Chapter 3: The Reunion
The click of the lock was a gunshot in the silent apartment. Hyukjae shouldered the door open, his body a silhouette of exhaustion against the dim hallway light. The flight had been eighteen hours, his mind still buzzing with the sterile hum of conference rooms and the sharp, empty taste of too much coffee.
The warm, lavender-scented dark of the foyer was a physical relief.
He didn’t even have time to drop his carry-on.
A shape detached itself from the shadows by the coat rack. Donghae. He moved with a quiet urgency that spoke of hours spent waiting, listening for the elevator. He didn’t speak. His hands, cool and sure, went straight to the buckle of Hyukjae’s belt, his fingers fumbling slightly in their haste.
Hyukjae’s breath caught. All the fatigue, the tension, crystallized into a single, sharp point of need. He let the bag slide from his shoulder, thumping softly to the hardwood floor.
Donghae sank to his knees, the old boards creaking beneath him. He nuzzled the rough fabric of Hyukjae’s trousers, his breath hot even through the wool. He got the belt open, the button, the zipper. His words were a muffled prayer against the burgeoning hardness he freed into the cool air.
“Missed the taste of you,” Donghae murmured, his lips brushing the sensitive head. Hyukjae jerked. “Need you down my throat. Now.”
He didn’t ask. He took.
His mouth was a wet, searing heaven. He swallowed Hyukjae whole in one smooth, practiced glide, his nose pressing into the thatch of coarse hair at the base. Hyukjae cried out, a raw, undone sound. His hands flew to Donghae’s head, fingers tangling in the soft, dark strands, not guiding, just holding on.
“Fuck,” Hyukjae gasped. “God, fuck, Donghae.”
Donghae pulled back, his tongue swirling around the crown, lapping at the bead of moisture already gathered there. He looked up, his eyes black in the lamplight. “You’re home,” he said simply, before diving back down.
He set a brutal, worshipful pace. No teasing, no gentle warm-up. This was a reclaiming. A confirmation. His throat opened, accepting every inch, again and again, the obscene, wet sounds of his effort filling the quiet foyer. Hyukjae could feel the tight ring of muscle at the back of his throat, the flutter of his tongue along the throbbing vein underneath.
It was too much. After days of nothing but his own hand and memory, it was overwhelming. The sight of Donghae on his knees, so beautifully submissive and yet so aggressively in control of his pleasure, unraveled him.
“I’m gonna come,” Hyukjae warned, his voice strangled. He tried to pull back. Donghae’s hands clamped on his hips, nails digging in, holding him deep. A low, encouraging groan vibrated around him.
That did it.
Hyukjae’s climax tore through him with the force of a seismic shift. He shouted, his body bowing as he pumped his release down Donghae’s willing throat. Donghae took it all, swallowing diligently, his own body trembling with a desperate, unmet need. Only when Hyukjae was spent, soft, and oversensitive did he finally pull off, breathing heavily, lips slick and swollen.
He rested his forehead against Hyukjae’s thigh. Hyukjae, legs shaky, looked down at the top of his head, at the vulnerable curve of his neck. The intensity of the homecoming, the three weeks of absence, crashed over him not as relief, but as a new kind of weight.
He gently tugged Donghae to his feet. Donghae stood, wavering, his own arousal visibly tenting his soft sweatpants. Hyukjae cupped his face, his thumbs wiping the corners of his mouth.
“You,” Hyukjae said, his voice wrecked. “You unbelievable man.” He kissed him, deep and slow, tasting himself on Donghae’s tongue. It was possessive, grateful, aching.
Donghae melted into the kiss, his hands clutching at Hyukjae’s wrinkled shirt. “Welcome home,” he whispered against his lips.
Hyukjae looked past him, into the apartment. It was spotless. The air smelled of lemon polish and the ginger-scallion soup he loved. On the hall table, his mail was sorted into neat piles. The familiar, loving order of it was a balm and a knife. He’d been living in the chaos of hotel rooms and international airports, while Donghae had been here, maintaining their sanctuary, waiting.
The suitcase, still half-unpacked from the last trip, sat by the door. A pair of his own shoes, freshly polished, waited beside it.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” Hyukjae murmured into Donghae’s hair.
“I wanted to.” Donghae pulled back, his gaze scanning Hyukjae’s face. “You look tired.”
“I am tired.” He was. A deep, soul-level fatigue. “I’m also fucking wired. It’s a terrible combination.”
Donghae took his hand, leading him away from the foyer, from the symbolic suitcase. “Come on. Soup’s warm. I’ll run you a bath after.”
They sat at the kitchen island, shoulders touching. Hyukjae ate two bowls of soup under Donghae’s watchful eye. He talked about London—the rain, the terrible food, the vindication of closing the deal. He talked around the loneliness, the hollow space in the king-size bed that no pillow could fill. Donghae listened, nodding, his hand resting on Hyukjae’s thigh.
Later, in the steam-filled bathroom, Hyukjae sat between Donghae’s legs in the large soaking tub. Donghae washed his back with a soft cloth, massaging the knotted muscles of his shoulders. Hyukjae leaned his head back, closing his eyes.
“How long this time?” Donghae asked quietly. The question floated in the steam.
Hyukjae didn’t open his eyes. “Four days. Maybe five.”
“Okay.”
