Chapter 10: The Apology Note
The rain had been falling for two days. A steady, gray drizzle that matched the numb chill sitting in Donghae’s chest. His apartment felt too large and too silent. The piano stood closed, a monolith of polished wood he couldn’t bring himself to touch. Every student lesson today had felt like moving through thick mud, his smiles brittle and automatic.
He stood in his narrow hallway now, dripping, peeling off his damp coat. The faint, comforting scents of his own home—cinnamon from a forgotten stick on the stove, the beeswax polish he used on the piano—did nothing to warm him. Then he caught another scent, subtle but unmistakable, cutting through the damp wool.
Cedar. Clean cotton.
His eyes snapped to the banister. His coat wasn’t the only one there. Draped neatly over the wooden rail was Hyukjae’s charcoal-gray wool coat—the one he’d worn to the bakery that Sunday morning.
Donghae’s heart hammered against his ribs. He hadn’t left it. Hyukjae hadn’t been here.
But the scent was fresh. Not a memory clinging to fabric, but a recent, vivid imprint.
He shuffled forward, his wet socks whispering on the floorboards. There, wedged between the scarred wood of his door and the frame, was a small, cream-colored envelope. No address. Just his name, written in that familiar, disciplined hand.
He picked it up. The paper was thick, expensive. It smelled even more strongly of Hyukjae.
His fingers were clumsy as he tore it open. A single sheet, torn from a black binder, the punched holes still ragged on one side. Hyukjae’s script filled the page, the lines precise but the pressure of the pen forceful, indenting the paper.
He read it. Then he read it again, his back sliding down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, the rain pattering against the balcony door behind him.
Donghae,
Jisung cried for an hour after you left. He sobbed into my shoulder, asking if you were mad at him. I told him no. I told him you were the bravest person I know.
She’s gone. She left twenty minutes after you did. She saw my face and she knew. There is no coming back from that. There never was. The paperwork making her surrender parental rights is still valid. She came because the money ran out, just like I said. She won’t be back.
Jisung wants to show you his new song. He’s practicing “Heart and Soul” with both hands. It’s a catastrophe. It’s perfect.
I want to show you that she’s gone—for good. I want to show you the draft I’ve added to the binder. It’s under a new tab. It’s labelled ‘Donghae.’ It’s not a schedule. It’s a wish list.
Please let me try.
— H
P.S. I took my coat back. Seemed like a good excuse to be here. I was wrong. I don’t need an excuse.
Donghae pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. The image of Jisung crying, confused, feeling abandoned, was a physical pain. He heard Kyuhyun’s voice in his head: Don’t screw this up. He’s different. And he’d screwed it up. He’d run right into the oldest trap his own mind had set: the belief that he was disposable, that his presence was an obstacle to someone else’s “real” happiness.
But Hyukjae’s words… The bravest person I know.
A wish list.
He looked at the coat on the banister. A simple, stupidly obvious gesture. Hyukjae had come here, had stood in this hallway, had decided leaving the coat was too manipulative and had just taken it back. But he’d left the note. He’d laid himself bare on binder paper.
Donghae’s phone was in his hand before he’d consciously decided to move. He pulled up Hyukjae’s number. The call connected on the first ring.
“You got it.” Hyukjae’s voice was low, tense, stripped of all its usual assuredness.
“Yeah.”
A beat of silence, filled only with the faint sound of Hyukjae’s breathing. “Are you still on the floor?”
“How did you—”
“I sat on your floor once. After the first lesson. When Jisung said he wanted to keep you. It felt like the right place to think about you.”
Donghae’s throat closed. He swallowed hard. “Is Jisung really okay?”
“He’s… better. He doesn’t understand why you left. I tried to explain that adults are sometimes scared, even when they shouldn’t be. He asked if you were scared of Mommy.” Hyukjae’s voice hardened. “I said no. I said you were scared of being the reason I might make a mistake. He didn’t get it. He just said he wants his piano teacher back.”
“I’m so sorry, Hyukjae. I just… I saw her, and I heard everything she was saying, and it all felt true. It felt like history.”
“It wasn’t history. It was her last play. And you walked off the field before the game was over.” There was no anger in it. Just exhausted fact. “Where are we, Donghae?”
The question hung in the damp hallway air. Donghae looked at the note in his lap. Please let me try.
“What’s on the wish list?” he whispered.
Hyukjae let out a shaky breath. “Item one: A duet. Item two: You teaching me how to make that disgusting sweet popcorn Jisung loves. Item three: More blanket forts, but maybe with a real architectural plan this time. Item four…”
He trailed off. Donghae waited, his pulse in his ears.
“Item four is you. Here. Not as a visit. Not as a sleepover. As a fact.”
Donghae squeezed his eyes shut. The rain intensified, drumming against the glass. “She called me a temporary influence.”
“She’s a stranger. She knows nothing about you. She knows nothing about us.” The word ‘us’ was deliberate, solid. “The only thing temporary here is this distance. And I hate it.”
