Chapter Two
My neck is killing me.
It’s a good kind of ache, though. The kind that reminds me I spent the last eight hours tangled up in the sheets with a very enthusiastic graphic design major. Minchae? Minjun? Whatever. He was cute, he was loud, and he knew exactly how to stroke my ego. Just the way I like it.
I catch my reflection in the glass doors of the Arts building and pause to fix my hair.
The chestnut dye job is fresh, perfectly waxed back to show off my forehead.
My skin is glowing, tanned from a summer spent on my dad’s private yacht in Jeju.
I adjust the collar of my jacket—too hot for September, maybe, but my biceps look insane in this cut, so the heatstroke is worth it.
"Morning, Sihwan-oppa!"
I flash a grin at a group of freshman girls huddled near the vending machines. They giggle, clutching their iced coffees like lifelines.
"Ladies," I drawl, letting my voice drop an octave.
I flare my pheromones just a little. It’s a heavy scent, expensive. I spend a fortune on boosters to make sure I smell like a CEO’s office and not just sweaty gym socks. It works. I see their noses twitch, cheeks flushing pink.
God, I love college.
I check the time on my phone. Ten minutes late. Perfect. Walking in early is for betas who are worried about their GPA. Walking in late is a statement.
I push into the lecture hall, letting the heavy door slam shut behind me.
The chatter in the room doesn't stop, but heads turn. I soak it in, strutting down the center aisle. I keep my chest puffed out, shoulders back. I’ve been hitting the bench press hard all summer, and I want every single person in this room to know it.
And then, what do you know, there he is, Yoon Heesung.
He’s sitting in the third row, bathed in a beam of sunlight like he’s posing for a skincare commercial. He’s wearing a soft, cream-colored sweater that looks like it costs more than my tuition, and he’s flipping through a textbook with these delicate, manicured fingers.
The air around him smells like peaches. Ripe, sugary peaches and heavy cream. It’s so sweet it almost makes my teeth ache.
Target acquired.
I pick up my pace, bypassing the empty seats in the back. My friends—Seungchan and the rest of the guys—are waving me over to the back corner, but I ignore them. I’ve got bigger fish to fry. If I’m going to run this campus, I need the queen bee. And Heesung? He’s royalty.
The universe clearly wants me to win.
I spot the empty chair right next to Heesung and practically thank the gods of geometry. It’s the only open spot in his row. Fate? Destiny? No, just my lucky day.
I saunter down the aisle, making sure my strides are long and leisurely. I hook my thumb in the pocket of my jeans, flexing just enough so the fabric of my shirt pulls tight across my chest. I drop my bag onto the floor with a heavy thud and slide into the seat like I own the place.
"Is this seat taken?" I ask, though I’m already settling in, spreading my legs wide enough to encroach on his personal space. Just a little. Just enough to let him know I’m here.
Heesung looks up from his textbook. He blinks those long lashes at me, a slow, languid movement.
"Oh. Hello again, sunbae," he says. His voice is soft, polite. The perfect amount of deferential.
"Sihwan," I correct him, flashing my best grin—the one that usually gets phone numbers dropped into my hand within thirty seconds. "We met last night. Remember? You broke my heart by leaving early."
I lean back, draping my arm over the back of his chair. It’s a power move. It opens up my chest and, more importantly, lets my scent roll off me in waves. I push it out intentionally, letting the heavy pheromones flood the space between us.
Usually, this is the part where an Omega gets a little flushed. Maybe they shift in their seat, their breathing hitches, or they start unconsciously leaning toward me. Biology is biology.
Heesung just smiles. A small, polite thing.
"I needed my sleep," he says, turning his attention back to the open book in front of him. "8 AM classes are brutal for the complexion."
I blink. That’s it? No stutter? No blushing cheeks?
"Right," I say, recovering quickly. I lean in closer, resting my elbow on the desk, invading his line of sight. "Well, you look fresh. Peaches and cream, literally. You smell good, Heesung-ah."
"Thank you," he hums, turning a page. He doesn't look up. "It's a new body wash."
He’s playing hard to get. I respect the hustle. It makes the game more interesting. If he fell into my lap immediately, I’d be bored by lunch.
Before I can try another line, the cavalry arrives.
"Sihwan! There you are!"
Seungchan’s booming voice rattles my eardrums. A second later, a massive hand claps onto my shoulder, nearly driving me into the desk. I wince, shoving him off.
"Watch the merchandise, Seungchan," I snap, though there’s no real heat in it.
