Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The heavy oak door, carved with the phases of the moon, didn’t survive the impact.

Minho’s kick sent it flying inward with a splintering crack that would have gotten any other wolf ejected from the premises, or worse.

The fury coiling in his gut was a rare, unified front. Usually, it was just his inner wolf—a constant, simmering rage he had to manage. But today, Minho himself was just as angry. He was annoyed to feel the stupid wolf preen in excitement at their shared emotion, as if this were a game.

He strode into the principal’s office, the scent of old parchment and cold stone doing nothing to cool their shared temper. His gaze landed instantly on the man seated behind the great desk of dark, twisting wood that seemed to have grown roots into the floor.

Principal Bang Chan did not look up.

He was writing in a large, leather-bound logbook, the only sounds the soft crackle from the grand fireplace and the steady scratch of his black-feathered quill. A delicate silver chain connected the arms of his round spectacles.

Minho’s own hands, gloved in leather gloves, tucked into the pockets of his worn blazer, still felt conspicuously bare as he stepped onto the thick pelt of a great white wolf that served as a rug. The wolf within paced, a restless shadow mirroring his steps.

“You said my credentials were impeccable,” Minho began, his voice cutting through the quiet. “You said the committee valued modern academic achievement. You said if I presented my university record, my thesis on cross-pack diplomacy… you said it would be enough.”

The scratching of the quill continued. Uninterrupted.

“I have done everything asked of me,” Minho continued, heat seeping into his tone, feeding the wolf’s agitation. “I have jumped through every hoop. I am more qualified than any other applicant. So tell me, what is the real deficiency? Is it just because I’m a loner?”

The quill stopped.

The silence that followed was heavier than before. Slowly, The Principal set the feathered pen down. He looked up, and his expression was what Minho had feared: not anger, but a deep, weary sympathy.

“Lee Minho ssi,” the grey skinned wolf began, his voice  laden with a regret that felt like a physical weight. “The council’s traditions for the Den Guardian role are... ancient. They believe the magic that nurtures the youngest of our kind is a communal force. Your qualifications are not in dispute. But your solitary nature is seen as a dissonance in that specific environment.”

Minho’s gaze dropped to the principal’s hands, to those stark, beautiful paw prints that spoke of a birthright, of a place in the world so fundamental it was inked into the soul. A corrosive mix of envy and shame twisted in his gut. He curled his own gloved fingers into his palms, smothering the feeling.

“So my work means nothing. My entire life’s effort is worthless because I lack a pack?!” The words were a low snarl, his control fraying. He took a step forward, the heat of his anger a palpable force in the room. The wolf inside him was right there, just beneath his skin, urging him to make them understand.

“It is not worthless,” Chan countered, his voice firming but still infuriatingly calm. “And there are other positions. The high school needs a new combat instructor. You'd be perfect, Minho. I could appoint you myself—”

"I don’t want to lecture teenagers on dead pack politics," Minho interjected, the exasperation sharp in his voice. "I want to teach the pups. I want to show them their first howl matters." It was the most vulnerable thing he had said aloud in years, and it hung in the air between them, raw and exposed. The inner wolf stilled, unnerved by the sudden openness.

Bang Chan’s expression was unreadable for a long moment. The fire popped in the hearth. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and even with informality. 

"Minho, a first howl is not a solo. It is a call, and it requires an echo. It requires the lived experience of a pack. Your documents… your entire history… states you have been fundamentally alone since childhood. In the eyes of the council, that isn't just a detail. It is an unstable red flag."

"But I have proven my stability." Minho shot back, the heat returning to his voice. "I've taken the mandatory mental examinations every year since I presented. I scored in the top percentile for control and cognitive function. What else could I possibly need to prove?"

Chan didn't flinch. His calm was a wall. "You have proven you are not a danger. But the council needs to be convinced you are a benefit. There is a difference." He leaned forward slightly, his dark eyes holding Minho's. "And you know exactly what you need to do to prove that."

Minho and his wolf both froze. A cold dread, familiar and loathsome, trickled down his spine. He opened his mouth to deny it, to refuse outright, but Chan spoke over him, his voice cutting through the brewing protest with the finality of a judge's gavel.

"A Certificate of Social-Emotional Competence," Chan stated, the title sounding like a verdict. "From a council-certified therapist. It must attest that you and your wolf are not just stable, but synergized and suited for the high-sensitivity environment of the nursery."

"No,” Minho said, his voice deliberately calm to counteract the sudden, primal urge to flip the massive desk. “I’m fine. I don’t need therapy. Me and my wolf have an understanding.”

“An understanding?” Chan’s eyebrow arched slightly. “Minho, you still wear scent blockers. Every day.”

The restless energy spiked into a flash of heat, a surge of wild pride that wanted its presence known. Minho forced his breathing to stay even. “It’s fashion,” he retorted smoothly, and immediately felt his inner wolf's reaction—a sharp, mocking ripple of laughter that echoed in his bones. 

The bastard was laughing at him!

One day, he will kill his wolf, he vowed passionately.

Meanwhile Principal Bang Chan didn't look impressed. “And the mandatory monthly wellness check-ins you’ve ‘forgotten’ for the past six months?” 

"I’ve been busy,” Minho clipped out, his wolf's guffaws jeering making his skin feel too tight. "applying for jobs. As you know.”

Chan leaned back, the stark black paw prints on his hands a silent testament to generations of pack leadership. His gaze held Minho’s, not with accusation, but with a heavy, unshakeable certainty. 

“A wolf at peace doesn’t need to hide its own scent, Minho. It doesn’t see every outstretched hand as a threat. These aren't choices; they are symptoms. And the council will not ignore the symptoms, no matter how brilliant the mind that houses them. The certificate isn't my preference. It's the only medicine they recognize.”

"The narrative is bullshit!" Minho snapped, a ripple of aggressive energy making him shift in his seat. His wolf echoed the sentiment with a low growl that vibrated in his chest. "A piece of paper from some stranger who'll judge my life in fifty minutes because of the very system that failed me? You want me to perform sanity for a council-approved stamp? It's a farce."

"System or not, it is the only way to prove to the council that their fears are unfounded," Chan countered, his voice hardening, though his composure never broke. "Your file is a list of red flags for them, Minho. The solitude, the blockers, the missed check-ins. This certificate is your chance to officially overwrite that narrative."

"But it will prove absolutely nothing."

It would just put a pretty frame around a picture they had already decided was ugly. Because it wouldn't change what he was.

A lone wolf.

Bang Chan seemed to catch the melancholic reference, his expression softening into a genuine, sad smile that Minho hated more than any glare.

"It proves everything to them," the other wolf said, his voice dropping into something quiet and unbearably gentle. The softness was a weapon, and it disarmed Minho more effectively than any shout. "It is a necessary benchmark because the consequences of being wrong are unthinkable. You, of all people, know what happens." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle in the space between them. "You know what prolonged isolation can do to a lone wolf."

Minho’s breath hitched. The fight in him stuttered, derailed by the deliberate, brutal precision of the wolf's words.

A memory, sharp and cold as shrapnel, tore through him: the hollow, milky eyes of a feral wolf from his youth, a muzzle of cold iron chains locking its jaw shut as a containment unit dragged it away. The desperate, mindless snarls that were no longer language. The ghost that haunted his darkest nights.

The image was a bucket of ice water on the fire of his anger.

The fight drained out of him, leaving a cold, hard truth in its place. The wolf inside, sensing the shift, let out a final, internal ripple of discontent before settling into a wary stillness. They were cornered. Not just by the council, but by the terrifying specter of what they could become.

His gloved hands, which had been curled into fists so tight the leather strained, finally went slack. The tension bled out of his fingers in a slow, defeated unfurling, a silent white flag. He stared at them, these shielded, useless things.

All for a certificate. A piece of paper that would dissect his loneliness, judge the walls he’d built to survive, and decide if he was worthy of the one thing he wanted.

So all he had to do was get a piece of paper to prove he wasn't a monster? Fine.

“Fine,” he bit out, the word tasting nothing like victory, just vomit. He turned on his heel, his determination a cold, hard knot in his stomach. How hard could it be?

☘️｡⁠:ﾟ✿ﾟ⁠:⁠｡🐺

The hardest thing in the world, it turned out, was sweeping french fry crumbs off a linoleum floor while your dreams circled the drain.

Minho leaned heavily on his broom in the middle of the nearly empty 'Howling Moon Diner.' The lone A/C unit sputtered, ejecting a gust of warm, damp air that did little to cut through the scent of old grease. 

The evening shift was the worst. The quiet after the storm was somehow more deafening. Just an hour ago, the diner—strategically and unfortunately located next to the high school den—had been packed with hungry pups, the air thick with the cacophony of cracking voices and shared fries. Which, of course, meant this mess was now his to clean.

One of them, a lanky beta with more bravado than sense, had started a howling contest. The sound—a reedy, off-key screech—was a needle in Minho's brain. It was the same sound he'd imagined when Principal Bang Chan had suggested he teach there. "The high school needs a new combat instructor. You'd be perfect, Minho."

He'd rejected the offer on the spot. Not out of shame, but from a cold, certain clarity. He understood their biology, the mechanics of a shift. But the desperate bids for attention, the volatile moods? It was a language he'd never learned. His own youth had been a silent, strategic retreat. He couldn't guide them through a storm he had only ever endured.

Now, his own wolf, usually a snarling critic, had been useless. It just watched, detached, as the kid's friends joined in, a chorus of yips that was just noise for the sake of being loud. The headache that bloomed behind his eyes was born from the sheer, grating pointlessness of it all.

He was so lost in the memory of their noise that he almost didn't hear the real one cutting through it.

"Wow. You look like you're mentally composing your own obituary."

Minho lifted his head.

Hyunjin stood by the counter, having slipped in unnoticed. As a beta, his presence was softer, but he carried himself with the effortless grace of someone who could have been, and technically once was, a model.

