Chapter Text
Taehyung didn’t sleep much that night.
After the conversation, neither of them found a way to continue it. Jeongguk ended up in the main bedroom and Taehyung stayed on the couch with the laptop still open on his legs, though he didn’t remember reading a single line. For a while he listened to the alpha’s movements on the other side of the apartment: the water from the shower, a door closing, the muffled sound of footsteps on the wood. Then, nothing.
Taehyung stayed looking at the ceiling until the darkness started to lighten behind the windows. At a quarter past seven he got up. The apartment was silent. He walked to the bathroom trying not to make noise. He didn’t want to wake Jeongguk, even though he didn’t know why he was still being careful with him after the night they’d had.
He turned on the light and stood in front of the mirror. He had tired eyes, messy hair and the shirt wrinkled at the shoulders. And his neck was still the same. He brought a hand to the left side and brushed the skin with the tips of his fingers. Clean. Without any mark.
For a few seconds he didn’t know why he was thinking about that. Maybe because he could still remember perfectly the conversation from years ago, when Jeongguk was just starting to make a name for himself and they both understood that their relationship would have to become something no one could see. A mate mark wasn’t a simple sentimental matter inside the industry. It was a declaration. A signal too obvious that an alpha had chosen someone. And in Jeongguk’s case, that could turn into a much bigger problem.
The agencies had their own rules. The contracts had clauses Taehyung had never wanted to know too well. There were artists who could build a career around their private life and others who had to keep it completely separate from their public image. Jeongguk belonged to the second category. An alpha idol, young, single to the world and desired by millions of people couldn’t suddenly appear with a permanent mark on his neck and expect no one to ask questions.
So they had never done it.
At first it had seemed like a temporary decision: only until Jeongguk’s career stabilized, only until they stopped being so young, only until they found the right moment. Then came the first big contract, the first award, the first international tour, the first stadium. And every time they thought that maybe they could allow themselves it now, something new appeared that needed protecting.
Taehyung had understood every time. He had been the one who said it didn’t matter, that they could wait, that he didn’t need a mark to know that Jeongguk loved him. And for a long time it had been true. He didn’t need any proof.
Until now.
He lowered his hand.
He didn’t know what he expected to find looking at himself in the mirror. Maybe an answer. Maybe some explanation for that unpleasant feeling that had been growing inside him for weeks. Nothing appeared, only his own reflection.
A thirty-year-old omega who had built an entire life around a relationship that officially didn’t exist.
He ran a hand through his hair and left the bathroom. In the kitchen he prepared tea. The aroma began to spread slowly through the space, filling the silence of the apartment. At twenty to eight he had already finished the first cup when he heard the bedroom door open.
He lifted his gaze.
Jeongguk was standing in the hallway. He was wearing a gray t-shirt and his hair was slightly messy. He seemed not to know quite what to do with his hands. The alpha’s scent was rough and sour.
For a moment neither of them spoke. Jeongguk looked toward the kitchen, then toward him, as if he were trying to decide whether coming in was a good idea.
“Good morning —Taehyung said, lower than necessary.”
Jeongguk nodded. He didn’t answer right away. He took a step, then another, and ended up leaning against the doorframe.
“Did you sleep?”
“Enough.”
Jeongguk watched him for a second. His gaze stayed too long on the dark circles.
“That doesn’t look like enough.”
Taehyung felt his throat tighten a little. The answer came out before he could hold it back.
“I didn’t know you also had time now to worry about how much I sleep.”
The sentence hung there. His own scent tensed just slightly, the barely perceptible sweetness turning a little more bitter. Taehyung knew he had been unfair as soon as he finished saying it, but he didn’t apologize.
Jeongguk stayed still. His expression shifted barely, as if something had caught, and his scent grew denser in the air.
“Are you going to start again?”
Taehyung set the cup on the counter. The sound was louder than he meant.
“No. You started.”
“I haven’t even said anything.”
“Exactly.”
Jeongguk let out a short laugh, without humor. He shook his head and ran a hand through his damp hair.
“God, Tae.”
He stayed there a moment longer before walking to the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and closed it without taking anything out. Then he took a glass of water, though he didn’t drink right away.
“Last night you were angry —he said at last, looking at the glass—. This morning you’re still angry. And for some reason it seems like now I have to guess what I did wrong.”
Taehyung looked at him without looking away.
“You don’t have to guess it.”
Jeongguk lifted his gaze.
“Then tell me.”
Taehyung held his eyes for a few seconds before answering, his voice lower.
