Chapter Fifteen #2
From inside the garage Hongjoong’s voice carries out, calling that the engine checks out fine and they can go again whenever Sungyoon’s ready.
Sungyoon sets his drink down on the asphalt beside the car and stands, brushing cracker crumbs off his lap.
He starts to walk toward the garage and then stops and turns back, and before I can understand what’s happening his arms are around my shoulders, strong and tight, pulling me into a hug that’s brief and fierce.
His chin hooks over my shoulder and he says against my neck, quiet enough that only I can hear it, “I’m glad we get to be a family now. ”
Then he lets go and jogs back toward the car, calling out to Hongjoong that he wants to try going faster this time, and Hongjoong’s answering groan of theatrical despair echoes off the garage walls.
I watch my son slide back into the driver’s seat, watch Hongjoong tighten his helmet strap with a look of genuine trepidation, and I stay standing right where Sungyoon left me with my arms hanging at my sides and my heart cracked open and a little more healed than it was an hour ago.
I try to keep my leg from bouncing in the front seat of Hongjoong’s car, my hands clasped tight in my lap as he drives us through progressively wider, greener streets toward the outskirts of the city in the growing dark.
The buildings thin out and the road opens up, dense urban blocks giving way to walled properties set back behind hedgerows and iron gates, neighborhoods where the houses aren’t visible from the street because the driveways are too long.
We’re heading to the Lee family estate, Hongjoong’s parents’ home, and though I haven’t seen the property in over fifteen years my memory of it is vivid enough to make my palms sweat against my knees.
I remember the first time I saw it as a teenager, trailing behind Hongjoong with my school bag over one shoulder and my mouth hanging open at the sheer scale of the place, the manicured grounds and the stone facade and the circular drive with a fountain in the center that I thought only existed in movies.
I remember Hongjoong’s mother looking me up and down in the foyer with a carefully neutral expression, and his father shaking my hand with a grip that could crush walnuts, and the acute awareness that I was a noodle shop owner’s son standing in a house that cost more than my entire family would earn in several lifetimes.
“Stop fidgeting,” Hongjoong says without taking his eyes off the road, one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the center console.
“I’m not fidgeting.”
“Your knee is going to bore a hole through the floor of my car.”
I press my palm flat against my thigh to still it and stare out the window instead.
Sungyoon is in the backseat, dressed in the nicest clothes Hongjoong bought him last week, a button-down shirt and dark slacks that make him look older, his hair combed neatly to the side.
He’s been quiet for the last ten minutes, which is unusual for him, and when I glance back, I catch him picking at his sleeve with the air of someone who’s trying very hard not to look nervous.
Hongjoong broke the news to his parents the day after the paperwork went through, before it could hit gossip columns or society pages.
He did it alone, drove out to the estate and sat them down and told them everything.
He assured me afterward that it went fine, that his parents were shocked but not angry, that his mother cried and his father went very quiet for a long time and then asked when they could meet the boy.
But I’m painfully aware that finding out about a fifteen-year-old grandchild’s existence this late cannot have been entirely welcome news, no matter how graciously they received it.
There’s a difference between accepting something in the privacy of your own home and accepting it when the omega responsible for keeping the secret is standing in your foyer.
They insisted on a family dinner to welcome Sungyoon, and Hongjoong said there was no negotiating it, his mother had already planned the menu.
The gate appears ahead of us, tall wrought iron flanked by stone pillars, and it swings open automatically as Hongjoong’s car approaches.
The driveway is exactly as I remember it, long and curving, lined with old trees whose branches form a canopy overhead.
The house comes into view at the end of the drive, and it looks the same, sprawling and immaculate, stone and dark wood and climbing ivy on the east wing, generations of wealth in stone.
The fountain in the circular drive is still there, water catching the last of the evening light.
Hongjoong parks and I sit there for a moment after he kills the engine, staring at the front steps through the windshield.
My stomach is in knots. I can feel Hongjoong watching me from the driver’s seat and I know he can probably smell the anxiety leaking off me in my pheromones, sour and sharp beneath the baseline of his own scent that’s been saturating my skin for weeks now.
“They’re not going to bite you,” Hongjoong says.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do know that. My mother has had the cooks preparing since six this morning and my father opened a bottle of wine that’s older than both of us combined. They’re excited, Jae.”
I nod and unbuckle my seatbelt and get out of the car before I can talk myself into asking him to turn around and drive us home.
Sungyoon climbs out of the backseat and comes to stand beside me, and I notice him straightening his shirt and squaring his shoulders in a way that’s so unconsciously Hongjoong-like it makes my heart flip.
I start to hang back as we approach the steps, falling half a pace behind, but Hongjoong reaches for my hand and pulls me firmly to his side, his fingers lacing through mine and gripping tight enough that pulling away isn’t an option.
He doesn’t look at me when he does it, just keeps walking, but his thumb rubs once across my knuckles and the gesture steadies me more than any words could.
The front door opens before we reach it and Hongjoong’s mother is already there, framed in the warm light of the entryway, elegant and sharp-eyed in a dark silk blouse with her hair swept up, earrings catching the light.
She’s aged gracefully in the way that wealthy women do, her features still striking, her posture still impeccable, and when her gaze lands on Sungyoon walking up the steps, her hands fly to her mouth.
The sound she makes is small and involuntary, a soft gasp that she presses behind her fingers, and then she’s coming down the steps to meet him before he can even bow properly, her arms going around his shoulders and pulling him into a hug that’s fierce and immediate.
“Oh my goodness,” she says, her voice thick, pulling back just enough to cup his face in both hands and turn it side to side, studying him with eyes that are rapidly filling. “Oh, look at you. You look just like him. The exact same face, oh—”
She presses her lips together hard and blinks several times, clearly fighting to compose herself, her thumbs brushing across Sungyoon’s cheekbones as she holds his face like she’s afraid he might disappear.
