trust yourself to protect them.” 

That— 

Yoongi didn’t answer immediately, not because he didn’t know, but because saying it felt heavier than it needed to be. 

“…I won’t let anything happen to them,” he said instead. 

Poseidon held his gaze for a moment longer, then nodded once. 

“That’s what I thought.” 

The quiet that followed wasn’t tense. 

Just— 

understood. 

“Be careful,” Poseidon said after a moment. 

Yoongi let out a quiet breath. “Getting that a lot lately.” 

“I’m not repeating them.” 

That again. 

“I’m reminding you,” Poseidon continued, “that not everything announces itself.” 

Yoongi’s jaw tightened faintly, his gaze drifting once more toward the water— 

—and that’s when Jieun noticed. 

Not the shift in the air. 

Not the change in the waves. 

Just— 

him. 

She stilled mid-step, the water lapping at her legs as her attention locked onto the shoreline. 

For a second, she just stared. 

Then— 

“…wait—” 

Jungkook turned at her tone. “What—” 

She was already moving, pushing through the water toward the sand, the others slowing as they followed her gaze. 

“…Lord Poseidon?” she called, disbelief slipping through before she could stop it. 

Yoongi glanced back as she approached, pushing herself up out of the water and onto the sand, breath catching slightly more from surprise than effort. 

But there was something different in her expression now. 

Not tension. 

Not irritation. 

Relief. 

“…hi,” she said, softer this time, a little breathless as she stopped a few steps away. “I didn’t expect.... actually I should have expected this-given where we are.” 

Poseidon’s gaze shifted to her, and something in his expression eased—subtle, but there.

“Jieun.” 

She smiled faintly at that, the familiarity grounding in a way the others hadn’t been. 

“How’s Percy?” she asked, almost immediately. “Is he—okay?” 

Poseidon’s tone softened, just slightly. 

“He’s well,” he said. “Busy. But well.” 

Jieun let out a quiet breath, something like tension she hadn’t realized she was holding easing at that. 

“…good,” she said. “That’s good.” 

For a moment, the weight of everything else faded just enough for that to sit. 

She straightened slightly, her attention sharpening again, though it didn’t lose that underlying ease. 

“You’re not just here to check in on me,” she said. 

“No.” 

That figured. 

Jieun glanced briefly at Yoongi before looking back at him. 

“…you talked to him first.” 

“He noticed.” 

Jieun huffed softly. “Of course he did.” 

Yoongi didn’t react to that. 

Poseidon’s gaze moved between them briefly before settling again. 

“They’re aware now,” he said. 

Jieun’s expression steadied. “Yeah.” 

“And because of that,” he continued, “so is everyone else.” 

Jieun exhaled slowly, her gaze flicking toward the water where the others had gathered closer, still watching but trying not to make it obvious. 

“They’re still the same,” she said. 

“I know,” Poseidon replied. 

There was no hesitation in it. 

No doubt. 

“That’s not what’s changed.” 

Jieun’s attention sharpened slightly. 

“They’ve always had it,” he said. “They just didn’t know how to look at it.” 

A quiet pause. 

“And now they do.” 

Jieun didn’t argue that. 

“And now others are looking too,” he added. 

There it was. 

The part that mattered. 

Jieun’s jaw tightened faintly. 

“I’ve noticed.” 

“I know.” 

The quiet between them settled again, heavier now but clearer, less uncertain than before. 

“They didn’t ask for this,” she said. 

“No,” Poseidon agreed. “But it doesn’t make it go away.” 

Jieun let out a slow breath, her shoulders easing just slightly—not relaxed, just… grounded. 

“They can handle it,” she said. 

Poseidon’s gaze lingered on her for a moment. 

“I believe that,” he said. 

A beat. 

“Make sure they do.” 

.......

The garden had settled into a quieter stillness by the time she stepped outside again. 

The air was cooler now, the noise from the city softened into something distant and easy to ignore, leaving behind a kind of calm that should have made things easier to sort through. 

It didn’t. 

Jieun stood near the edge of the garden, arms loosely folded, her thoughts circling the same problem they had been for days now. Every god that had shown up had given her a piece of it, but none of it had been complete—just enough to make it clear something was wrong without explaining why. 

