Chapter 16: The Confession
The confession hung in the humid air between them, a live wire. Hyukjae felt drained, hollowed out by the sobs, but the weight of Donghae’s arms around him was solid. Real. Different. The clinical detachment was gone, replaced by a trembling uncertainty that was somehow more reassuring than any polished competence.
Donghae didn’t move. He just held on, his face still buried in Hyukjae’s hair, breathing him in. His own heartbeat was a frantic drum against Hyukjae’s cheek.
“You’re shaking,” Hyukjae mumbled into his shoulder, his voice ruined.
“So are you.”
“Mine’s leftover. Yours is new.”
A rough, soundless laugh vibrated through Donghae’s chest. “Yeah.” He finally loosened his hold, just enough to look down. His eyes were red-rimmed, his usually impeccable hair a mess from where he’d pulled at it. He looked ruined too. “I don’t know how to do this.”
The raw admission was a balm. “Good,” Hyukjae whispered. “Because I don’t need someone who’s got a manual.”
He pulled back fully, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. The gesture was gross, undignified. Donghae didn’t flinch. He just watched, his gaze tracking the movement with an intense, bewildered focus.
“The cedarwood,” Donghae said, the words cautious. “Who…”
“Minho. A student. He was here for a private lesson.” Hyukjae saw the immediate tension lock Donghae’s jaw and hurried on. “He smelled the leftover heat. He called me on it. And then he… he just saw it. The mess. He had a sister who went through the same thing with bad pills. He was just decent about it.”
He watched the information process behind Donghae’s eyes. The possessiveness, the quick flash of jealousy, then the slow, forced understanding. The realization that another alpha had offered a kindness Donghae himself had failed to provide.
“He helped you dance,” Donghae stated.
“Yeah. He helped me remember I could.”
Donghae nodded once, a sharp dip of his chin. He looked around the apartment as if seeing it for the first time—the shoved-aside coffee table, the speaker still plugged in, the two empty energy drink cans on the floor. Evidence of a life, of work, of a struggle he’d barged into.
“I owe him a thanks,” Donghae said finally, the words seeming to cost him something.
Hyukjae blinked. “What?”
“For being here when I wasn’t. For being what you needed.” He ran a hand over his face. “That’s… new for me. Feeling gratitude toward a rival.”
“He’s not a rival. He’s a kid. A good kid.” Hyukjae wrapped his arms around himself. The post-cry chill was setting in, making his skin prickle. “This isn’t a competition. My life isn’t a boardroom.”
The analogy hit its mark. Donghae winced. “I know. I’m… recalibrating.” He took a step back, giving Hyukjae space. The distance felt both necessary and painful. “The suppressants. What’s the plan?”
The practicality of the question, now asked from a place of partnership rather than problem-solving, made Hyukjae’s throat tighten. “I don’t have one. I can’t afford the clinic-grade ones. The over-the-counter stuff is a lottery. Last time was Russian Roulette and I lost.”
“Okay.” Donghae nodded, thinking. His eyes landed on Hyukjae’s half-open bathroom door, on the cluttered counter visible within. “What if I found a doctor? A discreet one. We get you a proper prescription. I handle it.”
There it was. The fix. But the wording was different. We get you. Not I’ll get for you.
“I can’t let you pay for my medication, Donghae.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s… it’s too much. It ties us together in a way that…”
“That what?” Donghae pressed, genuine curiosity in his tone. “That makes it real? That gives me a stake in your well-being? I already have one. I had one the moment I walked in here that night. I just handled it wrong.” He took a careful step closer again. “Let me do this one thing. Not to manage you. To support you. There’s a difference. I’m trying to learn the difference.”
Hyukjae looked away, his heart a frantic bird in his ribs. The offer was a lifeline. A dangerous, complicated lifeline. “I need to think.”
“Fair.” Donghae didn’t push. He shoved his hands in his pockets, looking suddenly awkward in his expensive tailored pants in the midst of the clutter. “Can I… make you some tea? Or find you food? You look pale.”
The domesticity of the question was so absurd it startled a wet laugh from Hyukjae. “You want to raid my kitchen? It’s a biohazard in there.”
“I’ve faced hostile takeovers. I think I can manage your pantry.”
Hyukjae gestured weakly toward the kitchenette. “Knock yourself out.”
He watched, dumbfounded, as Donghae moved into the small space. He opened cabinets, studying the contents with a focused frown. He found the rice cooker, examined it, and located the bag of rice. He found a single unopened packet of seaweed soup in the cupboard. He worked in silence, his movements efficient but not rushed. He filled the rice cooker. He boiled water in the kettle Hyukjae usually used for instant noodles.
