Chapter Twenty-Two #2
Donghwa kicks the door shut behind him with his heel. He walks past me into the kitchen, setting the coffees down on the island with a calm deliberation that makes my teeth grind.
"I know you didn't," he says, turning to face me. He leans his hip against the counter, crossing his arms. "You were going to wait until you were climbing the walls, and then you were going to try to suffer through it alone for half the day because you're stubborn."
I bristle, mostly because he’s right. "I was going to text you."
"Sure."
"I was!" I snap, the aggression flaring up instantly. My temper is on a hair-trigger, the rut stripping away my usual filter. "And how did you know, anyway? Do you have a tracker on me?"
Donghwa taps his temple. "Math, Hyung. It’s been exactly six weeks since the last cycle. Biology is predictable. You, even more so."
"You've been tracking my cycle?" I stare at him, a mix of indignation and something darker, something hotter, curling in my stomach. "That is creepy. You know that, right? That’s stalker behavior."
"It’s practical," he counters, unbothered. He gestures to the plastic bag. "I brought electrolytes, energy bars, and those wet wipes you like because you get fussy about the mess."
I open my mouth to tell him to get out, to tell him I don't need a babysitter, but the scent reaches me.
Now that he’s in the enclosed space, his pheromones are bleeding into the air. Winter air. Ink. Ginseng. It cuts through the humid, suffocating heat of my own scent like a blade. It hits my nose and travels straight down my spine, settling heavily in my groin.
My knees unlock. The anger evaporates, replaced instantly by a desperate, clawing need.
"Fuck," I breathe out, leaning against the wall for support. The throb in my ass—the phantom ache that only he can fix—pulses in time with my heartbeat.
Donghwa watches the change happen. He sees the way my pupils blow wide, the way my posture shifts from defensive to pliable.
A dark satisfaction settles in his eyes.
He doesn't move toward me, not yet. He just stands there, letting his scent do the work, forcing me to acknowledge the reality of the situation.
"Still think it's creepy?" he asks, his voice dropping that terrifyingly attractive octave.
I glare at him, but there's no heat in it. I’m already walking toward him. I can’t help it. The bond is a physical tether, reeling me in.
"I hate you," I mutter, grabbing the front of his hoodie and yanking him forward.
"I know," Donghwa murmurs, dropping the act as his hands come up to grip my waist, his thumbs digging into my hip bones. "Now, are we going to talk, or are you going to let me take care of you?"
I bury my face in his neck, inhaling deeply, and surrender.
The next forty-eight hours are a fever dream, a blur of heat and friction and the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that usually only comes after swimming a marathon.
Ruts are messy, undignified affairs. Usually, I spend them alone, miserable, wallowing in a nest of blankets and self-pity while chewing on ibuprofen like candy. But this? This is different.
It’s terrifyingly effective.
Donghwa manages me like I’m a project. When the fever spikes and I’m clawing at his back, begging for friction, he gives it to me—rough, claiming, and precise. He knows exactly where to touch, exactly how much pressure to apply to my hips to keep me grounded when my brain is melting out of my ears.
But it’s the downtime that freaks me out.
It’s Sunday afternoon. The worst of the fever has broken, leaving me feeling like a wrung-out towel. I’m sitting on the kitchen floor—because apparently, the walk to the living room was too far—wearing one of Donghwa’s oversized hoodies that swallows my hands.
Donghwa is standing at the stove, reheating porridge. He’s shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, the dark ink of the tiger on his back flexing as he stirs the pot.
"Eat," he says, turning around and handing me a bowl. He slides down the cabinet to sit next to me, his knee knocking against mine.
"I'm not hungry," I grumble, though my stomach immediately betrays me with a loud growl.
"Open up." He doesn't even look at me, just scoops a spoonful, blows on it, and holds it to my mouth.
"I have hands, Donghwa. I’m an Alpha, not a toddler."
"You're shaking," he points out calmly. "And if you drop that bowl, I’m not cleaning it up until tomorrow. Eat."
I glare at him, but I open my mouth. The porridge is warm, savory, and settles the hollow ache in my gut instantly. He feeds me the whole bowl in silence, wiping a stray drop from my chin with his thumb. It’s so casual. So practiced. Like we’ve been doing this for years instead of weeks.