Hermes had warned her. 

Ares had watched. 

Athena had studied. 

Aphrodite had enjoyed it. 

Poseidon had… understood it. 

But none of them had actually said what her father had done. 

“…you’re trying to fill in gaps that were left on purpose.” 

The voice was quiet, controlled. 

Familiar. 

Jieun didn’t tense this time. She just exhaled softly before turning. 

“…Lady Artemis.” 

Artemis stood a few steps behind her, posture straight, presence contained in a way that didn’t press into the space but still held it. There was no curiosity in her gaze, no amusement—just clarity. 

Jieun studied her for a second, then let out a small breath. 

“…you’re going to tell me,” she said. 

It wasn’t really a question. 

Artemis tilted her head slightly. “Yes.” 

Finally. 

Jieun straightened a little, her focus sharpening. 

“…what did he do.” 

Artemis didn’t hesitate. 

“He interfered,” she said. “More than he should have.” 

Jieun’s expression flattened slightly. “That still doesn’t help.” 

“I know,” Artemis replied, calm but direct. “That’s why I’m explaining it.” 

A brief pause, then— 

“Gods bless mortals all the time,” she continued. “Individually. Occasionally. With limits.” 

Jieun nodded faintly. That part she knew. 

“What your father did,” Artemis said, “wasn’t that.” 

Jieun’s attention sharpened. 

“He didn’t just bless one of them,” Artemis went on. “He extended that influence across all of them. At once.” 

Jieun stilled slightly. 

“…that’s not allowed?” 

“It’s not forbidden,” Artemis said. “Which is the problem.” 

Jieun frowned. 

“It means he didn’t technically break any laws,” Artemis continued. “But he pushed against the boundaries of them.” 

“And the other gods don’t like that.” 

“No,” Artemis said simply. “They don’t.” 

Jieun exhaled slowly, her arms tightening slightly as she thought it through. 

“…so they’re reacting because it’s unusual.” 

“Because it’s unpredictable,” Artemis corrected. “When divine influence is spread that widely, it stops behaving the way it’s supposed to.” 

Jieun’s gaze flicked toward the house for a second, toward the others inside. 

“They’re not unstable,” she said immediately. 

“I know,” Artemis replied. 

There was no doubt in it. 

“They’re handling it well,” she added. “Better than most would.” 

That steadied something in Jieun’s chest, even if only slightly. 

“But that doesn’t change how it looks from the outside,” Artemis continued. “Seven mortals, all carrying a piece of the same divine influence, all connected—” 

She let that sit for a moment. 

“—that draws attention.” 

Jieun huffed quietly. “I’ve noticed.” 

Artemis’s expression shifted, just slightly—something sharper slipping through. 

“He should have warned you.” 

that was the first time her tone had changed. 

Not louder. 

Just— 

frustrated. 

Jieun blinked, caught off guard more by that than anything else. 

“…yeah,” she said. “He probably should have.” 

“He put you in the position of managing something you weren’t prepared for,” Artemis continued, her voice still controlled but no longer entirely neutral. “And now you’re the one dealing with the consequences.” 

Jieun let out a small breath, something between tired and resigned. 

“That sounds like him.” 

Artemis didn’t argue. 

For a moment, the quiet settled again, but it felt different now—less uncertain, more defined. 

“…so what happens now,” Jieun asked. 

Artemis met her gaze. 

“Now they watch,” she said. “They observe. They decide if this is something to tolerate… or something to correct.” 

That word landed heavier than it should have. 

Jieun’s posture stilled. 

“…they’re not a problem,” she said. 

“I know,” Artemis replied again. 

“But that’s not the only factor.” 

Jieun’s jaw tightened slightly. 

“They didn’t ask for this,” she said. 

“No,” Artemis agreed. “But that won’t matter to everyone.” 

Silence settled between them again. 

Not empty. 

Just honest. 

“…I won’t let anything happen to them,” Jieun said finally. 

Artemis studied her for a moment, something quieter returning to her expression. 

“I know,” she said. 

And this time it felt less like agreement. 

More like acknowledgment. 

