Chapter 3: Bathing Ritual
The week passed in a strange, suspended rhythm. The penthouse, with its intimidating views, became a shared space of quiet coexistence. Donghae left early, returned late, the smell of ozone and cold city air clinging to his coats. Hyukjae explored the vast rooms, ordered books, and tried not to feel like a ghost haunting someone else’s life. They ate dinner together in near silence, the clink of cutletry loud against the marble. The kiss from that first morning hung between them, a charged, unacknowledged thing.
But Sundays, Donghae had declared, were different.
The lake house was their Sunday place. A ceasefire zone.
This second Sunday, Hyukjae woke to find Donghae already awake, propped on an elbow beside him, just watching. The morning light through the pine trees dappled the sheets.
“Your hair is getting long,” Donghae murmured, his voice sleep-thick. He reached out and twisted a dark strand around his finger.
Hyukjae held still. “I should get it cut.”
“Don’t.” The word was firm. Donghae released the hair, his knuckles brushing Hyukjae’s cheek. “Come on. Up.”
He led him not to the minimalist en suite shower, but to a room Hyukjae hadn’t seen—a spacious bathroom centered around a huge, antique clawfoot tub. Steam already rose from the water, smelling of cedar and bergamot.
“What is this?” Hyukjae asked, his heart beginning a slow, heavy beat.
“A ritual,” Donghae said simply. He was wearing only pajama pants, the muscles of his back and shoulders shifting as he tested the water temperature with his wrist. “Turn around.”
It wasn’t a question. Hyukjae turned, facing the fogged-up window. He heard the soft sound of Donghae’s pants hitting the floor. Then strong hands settled on the hem of his thin t-shirt. Hyukjae stiffened, but allowed it, raising his arms as Donghae pulled the fabric up and over his head. The cool air of the bathroom raised goosebumps on his skin. His sweatpants and boxers followed, down his hips and legs in one smooth motion. He stood naked, exposed, staring at the opaque glass.
Donghae’s hands returned, not to caress, but to guide him firmly by the hips. “Step in.”
The water was almost painfully hot, a delicious shock that made his skin flush instantly. He sank into it, the water rising to his chest. A moment later, Donghae stepped in behind him, the water sloshing, his body a solid, radiating heat at Hyukjae’s back.
“Lean back.”
Hyukjae did, his head coming to rest against Donghae’s sternum. He was rigid, every muscle tense. This was another clause. A weird, intimate duty.
Then Donghae’s fingers were in his hair, pouring water over it, thoroughly wetting the strands. He reached for a bottle, squeezed cool, fragrant shampoo into his palm. His hands returned, fingers digging into Hyukjae’s scalp.
And Hyukjae… melted.
The tension left his shoulders in a rush. A low, involuntary groan vibrated in his throat. Donghae’s hands were magic—firm, knowing circles that worked from his temples to the nape of his neck, thumbs pressing into the tight knots at the base of his skull. It was profoundly, unbearably tender. Hyukjae closed his eyes, his head lolling back into the support of Donghae’s chest.
“That’s it,” Donghae murmured, his lips close to Hyukjae’s ear. “Just let go.”
This wasn’t the ruthless acquirer. This was the man from the library memory, the one who clung to a quiet moment. Hyukjae felt his defenses, carefully rebuilt over the silent week, turn to liquid and swirl down the drain with the suds.
Donghae rinsed his hair with careful precision, using a copper pitcher to pour clear water, his hand shielding Hyukjae’s eyes. Then he took a bar of soap, worked it into a lather between his palms.
His touch moved lower.
Soap-slick hands slid over Hyukjae’s shoulders, kneading the muscles. Down his arms, lifting each one, washing every inch. Across his collarbones, his chest. Hyukjae’s breath grew uneven. Donghae’s hands were everywhere, methodical and slow. They swept over his ribs, down the plane of his stomach. Hyukjae jerked when a thumb brushed his navel.
“Shhh,” Donghae breathed, his own breathing audible now, a little ragged near Hyukjae’s ear. “Just getting you clean.”
His hands moved again, one spreading soap over Hyukjae’s thigh, then dipping between his legs. Hyukjae gasped, his hips bucking in the water.
“Donghae—”
“I know.” The words were gritted out. Donghae’s other arm tightened around Hyukjae’s chest, holding him steady. “I know.”
His hand closed around Hyukjae’s cock, which was already hard, leaking, unbearably sensitive. He didn’t stroke him, not yet. Just held him, a firm, wet heat, while his other hand soaped lower, caressing his balls, then further back, a slippery finger circling his hole.
