Chapter Nineteen #2
It comes to a head on Thursday.
I’m cornered near the vending machines in the design building, trying to buy a bottle of water to wash down the bile that seems to be permanently stuck in my throat these days.
"Sihwan," a voice croons right behind my ear.
I jump, slamming my shoulder into the glass of the machine. Sejun is right there, in my personal bubble, effectively pinning me between the snack dispenser and the wall.
"You've been avoiding me," he says. The innocent act is slipping, replaced by a petulant edge. His scent flares—sweet, sticky, demanding attention. "It's not nice. I'm trying to be nice to you."
"I'm not avoiding you," I say, pressing my back flat against the machine. The cool glass is the only thing keeping me grounded. "I told you, I'm busy."
"Too busy for me?" He steps closer, placing a hand on my chest, right over my heart. His palm is warm. "Come on. Stop playing hard to get. It was cute at first, but now I'm bored. Let's just go to your place."
He leans up, trying to nuzzle his face into my neck, right over my scent gland.
The reaction is instantaneous and violent. My stomach flips completely over. It’s not just dislike; it’s a biological rejection so strong my vision swims. My body screams WRONG, screaming that this isn't the right scent, isn't the bite that marks my skin.
I shove him.
It’s harder than I mean to. Sejun stumbles back a few steps, looking shocked.
"Whoa," he says, blinking. "Hyung?"
I’m breathing hard, wiping my neck where he tried to touch me like I’m scrubbing off acid.
"Stop," I snap, my voice harsh in the quiet hallway. "Just stop, Sejun."
"What is your problem?" He crosses his arms, his eyes narrowing. "You're acting weird. Is it because of someone else? Are you seeing someone?"
"This isn't about anyone else," I lie through my teeth, though the mere mention of him in passing makes the nausea recede slightly, replaced by a headache. "I'm not interested, Sejun. We tried it, it didn't work. I'm not doing this again."
"You were obsessed with me," he argues, stamping his foot lightly. "You cried when we broke up!"
"I did not cry," I roar, my face heating up. "I had allergies!"
"You're lying." He scoffs, stepping forward again, releasing another wave of vanilla pheromones to try and subdue me.
I gag. I can't help it. The sound is wet and ugly. I cover my mouth with my hand, backing away until I hit the opposite wall.
"Don't," I warn him, my voice muffled behind my hand. "Stay back. I mean it. I'm not... I can't do this. I'm not interested in getting back together, and I'm not interested in being your accessory for the semester."
Sejun stares at me, processing the fact that his usual tricks—the scent, the eyes, the touch—are failing spectacularly. For a second, he looks genuinely confused, like a magician whose rabbit died in the hat.
"Fine," he spits out, smoothing down his sweater. "Be like that. You're not the only Alpha on campus, you know."
"Good," I choke out. "Go find them."
He huffs, spins on his heel, and storms off down the hallway.
I wait until he turns the corner before I slump against the wall, sliding down until I’m crouching on the linoleum floor. I put my head between my knees, taking deep gulps of the stale hallway air.
Jesus Christ. I’m the biggest, baddest Alpha in the junior class, and I’m hiding by a vending machine because a five-foot-six Omega smells like vanilla extract.
I check my phone. No texts. No sign of Donghwa.
I hate that my first instinct is to check for him. I hate that the only thing that would make my stomach settle right now is the scent of the guy who ruined my life.
"Get it together," I mutter to the empty hallway.
I stand up, straighten my jacket, and walk in the opposite direction of where Sejun went. I need to find a bathroom, and then I need to find a way to survive the rest of the semester without vomiting on my ex.
I figure I’m safe in the campus coffee shop.
It’s the expensive one, the one that sells fair-trade beans and pastries that cost more than my gym membership, which usually filters out the riff-raff.
I’m just here to get an iced Americano—my fourth of the day—and try to drown the lingering memory of vanilla scent that’s been haunting my nightmares for three days.
I should have known better. Safety is an illusion when you’re living in a tragic comedy written by a sadist.
I spot him before I can even get to the counter.
Kang Donghwa is sitting at a corner table by the window, looking like a spread in Vogue: Depression Edition.
He’s wearing a black pullover that highlights his jawline in a way that is frankly rude, nursing a cup of black coffee and editing photos on his laptop.
He looks completely unapproachable, radiating that "do not perceive me" energy that usually sends people running.
Except for one person.
I freeze behind a display of gluten-free muffins as I see Lee Sejun prowling through the tables. He’s changed tactics. Gone is the oversized yellow sweater. Today, he’s wearing a white button-down that’s unbuttoned one shy of scandalous, and tight jeans that leave nothing to the imagination.