“Just make sure they understand what attention like this means,” she added. 

Jieun nodded slowly. “…I will.” 

A pause. 

Then, softer— 

“Be careful,” Artemis said. 

Jieun huffed faintly. “I’ve heard that before.” 

“I’m not repeating them,” Artemis replied. 

That again. 

“I’m telling you because he should have.” 

Jieun didn’t respond right away. 

She didn’t need to. 

Artemis held her gaze for a second longer, then— 

she was gone. 

No shift in the air. No sound. Just absence. 

The garden felt quieter after. 

But not uncertain anymore. 

Jieun stood there for a moment, her thoughts finally settled into something clear. 

Not panic. 

Not confusion. 

Just understanding. 

“…of course they don’t like it,” she murmured. 

 .......

The shift was wrong. 

Not loud. 

Not sudden. 

Just— 

wrong. 

Jieun went still mid-step, the faintest hitch in her breath as something in the air tightened around her. It wasn’t visible, not something she could point to—but it pressed against her skin, settled into her chest like a weight she couldn’t shake. 

“…no,” she murmured under her breath. 

Across the room, the others didn’t notice at first. 

Jungkook was talking, something light, something easy—until the lights flickered. 

Once. 

Twice. 

Then steadied. 

“…did the power just—” he started, frowning slightly. 

Namjoon didn’t look at the lights. 

He was already scanning the room, something in his posture tightening as he exhaled slowly. “…someeones here.” 

That was when the feeling spread. 

Not understanding. 

Not recognition.  

Just pressure. 

Like the space around them had quietly shrunk, like the air itself had thickened just enough that breathing took effort instead of instinct. 

Jieun’s fingers curled slightly at her sides. 

Because she knew. 

This time she knew who it was. 

The air seemed to tighten again, not visibly, not violently, but in a way that made the room feel like it was holding its breath—and then, without warning, he was simply there. 

Zeus didn’t arrive so much as exist, as if the space itself had reshaped to accommodate him. The light didn’t change, not exactly, but everything felt harsher around him, edges more defined, the air thinner and heavier all at once. 

Silence followed immediately. 

Jieun moved before she fully realized she had. 

There wasn’t time to think it through, to weigh it or question it. The instinct was immediate, ingrained too deeply to ignore. She stepped forward, placing herself between him and the others without hesitation, her shoulders squaring even as something in her chest tightened. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt, controlled in a way that only made it clear how much effort it took to keep it that way. 

Zeus’s gaze shifted to her, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world to assess her. There was nothing rushed in it, nothing reactive—just quiet calculation. 

“And yet I am.”  

Behind her, she felt the shift ripple through the others, not confusion this time but something closer to unease, something instinctive that told them they were standing in the presence of something far beyond them. 

She didn’t turn around. 

Didn’t check. 

She didn’t need to. 

“Stay behind me,” she said quietly, the words directed behind her without ever taking her eyes off him. 

There was a brief pause, a fraction of a second where the room seemed to hold itself in place, and then Zeus’s attention moved past her, just slightly, taking in what stood behind her without needing to fully look. 

“…so this is where it’s happening,” he said, almost absently. 

Jieun’s jaw tightened. 

“Do you understand what’s been done here?” he continued, his voice even, almost conversational in a way that made it worse. “This many mortals carrying divine influence all in the same space.” 

The words didn’t need force to land. 

They settled into the room with weight, undeniable and heavy in a way that made the air feel even tighter. 

“They didn’t choose this,” Jieun replied, her voice firmer now, grounding herself in it, in the only thing she could stand on. 

Zeus didn’t react. 

“That has never mattered.” 

The pressure increased—not dramatically, not enough to break anything, but enough to make every breath feel deliberate, every movement slightly restrained. Behind her, she could feel the others, still and quiet in a way that wasn’t normal, and that alone was enough to keep her where she was, unmoving, unyielding. 

She wouldn’t let that reach them. 

“If you’re going to do something,” she said, quieter now but no less steady, “do it to me.” 

The words left her before she could reconsider them, but once they were spoken, she didn’t take them back. She didn’t step away. She didn’t falter. 

For the first time, Zeus paused. 