A part of Minho, the nasty, cornered part, wanted to snarl. He didn't, obviously. "I was thinking about killing you, actually. It seemed more productive than this." He gestured vaguely with his gloved hands at the sticky floor.

"Damn," Hyunjin quipped, a smirk playing on his lips. "Last I checked, you were only into choking, not murder."

He leaned his elbows on the counter, eyes glinting with mischief. "So, the daddy principal’s office visit went splendid, I assume?"

Minho finally looked at him, a slow, dead-eyed turn of his head.

"Oh, it went great. 'Daddy Chan' was so impressed with my résumé he offered me a job as a professional doorstop. Apparently, my unique talent for eating lunch alone sealed the deal."

Hyunjin winced. "Shit. The solitary thing again?"

"Shocker, I know." Minho said sarcastically before he went back to staring at the floor. "Turns out 'raised by wolves' is only a charming backstory if you were actually raised by a 'pack' "

"Okay, but what about the therapists? You were making calls."

"I was. It was an enlightening experience." Minho began counting on his fingers. "One said my 'aura of feral resentment' would disrupt their zen garden. Another asked if I'd considered group therapy. A third one just hung up. I think my profile picture scared him."

Hyunjin bit his lip, the scent of his suppressed amusement a light, citrusy note in the air. "So, a resounding success."

"A triumph. I'm thinking of framing my phone bill."

As much as Minho loved threatening the guy, he and his wolf both felt a small, reluctant spark of pride when Hyunjin laughed. Hearing that laugh, sharp and bright in the otherwise dull hum of the diner, made something deep inside him settle, just for a moment.

Of course, he’d never admit that out loud.

There was a pause in the air that felt too comfortable.

Then Hyunjin slumped forward on the counter, a dramatic collapse that made the cutlery rattle. The movement caused the sleeve of his designer jacket to ride up, revealing the elegant, silver-inked paw print on the inside of his wrist. It was stylized, almost like a brand logo, perfectly suited to the beta. His hands stretched out across the counter, long-fingered and clean, the kind of hands made to hold champagne glasses, not diner menus.

Minho’s gaze lingered a second too long, at the wrist mark, gleaming faintly under the flickering diner light, and felt that familiar hollow twinge rise when he looked at his own gloved hands before he forced it away. Of course the beta would wear it as an accessory.

When he looked back, Hyunjin had lifted his head, eyes suddenly alight as if struck by divine stupidity.

Oh no.

Those eyes.

Those wretched eyes that were about to say something catastrophically stupid.

Hyunjin looked at Minho who instantly started sweeping. “Okay, hear me out before you bite my face off.”

Minho didn’t glance up. “Is the puppy offering his throat?” he drawled, voice dripping with faux sweetness and threat. “How generous.”

The beta rolled his eyes before smirking. “Tempting, but my collagen routine is too expensive to waste.” His expression softened, turning uncharacteristically sincere. “Besides, I think I can actually help you.”

Minho and his inner wolf both went still for a split second, a synchronized blink of surprise. “Help?” he echoed, suspicion instantly washing over the small, foolish spark of hope that had dared to appear. His wolf gave a low, doubtful chuff.

“So yesterday Jeongin told me—” Hyunjin began, his earnestness slipping back into salesman mode.

“Wait. Wait. WAIT. You started talking to that fox situationship of 4 years again? You swore you wouldn’t talk to him again!” Minho raised his broom like an angry mother wielding a slipper.

Hyunjin turned red. “That’s not the point! Besides, we’re just hooking up—”

“You said that last time,” Minho shot back, “and then cried into a pint of ice cream after you left your last hookup mid-session because you missed your 'boyfriend.' "

“Okay, no,” Hyunjin cut in, indignant. “I left because he wore skinny jeans to our first date. Skinny jeans, Minho. Who does that?” He shook his head like it was the most atrocious thing ever done by humanity. “Anyway, you should be thankful I slept with the "fluff trap" last night, because he gave me an address to this guy when he saw my—”

Minho groaned so deeply it rattled the salt shakers. His wolf pinned its ears back in immediate distrust.

“No.” His tone was flat, final, steeped in exhaustion. “The last ‘guy’ you knew was a spiritually attuned con artist in a sex cult. He tried to sell me cement for two hundred dollars.”

“That was one time!” Hyunjin protested, his scent flaring with defensive heat. “And he had five-star reviews on Yahoo!”

“Yes, by only one person, which turned out to be YOU, when you accidentally rated it while making out with your boyfriend!”

“Okay, so mistakes can happen. And also fyi Jeongin isn’t my boyfriend-”

“And who even uses Yahoo these days? That’s a bigger red flag than the cult itself!”

“Semantics.” Hyunjin waved a dismissive hand. “Besides, This one’s different, i swear! Even if the guy's methods are abit...unorthodox...they work! Plus he is council verified too! Jeongin swears by him.”

Minho’s broom slowed. He finally looked up, a single eyebrow arched. “Jeongin also ate weed thinking it was ornamental grass because he thought it would grant him intuition. He just spent the night puking behind the diner, sobbing about the meaning of life and his stomach ache."

“A fair point,” Hyunjin conceded, his voice dropping into a low, surprisingly serious murmur. He looked down, seemingly in deep, contemplative defeat. He even nodded slowly to himself, as if truly weighing Minho's logic.

Then Hyunjin’s head snapped up, eyes alight with renewed, catastrophic conviction. “But alsooo—!”

“No.” Minho said, already exhausted.

“—Jeongin’s cousin’s friend’s sister went to this guy because her dog was addicted to eating furniture. We’re talking entire dining chairs. Probably cupboards too. So you know what the healer did??"

Minho didn't reply anything.

"The brilliant healer turned the dog into a frog.”

Minho stared, dead-eyed.

“And?” Hyunjin prompted, as if this was the most compelling part. “Now it just sits in a pond and screams haikus at the moon. Are you getting me? THIS is the solution."

Minho blinked slowly. “Right. Fascinating. So your solution is for ME to go to some eccentric guy with ‘unorthodox methods’ because Jeongin’s cousin’s friend’s sister sent her "Furniture eating dog" to him and it’s now a frog?" "

"Yes." Hyunjin nodded as if he’d single-handedly solved world hunger.  

"Pass."

"But why?!"

"Everything you’ve described sounds like a prelude to becoming a frog."

“Don’t be ridiculous. Green isn’t your color.” Hyunjin’s grin softened into something more earnest. “Just meet him. One session.”

He held up a single finger.

Minho held up his own gloved finger, "No."

“Fine.” Hyunjin shrugged and began wiping the counter with a little too much nonchalance. “I just thought you might want to meet the only healer in the city who’s lived completely alone his whole life. Rumor is he hasn’t spoken to another wolf outside of a session for years."

He paused, then added with deliberate softness, “They say he doesn’t just understand lone wolves… he prefers them.”

The words landed like a blade, quiet and sharp.

Minho’s gloved hands stilled on the broom.

Inside his chest, his wolf, which usually paced in restless silence, went perfectly still—then leaped. It wasn't an aggressive lunge, but a sudden, acute alertness, a prickle of wild curiosity that ran down Minho's spine like a static shock. The sensation was so foreign and intense it made his skin feel too tight. What? he thought, bewildered by his own reaction. Since when are you interested in therapy?

He looked away, his jaw tightening as he stared at the floor tiles, trying to smother the strange, eager tremor under his ribs. Defeat was a bitter pill, but this... this felt different. This wasn't about surrendering to the council's idiotic rules. It was a tactical assessment.

A healer who lived alone. Who wasn't repulsed by their condition, but preferred it. That wasn't a symptom; it was a strategy. It was a data point that didn't fit the council's pathetic narrative. If this guy was stable, verified, and solitary by choice, then he was living proof that their entire premise was flawed.

The university term started in four months. He could waste that time sweeping floors and raging at the injustice, or he could use their own system against them. He could walk into that office, see this living contradiction for himself, and let the healer's very existence become his argument. The certificate would just be the receipt.

It wasn't capitulation. It was reconnaissance. A strategic maneuver in a war he refused to lose.

The choice was suddenly, blindingly obvious.

He looked back at Hyunjin, his expression no longer defeated, but sharp with renewed purpose. "Fine," he said, his voice low and steady. "Give me the address. But if this one has a single crystal, a dreamcatcher, or asks me about my 'inner child,' I'm feeding your favorite jacket to a wolverine."

The threat was hollow, and they both knew it. Hyunjin's scent bloomed into pure, sunny triumph, so bright it was almost nauseating. His smile was blinding. "You're not going to regret this!"

"I already do," Minho said, but he was already pulling out his phone, the strange, hopeful stirring in his chest a stark contrast to his words. The address felt like either a one-way ticket to becoming a frog, or a very, very strange reprieve.

☘️｡⁠:ﾟ✿ﾟ⁠:⁠｡🐺

Chapter Text

Minho stared at the sunlight for so long he might as well have been begging for a sunburn. Or, more accurately, auditioning for a straitjacket.

The latter seemed increasingly likely, given he was supposedly standing in front of a therapist’s office. The address Hyunjin had shoved into his hand led here, to this... this thing wedged between a sleek corporate tower and a minimalist library.

You've got to be kidding me.

When he’d agreed to this circus, he’d braced for beige walls, a generic desk, and some cringe-worthy motivational poster about “Unleashing His Inner Alpha.” He’d expected the sterile smell of antiseptic and failure.

He had not expected… this.

A flower shop that looked like it had lost a centuries-long brawl with a forest. The roof sagged with the weight of its own absurdity. The paint was the color of forgotten moss, peeling away in sad little curls. A single, grimy window peered out like a bleary, judgmental eye. A rusted bike stand stood guard out front, its sole occupant a bicycle missing a front tire, the rim resting on the pavement like a defeated metal bird.

I am going to skin Hyunjin and use his pelt as a doormat, Minho thought, the image so vivid his teeth itched. Seriously, what kind of sadist sends someone across the city for this? What's next, a back-alley exorcist?

