Chapter Eight #2
I grip the edge of the desk so hard the laminate creaks. This isn't fair. I’m putting in the work here. I’m using words, I’m using body language, I’m using strategy. Donghwa is just... existing. He’s doing the bare minimum and getting maximum results. It’s inefficient. It’s insulting.
The rest of the class is a blur of me trying to one-up him.
I offer Heesung my specialized gel pen; Donghwa silently slides over his iPad with the notes already organized.
I offer to buy Heesung a snack from the vending machine; Donghwa produces a bottle of premium mineral water from his bag like a magician.
By the time Professor Ahn dismisses us, I’m exhausted. My pheromones are churning, thick and agitated, smelling like burnt sugar and aggression. Donghwa still smells like cool, unbothered ice.
But the game isn't over. I have the ace up my sleeve. The lunch invite.
Everyone knows lunch is the gateway drug to dating. You get lunch, you get dinner. You get dinner, you get the weekend.
As the students start shuffling out, I stand up abruptly, towering over the two of them. I flash my brightest, most blinding smile—the one that won me "Best Smile" in my high school yearbook.
"Heesung," I start, pitching my voice to be heard over the scraping of chairs. "There’s this new sushi place that just opened downtown. I know the owner, I can get us a private booth. Let’s go. My treat."
I hold out my hand, ready to help him up, ready to whisk him away to a land of raw fish and expensive sake.
Heesung looks up at me, eyes wide. He opens his mouth, looking like he’s about to say yes.
"Actually," a deep voice cuts in, smooth as silk.
Donghwa stands up. He doesn't rush. He unfolds his long limbs with an annoying amount of grace, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. He looks at Heesung, completely ignoring my outstretched hand.
"I'm heading to the Performing Arts building to drop off some paperwork," Donghwa says. He looks at his watch, then back at Heesung. "Isn't your next class Modern Dance? That’s in the same building."
Heesung blinks, distracted. "Oh! Yes, it is."
"I'll walk you," Donghwa says. It’s not a question. It’s a statement. "The campus is crowded today. Better to have an escort."
Heesung beams, scrambling out of his chair. "Really? That would be great! I hate walking through the quad alone when it's this busy."
I stand there, hand still extended into empty air, looking like a statue of a moron.
"Wait," I say, my smile faltering. "What about sushi? I have a car. We can drive."
Donghwa finally looks at me. His eyes are dark, unreadable pools of calm. "Maybe next time, Sunbae. You wouldn't want him to be late for class, would you?"
He doesn't wait for an answer. He just turns and starts walking toward the exit. And Heesung—my prize, my future accessory, the love of my semester—trots after him like a puppy, clutching Donghwa’s flannel shirt around his shoulders.
"Bye, Sihwan!" Heesung calls over his shoulder, giving me a little wave. "Thanks for the coffee!"
I watch them go. I watch Donghwa hold the door open for him. And just before the door swings shut, I see Donghwa glance back at me.
He winks.
I crush the empty coffee cup in my hand, caramel drizzle exploding over my knuckles.
I am being haunted.
That is the only logical explanation. I am being haunted by a six-foot-three demon in oversized Balenciaka who smells like a pine forest in the dead of winter.
For three days, I have been trying to execute a simple, foolproof plan: Isolate the target (Heesung), deploy charm (Me), and secure the asset (Date). It’s a strategy that has worked since middle school. I have a 98% success rate.
But Kang Donghwa is the 2%.
Tuesday
I catch Heesung in the library. This is a tactical error on my part because I hate libraries—they make me sneeze—but sacrifices must be made. Heesung is sitting in a secluded corner near the Art History stacks, looking delectable in a fuzzy pink sweater.
I grab a random book off the shelf—The Architecture of Brutalism, whatever that means—and slide into the seat across from him. I make sure to flex my forearm as I set the book down.
"Studying hard or hardly studying?" I whisper, flashing the smile that my mother paid an orthodontist the price of a small sedan to perfect.
Heesung looks up, his eyes brightening. "Sihwan! You scared me." He puts his pen down, giving me his full attention. "I’m just trying to finish this essay on color theory. It’s exhausting."
"Color theory?" I lean forward, invading his personal bubble just enough to let my spiced rum scent drift over. "I could help. I have an eye for aesthetics. Everyone says so."
Heesung giggles, twirling a pen. "Do they?"