It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was there—a fraction of stillness in the space between one breath and the next. 

The air didn’t just feel heavy—it felt deliberate. 

Like it had weight because something wanted it to, like he wanted it to.  

Jieun held her ground, even as the pressure pressed in tighter, settling into her chest in a way that made every breath something she had to think about. Across from her, Zeus didn’t move immediately, didn’t rush to speak or act. He simply stood there, looking at her with that same measured, assessing gaze, like he was taking her apart piece by piece and deciding what, exactly, she was worth. 

“You’ve grown,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter than she expected, though no less heavy. “Stronger than you should have.” 

It wasn’t praise. 

Jieun didn’t respond right away, her jaw tightening slightly as she resisted the instinct to look back, to check on the others behind her. She could feel them without turning—could feel the way the room had gone still around them. 

“I had to,” she replied finally, her voice even. 

A faint shift crossed his expression, something that might have been acknowledgment—or dismissal. 

“You always did,” he said. “Even when you were younger.” 

Jieun’s fingers curled slightly at her sides. “If you have something to say, say it.” 

There was a brief pause, like the air itself held still between them, before Zeus took a slow step forward. 

It wasn’t fast. 

It wasn’t aggressive. 

But it changed everything. 

The pressure increased instantly, sharp enough now that it made her chest tighten, her instincts screaming to step back even as she forced herself to stay exactly where she was. 

Behind her, she heard the faintest shift—movement, breath, someone reacting—but she didn’t move. 

Didn’t give him that. 

“You presume quite a bit,” Zeus said, his voice still calm, still controlled, though there was something colder beneath it now. “Standing there like you have the authority to speak for them.” 

“I don’t need authority,” Jieun replied, the words coming easier now, steadier. “I just need to stand here.” 

For the first time, something in his gaze sharpened. 

Not anger. 

Not yet. 

But interest. 

“And what makes you think that’s enough?” he asked. 

Jieun didn’t hesitate. 

“Because you haven’t stepped past me.” 

The words settled between them, quiet but firm. 

Zeus’s gaze didn’t waver, but something shifted in the space between them, subtle and dangerous, like a line had been acknowledged without being spoken aloud. 

“You mistake restraint for limitation,” he said after a moment. 

“I know exactly what you’re capable of,” she replied. 

That wasn’t defiance. 

It was fact. 

The air tightened again, sharper now, like the space around them had narrowed down to just the two of them, everything else fading into the background under the weight of it. 

“And yet you stand there anyway,” Zeus said, quieter now. 

Jieun swallowed, her chest tightening slightly, but she didn’t step back. 

“They didn’t ask for this,” she said again, softer this time, but no less certain. “And they’re not yours to judge.” 

Zeus’s expression shifted, just slightly, his gaze flicking past her again, taking in the presence behind her with more intent this time, more focus. 

“Mortals carrying power they don’t understand,” he said. “Power they cannot control.” 

“They’re not out of control,” Jieun shot back, her voice firmer now, the edge slipping through before she could stop it. “They’ve done nothing wrong.” 

“And that is precisely the problem.” 

The words landed sharper than anything he’d said so far. 

Jieun’s breath caught. 

Because she understood what he meant. 

Not wrongdoing. 

Not danger, it was difference. 

And difference didn’t go unnoticed. 

Zeus took another step forward. 

Closer now. 

Close enough that the pressure felt almost suffocating, like the air itself resisted her breathing. 

“And you,” he continued, his voice lower now, more focused, “encouraging it. Allowing it to grow.” 

“I’m not encouraging anything,” she said, even as her voice dropped slightly under the weight of him. “I’m protecting them.” 

“From what?” he asked. 

The question wasn’t mocking. 

It wasn’t rhetorical. 

Jieun didn’t answer immediately. 

Because the answer was standing right in front of her. 

“…from this,” she said finally. 

Silence followed. 

Not empty. 

But heavy. 

“If you’re going to do something,” she repeated, quieter now but unwavering, “do it to me.” 

The words settled differently this time. 

The words left her before she could reconsider them, but once they were spoken, she didn’t take them back. She didn’t step away. She didn’t falter. 

