Chapter Twenty-Seven
Donghwa
Three days.
It’s been three days of absolute radio silence, and frankly, I’m bored.
I’m sitting in the back of the Visual Design studio, sketching on my tablet, while the rest of the department buzzes around like a hive of agitated bees. Usually, I tune them out. The noise is just static. But today, the static has a specific, grating frequency, and its name is Oh Sihwan.
He’s currently standing by the laser cutters, laughing too loudly at something Seungchan said.
It’s a performance. A bad one. His shoulders are too tight, his smile doesn't reach his eyes, and he keeps darting glances toward my corner of the room every thirty seconds like he’s expecting me to explode.
I don't look up. I keep my stylus moving, shading in the heavy contrast of a charcoal study.
I’m not angry, exactly. Anger implies a loss of control, and I have plenty of control. I’m disappointed. Which is infinitely worse for him, though he’s too dense to realize it yet.
We had a breakthrough. I felt it. That weekend at my parents' house wasn't just about sex—though the sex was phenomenal.
It was about the quiet moments in between.
The way he let his guard down in my childhood bedroom, the way he looked at that sketch, the way he let my mother fuss over him without his usual defensive posturing.
For forty-eight hours, he wasn't the showy alpha or a desperate heir trying to prove he wasn't a failure. He was just Sihwan. My equal.
I thought he finally got it. I thought he realized that nobody gave a shit about his hierarchy nonsense except him.
Then we stepped back onto campus, someone whispered a rumor about me being bonded, and he folded like a cheap lawn chair.
"Man, whoever caught Donghwa is lucky, right?" I hear Seungchan say, his voice carrying over the hum of the machines. "Must be some top-tier Omega from Yonsei or something."
I pause my hand. I wait.
"Yeah," Sihwan’s voice floats over, tight and strained. "Probably some model. Someone... fitting."
Fitting.
I press the stylus down hard enough that the digital ink bleeds a black blotch across the screen.
Coward.
He’s ashamed. Not of the bond itself—I know he craves it, I can smell the distress rolling off him from here—but of the optics. He’s terrified that if people know he bent the knee to another Alpha, his entire fragile identity will shatter. He’d rather pretend I’m a stranger than admit he’s mine.
I exhale slowly, locking my scent down tight. Usually, I let a little winter chill bleed into the air to keep him grounded, especially when he’s anxious. Not today. If he wants to act like we’re strangers, he can handle his anxiety like a stranger.
I stand up, packing my tablet into my bag. The movement catches his eye immediately. He stiffens, his conversation with Seungchan dying mid-sentence.
I walk toward the exit. I have to pass right by him.
As I get closer, I see the panic flare in his eyes.
He wants me to stop. He wants me to drag him into a supply closet and kiss the anxiety out of him, or maybe just acknowledge him so he knows I’m not actually leaving him.
He’s waiting for the chase. He thinks this is just another round of our game.
I don't break stride.
"Donghwa," Seungchan greets me as I pass, oblivious to the tension thick enough to choke a horse. "Heading out?"
"Yeah," I say, my voice flat. "Air in here is stale."
I don't even look at Sihwan. I stare straight ahead, breezing past him with indifference. I feel him flinch as I pass, a physical reaction to the cold shoulder, but I don't stop.
I’m done chasing. I’m done playing the villain in his little high school drama. I showed him what we could be. I gave him a seat at my family's table. I gave him control in my bed. If that’s not enough to make him grow a spine, then I’m not going to drag it out of him.
He wants to be the Campus King? Fine. He can sit on his throne alone.
I push through the double doors and step out into the hallway, the heavy silence of the studio cutting off behind me. I check my phone. No texts.
Good, I think, though the bitter taste in my mouth says otherwise. Keep hiding, Sihwan. See how warm that keeps you at night.
Ignoring Oh Sihwan requires a level of discipline I usually reserve for three-hour charcoal studies, but I’m committed to the bit.
It’s been a week since he decided his reputation as a "top alpha" was more important than the fact that he spent the weekend begging me to knot him in my childhood bed. A week of him acting like a skittish deer every time someone mentions my name, a week of me looking right through him like he’s made of glass.
I can feel him, though. That’s the annoying part about the bond.
Even with my back turned, I know exactly where he is in the lecture hall.
I can feel the weight of his stare drilling into my shoulder blades, anxious and heavy.