He’s not looking for me. His eyes are locked on the corner table.
"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," I mutter, ducking my head.
I should leave. I should turn around, walk out, and go do literally anything else. But my feet are glued to the floor. It’s like watching a car crash in slow motion, except one of the cars is my ex-boyfriend and the other car is the guy who knotted me last week.
Sejun stops at Donghwa’s table. He brushes his hair behind his ear—practiced, purposeful—and leans a hip against the edge of the table.
"Hi there," I hear Sejun say. His voice has dropped an octave, aiming for sultry. "Is this seat taken? The place is packed."
The place is not packed. There are three empty tables right next to them.
Donghwa doesn't look up. He doesn't even blink. He just taps a key on his laptop. "Yes."
"Oh." Sejun falters for a millisecond, but he’s a professional. He laughs, a tinkling, bell-like sound that makes my teeth ache. "You’re funny. I like that. I’m Sejun. Lee Sejun."
He waits for the recognition. He’s used to Alphas perking up at his name, recognizing the campus "It Boy."
Donghwa finally lifts his head. He stares at Sejun with the same level of interest one might give a smudge on a windowpane.
"Okay," Donghwa says.
I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from snorting. God, he’s an asshole. I hate how much I like it.
Sejun’s smile twitches, but he doubles down. He pulls out the chair and sits anyway, uninvited. The audacity is almost impressive.
"You’re the new freshman everyone is talking about," Sejun purrs, leaning forward on his elbows so his collarbone is on full display. "Kang Donghwa, right? I heard you’re... difficult."
"I'm busy," Donghwa corrects, his voice flat.
"Busy is good. Alphas should be driven." Sejun reaches out, his fingers dancing near Donghwa’s coffee cup. "My ex was like that. Always so busy with his swimming and his image."
My heart stutters. I grip the muffin display so hard I crush a blueberry scone. Don't bring me into this, you little demon.
He looks Donghwa up and down, licking his lips.
I see red. Actual red spots dancing in my vision. The bond in my chest gives a violent, angry lurch. It’s a primal, ugly feeling—mine. That’s mine. Get your vanilla-scented claws off him.
I take a step forward, ready to storm over there and cause a scene that will ruin my reputation forever, but then Donghwa’s eyes flicker.
He looks past Sejun. Straight at the muffin display. Straight at me.
He knew I was there. The bastard probably smelled me the second I walked in.
A slow, wicked smirk curls the corner of Donghwa’s mouth. He doesn't expose me. Instead, he turns his attention back to Sejun, his expression shifting from bored to predatory amusement.
"Is that right?" Donghwa asks, his voice dropping to a low rumble that I can feel in my toes from twenty feet away.
"Oh, totally," Sejun lies effortlessly, twirling a lock of hair. "He practically begged me not to break up with him. But you know how it is. I need someone who can handle me. Someone with... status."
Sejun releases his scent. I can smell it from here—a wave of clingy, sugary sweetness meant to trigger a rut.
My stomach revolts instantly. I gag, clapping a hand over my mouth, bile rising in my throat. It’s disgusting. It smells like desperation.
But Donghwa doesn't recoil. He doesn't look affected at all, thanks to the bond, but he plays along. He leans in closer to Sejun, resting his chin on his hand.
"And you think you can handle me?" Donghwa asks softly.
Sejun flushes pink, his eyes widening. "I think I’d like to try."
"Interesting," Donghwa hums. He holds Sejun’s gaze, but I know—I know—he’s performing for an audience of one. "You must be something special."
Sejun preens, practically glowing. "I am."
I don’t stay to hear the punchline.
The sight of Sejun leaning in, his button-down gaping open like an invitation to a cheap motel, combined with the look of predatory amusement on Donghwa’s face, is enough to make my vision blur.
It’s not the nausea this time—though the lingering stench of vanilla syrup is still making my stomach do backflips—it’s the rage.
Pure, unadulterated, white-hot rage.
It claws up my throat, tasting like acid.
I spin on my heel, abandoning my caffeine fix and the crushed remains of the blueberry scone, and storm toward the exit.
I push the glass door open with enough force that it bangs loudly against the stopper, the bell overhead jingling violently like a fire alarm.
I don’t look back. I don’t need to. I can feel Donghwa’s gaze burning a hole between my shoulder blades, heavy and mocking. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He saw me hiding behind the muffins like a coward, and he decided to put on a show.
You must be something special.