Donghae thought of Jisung’s gap-toothed grin, the weight of a small body leaning against his legs during breakfast, the sacred quiet of Hyukjae’s sleeping breath against his neck. He thought of running from it. The thought was worse than the fear.
“Can I come over?” he asked, the words cracking.
“Right now?”
“Right now. I need to… I need to see Jisung. I need to apologize to him. And I need to see you.”
There was a rustle on the other end, like Hyukjae was standing up fast. “Yeah. Yes. Come. Please.”
The drive was a blur of wet streets and swirling taillights. His hands were steady on the wheel, but his mind was racing, rehearsing, unraveling. He parked in the familiar spot. The windows of Hyukjae’s apartment glowed yellow, a beacon in the dim evening.
He took the stairs. He stood outside the door. He could hear, faintly, the plinking, discordant notes of “Heart and Soul” being played with more enthusiasm than accuracy.
He knocked.
The piano stopped. Footsteps, quick and heavy, approached. The door flew open.
Hyukjae stood there, wearing a simple gray t-shirt and jeans, his hair messy like he’d been running his hands through it. His eyes were dark, intense, searching Donghae’s face with a hunger that was almost frightening.
For a second, they just stared at each other in the doorway. Then a small body wedged between Hyukjae and the doorframe.
Jisung looked up at Donghae, his eyes wide and uncertain. He clutched a toy car in one hand.
“Hi, maestro,” Donghae said softly, kneeling down. The floor of the hallway was cold. “I’m really sorry I left so fast the other day. I wasn’t mad at you. Not even a tiny bit. I was… mixed up. And I made a mistake. Can I still listen to your new song?”
Jisung’s lower lip wobbled. He nodded, then launched himself forward, wrapping his small arms around Donghae’s neck. The hug was tight, almost desperate. “Don’t be mixed up,” Jisung mumbled into his shoulder. “Daddy gets mixed up too. We have juice boxes. They help.”
Donghae hugged him back, the relief so potent it made his eyes burn. “Juice boxes are a great idea.”
He looked up over Jisung’s head. Hyukjae was watching them, his expression raw. He reached down, a hand extended to help Donghae up. Donghae took it. Hyukjae didn’t let go. He pulled him across the threshold, closed the door, and then simply wrapped his arms around him, holding him and Jisung together in a tight, silent knot.
No perfume. Just the scent of home, of cedar and boy-child and the faint trace of Hyukjae’s skin. The fortress of blankets was gone, the living room restored to its clean, orderly state. But something else was in its place. A tangible quiet. A resolved space.
Jisung wriggled free. “I’ll get the juice!” He scampered toward the kitchen.
Hyukjae finally loosened his hold, just enough to look at Donghae’s face. His thumbs brushed the wetness from under Donghae’s eyes. “You came.”
“You wrote a wish list,” Donghae breathed.
“I did.” Hyukjae leaned his forehead against Donghae’s. “The binder’s on the counter. Tab’s open.”
Donghae walked toward the kitchen island. The black binder lay there, next to a half-juice box. He flipped past the old tabs—SCHEDULE, MEDICAL, SCHOOL—until he found a new, clean divider. On the tab, in Hyukjae’s writing, was just his name.
Behind it were not schedules, but a few simple pages. One had the numbered list Hyukjae had mentioned. Another had a rough, beautifully drawn floor plan of Donghae’s apartment, with notes about light for the piano and “space for a bigger bookshelf.” Another was blank.
It was a blueprint for a possibility. Not a demand. An invitation to co-author.
“See?” Hyukjae said softly from behind him, not touching him, just letting him look. “No more surprises. Just… plans. If you want them.”
Donghae turned. Jisung was watching from the kitchen doorway, holding two juice boxes, his world waiting to be stitched back together.
The fear was still there, a cold little stone in his gut. But it was quieter now, drowned out by the sound of a sincere heart, and the simple, profound noise of a home that had left a space for him.
He reached out and took Hyukjae’s hand. He laced their fingers together, tight.
“Okay,” Donghae said. The word felt like the first, solid note of a new song. “Let’s try.”
The single word seemed to hang, then dissolve into the kitchen’s warm air. Jisung’s answering grin was immediate, a sunburst of pure relief. He thrust a juice box into Donghae’s free hand. “See? Juice helps.”
Hyukjae’s grip on Donghae’s other hand tightened, just for a second. A silent, grateful press. Then he let go, the absence of his touch somehow more telling than its presence. “Good,” he said, his voice rough. “That’s… good.”
The evening unfolded with a fragile, careful normalcy. Donghae sat at the piano with Jisung, their shoulders touching. The boy’s small hands stumbled through the notes of “Heart and Soul,” his concentration a physical force. “Your turn, Mr. Donghae! Do the fancy part!”
Donghae’s fingers found the keys without thought. The melody flowed, rich and sure, a foundation for Jisung’s playful, choppy rhythm. They became a single, laughing sound. Donghae felt his own shoulders unlock, the rigid fear in his spine melting under the simple, uncomplicated joy of making music with this child.
