Chapter 29: The Midnight Cravings Run
The digital clock on the nightstand burned a toxic blue 2:07 a.m. into the dark.
Donghae was perfectly still beside him, but Hyukjae, tuned to the frequencies of this new reality, was already awake. He could feel the coiled tension in the omega’s body, a silent, urgent vibration.
“Hyukjae.”
The voice was small, strained.
“Hmm?”
“I need jjajangmyeon.”
Hyukjae blinked at the ceiling. “Okay. We can order some for lunch tomorrow.”
“No.” A hand gripped his forearm, nails biting in lightly. “I need it now. And pickles. The sour ones, not the sweet. And… and that weird grape soda Jisung likes. The one that tastes like medicine.”
The absurdity of the request didn’t even register. What registered was the desperate edge in Donghae’s whisper, the way he’d curled slightly around his stomach. This wasn’t a whim; it was a biological imperative. A command from the tiny, secret magic growing inside him.
Hyukjae threw back the covers. “Shoes and coat. It’s cold.”
Five minutes later, they were in the car, the engine a quiet growl in the sleeping residential street. Donghae was swamped in one of Hyukjae’s old university hoodies, his pajama pants visible underneath. He stared out the window, one hand pressed to his mouth, the other resting on his belly. The streetlights strobed across his pale, focused face.
The fear wasn’t gone, but it was quiet now, outshone by a larger, brighter, more expansive hope. That hope, it turned out, tasted distinctly of strawberries.
The first trimester passed in a blur of saltines and ginger tea, of sudden naps on the piano bench and Jisung’s solemn daily interrogations of Donghae’s stomach. Then, one Tuesday morning, Donghae woke to sunlight instead of nausea. He lay still, waiting for the familiar lurch. It didn’t come. He took a tentative breath. The world stayed steady.
“Hyuk?” he whispered, rolling over. “I think… I think it’s over.”
Hyukjae, already half-dressed for work, froze with his tie in his hands. He studied Donghae’s face, the new clarity in his eyes, the color back in his cheeks. A slow, relieved smile broke across his own face. “Thank god,” he breathed. He crossed the room and bent, pressing his lips first to Donghae’s forehead, then, without a second’s hesitation, to the gentle, firm curve of his stomach. It was a ritual that had started the week they told Jisung. Forehead. Stomach. A silent, double-barreled blessing.
The cravings hit two days later with the force of a minor natural disaster. Donghae was mid-way through explaining chord progressions to a ten-year-old when his brain short-circuited. All he could see, smell, and taste was the sharp, juicy burst of a perfect strawberry. He dismissed the student early.
He stood in front of the open refrigerator, bathed in its cool light, despair clawing at him. There was yogurt, leftover kimchi jjigae, a tub of salad. No strawberries. No blueberries. The desire was a physical ache in his jaw.
“I need berries,” he announced, voice tight, when Hyukjae called on his lunch break.
“I’ll pick some up,” Hyukjae said, no questions asked. He came home with four plastic clamshells. Donghae ate one standing at the kitchen island, the red juice staining his fingers. It was the best thing he had ever consumed.
The kisses continued. Every morning. Forehead. Stomach. Donghae began to anticipate them, that second press of lips against the cotton of his t-shirt, a warm point of connection to the life quietly unfolding within him. His body was changing, softening, a new, undeniable roundness firming his lower abdomen. He caught himself touching it constantly, a silent check-in.
One Saturday, they were running late for Jisung’s football game. Donghae was tugging on a pair of pre-pregnancy sweatpants, sucking in a breath to get the button fastened. It wouldn’t go.
“Here, wear these,” Hyukjae said, tossing him a pair of his own, softer athletic pants. He was smiling, a fond, teasing glint in his eye as he watched the struggle. “Don’t force it. You’re getting fat, it’s okay. It’s the good kind of fat.”
The word hung in the sunlit bedroom.
Donghae’s hands stilled on the fabric. The fondness in Hyukjae’s voice didn’t penetrate. All he heard was the word. Fat. It echoed, colliding with every old, brittle insecurity. He wasn’t just changing for Hyukjae or for the baby; he was becoming something else, something observable and mockable. His face flushed hot.
“Don’t say that,” he said, his voice low.
“What? It’s true,” Hyukjae chuckled, grabbing his keys. He missed the shift in the room’s atmosphere, the way Donghae had gone perfectly still. “You’re growing a human. A little pudge is mandatory. It’s cute.”
“It’s not pudge,” Donghae snapped, the anger sudden and sharp. “And it’s not fat. Don’t call me that.” He turned away, pulling on Hyukjae’s pants, which swam on his frame. He felt grotesque.