"Absolutely. For example," I lower my voice to a husky murmur, "I think you’d look incredible in—"
"Royal blue," a voice says from directly behind my left ear.
I nearly jump out of my skin. I whip around, and there he is. Donghwa. He’s leaning against the bookshelf casual as you please, holding a stack of photography journals. He’s not even looking at me. He’s looking at Heesung.
"Royal blue," Donghwa repeats, his voice calm and bored. "It contrasts well with your skin tone. Pastels wash you out."
Heesung’s mouth drops open slightly. "That’s... exactly what the professor said on my first critique."
I bristle. "I was literally just about to say that," I lie through my teeth. "Obviously."
Donghwa finally glances at me. His eyes flick to the book under my hand. "Brutalism? Interesting choice, Sunbae. I didn't take you for a fan of raw concrete and utilitarian philosophy."
I look down at the book. "I like... big buildings," I say intelligently.
Donghwa’s lips twitch. He pulls a chair over—dragging it loudly against the floor, shattering the silence—and sits at the head of the table. "Mind if I join? I need to review these."
He doesn't wait for an answer. He just opens a journal. And just like that, the air in the corner changes. My warm, spicy scent is suddenly suffocated by that crisp, cold ginseng smell of his. It’s oppressive. It’s heavy.
Heesung immediately shifts his body toward Donghwa. "What are you reading, Donghwa?"
"Film exposure techniques," he says, not looking up. "Boring stuff. You wouldn't like it."
"I might!" Heesung chirps, leaning in.
I sit there for twenty minutes, staring at a picture of a concrete block, while Heesung watches Donghwa read.
Wednesday
I change tactics. If I can't beat him intellectually (which is bullshit, I’m very smart, I just don't apply myself to useless things), I’ll beat him physically.
I spot Heesung sitting on a bench near the campus fountain, eating a sandwich. I’ve just come from the gym. I’m wearing a tight tank top that leaves nothing to the imagination. My pump is immaculate. My veins are popping. I look like a Greek god who listens to too much EDM.
I stride over, wiping a bead of sweat from my forehead in what I hope is a cinematic way.
"Heesung!" I call out, jogging the last few steps so my pecs bounce a little.
Heesung looks up, mid-chew. His eyes widen as they sweep over my arms. "Oh. Wow. Hi, Sunbae. You’ve been... working out?"
"Just a light session," I say, propping one foot on the bench next to him. I lean down, letting the pheromones roll off me in waves. "Gotta keep the engine running, right? You eating alone?"
He swallows. "Yeah. My friends are in class."
"Perfect." I grin. "I’m starving. Maybe I can join you? I need protein."
Heesung smiles, shifting over to make room. "Sure! I have extra kimbap if you want—"
The sound of a motorcycle engine cuts him off. It’s loud, throaty, and obnoxious. A vintage black bike roars up the path—which is definitely a pedestrian zone—and skids to a halt right in front of the bench.
The rider kills the engine and kicks the stand down. He pulls off his helmet, shaking out messy black hair.
Of course.
Donghwa swings a long leg over the bike and dismounts. He’s wearing a leather jacket over a white tee, and he looks like he just walked out of a bad boy teen drama.
"Hey," Donghwa says, ignoring me completely to look at Heesung. "You left your charger in the lecture hall."
He reaches into his jacket pocket and tosses a white cable to Heesung. Heesung catches it, fumbling a bit.
"Oh my god, thank you! I was looking everywhere for this." Heesung is beaming. "You rode all the way here just to bring it to me?"
"I was passing by," Donghwa lies. I know he’s lying. The lecture hall is on the other side of campus.
Donghwa leans against his bike, crossing his arms. His gaze slides over to me, taking in the tank top, the sweat, the desperate flexing. He looks unimpressed.
"Nice tank top, Hyung," he drawls. "Under Armed? Very... classic."
"It’s performance wear," I snap, straightening up. "Some of us actually train, we don't just ride bikes to look cool."
Donghwa smirks. "Some of us don't need to try that hard."
Heesung laughs. He actually laughs.
I feel a vein throb in my temple. "I was just about to take Heesung to get some real food," I announce, grabbing Heesung’s arm gently. "Come on, Heesung. Let’s go."
Heesung looks at me, then at Donghwa. He bites his lip.
"Actually," Donghwa says, checking his watch. "I’m heading to the darkroom. I have some prints to develop. It’s pretty cool to watch the process. If you’re interested."
