Chapter 6: The Jjajangmyeon Dinner
The scent of garlic and soy sauce hit Donghae the moment the door swung open, a warm, savory promise that made his empty stomach clench. But it was the small, grinning face that appeared first.
“You came!” Jisung exclaimed, throwing his arms around Donghae’s legs in a tackle of a hug before he could even step over the threshold.
“I said I would,” Donghae laughed, stumbling slightly. He placed a hand on Jisung’s messy hair.
Over the boy’s head, he saw Hyukjae walking from the direction of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish towel. He wore a simple grey henley, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and he looked so comfortably, devastatingly domestic that Donghae’s breath caught.
“He’s been stationed by the window for twenty minutes,” Hyukjae said, his voice a low, warm rumble that blended with the hum of the apartment. “Come in. It’s just about ready.”
The apartment was clean but lived-in. Modern furniture was softened by a knitted throw blanket draped over a sofa, and a tower of building blocks sat neatly in a bin by the TV. The lighting was soft, golden. And the kitchen, visible through an archway, was the heart of it all. A large pot simmered on the stove, steam curling lazily toward the ceiling.
Jisung dragged Donghae by the hand. “We set your place. I picked the blue plate because it’s the biggest.”
“A strategic choice,” Donghae said, letting himself be led to the wooden table. It was scarred with faint circles and lines, the history of meals etched into its surface. Three places were set. The promised blue plate, a green one for Jisung, and a plain white one for Hyukjae. A bottle of milky makgeolli and two cups stood beside a precarious stack of Jisung’s schoolbooks.
“He insisted on ‘organizing’ his homework as a centerpiece,” Hyukjae said dryly, carrying over the heavy pot. He placed it on a trivet with a solid thunk. “Jjajangmyeon. And before the official inquiry begins—” He lifted the lid, revealing the deep black bean sauce. “—I separated the cucumbers. They’re on the side.”
Jisung peered into the pot, then gave Donghae a solemn, approving nod. “See? I told you he’d listen if you were here.”
The meal was a comfortable, messy affair. Noodles were slurped. Jisung recounted, with dramatic flourishes, his triumph in a math quiz. Hyukjae asked about Donghae’s teaching week, listening with an attentiveness that made Donghae feel truly heard. The makgeolli was sweet and faintly fizzy, loosening the last of the shyness around Donghae’s edges.
After seconds, and after Jisung had meticulously built a cucumber fort on the edge of his plate, the boy’s energy began to wane. His blinks grew longer.
“Bedtime,” Hyukjae said, not unkindly.
The usual protest was a half-hearted mumble. Jisung pushed his chair back and, instead of heading to his room, shuffled over to Donghae. He leaned heavily against his arm, the weight warm and trusting. “Goodnight, Mr. Lee. Thank you for coming to dinner.”
Donghae’s heart squeezed. He smoothed Jisung’s hair. “Thank you for having me. It was the best jjajangmyeon I’ve had in years.”
He caught Hyukjae’s gaze over Jisung’s head. The alpha’s expression was unguarded, impossibly soft.
Hyukjae led his son away, murmuring about teeth and pajamas. Donghae started clearing the table. He was stacking the dishes in the sink when he noticed the old, suitcase-style record player on a low shelf in the living room. A few vinyl records were stored neatly beside it.
He was tracing a finger over the dust cover when Hyukjae returned, the sounds of a bedtime story having faded into quiet.
“He’s out. The moment his head hit the pillow.” Hyukjae came to stand beside him, not too close, but near enough that Donghae could feel his body heat. “That’s my dad’s. One of the few things I kept.”
“Does it work?”
“Like a dream. Here.” Hyukjae carefully lifted the lid, selected a record from its sleeve, and placed it on the turntable. He set the needle down with a practiced hand. A faint crackle, then the rich, warm strains of a jazz piano filled the space, a slow, lyrical piece Donghae didn’t recognize but felt in his bones.
“Bill Evans,” Hyukjae said quietly. “My father played this when he cooked. Said it made the food taste better.”
They stood there, listening, surrounded by the lingering aroma of the meal and the history in the notes. The domesticity of it was a physical ache in Donghae’s chest. This was what he’d wanted. Not grandeur, not passion for passion’s sake. This. The quiet after the storm of a child’s day. The shared silence that wasn’t empty.
“Tea?” Hyukjae asked, his voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loud would break the spell.
“Please.”
Donghae followed him back to the kitchen. Hyukjae filled a kettle, his movements economical and sure. Donghae leaned against the counter, watching him. The line of his shoulders under the soft fabric, the deft way his hands handled the cups.
“Jisung… what he said at the museum. About his mother’s book.” Hyukjae spoke to the kettle. “He hasn’t mentioned her to anyone in a long time. Not like that. It’s usually just ‘she’s far away’ and he moves on.”
“It’s okay,” Donghae said. “He can talk about her with me. It doesn’t make me uncomfortable.”
Hyukjae turned then, leaning back against the counter opposite him, crossing his arms. The gesture wasn’t defensive, just… pensive. “I know. That’s what’s terrifying.”