It was the most surreal thing Hyukjae had ever witnessed. Lee Donghae, alpha executive, a man who probably had a personal chef, making humble soup and rice in his shitty apartment because he’d cried himself empty.
Hyukjae slid down to sit on the floor, his back against the side of his futon. The fatigue was absolute, seeping into his bones. “You don’t have to do this.”
“I know,” Donghae said, not turning from the stove. “I want to.”
The rice cooker began to hum. The scent of the simple soup started to waft through the apartment, mixing with their combined scents—heat, salt, cedar, and that dark, rain-soaked earth that was uniquely Donghae. It should have been a discordant mess. It wasn’t.
“Talk to me,” Donghae said softly, his back still turned. “Not about the big things. Just talk.”
So Hyukjae did. Haltingly at first, then in a slow, steady stream. He talked about his afternoon classes, about the nine-year-old who kept copying his moves with terrifying accuracy. He talked about Ryeowook’s latest baking disaster, a cake shaped like a frog that looked profoundly depressed. He talked about the broken AC, about how the landlord kept promising to fix it. Normal things. Boring, wonderful, mundane things.
Donghae listened. He brought over a bowl of soup and a small bowl of rice, setting them on the low table before folding himself onto the floor opposite Hyukjae. He didn’t eat. He just watched Hyukjae eat, as if the simple act was a revelation.
“You love it,” Donghae observed. “The teaching.”
“It’s the only thing that’s ever made sense,” Hyukjae said around a mouthful of rice. “My body understands it even when my head doesn’t.”
Donghae’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it. It buzzed again, insistently. A third time.
“You should get that,” Hyukjae said. “It might be important.”
Donghae pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and declined the call. He set it face down on the floor. “It’s work. It can wait.”
“Since when?”
A faint, rueful smile touched Donghae’s lips. “Since now.”
Hyukjae finished the soup, the warmth spreading through his core. The crying headache began to recede. The silence that settled between them now was companionable, charged but not tense.
“I should go,” Donghae said, but he made no move to stand.
“Probably.”
“Will you be alright tonight?”
“I have been for years,” Hyukjae said, not with bitterness, but with fact.
Donghae absorbed that like a blow. He nodded, looking down at his own hands. “I know.” He stood up, gathering the empty bowls. He took them to the sink and washed them. Hyukjae watched, mesmerized, as he rinsed and placed them neatly on the drying rack.
When he turned, he leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. “The doctor. Think about it. No pressure. Just… an option.” He pushed off and walked to the door. Picked up his jacket from where he’d dropped it.
Hyukjae scrambled to his feet. “Donghae.”
He turned, one hand on the doorknob.
“Thank you. For the soup. For… staying.”
Donghae’s dark eyes softened. “Thank you for letting me.”
He opened the door, then paused. He looked back, his gaze sweeping over Hyukjae from head to toe, a slow, thorough inventory that held none of the previous clinical assessment. This was pure, unvarnished seeing.
“The next time,” Donghae said, his voice low. “The next time you feel a heat coming, or you’re scared, or you just have a bad day… you call me. Not because I’ll fix it. But because I want to be there. However you’ll have me.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He slipped out, closing the door with a quiet click.
Hyukjae stood in the middle of his apartment, surrounded by the smells of soup and rice and fading alpha. His body felt still for the first time in weeks. The frantic, trapped energy was gone.
He walked to his phone, charging on a pile of manga. There were three missed calls from Ryeowook and a string of escalating texts.
Ryeowook (9:14 PM): Heard a rumor Minho was at your place for a private lesson?? SPILL.
Ryeowook (9:27 PM): Hello? Did the alpha student awaken something in you? I’m living vicariously here!
Ryeowook (9:45 PM): Okay now Kibum says he saw a disgustingly expensive black car parked outside your building. Hyukjae. HYUKJAE. PICK UP.
Hyukjae smiled. He typed a reply.
Me (10:22 PM): It’s a long story. Come over tomorrow. I’ll need cake.
Ryeowook (10:22 PM): IS IT A WEDDING CAKE?
Me (10:23 PM): It’s a “my life is complicated but maybe not in a bad way” cake. No frogs.
He plugged his phone back in. He straightened the futon, plumping the single flat pillow. He turned off the main light, leaving just the soft glow of the lamp by the window.
As he lay down, he replayed it. The anguish on Donghae’s face. The sound of his breaking voice. The feel of his hands, not assessing, but holding.
The feel of his hands, not assessing, but holding.
That memory replayed on a loop in the quiet dark, a tactile anchor against the week’s usual chaos. Three days later, his phone lit up at 7:02 AM.
Donghae (7:02 AM): The forecast says thunderstorms later. Do you have classes?