Heesung is out of his seat before I can even blink. "Really? Can I come? I’ve never seen a darkroom!"
"Sure." Donghwa hands him an extra helmet. "Hop on."
I stand there in my tank top, shivering as the wind picks up, watching Heesung wrap his arms around Donghwa’s waist as the bike roars to life.
Thursday
I am losing my mind.
I’m sitting in the cafeteria, stabbing a fork into a piece of tonkatsu like it’s Donghwa’s face. My friends are talking about a party this weekend, but I can't focus.
"He’s doing it on purpose," I growl, interrupting Seungchan mid-sentence.
Seungchan blinks. "Who? The freshman?"
"Yes! The freshman!" I slam my hand on the table. "Every time I get close to Heesung, he appears. It’s like he has a radar. A cockblock radar."
"Maybe Heesung just likes him," one of the other guys suggests unhelpfully.
"Heesung likes me," I insist. "When we’re alone, he’s all over me. He laughs at my jokes. He touches my arm. But then Ice Prince shows up and suddenly I’m invisible."
I look across the cafeteria. Heesung is sitting at a table with some other Omegas. Donghwa isn't there.
This is my chance.
I stand up, adjusting my collar. "Watch and learn, boys."
I navigate the crowded room, dodging trays and backpacks. I approach Heesung’s table from the blind side. I’m going to ask him to the movies. Tonight. No motorcycles, no darkrooms, just me, him, and a bucket of popcorn.
"Heesung," I say, sliding up behind him. I put a hand on his shoulder, leaning down. "Hey."
Heesung jumps, turning around. "Oh! Sihwan."
He looks... guilty? He’s hiding something under the table.
"What’s up?" I ask, trying to keep my tone casual. "You busy tonight? I was thinking we could catch that new action movie."
Heesung shifts in his seat. "Um, tonight? I... I sort of have plans."
"Plans?" I narrow my eyes. "With who?"
As if summoned by the sheer force of my irritation, a shadow falls over the table.
Donghwa is standing there. He’s holding two cans of peach soda. He sets one down in front of Heesung.
"Here," Donghwa says. "The vending machine on the second floor finally restocked."
Heesung’s face lights up. He pulls his hands out from under the table—he was holding a bag of gummy bears. "You found it! You’re the best, Donghwa."
Donghwa looks at me. He takes a slow sip of his own soda, his throat working. It’s infuriatingly attractive.
"Plans?" I repeat, looking between them.
"We’re studying," Donghwa says flatly.
"Studying," I scoff. "You’re a freshman. He’s a sophomore. What could you possibly be studying together?"
"Art," Donghwa says. "It’s subjective."
Heesung is opening the soda, looking at Donghwa with those big, doe eyes. He’s not even looking at me anymore.
Something occurs to me.
I watch Donghwa as he leans against the table. He’s not looking at Heesung. He’s not preening or posturing for the Omega’s benefit.
He’s looking at me.
His dark eyes are locked on mine, cool and mocking. One corner of his mouth is quirked up in that barely-there smirk. He takes another sip of soda, maintaining eye contact, challenging me.
He doesn't want Heesung. He doesn't give a shit about the peach soda or the color theory or the darkroom.
He’s doing this to piss me off.
He sees me. He sees the effort I’m putting in, the desperation to maintain my status, the hunger for validation—and he finds it funny. He’s treating my love life like a game of Whac-A-Mole, and he’s holding the mallet.
My blood boils. It’s not just jealousy anymore. It’s personal.
I lean in close to Donghwa, invading his space until our noses are inches apart. The clash of our scents is violent—spiced rum battling against cold ink.
"You think you’re funny," I hiss, low enough that Heesung can't hear over the canteen noise.
Donghwa doesn't flinch. He just lowers his soda can.
"I think you’re loud," he replies, his voice deadpan.
"I’m not giving up," I tell him, my voice dropping to a growl. "Heesung is mine. You’re just a distraction."
Donghwa tilts his head. "If he’s yours, Hyung," he says, the honorific dripping with sarcasm, "why is he drinking my soda?"
I recoil like I’ve been slapped. I look down at Heesung, who is happily sipping the peach drink, completely oblivious to the testosterone-fueled standoff happening above his head.
I glare at Donghwa one last time. "Watch your back, freshman."
I spin on my heel and storm off. I can feel Donghwa’s gaze on my back as I retreat. I don't need to turn around to know he’s smiling.
Game on, asshole.