He’s sitting three rows back, humming with anxiety, waiting for me to turn around and give him a sign.
A smirk, a nod, anything to tell him we’re okay.
I don’t turn. I keep my eyes on the professor’s slideshow, my expression bored and unreadable. If he wants reassurance, he can come get it. If he wants to be claimed, he can claim me back. Until then, he can sit in his self-imposed exile and rot.
"Is this seat taken?"
The voice is sugary sweet, laced with a scent that hits my nose like rotting fruit. Peaches and cream.
I don’t suppress the sigh that leaves my chest as I look up. Yoon Heesung is standing over my desk, hip cocked, smiling down at me with a brightness that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
"Depends," I say, not moving my bag from the empty chair next to me. "Are you going to talk through the lecture?"
Heesung laughs, a forced, tinkling sound, and sits down anyway, sliding my bag onto the floor with presumptive familiarity. "You’re always so grumpy, Donghwa. It’s part of your charm, I guess."
I go back to my notes. For weeks, Heesung has been giving me the cold shoulder—pouting because I didn't fall for his damsel act and Sihwan stopped chasing him. He’s been sulking in the corners of the cafeteria, shooting daggers at anyone who breathes in his direction.
But suddenly, the ice age is over. For the last two days, he’s been hovering. Like a fly you can’t quite swat away.
"So," Heesung whispers, leaning in close enough that his hair brushes my arm. I instinctively lean away. "The whole department is buzzing. They say you finally got snagged."
I keep writing. "People talk too much."
"They say you brought someone home to meet your parents," he presses, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. "That’s serious, Donghwa. I didn't think you were the settling down type."
"I'm full of surprises."
"Is she pretty?" Heesung asks. His eyes are sharp, scanning my face, looking for a micro-expression. "She must be stunning to take the Ice Prince off the market. Is she a student here? Someone from the dance department, maybe?"
The specific probing makes the hair on my arms stand up. This isn't just idle gossip. Heesung is digging. He’s fishing for a name, a description, a slip-up.
"It’s private," I say, my tone sharpening. "Which means it’s none of your business."
Heesung doesn't recoil. Instead, he hums, tapping a manicured fingernail against his chin. "You know, it’s strange. I haven't seen you with any girls. And you haven't been at the usual clubs." He tilts his head. "It makes a person wonder who exactly is keeping you so busy."
My jaw tightens. I turn to look at him fully, letting a little bit of my alpha weight drop into the air between us. It’s a warning. "Heesung. Stop."
He blinks, feigning innocence, but there’s a glint of something malicious in his eyes. He’s bored, he’s rejected, and he’s smart enough to know that something doesn't add up.
"I'm just curious," he says lightly, leaning back but keeping his eyes locked on mine.
"We have nothing to talk about," I say, my voice flat.
"Is that so?" Heesung murmurs.
I don't like this. I don't like the way he’s looking at me, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. Heesung is vapid, sure, but he’s observant when it comes to social dynamics. He knows how pheromones work. He knows how alphas posture.
"Focus on the lecture, Heesung," I say, turning back to the front, effectively dismissing him.
He chuckles softly, opening his notebook. "Aye aye, captain."
I stare at the projector screen, but I’m not reading a word. My senses are dialed up to eleven. Behind me, I can feel Sihwan’s distress spiking—he saw Heesung sit next to me, he saw the leaning in, the whispering. He’s probably tearing his eraser to shreds right now.
Let him stew. It'll be good for him.
But beside me, Heesung is humming a little tune under his breath, looking far too pleased with himself. He’s up to something.
Finals are a joke.
I walk out of the lecture hall, thumbing through my notes on color theory, barely registering the chaos of the hallway.
My brain is half-asleep, already dissecting the flaws in the exam questions rather than worrying about the grade.
I turn the corner toward the restrooms, head down, reading a paragraph about saturation levels.
I don't see the wall of muscle until I slam right into it.
It’s a solid impact. Not the soft yield of a Beta or the slender frame of an Omega. This is dense, heavy mass. We both stumble back, the air knocked out of us.
"Shit, sorry didn't see—"
My hands shoot out on instinct, gripping the guy's forearms to keep him upright. My fingers dig into thick biceps through the fabric of a jacket. Hard. Familiar.
The scent hits me a split second later. Spiced rum, musk, and a sharp, underlying note of pure panic.
I look up.