Chapter Text
Lee Donghae was fifteen years old the first time he caught Lee Hyukjae's scent.
Not that he understood what that meant back then. He only knew that the boy half a head taller walked over, looked down at him, and asked his name. And when he leaned close enough, there was something—dry cedar, a hint of tobacco—that made Donghae's chest feel tight in a way he couldn't explain. Like his ribs had suddenly shrunk, leaving no room for his heart.
Later, he learned that boy was the best dancer in the company. That girls and boys lined up outside the practice room just to watch him. That he was an alpha, and what Donghae had smelled was his pheromones.
Later, he learned that betas weren't supposed to smell alphas at all.
He never told anyone. Not even Hyukjae. Especially not Hyukjae. Because if he said something, it might break whatever this was—this quiet orbit around each other, this easy friendship. And Donghae would rather have nothing than risk losing everything.
Trainee life was brutal. Fourteen-hour days. Feet covered in bruises, muscles screaming. Falling asleep against the studio walls during five-minute breaks, too exhausted to make it to the proper rest area. But Donghae never complained, because Hyukjae was always there. Hyukjae who handed him water after practice, who always remembered that Donghae liked it cold, not room temperature. Hyukjae who corrected his dance moves without making him feel stupid, who would stand behind him and guide his arms into the right position, chest warm against Donghae's back. Hyukjae who'd ruffle his sweaty hair and say "Good job, Donghae-ah," with that smile—that specific smile that made something flutter in Donghae's chest, something he was too young and too scared to name.
Sometimes, late at night when he couldn't sleep, Donghae would lie in his bunk and think about that smile. About the way Hyukjae's eyes crinkled at the corners. About the way his whole face softened when he looked at something he loved. Donghae had seen that smile directed at many things—at their members, at their fans, at food, at music. But never, not once, directly at him. Not in that way.
He told himself it didn't matter. He was a beta. Betas didn't get to be looked at like that.
In 2005, they debuted as Super Junior.
Backstage after their first music show win, Hyukjae grabbed him and held on tight, face buried in Donghae's shoulder. Donghae could feel him shaking. Could smell that cedar-tobacco scent, stronger than usual, warm and safe and his in a way nothing else was.
"We made it," Hyukjae mumbled against his neck, voice thick with tears Donghae couldn't see but knew were there. "We actually made it."
Donghae closed his eyes and breathed in. Let it always be like this, he thought. Please. I'll do anything. Just let me keep this.
In 2010, they moved out of the dorm and bought apartments in the same complex. Hyukjae said it would be convenient for hanging out. Donghae's heart did a stupid little flip at the thought of being close enough to see him whenever he wanted. He spent a week planning how to decorate his new place, imagining Hyukjae coming over, imagining lazy weekends together.
Then he heard Hyukjae say the same thing to Heechul. And to Shindong. And to anyone else who mentioned they were looking for a place.
He says that to everyone, Donghae realized. It doesn't mean anything special.
The flip turned into a dull ache he swallowed down like medicine.
That was also the year everything changed.
It started with a heat.
Not Donghae's—he was a beta, he didn't have heats. Hyukjae's.
Donghae had seen alphas in heat before, in passing. He knew it was supposed to be intense. But he'd never seen Hyukjae like this. Hyukjae who was always smiling, always joking, always fine—curled on the couch in the old dorm, shaking so hard the cushions vibrated, face flushed a deep red, eyes glassy and wet and wrong.
"Donghae." His voice was wrecked. Ruined. Nothing like the voice that told bad jokes during variety shows, that sang harmonies beside him on stage. "Donghae, please."
Donghae's mouth went dry.
He knew what betas were for. Everyone knew. No pheromone feedback loop. No risk of pregnancy. The safe option. The convenient option. The option you used when you needed relief but didn't want complications.
He knelt beside the couch. Hyukjae's scent was overwhelming—thick and desperate, nothing like the warm cedar Donghae usually craved. It made something low in his gut clench, something primal and scared and wanting.