“I already told you.”
Jeongguk’s jaw tightened. The cedar grew stronger, almost sharp.
“No. You told me you wanted me to care. That you wanted to see it. But that doesn’t tell me what you expect from me.”
Taehyung lowered his gaze to the cup.
“I don’t want to tell you how to respect our relationship.”
Jeongguk frowned.
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
“That I don’t want to teach you where the limit is.”
Jeongguk let out the air slowly.
“ Tae, we’ve been in each other’s lives for ten years. If you’re telling me something has changed, I need to know what..”
Taehyung tightened his fingers around the cup.
“That’s precisely the problem.”
Jeongguk set the glass on the counter and looked at him for a few seconds.
“You can’t expect me to think exactly like you.”
“That’s not what I’m telling you.”
“Then what are you telling me?”
Taehyung lifted his gaze.
“That you realize there are things we didn’t even need to discuss before.”
Jeongguk’s expression changed.
“Because before you did understand them.”
The silence filled with tense scents: cedar against the amber that no longer had any sweet trace. Jeongguk rested both hands on the counter. He lowered his head for a moment before looking at him again.
“Just because I do things differently now doesn’t mean I’ve stopped loving you.”
Taehyung held his gaze.
“I never said you didn’t love me.”
Jeongguk didn’t answer.
“But sometimes it seems like you think that should fix everything.”
Jeongguk closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them again, the frustration was much less contained.
“My life changed, Taehyung.”
Taehyung lowered his gaze to the cup.
“I know.”
“No, I don’t think you do.”
Jeongguk straightened and ran a hand over his jaw.
“You don’t know what it’s like to go from no one looking at you to everyone looking. You don’t know what it’s like to walk into a place and have people waiting for something from you before you’ve even opened your mouth.”
Taehyung lifted his gaze.
“I’m not talking about them.”
Jeongguk looked at him directly.
“Of course you’re talking about them.”
“I’m talking about you.”
That made him go still.
Taehyung breathed deeply.
“I don’t care that they look at you. I can’t control that. I don’t want to either. What matters to me is what you do when you know they’re looking.”
Jeongguk didn’t answer.
“And lately I don’t know if you still care about the difference.”
Jeongguk looked away. His jaw tightened again.
“That’s not fair.”
“Probably not.”
The answer came out so calm that it seemed to irritate him more.
Jeongguk looked at him again.
“Because you can’t pretend I stay the same in everything.”
Taehyung frowned barely.
“I don’t want you to be the same.”
Jeongguk held his gaze.
“Then stop talking like everything that changed was a loss.”
Taehyung took a few seconds to answer.
“It's not that everything has changed.”
The silence settled between them.
Taehyung set the cup on the counter and crossed his arms.
“It's that I used to know where I stood.”
Jeongguk stayed still.
“And now you don’t?”
Taehyung shook his head slowly.
“Now I feel like everything I should know about you I’m discovering in pieces.”
Jeongguk looked away. For a few seconds only the low hum of the refrigerator could be heard.
“My life can’t stop every time something changes between us.”
Taehyung felt his jaw tighten.
“I never asked you to do that.”
“Sometimes it seems like you do.”
The sentence fell between them. Taehyung lowered his gaze. Jeongguk seemed to realize too late how it had sounded.
“I didn’t mean”
“Yes you did.”
“Tae-“
“It’s fine.”
But it wasn’t. They both knew it.
Jeongguk took the glass and finally drank a little water. He set it back on the counter.
“I’m tired.”
Taehyung let out a short breath.
“Me too.”
“I don’t mean this.”
Taehyung lifted his gaze.
“I do.”
Jeongguk stayed still. For a moment it seemed like he was going to answer something, but he stopped. Taehyung felt the silence starting to become unbearable.
“I’m tired of feeling like I don’t even know where your life ends and ours begins anymore.”
Jeongguk’s brow furrowed.
“You’ve always known that.”
Taehyung let out a bitter laugh.
“No. I used to know exactly where I stood in all of this.”
Jeongguk’s expression changed. Taehyung saw it, but this time he didn’t look away.
“I wish I could believe you and settle for it as easily as before.”
Jeongguk went completely still. That did hurt him. Taehyung saw it and still didn’t try to take it back. The alpha ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek and looked away.
“That’s shit.”
Taehyung didn’t answer.
Jeongguk shook his head slowly and let out a hollow laugh.
—Because you’ve been looking at me these past few days like I’ve done something.