The message was simple, utterly mundane. Hyukjae stared at it, a stupid smile tugging his lips. It was so awkward, so obviously a carefully considered opener. He typed back.
Me (7:05 AM): Just two kid classes in the afternoon. Why, you offering a chauffeur service?
The reply was immediate.
Donghae (7:05 AM): Yes. And dinner. If you want.
They started like that. Daily. A ‘good morning’ text, sometimes with a photo of the grim office view from his tower. A ‘sleep well’ message, often sent far later than Hyukjae’s own bedtime. The rhythm was stilted at first, two people stepping onto unfamiliar ground. Then it became a constant, quiet pulse in his day.
Two evenings later, Donghae’s black car was idling outside the studio after Hyukjae’s last class. He didn’t come in. He just waited, a silent presence that made Hyukjae’s stomach flutter as he packed his bag.
“You didn’t have to come all the way here,” Hyukjae said, sliding into the passenger seat. The interior smelled like clean leather and that rain-soaked earth scent.
“I wanted to.” Donghae reached over, his fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from Hyukjae’s forehead. The touch was deliberate, gentle. “I like knowing where you are.”
He took him to a small, hidden yakitori place in an alley, not one of the sleek restaurants Hyukjae had imagined. They sat side-by-side at the narrow counter, shoulders touching. Donghae ordered for them, his hand resting lightly on Hyukjae’s knee the entire time.
“Tell me something,” Donghae said, skewering a piece of chicken. “Not about dance. Something from before Seoul.”
Hyukjae poked at his grilled scallion. “My mum and my noona live in Yongin. She’s a pharmacist. Thinks my career is a financially unsound hobby.” He laughed, but it was fond. “I call her every Sunday and she asks if I’ve eaten real food.”
“And you lie.”
“Obviously.” He took a sip of beer. “I came here because Seoul pays more. For teaching, but also for the other work. Choreo for indie hip-hop artists. It’s sporadic, but it’s something. Waiting for a big break that probably won’t come.”
Donghae listened, his thumb making slow circles on Hyukjae’s knee. “It’ll come. Your passion isn’t quiet. It leaks out of you.” He paused, turning his own skewer. “My father built the company. He died when I was nineteen. A heart attack at his desk.”
The statement fell between them, heavy and plain. Hyukjae stopped chewing.
“There was no big drama, no struggle. Just a ledger and a key to an office. I didn’t build it. I just… took the helm of a ship that was already sailing. Sometimes I wonder if I’m just a caretaker for his ghost.” He said it without self-pity, a simple fact. “I don’t think I’ve ever said that out loud.”
Hyukjae covered Donghae’s hand with his own, stilling the thumb on his knee. The warmth seeped into his skin. “Thank you for telling me.”
Donghae turned his hand, lacing their fingers together. He didn’t let go for the rest of the meal.
The touches became his language. A hand at the small of Hyukjae’s back guiding him through a crowd. Fingers tracing the shell of his ear when he was talking. When they walked, Donghae’s arm was always around his shoulders, pulling him close against the evening chill. Hyukjae, who had spent years managing accidental contact, found himself leaning into it, craving the constant, grounding reassurance of it.
One night, over too-sweet patbingsu in Ryeowook’s cafe after hours, Hyukjae was recounting a disastrous childhood attempt at building a treehouse.
“Ryeowook was holding the nails,” Hyukjae giggled, shoving his friend’s shoulder. “And he got so distracted by a butterfly he dropped the whole box. Our feet were magnets for like a week.”
Donghae watched them, a soft, unreadable expression on his face. Later, in the car, he was quiet.
“What is it?” Hyukjae asked.
“He knows everything about you.” Donghae’s voice was quiet, gaze fixed on the rain-streaked windshield. “All those stories. All that history. I’m… jealous of him. Which is ridiculous.”
Hyukjae’s heart squeezed. He unbuckled his seatbelt and shifted, curling into Donghae’s side. “You get the new stories. The now stories. And you’re the one holding my hand now.”
Donghae’s arm wrapped around him tightly, his face pressing into Hyukjae’s hair. He breathed in deeply. “I know. It doesn’t stop the feeling.”
Two weeks in, the doctor’s appointment loomed. Donghae had arranged it, discreetly, with a specialist. He’d presented it as a settled fact, but his eyes held a question. The morning of, Hyukjae’s phone buzzed.
Donghae (8:15 AM): I’ll be in the waiting room. Just for moral support. You can tell me to leave.
Hyukjae stared at the message, his chest tight with a feeling too large to name. It wasn’t the swooning fantasy of his younger days. It was something solid, built on soup and shared silence and hands that never seemed to stop seeking his skin.
Me (8:17 AM): Stay.