Sungyoon, to his credit, handles the sudden embrace of a grandmother he’s never met with a grace that makes my throat tighten with pride.
He hugs her back and greets her politely, bowing his head and calling her grandmother in a voice that’s steady even if his ears are turning pink at the tips.
Then Hongjoong’s mother lifts her gaze over Sungyoon’s shoulder and sees me standing a step behind, and she stops.
Her expression shifts into something knowing and wistful, her eyes moving between my face and Sungyoon’s and then to Hongjoong standing beside me, and she lets out a long breath and shakes her head with a small, rueful smile.
“It’s you, isn’t it?” she says. “The boy who was always attached to Hongjoong’s side in high school. His partner in crime, always the two of you making trouble together. The omega boy from the noodle shop?” She sighs again, and her eyes crinkle at the corners. “I should have known.”
Then she steps forward and embraces me as well, warm and firm, her hand coming up to pat the back of my head the way mothers do, and she says quietly near my ear, “Welcome. Welcome home.” I’m too stunned to do anything but hug her back, my arms stiff at first and then tightening as the warmth of it sinks in, the unconditional acceptance in her grip.
I have to press my face against her shoulder for a moment to keep myself from coming apart entirely.
Hongjoong’s father greets us inside the foyer with the same warmth, a tall, imposing alpha with silver threading through his dark hair and the same sharp bone structure that Hongjoong inherited, though his features are heavier, more weathered by decades of boardrooms and business deals.
He shakes Sungyoon’s hand with both of his own, clasping it firmly, and looks at the boy’s face with undisguised wonder, his eyes tracing the familiar lines of jaw and brow and cheekbone before pulling him into a hug too, clapping him on the back with a force that makes Sungyoon stumble slightly and laugh.
“Strong boy,” his grandfather says approvingly, gripping Sungyoon’s shoulders and holding him at arm’s length to look at him again. “Good build. You play sports?”
“Soccer,” Sungyoon says, and his grandfather nods like this is the correct answer.
He turns to me next and asks about my parents, how they’re doing, whether they’re still in the same neighborhood.
I navigate the question carefully, saying that we lost touch some years ago and leaving it at that, and Hongjoong’s father nods without pushing, his expression settling into something that tells me he understands there’s history there best left for another time.
He clasps my shoulder briefly and squeezes, a gesture that says more than any words he could offer, and then ushers us all deeper into the house.
Hongjoong’s mother gives Sungyoon an enthusiastic tour that I trail behind at a distance, listening to her heels click on the hardwood floors as she leads him from room to room, pointing out family photographs on the walls and explaining the history of the house with the pride of someone who has spent decades making it a home.
She takes him upstairs and shows him a room on the second floor that she’s already having set up for him to use when he visits, a spacious corner room with windows overlooking the garden, currently furnished with a bed and a desk and empty shelving that she gestures at with an apologetic wave.
“I wasn’t sure what you’d like, so I left most of it bare,” she tells him. “What are your favorite colors? I’ll have it decorated properly before your next visit.”
Sungyoon looks around the room with wide eyes and says he likes blue, and dark green, and she nods and starts talking about curtain fabrics and bedding options with the enthusiasm of a woman who has been waiting for a grandchild to spoil and intends to make up for every single lost minute.
Sungyoon follows her around, looking slightly overwhelmed but visibly pleased, answering her questions about school and soccer and his friends with increasing ease, his initial stiffness melting under the sheer force of her warmth.
During dinner, seated around a long table laden with more food than five people could possibly eat, platters of braised short ribs and steamed fish and japchae and at least six different banchan dishes arranged in careful rows, Hongjoong’s mother reaches across the table and clasps my hand.
Her grip is firm, and her eyes are bright, and she holds my gaze steadily as she speaks.
“I want you to know how thankful I am,” she says. “Raising a child alone, all those years, with no help from anyone.” She shakes her head slowly. “I can’t imagine how difficult it must have been. Sungyoon is a wonderful young man, and that’s because of you.”
My throat closes up completely. I manage a quiet “thank you” that comes out rough, and she squeezes my hand once more before releasing it and turning back to the conversation with a calmness that I envy deeply because my own is hanging by a thread.
We’re so openly accepted, so readily folded into this family, that I don’t know what to do with the feeling expanding inside my chest. I sit at the table listening to the chatter flowing around me, Sungyoon telling Hongjoong’s father about his soccer team’s semifinal win and his grandfather leaning forward with genuine interest and asking about formations and coaching strategies, Hongjoong arguing with his mother about the room decor, his mother insisting on traditional furnishings with antique wood pieces while Hongjoong advocates for something modern and sleek.
Sungyoon chimes in that he wants a gaming setup and all three of them pivot to debate that instead, Hongjoong’s mother looking personally affronted by the suggestion of a gaming chair in her carefully decorated guest room while Hongjoong takes Sungyoon’s side with theatrical conviction and his father stays diplomatically neutral, sipping his wine and watching the argument unfold with the quiet amusement of a man who learned long ago to stay out of his wife’s decorating decisions.
I sit quietly among them with Hongjoong’s hand resting on my thigh under the table, warm and grounding, his thumb tracing absent circles against the fabric of my pants while he argues with his mother about monitor sizes.
The weight of his palm against my leg is steady and sure, anchoring me to this moment, to this table, to this family that I kept my son from his whole life and that opened its arms to both of us anyway.
But watching them now, I think maybe I’m starting to believe it’s really going to be okay.
Maybe we can belong here, I can belong with Hongjoong.
It’s not a mistake, not a dream. Just here.