Chapter 14: The Bouquet Arrives
The ache had settled into a constant, low-grade hum. Not pain, exactly. More like a full-body memory. Hyukjae moved through his apartment with a deliberate slowness, as if too quick a turn might summon the ghost of the heat, or worse, the ghost of the Alpha who’d ended it. He’d cleaned everything twice. The beanbag chair still held the impression of his body from a long, sleepless night. The tower of anime DVDs offered no distraction.
The weak AC fought a losing battle against the afternoon sun. He stood in front of the ceiling fan in a tank top and shorts, letting the lazy spin move the damp air over his skin. It did nothing. He was about to give up and crawl into a cold shower when the intercom buzzed.
He flinched. The sound was too sharp, too much like an alarm. He walked over, pressed the button. “Yes?”
“Delivery for Lee Hyukjae.”
His stomach dropped. He hadn’t ordered anything. “Leave it with the concierge, please.”
“Requires a signature,” the voice crackled back.
He hesitated, then hit the entry release. A few minutes later, a knock. He peered through the peephole. A young guy in a courier uniform held a long, white box. Hyukjae opened the door just enough, took the electronic pad, scribbled his name. The courier handed him the box. It was light. Fragrant. Even through the cardboard, the scent hit him—a clean, crisp, devastatingly expensive floral note.
He closed the door, locked it, and leaned against the wood. He stared at the box on his kitchen counter as if it might be wired. With numb fingers, he untied the slim ribbon and lifted the lid.
White roses. A dozen, perfect, nestled in green tissue. Their scent billowed out, filling the small apartment, overlaying the smell of cheap citrus cleaner and his own anxious sweat. It was a scent that spoke of penthouses and quiet power. Tucked among the stems was a small, cream card.
His hand shook as he picked it up. The handwriting was bold, decisive, in dark ink.
For the smile I can't forget.
No name. Just a single, slashing initial at the bottom.
D.
The letter seemed to burn his fingers. He dropped the card. It fluttered to the floor, landing face up, the ‘D’ staring at the ceiling. A wave of nausea rolled through him, hot and sickly. This wasn’t an apology. It was an echo. A continuation. Your smile… It’s not something you should hide. He’d observed it, filed it away, and now he was sending it back to him, packaged in perfect, funereal white. A claim laid in perfume and paper.
The knock on his door this time was different. Lighter, quicker. Not a courier’s firm rap.
Hyukjae jumped, his heart slamming against his ribs. He looked from the roses to the door, panic scrambling his thoughts. He couldn’t be here. It was impossible. He wouldn’t knock.
“Hyukjae-ssi? You in there?” The voice was young, bright, unfamiliar.
Hyukjae swiped a hand over his face, forced air into his lungs. “Just a second!” He scrambled, shoving the box of roses off the counter and into the space between the fridge and the wall. He kicked the card under the sofa. He ran to the door, checked the peephole.
It wasn’t Donghae. It was Minho, one of the newer alphas from his advanced hip-hop class. Early twenties, all lanky limbs and explosive energy, with a grin that took up half his face. He stood in the hallway, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet.
Hyukjae opened the door, a fraction. “Minho? What’s up? Class isn’t until Thursday.”
“Hey! Yeah, I know,” Minho said, his smile not dimming. He smelled of fresh sweat and cedarwood body wash—a simple, uncomplicated alpha scent. “Sorry to just show up. I got your address from the studio admin. I hope that’s okay?”
“It’s… fine.” It wasn’t fine. His skin felt too tight. The scent of roses was still clinging to the air, a secret in the room behind him. “What do you need?”
“I wanted to ask you something. In person.” Minho’s bright eyes were earnest, his posture open. “I’m auditioning for that national dance crew, the one that tours with SM? The choreography’s insane. I was wondering… if you might have time for some private lessons. Just a few. To clean up my isolations and get my grooves sharper. I’ll pay your full rate, obviously. You’re the best teacher I’ve ever had.”