Hyukjae’s smile faded. “Hae, it was a joke. A bad one. I’m sorry.” He reached for him.
Donghae sidestepped the touch. “Let’s just go. We’re late.”
The car ride was silent. Jisung, sensing the tension, chattered nervously from the backseat about his likely position on the field. Donghae stared out the window, his hand resting protectively over his stomach. Hyukjae kept glancing over, his jaw tight.
At the game, perched on a fold-out chair, the hurt curdled into a hard, cold lump in Donghae’s chest. Hyukjae tried, handing him a coffee, letting their shoulders brush. Donghae didn’t lean into it.
At halftime, Jisung sprinted over, his face glowing with sweat and joy. “We’re winning! Did you see my pass?” He grabbed Donghae’s water bottle and gulped.
“You were amazing, Sungie,” Donghae said, forcing a smile.
Jisung’s eyes, so perceptive, darted between his Appa’s worried face and his Daddy’s forced smile. The joy on his face dimmed. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, buddy,” Hyukjae said quickly. “We’re just tired.”
“You had a fight,” Jisung stated. He looked at Donghae. “Did Appa do something?”
“Jisung, it’s grown-up stuff,” Hyukjae began.
“He called me fat,” Donghae said quietly. The words slipped out, petty and small, and he immediately regretted them. But the childish part of him, the part that still felt like a temporary comfort in other people’s lives, wanted an ally.
Jisung’s face transformed. His small mouth fell open in pure, unadulterated outrage. He turned on Hyukjae, planting his little cleats in the grass. “Appa!” The word was a scolding blast. “You can’t say that! That’s a bad word!”
“It’s not a bad word, son, it was just—” Hyukjae tried.
“It is!” Jisung insisted, his voice rising. Several parents nearby glanced over. “Teacher Min at school said we never comment on people’s bodies! It’s rude! Daddy’s not fat! He has the baby! The baby needs room!” He stepped closer to Donghae, a tiny, furious guardian. “You apologize right now.”
Hyukjae looked utterly floored, caught between his remorse and the surreal spectacle of his seven-year-old publicly dismantling him. The frustration on his face melted into something else—a stunned, humbled realization. He looked at Donghae, who was now staring at his lap, mortified but fiercely grateful for the small defender at his side.
“You’re right,” Hyukjae said, his voice serious and directed entirely at Jisung. He then turned to Donghae. “He’s completely right. It was a rude, thoughtless thing to say. I wasn’t thinking about how it sounded. I was only thinking about how… how much I love the way you’re changing. But I said it wrong. I’m sorry, Donghae. Truly.”
The cold lump in Donghae’s chest began to thaw. Jisung watched, arms crossed, ensuring justice was served.
“It’s okay,” Donghae murmured.
“Is it?” Hyukjae asked, his eyes searching Donghae’s.
The whistle blew for the second half. Jisung, seeing his work was done, gave a sharp, satisfied nod. “You be nicer, Appa,” he instructed, before sprinting back onto the field.
They sat in the aftermath. The cheers around them felt distant.
“I am an idiot,” Hyukjae said softly, not taking his eyes off the game.
“Yeah,” Donghae agreed, but he let his hand find Hyukjae’s on the armrest between them. “But you’re my idiot.”
That night, after Jisung was asleep, victorious and chattering about his game-winning assist, Hyukjae found Donghae in the nursery-to-be. It was still just a spare room with stacked boxes, but Donghae was standing in the middle of it, his hands on the swell of his stomach beneath his pyjamas.
Hyukjae leaned in the doorway. “I never want you to feel like anything less than miraculous,” he said, the words raw in the quiet.
Donghae looked at him. “Then don’t use words that other people used to make me feel small. Even as a joke.”
“I won’t.” Hyukjae crossed the space. He didn’t kiss him. He just knelt, slowly, and pressed his ear against Donghae’s stomach, his arms wrapping around his hips. He held on, listening. Donghae carded his fingers through Hyukjae’s hair.
“He defended you,” Hyukjae mumbled against the fabric, his voice thick.
“He did.”
“He’s going to be a hell of a big brother.”
“He already is.”
Hyukjae looked up, his eyes gleaming in the dim light from the hall. “And you’re not fat. You’re… you’re everything.”
This time, when the kiss came, it started at Donghae’s stomach, Hyukjae’s lips pressing firmly there first—a silent, corrected apology—before traveling up to find his mouth. It tasted like blueberries and forgiveness, and the profound, unshakeable certainty of a family learning, in real time, how to be gentle with each other.