“It’s not okay.” Hyukjae turned, water sloshing. He faced Donghae. The honest, open worry on his face was too much. “It’s fucking not. I get back, and I’m already looking at the next departure. You get me for seventy-two hours and then you’re back to… to keeping the house perfect for a ghost.”
Donghae traced the line of Hyukjae’s collarbone. “You’re not a ghost. You’re the reason the house matters. I’m not just keeping it perfect. I’m keeping it ready. For you. There’s a difference.” He smiled, a little sad. “I like taking care of what’s yours. What’s us.”
Hyukjae kissed him, a soft, water-softened press of lips. It sparked something. The tiredness was still there, but underneath it now was a low, steady current of pure want. The kind that came from knowing time was short, from needing to fuse together before the world pulled them apart again.
He stood up in the tub, water sheeting off his body. He reached down, hauling Donghae up with him. They stepped out onto the bathmat, dripping, skin slick.
“Bed,” Hyukjae said, his voice dropping an octave.
They didn’t make it to the bed.
Hyukjae pushed Donghae back against the cool, tiled wall, the contrast of hot skin and cold ceramic making him gasp. Hyukjae’s mouth was everywhere—sucking a bruise into his neck, biting his earlobe, claiming his mouth in a wet, open kiss. His hands slid down Donghae’s slippery back, over the curve of his ass, gripping hard.
“Turn around,” Hyukjae breathed.
Donghae obeyed, pressing his palms flat against the tiles. Hyukjae leaned against him, his erection digging into the cleft of his ass. He reached for the shower gel on the shelf, squirting a generous amount into his hand. He slicked himself, then pressed two slick fingers against Donghae’s entrance.
“Still loose from this morning?” Hyukjae muttered, working one finger in easily. Donghae moaned, pushing back. He was. Still open, still pliant from Hyukjae’s relentless attention before dawn. Hyukjae added a second finger, scissoring quickly. “Good. So good for me. Always ready.”
He replaced his fingers with the head of his cock, pressing in without further preamble. The stretch was exquisite, familiar, a tight, wet heat that made Hyukjae see stars. He sank in to the root in one slow, relentless thrust, pinning Donghae to the wall.
“Mine,” Hyukjae growled, his lips against Donghae’s shoulder blade. He began to move, short, deep drives that knocked the breath from both of them. The sound was obscene—skin slapping on wet skin, their ragged grunts echoing off the tiles.
Donghae reached back, clawing at Hyukjae’s hip, urging him on. “Harder. Please, harder.”
Hyukjae obliged, his pace turning punishing. Each thrust was a declaration, a frantic attempt to bridge the gap the coming days would force open. He fucked him with a single-minded intensity, chasing not just his own release, but some proof of permanence.
He snaked a hand around Donghae’s hip, finding his cock, hard and leaking. He jerked him in time with his thrusts, his grip tight, almost rough.
“Come on,” Hyukjae panted. “Come all over this wall. Mark it. So I know you were here, wanting me, while I’m gone.”
The vulgar command, the possessive brutality of his touch, tipped Donghae over the edge. He came with a shattered cry, his release streaking the pristine tiles, his body clamping down on Hyukjae in rhythmic pulses. The intense, milking pressure was all Hyukjae could take. He buried his face in Donghae’s neck, driving in one last, final time as his own orgasm ripped through him, flooding Donghae’s depths.
They slid down the wall together, a heap of shuddering limbs on the damp bathmat. Hyukjae’s arms were locked around Donghae’s chest, his face hidden. He was shaking.
Donghae felt the shift. This wasn’t just satiation. He gently pried Hyukjae’s arms loose and turned to face him. Hyukjae’s eyes were closed, but his expression was one of stark, unguarded anguish.
“Hey,” Donghae whispered, stroking his wet hair. “What is it?”
Hyukjae shook his head, but the words tumbled out, raw and quiet. “I hate it. I hate leaving this. Leaving you. Every time, it feels like I’m tearing a piece of myself off. And I come back and you’re here, perfect, and I’m so fucking grateful, and then I look at the calendar and I have to do it again.” He opened his eyes, red-rimmed. “What if one time I come back and you’re tired of it? Tired of the goodbye in every hello?”
Donghae held his face. “Look at me. The goodbye is in the hello. That’s our life. It’s not less because it’s fractured. It’s more. Because every second we get, we make it count.” He kissed him softly. “You think I don’t feel it? The tearing? I’m the piece that gets left behind. I feel the empty space you leave. And I wait. Because what comes after the empty space is you.”
He stood, pulling Hyukjae up with him. He led him, silent now, to their bedroom. He didn’t dress the bed with fresh sheets. He pulled back the rumpled duvet, the scent of their last morning together still on the fabric, and guided Hyukjae down.
He curled around him, the big spoon, wrapping him in a warmth that had nothing to do with sex. He held him tightly, as if he could physically anchor him to this moment, this room.
Outside, the city night deepened. The suitcase in the foyer waited. The polished shoes sat ready. In four days, the cycle would begin again.
But here, now, in the dark, Donghae held on. He listened to Hyukjae’s breathing even out into sleep. He pressed his lips to the tense muscle between his shoulder blades, a silent vow in the dark.
He would wait. He would always wait. And he would always be here to catch him when he fell, exhausted, back through the door.