Chapter 17: The Waiting Game
The clinic door hissed shut behind him, sealing him in a world of muted beiges and the aggressive chill of recycled air. Hyukjae clutched the small slip of paper—the referral—like a talisman. His eyes scanned the empty waiting room. One overstuffed armchair, its plush velvet fabric looking suspiciously soft. A table with outdated magazines fanned in perfect, unread symmetry. The reception desk was empty, the nameplate reading ‘Park’ gleaming under the harsh LEDs.
No Donghae.
A sharp, irrational spike of disappointment pierced his gut. He’d said he’d be here. Hyukjae forced a breath. Of course he wasn’t. Something came up. A meeting. An emergency. This was the real world, not one of his quiet fantasies. He shuffled to the reception window and pressed the bell. A sharp ding echoed in the silence.
A moment later, a side door opened and a beta nurse with a kind, tired smile appeared. “Lee Hyukjae-ssi? Right this way.”
The consultation room was smaller than his bathroom. Dr. Kwon, an older omega with sharp eyes and a no-nonsense bun, didn’t waste time. She asked direct, clinical questions about his cycle, the brands of suppressants, the side effects. Hyukjae answered, his voice small in the sterile space. He handed her the referral, his personal details already filled in Donghae’s precise, executive handwriting.
She read it, her eyebrows lifting slightly. “This is from the Jangmi Clinic. They don’t give these out like candy.” She looked at him over her glasses. “You have a good advocate.”
Hyukjae just nodded, his throat tight.
The physical exam was brisk, professional. Blood pressure cuff. A quick blood draw. She asked him to describe the ‘fog’ he’d experienced. He fumbled through it—the disjointed time, the emotional volatility, the utter loss of bodily autonomy.
“Classic dysphoric reaction to progestin-based generics,” Dr. Kwon said, making a note. “Your body is treating the medication like a threat. Common with your particular endocrine sensitivity.” She turned her monitor. “I’m switching you to a low-dose estrogen implant. Slow release. It’ll stabilize you for nine to twelve months. No pills to forget. No chemical spikes and troughs.”
She explained the procedure, the aftercare. Hyukjae listened, the words ‘nine to twelve months’ ringing in his head like salvation. A year of peace. A year of not being a prisoner to a plastic blister pack.
“It’s a minor procedure. We can do it today, if you’re ready.”
Today. The concept was so immediate it was terrifying. “Yes,” he heard himself say. “Please.”
He signed the forms. The nurse led him to another room, this one colder, with a surgical table. He changed into a paper gown, the material crinkling with every nervous shiver. Dr. Kwon re-entered, gloved.
“You’ll feel a pinch and a sting. Just local anesthetic. Focus on breathing.”
He lay back, staring at the acoustic tiles in the ceiling. A pinch, sharp and clean, in the inside of his upper arm. A cold swipe of antiseptic. Then a deeper, odd pressure, not pain but a profound, internal intrusion. He turned his head away, breathing through his nose as instructed. He thought of Donghae’s hand on his knee in the yakitori bar. The circling thumb. The anchor of it.
“All done.” Dr. Kwon’s voice cut through the memory. A bandage was pressed firmly over the site. “Keep it dry for 48 hours. Some tenderness and bruising is normal. The hormone level will normalize within the week. Your next expected heat should be subdued, if it arrives at all.”
She handed him a packet of information, a prescription for painkillers he probably wouldn’t need, and a discreet clinic card. “Any fever, excessive redness, you call us immediately.”
Twenty minutes after walking in, he was back in the waiting room, dressed, the bandage a hidden secret under his sleeve. He felt unmoored. Light. The constant, low-grade anxiety that had been his baseline for years was just… gone. In its place was a vast, quiet space. He didn’t know what to do with it.
He pushed the heavy door open.
The first thing he saw was Donghae, pacing a tight three-meter circuit in front of the vending machine. His hair was a mess, as if he’d been running his hands through it repeatedly. He held three separate bags of snacks—almonds, a ‘heat-healthy’ fruit and nut mix, and chocolate-covered rice cakes—clutched awkwardly in one large hand.
He turned at the sound of the door. His eyes locked onto Hyukjae’s, and the frantic energy seemed to drain out of him all at once, replaced by a raw, searching intensity.
“Hyukjae.”
“You’re here.” The words came out softer than he meant them to.
“Of course I’m here.” Donghae closed the distance in two strides. He didn’t touch him, just stood there, his gaze sweeping over Hyukjae’s face, looking for signs of distress or pain. “How… how was it?”
“It’s done.” Hyukjae held up the clinic folder. “An implant. For a year.”
Donghae’s eyes widened a fraction. The relief that washed over his features was so potent Hyukjae could almost smell it, a sweet note cutting through his usual dark scent. “Okay. Good. That’s… that’s really good.” He blinked, suddenly seeming to remember the snacks in his hand. He looked down at them with a faint, helpless expression. “I didn’t know what you’d want. Or if you’d be nauseous. The machine had options.”