"Tell me what you need," Donghae said, and his voice was steadier than he felt.
Hyukjae's hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. Hard enough to bruise. His pupils were blown wide, alpha-red bleeding into the irises, and for a moment he looked almost feral. "You. I need—please, Donghae, I can't—I can't think, I can't—"
Donghae didn't let him finish. He leaned in and pressed their mouths together.
After that, it became a thing.
Six years of it.
2010 to 2016. Six years of being bandmates, roommates, best friends. And bed partners.
When Hyukjae needed him, Donghae went. Sometimes at night. Sometimes at dawn. Sometimes straight after practice, both of them still sweaty from the studio, muscles trembling from exertion. Hyukjae would text—you awake?—and Donghae would be at his door in five minutes, heart pounding for reasons he refused to examine.
Afterward, Hyukjae would fall asleep immediately, boneless and satisfied, his face smoothing out into something peaceful that made Donghae's chest hurt. Donghae would lie beside him for a while, watching his face in the dark, tracing the shape of his shoulders with his eyes, memorizing the way his lips parted slightly when he slept. Then he'd slip out of bed, pull on his clothes, and walk back to his own apartment in the pre-dawn quiet.
In the morning, they'd meet at the company and run dance drills like nothing happened. Like Donghae hadn't spent the night pressed against him. Like he couldn't still smell cedar on his own skin.
Donghae never said I like you.
He knew what Hyukjae was. Alpha through and through. Careless. Easy. A new face in his bed every few months—omegas mostly, betas sometimes, never anyone who lasted more than a handful of nights. The company whispered about his rotation. This week a model. Last month an idol from another group. Rumors, always rumors, some true and some not, but enough to paint a picture Donghae couldn't unsee.
Donghae never asked. He told himself this was enough. Being close to him was enough. Touching him, even if it meant nothing to Hyukjae, was enough.
But some nights, alone in his own bed, he'd press his face into the pillow and wonder: Does he hold them afterward too? Does he smile at them that way in the morning? Does he look at them the way he looks at—
He'd stop himself. Roll over. Stare at the ceiling until his eyes burned.
You're a beta, he'd remind himself. Betas don't get to want things. Betas don't get to be chosen. You're the safe option. The easy option. The one that doesn't leave marks.
He'd close his eyes and pretend the wetness on his cheeks was sweat.
In 2016, Red Velvet had been around for two years. Irene was their leader—textbook omega, pale skin and big eyes and a voice so soft it made everyone around her go instinctively protective. The internet called her the most beautiful woman in K-pop. Even Donghae could see it. She was stunning in a way that made you understand why alphas lost their minds over omegas.
The first time he saw her in person, she was standing with Hyukjae in the company hallway.
She was looking up at him, laughing at something, one hand raised to cover her mouth. Hyukjae was looking down at her, and the corner of his mouth was curved in that way—that specific way he only smiled when he was truly relaxed, truly happy, when his guard was completely down.
Donghae had seen that smile exactly twice before. Once when they won their first daesang. Once when Hyukjae's mother sent him homemade food and he cried eating it.
Donghae had never received that smile himself.
He stood at the end of the hallway for exactly three seconds. Long enough to memorize the angle of Hyukjae's head, the brightness of Irene's eyes, the way the afternoon light fell across them like something out of a drama. Then he turned around and walked back the way he came, each step heavier than the last.
That night, he didn't sleep. He lay in bed staring at the ceiling, playing that image over and over in his mind. She's an omega, he told himself. Of course he'd smile at her like that. That's what alphas do. They smile at omegas. They choose omegas.
He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes until he saw stars.
The rumors started a few weeks later.
Lee Hyukjae spotted having dinner with Irene.
Lee Hyukjae visited Red Velvet's music show recording.
Lee Hyukjae's car seen outside Irene's building overnight.
