Chapter One #2
"He looks expensive," Seungchan corrects, reaching for another bottle of soju. "Probably used to eating at places where they don't give you scissors to cut your own food."
"He needs better company," I say, running a hand through my hair to ensure maximum volume.
I scan the room, doing a quick threat assessment. It takes about three seconds. The Visual Design department is full of betas and a handful of recessive or lower-tier alphas. There isn't a single Dominant Alpha in the room besides me.
Competition? Zero.
I suppress a chuckle. It’s almost unfair. It’s like bringing a tank to a knife fight. I’m the only one here with the pheromones—and the deltoids—to handle someone of Heesung’s caliber.
"You thinking what I'm thinking?" Seungchan asks, grinning because he knows exactly what I'm thinking.
"I think," I say, picking up my shot glass and swirling the liquid, "that Yoon Heesung is about to have a much better freshman year than he planned."
I down the shot. It tastes like victory.
"Watch and learn, Chan. The King is going hunting."
I say, slapping the table once. "Let’s go introduce ourselves before someone offers him a cheap beer and ruins his palate forever."
Seungchan is already on his feet, wiping grease on his jeans. "Operation Alpha Strike is a go."
"Never call it that again," I mutter, standing up and adjusting my jacket. I zip it down another inch. Cleavage is gender-neutral if you have the pecs for it.
We move. It’s a slow, deliberate prowl. I keep my shoulders back, chest out, letting my boots thud heavily against the floor. The noise at the freshman table dies down as we approach, a ripple of silence spreading outward.
I stop right behind the chair next to Heesung. Currently, it’s occupied by some scrawny kid with glasses who looks like he’s allergic to sunlight. I don't say a word. I just tap him on the shoulder—two firm knocks—and jerk my chin toward the other end of the table.
The kid looks up, sees me, sees the mountain of Seungchan looming behind me, and practically teleports out of the seat.
"Thanks, buddy," I drawl, sliding into the chair while the cushion is still warm. I spread my legs wide, claiming the space, my knee brushing deliberately against Heesung’s thigh.
Up close, Yoon Heesung is even more lethal. His skin is poreless, like actual porcelain, and he smells... fuck, he smells incredible. Peaches and heavy cream. Sweet, cloying, and expensive. It hits my nose and my inner alpha immediately sits up.
Heesung turns to me, slowly, like he’s been expecting me all night. He doesn't look startled. He looks amused.
"I was wondering when you were going to come over," he says, his voice soft but clear, cutting right through the ambient noise. "You’ve been staring at the back of my head for ten minutes. I could feel the heat."
I grin, leaning an elbow on the table and propping my chin in my hand. "Just admiring the view. It’s not every day we get a transfer student who raises the property value of the whole department."
Heesung laughs, a light, tinkling sound that probably took years of practice to perfect. "Flattery? You move fast."
"I’m Oh Sihwan," I say, extending a hand but keeping it casual. "Junior. Student Council. And the guy who’s going to save you from eating whatever that is." I gesture vaguely at the burnt meat on his plate.
He takes my hand. His skin is cool, his fingers slender. "Yoon Heesung. And I think I can handle a little burnt pork, Sihwan-sunbae."
"Please, just Sihwan. 'Sunbae' makes me feel old." I hold his gaze, letting the silence stretch just long enough to be intimate.
This is the moment. I decide to dial it up.
I relax my control, letting my scent flood the space between us.
I push it out—Spiced Rum, heavy musk, the sharp tang of Dominant Alpha.
It’s a wave designed to make knees weak.
Usually, Omegas get flustered, their pupils dilate, they lean in. It’s biology. It’s inevitable.
I watch his eyes, waiting for the glaze.
It doesn't come.
Heesung blinks, his smile not wavering an inch. He breathes in, tilting his head like he’s sampling a perfume at a department store counter.
"Already?" he asks, arching a perfectly groomed eyebrow. "Laying on the pheromones a little thick, aren't you?"
My smile falters for a microsecond before I plaster it back on. Heavy? It’s premium booster mixed with high-grade genetics.
"I like to make an impression," I counter, leaning closer, invading his personal bubble.
My voice drops to that low rumble that usually seals the deal.
"So, Heesung. Since you're new, you probably need a guide.
Someone who knows the spots that aren't full of freshmen puking soju.
Let me take you out this weekend. I know a lounge in Gangnam that actually has a wine list."
Heesung hums, tapping a manicured fingernail against his chin. He’s looking at me, really looking at me, his dark eyes dancing with something that isn't submission. It’s playfulness. Maybe even a challenge.
"A lounge in Gangnam," he repeats, testing the words. "Sounds tempting. Very... aggressive."
"I get what I want," I say, holding his gaze, pouring more pheromones into the air until the betas across the table start coughing and shifting uncomfortably. "And I think you’d look good in the passenger seat of my car."
Heesung smiles, a coy, cat-like expression that makes my chest tighten. He leans in, and for a second, I think I’ve got him. I think he’s about to say yes.
Instead, he checks his phone.
"It does sound fun, Sihwan," he says, standing up gracefully. He moves like water, smooth and effortless. "I'll definitely... think about it."
He grabs his bag, slinging it over one shoulder.
"Wait, you're leaving?" I sit up straighter, the spell breaking. "The night’s just starting. We haven't even done shots yet."
"Beauty sleep," Heesung says with a wink. He leans down, just for a second, and whispers near my ear. The scent of peaches spikes, sweet and dizzying. "Thanks for the entertainment, Sihwan. You’re very... spirited."
And then he’s gone.