He could do this. This part was easy.
From the kitchen island, Hyukjae watched them. Donghae could feel the alpha’s gaze like a gentle weight, a warm spot between his shoulder blades. Every time he glanced over, Hyukjae’s dark eyes were on him, soft with an emotion that made Donghae’s breath catch. He looked away each time, focusing on Jisung’s next wrong note, on the smooth ivory under his fingers.
“Bedtime, maestro,” Hyukjae finally said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Jisung groaned but slid off the bench, sticky from juice and triumph. He launched himself at Donghae for another hug. “You’ll be here for breakfast?”
The question, so innocent, was a landmine. Donghae hesitated. He felt Hyukjae go very still across the room.
“Not tomorrow,” Donghae said, smoothing the boy’s hair. “I have early students. But soon, okay? We’ll plan a special piano breakfast.”
It was a safe answer. A teacher’s answer. Jisung accepted it with a nod, already half-asleep on his feet as Hyukjae guided him toward the hallway.
Alone in the living room, the silence felt different. Charged. Donghae busied himself, closing the piano lid with a soft thud, aligning the bench just so. He could hear the muffled sounds of Hyukjae helping Jisung brush his teeth, the low rumble of a bedtime story.
He was standing by the balcony door, watching the city lights swim in the residual rain, when Hyukjae returned. The alpha’s footsteps were quiet on the hardwood.
“He’s out cold,” Hyukjae said. He came to stand beside Donghae, not touching, but close enough that Donghae could feel the heat radiating from him. “The past two nights were rough. This was… he needed this. Thank you.”
“I didn’t do it for you,” Donghae said, the words coming out sharper than he intended. He winced. “I mean, I did it for him. It’s easy with him.”
“I know.” Hyukjae’s voice was quiet. He turned, leaning his back against the glass, studying Donghae’s profile. “And with me?”
Donghae didn’t answer. He kept his eyes on the distant, blurred glow of a neon sign.
“You said ‘let’s try,’” Hyukjae continued. His tone was factual, not pushing. “So, try. Tell me what you’re thinking right now. The first thing.”
“I’m thinking that your wish list is beautiful,” Donghae whispered to the window. “And it terrifies me. Because I’ve seen how you execute plans. You’re thorough. You’re relentless. You succeed.” He finally looked at Hyukjae. The alpha’s face was all shadow and sharp angles in the dim light. “What happens when your thorough assessment concludes I’m not the optimal long-term fit? When the data changes? I’m not a structural problem you can solve, Hyukjae. I’m a mess of feelings that thinks running is a solution.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Hyukjae pushed off the glass, taking a single step into Donghae’s space. His hands stayed at his sides, clenched. “You think my data didn’t already include the fact that you panic? That you have a streak of self-sabotage a mile wide? It’s in the file, Donghae. Under ‘Risks.’ Right next to ‘Worth It.’”
“Don’t,” Donghae breathed, taking a step back. The wall was cool against his back. “Don’t make me a project in your binder. I can’t be another tab for you to manage.”
“You’re not.” The frustration finally broke through Hyukjae’s control, his voice grating. “God, you’re not listening. The binder was my way of showing you I was serious. It was a map. For me. So I wouldn’t get lost and fuck this up.” He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture agitated. “The wish list isn’t a project plan. It’s a… it’s a letter. To you. From me. The man who’s scared shitless too.”
The confession hung between them, raw and disarming. Donghae stared at him. He saw it then—the tired lines, the vulnerability around the eyes that no amount of alpha control could mask. Hyukjae was standing there, offering his own fears like a counterweight.
And still, Donghae’s heart built its wall, brick by frantic brick. He wanted to reach out. His muscles refused.
“I should go,” he said, the old, familiar retreat forming on his tongue.
Hyukjae didn’t protest. He just nodded, a slow, weary acceptance. “Okay.”
That single, resigned word hurt more than anger ever could. Donghae moved numbly, collecting his things. Hyukjae walked him to the door, the space between them a cold, impassable gulf.
Donghae’s hand was on the doorknob when Hyukjae spoke, his voice barely audible.
“The other thing on the wish list,” Hyukjae said. He wasn’t looking at Donghae. He was looking at the floor. “Item five. It just says ‘Him. Choosing to stay.’”
Donghae froze. The metal knob was cool and solid in his hand. He could turn it. He could walk out into the hall, into the lonely rain, back to the silent piano. He could protect the tender, bruised thing in his chest by leaving it untouched.
Outside, a siren wailed, fading into the night.
Inside, the silence was a living thing, waiting.
His fingers uncurled from the knob. He let his hand fall to his side. He didn’t turn around. He couldn’t.
But he didn’t open the door.
He just stood there, his back to Hyukjae, choosing nothing. Choosing not to leave. The wall around his heart was trembling, each brick mortared with old pain, and for the first time, he felt the strain in the structure.