The first time they saw him was behind the school gym—knees scraped, uniform stained with food, eyes blank like he’d already learned not to expect help. He didn’t cry. Didn’t even look up.

Back then, Jungkook had been the one to step forward, fists clenched. Taehyung stood beside him, loud and reckless, yelling at the kids who’d done it. Namjoon handled the teacher, Jimin cleaned him up, Hoseok cracked a dumb joke to make him smile, and Seokjin shoved his lunch into Niko’s hands without a word. Yoongi didn’t say anything either, but he walked him home that day—and every day after for a while.

They didn’t plan to keep him. But they never let him go.

Years later, the same group that pulled him off the floor was still together—now grown, scarred, and living in a too-small apartment that somehow fit them all. It was a mess. Dishes piled high, music blasting, the smell of ramen mixing with detergent. But it was home.

Niko had changed the most. The quiet kid was gone. Now he filled the doorway—bigger, tattooed, every inch of him carved with stories no one else could carry. His arms looked like they could hold up the world, but sometimes they trembled anyway.

He walked into the living room that night, towel over his head, shirt clinging to his chest. Everyone was scattered—Jungkook gaming on the floor, Taehyung drawing on the wall again, Jimin trying to stop him, Hoseok dancing to some song only he could hear. Namjoon was writing something, Jin was yelling about dinner, and Yoongi was asleep with a cigarette unlit in his hand.

“Yo, you alive?” Jungkook said without looking up. “You’ve been in the shower for, like, an hour.”

Taehyung smirked. “He was probably crying again.”

The room went quiet for a beat. Niko didn’t react, just dropped onto the couch beside Jimin. Taehyung looked guilty instantly.

Jimin glared at him. “Not cool.”

Taehyung scratched the back of his neck. “Sorry, man.”

The silence lingered. Then Hoseok grinned, throwing a pillow at Jungkook. “You still smell worse than him though.”

“F*ck off,” Jungkook laughed, and the tension cracked just like that—familiar, imperfect, real.

Namjoon looked up from his notes, watching Niko from across the room. There were moments—like this one—when he could still see the boy from that hallway. The one who didn’t know how to be loved. The one who apologized for existing. He wasn’t that boy anymore, but the ghosts never stopped whispering.

Later, when the others had gone to bed, the living room was quiet except for the low hum of the fridge. Niko stood by the window, cigarette between his fingers, staring at his reflection in the glass—broad shoulders, hard jaw, tattoos crawling up his neck like vines. He looked untouchable, but Namjoon knew better.

Jungkook passed behind him, brushing his shoulder gently. “You did good today,” he said simply before heading to his room.

It was small, casual, but it stuck. They’d all learned—love didn’t have to be loud. Sometimes it was a mug of tea left on the counter, a blanket thrown over someone half-asleep, a soft word before the lights went out.

By the time morning came, the apartment was alive again—Taehyung frying eggs shirtless, Jimin wearing one of Niko’s hoodies, Yoongi muttering about noise, Hoseok humming, Jungkook laughing, Namjoon typing, Jin yelling. And in the middle of it all, Niko—quiet, tired, still learning how to forgive himself—looked around the room.

He didn’t smile often, but that morning, he did. Just a little.

Because this— the mess, the shouting, the love— was proof that even the broken ones could build something worth staying for.