Donghae read every article. Scrolled through every comment. They look so good together. Alpha and omega, perfect match. When's the wedding? Imagine their babies, they'd be gorgeous. He finally found someone serious.
He put his phone down. Closed his eyes. Lay there in the dark, breathing slowly, until his alarm went off for practice.
What he didn't know—what he couldn't know—was that half of it was Irene initiating and Hyukjae being too polite to say no. That every time Hyukjae sat across from her, his mind was somewhere else entirely. On someone else. On a smile that crinkled at the corners instead of being politely covered. On a waist that moved like water when he danced, fluid and mesmerizing. On a voice that rasped a little, like wind through summer leaves, instead of being soft and sweet.
But he never said anything. Because what was there to say? I can't stop thinking about my bandmate while I'm on a date with you? That wasn't a conversation anyone wanted to have.
One night in autumn 2016, Hyukjae texted. You awake?
Donghae went.
Afterward, he didn't leave. He propped himself against the headboard and watched Hyukjae pull on his sweats. Watched the way his spine curved, the muscles shifting under his skin, the old suppressant patch still stuck to his nape—faded and peeling, needing replacement.
"Hyukjae," he said.
Hyukjae glanced back. "Yeah?"
"What are we?"
Hyukjae's hands stilled on his waistband.
Donghae forced himself to keep looking at him. Kept his voice steady even though his heart was trying to escape his chest. "You and Irene. Is it serious?"
Silence. Three seconds that felt like hours. Donghae could hear his own heartbeat. Thud. Thud. Thud. Could feel the sheets under his fingers, the cold air on his skin, the weight of six years pressing down on him.
Then Hyukjae said, "I'm thinking about it."
Donghae's chest went hollow. Like someone had reached inside and scooped out everything warm.
"She's an omega," Hyukjae added, like that explained anything. Like that was reason enough. "Family background's good too. It would make sense."
Donghae nodded. Once. Twice. A puppet with cut strings.
He thought of Irene in that hallway, bathed in sunlight. Soft. Perfect. Everything an omega should be. Everything he could never be.
He was thirty years old. He'd been a beta his whole life. Pretty face, useless body, no scent to speak of. No womb to carry children. No heat cycles to bind an alpha to him. Just a face that people called beautiful and a body that was convenient.
"Okay," he said. His voice didn't shake. He was proud of that. "I get it."
He got dressed and walked out. Closed the door behind him quietly. Walked back to his own apartment in the cold night air and sat on his couch until dawn.
That night, lying in his own bed, he told himself the truth he'd always known: You're a beta. That's all you'll ever be to him. Safe. Convenient. Disposable.
It didn't help. It had never helped.
++++++++
Choi Siwon's cousin came back to Korea, and the media lost its collective mind.
Second son of the Choi Group. Richer than Siwon, which was saying something. Top-tier alpha, educated abroad, photographed at all the right events with all the right people. Back home to find a spouse—his family was pushing, but he wanted "true love." The papers called him the Romantic Chaebol and ate up every word he said.
Siwon messaged the group chat: My cousin's coming to the concert. Just... warning you.
Heechul replied: Warning us about what? That we have to bow?
Siwon didn't answer. He couldn't explain that his cousin had texted from the plane: Send me your prettiest member's number. When Siwon played dumb, his cousin had written back: Big eyes. Fair skin. Moves well when he dances. The one who looks like he was drawn by an artist. Don't pretend you don't know who I mean.
Siwon pretended he hadn't seen it and prayed his cousin would forget.
The night of the concert, the cousin sat front row in the family section.
Donghae felt eyes on him the whole time he performed. A specific weight, different from the usual crowd attention. He ignored it—audiences looked. That was normal. He was used to being looked at.
What he didn't know was that Choi Junghyun couldn't look away.