The fear wasn’t gone, but it was quiet now, outshone by a larger, brighter, more expansive hope. That hope carried them through the next two weeks, a fragile thing balanced against the daily reality of nausea and fatigue. Jisung’s handmade chart, taped to the refrigerator, became their scripture.
“Appa, did you give Daddy his ginger tea?” Jisung would ask, pointer finger tapping the ‘9 AM’ box. Hyukjae always saluted. “Yes, sir.”
The appointment for the first scanning loomed on the calendar, a single red circle that seemed to pulse. Donghae’s nerves returned the morning of, sharp and metallic on his tongue. He dressed slowly, his fingers fumbling over the buttons of his softest shirt. Hyukjae watched from the bed, his own anxiety masked behind a calm so practiced it was almost convincing.
“It’s just a look,” Hyukjae said, pulling on a clean sweater. “To make sure everything’s on track.”
“I know,” Donghae whispered. He did know. But knowing and feeling were continents apart. The what-ifs, those old monsters, had crept back from the edges during the sleepless hours before dawn. What if the secret magic had faded? What if it was all just a beautiful dream his body had conjured?
The clinic was all soft lighting and muted beiges, smelling of antiseptic and air freshener. It was too quiet. The sound of Hyukjae’s knee bouncing a rapid, nervous rhythm against the plastic chair was the only percussion. Donghae reached over and stilled it with his hand, lacing their fingers together. Hyukjae’s palm was damp.
When the nurse called his name, Donghae’s breath hitched. Hyukjae stood with him, a solid presence at his side.
The examination room was cold. The paper on the table crinkled loudly under Donghae as he lay back. The technician, a woman with a kind smile, squeezed clear gel onto his lower abdomen. It was colder. Donghae flinched. Hyukjae’s grip on his hand tightened.
“Just relax,” the technician said softly, moving the transducer. The monitor was a blur of gray static, then shapes began to resolve. A black, pulsing circle. A rhythmic flash. A heartbeat, swift and strong, filled the small room. Woosh-woosh-woosh-woosh.
Donghae’s own heart slammed against his ribs. He heard Hyukjae exhale, a shaky, wondrous sound. “That’s it?” Hyukjae asked, his voice rough.
“That’s your baby’s heartbeat,” the technician confirmed. She moved the wand, tracing contours. “Everything looks good so far. Nice and strong.”
Donghae closed his eyes, letting the sound wash over him. The hope solidified, became real in that steady, aquatic rhythm. His eyes stung. Hyukjae brought their joined hands to his lips, kissing Donghae’s knuckles once, hard.
The technician was quiet for a moment, her brow furrowed slightly in concentration. She adjusted a dial, zooming in. She moved the transducer to a different angle, pressed a little firmer. Donghae’s stomach muscles tensed.
“Hmm,” she said, a casual, professional sound.
The sound was a ice pick to the moment. Donghae’s eyes flew open. He stared at the screen, but the grainy images meant nothing to him. Only that ‘hmm’ meant everything. His breath stalled in his chest. Hyukjae’s hand went rigid around his.
“What?” Donghae managed, the word a dry crackle. “What is it?”
The technician’s face was unreadable, focused on the monitor. “Just getting a clearer measurement here.” She moved the wand again, pausing, then nodding to herself. She tapped a key, and the image froze. Two black ovals, side by side. Two tiny, flickering lights pulsing within them, out of sync but equally frantic.
“Doctor Kim will be in to discuss everything,” the technician said, her smile returning, wider now. She wiped the gel from Donghae’s skin and left the room.
The silence she left behind was absolute and terrifying. Discuss? Discuss what? Donghae pushed himself up on his elbows, his face pale. Hyukjae was staring at the frozen image on the screen, his expression blank with confusion.
“What did she see?” Donghae’s voice was a thread. “Hyukjae, what’s wrong?” The old fears roared back, louder, drowning out the heartbeat still echoing in his ears. Something was abnormal. Something was missing. His mind raced through every terrible story he’d ever overheard.
The door opened. Doctor Kim, an older beta with a calm demeanor, entered with a file. He glanced at the screen, then at their clenched hands, their wide eyes.
“I see the tech got a good image,” he said, pulling up a stool. “So, everything looks perfectly healthy. Growth is right on target for this stage.”
“Then why…” Donghae interrupted, unable to bear it. “Why did she… her voice, she sounded…”
Doctor Kim’s eyes softened. He turned the monitor slightly toward them. He pointed with his pen. “This,” he said, tapping one pulsating light. “Is one perfectly healthy baby.” He moved the pen to the second, distinct flicker. “And this is the other one. The measurement was tricky because there are two in there. That’s all.”
The words landed, but they didn’t compute. They bounced off the wall of Donghae’s panic. He blinked. Hyukjae made a sound like he’d been punched.
