Chapter Eleven #3
Maybe he’s late. He likes making an entrance. He’s probably waiting outside the door right now, checking his reflection in his phone screen, fluffing his hair to achieve maximum volume.
Ten minutes pass. The professor starts prostrating about advertisement design. The door stays shut.
An hour later, class ends. No Sihwan.
I don't go to my next class. Instead, I stalk the hallways of the Arts wing. I know his schedule—not because I’m a stalker, but because he made it his mission to be in my face for a month, so I learned his routine just to avoid him. Now, I’m retracing those steps.
I wait outside the Brand Management lecture hall. Students file out. I see a few of his gym-bro acolytes, laughing and shoving each other, but the King isn't with them.
I check the canteen. I check the courtyard where he likes to hold court. I even check the gym, standing in the doorway and breathing in the smell of rubber mats and sweat, trying to pick up that specific scent of spiced rum.
Nothing.
The agitation in my gut spikes, twisting into something sharper. It’s not just annoyance anymore. It’s a physical pull, a hook in my navel yanking me toward a void I can’t locate.
I round the corner near the vending machines and finally spot a familiar target.
Choi Seungchan. Sihwan’s lieutenant. The guy is built like a vending machine himself—all width, no neck. He’s currently struggling to open a bag of chips, looking like a bear trying to solve a puzzle box.
I change course, marching straight for him.
Seungchan looks up as my shadow falls over him. His eyes widen, and he actually takes a half-step back, clutching his chips to his chest like I’m going to steal them.
"Donghwa," he stammers. "Uh. Hey."
"Where is he?" I ask. I don't have the patience for pleasantries.
Seungchan blinks, feigning ignorance poorly. "Who?"
"Don't be cute, Seungchan. It doesn't suit you," I say, stepping into his personal space. I let a little bit of my scent leak out—just a warning, a cold snap of winter air. "Sihwan. He wasn't in class. He wasn't at the gym. Where is he?"
Seungchan shifts his weight, looking wildly uncomfortable. He glances around the hallway as if hoping Sihwan will pop out of a locker and save him.
"Oh. Yeah. He... uh..." Seungchan scratches the back of his neck. "He's not coming in today."
"Why?"
"He's sick," Seungchan says quickly. Too quickly. "Yeah. Super sick. Flu or something. Said he feels like death. Told us not to bother him."
I narrow my eyes. Sick? Sihwan? The guy treats his body like a temple. He takes more vitamins than a geriatric patient. And even if he was sick, Sihwan is the type to come to school anyway just to post a selfie in a mask with a caption about 'the grind never stopping.'
Something cold trickles down my spine. A bad feeling. It’s not a logical deduction; it’s a primal ping on a radar I didn't know I had until last week.
If we’re bonded... if I really did knot him and mark him... and now we’ve been separated for over a week?
"He's not sick," I say quietly.
Seungchan flinches. "Bro, I swear. He texted me this morning. Said he was throwing up."
Throwing up. Rejection of other scents? Stress? Or just the physical toll of a new bond being ignored?
"Where does he live?" I ask.
Seungchan’s jaw drops. "What? Why?"
"Because I need to check on him."
"He said no visitors," Seungchan argues, trying to puff up his chest to block my path. It’s adorable. "He was really specific, Donghwa. He said if anyone comes over he’s gonna lose it. Especially... well, anyone."
He means especially me.
"Seungchan," I say, keeping my voice low and even. I take another step forward. I’m taller than him, just barely, but I know how to use it. "Look at me. Do I look like I’m asking for permission?"
Seungchan swallows audibly. He looks at my face, then down at my hands, which are currently clenched into fists at my sides. He’s loyal, I’ll give him that, but he’s not stupid. He knows the pecking order, even if his best friend refuses to accept it.
"If I tell you," Seungchan whispers, leaning in conspiratorially, "you have to swear you won't tell him I gave it up. He’ll literally kill me. He’ll make me do leg day until my quads explode."
"I won't mention your name," I promise. "I'll tell him I used my superior intellect to deduce his location."
Seungchan hesitates for one more second, weighing his loyalty against his self-preservation. Self-preservation wins.
"Here," he mutters, pulling out his phone to type the specific unit number. "Penthouse level. Obviously."
Of course he is.
"Thanks," I say, memorizing the address instantly.
"Seriously, man," Seungchan calls after me as I turn on my heel. "If he asks, I was never here!"
I don't answer. I’m already moving, the pull in my gut finally having a direction. I’m not going to class. I’m going to find out exactly how 'sick' Oh Sihwan really is.
The building is exactly what I expected. It’s called "The Zenith," because of course it is. The lobby has more marble than the Vatican and enough gold leaf to bankrupt a small nation. It screams new money, loud and desperate to be noticed. It screams Oh Sihwan.
I ignore the doorman who tries to intercept me, flashing my student ID with enough unearned confidence that he assumes I belong there.
The elevator ride to the penthouse is smooth, silent, and irritatingly long.
I spend the ascent tapping my foot against the mirrored wall, watching my own reflection scowl back at me.
I’m not here to apologize. I’m here to get answers. I’m here to figure out why my biology has decided to rewrite itself around a guy whose favorite hobby is staring at himself in shop windows.
The elevator dings, opening directly into a private foyer. I march up to the double doors—mahogany, naturally—and lean on the doorbell.
Ding-dong. Ding-dong. Ding-dong.
I wait three seconds. Nothing.
I switch to the heavy artillery. I pound my fist against the wood, the sound echoing in the hallway.
"Sihwan!" I shout. "Open the damn door. I know you're in there so don't bother pretending you're not home."
Silence.
"I'm not leaving, hyung," I warn, leaning closer to the wood. "I will sit out here all day. I will order pizza to your hallway. I will start critiquing your interior design choices loudly enough for the neighbors to hear."
I raise my fist to hammer on the door again, but the lock clicks.
It’s a frantic, clumsy sound. The latch disengages, and the door is ripped open from the inside.
"What the f—"
I take a step back, the insult dying in my throat.
Sihwan stands in the doorway, and he looks like a natural disaster.
The pristine, gelled hair is gone, replaced by a damp, matted mess sticking to his forehead.
He’s shirtless, his skin flushed a violent, feverish red, slick with sweat that tracks down the definition of his chest and soaks the waistband of his low-hanging gray sweatpants.
His eyes are blown wide, pupils dilated so far the iris is just a thin ring of brown, and he’s panting like he just sprinted a 5k.
He’s trembling. Visibly vibrating with tension.
"Whoa," I breathe, my hands coming up instinctively. "You look..."
Wrecked. He looks absolutely wrecked.
Then the air from the apartment hits me.
It’s not a smell; it’s a shockwave. It slams into me, heavy and suffocating. The scent of Spiced Rum is there, but it’s been boiled down to a thick, syrupy concentrate, mixed with the sharp, metallic tang of aggression and something darker. Musk. Heat. Need.
My heart stutters, then kicks into a gallop that hurts my ribs.
My own scent flares in response, unbidden and violent. The winter chill I usually keep locked down explodes out of me, rising to meet his heat. My mouth goes dry, saliva flooding my tongue a second later.
It’s impossible. He’s an Alpha. I’m an Alpha. This reaction shouldn't exist. But my body doesn't care about biology textbooks. My body recognizes the scent, recognizes the distress, and screams Mate.
I stare at him, the realization hitting me with the force of a freight train.
"Are you in fucking rut?" I choke out.
Sihwan doesn't answer. He lets out a low, broken growl, his hand shooting out faster than I can track.
He grabs a fistful of my shirt, his grip bruising, and yanks.
I stumble forward, crossing the threshold, and he slams the door shut behind us.