Chapter 9: The Morning After Kyuhyun
Chan
The first thing Donghae registered was warmth. A deep, solid heat along his back, and the heavy, pleasant weight of an arm slung over his waist. The second thing was the smell—cedar and clean cotton and, underneath it all, the unique, calming scent of Hyukjae himself. He opened his eyes to the soft, gray light of a Sunday morning filtering through the blinds of a room that wasn’t his.
He was in Hyukjae’s bed.
Memory returned in a warm wave: the takeout, the clapping game, Kyuhyun’s reluctant approval. Hyukjae leading him here by the hand, not with urgency, but with a quiet certainty. The feel of those sharp features softening in the dark. The whispered conversations that eventually faded into steady, shared breathing.
The space beside him was empty now, the sheets cool. But on the pillow next to his head lay a single sheet of paper, torn from the same black binder. Hyukjae’s tight, architectural script filled the center.
Gone to get pastries. The good ones from the French place. Jisung is still asleep. Stay.
— H
Donghae pressed the note to his chest, a smile spreading across his face before he could even think to stop it. Stay. He stretched, feeling the pleasant ache in his muscles, and swung his legs out of bed. His own clothes were a pile by the dresser, but folded neatly on top was one of Hyukjae’s soft, well-worn henleys. He pulled it on. It swam on him, the collar slipping off one shoulder, the cuffs covering his hands. He rolled them up, breathing in the fabric that smelled like them both now.
The apartment was silent save for the hum of the refrigerator. He padded barefoot to the kitchen, the polished floors cool under his feet. The evidence of last night’s impromptu feast was mostly cleared, just a single bowl in the sink. The morning sun caught the steam rising from the coffee machine, which was set to keep warm. A mug was already waiting beside it—the slightly dented one with his name scrawled in permanent marker.
He was pouring the coffee when a small voice said, “Mr. Donghae!”
Jisung stood in the doorway to his bedroom, hair sticking up in wild tufts, clutching a well-loved stuffed rabbit by one ear. His eyes were wide, but his gap-toothed grin was immediate and dazzling.
“Daddy said you’d be here! He said you had a sleepover!”
Donghae’s heart did a funny, gentle flip. “He did, huh? That was nice of him.”
“Yeah. I wanted to wake you up but Daddy said you were tired.” Jisung shuffled into the kitchen, climbing onto his designated step-stool with practiced ease. He pulled a box of cereal from the cupboard. “Want some? It’s the kind with the marshmallows.”
“How could I say no to that?” Donghae fetched another bowl, moving easily in the space as if he’d done it a hundred times. “Need help with the milk?”
“I can do it,” Jisung said with grave seriousness, tipping the gallon jug with both hands. A small white river cascaded onto the counter. “Oops.”
Donghae laughed, grabbing a towel. “It’s an ocean. We’ll need a boat.”
They ate at the island, shoulders touching. Jisung narrated a complex story about his rabbit’s adventure in the laundry basket, which involved a sock monster and a heroic dive into the ‘soft abyss’ of the clean towels. Donghae listened, interjecting with appropriate gasps, his earlier nervousness dissolving in the simple, profound normalcy of it all.
“After breakfast,” Jisung announced, spoon clattering in his empty bowl, “we should build a fortress. A really big one. In the living room.”
“A fortress needs structural integrity,” Donghae said, tapping his chin. “Do we have blueprints?”
Jisung giggled. “We have blankets!”
The project was underway when the front door clicked open. Donghae, on his knees wrestling a fitted sheet over the back of the sofa, heard the footsteps pause. He looked up.
Hyukjae stood in the entryway, a white bakery box in one hand, his keys in the other. He was wind-tousled, a faint flush on his cheeks from the morning chill. His sharp eyes took in the scene: the living room transformed into a canyon of cushions and draped blankets, the coffee table turned on its side as a fort wall, Jisung’s small feet sticking out from under a quilt. And Donghae, in his shirt, hair mussed, caught in a shaft of sunlight full of dancing dust motes.
Something in Hyukjae’s expression shifted, softened so profoundly it made Donghae’s breath catch. It was more than happiness. It was a kind of quiet, awestruck recognition, as if he was seeing the final, perfect piece of a structure slide into place.
“Daddy! You’re back! Look at our fortress!” Jisung scrambled out, holding up a blanket like a banner.
“I see it,” Hyukjae said, his voice a little rough. He set the box and his keys down on the hall table. He crossed the room, bypassing Jisung’s excited tug on his coat, and knelt on the floor right beside Donghae.
He didn’t say a word. He just leaned in and pressed his lips to Donghae’s temple, a kiss so soft and deliberate it felt like a seal. A confirmation. His own scent, warm from the outside air, wrapped around Donghae.
“Good morning,” Hyukjae murmured against his skin.
Donghae’s own scent, usually so mild and careful, bloomed in the space between them—honey and vanilla, pure, unfiltered contentment. He leaned into the touch, his head finding the hollow of Hyukjae’s shoulder. “You got the good ones?”
