Chapter Thirteen #2
"Hyung," he prompts, a little sharper. "I’m not wrestling you again. My ribs hurt. Nod if you’re done throwing a tantrum."
I hate him. I hate him with a violence that scares me. But more than that, I just want to stop feeling this wet, sticky humiliation clinging to my skin.
I go limp, my muscles turning to jelly, and I nod my head into the mattress. Once. A jerky, defeated motion.
"Good."
The weight lifts. Donghwa backs off slowly, the mattress shifting as he moves away. I stay face down for a solid ten seconds, gathering the scattered shards of my dignity, before I plant my hands on the sheets and push myself up.
Big mistake.
As soon as I’m upright, sitting back on my heels, gravity takes another swing at me. A fresh wave of spend slips out of my abused hole, sliding messily down my ass cheeks and coating my inner thighs. I cringe, a full-body shudder racking through me as I look down.
It’s everywhere. My thighs are coated in drying, flaky white patches and fresh, slick streaks. My pubic hair is matted with it. My own stomach is sticky with what looks like my own release, mixed with sweat and... god, is that lube? We used lube?
I look like a disaster. I look like I’ve been thoroughly, comprehensively wrecked.
I squeeze my eyes shut, my hands trembling where they grip the sheets. "Fuck," I whisper, the word cracking in the middle.
"Go take a shower. We can talk after breakfast."
"Breakfast? Who the fuck said we were having breakfast?" I snap, my voice cracking mid-sentence because my throat is still raw. "I never agreed to a meal plan. I didn't even agree to you being conscious."
I turn my head to glare at him properly, intending to wither him with a look that says I am the King of Campus and you are dirt. Instead, my brain short-circuits.
Now that I’m not trying to punch him or actively drowning in a haze of pheromones, I actually look.
And fuck me, there is a lot of skin. He’s standing there completely unabashed, weight on one leg, letting me take in the broad expanse of his chest, the tapered waist, the V-line disappearing into the dark hair. ..
Twitch.
My traitorous cock gives a hopeful little jump between my legs.
I mentally strangle it. No. Bad. He is the enemy. He is the source of our suffering.
I try to drag my eyes up, away from the danger zone, but they snag on his upper body. I blink, squinting against the morning light. It’s not just pale skin. It’s... art? Dark, swirling ink wraps around his shoulders, bleeds down his biceps, and sprawls across his pectorals.
"What the fuck is that?" I blurt out, pointing a trembling finger at his chest.
Donghwa looks down, genuinely confused, like he forgot he was naked. "What?"
"That! The ink!" I gesture wildly at the mural on his skin. "Since when the fuck do you have tattoos?"
He blinks slowly, looking at me like I’m the slow one in the class. "Uh... since several years ago?"
My jaw unhinges. I’m racking my brain, trying to remember seeing this before. But I haven't. I’ve never seen him shirtless. Not once. Because this pretentious asshole dresses like a forty-year-old architect in the middle of winter. Turtlenecks. Oversized coats. Layers upon layers of black fabric.
He’s been hiding this under those suffocating layers of cashmere?
I stare at the ink. It’s a tiger. A massive, snarling tiger tangled up with what looks like plum blossoms and some kind of demon face. It’s aggressive. It’s loud. It’s completely at odds with his bored, princely face and his 'I'm better than you' attitude.
And it pisses me off.
It pisses me off because it’s cool. It’s objectively, undeniably cool.
It makes him look dangerous, like he’s got a secret life I know nothing about.
And—goddamn it—it makes him look even hotter.
Like a delinquent disguised as a scholar.
It adds an edge to him that I didn't think existed, and my stupid, lizard brain is eating it up.
"Fuck this," I curse, the heat rushing to my face again.
I can't look at him. I can't look at that ink or that dick or the confused look on his face. I stomp toward the en-suite bathroom, trying to walk with some semblance of alpha swagger despite the fact that I’m waddling like a penguin with a stick up its ass.
"Just get out of my house!" I yell over my shoulder, slamming the door before he can answer.
I scrub my skin until it’s practically raw. I use half a bottle of body wash, the expensive stuff that smells like cedar, trying to scour away the scent of winter air and sex. It doesn’t work. The smell is stuck in my nose, or maybe it’s just burned into my brain circuitry.
I limp out of the bathroom, dressed in my baggiest gray sweatpants and a hoodie, fully prepared to reclaim my kingdom. I have a speech prepared. It involves a lot of pointing at the door and threats of restraining orders. I expect silence. I expect an empty apartment.