For the first time, Zeus paused. 

It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was there—a fraction of stillness in the space between one breath and the next. 

And then the air shifted. 

Not gone. 

Not relieved. 

But balanced. 

Poseidon stepped into the space like a counterweight, his presence steady where Zeus’s was sharp, grounding where the other was overwhelming. There was no dramatic entrance, no flash or sound—just a quiet, undeniable shift in the room as the pressure evened out enough to breathe again. 

“That’s enough.” 

The words weren’t loud, but they settled firmly, like something anchoring itself in place. 

Zeus’s gaze flicked toward him, irritation surfacing just briefly. “You’re interfering.” 

“I’m preventing a mistake.” 

Poseidon didn’t move as he spoke, his voice calm, certain, leaving no room for interpretation. The contrast between them was immediate—where Zeus pressed forward, Poseidon held steady, unyielding in a different way. 

“You think this is acceptable?” Zeus asked, gesturing faintly toward the room, toward them. 

“What’s done is done,” Poseidon replied, just as evenly. “They won’t grow stronger than this, but they won’t lose it either.” 

Jieun felt the words settle before she fully processed them, the meaning sinking in slowly but completely. 

Permanent. 

This wasn’t something that would fade or disappear. 

It simply… was. 

Zeus stilled again, his attention sharpening in a way that suggested he was no longer just observing, but calculating. 

“You’re willing to let this stand?” 

“They’ve done nothing to warrant punishment,” Poseidon said, his tone unchanged, though something sharper edged beneath it now. “And you know what it would mean if they were harmed.” 

The room went quiet in a different way then, not from pressure, but from what was implied. 

“The oath,” Poseidon continued, his voice lower now, heavier with something older than the moment itself, “was not made lightly.” 

Jieun’s breath caught, her fingers tightening at her sides. 

Zeus didn’t interrupt. 

Didn’t argue. 

But something shifted, subtle and contained. 

“If you act against them,” Poseidon said, meeting his gaze fully now, “you break it.” 

A pause followed, long enough to settle the weight of it before he added, quietly but unmistakably— 

“You start another war.” 

The words didn’t echo. 

They settled, final and immovable. 

For a moment, nothing changed. 

Then Zeus exhaled slowly, the tension in the room easing just slightly as his expression smoothed back into something controlled, unreadable. 

His gaze moved once more across the room, taking everything in—the situation, the people, the implications—and when he spoke again, his voice carried less edge, but no less authority. 

“Keep it contained.” 

It wasn’t approval. 

It wasn’t acceptance. 

But it wasn’t refusal either. 

And then— 

he was gone. 

The pressure didn’t vanish so much as release, the room expanding back into itself, the air loosening all at once, leaving behind a silence that felt too still, too empty after everything that had just filled it. 

Jieun didn’t move. 

Didn’t turn. 

Her gaze remained fixed on the space where he had been, her body still held in place by something that hadn’t quite let go yet, her chest tight with the echo of what had just passed. 

Beside her, Poseidon spoke, his voice quieter now, grounded. 

“You handled that well.” 

She heard him. 

Knew she did. 

But the words didn’t fully settle, not yet. 

After a moment, she nodded. 

Small. 

Barely there. 

He didn’t push. 

Didn’t wait for more. 

“Just remember,” he said, “attention like this doesn’t fade.” 

She didn’t respond. 

Didn’t look at him. 

Just stayed where she was, her focus still locked forward, like the space in front of her might still hold something if she stared long enough. 

And then— 

he was gone too. 

The room was quiet again. 

Truly quiet. 

But Jieun didn’t move. 

Didn’t turn. 

She just stood there— 

still staring at the place where Zeus had been— 

like if she stayed long enough, 

she might still be able to feel him there. 

 ......

The room never really settles. 

The pressure is gone. 

The air is normal. 

But Jieun isn’t. 

She paces once, then again—short, sharp steps like she’s trying to burn something off that won’t leave her chest. Her breathing is uneven, her hands flexing at her sides, still keyed up like the threat hasn’t actually ended. 