“The best ones. They’re still warm.” Hyukjae didn’t move away. He stayed there, kneeling, his arm coming around Donghae’s back, holding him close in the middle of the blanket-strewn floor.
Jisung, utterly unfazed by this new adult behavior, wedged himself between them, a picture book in hand. “Can we read in the fortress? I’ll read it.”
“Absolutely,” Hyukjae said, his smile evident in his voice.
The next hour passed in a sun-drenched haze. They demolished the pastries, flaky crumbs littering the blanket floor. Jisung ‘read’ his book, inventing half the words, his small body a warm weight across both their laps. Hyukjae’s hand never left Donghae—sometimes tracing circles on his knee, sometimes playing idly with the oversized cuff of his own shirt on Donghae’s wrist.
At one point, Jisung dozed off, lulled by his own narration and the safety of the cocoon.
In the quiet, Hyukjae spoke, his voice low. “Kyuhyun texted me this morning.”
Donghae tensed. “Oh god. What did he say?”
“He said, and I quote, ‘If you hurt him, my vengeance will be bureaucratic and relentless. I have friends in the tax office.’” Hyukjae’s chest vibrated with a silent laugh. “Then he sent a link to a review of the bakery I was going to. So. I think we’re okay.”
Donghae let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, sinking back against Hyukjae. “He likes you. The binder won him over.”
“The binder is just a tool,” Hyukjae said, his lips brushing Donghae’s hair. “This… this is the thing the tool was meant to build. This right here.”
Donghae turned his face, looking up at him. The morning light carved the lines of Hyukjae’s face, showing the faint tiredness around his eyes, but also a profound peace that hadn’t been there months ago. “What’s on the schedule for today? After fort maintenance, of course.”
Hyukjae’s eyes crinkled. “Well, there’s a gap between 11 and 2 labeled ‘see what happens.’ I was hoping it would involve you. Maybe a walk. Maybe just more of this.”
“More of this sounds perfect.”
Jisung stirred, mumbling in his sleep. Hyukjae shifted, carefully extracting himself to lift the boy into his arms. “Nap transfer,” he whispered, carrying him to his bedroom.
Alone in the fort, Donghae listened to the soft sounds of Hyukjae tucking Jisung in, the creak of the floorboards, the whisper of a door. He looked around at the makeshift walls, at the discarded book, at the empty pastry box. He felt, viscerally, the truth of Kyuhyun’s words. He’s different.
When Hyukjae returned, he didn’t rejoin the fort. He stood at the edge, looking down at Donghae with an expression that was both tender and intensely focused.
“Come here,” Donghae said, holding out a hand.
Hyukjae took it, but instead of sitting, he pulled Donghae gently to his feet and into his arms. He held him tightly, his face buried in the omega’s neck, breathing him in. No words this time. Just the solid, steady beat of his heart against Donghae’s chest, and the silent, unmistakable language of a man who had found what he didn’t dare plan for, holding on as if he’d never let go.
Outside, a car passed. A dog barked. The ordinary world went on.
Inside, in a fortress of blankets that smelled of pastries and family, they simply stood, building a new silence together—one that felt less like quiet and more like the beginning of everything.c
Inside, in a fortress of blankets that smelled of pastries and family, they simply stood, building a new silence together—one that felt less like quiet and more like the beginning of everything.
The doorbell shattered it.
Hyukjae’s body went rigid, his arms tensing around Donghae. “Who the hell is that on a Sunday morning?” he muttered, his breath warm against Donghae’s temple.
Jisung’s bedroom door flew open. “I’ll get it!” he yelled, tiny feet slapping against the floor before either adult could move.
“Jisung, wait—” Hyukjae released Donghae, his steps quick as he followed his son. Donghae trailed behind, a thread of cold unease slipping down his spine despite the warm shirt he wore.
Jisung yanked the door open, his cheerful “Hello!” dying in his throat.
A woman stood on the threshold. She was beautiful in a sharp, polished way, like a magazine page that had been folded too many times. Her winter-white coat was impeccably tailored, but the heels of her boots were slightly scuffed. Her perfume, something floral and expensive, clashed violently with the cozy, lived-in scent of the apartment.
“Jisungie,” she said, her voice a practiced melodic tone. She knelt, arms opening. “Oh, my baby boy. Look at you.”
Jisung took a small step back, bumping into Hyukjae’s legs. His small face was a mask of confused silence.
Hyukjae’s hand came down on Jisung’s shoulder, his knuckles white. “Jieun.” The name was a flat, hard stone dropped between them. “You didn’t call.”
Jieun rose smoothly, her smile not touching her eyes, which swept over Hyukjae before landing on Donghae behind him. Her gaze scraped over the oversized shirt, the bare feet, the unmistakable intimacy of his presence in this early morning scene. Her expression cooled by several degrees.
“A surprise for my favorite boys,” she said, her attention snapping back to Hyukjae. “Can I come in? It’s freezing out here.”
Hyukjae didn’t move. “Now’s not a great time.”
“Please, Daddy?” Jisung whispered, looking up at him, caught between curiosity and a child’s ingrained politeness.
