Chapter Twenty-Five #10
"Fuck," I whisper, the word trembling in the quiet room.
I stare at the paper until the lines start to blur, my brain doing frantic, clumsy math.
This isn't new. The charcoal is set, not smudged, and the paper has that slight, settled wave to it that happens when ink or medium has dried into the fiber over time. He didn't draw this today. He didn't draw this last week.
I cast my mind back, trying to pinpoint when Donghwa was last at the estate.
He mentioned coming home for a long weekend right after the semester started—right after the incident.
Right after he knotted me for the first time and I spent three days avoiding him like he was carrying the plague. Right after we spent my rut together.
My stomach gives a hard, violent lurch.
That means he came here, to this quiet room miles away from the city, miles away from me, and instead of forgetting about the annoying upperclassman he’d accidentally bonded, he sat down at this desk and spent hours recreating me from memory.
And god, the detail.
I lean in closer, terrified to touch it but unable to look away. He drew the way the light hits the nape of my neck. He drew the tension in my hand where it’s curled into the pillowcase, softening it until it looks gentle instead of desperate.
I’m used to being looked at. I built my entire personality around it. I wear tight shirts so people look at my chest. I wear expensive watches so people look at my wrist. I dye my hair so people look at my head. I demand attention because if people stop looking, I feel like I disappear.
But nobody has ever looked at me like this.
This isn't the gaze of someone checking out a piece of meat. It’s not the appraising stare of my father checking for flaws.
It’s worship.
He made me look... expensive. Not "I bought this at a boutique" expensive, but priceless. Like I’m something rare. Like I’m the kind of art people whisper in front of.
He drew me like I’m the only thing in the world worth looking at, and he did it when I was asleep, when I wasn't performing, when I wasn't trying to impress him.
It destroys me. It absolutely wrecks the carefully constructed narrative in my head that says I’m just a convenient hole for him, or a fun rival to crush.
You don't draw your rival with this kind of tenderness.
You don't shade the curve of a spine with this much obsession unless you’re already gone for them.
He saw me. He saw me, the messy, sleeping, unguarded version of me, and he thought it was worthy of charcoal and expensive paper.
"Find something you like?"
The voice is right at my ear, low and laced with amusement.
I jump so hard I nearly knock the entire easel over. My hand flies to my chest as I spin around, heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
Donghwa is standing right behind me, way too close for someone who just materialized out of thin air.
"Jesus Christ!" I gasp, backing up until my hips hit the edge of the drafting table. "Put a bell on, would you? You sneak around like a serial killer."
Donghwa just smirks, unbothered by my near-cardiac event. He reaches up to rub a towel over his wet hair.
"I wasn't sneaking," he says lazily. "You were just zoning out."
He steps closer, invading my personal space as naturally as breathing, and peers over my shoulder at the sketchbook still open on the easel.
I freeze. A frantic, hot flush crawls up my neck and settles in my cheeks.
I should close it. I should slam the book shut and pretend I was looking at the landscape paintings or the cat sketches.
But it’s too late. He’s already looking at it.
He’s looking at the charcoal rendering of my naked back, the intimate shading of my spine, the sleeping vulnerability I didn't even know I possessed.
I wait for him to mock me. I wait for him to make a comment about my vanity, about how of course I’d find the one drawing of myself in a room full of art.
Instead, Donghwa pauses. He stares at the sketch for a beat longer than necessary, his expression unreadable, before he blinks and leans back, scratching the back of his neck.
"Oh," he says, his voice casual. Too casual. "Forgot about that one."
Liar. You don't draw something with that much obsession and then forget about it.
I swallow hard, trying to find my voice. My throat feels dry. The image is burned into my retinas—the tenderness of the lines, the way he made me look soft. It feels like a confession, hanging there in black and white.
"It’s... good," I manage to choke out, gesturing vaguely at the paper. I sound stiff, awkward. "Detailed."
"Detailed," he repeats, the corner of his mouth twitching.
"Yeah," I insist, crossing my arms over my chest to hide the fact that my hands are shaking slightly. "The shading. On the... sheets. And the light."