He was half-tempted to get back in the car. But then he’d have to admit to Chan—AND to the stubborn, proud creature in his own chest—that he hadn’t even tried. The thought was more bitter than the taste of his own pride.

Fine. Whatever.

He was here. He’d go in, endure the absurdity, and present Bang Chan with irrefutable proof the entire system was a sham. He'd march in, get rejected by a man who probably talked to his ferns, and then he could go back to sweeping the diner in righteous, solitary peace.

He pushed the creaking wooden door, half-convinced it would collapse into a pile of splinters under his touch.

It didn’t.

Instead, a bell jingled with obscene cheerfulness.

The shift was instantaneous. The city’s cacophony—honking cars, chattering students—vanished, snipped off like a thread. The air thickened, heavy with the scent of wet earth, night-blooming jasmine, and something sharp, something alive that prickled against his skin. The wolf inside him, a constant, restless presence, twitched in its cage.

Then he actually looked.

And his brain short-circuited.

“Oh my moon,” he muttered, the words tasting like pure awe that made Minho’s carefully constructed cynicism feel like a flimsy paper shield.

Sunlight streamed through a vast glass dome, gilding everything in gold. The floor was a living carpet of moss that sighed under his boots. Vines dripped from the ceiling, strangling bookshelves and weaving between terrariums that hummed with a soft, ethereal light. It was impossibly agressive. Aggressive in a way that felt a personal attack to all of his senses.

This is a trap, his wolf whispered. A very pretty, very smelly trap.

He subtly checked the seal of his scent blockers. Still secure. His first line of defense was holding. He moved forward, his steps hesitant on the sighing moss.

“Hello?” His voice was tight, swallowed by the overwhelming lushness.

A nearby bush rustled, its tiny, bell-shaped flowers trembling as if gossiping about him. Great. Even the shrubs are judgy here. Maybe this was an elaborate prank by hyunjin. The sheer, silent impossibility of the place was starting to feel less like magic and more like the prelude to a psychotic break.

His eyes, dragged from the judging flora, snagged on a crooked certificate tacked beside a potted plant that was audibly, rhythmically snoring. The letters shimmered, liquid and alive, rearranging themselves as he blinked.

'Certification of… Unorthodox Shenanigans.

Awarded to: Han Jisung, the Chaos Coordinator.'

He snorted as he looked at the riot of vines and unrepentant foliage thriving purely on spite and stolen sunlight. Yea, Very coordinated.

But hey! Hyunjin was right about one thing. The healer was indeed real. Apparently council-certified, judging by the huge, glowing paw-print seal at the bottom that pulsed with a faint light, looking like it wanted to leap off the parchment and bite his face off.

So maybe, against all odds, coming here was… a good thing?

…Right.

He leaned in for a closer look and jumped when a leaf brushed his nose, muttering a curse that made the bush twitch with excitement.

Then he saw it.

He froze. Blinked once, then again, as if resetting his vision would change the image. His brain stuttered to a complete, whirring halt.

Nestled in a pot of damp, rich moss was something that looked, with unsettling anatomical precision, like a pair of...female genitalia. A Venus flytrap, apparently, if Venus had taken a very specific, literal-minded design turn. It was soft, dewy, and twitching faintly in a way that made him feel like he should probably avert his eyes and offer it a blanket. 

Driven by a morbid fascination he knew he’d regret for the rest of his life, he leaned in an inch closer.

Pfft.

A cloud of glittering, cotton-candy-pink mist erupted from the center of the flower, hitting him square in the face. He reeled back, coughing and sputtering, his senses assaulted by the cloying stench of artificial strawberries and pure, weaponized what the fuck.

As the glittering haze cleared, his watering eyes saw a tiny, carved wooden sign that had sprouted from the soil.

"Vaginal Lips Flytrap — A Special Welcome!”

“Oh, hell no,” Minho snarled, wiping glitter from his cheek. That was it. Line crossed, burned, ashes scattered. He was leaving.

He spun around—and a blur of black fur and audacity shot from a previously closed doorway.

A bat. A tiny, shrieking bat, screeching like a demonic chihuahua as it aimed for his face.

Every instinct roared. A guttural snarl ripped from his throat. Fangs snapped down. His gloved hand came up, ready to strike—

“Berry, NO!”

A voice, sharp with panic, cut through the chaos. And then a whistle.

It wasn't a loud whistle, but it was clear and piercing, a single, pure note. The sound didn't just register in his ears; it sliced directly through the red haze of his primal response. The snarl died in his throat. The tension that had wired his muscles into a violent spring vanished, leaving him feeling unnervingly hollow, like a marionette with its strings cut.

The bat pulled up mere inches from his nose, did a clumsy, mid-air somersault of pure spite, and fluttered back toward the source of the voice.

Minho’s eyes, wide and shocked, followed.

And the rest of the world melted away.

There, clutching a large, open satchel, stood a man. His dark hair was a disheveled mess, as if he’d just wrestled a shrub. His glasses were crooked on his nose. A dirt-smudged white lab coat was thrown over a soft, gray sweater. His eyes, wide with alarm and framed by stupidly long lashes, were fixed on the demon bat.

He was… cute. And handsome. The kind of handsome that came from corded forearms and broad shoulders, hidden under a soft sweater and lab coat. The kind of beautiful that lived in the curve of his thin waist and surprisingly soft-looking lips.

The observation was so startling it was immediately followed by a second, more violent one: his wolf, the perpetually snarling beast he shared a soul with, was now sprinting, its frantic rhythm perfectly matching the sudden, terrified pounding of his own heart

The pretty man cinched the satchel closed and slumped in relief. "How many times do I have to tell you NOT to escape just to make out with the new hybrid? And you are NOT a dog—oh." He stopped, his gaze sweeping over Minho’s frozen posture, his half-raised, claw-ready hands, the fangs he’d forgotten to retract. A faint, charming blush colored his cheeks as he pushed his glasses up his nose.

“Oh. Right. Sorry about that,” he cleared his throat and then continued, “She’s a Nibbler Bat. Thinks she’s a guard dog.” His eyes crinkled with amusement. “You must be Lee Minho-ssi.”

Minho retracted his fangs, shame heating his neck. He slowly lowered his hands. “Just Minho. And you’re the… therapist?”

“Healer,” the man corrected with a sheepish smile that threatened Minho’s equilibrium. “Call me Jisung. I just like my name more."  He smiled brightly, and it was like a spotlight in the dim, green-tinted room.

Minho pretended his world hadn't just tilted off its axis and spilled all its contents at this man's feet.

He smells like rain in a garden, his wolf supplied, startlingly calm. Minho mentally shoved the beast into a kennel, slamming the door. Traitor.

Jisung hoisted the satchel onto his shoulder. “We can talk upstairs. I’ve closed the shop for the day.”

Minho nodded, the motion stiff. This was it. The professional part. The judgment. He followed Jisung to a spiral staircase that looked less like it was built and more like it had been grown from a gnarled, ancient tree, each step a twisted root.

He braced himself for the sterile office: a desk, two chairs, a box of tissues, the oppressive silence of being analyzed.

He was, again, profoundly and utterly underprepared.

It was a living storybook, a space that laughed in the face of physics. Warm, honey-colored light filtered through circular windows, illuminating walls papered with faint, peeling floral patterns. Dried herbs hung from beams, scenting the air with sage and thyme, and strange clockwork contraptions whirred softly alongside thriving potted plants.

And the plants… they were working.

A vine with broad, dexterous leaves poured steaming water into mismatched mugs with the precision of a seasoned bartender.

Another, dotted with glowing flowers like captured fairies, stirred a pot on a small cast-iron stove, filling the air with a sweet, earthy scent that was nothing like the bitter coffee he’d expected.

Minho froze. Jaw slack. His cynical facade crumbled under the sheer weight of the awe.

The healer rummaged through a worn trunk, glancing at Minho’s wide, undoubtedly golden-eyed stare. “Oh, that? It’s a self-sustaining system. I was experimenting by cooking a new hybrid—a Cogwort Vine spliced with a Sun-Thief Succulent. They photosynthesize light directly into kinetic energy. Saves me a lot of time,” he said, like he was explaining how to boil an egg.

Cooking, Minho thought deadpan. In an apron 

An image flashed: Jisung in an apron, tied tautly over his thin waist, stirring a pot, wearing no shirt-

Minho swatted his own forehead. Idiot.

"Besides,” Jisung continued rummaging without looking up, completely oblivious, “a healer’s work is different and way less time-consuming than regular cooking. It’s more like a chemist’s. But don't be fooled by the technical talk! The only thing I can successfully 'cook' is a new species of irritable houseplant. I nearly incinerated my actual kitchen the last time I tried to make ramyeon.”

The words slipped out before Minho could stop them: “So you can engineer a photosynthetic butler, but you can't cook ramyeon?”

He instantly wanted to claw the sentence back. It was an asinine, pointless question. He never engaged like this. He observed, he judged, he stored the weirdness away for later private dissection. He braced for a blank stare, for pity, for a condescending explanation—for anything but—

Jisung, who had been half-buried in the trunk, went completely still. He slowly straightened up and turned to look at Minho. There was a beat of silence so profound Minho could hear the soft plink of water dripping from a leaf into a jar.

And then Jisung burst out laughing.

It wasn't a polite chuckle. It was a loud, wheezing, full-body laugh that seemed to startle the very air. It made him double over and slap his knee, his shoulders shaking. His glasses slid down his nose, and the Cogwort Vine wiggled its leaves in apparent delight, sloshing water over the rim of a mug.

Jisung straightened up, his face flushed, a mock-offended pout on his lips that was still twitching with the remnants of laughter. “Hey! It’s hard for some people!”

Minho stared. The absurdity of it all—the magical room, the working plants, this beautiful, laughing man—hit him like a wave. The sound of that laughter did something dangerous to him. It didn't feel like an invasion; it felt like a key sliding into a lock he’d forgotten existed. 

