Chapter Sixteen
Iwould prefer a fistfight.
I’m not joking. I would genuinely prefer it if Kang Donghwa dragged me back into the locker room and tried to rearrange my teeth. I understand violence. I understand the hierarchy of physical aggression. If he swings, I swing back. Simple. Clean. Masculine.
But this? This new psychological torture method he’s decided to deploy? It’s ruining my life.
"Mr. Oh? Are you with us, or are you busy contemplating the structural integrity of the ceiling tiles?"
Professor Lim’s voice snaps me back to reality. I jolt in my seat, my knee banging loudly against the underside of the desk. A ripple of laughter goes through the lecture hall.
"I'm listening," I lie, smoothing down the front of my shirt. "Just thinking about the... negative space."
"Fascinating," Professor Lim draws out, adjusting his thick-rimmed glasses. "Since you're so engaged, perhaps you can offer a counterpoint to Mr. Kang's analysis regarding the use of tension in visual narratives."
I freeze. I haven't heard a single word Mr. Kang has said for the last twenty minutes.
I risk a glance to my left. Two rows down, Donghwa is leaning back in his chair, looking like he owns the building. He’s wearing a black turtleneck that hugs his shoulders in a way that should be illegal, his expression bored and unreadable to everyone else.
But when his dark eyes slide over to meet mine, the boredom vanishes. A corner of his mouth quirks up. It’s microscopic. If you didn't know him—if you hadn't had his knot inside you—you’d miss it.
"I was saying," Donghwa’s voice is deep, smooth, carrying effortlessly through the quiet room, "that tension isn't about the conflict itself. It's about the inevitability of submission. The viewer knows the subject is going to break; the art is in prolonging the moment before they finally give in."
My mouth goes dry. My heart does a traitorous double-tap against my ribs.
He’s talking about photography. He is objectively talking about photography. But he’s looking right at me, his gaze dropping to my throat, then back up to my eyes.
"Right," I choke out, my voice sounding a octave higher than my usual alpha baritone. I clear my throat aggressively. "Yeah. Sure. Submission. Whatever."
"Eloquently put, Mr. Oh," the professor sighs, moving on.
I sink low in my seat, glaring at the back of Donghwa’s head. He knows exactly what he’s doing. Ever since the bathroom, he’s stopped trying to physically intimidate me. Instead, he’s started treating me like a secret only he gets to enjoy.
It’s maddening. It’s making me paranoid. I spend half the lecture looking over my shoulder, terrified that Seungchan or one of the other guys will notice that the freshman prodigy is mentally undressing me in the middle of a discussion on typography.
The bell rings, signaling a ten-minute break. I scramble to pack my things, desperate to get some air, but the universe hates me.
"Donghwa, be a dear and pass these handouts to the back rows," Professor Lim calls out.
I freeze as Donghwa stands up. He takes the stack of papers, moving up the aisle with that lazy, predatory grace of his. The scent of him hits me before he even reaches my row.
My body reacts instantly. It’s a biological conditioned response that makes me want to punch a wall. My skin heats up, a prickle of awareness running down my spine that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the bite mark hidden under my collar.
He moves down the row, handing sheets to the omegas who giggle and blush as he passes. He ignores them all.
He stops at my desk.
I refuse to look up. I stare aggressively at my notebook, holding my hand out for the paper. "Just give it to me," I mutter.
He places the sheet in my hand, but he doesn't let go.
His fingers brush against my palm, warm and rough. He lingers there, his thumb pressing deliberately into the sensitive skin between my thumb and forefinger. It’s a small touch. Innocent to anyone watching. But the contact sends a jolt of electricity straight to my groin.
I snatch my hand back like he burned me, the paper crinkling loudly.
"Careful, sunbae," Donghwa murmurs, his voice pitched low so only I can hear. "You're jumpy today."
I look up, glaring daggers. "Touch me again and you lose a finger."
He leans in, just an inch, invading my personal space. The smell of him floods my lungs, drowning out the cheap perfume of the omega sitting next to me.
"You didn't seem to mind my hands on you the other night," he whispers. "In fact, I recall you asking for them."
My face flames. I can feel the heat rising up my neck, turning my ears red. I open my mouth to tell him to go to hell, to remind him that we have a deal, but he’s already pulling back.
He straightens up, his face returning to that mask of cool indifference. He drops the rest of the papers on the desk behind me and walks away without a backward glance.
