Chapter 34: The First Contraction
The lavender scent was gone, buried under the clean sweat and warm, sleeping skin. Donghae was floating in that perfect, heavy limbo between sleep and waking, curled against Hyukjae’s chest. The alpha’s arm was a solid weight over his ribs, his breathing deep and even against the back of Donghae’s neck. Peace. It was a tangible thing, thrumming in the space between their heartbeats.
Then, it wasn’t.
A band of iron tightened low in his belly. It wasn’t pain, not at first. Just a deep, insistent pressure that shoved the air from his lungs. He froze, eyes flying open in the semi-darkness.
The clamp released. He exhaled shakily. False alarm. Just a Braxton Hicks. He’d had them for weeks. He settled back, trying to match his breathing to Hyukjae’s.
It hit again, sixty seconds later. Sharper this time. A visceral, internal wrench that made his fingers dig into Hyukjae’s forearm.
Hyukjae was awake instantly. Alpha reflexes. “Hae?” His voice was sleep-rough but clear. He shifted, trying to see Donghae’s face. “What’s wrong?”
“A cramp,” Donghae managed, forcing the words through clenched teeth as the pressure peaked, then ebbed. “A bad one.”
Hyukjae’s hand slid from his ribs down to the hard, round curve of his stomach. The twins were quiet, unnervingly still. “How bad?”
“Just… give me a second.”
They waited. The clock on the nightstand ticked. In the quiet, Donghae felt a slow, warm trickle between his thighs. Not much. Just a seepage.
“Hyukjae.”
“I’m here.”
“My water. I think it just broke.”
The words seemed to change the atomic structure of the room. The cozy darkness became charged, thin. Hyukjae was moving before Donghae finished speaking, flipping the bedside lamp on. The sudden light was cruel, exposing the reality on Donghae’s face.
Hyukjae threw the covers back. The small, dark patch on the sheets was confirmation. He didn’t panic. His face went utterly still, a mask of focused calm, but Donghae saw the leap of terror in his dark eyes. This was early. Too early by three weeks.
“Okay,” Hyukjae said, the word a command to himself. “Okay. Contractions?”
“Two. About a minute apart just now.” Donghae tried to sit up, and another one took him. This one was pain, bright and unequivocal, radiating from his spine around to his front. He groaned, bending forward.
Hyukjae’s palm was on his back, rubbing firm circles. “Breathe. In through the nose. Yeah, just like that.” His other hand was already grabbing his phone from the charger. He dialed with a stab of his thumb, put it on speaker, and dropped it on the bed so he could keep touching Donghae.
The ring was obnoxiously loud.
“Maternity Triage.”
“My omega is in labor. 34 weeks. Twin gestation. Water just broke. Contractions are one minute apart.” Hyukjae’s voice was clipped, factual. No room for error.
“Is he pre-registered? Name?”
“Lee Donghae. Yes, pre-registered. Under Lee Hyukjae.”
The nurse’s tone shifted, professional urgency layering her words. “You need to come in now, Alpha. Do not wait. Are the contractions strong?”
Donghae panted through the fading edge. “Yes,” he gasped.
“We’ll be ready for you. Come to the main entrance. They’ll have a wheelchair.”
The line went dead. The silence after was worse. Hyukhae was already at the closet, yanking on sweatpants and a hoodie. “Clothes. What do you need? Loose. Easy.”
“The bag,” Donghae said, the practical thought a lifeline. “It’s in the nursery closet. And the folder on the desk. The birth plan.”
Hyukjae vanished. Donghae heard the quick, heavy thump of his feet down the hall. He tried to stand. His legs were water. Another contraction built, faster this time, a tsunami gathering force deep inside him. He gripped the headboard, knuckles white, and rode it out on his feet, a low, raw sound tearing from his throat.
Hyukjae reappeared, the packed go-bag slung over one shoulder, the blue folder in his hand. He took one look at Donghae, dropped everything, and crossed the room in two strides. “None of that. I’ve got you.” He dressed Donghae with startling efficiency, guiding his shaking legs into soft cotton pants, pulling a massive sweater over his head.
“Jisung,” Donghae whispered, a new fear cutting through the physical one.
“Donghwa’s in the guest room. I’ll text him once we’re in the car. He’ll handle everything here.” Hyukjae’s voice was absolute. He bundled Donghae’s winter coat around his shoulders, then simply scooped him up, one arm under his knees, the other behind his back.
“I can walk—”
“You can’t. And I need to carry you.” It was alpha truth. Hyukjae needed the solid, actionable reality of bearing his omega’s weight.
He maneuvered them down the stairs, careful and swift. The house was a silent witness. The piano, the scattered toys, the smiley-face pancake plate still on the drying rack from yesterday morning. The front door was cold. The night air was a slap, sharp and freezing.