Hyukjae stared at the offerings. The absurd, tangible proof of Donghae’s spiraling worry. A laugh bubbled up in his chest, fragile and bright. “You bought out the entire ‘omega comfort’ section.”
“I was strategic,” Donghae muttered, defensive. “Proteins, electrolytes, sugars.” He thrust them toward Hyukjae. “Here.”
Hyukjae took the bags, their rustling loud in the quiet hallway. The chocolate rice cakes were the kind he’d mentioned liking once, in passing, weeks ago. “You remembered.”
Donghae’s ears turned pink. He shrugged, a jerky, uncharacteristic motion. “I remember everything you say.” He finally reached out, his fingers brushing the back of Hyukjae’s hand, just above the bandage. “Are you in pain?”
“A little sting. It’s nothing.” Hyukjae looked at him, at this powerful, composed man utterly unspun by a routine doctor’s visit. “You were more stressed than I was.”
“I was in the boardroom,” Donghae said, the words quick. “Ten minutes before your appointment. Talking about third-quarter projections. And all I could think about was that chair. The one that looks like a marshmallow. I wondered if you’d tried it. If it was as soft as it looks. It was… profoundly unprofessional.”
The image of Donghae, in a room full of suits, mentally fixating on an armchair, broke something open in Hyukjae. He leaned forward, until his forehead rested against Donghae’s sternum. He felt the alpha stiffen for a second, then melt, his arms coming up to wrap carefully around him, avoiding the bandaged arm.
“It was incredibly soft,” Hyukjae mumbled into his shirt. “I didn’t try it. I was too busy being mad you weren’t there.”
A rumble of sound vibrated through Donghae’s chest. “Never again. For anything. Dentist, mechanic, whatever. I’m there. I’ll bring a more diversified snack portfolio.”
Hyukjae laughed, the sound muffled. They stood like that in the sterile hallway, holding each other, while the clinic’s quiet hum continued around them.
Finally, Donghae loosened his hold. “You need to eat something proper. And rest.”
“I have a class at four.”
“Cancel it.”
“I can’t. They’re kids. They’ve been practicing a sequence.”
Donghae studied his face, saw the stubborn set of his jaw. He sighed, a fond exhale. “Then I’m driving you. And waiting. And then you are resting. My place. It’s closer. And my couch is definitely softer than that chair.”
The offer hung in the air. His place. A new frontier. Hyukjae nodded. “Okay.”
The drive to the studio was quiet, but the silence was different. It was the silence of a shared breath, not an empty space. Donghae kept his right hand on Hyukjae’s thigh the entire way, a steady, warm pressure.
He did wait. He sat in the back of the studio, a stark, elegant figure against the mirrored wall, watching Hyukjae lead a group of eight-year-olds through a slapdash robot dance. He didn’t look at his phone once. His eyes followed Hyukjae’s every move, a small, unguarded smile touching his lips when Hyukjae made a silly face to correct a posture.
Afterward, as the last child skipped out, Hyukjae walked over, sweat cooling on his neck. “Boring?”
“Fascinating,” Donghae said, standing. “You’re very good with them. You don’t talk down. You remind them where the joy is.” He reached out and wiped a smudge of chalk from Hyukjae’s cheekbone with his thumb. “It’s a gift.”
Donghae’s apartment was everything Hyukjae’s wasn’t. A high-floor penthouse, all clean lines, vast windows showcasing the Seoul skyline, and a deafening, minimalist quiet. It smelled of ozone, polished wood, and that deep, rain-soaked earth scent that was now comfortingly familiar.
“It’s… very tidy,” Hyukjae said, hovering near the entrance.
“It’s empty,” Donghae corrected, gently pushing him inside. He toed off his own shoes and pointed to a pair of plush slippers. “Here. For you.”
They were new. Hyukjae slipped them on. They fit perfectly.
Donghae led him to a sectional sofa that looked like a cloud. “Sit. I’ll make food.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Hyukjae.” Donghae stopped, turning back. His expression was serious. “Let me. Please. It helps.”
So Hyukjae sat, sinking into the cushions, watching as Donghae moved around the open-concept kitchen. He was more confident here, pulling ingredients from the refrigerator with quiet efficiency. Soon, the aroma of ginger and garlic sizzling in sesame oil filled the spacious room, humanizing it.
He brought over a bowl of congee, gently steaming, topped with finely shredded chicken and green onions. It was simple. Perfect.
As Hyukjae ate, Donghae sat sideways on the couch, facing him, one arm stretched along the back. His fingers traced idle patterns on the cushion near Hyukjae’s shoulder.
“The implant,” Donghae said, his eyes on his own hand. “Where do they put it?”
Hyukjae paused, spoon halfway to his mouth. He rolled up the sleeve of