Chapter Twenty-Two
Ispend the next three days walking like I have a stick up my ass, which, considering the events in the gym, isn't entirely inaccurate metaphorically speaking. Physically, the sting faded after a day, but the psychological bruise is turning a lovely shade of purple right on my ego.
I’m behaving. That’s the worst part. I’m actually behaving.
It’s also quiet. Suspiciously quiet.
Sejun has vanished into the ether. I haven't seen his perfectly styled hair or heard his annoying laugh near the Visual Design building all week. Rumor has it he’s suddenly very interested in the Engineering department, which is fine by me.
Donghwa said he handled it, and apparently, "handling it" meant freezing the guy out so thoroughly he got frostbite and moved on.
I should be mad that Donghwa fought my battles. I’m the upperclassman. I’m the big bad Alpha. But when I see Donghwa sitting in the lecture hall, scrolling on his phone with that bored, disinterested look he gives the rest of the world, I don’t feel angry. I feel… settled.
I drop my bag on the desk next to him. He doesn’t look up, but the corner of his mouth twitches.
"You're late," he says.
"I'm on time," I counter, sliding into the seat. "Professor isn't even here yet."
"You're usually here five minutes early to pose for the omegas." Donghwa finally glances at me, dark eyes sweeping over my face before dropping lower, lingering on my neck where the collar of my shirt hides the bond mark. "Giving up on your fan club?"
"Shut up," I grumble, opening my laptop. "Maybe I just don't want to smell their cheap perfume today."
"Good boy."
The words are quiet, barely a murmur under the noise of the class settling in, but they hit me like a taser. My spine snaps straight, and I feel heat rush up the back of my neck. I hate that. I hate that two words from this insolent freshman make my heart stutter.
I glare at him. "Don't call me that."
"Don't act like one, and I won't have to," he shoots back, smooth as whiskey. He leans back in his chair, stretching his long legs out, looking entirely too comfortable for a guy who beat my ass in the gym mirrors less than a week ago.
I try to focus on the lecture once it starts, but Donghwa’s presence is a heavy weight on my right side. It’s the bond, I tell myself. It’s just biology rewiring my brain to be hyper-aware of him. It’s not because I’m wondering what his hands are doing.
Halfway through class, he shifts, reaching into his bag. His hand moves fast, a blur of motion in my peripheral vision.
I flinch.
It’s a small movement, a jerk of my shoulders like I’m bracing for impact, but I catch myself instantly. I freeze, staring straight ahead at the whiteboard, praying he didn't see it.
Of course he saw it. He sees everything.
Donghwa pauses, his hand hovering over a notebook. He doesn't pull it out. Instead, he slowly withdraws his hand and rests it on his thigh, turning his head to look at me. The air between us gets thick, charged with that winter-chill scent of his.
"Relax," he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave. "We're in public, Hyung. You're safe."
"I know that," I hiss, keeping my voice low. "I'm not scared of you."
"I know you aren't."
He moves his hand again, slower this time. He doesn't go for his notebook. He reaches over and rests his palm on the back of my neck, his thumb brushing against the sensitive skin right over my pulse point. It’s a possessive, grounding touch. A claim.
"You liked it," he whispers, the words ghosting against my ear.
My grip on my pen tightens until the plastic creaks. "You're delusional."
"Am I?" His thumb rubs a slow circle against my skin. "Your heart is racing. I can feel it. You're not scared I'm going to hit you again. You're hoping I will."
"Fuck you," I breathe out, but I don't pull away. I can't. The warmth of his hand is seeping into my spine, melting the tension there. It’s sick. I’m the Dominant Alpha of the junior class.
I bench press more than most of these guys weigh.
And yet, here I am, melting into a puddle because a freshman is holding me by the scruff of the neck.
"Later," he promises, giving my neck a firm squeeze before letting go. "If you keep behaving."
He turns back to his notes like nothing happened.
I stare at the side of his face—the sharp jawline, the stoic expression—and I realize I’m in so much trouble. The fear is gone, replaced by this buzzing, electric anticipation that makes it impossible to sit still.
Sejun is gone. The rivalry is dead. And I’m starting to realize that losing to Donghwa might be the only win I’m actually interested in.
The pool becomes my sanctuary.
It’s the only place on campus where the air smells like chemicals instead of hormones.
