Chapter 23: Sunday Morning Routine
The smell of coffee was what woke him, rich and dark, threading through the penthouse’s filtered air. It was a weekday smell. A Tuesday smell.
Hyukjae stretched under the impossibly soft duvet, his body aching in familiar, well-used places. The bond mark on his neck pulsed faintly, not with pain, but with a low, warm awareness. He hadn’t planned to stay the night again, but Donghae’s bed was a gravitational pull, and the alpha’s quiet “stay” had been less a question and more a settled fact.
He padded out of the bedroom, the cool floorboards smooth under his bare feet. The morning light through the floor-to-ceiling windows was sharp, painting everything in clean lines and long shadows. The source of the coffee scent, and several others—burnt, buttery, oddly metallic—led him to the kitchen.
The scene was surreal.
Donghae stood at the vast marble island, backlit by the morning sun, wearing tailored sleep pants and a stark white apron that looked like it had never been used. His broad shoulders were tense. He was frowning at a non-stick pan with the ferocious concentration he usually reserved for merger documents. A bowl of lumpy batter sat to one side. A single, charred pancake, dark as a tire skid mark, lay discarded on a plate.
“Hey,” Hyukjae said, his voice still rough with sleep.
Donghae started, almost dropping the spatula. “You’re up. I was trying to be quiet.”
“The smoke alarm would have been louder.” Hyukjae leaned against the doorway, a smile tugging at his lips. “What’s all this?”
A muscle ticked in Donghae’s jaw. “Breakfast.”
“Is it? I thought maybe you were conducting a forensic analysis of carbon.”
Donghae shot him a look that was half-annoyance, half-amusement. “It’s harder than it looks. The heat distribution on this burner is inconsistent.”
“Right. It’s the burner’s fault.” Hyukjae pushed off the doorway and moved into the kitchen. He reached around Donghae—catching a wave of his clean, morning-alpha scent—and turned the knob on the stove. “You had it on ‘incinerate.’ Here, let me.”
He went to take the spatula. Their fingers brushed. A simple touch, but it sent a static jolt up Hyukjae’s arm, a pleasant aftershock of their new, profound proximity. Donghae didn’t let go immediately. He held Hyukjae’s gaze for a breath, the intensity in his dark eyes softening into something else. Something vulnerable.
“I’ve never done this before,” Donghae admitted, finally relinquishing the utensil.
“Made pancakes?”
“Cooked for anyone.”
The statement hung there, simple and heavy. Hyukjae’s chest tightened. He busied himself with the batter, giving it a vigorous stir. “Well, everyone’s first pancake is a sacrificial offering to the kitchen gods. It’s a rule.” He poured a smoother circle into the re-heated pan. “What made you start today?”
Donghae leaned against the counter opposite him, crossing his arms. He watched Hyukjae’s hands. “You mentioned your mother used to make them for you after a difficult week. You had a difficult week.”
Hyukjae paused, the memory washing over him—the comfort of his mother’s kitchen, the smell of vanilla, a childhood scar kissed better. He’d mentioned it in a throwaway line last night, curled on the sofa. Donghae had been scrolling through reports on his tablet, seemingly only half-listening.
He’d heard every word.
“So this is my prescription?” Hyukjae asked, aiming for lightness as he flipped the pancake. It landed perfectly, golden-brown.
“No.” Donghae’s reply was immediate. Firm. “This is me. Trying.”
They ate at the island, perched on stools, knees almost touching. Hyukjae had salvaged a stack of decent pancakes. Donghae drowned his in a truly alarming amount of maple syrup.
“My workshop today is the advanced jazz group,” Hyukjae said around a mouthful. “They’re all preparing for showcases. Lots of big, anxious energy. I’ll probably come home smelling like other people’s stress sweat and floor wax.”
“Home?” Donghae asked, his fork hovering.
Hyukjae froze. The word had slipped out, unguarded. He looked at the key on the counter, the one he’d placed there after unlocking the door last night. He met Donghae’s gaze. “Yeah. Here. If that’s…”
“It is.” Donghae resumed eating. “I have a board meeting at three. It’ll run long. There’s a catered dinner, but I’ll probably skip it.”
“Polystyrene boxes?” Hyukjae guessed, recalling his hatred.
