"To the girl who was marked to die-
And the version of himself that did."
Y/N didn't ask for this.
It was supposed to be a girls' trip. A few days of laughter, beaches, and blurry memories.
But somewhere between the airport terminal and the baggage...
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Taehyung stood barefoot on the porch, gun in one hand, not raised.
His eyes met hers. And her chest constricted.
“I can’t stay here,” she whispered.
“I know.”
“I need to go.”
“I know.”
She blinked. “Then let me.”
“I can’t.”
Tears filled her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall.
“Please.”
He stepped forward slowly. “I won’t hurt you.”
“You already did.”
“I’m trying to protect you.”
Her voice cracked. “I didn’t ask for protection. I asked for the truth.”
He was in front of her now.
Close.
Still not touching.
But his presence was overwhelming.
“Then here it is,” he said softly. “If you leave right now, they’ll find you. And they’ll kill you. And I won’t be fast enough to stop it.”
She looked away.
Because a part of her—one small, terrified part—believed him.
He reached into his back pocket.
Slow. No threat.
He held out her phone.
“I scrambled the GPS. It can’t make calls, but… I know you’d want it.”
She stared at it.
Didn’t take it.
“I don’t know what you are.”
He nodded.
“I don’t either.”
She backed away from him. Then turned.
And walked silently back into the house.
Y/N hadn’t spoken a word since she walked back inside.
She didn’t slam the door this time.
She didn’t curl up in bed or yell or throw things.
She just sat in the corner of the cabin’s main room, wrapped in one of the oversized gray blankets, staring at the muted TV, though it wasn’t even on.
Taehyung didn’t say anything either.
He just watched her for a long time from the kitchen. Quiet. Careful. Like one wrong move would shatter her completely.
So he did what little he could.
He cooked.
---
The clinking of pans wasn’t loud—but it was the only thing breaking the heavy silence.
The scent of butter hit the air first.
Then the sizzle of eggs.
Scrambled. Plain. A pinch of salt. Nothing fancy.
It reminded her of home in a way that hurt.
She didn’t look at him—but she heard him moving.
Setting the table.
Pouring water.
Placing things down gently, like noise itself might wound her.
A minute later, the plate was in front of her.
No words.
No dramatic gestures.
Just… scrambled eggs. A spoon. A folded napkin.
He didn’t even look at her after.
He just went back to the kitchen and quietly made a second plate for himself.
---
She stared at the food for a full minute before speaking.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
She looked up.
He was sitting across the room now, leaning back in the kitchen chair, not eating either.
“You’re not obligated to be… nice to me.”
He shrugged. “I’m not being nice.”
“No?”
“I’m just feeding someone I don’t want to see dead.”
She blinked.
That… actually made her throat close a little.
She looked down again.
Picked up the spoon.
She didn’t thank him. Couldn’t. Not yet.
But she ate.
Slowly.
And he watched.
Not hovering.
Just present.
Just there.
---
Later, she heard the creak of the cabin floor as he walked past her again. She thought he was heading to bed—until she saw the folded sweatshirt appear beside her blanket.
The thick one.
The one he had kept thrown over the arm of the couch when they first arrived.
It smelled like clean fabric and cold wind.
She didn’t look up, but her fingers curled around it anyway.
When she finally closed her eyes that night, she didn’t sleep peacefully.