That’s the part that scares me. The sex is biology; I can blame the bond for that. But this? The domesticity? The way he anticipates my needs before I even vocalize them? That’s something else.
Later, we shower.
Usually, I’m territorial about my bathroom. It’s my sanctuary of expensive hair products and carefully curated lighting. But now, the room is filled with steam, and Donghwa is crowded in there with me.
My legs are still shaky, so I lean back against his chest, letting him take my weight. He lathers shampoo into my hair, his fingers massaging my scalp with a firm, rhythmic pressure that makes my eyes roll back in my head.
"You use too much product," he murmurs, rinsing the suds away. "Your hair feels like straw."
"It’s called styling," I slur, eyes closed, head lolling back against his shoulder. "You wouldn't understand, Mr. I-Woke-Up-Like-This."
He chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest and into my back.
He grabs the bar of soap and starts washing my shoulders, avoiding the fresh bite mark he left there last night with a surprising amount of tenderness.
He traces the ink of the tattoos on his own arm against my skin as he reaches around to wash my chest.
I look down at our bodies—my tan skin against his paler complexion, the water sluicing over the hard muscle of his forearm draped across me. It looks right. It looks like a set.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Stop it, I tell myself. Don't get used to this. He’s a stuck-up ass. He’s annoying. He’s temporary.
But when we stumble back to bed, clean and smelling like my expensive body wash mixed with his winter scent, I don't kick him out.
I curl up on my side, burying my face in the pillow.
Donghwa settles in behind me immediately.
There’s no hesitation, no awkward "where do I put my arm" dance.
He just wraps himself around me, pulling me back until my spine is flush against his chest. He throws a heavy leg over mine, pinning me in place, and buries his nose in the hair at the nape of my neck.
"Sleep," he commands, his voice thick with sleep already.
"You're heavy," I whisper, but I don't move.
"You're warm."
He sighs, his breathing evening out within seconds.
I lie there in the dark, listening to the steady thump of his heart against my back.
The bond hums between us, a quiet, contented static in my brain.
The nausea is gone. The anxiety is gone.
The fever and the all consuming lust will return later, once the high from our first couple rounds this morning fade.
But now, for the first time in weeks, I don't feel like I have to perform.
I don't have to be the loudest guy in the room or the strongest Alpha on the block.
I just have to exist.
I drift off with his scent filling my lungs, terrified by the realization that waking up alone tomorrow is going to feel a hell of a lot worse than the rut itself.
The next morning I wake suddenly, and the first thing I register is the silence.
The frantic, animalistic heat that’s been boiling my brain for the last three days has finally simmered down to a dull, manageable hum. My head feels stuffed with cotton, my limbs are made of lead, and there is a very distinct, very heavy weight pinning my left leg to the mattress.
I crack one eye open. The morning sun is filtering through the blackout curtains I forgot to close properly, slicing across the disaster zone that is my bedroom. Clothes are scattered like they were fired out of a cannon. The air is thick, stale, and smells aggressively of sex and burnt cedar.
And then there’s the culprit.
Donghwa is sprawled on his stomach, taking up seventy percent of my California King bed.
He’s naked, the sheet tangled around his waist doing absolutely nothing to cover the sprawling ink of the tiger tattoo rippling across his shoulder blades as he breathes.
His arm is thrown over my waist, his hand resting possessively on my hip bone.
For a second, just a second, I don't panic. I just look at him. He looks younger when he’s asleep, less like a stoic genius sent to torment me and more like a guy who just needs a nap.
Then, the sound cuts through the room like a gunshot.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
My heart stops. I know that sound. That is the cheerful, electronic chime of my front door’s smart lock.
That electronic chirp triggers a biological response in me usually reserved for apex predators or incoming nuclear missiles.
My blood runs cold. I know that code. I know who has that code. There is only one person in the world terrifying enough to bypass the doorman, the elevator security, and my own lock without calling first.
Mother.
Panic, sharp and electric, overrides every ounce of exhaustion in my body. I launch myself out of bed, ignoring the protest of my overused muscles and the distinct wobble in my legs.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," I chant, a mantra of pure terror.
I spin around and see Donghwa still comatose, face buried in the pillow, looking like a statue of a fallen Greek god carved out of marble.
I don't have time for gentle. I don't have time for romance.
I deliver a sharp, ungraceful kick to his exposed hip bone.