Hyukjae buckled him into the passenger seat like he was something precious and fragile. He threw the bag in the back, slammed Donghae’s door, and was in the driver’s seat a second later. The engine roared to life.
The streets of Seorae-ro were empty, washed in the sickly yellow of sodium lights. Hyukjae drove fast, precise, his hands steady on the wheel. Donghae clung to the dashboard, breathing through another contraction, the pain somehow sharper in the confines of the car.
“Talk to me,” Hyukjae said, his eyes fixed on the road. “Tell me what it feels like.”
“Like… my pelvis is splitting in half.” Donghae hissed. “And there’s a knife. A hot one. In my lower back.”
“They’re coming fast.” It wasn’t a question. The clinical part of Hyukjae’s brain was clearly counting the time between Donghae’s sharp intakes of breath.
“Too fast.” The fear finally broke through Donghae’s voice, a thin crack. “Hyukjae, it’s too fast. They’re too small.”
Hyukjae reached across the console, his fingers threading through Donghae’s and squeezing, hard. “Listen to me. They’re strong. You’re strong. Everything we’ve done, every scan, every check-up—they’re perfect. They’re just impatient.” He shot a glance at Donghae, his expression fierce in the dashboard glow. “Like their Appa.”
Donghae managed a choked-off sound that was almost a laugh, immediately strangled by another wave of pain. He felt a overwhelming, primal urge to push. His body was doing this now, with or without permission.
“I need to push,” he gasped, panic flooding him. “Hyukjae, I need to—”
“We’re here.” Hyukjae swung the car under the bright, glaring canopy of the hospital’s main entrance. He was out before the vehicle fully stopped, yelling at the orderly already hurrying out with a wheelchair.
He had Donghae transferred, bundled, and was pushing him through the automatic doors in a whirlwind of motion and authority. The bright, sterile lights of the reception were a shock.
“Lee Donghae,” Hyukjae barked at the triage nurse. “Twins. Labor is precipitous.”
The nurse took one look at Donghae’s pale, sweat-sheened face, at the way his body was curling in on itself, and hit a button. “Room three. They’re ready. Go now.”
Hyukjae never broke stride. The hallway tiles blurred past. Donghae gripped the cold arms of the wheelchair, his world narrowing to the pain and the sound of Hyukjae’s running footsteps behind him, and the single, terrifying, exhilarating thought screaming in time with his pulse.
They were coming. Now.male omega
The doors to the delivery suite swallowed them whole.
Chaos solidified into organized, bright-lit motion. Voices overlapped. A nurse guided Hyukjae into blue scrubs, a cap, a mask, all while another helped Donghae onto a narrow, unforgiving table. Monitors were attached, their steady beeps a new, frantic heartbeat in the room. A blood pressure cuff tightened on his arm.
“Contractions are virtually on top of each other,” a doctor stated, her eyes on the screen. She turned to Donghae, her voice softening just a degree. “Lee Donghae-ssi, you’re fully dilated. The first baby is descending very, very quickly.”
Donghae shook his head, panic a live wire in his chest. “I can’t—I need to push, I can feel it, I have to—”
“You can’t.” The doctor’s tone was kind but immovable. She placed a hand on his shuddering knee. “Your pelvic structure, the size of the twins… a natural delivery isn’t possible. It would endanger them and you. We need to perform a Caesarean. Right now.”
The words landed like a physical blow. All his vague plans, the breathing techniques he’d half-heartedly practiced, evaporated. This was out of his body’s hands entirely. A sob hitched in his throat.
Hyukjae was there, suddenly at his left side, fully gowned. Only his eyes were visible above the mask, dark and unwavering. He captured Donghae’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “They’re going to take good care of you. Of all of us. Just look at me.”
“Sir, you need to sit here.” A nurse guided a stool beside Donghae’s head, putting Hyukjae in his line of sight, a barrier between him and the clinical bustle beyond the drape they were raising across his chest.
A new person, the anesthesiologist, leaned in. “Donghae-ssi, I’m going to give you a spinal block. You’ll feel a prick in your back, then warmth. You won’t feel pain. You’ll be awake.”
He was rolled to his side, his back curved. Hyukjae held both his shoulders, a solid anchor. The pinch came, sharp and strange. Then, a spreading, heavy warmth flooded his lower body, a tide of nothingness. It was profoundly unnerving.
His legs vanished. His hips dissolved. The overwhelming, tearing urge to push just… stopped. He felt pressure, deep and insistent, but no pain. He couldn’t move his feet.
“I can’t feel it,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “Hyukjae, I can’t feel half my body.”