“He shouldn’t have been able to just walk in here,” she mutters, more to herself than anyone else. “That shouldn’t—” 

“Hey—” 

Jungkook’s voice cuts in gently, not loud, not abrupt, just enough to reach her without pushing. She doesn’t stop pacing. 

“He’s gone,” he adds, softer now, like he’s trying to convince her as much as himself. 

She shakes her head immediately. “That doesn’t matter.” 

Her voice comes out sharper than she means it to, tension still sitting just under the surface, and she exhales roughly, dragging a hand through her hair before turning again, another tight loop across the room. 

And then the air shifts. 

This time it isn’t heavy. It isn’t suffocating or sharp or pressing in around her ribs. It’s warm—brighter, softer in a way that settles instead of tightens, familiar enough that she recognizes it before she fully processes it. 

Jieun stops. 

It isn’t abrupt. It’s slow, like her body is catching up to something her instincts already know, her steps faltering before she finally stills completely. For a second she doesn’t turn, doesn’t move at all—just stands there, feeling it. 

Then she does. 

And there he is. 

Apollo stands near the doorway, his presence steady in a way that feels almost out of place after everything that just happened, light without pressure, warmth without weight. 

“You’re alright,” he says. 

Not a question. 

And for a split second—just a fraction of a moment—something in her expression softens, like she might move toward him, like relief might finally win out over everything still tangled in her chest. 

It doesn’t. 

The shift is immediate. 

Her expression tightens instead, something sharper breaking through as the moment passes, and when she speaks, the words come out edged, controlled only by how tightly she’s holding onto them. 

“Where were you?” 

The room stills. 

Apollo pauses, just slightly, like he hadn’t expected that to be the first thing she said. “I—” 

“You knew,” she cuts in, and now the control is already slipping, her voice unsteady even as it rises. “You had to know this would happen.” 

No one moves. 

No one even breathes too loudly, because this—this isn’t the version of her they know. Not the calm, measured way she usually speaks, not the quiet certainty she carries through everything. 

This is something else. 

Apollo’s expression softens, but he doesn’t interrupt her, doesn’t try to stop the momentum of it as it builds. “I expected attention—” 

“Attention?” she echoes, the word breaking apart into something breathless and disbelieving, a short, incredulous laugh slipping through that doesn’t sound anything like humor. “You call that attention?” 

Her voice cracks on the last word. 

“You changed something that wasn’t supposed to change,” she continues, faster now, the words tripping over each other like they can’t come out quickly enough. “You blessed them—you made them visible—and you didn’t think that would reach him?” 

Apollo’s gaze flicks briefly past her, taking in the others, the way they’ve all gone completely still, before returning to her. 

“I didn’t think he would act on it.” 

“Well he did,” she snaps, and that’s where it breaks. 

Completely. 

The last word comes out uneven, her voice giving under the weight of it as her breathing stutters, her hands curling tighter at her sides like she needs something to ground herself and can’t find it. 

“They were here,” she says, quieter for a second, but it doesn’t hold, the volume climbing again as everything pushes forward. “All of them. Watching. Asking questions like we’re—like we’re something to pick apart and study—” 

Her breath catches again, sharper this time. 

“And then he shows up.” 

The silence that follows is absolute. 

No one moves. Not even behind her. 

Apollo doesn’t move either. 

“I wouldn’t have let anything happen to you,” he says gently. 

Jieun lets out another short, broken laugh, shaking her head immediately. 

“That’s not the point.” 

Her voice rises again, the tension finally giving way as tears spill over, her frustration cracking open into something raw and uncontrolled. 

“They were behind me,” she says, the words uneven now, almost breathless as they push past everything she’s trying to hold back. “Do you understand that? If he had decided—anything—I wouldn’t have been able to stop it.” 

Her shoulders shake slightly, her hands lifting for a second like she doesn’t know what to do with them before dropping again. 

“They could have gotten hurt,” she adds, softer—but it lands heavier. “Because of something you did.” 

That’s when Apollo’s expression changes fully. 

Not defensive. Not distant. 

Something else. 

The tears don’t slow. If anything, they come faster now, her breathing uneven as everything she’s been holding in spills over all at once. 

