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You had never called Taehyung before. Despite everything, you had done your darndest not to give in, not to succumb to the temptation and torment and reach out to the creature that had invaded your life so brazenly. It takes a panic deeper than anything he’d ever instilled in you to reach into your purse and shakily bring your phone to your face, unlocking it as you walk a little faster down the sidewalk.

Taehyung’s contact card burns on the screen. The photo is a selfie he took in the flattering lighting of your bathroom, a dark glower in his seductive eyes as he pretends to smile for the camera. You hadn’t even known he’d stolen your phone from you.

You try not to look as you click the call, try not to think as you hold the device to your ear, glancing surreptitiously behind you.

He picks up on the first ring.

“What,” he sings, “a very pleasant and very surprising surprise. Hello, sugarcube.”

You viciously ignore the pangs of butterfly wings that the tone of his voice and endearment rouse in your chest. It doesn’t mix well with the adrenaline.

“T-taehyung,” you murmur into the receiver, and he goes silent all at once. “I’m walking home, and I feel like someone is following me.”

“Stay there. I’m coming to get you.”

There’s not a single tick between your words and his utterance. Taehyung lingers on the line for only a second longer, hesitating on if he wants to hang up or not, before ending the call and leaving you fidgeting and uneasy in your oversized coat. Part of you wants to look back properly, convince yourself that the stranger was just a nobody and not what your brain was worrying over, and another part of you wants to drop everything to scold you for choosing now of all times to rely on your questionable acquaintance.

You keep walking, though, and only peek back every now and then. You know you didn’t get the opportunity to tell Taehyung just where you even were, but that’s good in it’s own way – you shouldn’t have called him to begin with. Everything worked out in the end.

It’s only making you a bit more anxious that the figure has closed some ground, and that you–

“There’s my little runaway. Time to go home, ____.”

Your heart almost dies in your chest at the lacerating shock of the presence and words. You are afforded no time to think, process, identify your situation before a hand wraps snugly around your elbow and pulls you into the modest, arms-linked walk of any ordinary couple.

Taehyung is responsible for holding you up when your knees temporarily give in.

“Easy there,” he chides, and you just gasp for air.

“T-Ta… Tae… T-T-Taehyung?” Nothing about this makes sense. Taehyung strolls briskly past the towering trees of an unclaimed lot, ethereal under the streetlamps you pass underneath. You had gotten off the phone with him a matter of single-digit minutes before he was just, there, in your space, real and tangible and accompanying you home like it was nothing at all.

The smile he wore was anything but – it was hard and tight, making his features elegant and handsome but totally unfeeling where it reached his eyes. You’re taken aback at his sudden response, and even more so by the content of it.

“I’ll get you somewhere safer first,” he murmurs, a far-below room temperature hand stroking over your own and leaving goosebumps in its wake. “Then I’ll kill him.”

Seconds tick by that you can’t parse as your mouth goes slack.

“What?” you breathe out, almost soundless.

Taehyung just keeps looking straight ahead, patting your fingers in his own reassuring way and maintaining his apathetic smile. “He was just radiating all sorts of revolting things. I’ll kill him. I just need to get you safe first. I’ll probably rip his fingers off and put them in his ribs.”

“T-Taehyung,” you cry out, “n-no! No, no, no, please – please don’t do such a thing! Please! I’m begging you, l-let’s– can we go home, just home, nothing else? Not do anything else? No killing. Please. Please, please none o-of… none of that…”

He knows, deep in his bones, that there is really no reason to listen to you. Your words are that of a frantic human, a mortal with no concept of things and how they really work. The man that’s been following you and reeking of stale arousal and liquors signed his death sentence the moment the first inkling of doubt brushed your mind.

But Taehyung almost can’t think straight with you trembling so hardly beside him, your heart wild and unsteady as your gait. He’s never felt you willingly cling to him like this, never felt so much desperation – at least, not the kind that seeps into his skin like something warm and entrapping and sticky.

A wind ruffles his hair, and he idly pulls a leaf from your own as he finally glances down at your pathetic form.

“If you must insist on it,” he frowns, and strokes your flyaways back carefully. “But I don’t understand why. At all.”

But he’ll do anything to have you calm down.

You can’t even garner him an answer – you just squeeze your eyes shut, shutting away any tears and focusing on the way he smells like dried orange blossoms. Tight, twisted relief is the only emotion you can readily understand, and hope the way you bury your face against his shoulder implies your gratitude.

Taehyung walks you home in silence, and locks the door behind you. You don’t want tea, or water, or anything, but he brings you a bottle and then a steaming mug of chamomile a few minutes later. He sits with you patiently on your bed, fixated on you with a piercing gaze until you sip at your drink, and remains quiet all the way until you’re tucked under your covers and he’s drilling the desire to sleep, just sleep and dream of nothing if that helps you, and you’re out.

The next morning, a nearby hospital reports finding a local man in near-critical condition, and you are none the wiser.

For the first time in your life, you wake up to Taehyung in your room, hovering like a ghost by your window.

And you’re relieved. 

You can probably deal with the consequences of that later.

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