I’m rambling. I’m talking about lighting composition because if I talk about the fact that he drew my mole, I’m going to have a breakdown right here in his childhood bedroom.
Donghwa watches me squirm, his dark eyes glinting with that familiar, devilish spark. He knows. He knows I saw how he sees me, and the vulnerability of it is making the air between us thick and heavy.
So, naturally, he decides to ruin it.
He grins, a slow, wicked expression that shows off his canines, and leans in until his damp breath ghosts over my ear.
"Well, what can I say?" he purrs, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I was inspired. You have a very tight ass, hyung. It’s excellent reference material."
The spell shatters instantly.
The tender, artistic atmosphere evaporates, replaced by a blinding flash of indignation. My jaw drops. I was having a moment—a genuine, emotional realization about our relationship—and he’s talking about my ass.
"You—!"
I snarl, abandoning all dignity as I swipe at him, aiming a backhand at his chest.
"You are unbelievable!" I shout, my face burning hotter, but this time from rage. "I’m trying to compliment your art, you pervert!"
Donghwa laughs, dodging my swing with annoying grace. He dances back a few steps, looking entirely too pleased with himself as he catches my wrist before I can take a second swing.
I spin around, ready to tell him exactly where he can shove his reference material, but the insult dies in my throat.
"You are such a—"
I stop.
Donghwa is standing there in nothing but low-slung black sweatpants, a towel draped carelessly around his neck.
Water is still dripping from the ends of his hair, sliding down the cords of his neck and tracking over the ink on his chest. The tiger tattoo looks like it’s prowling as he breathes, the black ink stark against his pale skin, water droplets clinging to the plum blossoms on his shoulder.
He looks incredible. Obviously. That’s just his baseline state of existence.
But something is wrong.
He’s flushed. Not the healthy, post-shower pink from hot water, but a feverish, high-contrast flush that burns high on his cheekbones.
His chest is heaving, the breaths coming a little too fast, a little too shallow.
And his eyes... his pupils are blown so wide the dark brown is almost swallowed by black, making him look dazed.
"Hey," I say, my annoyance evaporating instantly. I take a step toward him. "What’s wrong?"
Donghwa blinks, like he’s having trouble bringing me into focus. His grin slips, replaced by a tight grimace.
"What? Oh." He shakes his head, sending a spray of water droplets flying. He tries to lean casually against the doorframe, but it looks more like he’s propping himself up. "Nothing. Just my rut starting."
He says it casually. Like he’s telling me the Wi-Fi is spotty.
My eyes widen. "Already? You said the weekend. It’s barely Friday night."
"Biology isn't an exact science," he rasps. He clears his throat, trying to force his voice back into its usual cool register, but it cracks. "Don't worry about it. I can suppress it. We don't have to do anything tonight. I’ll probably be fine until morning."
I look him over, incredulous.
He is absolutely lying.
I can see the tremors running through his arms, the way his knuckles are white where he’s gripping the doorframe to keep himself upright.
The muscles in his abdomen are coiled tight, rigid with the effort of holding back.
And the smell—it’s hitting me now, rolling off him in waves.
That crisp, cold winter scent isn't crisp anymore; it’s heavy, thick, and suffocating, smelling like ozone right before a lightning strike.
He’s burning up. He’s standing there, vibrating with biological need, trying to be the polite, civilized host because he doesn't want to jump me five minutes after dinner.
I scoff, shaking my head.
"No," I say, closing the distance between us. "You’re not."
Donghwa’s eyes narrow, that stubborn glint flickering through the haze. He licks his lips—slow, deliberate, like he’s tasting the air between us—and murmurs my name, soft as a warning. “Sihwan.”
I silence him with a finger pressed to his stupid, perfect lips, invading his personal space until our chests collide.
The heat rolling off his body hits me first—like standing too close to a bonfire, but worse, because his skin is fever-hot beneath my touch.
Then comes the scent, god, the scent. It pours off him now like a damn river, that wintry air turning oppressive, clinging to my throat until breathing feels like drowning in him.
I don't give him a second to protest. Fuck debating. Fuck logic. I tilt my head up and slam my mouth onto his, all teeth and desperation.