The wolf in his chest didn't snarl or pace. It pressed against the confines of his ribs, not with violence, but with a yearning so profound it felt like grief. A single, treacherous word formed in the quietest part of his mind, wrapped in the scent of rain and earth: Mine.

The instinct was so primal, so certain, it felt less like a thought and more like revealed truth.

Panic, cold and immediate, flooded his veins. No. Absolutely not, You are a nasty, desperate creature, and you will shut up, he thought, mentally reinforcing the kennel doors with every ounce of his will.

Once he was sure he and his wolf were okay, his eyes dropped to Jisung’s bare feet. He suddenly became acutely aware of his own heavy boots. A strange pang of… something. He bent down, unlaced them, and placed them neatly by the stairs. Standing in socks, he felt exposed and weirdly vulnerable.

When he looked up, Jisung was gently guiding the now-quiet bat—Berry—into a rusted metal trunk, closing it with a definitive clang that echoed like a gong. He stood, clapping his hands clean with a smug, victorious smile directed at the trunk, as if he’d just caged a dragon.

And maybe Minho was as nasty as his wolf, because his eyes definitely, irrevocably snagged on the way Jisung’s shoulders and back flexed under the thin fabric of the lab coat.

The man just turned, his expression shifting to mild surprise. "Oh! Glad you made yourself at home." He walked over, picked up the two mugs prepared by the vine, and handed one to Minho. It was warm, covered in chipped, smiling turnips. The normality of the gesture in the midst of the chaos was disarming.

He settled into an armchair, sipping from his own mug that read 'WARNING: MAY CONTAIN MAGIC.' His gaze drifted to Minho's gloved hands.

"Your aura is very... pointy," Jisung remarked, as if discussing the weather.

"My... aura?" Minho’s brow furrowed as he hid his hands under the huge mug, away from jisung's gaze. This was not the opening line he had anticipated.

"Mhm. All sharp, silver angles. Like a pile of scissors." Jisung took another sip, completely serious. "Mine's a fuzzy green blob, according to the yeast I grew in a tub of yogurt last Tuesday. She was very rude but a brilliant psychic before she dissolved."

Minho stared. He'd braced for probing questions about his childhood trauma or his pack history, not a spectral analysis from a dairy-based clairvoyant. His life had truly become this strange. "...I see," he managed, for lack of a better response.

The silence that followed was thick, but blessedly free of weird, probing questions. For a single, peaceful moment, Minho just existed. No defending his life choices, no unpacking his trauma. Just the hum of the room and the truly offensive taste of his drink. It was… nice.

He jerked out of his brief, question-free vacation when the other guy decided to break it.

"The Tentacula liked you, though," he continued, as if following a thread only he could see.

"Tentacula...?" Minho asked, his confusion genuine.

"Oh! The tulip and Venus fly trap hybrid that Berry has a crush on. The one with the vaginal lips." Jisung said with a slight, knowing smirk, and he only laughed—a bright, airy sound—when Minho choked on his vile tea.

Okay, so, not only was this guy eccentric, his pet was eccentric too, and they were both in on the joke.

Jisung on the other hand just continued, completely unfettered by Minho's coughing fit.

"It didn't spit venom. It's usually terribly judgmental. You know, once it tried to throttle my last delivery guy. Turns out he was stealing packages."

Minho looked up from his turnip mug, his eyes regaining their mischievous glint. "So your plant is a better judge of character than a licensed therapist?"

"Obviously. Therapists can be fooled. A carnivorous, sexy plant that senses moral decay? Never." He gestured with his mug toward the general direction of the shop below. "It thinks you're morally compostable. High praise. It only spits out the truly rotten."

A sound almost like a laugh caught in Minho's throat. He covered it with a cough.

"So," Minho said, deciding to play along, to step into this madness just for a moment. "I should put 'Deemed sufficiently compostable by a Venomous Tentacula' on my resume?"

Jisung's eyes lit up. "See? You get it! That's the thinking the pups need." He leaned back, triumphant. "Bang Chan, that old man, is too hung up on 'pack dynamics.' He should welcome a man who can discuss his own compostability."

Unlike before, the silence now felt strangely comfortable. Minho watched the steam curl from his mug of absurdly red tea. Its warmth, that impossible colour, and the room's safety worked together, loosening something tight in his chest.

“It’s not just the pups,” he said, the words quiet but clear. He couldn't look at Jisung. “Or the pack dynamics. The council’s rule is for everything.” He let out a short, bitter breath. “Let's just say a lone wolf isn't exactly...welcomed anywhere. They think we need proof of sanity just to be near anyone.” They think we’re rabid dogs. One snapped leash away from chaos.

Jisung’s playful energy settled into something still and attentive. He took a slow, deliberate sip from his own mug before speaking, his tone casual but not mocking. “So, that's why the school needs a therapist’s note now?"

“Something like that,” Minho muttered, the words tasting like ash on his tongue. He stared into the murky depths of his red brew, a poor substitute for the bitter coffee he craved. “The council believes that I'm unstable too so they want proof I'm not going to snap and eat someone. That I can play nice with others.” 

The words hung in the air. He looked at his own reflection in the red brew tea cup. A memory flashed: feral white eyes, a stained muzzle, the coppery tang of blood. His stomach lurched. He quickly shoved the mug away.

Jisung was quiet for a long beat. Then, softly:

“Is that what you believe in?”

Minho looked up, confused.

“Believe in?” The question was a curveball.

“Yeah. You said that’s what the council believes. Or Bang Chan. But what about you?” Jisung put down his own finished drink and leaned back, his gaze steady and impossibly deep, like looking into a forest pond. "What do you believe in?"

Minho didn’t answer right away. He could lie, of course. There were a lot of safer things he believes in. He could say he believes that convenience store ramen on a particularly cold winter night can never taste better than any five-course meal. Or that he hates Hyunjin's voice. He could claim he believes the council is right, that he shouldn't be given this job. But under the quiet, patient weight of Jisung’s gaze, he knew those were just stories he told himself, blatant lies to make the jagged truth more palatable. So he chose the truth instead, the one that was as fundamental to his being as the wolf beneath his skin.

“Being alone," Minho said, his voice firm, armored by the sheer, stark truth of it. "Most people can’t handle it, but I’m fine with it.”

The healer shifted slightly, a small, almost imperceptible movement.

“Fine with it,” he echoed, so quietly it was almost a thought spoken aloud. “Or just used to it?”

Minho’s defenses prickled, rising like hackles. "Does it matter?" he challenged, his tone dropping a degree into a low, warning rumble that usually made people back off, that signaled the end of the conversation.

But Jisung didn’t flinch. His expression remained open, patient as he shifted, tucking one knee under his chin. The movement made him look smaller, younger, a stark contrast to the weight of his next words. 

“It does,” he said, and the simplicity of it was disarming. “Because if it’s just what you were given, it’s not really a choice, is it? It’s a sentence you’ve learned to endure.”

Minho’s eyes flicked down to his own gloved hands, clenched tight in his lap. He forced his fingers to relax, one by one. “Maybe not,” he conceded, “But it’s the only one that was offered to me, so I made peace with it.” What if this was the only choice given? 

The unspoken words hung in the air, stark and bleak and real.

Jisung's gaze dropped, fixing on his own bare feet as his toes dug into the worn floorboards. For a beat, Minho was certain he'd struck something bone-deep, that he'd finally silenced the healer's easy chaos with a truth too jagged to tend.

Idiot, Minho thought, a hollow ache blooming under his ribs. Of course he wouldn't get it. No one does. Not the council with their paw-stamped decrees, not Chan with his well-meaning packs and pitying glances. Why'd you even open your fool mouth?

He slumped back into the armchair, the cushions yielding as if they pitied him too, and rubbed a hand over his face, the seam of his glove catching on his lower lip.

Then—suddenly the Cogwort Vine moved. A broad leaf extended and perched in its tip, balanced with impossible delicacy, was a single cookie. It was golden-edged, studded with flecks of something that caught the light like captured sunlight, a wisp of steam still whispering from a fresh-baked seam.

When Minho looked back, the healer's pensive mood had vanished, replaced by a brilliant, knowing smile. He didn't touch the offering, just watched with warm encouragement as the vine hovered between them. 

"Here," Jisung said, his voice cheerful again, threading through the heavy quiet like a root through soil, breaking the tension without dismissing it.

Minho looked skeptical. "What is this?"

The healer smiled, a cocky, lopsided thing. "A cookie that makes your ears twitch." he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

And when a laugh was startled out of Minho, sharp and genuine and entirely involuntary, he decides to just let it happen because the other man indeed was quite a bit charming.

Jisung’s smile softened, but a flicker of pure, unyielding determination lit his eyes. "So, the moment of truth," he said, his voice dropping into a low, intimate murmur that seemed to shut out the rest of the room. "You can reach out and take it, see if the twitch is real... or you can just sit there and watch me eat it. The choice is entirely yours, Minho-ssi." He paused, letting the weight of the option settle. "So, what's it going to be?"

Minho stared at the cookie. It looked back, shimmering with dubious intent and magical possibility.

It wasn't a hard choice. Minho was very used to choices "given" to him. The type of clothes he was expected to wear. Or how he was supposed to behave. But something about the way Jisung had given the choice, it felt different. It didn't feel forced or given. It felt like an offer—a real one, where he was in control.

Because you see, He could still walk away. He could put the mug down, pull on his boots, and tell Principal Bang Chan this was a waste of time. He could cling to the lonely, sterile certainty that he was better off alone.

It was the easiest, most difficult thought he’d ever had.

But he chose the cookie instead. Because for one terrifying, exhilarating second, he wanted to know what it felt like to choose the thing that scared him. To choose the absurdity, the potential for joy, the connection.

So he picked up the cookie in his leathered, gloved hand. Took a bite. It was warm, sweet, and tasted of cinnamon and starlight. A second later, a jolt like a pleasant static shock ran up his spine, and his ears twitched violently, independently, twice.