“Exactly. The squeaking is institutional.”
They fell into an easy quiet, the city waking up below them. Hyukjae found himself talking about the scar on his knee—a fall from a tree at twelve, trying to impress a beta girl who lived next door. Donghae listened, his eyes tracking the animated movements of Hyukjae’s hands.
When Hyukjae asked about Donghae’s childhood, the answers were slower, more careful. Boarding schools. Business seminars as summer camp. A father who discussed market trends over breakfast. The details were sparse, factual, devoid of the warm, chaotic texture of Hyukjae’s memories. But Donghae never looked away. And halfway through his clinical description of a childhood defined by expectations, he reached across the counter and covered Hyukjae’s hand with his own. His thumb traced the line of Hyukjae’s knuckles, a silent apology for the lack of better stories.
After they cleaned up—Donghae washing, Hyukjae drying, their shoulders brushing—Donghae led him down a hallway opposite the bedroom.
“I did something,” he said, opening a door.
It was a walk-in closet, empty except for a row of wooden hangers and a single, high shelf. It smelled of cedar and fresh paint. Clean, blank, waiting.
“For your things,” Donghae said, his voice oddly formal. “If you want. The doctor said… sustained contact. It seemed inefficient to keep lugging a duffel bag back and forth. This is more practical.”
Hyukjae stepped inside. The space was generous. It wasn’t a gesture of grand romance; it was a logical solution, presented with Donghae’s characteristic efficiency. But the act of creating space, of physically clearing a part of his pristine, controlled world for Hyukjae’s mess, was more intimate than any declaration.
He thought of his cramped apartment, of the single hoodie he’d brought over last time—the soft, grey one with the faded logo he slept in. It was currently draped over the chair in Donghae’s bedroom.
“Hold on,” Hyukjae said.
He walked back to the bedroom, retrieved the hoodie, and returned to the closet. Donghae still stood in the doorway, watching.
Hyukjae took a wooden hanger, slid the hoodie onto it, and placed it right in the center of the empty rail. It looked small and lonely there, a splash of washed-out grey in the void. A first claim.
“There,” Hyukjae said, his throat tight. “Now it’s practical.”
Donghae’s gaze moved from the hoodie to Hyukjae’s face. He didn’t smile, but the severe lines of his expression dissolved into something profoundly settled. He stepped into the closet, the space suddenly feeling much smaller with both of them in it. He didn’t kiss Hyukjae. He simply rested his forehead against Hyukjae’s, their breaths mingling in the cedar-scented air.
“Good,” Donghae murmured.
Later, as Hyukjae tied his shoes by the front door—double-knotting them, just in case—Donghae stood holding his briefcase, already the picture of the executive.
“Your class ends at four?”
“Four-thirty,” Hyukjae corrected, standing up.
“I’ll be in my meeting. But my driver will be outside the studio at four thirty-five. His name is Minho. He’ll bring you here.” It wasn’t a question.
Hyukjae should have bristled at the assumption, the effortless orchestration of his day. But he saw the slight tension in Donghae’s shoulders, the way his eyes searched Hyukjae’s for any sign of refusal. This was how Donghae cared. With actions, with solutions, with silent, watchful efficiency.
“Okay,” Hyukjae agreed. He stepped forward, kissed Donghae quickly, tasting coffee and maple syrup. “Try not to terrify your board members too much.”
“I make no promises.”
Hyukjae was halfway out the door when Donghae spoke again, his voice stopping Hyukjae in the hallway.
“Hyukjae.”
“Yeah?”
Donghae’s hand was on the doorframe. “The girl. The beta next door. When you fell out of the tree.”
“What about her?”
“Was she impressed?”
Hyukjae blinked, then a laugh bubbled out of him, bright and startled. “No. She called me an idiot and went back to reading her comic book.”
A slow, deep smile spread across Donghae’s face, the kind that transformed him completely. “Good,” he said again, and softly closed the door.
Hyukjae stood in the silent, empty hallway, the echo of that smile warming him more than the morning sun. He touched the key in his pocket, then headed for the elevator, the ghost of a dance combination already taking shape in his mind, his body feeling lighter, more his own, than it had in years.