“I know.” Hyukjae’s thumb stroked his temple. “It’s okay. It’s what’s supposed to happen. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
There was a tugging then, a profound, internal shifting he was aware of but disconnected from, like hearing activity in another room. He stared into Hyukjae’s eyes, drowning in that familiar darkness, the only real thing in this sterile, bright universe. The scents were all wrong—antiseptic, plastic, the coppery hint of blood—but beneath Hyukjae’s surgical mask, he caught the faint, beloved trace of his alpha’s cedar and rain scent.
“You’re doing so good,” Hyukjae murmured, his voice low behind his mask. “So brave.”
A strange, suctioning sound. A concentrated silence from the other side of the drape.
Then—a sharp, indignant cry. A tiny, furious wail that sliced through the mechanical beeps.
Donghae’s breath caught. Hyukjae’s head snapped toward the sound, his grip on Donghae’s hand tightening to the point of pain.
“Time of birth, zero-three-seventeen,” the doctor announced. A moment later, a nurse appeared beside them, holding a small, squirming bundle swaddled in a striped blanket. “Appa, meet your son.”
The baby was placed on Donghae’s chest, a warm, solid weight. He had a shock of dark hair, a scrunched, furious red face, and he was utterly perfect. Donghae’s tears came then, hot and immediate, blurring his vision. He couldn’t hold him, not with his arms strapped down, but he could nuzzle his cheek against that soft head, could feel the living, breathing reality of him.
“Hi,” Donghae whispered, sobbing. “Hi, little one.”
He looked up at Hyukjae. His alpha was staring at their son, utterly still. Then his eyes, above the mask, crinkled. A tear welled, spilled over, tracing a clean path down his cheek. Then another. He was crying silent, overwhelmed tears of happiness, his gaze darting from his son to Donghae and back again.
“He’s here,” Hyukjae breathed, his voice shattered with wonder.
The tugging resumed, more urgent. Their attention was pulled back to the drape. A minute later, a second cry, slightly higher in pitch, less furious, more plaintive.
“Zero-three-nineteen. Here’s your daughter.”
The second bundle was laid beside her brother. She was quieter, her eyes slitted open, gazing blearily at nothing. A perfect, tiny mouth. Less hair. She let out a delicate sigh.
A boy. A girl. The perfect pair. The family he’d ached for, dreamed of in the quiet darkness of his old, lonely apartment, manifested here on his chest.
Hyukjae leaned down, his forehead pressing against Donghae’s, his tears now falling freely onto Donghae’s skin. He was shaking. “You did it. You amazing, perfect thing. Look what you made.”
“We made,” Donghae corrected, his voice thick.
The nurses took the babies for quick assessments, weighing, measuring. Hyukjae reluctantly let go of Donghae’s hand to follow them, to watch every move. “Four point two pounds,” he called back, his voice raw with relief. “She’s four point three. Good weights. They’re good, Hae. They’re so good.”
Donghae lay there, floating on the numbness, listening to the small, fussy sounds of his children. The medical team worked efficiently, stitching, closing. The pressure eased. Hyukjae returned to his post, a baby now cradled carefully in each arm, awkward and reverent. He showed Donghae each tiny face again.
“Call Donghwa,” Donghae said, exhaustion beginning to seep into the cracks of his euphoria. “Tell Jisung… tell him he’s a big brother.”
Hyukjae nodded, carefully passing the babies back to a nurse. He pulled his phone from beneath his gown, stepping a few feet away but staying in sight. Donghae watched him, saw his alpha’s shoulders slump as the adrenaline finally bled away.
“Hey. It’s me. Yeah. Yeah, they’re here.” Hyukjae’s voice was a soft, emotional rasp. He listened, then let out a wet, broken laugh. “A boy and a girl. Everyone’s healthy. Tell Jisung. Bring him. Bring everyone.”
He ended the call and came back, his eyes only for Donghae. “They’re on their way.” He bent, his lips close to Donghae’s ear, his whisper a warm promise in the cold room. “Our family’s on its way.”
“Our family’s on its way.” Hyukjae’s whisper was still warm against his ear when the world outside the delivery suite dissolved into a distant, echoing murmur. Donghae floated, tethered only by the residual weight in his limbs and Hyukjae’s hand now back in his. Time became granular, measured in the soft mechanical breaths of the monitors and the occasional, tiny squeak from the warmed bassinets where their children slept.
The door sighed open.
Chaos, quiet and desperate, tumbled in. Donghwa entered first, his usually impeccable hair sticking up, his eyes wide. He’d thrown a coat over his pajamas. Trailing behind him, clinging to his uncle’s hand, was Jisung. The boy’s face was pale with sleep and something like awe, his free hand rubbing a knuckle into one eye.
