The Jeon kitchen was warm and dim, the only light coming from the low pendant lamp over the table. The hum of the fridge filled the quiet gaps between soft clinks of spoons and gentle breathing. Outside, the sky had already turned black, but the house stayed golden, calm.

Niko sat at the table between Jungkook and Jungkook’s mom, wrapped in one of Jungkook’s old oversized sweaters. It swallowed him whole, the sleeves hanging past his fingertips. His knees were pulled up onto the chair, socked feet curled beneath him, and the side of his face rested against the arm Jungkook had laid on the table for him. He hadn’t said a word since he’d arrived—since he’d been dropped off, more like, shoved outside in the middle of the cold evening with nothing but bruises and a shaking voice that had whispered I don’t know where to go.

His hair was messy, stuck to the side of his face with dried tears. The bruise above his brow was deeper now, a sick reddish-purple blotch that spread into his temple, and his lip was raw from where he’d been chewing it. There was a mark on his cheek too—not obvious, but it was there. Faded. Shaped like fingers.

He sat small. Not just quiet—small. Shoulders hunched, hands tucked against his chest, spoon held like a toy in his fingers. He wasn’t really eating. Just letting Jungkook help him. Whenever Jungkook’s spoon touched the soup and lifted it to his lips, Niko opened his mouth obediently and took it in, blinking slowly, like even blinking took effort.

Jungkook’s mom leaned in gently and brushed Niko’s hair out of his face, thumb ghosting over his temple without touching the bruise.

"Too hot, baby?"

Niko gave the tiniest shake of his head. Then leaned into her hand, just for a second. His cheek looked red there too—less from bruising, more from heat, maybe even a fever. He hadn’t spoken once. Not a single word. Just made little nods and head shakes, small sounds from the back of his throat when something was too much.

Jungkook’s dad sat across from them, quiet but watching. His hand moved every now and then to refill Niko’s tea, or push a napkin closer, or quietly move the dishes around so nothing was too close to the edge near Niko’s arms. There was no talking now. None of them needed to talk. They’d seen enough, heard enough—years of signs, but tonight it had finally broken.

Jungkook helped him drink the tea next. Held the cup to his lips, murmuring a soft, "Just a little," like he was coaxing a frightened child. Niko took a sip, then another, before he sniffled softly and turned his face into Jungkook’s sleeve.

He stayed there a long time. Breathing him in.

Jungkook’s mom reached out again, this time to gently guide Niko’s foot down under the table, placing it on the soft mat below so his legs wouldn’t cramp. She didn’t say anything. She just gave him a small pat and rested her hand on his ankle, grounding him.

Niko hiccuped once. He hadn’t cried again since he arrived, but his throat was raw, and every now and then his breath would catch like a sob had gotten stuck somewhere inside and didn’t know how to come out.

Jungkook pressed a kiss to the side of his hair, just above the bruise.

"You’re okay."

Niko didn’t nod, didn’t move.

But he let Jungkook feed him one more spoonful of soup.

And that was enough for now.