The eyes. Those eyes, huge and bright, catching the stage lights like they were full of water. The way he moved—hips loose, spine fluid, every gesture effortless even after hours of performing. Sweat sliding down his temple, catching on his jaw, disappearing into the collar of his shirt. The way he smiled at the fans, genuine and warm, like he meant every second of it.
Junghyun's fingers tightened on the armrest until his knuckles went white.
He hadn't felt like this in years. That jolt. That want. That immediate, bone-deep certainty that this was someone he needed to know. Not just see. Not just admire from a distance. Know.
After the show, he went backstage to find Siwon.
Donghae was coming out of the dressing room, head down, not looking where he was going.
He'd seen the news that morning. Hyukjae's car outside Irene's building again. Photos. Comments. All those people saying perfect match, finally, about time. He'd stared at his phone for twenty minutes, feeling something twist in his chest that he refused to name. Then he'd put it down and gone to work.
He wasn't watching where he walked.
His foot caught on something—a cable, a piece of equipment, he didn't see—and he was falling, too surprised even to throw out his hands—
Strong hands caught him. Steady. Careful. Holding him like he was something breakable.
"Careful."
The voice was low, warm, unfamiliar. Donghae looked up.
The man holding him was beautiful in an expensive, polished way. Perfect suit. Perfect hair. Perfect smile. Sandalwood scent—alpha, obviously, and strong—wrapped around him like a blanket.
But that wasn't what made Donghae freeze.
It was the way the man was looking at him.
Like he was something precious. Something surprising. Something the man couldn't quite believe he'd found.
No one had ever looked at Donghae like that. Not in a way he could see, anyway. Hyukjae's glances were always there—warm, familiar, easy to take for granted—but this? This was different. This was a look that demanded to be seen.
"You okay?" the man asked. His hands were still on Donghae's arms, warm through the fabric of his jacket.
Donghae stepped back. "Fine. Thanks."
Siwon appeared behind them, face doing something complicated. "Hyung—Donghae—this is my cousin, Jung-hyun."
Donghae nodded politely and kept walking. Didn't look back.
He didn't notice the way Junghyun's eyes followed him until he disappeared around the corner.
Lee Hyukjae noticed.
He'd seen the whole thing from down the hall. Seen the way that alpha grabbed Donghae. Seen the way he looked at him. Seen the way Donghae's eyes widened for just a second before going blank.
Hyukjae knew that look. It was the look of an alpha spotting something he wanted. Something he was already mentally claiming.
Something ugly twisted in Hyukjae's chest. Something hot and sharp that he had no right to feel.
He told himself to ignore it. Donghae wasn't his. They were bed partners. That was all they'd ever been. That was all Donghae had ever agreed to.
But the feeling didn't go away. It sat there, burning, while he watched the alpha's retreating back.
Three days later, Choi Junghyun gave an interview.
"I met someone at a concert," he said, smiling softly at the camera. "Very beautiful. Very... pure. I thought to myself: if I'm going to marry anyone, I want it to be him."
The reporter leaned forward. "An idol?"
"Super Junior. I know he's a beta, but that doesn't matter to me. My family doesn't need heirs. We're not that traditional." He laughed, easy and charming. "I want him for who he is, not for what his body can do. That seems like the bare minimum, doesn't it?"
The internet exploded.
#ChoiGroupHeirFallsForSJMember trended everywhere. The comments section went crazy with guesses. Siwon. Heechul. Donghae—because "very beautiful" fit him too perfectly.
Donghae saw it while making ramyun in the dorm. Kyuhyun shoved his phone in Donghae's face. "Hyung! This is about you, right?"
Donghae stirred his noodles. "Don't be stupid." But his heart was beating faster. Someone had looked at him like that. Someone had said those things about him. Someone wanted him—him, not his body, not his convenience—and had said it on television.
It was the first time anyone had ever said that about him.
"It's not stupid," Siwon pushed through the door, expression pained. "Hyung, my cousin is literally pursuing you. He asked me for your schedule. He's going to send flowers tomorrow."