What I find is a hostile takeover of my kitchen.
Kang Donghwa is sitting at my dining table. He’s fully dressed now—unfortunately—in his usual black turtleneck and slacks, looking like he’s about to critique an art exhibit rather than the guy he just railed into next week. But that’s not the worst part. The worst part is the table.
It’s covered in takeout containers.
"I thought I told you to get out," I snap, freezing in the hallway. My voice is a little stronger now, but it still has that embarrassing rasp.
Donghwa doesn't even look up from his phone. He gestures vaguely to the spread with his free hand. "I ordered delivery. Figured you wouldn't have anything edible in your fridge besides protein shakes and sadness."
"I have food!" I argue, though we both know the crisper drawer contains exactly one withered lemon and a six-pack of Red Bull. "And I don't want your charity food. I want you to leave."
I open my mouth to launch into a tirade about breaking and entering, but then the smell hits me.
It’s rich, spicy, and savory. Haejang-guk. Hangover soup. The scent of ox bone broth and cabbage wafts across the room, and my traitorous stomach lets out a growl so loud it sounds like a tectonic plate shifting.
Donghwa looks up then. The corner of his mouth twitches. Just a millimeter. A microscopic smirk that makes me want to throw a chair through the window.
"Sit down," he says, popping the lid off a bowl of rice. "Before you pass out."
I glare at him. I glare at the food. I weigh the pros and cons of maintaining my dignity versus the absolute cavernous void inside my stomach.
Dignity loses. It usually does when I’m this hungry.
I stomp over to the table and throw myself into the chair opposite him, wincing as my sore ass hits the cushion. I snatch up a spoon like it’s a weapon. "I’m only eating this because I need the calories to kick your ass later," I mutter.
"Sure," Donghwa says dryly. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."
I don't dignify that with a response. I just eat.
And god, I hate him, but the bastard has good taste.
The soup is perfect—spicy enough to clear my sinuses but rich enough to settle the gnawing ache in my gut.
I shovel rice into my mouth, barely chewing, ignoring the way Donghwa just sits there, sipping an iced americano he seemingly pulled out of thin air, watching me.
He doesn't eat much. He just watches. His dark eyes track the movement of my spoon, his expression unreadable but tinged with that same infuriating amusement. Like I’m a stray dog he just fed.
I finish the bowl in record time, slamming the spoon down on the table with a clatter. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and sit back, crossing my arms over my chest.
"Feel better?" he asks.
"No," I snap, scowling. "I feel like shit. And you're still here."
Donghwa leans back in his chair, mirroring my posture but looking infinitely more relaxed about it. "I paid for the food. I think I’m allowed to sit."
"You're polluting my air," I grumble, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Your pheromones are everywhere. It’s making me nauseous."
It’s not exactly a lie. The scent of him is thick in the apartment. But it’s not making me nauseous in the way bad smells do. It’s making my stomach flip and my skin prickle in a way that feels dangerously close to arousal, which makes me want to vomit from self-loathing.
Donghwa smirks with obvious self-assurance. "I'm fully suppressed. I’m not letting off anything."
"It lingers," I insist, waving a hand in front of my face. "It’s stuck to the furniture. It’s stuck to me. It’s suffocating."
He snorts, running a hand through his messy black hair. "You're dramatic. It’s probably just your imagination."
"My imagination didn't bite a chunk out of my shoulder," I retort, gesturing to the bandage hidden beneath my hoodie.
He goes quiet at that, his eyes dropping to my collarbone for a split second before flicking back to my face. The amusement fades, replaced by that stoic, unreadable mask.
"Speaking of which," I narrow my eyes, a sudden thought cutting through the fog of food and anger. "How the hell did you find my apartment? I never gave you my address. I’m unlisted in the student directory."
I lean forward, suspicion narrowing my vision. "Did you stalk me? Are you a stalker now on top of being a pervert?"
Donghwa sighs. It’s a long, suffering sound, like dealing with me is the hardest thing he’s ever had to do. He taps his long fingers against the condensation on his coffee cup.
"I didn't come here to hook up, Hyung," he says quietly. "I came because I realized something."
"Realized what?" I ask, my heart giving a stupid, nervous thud against my ribs. "That you're an asshole?"
He ignores the jab. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, invading my space again.
"I realized why I haven't been able to smell a single omega since that night at the party," he says.