“Two?” Hyukjae repeated, dumbfounded.
“Twins,” Doctor Kim said, his smile breaking into a grin. “Nothing’s wrong, Mr. Lee. You’re just having twins.”
The correction of the universe was a physical thing. The pressure in Donghae’s chest inverted, melted, exploded upward. A hysterical gasp escaped him. He looked from the doctor’s face to the screen, where two heartbeats now screamed their existence. Not a problem. A multiplication.
“Twins,” Donghae whispered. He looked at Hyukjae, whose mouth was slightly agape, his sharp features slack with pure shock.
“Holy shit,” Hyukjae breathed, the crude word puncturing the clinical air. He laughed, a short, disbelieving burst. “You’re kidding.”
“I do not kid about twins,” Doctor Kim said cheerfully, standing. “I’ll give you two a moment. The nurse will be in with your paperwork and some information on twin pregnancies.”
The door clicked shut. The room held its breath. Donghae slid off the table, his legs unsteady. He stood before the screen, staring at the two little universes. Hyukjae came up behind him, his hands settling on Donghae’s hips, his chin resting on Donghae’s shoulder. They watched the silent, gray proof.
“Two,” Hyukjae said again, his voice vibrating through Donghae’s back. “No wonder you’ve been so sick.”
A laugh bubbled out of Donghae, edged with mild hysteria. “I’m not just building a baby. I’m building a team.” The reality began to cascade, practical and overwhelming. Two cribs. Double the diapers. His slender frame stretched to accommodate not one, but two. Jisung, outnumbered.
Hyukjae turned him around, his dark eyes blazing with a frenetic, joyous energy. “We need a bigger apartment. A bigger car. We need to tell Jisung he’s not just a big brother, he’s a… a general.”
“He’ll be thrilled,” Donghae said, the truth of it dawning. “He’ll think he won the lottery.”
Hyukjae kissed him then, hard and fast, a seal on the madness. When he pulled back, he was grinning, that rare, unguarded grin that transformed his whole face. “My love isn’t a pie, huh?” he murmured, quoting his own night-time wisdom back at him. “Turns out, it’s a buy-one-get-one-free deal.”
Donghae swatted his arm, but he was smiling too, a wild, uncontrollable smile. The momentum of the news carried them out of the room, down the hall, past the nodding receptionist. They hit the sidewalk, the afternoon sun glaring and ordinary. Hyukjae stopped, pulling Donghae to a halt beside him.
He looked down at Donghae’s stomach, then up at his face, his expression shifting from joy to something more profound, more serious. “You,” he said, his voice low and full of awe. “You are doing this. You’re growing two whole people.”
The weight of it, the honor and the terror, settled over Donghae like a cloak. He leaned into Hyukjae’s side as they walked to the car. The world hadn’t changed—the traffic still snarled, a pigeon pecked at a discarded wrapper—but their place in it had fundamentally, irrevocably split. From one heartbeat to two. From a family of three to a future of five. The path ahead was suddenly, beautifully, twice as crowded.
The fear wasn’t gone, but it was quiet now, outshone by a larger, brighter, more expansive hope. It lingered in the background, a faint hum behind the new, sharper details of their days: the prenatal vitamins next to the coffee maker, the hushed, grinning conversations after Jisung was asleep, the way Hyukjae’s hand now automatically sought the small of Donghae’s back, steadying, claiming, reveling.
“We should tell people,” Hyukjae said one Saturday morning, his chin hooked over Donghae’s shoulder as they watched Jisung conquer his cereal. “The people who matter. Before you start showing and I accidentally blurt it out to the dry cleaner.”
Donghae leaned back into him, savoring the solid warmth. “Who’s ‘people’?”
“My mom. My sister. A couple friends from the firm.” Hyukjae’s voice was casual, but his arms tightened slightly around Donghae’s middle. “Your brother. Maybe a few of your teacher friends. Have them over. This weekend.”
It was fast. It was public. It was a declaration. Donghae’s old, nervous instincts prickled—what if it’s too soon, what if something happens, what if. He silenced them by covering Hyukjae’s hands with his own, lacing their fingers together over his stomach. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s have a party.”
Hyukjae moved with the focused efficiency of a military campaign. Invitations were sent via quick, exuberant texts. The grocery list grew long with snack foods and non-alcoholic cider. He even bought new cushions for the worn sofa.
The apartment filled that Sunday afternoon with a low, happy din of overlapping conversations and the smell of braised beef and fresh bread. Hyukjae’s mother, a petite woman with sharp eyes and Hyukjae’s stubborn jaw, commanded the kitchen. His sister, Mina, her laugh a louder, brighter version of his, arranged flowers in a vase. Donghae’s brother, a cellist with a more subdued energy, chatted with a few of Donghae’s colleagues by the window.
