"Olivia?" Apps calls out through my open bedroom door, knocking gently on my doorframe before entering. "You here little one?"

I shift, massive layers of blankets causing my form to be nearly indistinguishable from the bed itself.

"I'm not little anymore Appa, " I grouse, lifting the blankets away from my face.

My hair sticks up every which way, golden tendrils sticking to the pillow and my face. I'm sure I look like some kind of wildling, but that's what tends to happen when I get woken.

"Your flagrant disregard for social etiquette the other day says otherwise, " he ribs, smiling gently as he sits upon my bed.

"I don't like them, " I sniff, sitting up, "and nothing you can say will change my mind."

He sighs, looking more weary in this instant than I have ever seen him before.

"I know that this is difficult for you, " he confesses softly, "and I know what it is that you're so worried about. It's a baseless fear, just so you know."

He ruffles my hair, grinning softly despite the way I splutter in denial.

"I love you Olivia. You're my little girl, and you will always be my little girl. That didn't change when your mother died, and it won't change now. No matter how many children end up in this home, no one will ever take your place. You are my firstborn, I will always take care of you."

I break into tears, flinging myself at my father, who hugs me tight.

"It isn't just that Appa, I swear!" I exclaim, sniffling quietly, wiping my nose with my sleeve as we part. "They don't sit right with me, this isn't right!"

He smiles thinly, reaching out to tuck a few strands of hair behind my ears.

"You're so much like your mother, " he sighs.

There is still a certain sadness in his eyes every time he mention Eomma, and I always feel guilty for bringing her up.

I hate it.

I hate this feeling, and I hate that I'm angry, upset that I am hurt over it. But it's true.

Why do I have to feel guilt? She was my mother, why am I not allowed to speak of her? To think of her?

As Appa stands I flop back down on my bed. I just want to go back to sleep and pretend that the world doesn't exist.

"Olivia," he imparts, hand resting against the frame of my door. "Please don't mope in here alone all day. Take Jimin out, do something fun or relaxing."

I feel a tight pain in my chest. It feels like guilt, wrapped up in all my love for my father, and it makes me want to cry.

I love my Appa, so, so much. And he's been the best father in the whole world. I couldn't have asked for a better dad.

I'm so scared of losing that.

And isn't it just like Jimin, to already be one step ahead of my father, and waiting at the door. He enters as Appa leaves, crossing the distance from my door to my bed as if by teleportation.

The way he smiles at me is as if we've never been angry at each other in our entire lives, and I can't stand it. I remember the determination I'd felt to confront Jimin just the other day, but it's all fled now.

Now?

I just want him to leave.

I roll over, hiding myself away in my blankets, refusing to be lured in by his angelic smile and comforting aura. I'm not even angry at this point.

It hurts.

Despite my attempt to forget, I'd seen what he'd done. And the purple, teeth-bruised skin of that girls neck keeps coming to the front of my mind.

As does her triumphant smirk.

"Hey, " Jimin says softly, shaking me gently with one hand as he sits on the bed beside me.

He begins to grow impatient, voice growing louder as he continues, "Oli! I know you're mad at me, and whatever it is that I've done, I'm sorry! Please talk to me!"

If I were to turn around right now I know what look I'd find on Jimin's face. I can already picture it in my head, as a matter of fact.

He'd look so contrite.

So worried, soft, and sweet.

His brows, pushed together in concern, would line his saddened puppy eyes with just enough seriousness to let you know that he is genuine. He is probably bright red, but the redness of his eyes would have nothing to do with embarrassment.

No.

He's probably been crying.

I can hear it, now that I listen. His voice is laced with the sound of an overworked, scratchy throat.

"Oli, " he croaks, choking on desperation, "please talk to me."

It occurs to me that I have never so resolutely refused to talk to Jimin like this before, and that Jimin is probably truly worried.

I wish that made this any easier.

Realizing that I'm determined to remain silent, he scurries to remove his jacket. He then rips his way under the blankets, and pulls me back against his chest.

He's spooning me, and the sensation of it...

I've never felt so dizzy before.

His shirt is thin, and does little to hide the firmness of the torso against my back. His leg, wrapped around my hip, is strong. Briefly, I wonder how he would react if I touched it, if I ran my fingertips against his beautiful skin.

And then he scoots in even closer, and I become hyper aware of the fact that his groin is pressed against my ass.

My heart nearly stops, and for a second I almost forget to breathe. Jimin has not been this closely acquainted with my person since we were small children. For a while, in elementary, we'd been inseparable.

Hell, we'd bathed together, shared a bed, shared plates, shared practically everything. Appa is a kind man, and he's never been anything but grateful to Jimin's mother. I think it's a relief to him, to know that I have a friend who will always be by my side.

Of course, it wasn't but shortly before we turned six that Jimin pulled away. He became overly affectionate in a different sort of way. No longer, would he let me climb into his bed if I had a nightmare. No. But he would tuck me back in, read me a story even, and then sit with me as I fell asleep.

He'd hold my hand everywhere, and people stopped saying anything to me, or near me for that matter. I never knew why exactly they'd shut up, but they finally had and I was so happy back then, too happy to question it.

"Oli, " he pleads, securing me in place with arms that snake around my body. "just tell me what I need to do to make this better, please?"

For a moment, I allow my imagination to get the better of me, and I picture his full lips. They'd be kiss swollen, pinkened, by my own lips. And then, I imagine what it might feel like if he were to place those lips against my neck, if he were to bite, and suckle at my skin.

Like he did to her.

Purple and blue ink together with a dramatically vivid black haze like a backdrop in the back of my mind, a flash of bruise and selfish, haughty, glee.

It feels like a bucket of cold water has been thrown upon me, and once more, I just want him out.

"Just leave, " I demand, voice wobbly with a hundred different emotional wounds, all raw and pulsing with hurt.

Jimin sucks in a breath behind me, a low raspy whine coming from his throat. His arms tighten around me, holding me even more closely. I stiffen, feeling moisture against my neck.

"He's crying, " I realize, and my hurt only grows.

But I just can't keep doing this.

"Please just go away, " I cry.