“You should have told me,” she says, and now the sharpness is gone, replaced with something that breaks as soon as it leaves her. “You should have warned me. I would have—I could have—” 

Her voice catches hard, the words falling apart before she can finish them, her head shaking slightly like she’s trying to push the thought away before it fully forms. 

“I could have lost them.” 

The room doesn’t move. 

Doesn’t interrupt. 

Apollo steps forward then. 

Slowly. Carefully. 

“I know,” he says. 

That’s it. 

No explanation. No justification. 

Just— 

“I know.” 

Something in her gives. 

The breath she lets out is shaky, breaking into something closer to a sob as the tension finally snaps, fear and anger and relief all collapsing into each other at once. 

He closes the distance between them, steady and unhurried, and when he reaches her, he pulls her into him without hesitation. 

Warm. Solid. 

Jieun doesn’t resist. 

Doesn’t hesitate. 

Her hands come up immediately, clutching at the fabric at his shoulders like she needs something real to hold onto, her face pressing into him as everything she’s been holding back finally spills over. 

“You should have told me,” she repeats, her voice muffled now, shaking against him. 

“I know,” he murmurs again. 

Her shoulders tremble as she cries, the sound quiet but uneven, like she’s trying to keep it contained and failing anyway. 

“I didn’t know—” she starts, then cuts herself off again, her head shaking slightly. 

“I know,” he says again, softer this time, one hand coming up to rest at the back of her head, steadying, grounding, keeping her anchored where she is. 

Behind them, no one moves. 

No one interrupts. 

Because this—this isn’t something they’ve ever seen from her. Not like this. Not this raw, not this unguarded, not this human.  

Jungkook shifts slightly, uncertain, like he wants to step closer but doesn’t know if he should. 

Hoseok reaches out quietly, catching his arm, giving a small shake of his head. 

Not yet. 

Apollo doesn’t rush her. 

Doesn’t try to quiet her or pull her out of it. 

He just stays there, holding her, letting everything run its course. 

“I know,” he repeats again, softer now, quieter, the words changing as he says them, settling into something deeper than agreement. 

Not apology. 

Not explanation. 

Just— 

I hear you. 

I understand. 

I’m here. 

And slowly, gradually, her breathing starts to even out. 

Not all at once. Not completely. 

But enough. 

Enough that the tension in her shoulders loosens just slightly, enough that her grip on him softens, shifting from something desperate into something steadier, something that doesn’t feel like she’s about to lose him if she lets go. 

The room stays quiet. 

But it feels different now. 

Not empty. Not tense. 

Just— 

holding. 

......

A week passes. 

Long enough that the edges of it dull. 

Not gone—never gone—but softer, like something that’s settled instead of sitting sharp under her skin. 

No one else shows up. 

No sudden shifts in the air, no pressure creeping into the room, no quiet, watching presence that makes her chest tighten before she can place why. The house stays just that—a house—filled with voices and movement and the familiar rhythm of people who have slowly, steadily gone back to something that feels almost normal. 

Almost. 

Apollo had said he would handle it. 

He hadn’t explained how. 

Jieun hadn’t asked. 

She wasn’t sure she wanted to know. 

Still— 

the absence of it all sits strangely with her, like she’s waiting for something that never quite arrives. 

...... 

They come back from the studio late. 

Not unusually late, just enough that the night has settled fully outside, the air cooler, quieter, the streets mostly empty as they make their way home. The conversation is easy, scattered, the kind that doesn’t need to be held onto—half-finished thoughts, quiet jokes, someone complaining about something small that doesn’t really matter. 

It feels normal. 

It feels… good. 

Jieun lingers a step behind them as they reach the door, letting the sound of it all carry ahead of her, her shoulders a little looser than they had been days before, even if the memory of it still sits somewhere in the back of her mind. 

The door opens. 

They file in. 

Shoes kicked off, voices carrying into the house without hesitation— 

and then— 

they stop. 

Not abruptly. Not all at once. 

Just enough that the movement stalls, the energy catching mid-step as something doesn’t line up with what they expected. 

There’s a smell. 

Warm. Familiar. Something cooked, not ordered—something that fills the space like it’s been there for a while. 

Jin frowns slightly, glancing toward the kitchen. “…did someone cook?” 