Jisung’s face broke into a radiant, triumphant grin that could have powered the entire city. “Told you.”

And for the first time in a very, very long time, Minho felt the ghost of a real, uncalculated smile touch his own lips.

For a single, dizzying second, the warmth of the room, the sweet scent of the cookies, the sound of Jisung’s humming plants, it all fused into a sensation that felt like a blanket he could curl up in and never leave. It was a feeling so alien and so seductive that it was thrilling, that weightless sensation of leaping into the air high up in the sky.

And then, like every leap, came the fall.

The warmth in his chest curdled into a hot, sharp shame. What are you doing? The voice in his head was a cold, familiar snarl. Laughing? Twitching like a trained pet? Letting this stranger see you be so… pliable? So weak?

His laugh cut off abruptly, strangled in his throat. The smile vanished from his face, replaced by a stiff, carefully constructed blankness. He could feel his ears flatten against his hair, the playful twitch replaced by a defensive, rigid stillness. The thrill of the leap was gone, and all that was left was the terrifying emptiness of the drop. He had always been afraid of heights for this exact reason.

"I should go." The words came out tighter, flatter than he intended.

Jisung didn't look surprised. He didn't look disappointed either. He simply nodded, his expression softening into something that was both professionally appropriate and deeply, unnervingly understanding.

"Then our time is up. The choice to continue is always yours, Minho-ssi."

The response was perfect. It gave Minho agency while maintaining the therapeutic boundary. It was exactly what a professional, ethical healer should say.

And that somehow made it all so much worse.

Minho gave a stiff, jerky nod, unable to form any more words. He was a machine pulling on his boots. A phantom gliding back to the door. His hand was on the cold, brass knob, the real world waiting just on the other side, when Jisung's voice, slightly loud and a bit breathless, pinned him in place.

"Wait!"

He froze, every muscle locking, his back still turned.

When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw the healer fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve, a flash of his earlier, endearing shyness returning.

"The, uh. The appointment... it isn't a fixed time. You don't have to wait a whole week. You can stop by anytime you want." He looked up then, his gaze clearing and meeting Minho's directly, his voice regaining its gentle confidence. "You are always welcome here."

The words were a key, turning a lock Minho had sealed shut and buried years ago. The wolf he'd imprisoned in the kennel of his gut didn't just stir; it shattered the bars, its hope a sharp, painful shard that pierced straight to his heart. An invitation. Not an obligation. A recurring meeting. The first, fragile thread of a pack bond being offered, not demanded.

For one terrifying second, the longing was so acute it was a physical ache, a hollow in his stomach that yearned to be filled with this light, this warmth, this strange and wonderful chaos.

No.

The thought was a brutal, internal snarl. He was destined for solitude. This was a transaction. The job. The certificate. He needed to focus on the goal, not these treacherous, pack-sick thoughts. This was how they got you. This was how you became soft.

So Minho didn't turn. He didn't speak. He offered no acknowledgment. He simply opened the door and stepped out into the city's cold, familiar embrace, closing it firmly behind him, severing the connection.

He didn't think about the shop when he sat in his car, the leather seats cold against his skin.

He didn't think about the half-eaten cookie he'd left behind on the plate, a silent testament to a moment of weakness.

He didn't think about the profound, unsettling understanding in a healer's eyes, or the specific, targeted kindness of an offer that felt, like a key to a door he'd long since walled up and forgotten.

He didn't think about any of it.

Not once.

☘️｡⁠:ﾟ✿ﾟ⁠:⁠｡🐺

Chapter Text

On his third cup of coffee, Minho concluded it needed rat poison.

Not for the dramatic finale, of course(what a hassle that would be), but strictly for flavor. A simple culinary critique from a man who'd endured twelve long years in every greasy spoon and pretentious bistro this city had to offer. The coffee wasn't just bad; it was a crime against humanity, and he was the sole witness.

But taste wasn't the point anymore. The real point was, it was just supposed to be his remedy. A bitter, lukewarm reminder of what his life was meant to be: predictable, solitary, and blissfully uneventful.

Unfortunately, the remedy had backfired spectacularly, because it was doing absolutely nothing for his headache.

Now, Minho considered himself a connoisseur of headaches. Sinus pressure? A minor inconvenience, easily solved with herbal tea. Migraines? Slightly worse, but manageable—he could always just punch his own skull until he went numb. Not the pain, but himself, which was close enough. The specific, high-pitched frequency of Hyunjin's voice? A worthy opponent, but one that could be silenced with a sweet threat to toss his designer clothes. Or sometimes the beta himself, into a blender. Always effective.

The point was, he'd built an immunity. He was an expert at maintaining his own peace.

But this headache was different. A targeted, psychological assault. The source was the single greatest betrayal of his life.

This was a custom-made, precision-engineered headache, personally delivered by his own traitorous wolf as punishment for not currently being parked outside that stupid, impossible plant shop.

He was supposed to be at his second appointment right now. He was going to be professional, aloof, and get his damn certificate. Instead, he was here, two hours and forty-three minutes late, for a very simple, very logical reason:

That weird plant guy had broken his poor wolf.

He was sure of it. The creature hadn't just malfunctioned like some cheap electronic appliance. It was fully, catastrophically broken.

It had started seven days ago, the moment he'd stepped out of that bizarre flower shop. The second he'd clicked his dingy apartment door shut, an ironic shift from the healer's magical Disney princess cottage, when the careful balance of his life tipped over. His usual partner in cynicism, his inner wolf, the one that used to cackle with him whenever couples tripped over each other on the street, had done a full 180° turn. Now, much to Minho's horror, it had developed the personality of a teenage fangirl who'd just seen her favorite K-pop idol.

A full-scale mutiny. It was profoundly mortifying.

His every thought since then had been haunted by an annoyingly gummy smile and the smell of rain in a stupidly vibrant garden. He'd catch himself staring into space, gloved hand pausing mid-wipe over a table, replaying each moment like a rerun. That cute smile, that mesmerizing eyes, that beautiful waist—No, he shouldn't be thinking that. He definitely shouldn't be thinking about the way the healer's glasses slid down his nose when he laughed, or how his eyes crinkled at the corners, or—

Anyway. Just when he thought he could hold onto his wolf, the only practical companion left in his life (after the cat down the street that he was convinced was his great-grandfather reincarnated), the creature betrayed him. Again and again!

Instead of its usual low growl of agreement when Minho mentally cursed the world, it would let out a wistful sigh. A sigh! Like one of those overly sentimental housewives swooning at a soap opera hero.

Just three days ago, while passing a bakery, his stupid wolf nearly made him face-plant onto the pavement when he was literally blindsided by a memory. The scene that played in his mind, those eyes, that smile, the content feeling of being offered that cookie, made the wolf do a full, happy spin in his chest. The sensation was so disorienting Minho nearly launched himself into bustling traffic.

And just when he thought it couldn't get worse, it did.

The absolute lowest point came two nights ago. Unable to sleep, a strange, compulsive itch took over. He found himself downloading Instagram. With a huff of irritation, he pulled off one glove, his bare thumb feeling oddly naked and vulnerable, and typed a name into the search bar.

The profile was exactly what he should have expected, yet it still baffled him. The first post was a video of a vine slowly tying itself into a perfect bow. The caption read: “The Gift-Wrap Groot. For when you want to give someone a present, but also remind them that God makes mistakes.” 

A sharp, startled snort of laughter escaped him. In the dark silence of his apartment, the sound was alien. He clapped his bare hand over his mouth, horrified. What was he doing? In a panic, he deleted the entire app and yanked his glove back on, as if erasing evidence of a crime.

And through it all, his wolf had been delighted, tail wagging so hard it felt like a tremor in his bones. That was the real betrayal. They were the "Screw the World, We Have Each Other" team, famous for their synchronized scowls. Now his teammate was a deserter that was equivalent to a lapping dog. 

So of course he couldn't go back. What was he supposed to do? Walk in there and say, "Hello, yes, your mere existence has caused a critical system failure in my primal half. It's currently doing cartwheels at the memory of your baked goods. Please fix it." Absolutely not.

So here he was, drinking poison-coffee, because showing up would mean admitting defeat. And in retaliation for his defiance, the wolf was projecting a headache of such petty, concentrated spite that Minho was genuinely contemplating which would be more effective: the rat poison in his cup, or simply bashing his own skull in with the mug itself. Maybe both. For variety.

"You know," a voice said, cutting through his thoughts, "if you stare any harder, the cup might develop a complex."

Minho looked up. Hyunjin was leaning against the counter, drying a glass. His expression was neutral, but Minho could see the amusement in his eyes. Damn beta senses.

"Maybe it should," Minho said flatly. "It's terrible coffee. It deserves to feel bad about itself."

"Your shift ended over an hour ago," Hyunjin replied, ignoring the jab. He set the glass down and leaned on the counter. "And correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't you have a very important, can't-miss appointment with your new best friend today? The plant guy?"

Minho grunted. He's just a weird plant guy, he thought, directing the words at his sulking wolf, who only scoffed in response. Great.

Instead of stabbing his own wolf, he stabbed a fry he hadn't ordered(probably slid there by Hyunjin when he wasn't paying attention). The tines scraping loudly against the plate. "I'm not going."

"No?" Hyunjin's eyebrows lifted in genuine surprise. "I thought this was the whole point. Get the therapy, get the certificate, become a majestic Den Guardian for a bunch of snot-nosed pups. Your dream."

My dream was to be left alone with my dysfunctional wolf and my reincarnated cat-grandfather, not to have my own soul betray me for a man who talks to shrubs, Minho thought bitterly. But out loud, all he said was:

"He's weird." As if that explained everything. And somehow, it did.

A loud, genuine laugh burst out of Hyunjin. "You? Calling someone else weird? Minho, you once argued with a parking meter for ten minutes because it 'looked at you funny.' You are the crown prince of weird. This guy is just...your jester."