The elevator doors sighed shut, sealing him in muted brass and his own reflection. He jabbed the lobby button, then leaned against the wall, letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His cheek still tingled where Donghae’s stubble had brushed him during that closet forehead touch, a brandless burn he found himself pressing a finger to.
The dance studio was its usual chaotic symphony of squeaking soles and shouted counts. Hyukjae threw himself into the work, correcting a dip here, demonstrating a sharp turn there. His body responded with its old fluency, but his mind kept drifting to a quiet kitchen, to the weight of a hand over his. During a water break, one of his students, a perceptive beta girl named Soojin, nudged him. “You’re humming, Hyukjae-ssi. And you never hum. It’s weird.”
“Am I?” Hyukjae took a swig from his bottle, the water tasting better than usual. “Must be the new floor wax. It’s euphoric.”
She rolled her eyes, but smiled.
At four twenty-eight, he dismissed the class, his muscles pleasantly weary. He changed quickly, tossing his damp practice clothes into his bag. The grey hoodie was missing from its usual spot, and the fact that he knew exactly where it was—hanging alone in a cedar closet miles away—sent a warm, quiet thrill through him. He’d never been in love, didn’t have a map for that terrain, but this? This constant, low-grade happiness when he thought of Donghae, this physical ease that settled in his bones just knowing the alpha existed? It was closer than anything else had ever been.
He pushed open the studio’s back door, expecting a black sedan. Instead, Donghae leaned against the building’s brick wall, still in his board meeting suit but with the tie loosened and the first two buttons of his shirt undone. The late afternoon sun caught the silver in his watch.
“Minho had a family thing,” Donghae said by way of greeting, pushing off the wall. His dark eyes scanned Hyukjae from head to toe, a visual inventory that felt like a touch. “I got out early. The meeting was pointless.”
“You drove yourself?” Hyukjae asked, falling into step beside him as Donghae led them toward a parked car.
“I delegated the terror.” Donghae’s hand found the small of Hyukjae’s back, not guiding, just resting there, his palm a firm, warm pressure through the thin fabric of Hyukjae’s tee. It was a possessive, casual claim that made Hyukjae’s step hitch. “You smell like sweat and hard work.”
“Sorry, I should’ve showered—”
“Don’t.” Donghae’s voice was low. “I like it. It’s you.”
Inside the car, the world hushed. Donghae started the engine but didn’t pull out immediately. He just looked at Hyukjae, the quiet between them thick and charged. Then he reached over, his fingers sliding into Hyukjae’s hair, cupping the back of his head. His thumb stroked the sensitive skin behind Hyukjae’s ear, slow and deliberate. It wasn’t a move toward a kiss. It was the move itself, the touch for its own sake.
“Long day?” Donghae murmured, his other hand coming up to cradle Hyukjae’s jaw, his calloused thumb brushing over Hyukjae’s bottom lip.
Hyukjae’s breath caught. He leaned into the touch, a silent permission that came from somewhere deeper than thought. His body unlocked, tension from the day melting under the alpha’s hands. “It was okay. Better now.”
Donghae hummed, a sound of satisfaction that vibrated in the closed space. He leaned closer, not to kiss, but to nuzzle his nose along Hyukjae’s jawline, inhaling deeply. His lips brushed the bond mark, feather-light. “Mine,” he whispered, the word a hot puff against Hyukjae’s neck. It wasn’t a question. It was a reaffirmation, a touchstone.
Hyukjae turned his head, finally meeting Donghae’s gaze. The alpha’s eyes were dark, intent, but soft at the edges. Hyukjae smiled, a real, unguarded one that didn’t hide behind laughter. He brought his own hand up, covering Donghae’s where it rested against his cheek, lacing their fingers together. He felt it then, the profound rightness the doctor had talked about—not a fiery passion, but a deep, cellular contentment. When Donghae was near, every part of him, mind and body, settled into a state of natural, quiet joy.
Donghae searched his face, reading the openness there. A slow smile spread across his own features, erasing the last remnants of his boardroom severity. He finally pulled back, but kept one hand anchored on Hyukjae’s thigh, a constant point of contact as he navigated the car into the evening traffic. His thumb drew idle circles on the denim, a silent, persistent conversation. Hyukjae watched the city blur past, the key in his pocket feeling less like an object and more like a promise, the steady warmth of Donghae’s hand on his leg a guarantee of home.