Taehyung held his gaze, something burned behind his eyes.
—And how do you expect me to look at you when you make me feel like you only remember we have a relationship when I have to force you to face it?
The sentence came out too fast. Both of them stayed still. Jeongguk didn’t answer right away. He ran a hand over his face and let the air out slowly.
“See? —he murmured—. This is exactly what I’m talking about.”
Taehyung frowned.
“About what?”
Jeongguk looked at him again.
“About how lately trying to talk things through with you has become a waste of time. Whatever I do, you always end up finding a way to turn it into another proof that I don't care anymore.:
Taehyung held his gaze.
“And you always find a way to act like the problem is that I bring it up.”
Jeongguk’s jaw tightened.
“Because it’s never enough.”
Taehyung took a step toward him.
“No, Jeongguk. The problem is that for you it should never be necessary to talk about it.”
The silence fell between them again.
Jeongguk looked away first. He stayed a few seconds with both hands on the counter, breathing through his nose, until he finally straightened.
“I’m going to shower.”
He didn’t wait for an answer.
He turned around and left the kitchen.
Taehyung stayed by the counter, unmoving. He listened to his footsteps moving away down the hallway and, a few seconds later, the sound of the bathroom door closing.
That was all.
He didn’t come back to the kitchen. He didn’t say anything else.
Taehyung lowered his gaze when the tears appeared without his permission. He didn’t know since when he had started holding his breath. He only realized when he took a breath and clearly perceived the scent that had filled the apartment.
It was unpleasant. Sour. Almost rotten.
His own scent.
The omega inside him seemed to have stopped trying to hide what he had been trying to control for hours.
The cup was still in his hands. The tea had gone cold a while ago.
This time, he didn’t try to drink it either.
He stayed like that for several minutes, not knowing how much time had passed since Jeongguk left the kitchen; maybe five minutes, maybe twenty.
The apartment was silent again, but that morning he could feel it in a different way. The bathroom was still closed. The water still wasn’t running and Jeongguk hadn’t come back.
He finally set the cup on the counter and wiped his face with one hand before the tears could fall.
They had argued many times. They had said things they later regretted, they had gone days without seeing each other because of Jeongguk’s schedule and entire weeks surviving on short calls and messages sent between flights. But lately the arguments didn’t seem to end. One was left unfinished and, before resolving it, another appeared until Taehyung no longer knew which of all of them was the one that really hurt him.
He brought his hands to his face and breathed slowly. The scent he had let escape was starting to dissipate, though an unpleasant trace still remained in the air.
He disliked losing control, not for being an omega, but because he had spent too many years proving that his condition didn’t determine his ability to handle a situation. His work had taught him to keep a cool head even when he had people in front of him willing to pressure him for hours. He could listen to threats, demands and absurd conditions without letting them affect his decisions. He could sit across from a client who tried to take advantage of a clause and dismantle their argument without raising his voice.
And yet, it was enough for Jeongguk to say that talking to him had become a waste of time for none of that to seem to help him.
He opened his eyes and looked toward the hallway.
For a moment he thought about going to the bathroom door, asking if he was okay or apologizing for some of the things he had said. The idea disappeared almost immediately. He didn’t know which one he would have to apologize for and he also couldn’t pretend he didn’t really think some of those things.
This time, the guilt wasn’t enough to make him back down.
He stood up, left the cup in the sink and stayed a few seconds in front of the dishwasher, hands resting on the edge of the counter. Then he turned around and walked toward the guest room.
He opened the closet and took out a white shirt, dark pants and a tie. He left the clothes on the bed and went into the guest bathroom to shower. He didn’t take long. He needed to get to the office and, although he had no intention of thinking about the argument for the rest of the morning, he knew he was going to.
When he came out, he got dressed, adjusted the tie and fastened his watch. He picked up the laptop and the documents he needed, put everything in the briefcase and took the car keys.
As he passed through the hallway, he looked one last time toward the closed bathroom door.
He didn’t stop.
He closed the apartment door behind him and walked to the elevator.
The city was already awake when Taehyung left the building. He left the briefcase on the passenger seat and stayed a few seconds inside the car before starting it.
The argument returned to his head as soon as he started driving.
Jeongguk’s voice. His expression. The way he had said that talking to him had become a waste of time.
Taehyung tightened his hands a little more on the steering wheel and forced his attention back to the road. He had a meeting at ten thirty. There were documents to review and several pending matters.
That was enough.