On pure instinct, Minho snatched the damp cloth from the counter and snapped it at Hyunjin's arm. With the ease of someone who'd spent years dodging Minho's temper, Hyunjin simply leaned back, the cloth whistling harmlessly through the air.

"Okay, seriously," the beta continued as if no assault had occurred. "What's the actual problem? What did he do? Try to feed you to a carnivorous plant?"

Worse, Minho thought, I'm a gay man who almost got lust-bombed by a fucking flower that looks like a pussy. But he couldn't say that out loud. This motherfucker would mock him from beyond the grave. So he latched onto the first safe thing he could recall. "He said my aura was pointy."

Hyunjin paused. He put down the cleaning cloth, but it fell to the floor with dramatic flair. "He did?" he asked, his face as serious as that one time someone had stolen his favorite ice cream.

"Yup. Like a pile of scissors," Minho supplied lamely.

In one swift motion, Hyunjin put both hands on Minho's shoulders with such strength it nearly toppled him from his chair.

"Okay, what the fuck—"

But Hyunjin was staring at him with intense seriousness, his eyes firm like his citrusy scent. "Minho, that's..." A Christmas-lights kind of grin spread across his face. "...AMAZING!"

Minho blinked as he felt both his wolf and Hyunjin spinning in circles, clapping their hands.

Okay yes, poison AND breaking his own skull, it is.

"How is that amazing?!" he groaned, his voice rising.

"Your last therapist said your aura felt like a fully loaded bear trap," Hyunjin pointed out, counting on his fingers. "Bear trap versus scissors—huge improvement! Pointy is manageable! You can't hug a bear trap, but you can definitely handle something pointy! It's progress!"

"It's an insult," Minho muttered, though the fight was fading. He slumped over the counter, his leather-clad fingers splaying across the Formica.

"It's a diagnosis, and it's accurate." Hyunjin spread his arms like a philosopher making a grand point. "Scissors are useful! You can cut things, fix things, keep them in a drawer." His voice softened when he looked back. "He looked at you, at all your glorious, sharp, stabby edges and didn't see it as a weapon. That's the most honest thing anyone has ever said to you, Minho."

Minho went still. The frustrated noise inside his mind quieted. Hyunjin's words, simple and precise, cut through all the drama. He was right. The truth was, Minho had nothing against the healer. The guy was... sweet, a little unhinged, but in a genuine way. And for one hour in that shop, Minho hadn't felt like a problem to be solved. He'd just felt... seen. And that was the most terrifying feeling in the world.

He looked at the terrible, poison-worthy coffee. Then at the clock. He was so, so late.

He stood up and tossed a crumpled bill onto the counter. It was probably too much, but he didn't care.

"Where are you going?" Hyunjin asked, that knowing grin already spreading across his face.

"To make a huge, monumental, potentially life-ruining mistake," Minho said, already heading for the door.

Inside his chest, his wolf, the absolute traitor, didn't just celebrate. It threw a full-blown ticker-tape parade, complete with mental confetti and a cheering squad.

Fine, you bastard, Minho thought. You win.

Stepping outside, the city air was gross, filled with exhaust. He looked down at his black leather gloves, his final piece of armor. They were staying on. Obviously.

He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, the worn leather creasing with the movement. Whatever. He was already heading to the flower shop.

What was one more catastrophically bad decision on top of the pile?

☘️｡⁠:ﾟ✿ﾟ⁠:⁠｡🐺

Chapter Text

The shop was still there, of course. Much to Minho’s profound dismay and his wolf’s equally profound satisfaction.

He should have gotten used to the sight of the moss-covered cottage standing literally in the middle of the metropolitan city, but he couldn't. Even if it stood out like a stubborn, green sore thumb pressed against the sleek, gray canvas of the city. And to make it worse, today, the universe seemed to be mocking his reluctance.

The sky was a perfect, untroubled cerulean, and the sun shone down on the little shop, making the dewy moss sparkle like it had been personally blessed. The previously rusted, one-tired bike was now fully restored, leaning proudly against its stand as if to say, See? Things can be fixed.

It felt like a sign.

A terribly inconvenient, annoyingly optimistic sign.

His eyes then caught the small, wooden sign hanging on the door. In neatly painted letters, it read: 'Closed for Client Reflection. Back Soon.'

A strange wave of relief washed over him. So, he wasn't interrupting other customers. Jisung had closed the shop, honoring their appointment. But the relief quickly curdled into something heavier. He'd made this man close his business for his own pathetic internal drama. His wolf's ridiculous pining.

The sheer embarrassment of it was enough to finally propel him forward. He took a deep breath, mentally preparing himself for the intimate awkwardness of a one-on-one session. This mostly involved shoving his wolf back into its mental cage and ensuring his black gloves were snug and secure. He absolutely did not want to do something embarrassing, like tell the healer how much he’d missed the specific scent of rain and earth that clung to him. Minho shook his head, as if to dislodge the thought, and finally pushed the wooden door open.

The chime that greeted him was a cheerful, melodic ring, a bit too cheery compared to last time, almost teasing.

It was the air that hit him first. And it was stupid. Stupidly warm, stupidly clean, and it smelled stupidly good, like a forest after a long rain. A completely unnecessary sensory experience that made his wolf literally do a series of joyful, internal cartwheels. Again, much to Minho's dismay.

Whatever, he thought, I can't control this stupid asshole and his crush. (Or why he himself felt so immediately comforted, his shoulders loosening almost against his will.)

Ignoring his internal musings, he looked around. This was the second time he’d visited this place, but every time it left him speechless and a little more rendered, his defenses softened by the sheer impossibility of it.

The inside was a living thing, thrumming with a quiet, comforting energy. He knew the shop was bigger on the inside, but the sheer scale of it still defied logic. The ceiling seemed to vault higher today, a dense canopy of tangled vines that wove into intricate, living braids from which glowing orbs of light dangled like captured fireflies.

His eyes fell on a hand-painted sign propped near the entrance: "Shoes are for the outside world. (Please take them off ♡)"

Minho sighed and obediently scuffed off his boots, placing them neatly to the side. His gloved hands patted his neck, double-checking that the scent blockers he’d slathered on were still firmly in place.

He was just straightening up when a vine shot down from the tangled ceiling with alarming speed, heading directly toward his face.

Instinct kicked in before logic had a chance. A low growl rumbled in Minho’s chest, claws flexing through his gloves as he braced to strike the—

“...Cogwort??”

The vine froze mid-air(as much as a plant can),then slowly retracted its tendril and blinked its single glowing eye at him.

“Great,” Minho sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “Last time it was a chihuahua bat, now it’s a cook vine. What’s next, a singing teapot?”

Cogwort wiggled indignantly, then uncurled its tip to reveal—of all things—a pair of plushy, hot pink slippers.

Minho stared. “…No.”

The vine didn’t move.

Minho stared. “...You’re joking.”

Cogwort blinked once. No joke.

“I am not wearing that.”

The vine held firm sassily.

“No. Not happening. Absolutely not.”

Still nothing.

They stared each other down in the kind of silence that only happens when one participant is a plant and the other just knows he’s losing.

Finally, Minho threw his hands up. “Fine! You win, you stubborn weed.”

He took the slippers and slid them on. The instant comfort was annoyingly perfect, warm, soft, and... suspiciously his size.

He pointedly didn’t think about how they actually looked kind of good on him.

He especially didn’t think about how maybe, just maybe, Jisung had told Cogwort to prepare them after last time.

Nope. He wasn’t thinking about any of that. Not at all.

The shop was quiet, humming with a low, leafy sort of energy when he finally took his first step inside.

“Hello?” he called out, voice swallowed almost immediately by the dense foliage.

Silence.

Okay. That was... great. The bike was outside, so Jisung had to be here somewhere. Maybe upstairs.

Left to his own devices—and ignoring the option of waiting like a normal person—Minho let curiosity lead the way.

The main area was a display of carefully contained chaos. Shelves twisted like roots, holding plants that all looked like they were one failed experiment away from becoming sentient. One flower shifted colors depending on where he stood, while another perfectly normal-looking fern let out a tiny, polite sneeze as he passed.

“Cute,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

Then came the cactus. Wearing a cowboy hat on which was written: 'I got this coolest, swaggist hair in the world, hee haw!'

A sign underneath read: For Berry, who is sensitive about his bald spot.

Minho actually wheezed. “Oh my god.” (Maybe he should tell the healer to make one for Hyunjin as well.)

Nearby sat a collection of glowing vials labeled Liquid Courage (For Shy Seedlings) and Midnight Dew (Harvested During Productive Procrastination).

It was all so… Jisung. Whimsical. A little unhinged. And somehow—irritatingly—beautiful. Something warm curled in Minho’s chest, and he pretended not to notice.

He was about to keep exploring when he saw it.

The Vaginal Lips Venus Flytrap.

Tentacula.

It looked… plump. Disturbingly so. Its petals shone under the light, and when it spotted him, it gave a slow, sensual shimmy. Then, as he walked by, it puckered up and blew a perfect kiss of iridescent purple smoke straight at his face.

Minho stopped dead.

A laugh slipped out before he could stop it. “Hey, pretty,” he said, tone turning unexpectedly fond. “I don’t want Berry attacking me again in jealousy. Try your charms somewhere else, hmm?”

He reached out—slow, cautious—and brushed his gloved fingers over its topmost leaf.

Instant stillness. The sultry wriggling vanished. A soft pink hue crept over its petals like a blush, and it leaned shyly into his touch before curling in on itself like a flustered debutante.

Minho smiled despite himself. “Thought so.”

Before he could find a place to sit, Tentacula raised a leafy vine, not in a come-hither gesture (thankfully), but like a pointer finger. It gestured insistently toward the space behind the reception counter.

Minho looked at it, confused. "What is it?"

Tentacula let out a sigh, releasing a puff of faintly green, herbal-scented smoke that smelled distinctly like disappointment. It pointed more vigorously.