Next to them, Hyukjae choked on his water.
He looked at Donghae. Donghae's face was unreadable, but his fingers on the spoon had gone white.
Hyukjae's stomach dropped through the floor.
The weeks that followed were surreal.
Flowers. Watches. Luxury cars—delivered to the company, to filming locations, to the backstage door. Bouquets so large they required two people to carry. A vintage watch that Donghae later learned cost more than his apartment. A car that he refused because he couldn't accept something that expensive from someone he barely knew.
Lee Sooman himself started teasing: "Our Donghae's marrying into a chaebol. Knew I picked the right visual all those years ago."
Donghae smiled politely and didn't know what to feel.
Choi Junghyun was... perfect. Attentive without being pushy. Gentle without being condescending. He remembered things Donghae had mentioned once—favorite flowers, a restaurant he'd liked on a variety show years ago, a passing comment about wanting to visit Japan in the spring—and incorporated them into their conversations like it was nothing.
He looked at Donghae the same way every time. Like he was precious. Like he was wanted.
But every time Donghae sat across from him, his mind drifted. To someone else. To a smile that wasn't this one. To late-night texts asking you hungry? want fried chicken? To a scent like cedar and tobacco that he'd never been able to forget, no matter how hard he tried.
Stop it, he told himself. He doesn't want you. Six years. He would have said something by now. He's probably with Irene right now, thinking about their future, about their beautiful omega babies.
He smiled at Junghyun and pretended his chest didn't hurt.
Hyukjae watched every news article. Every photo. Every time Donghae got into that car.
He told himself not to care. His hands shook anyway.
One day he ran into Irene in the hallway. She smiled. "Oppa, long time no see."
Hyukjae looked at her and felt absolutely nothing. Not attraction. Not interest. Not even mild liking. She was beautiful. She was nice. She was everything an alpha was supposed to want.
And he felt nothing.
"Irene," he said. "Don't look for me anymore. There's someone else."
Her smile faded. "Donghae oppa?"
He didn't answer. Didn't have to.
He walked to the practice room and stood outside, watching Donghae through the glass. Donghae dancing alone, hair stuck to his forehead, focused on the mirror, repeating moves until they were perfect. Sweat soaking his shirt. Muscles trembling with exertion. Face set in that expression of pure concentration that Hyukjae had always found mesmerizing.
Hyukjae wanted to go in. Wanted to say something. Anything.
But his feet wouldn't move.
What if he says no? What if he's already chosen someone else? What if I've waited too long and now it's too late?
He stayed where he was until Donghae finished and left without ever knowing he'd been there.
Donghae came home one night and saw Hyukjae's car at the complex entrance. He was about to wave—old habit, automatic—when he saw the passenger.
Irene.
Hyukjae parked. Got out. Walked around to open her door. She stepped out, looking up at him and laughing at something. He looked down at her, and the corner of his mouth was curved in that way—that smile, the one Donghae had never once received.
Donghae stood in the shadows by the gate and watched them walk into the building together. Watched her hand brush Hyukjae's arm. Watched Hyukjae lean down to catch something she said.
He stood there a long time. Until his feet went numb from the cold. Until security came to ask if he was okay.
He nodded and walked to his apartment. Sat on his couch in the dark. Didn't turn on any lights.
That night he didn't sleep.
The next day, Choi Junghyun appeared at the company with another car full of flowers. Roses this time. Red and white and pink, spilling out of the trunk like something from a movie, like a proposal scene.
"Donghae." He looked at Donghae with those warm eyes, that precious look. "I know you're not ready. But let me try. Let me take you on a real date. If it doesn't work, I'll back off. No pressure. I just—I want to know you. The real you. Not the idol, not the face. You."
Donghae thought of Hyukjae's smile. Irene's laugh. Six years of waiting for something that was never going to happen.
"Okay," he said. "Let's try."