The kettle began its low whistle. Hyukjae turned off the stove, poured the water over the tea leaves in a pot. The steam rose between them.
“My marriage… it wasn’t a war. It was a slow leak. We wanted different things. She found the life I wanted—this life, the routines, the school runs—stifling. And I found her restlessness… irresponsible.” He let out a short, quiet breath. “When she left, it was almost a relief. Until I realized I was alone with a three-year-old who didn’t understand why his mom wasn’t coming back from her ‘trip.’ I built a system. A good, solid, functional system. For him.”
He brought two steaming cups to the small kitchen table and sat. Donghae sat across from him.
“You,” Hyukjae said, looking directly into Donghae’s eyes, “are not part of the system. You’re a variable I didn’t account for. Jisung adores you. I…” He trailed off, shook his head. “I’m scared of messing this up. Of letting him get attached to something that might… that might not be permanent. I can’t do that to him again.”
The words hung there, honest and brutal. They mirrored Donghae’s own fears, the old wounds from being seen as a temporary comfort, a pleasant distraction until something better came along.
Donghae wrapped his hands around the warm cup. “What if,” he started, his voice soft but clear, “it’s not about being a variable in your system, or you being a risk in my life? What if it’s just about this? Dinner. Music.” He gestured between them. “This conversation. We figure it out as we go. No grand plans. Just… one step after the other.”
Hyukjae stared at him. The jazz piano swelled from the other room, a tender, climbing phrase. “One step after the other,” he repeated, as if testing the weight of the words.
He reached his hand across the table, palm up. An offering. A question.
Donghae placed his hand in Hyukjae’s. The alpha’s fingers closed, not tight, but certain. His skin was warm, slightly rough.
“I can do that,” Hyukjae murmured.
They finished their tea like that, hands linked on the table between them, talking about nothing and everything. The concert Donghae’s students were preparing for. The stubborn client at Hyukjae’s firm. The leaky faucet in Donghae’s bathroom that he’d been meaning to fix.
When the tea was gone and the record had long since ended, Donghae knew he should leave. The night had deepened outside the windows.
At the door, he slipped his shoes on. Hyukjae stood close, the space between them charged with all the unspoken things from the table.
“Thank you for dinner,” Donghae said. “For the music. For… telling me.”
Hyukjae nodded. He lifted a hand, hesitated, then gently brushed a stray strand of hair from Donghae’s forehead. The touch was electric. “Thank you for listening.”
The air shifted. Donghae leaned into the touch, just slightly. It was all the permission Hyukjae needed.
The kiss was not sudden. It was a slow convergence. Hyukjae’s mouth was soft, asking, not taking. Donghae answered, his hands coming up to clutch at the soft fabric of Hyukjae’s henley. He tasted of tea and the faint, dark sweetness of the jjajang sauce. It was warm. It was deep. It was a promise of more, of a step taken together in the quiet dark.
When they parted, their foreheads rested together. Hyukjae’s breath was uneven against Donghae’s lips.
“One step,” Hyukjae whispered.
“One step,” Donghae agreed.
The walk home was a blur of cool night air and the persistent, warm sensation on his lips. The ghost of the piano notes followed him. The echo of a child’s sleepy goodnight. The solid, sure pressure of a hand in his.
For the first time in a long time, the longing in his chest wasn’t a hollow ache. It was a space being filled, note by note, word by word, step by tentative step.
It was a space being filled, note by note, word by word, step by tentative step.
Those steps became more frequent, more assured. Piano lessons bled into shared lunches, which evolved into Wednesday night dinners that were becoming a tradition. Jisung’s blue plate waited for Donghae on the counter each week.
“Appa’s making a spreadsheet for the picnic,” Jisung announced one afternoon, his legs swinging under the piano bench. He’d just finished a shaky but determined rendition of “Für Elise.”
“A spreadsheet?” Donghae asked, raising an eyebrow.
“For the food. And the blankets. And the contingency plans if it rains.” Jisung leaned closer, whispering conspiratorially. “He has a tab for ‘ant mitigation.’”
Donghae laughed, the sound mixing with the final, fading note. “That sounds like your Appa.”
The following Saturday dawned clear and improbably warm for late autumn. The park was a tapestry of gold and crimson, leaves crunching underfoot. Hyukjae navigated their little group to a perfect spot under a vast, sprawling oak, its branches skeletal against the bright blue sky.
He did, indeed, spread out two blankets, weighting the corners with stones from a collection Jisung had procured. A large wicker basket sat beside a smaller cooler.
“This feels very organized,” Donghae remarked, helping to smooth a wrinkle from the plaid blanket.
“Ant mitigation,” Hyukjae said gravely, but his eyes were smiling.
The family arrived not with fanfare, but with a comfortable, bustling energy. First came Sora, Hyukjae’s elder sister. She had his same sharp eyes, but her expression was quicker to laugh, her movements animated. A handsome, quiet man named Minho followed, his hand resting easily at the small of her back.