Private lessons. In his apartment. With an alpha in his space, where the air still tasted like panic and white roses. Hyukjae’s mouth felt dry. He thought of the clinical grip on his hips, the voice growling commands in the dark. Minho was nothing like that. He was sunshine and earnest ambition. But he was still an alpha. His body, still humming with the recent violation, recoiled at the idea.
“I don’t really do privates here,” Hyukjae said, his voice thinner than he intended. “The studio is better. More space.”
“Oh.” A flicker of disappointment crossed Minho’s face. Then he leaned slightly, peeking past Hyukjae’s shoulder. “You’ve got a pretty decent open area here, though. Move the coffee table, it’d work. I’d really rather it be you. And it’d be more flexible timing-wise. Please?”
The ‘please’ was soft, hopeful. It was the absolute opposite of an order. Hyukjae felt a bizarre, hysterical laugh bubble in his throat. This was what a normal interaction with an alpha looked like. A request. Respect. Not a takeover.
He also felt a sudden, desperate need to not be alone with the roses and the note and the memory of their scent. Minho’s simple, noisy presence would drown it out.
“Okay,” he heard himself say. “Yeah, okay. We can try a session. But we clear the space together. And you tell me if you need to hit the bathroom, because the plumbing is weird.”
Minho’s grin returned, brilliant and relieved. “You’re the best! Thank you so much. When can we start?”
They settled on the next afternoon. Hyukjae gave him the rate, his business autopilot kicking in. Minho bounced on his feet again, thanked him three more times, and finally left with a wave.
Hyukjae closed the door. The silence rushed back in, but now it was layered with the ghost of Minho’s cheerful energy. And underneath, stubborn as a stain, the scent of roses.
He didn’t pull the box out. He left it wedged in its hiding place. He picked up the card from under the sofa. The paper was cool. He traced the ‘D’ with his finger. It felt like a brand.
For the smile I can't forget.
Was it longing? Or was it just another form of possession? A reminder that he’d been seen, catalogued, and was now being curated from a distance. Donghae had gotten what he needed from Hyukjae’s body. Now he was apparently aiming for something else. The thought was more terrifying than the heat had been.
His phone buzzed on the counter. A notification from his banking app—an automatic deposit from the dance studio. Normal life, insisting on continuing. He looked from the phone to the card in his hand, then to the narrow gap where the roses were hidden.
He walked to the window, pushing it open as far as it would go. The humid city air washed in, smelling of exhaust and distant rain. It didn’t erase the roses. It just mixed with them.
He had a private lesson to teach tomorrow. To an alpha. In the apartment where, days ago, he’d been knotted and filled and hollowed out by a different one. The contradiction was so vast it made him lightheaded. He was supposed to be the cheerful instructor, the capable one. He could feel that version of himself, the one with the dazzling smile, hiding somewhere far away, buried under slick and sweat and the taste of whiskey on someone else’s breath.
The note was still in his hand. He didn’t crumple it. He placed it carefully, almost reverently, inside a thick textbook on kinesiology on his bookshelf. Out of sight. Not gone. Just archived. A ‘D’ pressed flat between the pages, a hidden heart of something he couldn’t yet name—whether it was poison or a promise, he had no idea.
He spent the next hour aggressively moving furniture, shoving the coffee table against the wall, rolling up the rug. Creating a clean, empty square of floor. A stage. When he was done, sweating and breathing hard, he stood in the center of the space. The ghost of Minho’ easy grin. The phantom scent of roses. The deep, bruised memory of Donghae’s hands. They all swirled in the empty air around him.
He took a breath, found a driving beat on his speaker, and began to move. His body protested, muscles tender, but he pushed through. He danced not for joy, but for survival, for reclaiming the instrument that had been used so thoroughly against him. Each pop, each lock, each fluid groove was a word in a sentence he was writing for himself: I am still here.
But when he stopped, chest heaving, the silence returned. And in that silence, the roses whispered.