Still confused, he decided to humor the plant. He walked around the counter. "Alright, alright, I'm looking. What's so interesting about a—"

Except... it wasn't exactly a wall.

Where a solid wall should have been, there was a spread of moss so thick that it looked like an entire forest floor had decided to stand upright and mind its business. Vines were draped down in lazy green curtains, dotted with tiny bell-shaped flowers that chimed every time they bumped into each other like they were gossiping.

And right in the middle of it, almost invisible, was a door. Woven branches, faintly outlined by moss that was just a shade too green to be innocent.

The door was open. Just slightly. Like it was winking.

Minho exhaled slowly. “Okay,” he muttered under his breath. “I’m a client. There’s a protocol. Clients don’t snoop. Clients wait politely in the lobby and do not follow seductive houseplants into mysterious glowing doors.”

He gave a decisive nod, proud of his restraint.

Then he caught the scent. That specific, clean, earthy smell—rain in a garden. So sharp and familiar it curled deep in his chest and made his wolf do three emotional cartwheels before collapsing in a puddle of bliss.

He really shouldn’t be doing this.

He absolutely should not be doing this-

He was absolutely doing this.

Because you see, the door had been left open by exactly one centimeter, which, in his defense, was practically an engraved invitation. And Tentacula had guided him here with the confidence of someone who knew he’d definitely follow. So really, this wasn’t breaking protocol. It was… cooperation. (Co-operative self gas-lighting.)

He hesitated only long enough to glance back at Tentacula. She stood there with her petals fluttering softly, all innocent sparkle and affection.

“If I die,” he warned, pointing a finger at her, “I’m coming back as your worst nightmare. Not Berry. Me. But clingy. The kind that won’t stop calling.”

Tentacula gave a shy little shimmy, her petals glowing faintly pink at the edges.

Minho groaned. “Don’t look flattered. That wasn’t a compliment!"

Tentacula, completely ignoring the memo, fluttered her petals and gave him a slow, deliberate wink. Then, with a coy little curl of her leaves, she blew him what was unmistakably a kiss (again like some outro) before sinking halfway into the moss.

Did a plant just… flirt with him?

Anyways—

The air beyond the doorway shimmered faintly, carrying that same impossible scent of rain and earth. His wolf stirred again, restless and alert, curiosity and warning prickling under his skin. His throat felt dry. Whatever was ahead—garden, lab, divine punishment—he was already in too deep to stop.

He took a breath, squared his shoulders, and finally stepped through.

Then froze.

Because oh boy, how wrong he was.

The door swung shut behind Minho, plunging him back into the scent of damp earth and impossible things. His wolf, which had been a restless, grumpy mess all week, fell into a stunned, reverent silence the moment he crossed the threshold.

This was more than just magic. This was a literal zoning violation.

One second he was in a dusty, weird shop, the next he was trespassing in, what it seems like, is a National Geographic special episode. The floor was actual, living soil that sighed under his pink slippers. The ceiling was a vast glass dome filtering real, golden sunlight. And that sound—he strained his ears—was that a fucking river?!

So apparently, behind the door that should’ve led to a dirty storage room or a creepy hidden basement was… a whole fucking ecosystem.

A place even he couldn’t categorize. What even was this? A greenhouse? A sanctuary? Alice in Wonderland if it was written by a botanist on crack???

His wolf, thank god, after so many fucking days of radio silence, finally decided to participate and even offered a more accurate term: Jisungtuary.

Right. Okay. Fantastic.

So, as Minho wandered deeper into...the Jisungtuary, he saw things he was ninety percent sure shouldn’t exist. For example, There was a white tree growing literal gems!(not diamonds or rubies or anything useful, but M&M-shaped gems. Still, shiny was shiny. Even if it was edible, He’d take it.)There was ALSO pond where a catfish blinked up at him with enormous, soulful puppy-dogs eyes. It was almost endearing, until the creature turned and flashed him a set of teeth more suited to a piranha.

Right. Whimsy, with bite. So, maybe there were things here he wasn’t supposed to see.

He was just about to keep exploring when a soft breeze rolled past, carrying a scent that made his nose twitch.

Something warm. Earthy. Familiar enough to make his wolf perk up, ears and all. Rain. Garden.

His feet moved before his brain could file a formal protest. He rounded a final bend, and the world opened up.

Minho stopped dead.

The area was a clearing dominated by a waterfall that cascaded into a crystal-clear river. And there, in the heart of it all, bathed in golden light with his feet dipped in the water, was the reason his heart decided to attempt a breakdance routine against his ribs.

Jisung.

He wore his usual lab coat, but the sleeves were rolled up, his jeans were cuffed, and he sat with his face tilted to the sun like a contented forest deity. Here, he looked… powerful. Completely at home. His very presence hummed in the air.

So what did Minho, a master of self-preservation, do?

He instantly dove behind the nearest bush, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his sternum.

It was humiliating. But letting himself be caught just… staring? Absolutely not. Dignity, however shredded, must be preserved.

From his brilliant, if slightly scratchy, hiding spot, he could see Jisung was narrating to a circle of silvery saplings. Of course he was.

The healer's voice was a perfect Disney-narrator melody. "Once upon a cosmos, there was a little alien, all alone on a planet that rained forever." He paused, letting the saplings lean in. "Do you know why he was left there?"

Minho, from behind his shrub, pondered in mock curiosity. Ran out of gas? Bad personality?

Jisung leaned in, his voice dropping to a grave whisper. "Because he had a big, big, giant head."

Minho’s eyes instantly zeroed in on the single, ridiculous strand of hair sticking straight up from Jisung's otherwise soft curls on his big head. A sharp, involuntary huff of air escaped him. He clapped a hand over his mouth.

"So it did the only thing it could," Jisung continued, his voice softening. "It planted a single seed. That seed grew into a tree, and from that tree, it built a house. And around that house, it made a garden. Outside, the rain was good for the plants. Inside, it was warm. A bit lonely, but... comfortable."

He stretched, utterly at ease. "But then one day, it saw it. Do you know what it saw?"

The plants seemed to lean in, trembling with anticipation. Minho's brain provided a rapid-fire list. A wild boar? An extraterrestrial dinosaur? Fucking WALL-E??

Jisung leaned in as well, his voice a conspiratorial rasp. "It saw... a very, very wild... CAT!"

Silence.

The saplings, and Minho by extension, looked at Jisung with a deadpan expression.

Seriously? A.....cat???

Jisung just chortled. "But you see, this cat. It had a super pointy tail. You know, just your regular, fuck-off-and-die kind of cat."

Minho snorted, even as he felt personally called out. The bush he was hiding in,.shook with silent laughter,.as if to mock Minho. Traitorous flora.

"The little wild cat was on a Very Serious Mission," The man in glasses continued, his tone playfully solemn. "It was told not to talk to strangers. So it stood across the fence, utterly drenched, but standing strong. The alien could see the cat was sent on a mission far from home, stuck here against its will. Alone on a faraway land, it hid from anyone who tried to reach it."

Jisung’s storytelling paused. He didn't look up, but his head tilted slightly.

"The alien felt for it. Maybe because it was living in this rain his whole life too. So it built a little shed, right at the edge of the garden, and left the door open. A safe, dry place. But the cat?? Stubborn as hell. Never went in." Jisung’s voice was light, but threaded with genuine curiosity. "So the alien, who is very smart about gardens but a bit clueless with cats, started to wonder..."

He finally lifted his head, his gaze landing directly on Minho's bush. The light caught his glasses, making the lenses flash. A slow lazy smirk played on his lips.

"Why do you think the cat is refusing the help and hiding, Minho-ssi?"

Minho’s blood ran cold.

FUCK. He knows.

Panic was a five-alarm fire. Retreat. Abort mission. He shuffled backward.

The bush, meanwhile, had other ideas.

With a rustling sigh, the entire shrub abruptly shuffled two feet to the left, its leaves dragging across the soil. The move was so deliberate it left Minho completely exposed, crouched like a complete idiot.

Meanwhile, a slow, delighted full smirk bloomed on the healer's face.

"Oh my," Jisung said, his voice dripping with false innocence. "What a surprise. What are you doing there, hiding under the 'Bush of Unhidden Intentions?'"

"Uhhh," Minho managed, straightening up and crossing his arms like a fortress. "I was... evaluating its structural integrity." Nailed it. He was nailing his own coffin shut.

"For fifteen minutes? It must be very interesting foliage, Minho-ssi."

"How did you—?"

"The 'Shy Snitching Shrub' has very poor structural integrity, I'm afraid," Jisung chirped, his eyes crinkling. "It told the Whispering Willow the moment you stepped off the path. The Willow passed the news through the mycelial network—the fungal gossip chain—who told the Cogwort, who told me." He patted the sapling beside him. "About twenty minutes ago, actually."

A snort escaped Minho. "So all your plants are gossips?"

"Terrible gossips," Jisung confirmed with a terrible wink that Minho is definitely not going to think about later. "But I guess they liked the intruder enough to snitch immediately."

"Oh, I didn't mean to intrude, I was just leaving—"

Jisung's voice was a knowing little quirk. "I hope you weren't planning your escape. The story's just getting to the good part." He gestured to the moss. "Sit."

"I'm good," Minho said, planting his feet. Surrender was not in his vocabulary.

"The soil's good for your paws."

"My— I don't have paws," Minho blinked.

"Metaphorical paws." The healer clarified, utterly undeterred. "The kind that get all tangled and stubborn when they're kept in a pot that's too small to hide forever." Said the man as he bit back a wider smile.

Minho stared. This man was a brat.

Before he could form another protest, Jisung added smoothly, "Besides, you wouldn't wanna disappoint the little alien moon sapling here. She was the one who asked the question, by the way."

"What question?" He asked, maybe just to buy more time.

Jisung's smile softened, but his gaze was intent. "Waiting for you to answer the one I just asked."