Hyukjae cried out, a sharp, shameful sound. His head fell back against Donghae’s shoulder. He was completely open, completely vulnerable, being washed and claimed in the same breath.
“You’re so fucking responsive,” Donghae growled, his cultured accent crumbling. “Every little touch. It drives me out of my mind.” He finally began to move his fist on Hyukjae’s cock, a slow, maddening pull. His other finger pressed, just a little, breaching him. The stretch was exquisite, aided by the soap and water. Hyukjae pushed back against it, a silent plea.
“Please,” he whispered, the word torn from him.
“Please what?” Donghae’s mouth was on his neck now, biting gently, sucking the skin. “Use your words, Hyukjae. This isn’t the silent treatment over dinner. Tell me what you want.”
“I want… I want you to fuck me.” The obscenity felt foreign on his tongue, electrifying. “Right here. Right now.”
Donghae made a sound like he’d been punched. In one fluid, powerful motion, he stood, water cascading off them both. He hauled Hyukjae up by the arms, turning him, pushing him forward over the cool, rolled edge of the tub. His chest pressed against the porcelain, his ass in the air, exposed. He heard Donghae fumbling, a foil packet tearing.
Then the blunt, wet head of Donghae’s cock was pressing where his finger had been. There was no more preparation. Just insistent, relentless pressure.
“Breathe out,” Donghae commanded, his voice ragged.
Hyukjae exhaled, and Donghae shoved in, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal, perfect stroke.
The cry that left Hyukjae was pure sensation—shock, pain, overwhelming fullness. Donghae was huge, stretching him impossibly wide. He trembled, clutching the sides of the tub.
“Fuck,” Donghae groaned, his hips flush against Hyukjae’s ass. He didn’t move, letting them both adjust. He leaned over, blanketing Hyukjae’s back, his lips against his shoulder blade. “You’re so fucking tight. Christ.” His control was in tatters.
Then he moved. A slow, deep withdrawal followed by a punishing drive back in. Hyukjae saw stars. It was raw, primal. The water sloshed around their legs with each thrust. The sound of skin slapping against skin, of Donghae’s guttural grunts, filled the steamy room.
Donghae wrapped a hand around Hyukjae’s chest, pulling him upright, his back against Donghae’s front again. The new angle was devastating, hitting a spot inside him that made his vision whiten. Donghae’s other hand snaked down, fingers digging into Hyukjae’s thigh, hiking his leg up higher over the edge of the tub to open him up even more.
“Is this what you wanted?” Donghae snarled in his ear, pistoning into him. “This what you dream about when you’re lying silent in my bed?”
“Yes,” Hyukjae sobbed, his own cock bouncing, hard and untouched. “God, yes.”
“Then come for me. Come all over this fucking tub. Show me.”
The permission, the sheer filthy command, undid him. Hyukjae’s orgasm ripped through him with no warning, violent and endless, striping the white porcelain with hot, pearlescent streaks. His body clamped down around Donghae, milking him, and with a final, broken shout, Donghae followed him over, pulsing deep inside, his teeth sinking into the junction of Hyukjae’s neck and shoulder as he emptied himself.
For long minutes, the only sounds were their ragged breaths and the drip of water from the tap. Donghae’s weight sagged against him, his softened cock still nestled inside. His hands, which had been vise-like, now smoothed over Hyukjae’s stomach, his chest, a shaky, tender apology.
Slowly, he pulled out. He turned Hyukjae around, his eyes searching his face. He looked wrecked, his hair plastered to his forehead, his expression one of awe and a hint of fear. He cupped Hyukjae’s face, his thumb wiping away a tear Hyukjae hadn’t realized he’d shed.
Without a word, he helped him from the tub, wrapped him in a thick, warm towel, and did the same for himself. He led him, silent and pliant, back to the bedroom and into the clean sheets.
Donghae pulled him close, spooning him from behind, his arm a heavy band across Hyukjae’s waist. His lips pressed against the damp hair at his nape.
“The library,” Hyukjae whispered into the quiet, his voice hoarse. “That day. You looked so angry. I smiled because… I thought you looked like you needed one.”
Donghae’s arm tightened. His breath hitched. It was the only answer he gave.
Outside, a branch tapped against the window. Hyukjae lay there, sore, sated, and utterly confused. The contract felt like ash. The memory felt like a root, digging deep. And the man holding him, whose heartbeat thudded against his back, felt like both a sanctuary and a sentence. The two years no longer felt like a countdown to freedom, but a descent into something with no map, no terms, and no clear way out.