Seungchan grins, oblivious as always, and squeezes into the seat directly behind me.
Two other guys from the department, Yoonsuk and Jaejoong, flank us, effectively boxing Heesung in.
Suddenly, he’s surrounded by four large, loud Alphas.
The air in the immediate vicinity gets thick with testosterone—Seungchan smells like cheap deodorant and gym sweat, and the other two aren't much better.
It’s an intimidating wall of muscle. Most Omegas would be shrinking into themselves right now, overwhelmed by the sheer pressure of it all.
I glance sideways at Heesung, waiting for the inevitable distress signal so I can swoop in and be the gallant protector. 'Back off, boys, he’s with me.'
But Heesung just sighs, a tiny, barely audible sound.
He pulls a highlighter out of his pencil case—pink, naturally—and marks a sentence in his book.
He glances around at the wall of beef surrounding him with an expression of mild curiosity, like he’s watching a documentary about large, clumsy animals.
"Crowded today," he murmurs, more to himself than anyone else.
"This is Seungchan," I say loudly, gesturing to the giant behind me. "And the peanut gallery. Guys, this is Heesung. The transfer I told you about."
"Whoa," Seungchan breathes, leaning over the back of my chair to get a better look. "You’re the model guy, right? I saw your Instafam. You have, like, a million followers."
Heesung finally looks up, offering Seungchan a polite, dazzling smile. "Not quite a million. But thank you."
He doesn't shrink away from Seungchan’s looming face. He doesn't look at me for help. He just sits there, smelling like sweet peaches, completely unbothered by the fact that he’s in the middle of a predator’s den.
I frown, tapping my fingers against the desk. He’s got nerves of steel, I’ll give him that. Or maybe he’s just so used to attention that four Alphas breathing down his neck is just a Tuesday for him.
Either way, I need to step up my game. Being part of the crowd isn't my style. I need to be the main event.
I try to angle my body to block Seungchan out, creating a little private island for just me and Heesung. It’s hard to be suave when you have a human golden retriever breathing down your neck and asking if you’ve seen the new protein powder vending machine in the gym lobby.
"So, Heesung," I start, pitching my voice low, ignoring Seungchan’s chatter about whey isolate. "You transfer from Soondeuk U? I heard the program there is intense."
I’m leaning in, ready to drop a compliment about his work ethic or his hands or whatever, when the atmosphere in the room shifts.
It’s not subtle. It’s like someone grabbed the volume knob of the lecture hall and cranked it up, then immediately snapped it off. A wave of whispers ripples from the back of the room forward, followed by the distinct sound of giggling. Lots of it.
I frown, irritated. I’m in the middle of a hunt here. Who dares interrupt the King?
"Ugh," Jaejoong groans behind me, the sound vibrating through my chair. "Not this guy. Seriously?"
I snap, whipping my head around toward the double doors. And then I get a full eyeful of the source of the spectacle.
He strolls in like he’s walking to his own execution and finds the whole process incredibly tedious.
He’s tall—annoyingly tall. I’m six-one, and I pride myself on looming over people, but this guy has at least an inch or two on me.
He’s lanky, but not in a weak way. It’s that swimmer build, broad shoulders tapering down into a waist that’s hidden beneath layers of expensive-looking black fabric.
And I do mean layers. It’s early September.
It’s still humid enough to make your shirt stick to your back if you walk too fast, but this guy is wearing a black turtleneck under an oversized black coat, with black slacks and heavy boots.
He looks like a depressed undertaker who got lost on the way to a funeral for a rock star.
But nobody else seems to mind the fashion statement.
He’s flanked by a phalanx of Omegas—three girls and a guy—who are practically tripping over themselves to open the door for him, hold his coffee, or just exist in his orbit.
They’re chattering at him, beaming, eyes sparkling with that glazed-over look of total infatuation.
The guy? He doesn't even look at them. He’s staring straight ahead with a dead-eyed, sleepy expression, one hand shoved deep into his coat pocket, the other clutching a helmet. A vintage motorcycle helmet. Of course. Because the bad boy aesthetic wasn't trying hard enough already.
"Excuse me," he mumbles, his voice a low, gravelly thing that barely carries, yet somehow everyone shuts up to listen.
He drops into a seat two rows ahead of us, slouching immediately, his long legs sprawling out into the aisle. The entourage settles around him like a protective detail, still cooing.
I scoff, ready to turn back to Heesung and make a joke about try-hards, but then the scent barrels into me.