Chapter 3: The Bakery Interference
Hyukjae stared at the phone in Ryeowook’s hand as if it were a live viper. “My scent is… what?”
“All over the building hallway,” Ryeowook read again, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. “He knows. He’s here. Or he was very recently.” He looked toward the apartment door, then back at Hyukjae, who was shivering violently on the futon. “Okay. New plan. No death faking. He’s already on the scene.”
Another cramp, deeper and more insistent than the last, seized Hyukjae’s lower abdomen. He cried out, his back arching off the thin mattress. The pain was a bright, sharp thing, but it was the warmth flooding behind it that was worse—a liquid, demanding heat that spread through his veins and made his thoughts slip and slide. Cedar and salt. The imaginary scent was so potent now he could taste it.
“I can’t see him like this,” Hyukjae gasped, fists clenching in the sheets.
“You don’t have a choice!” Ryeowook hissed, scurrying to the door and peering through the peephole. “He’s going to smell it through the door any second. If you don’t answer, he might call the building manager. Or an ambulance. Do you want paramedics?” He straightened up, a sudden, terrifying resolve on his face. “We’re doing this. We’re answering.” He started typing.
“What are you telling him?!”
“The truth! But, like, a customer-service version of it.” Ryeowook’s thumbs flew over the screen. “‘Little emergency. Suppressants failed. Could use…’ What’s the word… ‘assistance.’ Neutral. Clinical.” He hit send.
The response was almost instantaneous. The phone buzzed once. Ryeowook looked at it. His eyes went wide. “He says ‘Be right up.’”
“No. No, no, no.” Panic cut through the fog of heat. Hyukjae tried to push himself up, but his limbs were heavy and uncoordinated. “I look disgusting. The place is a disaster. I’m a disaster.” He could smell himself, that cloying sweetness, filling the room. It was humiliating.
Ryeowook sprang into action. He grabbed an empty box, sweeping a pile of discarded dance clothes from the floor into it. He kicked another box of unsorted kitchenware under the futon. It did almost nothing. The apartment still looked like a hurricane had hit a storage locker. A soft, decisive knock sounded at the door.
They froze.
The knock came again, firmer this time. “Hyukjae?”
Donghae’s voice. It wasn’t the easy, warm tone from their text threads about leaky faucets. It was low. Controlled. The voice of an Alpha assessing a situation. It sent a new kind of thrill, electric and terrifying, straight down Hyukjae’s spine.
Ryeowook mouthed, Oh, god, and then plastered on a smile so bright it looked painful. He unlocked the door and pulled it open a foot, blocking the gap with his body.
Donghae stood in the dim hallway. He wasn’t in his usual casual clothes or his mechanic’s coveralls. He wore dark jeans and a simple grey t-shirt that stretched across his shoulders. He was holding two blue gel ice packs. His expression was tight, concerned, but beneath that was a hyper-alert stillness. His dark eyes took in Ryeowook, then flicked past him into the apartment, searching.
“Hi,” Ryeowook squeaked. “So. Yeah. The situation is… it’s a situation.”
“I could smell it from the stairs,” Donghae said quietly. His gaze landed on Hyukjae, who had managed to sit up, clutching a pillow to his chest like a shield. Hyukjae saw Donghae’s nostrils flare almost imperceptibly. His jaw tightened. “How long?”
“Since this afternoon,” Ryeowook answered when Hyukjae couldn’t form words. “The clinic’s booked solid. His usual suppressants were… unreliable.”
Donghae nodded slowly. He held out the ice packs. “For the back of the neck. And… wherever else.” He didn’t step forward. He was holding himself at the threshold, a clear line. The scent coming from him wasn’t aggressive—it was just more. The cedar and salt amplified, clean and solid, a wall of calm against the frantic sweetness pouring from the room. It was the most comforting and destabilizing thing Hyukjae had ever experienced.
Ryeowook took the packs. “Great! Awesome. Very helpful.” He stood there, holding them, the silence thickening.
Donghae’s eyes never left Hyukjae. “Is there someone you can call? Another Alpha? A partner?” The question was careful, neutral.
Hyukjae’s breath hitched. He shook his head, the movement jerky.
“Right,” Donghae said. He seemed to come to some internal decision. His posture relaxed a fraction, but the intensity in his eyes sharpened. “Okay.”
He stepped inside.
The space of Hyukjae’s apartment seemed to shrink instantly. Donghae was just… big. His presence filled the cluttered room, not just physically, but atmospherically. The Alpha scent wasn’t a suggestion anymore; it was a fact. Hyukjae’s body responded before his mind could, a fresh, slick wave of heat washing through him. He moaned, clapping a hand over his mouth, humiliation burning his cheeks.
Donghae closed the door behind him. The lock clicked with a finality that echoed.
“This is… this is good!” Ryeowook said, his voice pitched high with panic. He shoved the ice packs into Hyukjae’s hands. The cold was a shock against his feverish skin. “You have it handled. I should… I should go. Check on my oven. It’s… it’s a very temperamental oven.”
He was backing toward the door, patting his pockets for his keys. Donghae just watched him, a slight frown on his face.
“Ryeowook, don’t you dare,” Hyukjae pleaded, but it came out as a weak whimper.
“You’re in excellent hands!” Ryeowook chirped. He reached behind Donghae, fumbled for the doorknob, and yanked the door open. He paused on the threshold, looked at Donghae’s broad back, then at Hyukjae curled miserably on the futon. A manic, decisive gleam lit his eyes.
“Right,” he said, more to himself than to them. Then, in one fluid, absurdly strong motion for a baker, he grabbed Donghae’s arm and shoved him further into the room, toward the bedroom door.
Donghae stumbled, caught off guard. “What—?”
Ryeowook didn’t answer. He just planted both hands on Donghae’s back and pushed him through the bedroom doorway. He then reached for Hyukjae, who was too stunned to resist, and hauled him off the futon, half-dragging, half-carrying him the few steps before depositing him inside the bedroom beside a bewildered Donghae.
“Ryeowook!” Hyukjae yelped.
“FINALLY!” Ryeowook shouted, his face a mask of gleeful, terrified resolve. He grabbed the bedroom door handle. “You two! Talk! Or don’t! Just… figure it out!” He slammed the door shut.
The sound of the lock engaging was a tiny, metallic snick that roared in the sudden quiet.
Then, from the other side of the door, Ryeowook’s voice, muffled but vibrating with hysterical conviction: “Use protection! Or don’t! I’ll bake a congratulations cake! A really explicit one!”
Footsteps retreated rapidly. The front door of the apartment opened and shut.
Silence.
Hyukjae was standing inches from Donghae in the semi-darkness of his own bedroom. The only light came from a streetlamp filtering through the blinds, striping Donghae’s face in shadows and gold. The air was thick, saturated. Hyukjae’s heat scent, desperate and sweet. Donghae’s Alpha scent, deep and grounding and utterly overwhelming at this proximity.
Hyukjae could hear his own heartbeat in his ears. He could see the rapid pulse at the base of Donghae’s throat. Donghae was looking at him, really looking at him, his dark eyes wide and unblinking. The confused politeness was gone. What was left was something raw, and startled, and utterly focused.
He took a shallow, shaking breath. The ice packs were dripping cold water onto his feet.
Donghae opened his mouth. Closed it. He ran a hand through his hair. “So,” he said, his voice a rough scrape of sound. “A heart emoji, huh?”