And then, a whirlwind of perfume and floral print, Hyukjae’s mother. She bustled past them both, her gaze laser-locked on the bassinets. She didn’t speak. She just pressed a hand to her mouth, her shoulders beginning to shake.
Jisung let go of Donghwa’s hand. He took two small, hesitant steps toward the bed, his attention divided between Donghae’s exhausted smile and the strange, small noises from across the room. “Teacher?” he whispered, the title slipping out from habit. “Appa said… the babies came out of your tummy?”
“They did, Jisung-ah,” Donghae said, his voice a raspy thread. “They were in a big hurry.”
“Are they… red like that forever?”
Hyukjae coughed, a laugh caught in his throat. “No, buddy. They’ll change. Come see.”
Hyukjae guided his son to the clear bassinets. Jisung stood on his toes, peering in. His entire body went preternaturally still. “Wow,” he breathed, the word full of holy reverence. “They’re so small. Their hands are like… grape raisins.”
“This one is your brother,” Hyukjae said, his finger hovering near the boy. “And this is your sister.”
Jisung stared, his nose almost pressed to the plastic. He processed this for a long moment. Then he turned, his expression turning abruptly serious, a miniature of his father’s negotiating face. “Appa. Can I name them?”
Hyukjae blinked, glancing at Donghae who gave a faint, yielding shrug. “You want to name them?”
“At least the boy,” Jisung bartered, as if discussing toy sharing. “My friend at school, his baby brother is named Jeno. It’s a cool name. Can we name the boy Jeno? Please?”
A soft, tearful laugh escaped Hyukjae’s mother. She finally turned from the babies, her eyes streaming. “Jeno. It’s a strong name.”
“Jeno,” Donghae repeated, testing the weight of it. It felt solid and kind in his mouth. He looked at the tiny, sleeping boy, at his shock of dark hair. “Hello, Jeno.”
“And the girl?” Hyukjae asked, his thumb brushing Jisung’s shoulder.
Jisung scrunched his face, his capacity for decision apparently spent. “I don’t know a girl’s name. You choose, Teacher.”
Donghae looked past them, out the window where the first weak strands of dawn were beginning to bleach the night sky. He thought of the relentless, beautiful march of time that had brought him here—the lonely days, the first piano lesson in his quiet studio, the fear, the lavender-scented mornings in Hyukjae’s arms. All of it collected into days. Haru.
“Haru,” he said softly.
Hyukjae turned the name over, his gaze on his daughter. “Haru.” It wasn’t a question. It was an acceptance, a final seal. “Our Jeno and our Haru.”
Hyukjae’s mother let out a muffled sob of pure joy. She swooped in, planting a kiss on Donghae’s sweaty forehead, then one on Hyukjae’s cheek. “A girl. Finally, a girl in this family of stubborn boys!” She clutched Hyukjae’s arm, her voice dropping to a dramatic, gleeful whisper. “Do you understand? All my mother’s porcelain, the jewelry box, the silk hanbok from my grandmother—it doesn’t all have to go to Sora now! I have a granddaughter! I can split it!”
Donghwa snorted, leaning against the wall. “Unbelievable. She’s five minutes old and already inheriting contested heirlooms.”
“Quiet, you,” she shot back, waving a dismissive hand at him before turning back to the bassinet, her voice melting into a stream of soft, adoring coos. “Yes, hello, precious Haru. Grandma has so many shiny things for you. And you, strong Jeno, you will get your appa’s old baseball mitt. It is fair.”
Jisung, meanwhile, had wormed his way back to Donghae’s bedside. He carefully, carefully, reached out and touched the back of Donghae’s hand where it lay on the stiff sheet. “Does it hurt a lot?”
“It did,” Donghae admitted. “Not so much now.”
“Good.” Jisung nodded, satisfied. He looked at the babies, then back at Donghae, his little face earnest. “I will teach Jeno how to build the best Lego spaceships. And I will tell Haru not to be scared of the dark. Because I’m the big brother.”
The simple declaration carved a hollow of pure, aching love in Donghae’s chest. He couldn’t speak. He just nodded, gripping Jisung’s small fingers.
Hyukjae watched them, his own throat working. He saw his first son promising the world to his new siblings. He saw his mother, already planning a legacy. He saw Donghwa, a steadfast presence in the corner, smiling softly. And he saw Donghae, radiant and shattered and whole, anchoring it all.
The night’s terror was receding, replaced by this crowded, noisy, magnificent dawn. It wasn’t just a room. It was a galaxy, violently, beautifully realigned. Hyukjae walked to the window, the first true light of day painting his profile in pale gold. He didn’t see the parking lot below. He saw the future, dense and bright and terrifying, all of it contained now within these four walls.
He turned back to the bed, to his omega, to their children. The quiet architect in him recognized the structure. It was finally, irrevocably, sound.