Jisung was a proton of energy, buzzing between knees, showing everyone his Lego castle and explaining, seriously, that Daddy had secret magic and needed quiet time. He’d been entrusted with the news, sworn to secrecy until Appa made the announcement. He took this duty with gravitational seriousness.
Hyukjae clinked a spoon against his glass. The room settled, faces turning toward them, expectant and warm. Donghae felt his pulse in his throat. Hyukhae’s hand found his, their palms slightly damp.
“So,” Hyukjae began, a rare, unguarded smile softening his usually severe features. “Thanks for coming. We wanted to… share something with all of you.” He glanced at Donghae, his dark eyes shimmering. “We’re having a baby. Donghae’s pregnant. We’re… we’re going to have a baby.”
The reaction was a wave—a collective gasp, then a surge of sound: cheers, clapping, a sharp sob from Hyukjae’s mother. They were engulfed. Hands patted Hyukjae’s back, shoulders. Donghae was drawn into a dozen careful hugs, gentle hands on his arms, his back, avoiding his middle as if it were already sacred ground. Congratulations wrapped around them like a blanket.
In the celebratory chaos, Jisung tugged on his grandmother’s sleeve. She bent down, her expertly dyed black hair swinging forward. “Halmeoni,” he said, his voice carrying in a sudden lull. He pointed a stern finger at Hyukjae across the room. “Appa called Daddy fat this morning. He said his pants were getting tight. That’s not nice.”
A profound silence gripped the corner of the room where they stood. Then Hyukjae’s mother straightened up. Her gaze sliced through the crowd and pinned her son where he stood, laughing with a friend.
“Lee Hyukjae,” she said. Her voice was low, calm, and utterly lethal.
All side conversations died. Hyukjae’s smile froze. “Um.”
“Did you,” his mother continued, moving toward him with a quiet, terrifying grace, “call Donghae fat?”
Donghae’s eyes went wide. He opened his mouth to explain—it had been a clumsy, teasing comment about the button on his sweatpants, meant in private, fondly—but Mina beat him to it.
“Hyuk! You didn’t!” Mina swatted his arm, then immediately turned to Donghae, her expression morphing into theatrical sympathy. “You poor thing. Is he being an alpha brute? Do you need more pillows? Have you eaten enough?” She was already steering Donghae toward the plush armchair. “Sit. Sit. I’ll get you more kimchi. You need the good fermented kind.”
Their mother joined the fussing, tucking a throw blanket around Donghae’s legs. “Your body is doing miraculous, difficult work. It is not ‘fat’. It is life.” She shot a searing look back at Hyukjae, who stood abandoned by his friend, looking utterly betrayed. “Some people have the sensitivity of a concrete block.”
Hyukjae slumped against the kitchen island. He dragged a hand down his face. “It was a joke,” he muttered to the room at large. “A private, domestic joke. About sweatpants.” He looked at Jisung, who was now proudly accepting a juice box from his aunt. “My own son. My blood. Threw me to the wolves.”
“You deserved it,” Mina sing-songed from the couch, where she was now hand-feeding Donghae a slice of pear.
Hyukjae shook his head, his shoulders sinking in an exaggerated slump. He caught Donghae’s eye. “Do you see this?” he said, gesturing vaguely at the women now debating the best prenatal yoga studios. “My own family. Turning on me. Choosing sides. It’s a mutiny.”
Donghae took a bite of the pear, the sweetness bursting on his tongue. He leaned back into the cushions, the blanket cozy around him, surrounded by this vibrant, overwhelming, loving noise. A profound, cheeky contentment settled over him. He smiled, a slow, beatific thing.
“Well,” Donghae said, his voice cutting through the gentle scolding and advice. Everyone turned to him. He shrugged, his eyes glinting with quiet laughter as he looked at Hyukjae’s put-upon expression, at Jisung’s proud grin, at the hands ready to fuss over him. “Looks like I’m taking care of four babies now.” He patted his stomach. “This one. Jisung. You.” He nodded at Hyukjae. “And definitely your ego.”
The room exploded in laughter. Hyukjae’s affronted facade cracked, a genuine, helpless grin spreading across his face. He pushed off the island and walked over, bending down to kiss Donghae squarely on the mouth, a soft, lingering press that silenced the last of the giggles.
“Fine,” he whispered against Donghae’s lips, for only him to hear. His voice was rough with affection. “I’m your baby, too. But I’m the biggest one.”
“Obviously,” Donghae whispered back, and kissed him again.