They had dinner at a quiet restaurant with a view of the city. Junghyun talked about his time abroad, his family, his dreams. Donghae listened and smiled and felt nothing at all. Just a quiet, hollow emptiness where his heart used to be.
This is fine, he told himself. Not hurting is fine. Being wanted is fine. This is what normal people do—they date, they move on, they don't pine for fifteen years over someone who doesn't want them back.
He didn't check his phone. Didn't see the messages Hyukjae was sending.
Where are you?
I heard you went out with him.
Donghae, don't do this. He's not serious about you.
Please just answer me. I need to know you're okay.
Donghae.
Junghyun drove him home. At the entrance, he asked, "Tomorrow?"
Donghae nodded. Why not? He had nothing else to do.
He walked to his building. At the elevator, someone was waiting.
Hyukjae looked like shit. Dark circles so deep they looked like bruises. Rumpled clothes that might have been the same ones from yesterday. Eyes red-rimmed and desperate in a way Donghae had never seen before.
"You went out with him."
Donghae didn't answer.
Hyukjae's voice went tight. "I told you. Guys like him—they just want someone pretty to show off. They don't take it seriously. They won't—"
Donghae laughed.
It wasn't a happy laugh. It was hollow. Tired. Bitter. The sound of something breaking that had been broken for a long time.
"You're not as rich as him," Donghae said quietly. "And you've never taken responsibility for me either. So what's your point?"
He stepped into the elevator. Pressed his floor. The doors closed on Hyukjae's open mouth, his frozen expression, his hands reaching out for nothing.
That night, the messages kept coming.
Donghae, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that.
I'm just worried about you.
Please. Just talk to me.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
I can't do this. I can't just watch you—
Donghae.
Donghae read them all. Let the words sink into his chest, one by one. Felt the dull ache behind his ribs, familiar as breathing.
Then he typed one reply:
I want to try liking someone else.
He blocked the number.
His hands were shaking so badly he almost dropped the phone. He knew what he'd just done—cut the last thread between them, the thing that had kept him going for six years.
But he couldn't keep going like this. He was so tired. So empty. So done with wanting something he could never have.
He lay down in the dark and stared at the ceiling until morning.
Hyukjae stared at the red exclamation marks. Sent another message. Red. Another. Red. Another. Red.
He slid down the wall and sat on the floor, face in his hands, and didn't move for a long time.
He went to Irene. She was in the practice room, face lighting up when she saw him.
Hyukjae looked at her and felt absolutely nothing. Not want. Not interest. Not even the faint flicker of distraction. All he could see was Donghae's tired smile. All he could hear was I want to try liking someone else. All he could feel was the phantom weight of Donghae in his arms, the ghost of his scent on his sheets, the memory of his quiet breathing in the dark.
"Sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have come."
He went home. Sat on his couch for hours, watching the light change through the window. Then he walked into his bedroom, opened the bottom drawer of his closet, and pulled out the grey sweatshirt Donghae had left there months ago.
It still smelled like him. Not pheromones—Donghae was a beta, he didn't have those. Just him. Clean. Warm. Like sunshine on clean sheets. Like coming home.
Hyukjae buried his face in it, breathing deep, and before he knew what he was doing, his hand was moving down his body. He told himself to stop. He couldn't stop. He pressed the sweatshirt to his face, inhaling that faint, fading scent, and jerked himself off like the pathetic, lovesick idiot he was.
When it was over, he lay there staring at the ceiling, the sweatshirt clutched to his chest, and felt nothing but hollow.
Tomorrow, he told himself afterward, staring at the ceiling. Tomorrow I'll tell him. I'll go to his apartment and I'll tell him everything.
But the next morning, he saw the news: Choi Junghyun had sent more flowers. Donghae had accepted them. They'd been photographed together at dinner, looking comfortable, looking happy.
His courage shriveled and died.
+++++++++++++++
Donghae went on three dates with Choi Junghyun.