I sit there, heart hammering against my ribs, clutching the crumpled handout.
"Dude, you okay?" Seungchan leans over from the next desk, looking at me with concern. "You look like you're about to have a stroke. Is it the flu again?"
"Yeah," I grit out, watching Donghwa take his seat again. He picks up a pen, twirling it through his long fingers, and I have to look away before I do something stupid. "Something like that."
I need to get a grip.
But as Donghwa shifts in his seat, stretching his long legs out, I catch him glancing at me again. He runs his tongue over his bottom lip, slow and deliberate, and winks.
I snap my pencil in half.
This isn't a rivalry anymore. It’s a hunt. And I have a terrible, sinking feeling that I’m already caught.
The air inside the BBQ joint is thick enough to chew. Usually, I’d be strutting in here, popping my collar, ready to hold court at the center table while people refill my glass and laugh at my jokes.
Tonight, I feel like a gazelle walking into a lion’s den wearing a steak necklace.
"Sihwan! Over here!" someone shouts from the middle of the room.
I plaster on my winning smile—the one that says I am rich, handsome, and definitely not bonded to a freshman—and wave. But my eyes are doing a frantic, tactical sweep of the perimeter. I need to know where the threat is. I need to know the blast radius.
And there he is. Of course.
Kang Donghwa is sitting at a table near the window, surrounded by a group of wide-eyed first-years who look like they’re waiting for him to dispense wisdom.
He’s not even doing anything. He’s just sitting there in another one of those expensive black shirts that cover everything, looking like a vampire who accidentally wandered into a frat party.
He looks bored, detached, and irritatingly cool.
Then, as if he has a radar specifically tuned to my misery, his head turns.
Our eyes lock across the smoky room.
My stomach drops through the floor. The bond—that treacherous, invisible tether hooked into my gut—gives a sharp yank. It’s not a romantic flutter. It’s a biological demand. It’s my body screaming There he is. Go to him. Sit on his lap.
I want to die.
"Hey, let's grab those seats by the freshmen!" Seungchan yells, grabbing my bicep and trying to steer me toward the danger zone.
I dig my heels into the sticky floor. "No."
Seungchan blinks, confused by my sudden imitation of a concrete pillar. "Huh? Why not? It’s prime real estate, bro."
"The ventilation," I say, my voice coming out a little too loud. "It’s terrible over there. You know how I get about smoke in my pores, Seungchan. Do you want me to break out? Do you want my complexion to suffer?"
Seungchan looks at the perfectly functioning exhaust hood above the freshman table, then back at me. "Uh..."
"Trust me. The airflow is much better in the back. Near the exit. Far away from... the drafts."
I don't wait for his agreement. I physically manhandle my gym-bro best friend, shoving him toward a table in the absolute nosebleed section of the restaurant, tucked behind a decorative partition and right next to the restrooms. It is the loser table. It is social suicide.
But it is safe.
We sit down with a few other stragglers from my year. I immediately pour myself a shot of soju and down it, relishing the burn. Okay. Good. We’re safe. I can’t see him from here.
I exhale, loosening my shoulders. I start to grill the meat, falling into the familiar rhythm of flipping pork and making loud, boisterous comments to prove I’m having a great time.
"So I told the professor," I say, gesturing with the tongs, "if you want minimalism, I'll just turn in a blank canvas next time. Right?"
The table laughs. I grin. I am the King. I am in control.
Then the hair on the back of my neck stands up.
It starts as a prickle, a low-level hum of anxiety that skitters down my spine. I try to ignore it. I drink another shot. But the feeling intensifies. It’s a physical weight, heavy and warm, pressing against my shoulder blades.
I know that feeling.
I slowly, carefully lean back in my chair, trying to peer around the wooden partition separating us from the main floor.
Donghwa hasn't moved. He hasn't turned his chair. He’s seemingly listening to a girl with pink hair talk about her portfolio. But his eyes aren't on her.
He is staring directly at me.
He’s holding a glass of amber liquid—probably whiskey he brought himself because he’s too snobbish for beer—and he’s watching me with that dark, unreadable intensity.
He’s not glaring. He’s not smiling. He’s just..
. observing. Like I’m a specimen in a jar.
Like he knows exactly where I am in the room without even having to look, and he’s just verifying the data.
Even from twenty feet away, through the smoke and the noise, the connection hits me. My breath hitches. My skin feels too tight for my body.
He takes a slow sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving mine.
I duck back behind the partition, heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.