Maybe it was Jisung's magic, or maybe Minho was just hella tired, but the little plants seemed to be… pouting at him. And Minho, damn him, could never deny kids, even if they were... photosynthesizing.

"Fine," he reluctantly agreed. Listening was better than talking again.

With a put-upon sigh, Minho stomped over. He didn't sit on the soft moss Jisung was patting. That was a surrender. Instead, he perched on a gnarled, above-ground root a safe distance away. A compromise.

Jisung's eyes crinkled in victory before he turned back to the saplings.

"So. 'Why do you think the cat is refusing the help and hiding, Minho-ssi?'"

Minho clung to his defenses. "Maybe its mission parameters didn't include a shelter. It was trained for survival. Not for... sweets and sheds."

“A fair point,” Jisung said, his head tilting. “But the rain will still drench it. It could save itself by just accepting the shed, instead of hiding in the bush."

The logic was sound. But it was the same logic everyone else had been shoving down his throat for years. Like he was a problem that needed fixing.

"Maybe the cat wasn’t hiding. Maybe it just didn’t need the garden.” He gruffed. “Maybe it’s used to rain.”

“But even cats get cold.”

"Then it endures."

The bleak truth echoed between them. Minho looked up, bracing for the disappointment he knew was coming.

But Jisung wasn't looking at him. He was staring at the waterfall, his expression unreadable.

“The cat’s fine,” Minho muttered. “It’s trained for that.”

There was a long pause, filled only by the soft rush of water. Jisung turned back to his sapling.

“Maybe,” he said simply. “But do you think the cat’s just waiting until it believes the garden won’t trap it?”

The question hung in the air, fragile and utterly disarming. Minho had no shield for it.

The silence stretched, thick with the weight of an answer he couldn't form. How could he describe a feeling he'd never let himself have? A life without a mission was a language he didn't speak, where words didn't feel like rain.

So he deflected, because hiding what he felt was his greatest skill. "So what happens next in the story? Did the alien finally die from its extraterrestrial yearning for its kitty?"

He expected a laugh, or worse, for Jisung to circle back to the question with relentless gentleness.

He did neither.

Jisung let his hum fade into the quiet. “So the alien didn’t die,” he said, a flicker of a smile touching his lips. “A shame for the cat’s dramatic hopes. It just stood there and offered more sweets. A whole welcome mat of good intentions.” His gaze, soft and unbearably knowing, finally settled on Minho. “The cat saw it all… and still didn’t cross.”

Minho looked away, studying the intricate veins of a leaf beside him. It reminded him of the paths not traced on his own gloved hands—an uncomfortably familiar hesitation.

“But the alien understood,” Jisung murmured, his voice as gentle as his fingers tracing the leaf’s edge. “It had been its own universe for so long. The thought of sharing its orbit must have been… terrifying.” He let the silence hang for a moment, heavy with the unspoken. “So it didn't coax. It just left the door open and existed in its garden, as if to say, ‘The choice is wonderfully yours.’”

Minho’s gloved fingers twitched with the impulse to touch the silver leaves, but he curled them into a tight fist against his palm.

Jisung just gazed at the river. “The alien always waited, wanting to help.” A pause, then the quiet, devastating question: “But sometimes it can't help but wonder…Maybe the cat stayed away because it finally saw the truth." he said quietly.

Minho's breathe hitched as something very delicate started weaving itself under his chest. "What truth?" He dared to ask.

The healer's attention drifted from the river and met the wolf's eyes, his rain-scent softening with a deep, noticeable melancholia.

“That maybe the alien and the garden were just as lonely as it was.”

The words hung there, heavier than they should’ve been. Jisung’s smile finally faltered. The only sound was the gentle whoosh of the water, a sound that was suddenly lonely.

Minho frowned. He didn’t like it that tone. The quiet ache under Jisung’s voice. How familiar it felt. No one was supposed to feel like this. 

“No,” he said, sharper than he means to.

The healer looks up, surprised.

Minho swallows. Because no one was supposed to feel like this. Especially someone like the healer with a smile that can make even a grim reaper believe in life. "No." Because he doesn't want to hear that tone ever again. So he repeats it again. The truth, this time.

“No. Maybe the cat stayed away because it wasn’t ready to stay yet. Doesn’t mean it didn’t want to.”

Something in Jisung’s expression shifts — like the sun reappearing after a cloud. Like sunlight after a stormy night. He hums, a soft, acknowledging sound. "So what's stopping it, then? If it wants to?"

Minho followed his gaze to the falling water, the answer rising up from a place of deep, ingrained training. The truth of it was a cold, hard knot in his chest—a truth that applied to him, too. To get the one thing he truly wanted, the purpose he craved like a den to call his own, he had to perfectly execute the mission he’d been given. You didn't get to become a guardian by abandoning your post.

"It has a mission," he said, the words feeling heavy and final. "It can't just... abandon its post for a garden. Not if it ever wants a real home of its own." He looked back at Jisung, a sad laugh escaping him. "Its trainers are a bunch of shits, you see. They never taught it how to stand down."

Jisung laughed, a warm, understanding sound. "I think the ones that left the alien were a bunch of shits as well." He finally looked at Minho as he scratched the little sapling's leaf, and Minho watched it shiver and bloom. "But I am glad the alien had its own garden. A place to just be, even for a little while. No trades required."

Minho averted his gaze from the healer, looking down at his own gloved hands. The contrast was a painful summary of their worlds: Jisung’s bare fingers that coaxed life into bloom, and his own, perpetually shielded. He saw the water lapping freely at Jisung’s bare feet while his remained trapped in thick socks and ridiculous slippers. The alien had built a garden from its solitude. The cat only had its own solitary mission, a path to a dream that felt increasingly like a different kind of cage. Maybe that was the difference between him and Jisung, too.

"Do you think..." Minho began, hesitantly. "The cat will ever complete its mission? Will it ever just... get to go home?"

The healer smiled and stretched. "Well, I guess only time will tell. Till then, the garden's always open for it. All it has to do is let go of the fear of the sharp fences and just try."

"But what if the cat ruins the garden with its paws?" The fear was laid bare, finally.

The healer crouched down, grabbed a handful of soil, and let it trickle back to the ground. “Mud’s just the earth after a storm,” he said with an easy shrug. “The garden’s not afraid of getting dirty. It’s how things grow.”

The saplings in his hands glowed, a soft, bubbling sound escaping them. “Only if you let it,” he said, grinning.

The words settled deep in Minho’s bones. He looked from Jisung’s flourishing plants to the sapling stretching toward him.

Let go of the fear. Just try.

It felt like a sacrifice, a terrifying compromise.

Slowly, deliberately, he leaned forward. His eyes fixed on the silvery sapling. With a breath that felt like his first, he peeled the leather glove from his right hand, finger by finger, letting the cool, humid air kiss his bare skin.

His hand, unmarked and vulnerable, hovered above the tiny bud. Then, gently, he cupped it.

He held his breath.

The bud shivered. It swelled under his touch, pulsing with a soft, inner light, and unfurled into a blossom of the purest, most luminous white. Its scent, cold starlight and first snow, washed over him. It had not just tolerated his touch; it had bloomed for it.

A breathy, astonished laugh escaped him. It was relief. It was wonder. It did not break. It grew.

When he finally looked up, the air around them seemed to still. The waterfall’s mist caught the light like scattered diamonds. His wolf spun in circles, the plants swaying in quiet rhythm.

Jisung was watching him, all traces of mischief gone. His lips were slightly parted, his eyes wide with reverent awe, like Minho had just rewritten the laws of the universe.

“Your aura,” Jisung breathed, staring not at the flower but directly into him. “It is not pointy at all right now.”

Minho held his gaze, heart pounding like a frantic drum. “What is it, then?”

The healer squinted in concentration, nose scrunching as he thought. “It feels woody. Solid. Strong, like…” He paused, then brightened, triumphant. “Like a door!”

The spell shattered.

Minho blinked. “A door?” His voice was flat with disbelief.

“Yes! Literally,” Jisung said, grinning with delight. “It used to be a fence before, all sharp edges and keep-out signs.” His voice softened. “Now it is a door. Still closed, maybe. But not locked.”

A snort escaped Minho, then another, until he was laughing, huge and helpless, the sound filling the greenhouse. Jisung joined in, his giggles light as wind chimes.

When Minho finally caught his breath, he smirked. “Guess that is an improvement from scissors, huh?”

“Infinitely,” Jisung said, his smile fading into something quieter and truer. “Scissors cut people. Doors mean someone might come in. Or you might, one day, decide to step out. It is the best thing I have ever felt from you.”

The honesty hit deep. Minho’s laughter softened into a quiet, awed smile.

“Guess the cat made it to the garden after all,” he murmured, the words feeling almost like a confession.

Jisung’s eyes crinkled, warm and bright. “Guess the alien was right to leave the gate open after all.”

The moment stretched, still and gentle and full of promise. Then Jisung bumped his shoulder lightly against Minho’s.

"So," Jisung said, his voice bright and casual. "You hungry? I've got some persimmon cookies inside. No metaphor or twitchy spells, i promise! Just a fruitcake that is really sweet."

Minho let out another soft chuckle. He brushed his thumb gently over the luminous white petals, letting them glow against his skin for a heartbeat longer before slipping his gloves back on. Not as armor this time, but as something he could finally choose to wear. At least, for now.

"Lead the way, Alien."

As Jisung turned, his rain-soaked scent bloomed, drenching the air with the petrichor of an entire garden. Then he smiled a sudden, brilliant sun breaking through the storm. And Minho, a creature of instinct, was the cat who's breathe was caught in that downpour, not startled, but utterly, completely welcomed.

When the moment passed, A final, crystal-clear thought solidified in Minho's mind:

Hyunjin was going to either love or loathe the only  bastard who’d had the gall to rewrite his aura from a pair of scissors to a damn door instead.

☘️｡⁠:ﾟ✿ﾟ⁠:⁠｡🐺