Dinner. A movie. An invitation to see his art collection—actual Monet hanging on actual walls in an actual Seoul apartment that cost more than Donghae would earn in his lifetime.
Donghae stood in front of the water lilies, blue and purple and green blurring into something beautiful, and thought about how to say I can't like you back without sounding like an ungrateful asshole.
He'd tried. He really had. Junghyun was perfect. Attentive. Patient. Respectful. Everything anyone could want in a partner.
But every time Donghae looked at him, he saw someone else. Someone who bumped into him deliberately in dance practice, just to make him stumble and laugh. Someone who squeezed his hand under the table during variety shows, quick and secret, gone before anyone could notice. Someone who texted at 2 AM: You up? Want to get fried chicken? I know a place that's still open.
Someone who didn't want him back.
"Donghae." Junghyun's voice broke through his thoughts. "Tomorrow's Valentine's Day. I want to give you something."
Donghae blinked. "You don't have to—"
"I know." Junghyun's eyes were steady. Warm. Certain in a way Donghae had never been about anything. "I want to."
++++++++++++
Valentine's Day. Donghae woke to shouting outside his window.
He looked down and froze.
Choi Junghyun stood in the parking lot in a formal suit, holding an enormous bouquet. Behind him, a car with the trunk open, overflowing with roses. Beside him, cameras. Reporters. A crowd gathering.
"Donghae!" Junghyun called up. "I like you! Marry me!"
Donghae's brain stopped working.
He went downstairs in a daze, not remembering putting on shoes or unlocking the door. Junghyun was on one knee now, velvet box open, diamond the size of a pigeon egg catching the morning light and throwing rainbows.
"Donghae." His voice was steady. Certain. Broadcast quality. "I know it's fast. But I've never felt this way about anyone. You mentioned Hawaii once—on a variety show years ago. I looked it up. I thought: if he wants to go there, I'll take him. We can buy a house by the ocean. Get cats. Dogs. Do whatever you want. You don't have to stop performing—I'll support you. You want to rest? I'll be there. You don't have to be afraid of anything. I mean it."
The cameras flashed. The crowd murmured. Someone yelled "Say yes!" in the background.
Donghae stood there holding roses he didn't remember taking and thought: I should say yes. This is what people want. This is what normal people do when someone loves them.
But he couldn't.
"I—I need time," he heard himself say. His voice sounded far away. "And I have work. I can't just go to Hawaii."
Junghyun's expression flickered—just for a second, a shadow of disappointment—then smoothed into understanding. "That's fine. I'll wait. However long it takes."
Donghae nodded. Smiled politely. Somehow got back upstairs, closed his door, and stood in his entryway for a long time without moving.
That night he sat on his couch, staring at the flowers he'd brought up without thinking, and admitted the truth: he didn't want Hawaii. He didn't want a house by the ocean. He didn't want any of it.
Because the person he wanted wasn't Choi Junghyun.
The person he wanted was Lee Hyukjae. Who'd never said a word in six years. Who was probably with Irene right now, holding her, laughing with her, giving her that smile. Who had made Donghae wait until there was nothing left to wait for.
He closed his eyes and leaned back against the couch.
Then his body caught fire.
It started as heat. Just heat. A warmth spreading from somewhere deep inside, pleasant at first, easy to ignore.
Then it became need—sharp and desperate and clawing up from his bones, demanding attention, demanding satisfaction. His heart slammed against his ribs. His lungs couldn't get enough air. His skin felt too tight, too hot, too empty in a way he'd never experienced.
Donghae stood up to open a window. His legs gave out. He hit the floor hard, knee cracking against the wood, pain barely registering through the fire in his blood.
He looked down at his wrist.
A mark was forming there. Faint but unmistakable. A small swelling, a change in the skin, something that hadn't existed yesterday.
A gland. An omega's gland.
No.
He was thirty years old. Doctors had told him at twenty-five: beta. Stable. Final. No chance of presentation.