Underwater, everything is muffled—the gossip, the expectations, the terrifying reality that my biology has been rewired by a freshman with a God complex.
I throw myself into training with a manic intensity that even Coach finds concerning.
Lap after lap, I burn off the restless energy Donghwa leaves under my skin, letting the chlorine scrub me clean until my eyes sting and my muscles scream.
On dry land, however, I have to become a master tactician.
Navigating the campus used to be a victory lap; now it’s a minefield.
Every time an Omega gets within five feet of me, my stomach does a treacherous flip, threatening to empty my lunch right onto their designer shoes.
I get really good at holding my breath without looking like I’m suffocating.
I develop a sixth sense for avoiding the "hot spots" where the cute ones congregate, taking long, scenic detours to class that add ten minutes to my commute but save me from gagging in public.
My friends, naturally, start asking questions. Seungchan, bless his simple, protein-shake-addled brain, corners me after practice one Tuesday.
"You've been ghosting us, man," he says, snapping his towel at my leg. "Are you secretly dating someone? Or did you finally realize you're too old for clubbing?"
I don't miss a beat. I’ve had the lie holstered and ready for days.
"I wish it was that interesting," I groan, leaning back against the lockers and putting on my best burdened-heir face. "My dad. He’s finally decided it’s time for me to step up at the company. He’s got me shadowing the regional managers at the hotels every weekend and drowning in spreadsheets on weeknights. 'Succession planning,' he calls it."
It’s the perfect cover. In our circle, "family business" is the ultimate trump card. It implies wealth, responsibility, and a level of stress that regular students can't touch.
Seungchan’s eyes widen with immediate, sympathetic respect. "Shit, really? The Chairman is pulling you in already? That’s heavy."
"Tell me about it," I lie through my teeth, checking my phone as if expecting an angry email from corporate. "So if I bail on drinks or leave early, just know I’m probably heading to a conference call or reviewing quarterly reports."
"Dude, you're practically a CEO," another teammate chimes in, clapping me on the shoulder.
I smirk, masking the relief washing over me. "Something like that."
The irony isn't lost on me. I’m using a fake corporate promotion to hide the fact that I’m actually spending my free time getting knotted by a younger student, but hey—image is everything.
And if they think I’m busy running an empire instead of running from my own pheromones, who am I to correct them?
A few weeks go by without incident. Then one morning I wake up feeling like I’ve swallowed a handful of lit matches.
It’s barely 8:00 AM on a Saturday, a time that should be illegal for anyone to be conscious, let alone sweating through their sheets.
My skin feels too tight for my body, my gums itch—a distinct, primal irritation that makes me want to bite something—and there’s a dull, heavy throb low in my gut that ibuprofen isn't going to touch.
I groan, rolling over and tangling my legs in the comforter. The air in my bedroom smells thick and tangible, heavy with my own scent. Scorched earth. It smells like burning wood and aggression.
My rut.
I stare at the ceiling, counting backward in my head. It’s been exactly six weeks since my last one. Like clockwork. Stupid, biological clockwork.
I know what I have to do. I have to pick up my phone, swallow my pride, and text the freshman who has effectively hijacked my life. I have to type out the words, “Get over here,” and admit that I need him.
I reach for my phone on the nightstand. I stare at the black screen.
I’ll do it in an hour, I tell myself, dropping the phone back onto the mattress. I just need a cold shower first. Maybe a coffee. I can handle the first few hours solo. I’m not desperate.
I drag myself out of bed, shivering despite the heat radiating off my skin. I’m halfway to the bathroom, boxer briefs clinging uncomfortably to my hips, when the doorbell rings.
I freeze.
It rings again. Impatient. Knowing.
I stomp to the front door, ready to rip the head off whatever delivery driver or neighbor has decided to bother me at this ungodly hour. I check the monitor, and the breath leaves my lungs in a rush.
It’s him.
I unlock the door and yank it open. Donghwa is leaning against the doorframe, looking infuriatingly fresh. He’s wearing a black coat over a grey hoodie, looking like he just stepped out of a winter fashion editorial, while I’m standing here half-naked, sweating, and smelling like a forest fire.
He’s holding a plastic bag from the convenience store in one hand and a carrier with two coffees in the other.
"You look terrible," he says by way of greeting, stepping inside before I can even invite him in.
"What the hell are you doing here?" My voice comes out rough, deeper than usual. I wince at the sound of it. "I didn't call you."