I sit there, blinking, as he weaves through the crowd, heads turning to watch him go.
"Dude," Seungchan says, sliding into the seat Heesung just vacated. He looks at me with wide eyes. "Did you just get rejected?"
"No," I snap, straightening my jacket and glaring at the empty spot where the peach scent is slowly fading. My heart is hammering a little too fast, equal parts annoyed and turned on. "He said he'd think about it. That's basically a yes."
"Right," Seungchan says, sounding unconvinced. "Totally."
I watch the door swing shut behind Heesung. He didn't submit. He didn't swoon. He called me spirited.
I grin, grabbing the bottle of soju.
"He's playing hard to get, Chan. And I love a chase."
The empty chair where Yoon Heesung sat feels like an insult.
I stare at the vinyl cushion, half-expecting it to still be indented with the perfect curve of his ass, but the material has already bounced back. Just like he bounced.
"Spirited," I mutter under my breath, testing the word. It tastes weird. Like kale. Or unsweetened almond milk. It’s a word you use for a golden retriever that jumps on guests, not a Dominant Alpha who just dropped a pheromone bomb strong enough to make a beta pass out.
"You okay, bro?" Seungchan asks, waving a piece of lettuce in front of my face. "You look like you’re trying to do long division in your head. It’s hurting my brain just watching you."
I blink, snapping back to reality. I grab the bottle of soju and refill my shot glass to the brim, the liquid surface tension threatening to break.
"I’m fine," I say, my voice tight. "I’m just... calibrating."
"Calibrating?"
"Yeah. He’s high-maintenance, Chan. You don't catch a marlin with the same bait you use for a goldfish." I down the shot. It burns, scrubbing the lingering taste of confusion off my tongue. "He didn't say no. He just didn't say yes immediately. There's a difference. It’s a negotiation tactic."
Seungchan nods slowly, though his eyes are glazed over. "Right. Totally. Negotiation. Like when I try to negotiate with the vending machine and it eats my money."
"Exactly," I say, ignoring the terrible analogy.
I run a hand through my hair, checking the reflection in my empty glass. Still perfect. The scent of peaches and cream is fading, replaced by the overwhelming smell of charcoal smoke and cheap cologne from the table over.
It’s annoying. My pheromones usually hit like a freight train.
I pay good money for the boosters I layer under my natural scent, a combination designed to trigger biological compliance.
Heesung should have been blushing. He should have been stammering.
He shouldn't have looked at me like I was a particularly amusing exhibit at the zoo.
Maybe he’s on suppressants? Strong ones? Or maybe his nose is broken. Yeah, that’s probably it. A tragic nasal deviation.
"Excuse me... Oppa?"
The voice is high, sweet, and hesitant.
I turn, and the empty space beside me isn't empty anymore. The girl with the pink nails—the one from earlier—has slid into the gap Heesung left. She’s brought backup this time, two other omegas squeezing into the booth, effectively boxing me in.
"Is this seat taken?" she asks, batting her eyelashes. "The freshman table is so loud. And you guys seem like you're having way more fun."
My ego, which was starting to deflate like a sad balloon, instantly reinflates.
I lean back, spreading my arm along the top of the booth again, my bicep flexing against the tight fabric of my sleeve. I shift my legs, manspreading just enough to brush against her knee.
"For you?" I flash the grin—the Number Three, charming but dangerous. "The seat is always open."
She giggles, covering her mouth. Her scent is vanilla. Basic. sweet. Easy. It’s not peaches, but right now, I’m not looking for a challenge. I’m looking for a fan club.
"You’re Oh Sihwan, right?" one of her friends asks, leaning across the table. "I saw you on the department Instafam. You’re the one who organized the welcome party last year."
"Guilty," I say, picking up the tongs and flipping a piece of pork belly with a flourish. Grease sizzles, popping loudly. "I like to make sure things are done right. High standards."
"You’re so strong," Pink Nails coos, watching my forearm muscles bunch as I cut the meat.
See? This is how it’s supposed to work. Biology. Physics. I flex, they swoon. It’s the natural order of the universe.
I pile meat onto their plates, playing the benevolent king feeding his subjects.
They eat it up—literally and metaphorically.
I tell a story about my summer internship, exaggerating the details just enough to make myself sound like I single-handedly saved the company from bankruptcy. They hang on every word.
It’s soothing. It’s comfortable. It’s exactly what I need to wash away the weird, prickly feeling Heesung left behind.
But even as I flirt, winking at the vanilla girl and letting her pour me another drink, my mind drifts.
Heesung didn't react. Why?
Is he seeing someone? Doubt it. I would have heard.
Is he not gay? He’s an Omega, so statistically, the odds are in my favor.
Maybe he just likes the chase. Some Omegas are like that—they want you to work for it.
They want to see if you’re actually a Dominant Alpha or just a poser with a gym membership.
I smirk, tossing a piece of garlic into my mouth.
Fine. I can work for it.
I’m Oh Sihwan. I have the best stats in the department. I have the car. I have the face. I have the deltoids. There is absolutely no universe where Yoon Heesung doesn't end up in my bed by midterms. He just needs a little more... persuasion. A little more exposure to the brand.
"Sihwan-oppa, are you listening?"
I snap back to the present. Pink Nails is pouting slightly.
"Sorry," I drawl, turning my full attention back to her. I reach out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her breath hitches. "I was just thinking about how good this jacket looks on me. But you look better."
She melts.
Yeah. I’ve still got it.
"Drink up, ladies," I announce, raising my glass. "Tonight is on me."
I’ll worry about the peach-scented puzzle later. Tonight, the King needs to be adored.