But his body was burning. His skin was hypersensitive, every brush of fabric sending sparks through his nerves. Liquid was soaking through his pants—slick, his mind supplied, horrified—and his mind was screaming one thing, one name, one desperate plea—
Alpha. Hyukjae. Need him. Need his scent. Need his hands. Need—
He grabbed his phone. Scrolled to the number he'd known by heart for fifteen years, the one he could type in his sleep, the one he'd blocked.
He pressed call.
"Hyukjae—" His voice came out wrecked. Broken. Nothing like his own voice at all. "Help me. Please—I don't know what's happening—"
Hyukjae answered on the first ring.
"I'm coming." No questions. No hesitation. No why are you calling, you blocked me. Just certainty. "I'm coming, Donghae. Hold on. I'm on my way."
He ran out in his slippers. Didn't bother with shoes or a jacket or anything else. Drove like a maniac through the dark streets, running red lights, not caring about anything except getting there.
The door was unlocked.
He burst through to find Donghae curled on the floor, face flushed deep red, eyes wet and glassy, scent pouring off him in waves—sweet and desperate and omega, like spring flowers and summer citrus and something primal that made Hyukjae's alpha instincts scream.
"Donghae." Hyukjae dropped to his knees, pulled him close. Donghae was burning up. Shaking so hard his teeth chattered. Clinging to Hyukjae like he was the only solid thing in the world. "Donghae, you're—"
"Omega." Donghae's voice was muffled against his chest. "I'm an omega. How am I an omega? I'm thirty. The doctors said—"
"I know." Hyukjae held him tighter. "I know. It's okay. We'll figure it out."
But Donghae was shaking, heat-flushed, slick soaking through his pants, and there was no time for questions. Hyukjae gathered him up—he was light, too light, shaking too hard—and carried him to the car.
At the hospital, a doctor reviewed the tests with a complicated expression.
"Delayed presentation," she said finally. "Rare, but it happens. Usually triggered by prolonged exposure to a highly compatible alpha during a susceptible period."
Hyukjae went still. "Highly compatible alpha?"
"Someone whose pheromones triggered his omega to emerge. Someone he's been around frequently, especially during heat cycles. The body can only resist its nature for so long."
Hyukjae looked at Donghae.
His mind went immediately to Choi Junghyun. Strong alpha. Constant presence in Donghae's life lately. Perfect candidate. Must be him.
The thought felt like a knife to the chest. Like someone was carving out his heart with a dull blade.
If Junghyun triggered him... does that mean they're fated? Does that mean I should step aside? Does that mean I've already lost?
Donghae watched Hyukjae's face shift. Watched him connect dots that weren't there. Watched him assume the worst with an expression of such raw pain that it hurt to look at.
He wanted to say It's you, you idiot. It's always been you. Six years of your scent on my skin, in my lungs, under my ribs. It's you.
But what was the point? Hyukjae had Irene. Hyukjae didn't want him. Even if Donghae's body had chosen Hyukjae, it didn't mean Hyukjae would choose him back. That wasn't how these things worked.
The doctor left. The room fell silent except for the beeping of machines and Donghae's still-shallow breathing.
Hyukjae sat by the bed. Didn't speak. Just sat there, looking at Donghae like he was trying to memorize his face.
That night, Hyukjae stayed. Pulled a chair close to the bed and sat in it, not sleeping, just watching. Donghae drifted in and out of consciousness, and every time he woke, Hyukjae was there—slumped over, exhausted, dark circles deepening, but there.
Sometimes he was leaning back in the chair. Sometimes he was hunched forward with his head on the edge of the bed. Sometimes his hand was close to Donghae's, not touching but almost.
Every time Donghae opened his eyes, Hyukjae was there.
In the morning, Donghae said, "I want to go home."
Hyukjae nodded. Took care of discharge. Didn't say a word about what he was thinking.