He arrived a little before nine. The Hanseojun documentation was already on his desk, along with several notes his secretary had left marked on the pages that required special attention.
He set the coat aside and sat down.
The first hour passed between contracts, emails and calls. There was an indemnity clause that had been causing problems for several days and, after reviewing it again, Taehyung made a couple of notes in the margin before sending an email to Hanseojun’s lawyer.
°The proposed wording continues to shift to our side a responsibility that belongs to the provider. We can accept the indemnity limit, but not assume obligations derived from conduct we do not control.
He sent it and continued reviewing the rest of the document.
At ten thirty he entered the meeting room.
The Hanseojun representatives were already there. Across from Taehyung sat the company’s financial director, his legal advisor and one of the project managers. On the table were three copies of the contract and a screen with the latest version of the document.
After the initial greetings, Hanseojun’s lawyer went straight to the point.
“We understand the concern about clause seventeen, but we consider that the responsibility it establishes is reasonable given the scope of the service.”
Taehyung opened the contract.
“I’m not disputing the scope of the service. I’m disputing who assumes the consequences when one of the parties fails to fulfill an obligation that doesn’t depend on them.”
“The provider works under our supervision.”
“That doesn’t mean we control each of their decisions.”
The man slid a copy of the contract toward him.
“The clause contemplates precisely that scenario.”
Taehyung lowered his gaze to the document.
“No. The clause contemplates that my client responds financially for them.”
There was a brief silence.
The financial director intervened before the other lawyer could answer.
“We’re talking about a standard protection.”
“Then it should be able to apply in a standard way —Taehyung answered—. If the provider defaults, you should be able to claim from them. If my client defaults, you can claim from my client. What we can’t accept is that my client responds for a third party even when they have fulfilled all their obligations.”
“That would make the project much harder to manage.”
“Managing it isn’t the same as shifting the risk.”
Hanseojun’s lawyer reviewed his documents again.
“What do you propose?”
Taehyung turned the screen toward them.
“Keep the economic limit you proposed, but divide the responsibility according to the origin of the breach. If the problem derives from an action or omission of my client, my client responds. If it derives from the provider, the party that has the contractual capacity to demand compliance responds.”
“That doesn’t protect us enough.”
”Yes it does.”
“Not in the way we need.”
Taehyung leaned back slightly in the chair.
“Then tell me exactly what risk you consider is left uncovered.”
The man stayed silent.
Taehyung waited.
He was in no hurry.
After a few seconds, the financial director intervened again. The conversation changed direction and they started discussing the deadlines, the penalties and the conditions for terminating the contract early.
The meeting stretched almost two hours.
Not everything was resolved the way Taehyung wanted. They conceded on some conditions and Hanseojun conceded on others. By the time they reached the final version of the document, clause seventeen had changed enough for both parties to accept it.
Hanseojun’s lawyer closed the folder.
“I think with this we can move forward.”
Taehyung nodded.
“Send me the final version this afternoon and we’ll review it before signing.”
“Can’t we close it today?”
“No.”
The man smiled with a certain resignation.
“I thought you’d say that.”
“Then you already knew the answer.”
The meeting ended a few minutes later.
Taehyung returned to his office with the folder under his arm and closed the door behind him. Only then did he allow the tension of the last two hours to ease a little; he rested his hands on the desk and stayed like that for a few seconds, breathing before sitting down again.
He had managed to keep a cool head throughout the entire meeting. He wasn’t going to lose it now.
He took the phone to check the messages that had accumulated while he was in the room. Among them was one from Jeongguk.
° I got to the studio.
Taehyung read it before answering.
° Good.
The reply came almost immediately.
° I’m sorry.
Taehyung kept his gaze on the screen. A second message appeared below.
°I shouldn’t have told you that talking to you was a waste of time.
This time he took a little longer to answer.
°I already know.
The three dots appeared almost immediately.
°I don’t want you to think I don’t care about what you tell me.
Taehyung read the message twice before writing.
°Then don’t make me feel like you do.
Taehyung didn’t wait for an answer.
Taehyung set the phone on the desk and closed his eyes for a few seconds. The turmoil in his omega was still there, the same one he had been trying to ignore since that conversation, and he didn’t know what he could do to get rid of it.
He opened it and took the file that was there. He went through the first pages, making a couple of notes next to the clauses he would have to review more carefully.
It was a contract sent by an entertainment company for one of their artists. He still hadn’t accepted the job; first he needed to review the conditions and make sure there was nothing that could get complicated later.
He continued reading, concentrating on the document in front of him.