Chapter Eight
Sihwan
Ididn't sleep. Not a wink.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw it. That grainy, high-definition nightmare of Kang Donghwa’s hand on Heesung’s waist. The way Heesung, the department’s crown jewel, had looked at that gloomy freshman like he was the last bottle of water in a desert.
I spent Sunday at the gym, benching until my pecs screamed, trying to push the image of them leaving the party together out of my head. It didn't work. The weights just felt heavier, and my mood got darker.
Whatever happened between them on Saturday night, it ends now.
I check my reflection in the darkened window of the coffee shop. My hair is perfect, waxed back to show off my forehead. My biceps are threatening to tear the seams of my navy polo. I look expensive. I look like a winner.
"Order for Sihwan!"
I stride to the counter, ignoring the beta barista who blushes when our fingers brush.
I grab the drink. It’s a masterpiece. A Venti Caramel Macchiato with extra drizzle and whipped cream.
It’s basically liquid diabetes, but it looks impressive, and Omegas love sweet things. That’s, like, Omega Dating 101.
I march toward the lecture hall, the cardboard cup burning my hand. This is a tactical strike. Donghwa might have had one lucky night because he’s "mysterious" and "new," but I have stamina. I have persistence. And I have eight thousand won worth of caffeine and sugar.
The lecture hall is buzzing, but I spot him immediately. Heesung is in the third row, looking predictably gorgeous even under the harsh fluorescent lights. He’s scrolling on his phone, looking a little tired.
Perfect.
I slide into the seat next to him, making sure to spread my legs just enough to assert space without being a total asshole. I let my pheromones leak out—just a hint, warm and inviting.
"Morning, superstar," I say, voice dropped an octave. I set the coffee down in front of him like I’m presenting a diamond ring. "You looked like you needed a pick-me-up."
Heesung jumps a little, blinking up at me. He sniffs the air, his nose wrinkling slightly before he offers a polite, practiced smile.
"Oh. Hi, Sihwan-sunbae." He looks at the massive cup. "That’s... big."
"Go big or go home, right?" I wink. "Figured you might be dragging a bit this morning. After the weekend and all."
I watch his face closely, looking for a blush, a hickey, a guilty look—anything that confirms he spent the last thirty-six hours in Donghwa’s bed.
Heesung takes the cup, his manicured fingers brushing against my knuckles. I feel a jolt of satisfaction that has nothing to do with static electricity and everything to do with the way his eyes light up.
"Caramel? You remembered," he purrs, taking a sip. A little hum of appreciation vibrates in his throat, and I mentally high-five myself.
Boom. Headshot.
"I have a memory like a steel trap when it comes to important things," I say, leaning back and draping my arm over the back of his chair. I’m claiming territory here. I’m practically peeing on the furniture, metaphorically speaking.
"Besides, you looked like you needed something sweet to wash the taste of a bad weekend out of your mouth. "
Heesung giggles—actually giggles—and leans into my space. The scent of peaches and cream spikes, sugary and inviting. "You’re terrible, Sunbae. My weekend wasn't that bad."
"Wasn't it?" I challenge, dropping my voice to a low rumble. "I didn't see you at the club on Sunday. Figured you were recovering from... boredom."
Heesung bites his lip, looking up at me through his lashes.
He’s eating it up. My ego inflates like a balloon.
I knew it. Whatever happened with Donghwa was a flop.
The kid probably has the personality of a wet napkin once you get past the brooding artist act.
Heesung is back where he belongs: basking in the glow of a real Alpha.
I’m just about to suggest dinner—somewhere expensive, somewhere public—when the atmosphere in the room shifts. It’s subtle, like a sudden draft in a warm room. The chatter dies down a decibel.
I don't even have to look to know who it is. The air suddenly smells crisp, like ozone and expensive ink.
I look up, keeping my arm firmly around Heesung’s chair, and lock eyes with Kang Donghwa. He’s walking up the aisle, backpack slung over one shoulder, looking effortlessly disheveled in a black button down.
I grin at him. A wide, shark-like grin. Look at this, rookie. Look at who’s winning.
I expect him to scowl. I expect him to falter, to see Heesung leaning into me and turn tail to find a seat in the back row where he can sulk and write poetry about rejection.
Instead, Donghwa stops at our row. He looks at me, then at Heesung, and then... he smiles.
I don't like it. It’s small, bemused, and infuriatingly calm. It’s the look you give a toddler who’s proudly showing you a drawing of a horse that looks like a potato.
"Morning," he says, his voice cool and deep.
Before I can tell him the seats are taken, he drops his bag and slides into the empty chair on Heesung’s other side.