“No,” Namjoon says slowly, already stepping forward. 

Jungkook leans to the side, trying to see past him. “We didn’t order anything, did we?” 

No one answers. 

Because they’re already moving. 

Already following the smell, the quiet pull of something that doesn’t make sense— 

until they reach the kitchen doorway. 

And freeze. 

Apollo is standing at the counter. 

Like he belongs there. 

One cabinet door is open, another halfway, his attention focused as he searches through them with quiet concentration, completely at ease in a space that isn’t his. 

For a second— 

no one breathes. 

Because this is wrong. 

Not dangerous wrong. 

Just— 

impossible in a way their brains haven’t caught up to yet. 

Then he looks up. 

Sees them. 

Freezes for exactly half a second.

“…hey,” he says, like they just walked into a normal evening. “Where do you keep the bowls?” 

Silence. 

Not empty. 

Just stunned. 

Jungkook blinks like he didn’t hear that correctly. “…what?” 

Apollo has already turned back to the cabinets, opening another one without hesitation. “Bowls,” he repeats easily. “I found everything else.” 

That somehow makes it worse. 

Jin steps forward on instinct, still staring. “You—” he stops, recalibrates, clearly struggling between host mode and this is a literal god in my kitchen. “…you’re cooking?” 

Apollo glances back over his shoulder. “I am, yes.” 

Like that answers everything. 

It doesn’t. 

Jimin lets out a small, disbelieving laugh, looking between the others. “What is happening?” 

Jin exhales, stepping fully into the kitchen anyway, defaulting back into something he understands even if the situation itself doesn’t make sense. He opens the correct cabinet, pulling out a stack of bowls and handing them over. 

“Top left,” he says, a little stiff. 

Apollo takes them easily. “Thank you.” 

Jin pauses, like he’s waiting for something else—something more—but nothing comes. 

“…you’re using the wrong burner,” he adds after a second. 

Apollo glances down, then back up. “Am I?” 

“Yes.” 

A beat. 

Apollo adjusts it without argument. “Noted. I don’t normally cook mortal food. I followed a recipie” 

That… helps. 

A little. 

Not enough to make it normal—but enough that the tension shifts, loosens just slightly as the others slowly move in, still cautious, still watching, but drawn closer anyway. 

Jungkook hovers near the counter, peeking at what’s cooking but not getting too close. Jimin leans in beside him, curiosity winning out over hesitation, while Taehyung stays back just a little, still observing. 

Namjoon lingers near the doorway, thoughtful. 

No one fully relaxes. 

Not yet. 

Jieun hasn’t moved. 

She’s still where she stopped, just inside the doorway, watching all of it unfold—the confusion, the hesitation, the way they’re trying to treat this like something normal when it clearly isn’t. 

And Apollo— 

just… exists in it. 

Easily. 

Like he isn’t something they should be wary of. 

Like he hasn’t been the center of everything that’s shifted in their lives. 

She exhales slowly, then steps forward. 

This time, no hesitation. 

Apollo’s gaze finds her immediately, just for a second, before he looks back down at what he’s doing, like he’s deliberately not making a moment out of it. 

She stops beside him. 

Close enough to speak quietly. 

“…you didn’t have to do this,” she says. 

Apollo sets the spoon down, leaning back slightly against the counter. 

“I know.” 

A small pause. 

“I wanted to.” 

She studies him for a second, something in her expression softer now, less guarded. 

“…they haven’t come back.” 

He nods once. “They won’t.” 

Certain. 

She lets that settle, something in her shoulders loosening just a little more. 

“And you?” she asks, quieter. 

He tilts his head slightly. 

“I said I’d handle it.” 

“That’s not what I asked.” 

A faint smile, softer this time. 

“I know.” 

Another pause. 

“I told you I’d be around more.” 

Jieun holds his gaze for a second longer, then nods once, small but steady. 

“…okay.” 

Behind them, Jin calls that the food’s ready, his voice a little louder than necessary, like he’s compensating for how strange all of this still feels. 

The others gather, still a little stiff, still not entirely sure how to act—but trying. 

Jieun finally feels the rest of the weight lift off of her shoulders.