“So you’re the famous piano teacher,” Sora said, sizing Donghae up with a frank curiosity that wasn’t unkind. She thrust a container of still-warm kimbap into his hands. “Hyukjae said you were patient. I hope you know what you’re getting into with this one.”
“I’m learning,” Donghae said, accepting the food gracefully.
Then came Hyukjae’s mother. Mrs. Lee was a small woman with an impressive, straight posture. Her silver hair was cut in a neat bob, and her hands, when she took Donghae’s, were strong and dry. They were baker’s hands, he realized.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Donghae-ssi,” she said. Her voice was softer than he expected. “This one doesn’t bring just anyone to picnics.” She nodded toward her son, who was studiously unpacking containers.
“The pleasure is mine,” Donghae replied, feeling strangely and warmly scrutinized.
The picnic unfolded in a lazy, delightful chaos of shared food and overlapping conversations. Mrs. Lee’s yakgwa was a masterpiece of crisp, honey-sweet pastry. Sora and Minho bickered fondly over wedding colors.
“Ivory is a shade, not a surrender,” Sora insisted, poking her fiancé’s arm.
Jisung, emboldened by the audience, demonstrated his latest piano piece on the blanket, using his fingers to tap out the melody on his knees. Donghae provided the imagined bass line with a low hum.
Mrs. Lee watched it all, her sharp eyes missing nothing. She sat beside Donghae as Hyukjae and Minho were dragged by Jisung to fly a kite that kept dive-bombing the grass.
“He seems lighter,” she said, not looking at Donghae but at her son, who was laughing as he untangled string. “The weight he’s been carrying since… well. It’s less.”
“Jisung is wonderful,” Donghae offered, unsure of how much to say.
“The boy is a gift. But a child cannot lift an adult’s burdens. Not really.” She turned her gaze on Donghae then. It was assessing, but not cold. It was the look of someone who had weighed ingredients for decades and understood balance. “Hyukjae tells me you live alone. Your family is not in the city?”
The question was casual, but it held space for a real answer. Donghae felt no pressure, only a genuine interest. He looked at his hands, then back at her kind, lined face.
“My parents passed some years ago. Car accident.” He said it simply. The old ache was there, but it was a quiet, familiar companion now. “I have an elder brother, Donghwa. He runs a cafe in Seongsu. His wife, Hyejin, handles all the pastries. She makes a chestnut mont blanc that’s illegal, it’s so good.”
The words flowed out, more than he’d shared with anyone in a long time. He told her about the cafe’s brick walls and the terrible, beautiful abstract art Donghwa insisted on displaying. He described Hyejin’s stubborn determination to perfect sourdough during the pandemic.
Mrs. Lee listened, nodding along. “A bakery family at heart, then. Even if it’s coffee and cakes.”
“I suppose so.”
Hyukjae returned then, collapsing onto the blanket with a gusty sigh, the kite finally airborne in Minho’s hands. His hair was tousled by the wind. He caught the tail end of the conversation.
“Who’s a bakery family?”
“Donghae was just telling me about his brother’s cafe in Seongsu,” his mother said, reaching over to pluck a stray leaf from Hyukjae’s sweater. “And his sister-in-law’s pastries. It sounds lovely.”
Hyukjae went very still. He looked at Donghae, a complex wave of emotion passing over his features—surprise, then a deep, tender understanding. Donghae had shared these fragments of his history, these intimate, ordinary pieces of himself, not with him first, but with his mother. It wasn’t a slight. It felt, profoundly, like trust. Like weaving a thread directly into the fabric of his family.
“You never mentioned the mont blanc,” Hyukjae said, his voice slightly rough.
“I was saving it,” Donghae replied softly, holding his gaze. “For a special occasion.”
Jisung barreled into Hyukjae’s lap, demanding a juice box. The moment broke, but the new understanding thrummed in the air between them, as real as the chill of the autumn breeze and the warmth of the sun on their faces.
Later, as the light began to slant long and golden, packing up the remnants of kimbap and failed ant mitigation, Hyukjae’s mother took Donghae’s hand again.
“You’ll bring some of that mont blanc next time,” she stated, not asked. “For a professional opinion.”
“I will,” Donghae promised, smiling.
“Good.” She patted his hand, then turned to help Sora fold a blanket. The inclusion was seamless, absolute.
In the car going home, Jisung asleep once more, Hyukjae reached across the console. This time, he didn’t hesitate. His hand found Donghae’s and held it, his thumb stroking slowly over his knuckles.
“You told her about Donghwa.”
“She asked.”
“You usually say ‘they’re not around’ and change the subject.” Hyukjae glanced at him, the city lights beginning to streak across his sharp profile. “Even with me.”
“It felt different today.” Donghae watched their joined hands. “It felt safe.”
Hyukjae brought their clasped hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to Donghae’s fingers. The gesture was so unexpectedly tender it stole the air from Donghae’s lungs.
“It is safe,” Hyukjae murmured against his skin, the words a vow wrapped in the hum of the engine and the quiet trust of the sleeping child in the back. “With me. With us. It is.”