Excuse me? The audacity.
I tighten my grip on the back of Heesung’s chair, pumping out a warning wave of musk and spice. Back off.
Donghwa ignores me completely. He turns his body toward the center, effectively boxing Heesung in between us. Heesung, the fickle little traitor, immediately swivels in his seat, turning his back to me to face the freshman.
"Donghwa!" Heesung chirps, his voice pitching up. "I didn't think you were coming today."
Donghwa leans his chin on his hand, looking at Heesung with that same detached amusement. "And miss Art History? I wouldn't dare."
His dark eyes flick to Heesung’s neck, then back up to his face. "How was the rest of your weekend? recover alright?"
My jaw clenches so hard my teeth creak. The nerve of this guy. He’s rubbing it in. He’s sitting right there, smelling like winter and arrogance, asking about the weekend I spent agonizing over.
Heesung flushes a pretty shade of pink. "Oh, you know. It was... quiet. After I left the party."
"Quiet is good," Donghwa says, and I swear he glances at me for a split second, his eyes dancing with mockery. "Sometimes excitement is overrated."
I’m sitting right here. I am literally right here, occupying more cubic feet of space than both of them combined, and I might as well be a ghost. Heesung has completely forgotten his eight-thousand-won coffee. He’s staring at Donghwa like the guy just invented fire.
I am going to pop a vein. A major artery is going to burst right in my forehead, and I’m going to die here in Art History 101, leaving behind a beautiful corpse and a legacy of unfulfilled potential.
For the last forty minutes, I haven't heard a single word Professor Ahn has said about the Renaissance or whatever dusty old paintings we’re supposed to care about. My entire existence has been reduced to a turf war over the three feet of desk space occupied by Yoon Heesung.
Heesung, for his part, is loving it. He’s practically humming, soaking up the crossfire of pheromones like a sponge in a rainstorm.
"You're cold," I whisper-shout, noticing Heesung rub his bare arms. The AC in here is set to 'morgue,' probably to keep the ancient professor preserved.
I immediately start to shrug off my jacket. It’s a classic move. The Alpha gives the Omega his jacket, the Omega smells like the Alpha for the rest of the day, everyone knows who he belongs to. It’s primal. It’s perfect.
"Here," I say, wrestling one arm out of the sleeve. "Take this. It’s fleece-lined."
But before I can even get the thing off my shoulders, a black blur moves in my peripheral vision. Donghwa, without even looking away from the projector screen, simply unbuttons his oversized flannel overshirt and drapes it over Heesung’s shoulders.
"It’s lighter," Donghwa murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through the desk. "You won't overheat."
Heesung blinks, surprised, then snuggles into the black fabric. "Oh. Thanks, Donghwa. It smells... nice. Like wintergreen."
I freeze, one arm stuck in my jacket sleeve like a toddler who can't dress himself. I glare at Donghwa. He’s leaning back in his chair, twirling a pen, looking bored out of his mind. But then his eyes slide sideways, meeting mine.
He smirks. A tiny, barely-there lift of the corner of his mouth.
You little shit.
I shove my arm back into my jacket, huffing loud enough that the girl in the row ahead of us turns around to shush me. I ignore her. This is war.
I shift in my seat, spreading my legs wider so my knee presses firmly against Heesung’s thigh. A reminder. I’m here. I’m bigger. I take up more space.
"So, Heesung," I whisper, leaning in close enough that my breath stirs the hair by his ear. "I was thinking about that shoot you did for Vogue last month. The lighting was trash, but you made it work. You really have an eye for angles."
Heesung preens, turning toward me, his knee pressing back against mine. "You saw that? I hated the stylist, she kept trying to put me in pastels."
"Pastels wash you out," I agree quickly, nodding like I’m an expert on color theory and not just repeating what my mother tells me every time I wear yellow. "You need bold colors. Like red. Or navy." I flex my bicep, subtly drawing attention to my navy shirt.
Heesung giggles, his hand drifting to my forearm. "You're so right, Sunbae."
I shoot a triumphant look over Heesung’s head at Donghwa. Beat that, freshman.
Donghwa doesn't even blink. He just reaches out with his long, pale fingers and tucks a stray lock of hair behind Heesung’s ear. It’s such an intimate, casual gesture that Heesung stops talking mid-sentence, his breath hitching.
"Your hair is getting in your eyes," Donghwa says flatly. He pulls his hand back, but not before his knuckles brush Heesung’s cheekbone.
Heesung turns bright red. He looks like he’s about to melt into a puddle of peach-scented goo right there on the floor.