With a tight exhale, Hyukjae stepped aside. Jieun glided in, her perfume leaving a trail in the air. She surveyed the living room—the blanket fort, the two mugs on the counter, the domestic debris of a shared life. Her lip curled, just for an instant.
“Cozy,” she said.
“What do you want, Jieun.” It wasn’t a question. Hyukjae positioned himself slightly in front of Donghae, a casual, alpha protective shift that didn’t escape anyone’s notice.
“Is that any way to talk?” She gave a tinkling laugh that felt like breaking glass. “I was in the neighborhood. Thinking. About how much I’ve missed you both.” She turned her full attention to Donghae, her eyes sharp as tinted glass. “And you must be the piano teacher. Jisung’s told me so much about you on the phone. He says you’re very… nice.”
The pause was intentional, a landing strip for unspoken words.
“I’m Donghae,” he said, his voice softer than he wanted. He could feel his own scent pulling inward, defensive, honey gone flat.
“I see.” Jieun’s smile was all teeth. “Well, it’s wonderful Jisung has creative outlets. It’s so important for a child’s development, especially when their home life is… unconventional.”
The air in the room grew thin. Hyukjae took a step forward. “Get to the point.”
“Fine.” All pretense of warmth evaporated. She folded her arms, her gaze sweeping the expensive apartment. “I’ve done a lot of reflection. Made mistakes. A mother belongs with her son, Hyukjae. A child needs that foundation, that complete family unit. Not a parade of… temporary influences.” She didn’t look at Donghae again, but the target was clear. “I want to come home. I want to rebuild what we had.”
Donghae felt the words like physical blows. Temporary influences. He saw the spreadsheet in Hyukjae’s binder, the carefully planned life. He saw Jisung’s wide, hopeful eyes when he talked about mothers in storybooks. The fortress of blankets now felt like a childish fantasy.
Hyukjae laughed, a short, harsh sound. “You ran out of money. That’s what this is. The alimony stopped, and the well dried up. Don’t dress your desperation up as maternal devotion.”
Jieun’s composure cracked, revealing something frantic and hard beneath. “He’s my son! What does he have here? A part-time musician who smells like a bakery? He needs structure. He needs a mother.”
“He has a father,” Hyukjae growled, his own scent spiking with protective fury. “He has consistency and love, which is more than you ever provided. You signed away your rights for a payout. Remember?”
Jisung, frightened by the tones, shuffled back until he pressed against Donghae’s legs. Donghae automatically put a hand on his head, a gesture of comfort he’d done a dozen times. Jieun’s eyes zeroed in on that contact, and her face twisted with genuine venom.
“Don’t touch him,” she hissed, the mask gone entirely. “You have no place here. This is a family matter.”
Donghae’s hand jerked back as if burned.
Something inside him crumpled. He saw the complete picture she painted, and its awful, logical symmetry. He was the outlier. The omega comfort, the pleasant interlude. Kyuhyun’s warning echoed differently now—don’t screw this up. Staying would be screwing it up. He would be the obstacle to a mother and son reuniting, to a “complete unit.”
“Hyukjae,” Donghae whispered, the name sounding like a goodbye.
“Don’t,” Hyukjae said, turning, reading his face. “Donghae, don’t listen to a word of this. This is about a bank account, not a family.”
But the seed was buried deep, thriving in the fertile soil of Donghae’s old wounds. He took another step back, away from Jisung, away from Hyukjae’s reaching hand. He saw the conflict in Hyukjae’s eyes—the rage at Jieun, the fear for his son, the desperate need to make Donghae understand.
He couldn’t be another problem for Hyukjae to solve. He couldn’t be the reason Jisung might look back one day and ask, ‘Why didn’t I have my mom?’
“I should go,” Donghae said, his voice strangely calm. He moved toward the bedroom, a retreat from the battlefield in the living room.
“Donghae, wait!” Hyukjae’s command was frayed at the edges.
Jieun watched, a slick, satisfied look settling on her face. She had fired a single bullet and it had ricocheted exactly as she’d hoped.
In the bedroom, Donghae shucked off the soft henley. It smelled like Hyukjae, like hope. He folded it neatly, placing it on the bed beside the note that said ‘Stay.’ His own clothes felt like a foreign skin. From the living room, he heard the low, furious rumble of Hyukjae’s voice, Jieun’s higher, pleading tones, and then the devastating sound of Jisung beginning to cry.
He walked out, dressed in his yesterday’s clothes. He didn’t look at Jieun. He knelt in front of Jisung, who was hiding behind the upturned coffee table of their fortress.
“Practice your scales, maestro,” Donghae said softly, touching the boy’s tear-damp cheek once. “You’re doing so well.”
He stood and walked to the door. Hyukjae caught his wrist, the grip firm but trembling. “Don’t do this. This is what she wants. We need to talk.”
Donghae met his eyes, and in that look, he poured every ounce of his aching, foolish love and his absolute certainty that leaving was the only right choice left. “Your son needs his mother, Hyukjae. He deserves that chance.”
He pulled his wrist free and stepped out into the hall, the door closing behind him on the wreckage of the quiet morning, on the scent of pastries and perfume and grief. He didn’t look back.