Chapter Twenty-Seven #2
Sihwan stands there, frozen. His eyes are wide, pupils blown, staring at me like I’m a ghost or a executioner.
My hands are still gripping him, holding him steady, the heat of his skin bleeding through his sleeves.
For a microsecond, my thumb brushes the inside of his elbow, a possessive reflex I can’t kill fast enough.
The apology dies in my throat.
My expression hardens. The concern vanishes, replaced by a cold, bored irritation. I don't let go immediately. I hold him there for a beat too long, just to let him feel the weight of it. To let him feel exactly who he’s running from.
Sihwan swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. He looks at my hands on his arms, then up at my face, terror flashing behind his eyes. He looks like he’s about to vomit or beg, and he doesn't seem to know which one he wants to do more.
He chooses neither.
He jerks his arms out of my grip, stumbling back a step. He mumbles something incoherent, keeps his head down, and practically sprints down the hallway, putting as much distance between us as physically possible.
I stand there, hands empty, watching his retreating back. Coward.
I scoff, adjusting my coat, ready to wash the encounter off my hands in the bathroom sink. But the hair on the back of my neck stands up. That prickle of awareness again. Being watched.
I turn my head slowly.
Across the hall, leaning against a side table, is Heesung.
He isn't looking at his phone. He isn't talking to the group of girls next to him. He’s looking right at me.
His expression isn't the usual vapid, flirty mask he wears for the alphas. It’s sharp. calculating. His eyes dart to the empty space where Sihwan just fled, then snap back to me. He tilts his head slightly, lips pursed, like he’s trying to solve a particularly difficult math equation.
He saw the collision. He saw my hands on Sihwan. He saw the way Sihwan looked at me—not with aggression, but with fear and familiarity.
Heesung catches my eye, and for a second, he doesn't look away. Then, a slow, unreadable smile curves his lips. He pushes off the table and turns, disappearing into the crowd without a word.
I stare at the spot where he was standing, a cold knot forming in my gut.
I don't know what he thinks he saw. But I know I don't like it.
The post-exam campus festival is a sensory nightmare.
It smells like cheap takoyaki, burnt sugar, and the desperate sweat of students trying to drink away an entire semester’s worth of trauma in a single afternoon.
The bass from the main stage is vibrating in my molars, and the sheer density of the crowd makes me want to climb the nearest building and hide on the roof until winter break.
"Stop looking like you're planning a murder," Soyoung says, shoving a skewer of grilled chicken into my hand. "It’s a festival, Donghwa. You’re legally required to have fun."
I stare at the chicken. "I’m having a blast."
"You’re scowling at a balloon animal."
"It’s shaped like a intestine. It’s offensive to anatomy."
Soyoung rolls her eyes, grabbing my arm and towing me through the crushing mass of bodies. She’s the only person on this campus who can manhandle me without losing a limb, mostly because I respect her refusal to be intimidated by my resting bitch face.
"Come on," she says, dragging me toward a row of carnival games run by the Engineering department. "You need to get out of your head. You’ve been moping for a week. It’s pathetic. You’re a dominant Alpha, not a Victorian widow."
"I'm not moping. I'm observing."
"You're pining," she corrects ruthlessly. "And it’s gross. Now, win me that ugly bear."
She points to a shooting gallery game where you have to knock down a stack of weighted cans with a cork gun. The guy running the booth—a nervous-looking Beta—takes one look at me and seems to debate closing up shop early.
I sigh, handing him the cash. I don't want the bear. I don't want to be here. But the chaotic noise of the festival is better than the silence of my apartment, where the ghost of Sihwan’s scent still lingers on my sheets because I haven't had the heart to wash them yet.
I lift the gun. It’s light, the sights are misaligned, and the cork is probably lighter than air. I compensate for the drift, narrow my eyes, and pull the trigger.
Thwack. The cans go down.
I reload. Thwack.
For a few minutes, the world narrows down to the target. It’s simple. Aim, fire, result. No complicated social hierarchies, no terrified boyfriends hiding behind their popularity, no aching bond in my chest. Just physics.
By the time I’m done, I’ve cleared the shelf. The Beta hands over a neon pink bear the size of a toddler, looking relieved to see me go.
"There," I say, shoving the monstrosity into Soyoung’s arms. "Are you happy?"
Soyoung grins, wrestling the bear into a headlock. "Ecstatic. See? You’re smiling."
I touch the corner of my mouth. I am. It’s faint, but the mindless repetition of the game actually loosened the knot of tension between my shoulders. "Don't get used to it."
"Let's go find the Architecture booth," she says, bumping my shoulder with hers. "I heard they built a dunk tank."
We weave through the crowd, the mood lighter.
I actually eat the chicken skewer. I let myself be distracted by the ridiculous sights—a professor doing karaoke, a group of freshmen trying to dance in sync and failing miserably.
For a solid twenty minutes, I forget that I’m furious. I forget that I’m bonded to a coward.
Then we turn the corner near the fountain, and the air changes.
It’s subtle at first. A shift in the crowd density. More high-pitched laughter. A wall of Omegas and Betas pressing in toward a large blue tent.
I look up, and the good mood disintegrates instantly.
HANEUL SWIM TEAM.
Of course. Of course it involves water.
"Pay to Soak a Swimmer!" the banner screams in aggressive, comic sans font. Beneath it, a line of students—mostly Omegas, but plenty of Betas and Alphas too—are practically buzzing with excitement, clutching brightly colored water balloons like they’re hand grenades.
I stop dead, my boots scuffing against the pavement. "No."
Soyoung is already craning her neck, standing on her tiptoes to see over the wall of people. "Oh, come on. Don't tell me you aren't curious to see Seungchan get nailed in the face with a projectile."
"I have zero interest in wet t-shirt contests disguised as school spirit," I say, grabbing the back of her leather jacket to steer her away. "Let's go find the food trucks."
But the universe, as usual, hates me. Before we can retreat, a fresh wave of students surges forward from the main stage area, pressing in to see the spectacle.
We get boxed in instantly. I’m shoved forward, my shoulder colliding with a guy holding a corn dog, and suddenly we’re not on the periphery anymore—we’re trapped in the second row, right against the rope barrier.
And there he is.
Oh Sihwan stands in the center of the "splash zone," looking like the cover of a bad romance novel come to life.
He’s wearing his team warmup gear—white shorts and a white t-shirt that I suspect was chosen with calculated malice because of how translucent it becomes when wet.
He’s already soaked. The fabric is plastered to him, a second skin that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination.
It clings to the heavy swell of his pectorals, outlines the ridges of his abs, and dips into the V-lines of his hips.
He’s playing the crowd like a fiddle.
"Is that all you got?" Sihwan shouts, grinning wide as he wipes water from his eyes. He pushes his wet hair back from his forehead, sending a spray of droplets flying, and half the crowd swoons audibly. "My grandmother throws harder than that! Come on, who's next?"
He’s glowing. He’s loud, he’s brash, and he’s radiating that fake, polished "Golden Retriever" energy that usually makes me want to gag. He’s soaking up the attention like a sponge, preening under the gaze of a hundred strangers.
I should be disgusted. I should be rolling my eyes so hard they detach from my optic nerves.
This is exactly the kind of shallow, validation-seeking behavior that drives me insane.
He’s terrified to be seen with me—his actual bonded partner—but he’ll stand here and let strangers treat him like a piece of meat for five thousand won a pop.
I cross my arms over my chest, jaw clenched, ready to look away.
Then a girl in the front row winds up and hurls a red balloon.
It catches him square in the chest. Thwack.
The balloon bursts on impact, exploding in a cascade of water that drenches him from neck to navel.
Sihwan stumbles back a step, laughing, his head thrown back, exposing the long, tan column of his throat.
He shakes himself off like a dog, water flying everywhere, his shirt now so wet it’s practically invisible, showing off the dark shadow of his nipples and the deep groove of his spine as he turns.
My breath hitches.
The annoyance in my gut curdles instantly, turning into something hot and heavy and sharp.
I stare at the water dripping from his chin. I watch a rivulet slide down the side of his neck, tracking over the pulse point, down the slope of his shoulder, and disappearing beneath the soaked collar of his shirt.
I know what that skin tastes like.
I know the sound he makes when that laugh turns into a gasp. I know that if I peeled that wet shirt off him right now, I’d find the faint, fading yellow bruise on his hip from where I gripped him too hard last weekend.
"Oh, damn," Soyoung mutters beside me, sounding appreciative. "Okay, I get it. The boy has tits."
I don't answer. I can't. My throat feels like I swallowed sandpaper.
Sihwan turns back to the crowd, beaming, shivering slightly in the cool autumn air. "Who's next? Come on, don't be shy!"
He looks happy. He looks free. And he looks completely untouchable.
But he’s not. He’s mine.