Chapter Twenty-Eight #2
"So, is he crazy in bed?" Seungchan asks, leaning in with zero concept of personal space, his eyebrows waggling. "He looks like the quiet type, but you know what they say about the quiet ones."
My face heats up, and not just from the embarrassment. A flash of memory hits me—Donghwa’s dark eyes blown wide, his sweat-slicked skin against mine, the way he growls when he’s close.
"He's..." I clear my throat, trying to keep my voice steady. "He keeps up. Let's just say that."
The guys whoop and holler like I just scored the winning goal at nationals.
"Sihwan’s the man!" someone shouts, and suddenly I’m being jostled, high-fived, and clapped on the back from every direction.
The fear of rejection, of being ostracized, of losing my place at the top of the food chain—it’s all gone. Replaced by this bizarre, unearned glory. I should feel guilty. I should feel like a fraud.
But as I look at their grinning faces, at the respect in their eyes that’s even stronger than before, I can’t help it. The corners of my mouth twitch. A smile—a real, genuine, relieved smile—breaks across my face.
Seungchan snaps his fingers, the sound sharp enough to cut through the lingering adrenaline buzzing in my ears. His eyes go wide, pupils blown with the kind of epiphany that usually involves beer pong strategy, not social dynamics.
"Holy shit," he breathes, looking at me like I’ve just solved a complex math equation. "It all makes sense now."
I stiffen, gripping the towel I just grabbed a little too tight. "What does?"
"Everything, man! The last few weeks!" Seungchan gestures wildly, nearly taking out a freshman with his elbow. "You’ve been acting so weird. Skipping parties, dodging our calls, leaving early. You kept saying you were 'visiting family' or 'feeling under the weather.'"
He lets out a bark of laughter, shaking his head in disbelief. "I actually believed you! I was worried you were going soft or having some kind of mid-life crisis at twenty-two."
He steps into my personal space, grinning so wide it looks painful. "But you weren't sick. You were just busy."
"I mean—" I start, but he steamrolls right over me.
"I’m actually mad about it," Seungchan declares, though he looks the opposite of angry.
He looks impressed. "Here we were, sitting around drinking cheap beer and striking out with Omegas at the karaoke bar, wondering where our fearless leader was.
And the whole time, you were holed up in some luxury apartment railing the hottest Alpha in the department. "
My face goes nuclear.
Heat floods my cheeks, my neck, probably even my ears. It’s instant and violent, a full-body flush that feels like a sunburn hitting all at once.
Railing him.
The image hits my brain uninvited—me on top, Donghwa beneath me. The ratio is skewed so heavily in the other direction that the word feels like a lie tasting of ash in my mouth.
If Seungchan knew the truth he wouldn’t be looking at me with hero worship. He’d be laughing until he puked.
But he doesn't know. Nobody knows except the guy currently being mobbed by Omegas across the lawn.
"You sly dog," Seungchan says, misinterpreting my bright red face for modesty or maybe a dirty memory. He punches my arm, hard. "No wonder you’ve been ignoring the Omegas. Once you’ve had prime rib, you don't go back to spam, right?"
I swallow hard, my throat dry. The guilt is there, prickling at the back of my neck, but the relief is stronger. It’s a heavy, intoxicating drug. I don't have to be the victim here. I don't have to be the bottom. I get to keep my crown.
So I don't correct him. I don't say a word.
I just look down at the grass, scuffing my bare toe against the dirt, and let out a shaky, self-deprecating huff that they can interpret however they want.
It takes me twenty minutes to extricate myself from the adoring mob.
I have to shake hands, accept back-slaps that rattle my teeth, and nod along to at least a dozen variations of "I knew you had that dawg in you.
" By the time I finally slip away near the food trucks, dodging a group of freshmen girls who are looking at me with terrifying new interest, I feel like a fraud wrapped in a lie deep-fried in anxiety.
I need to find Donghwa.
I check the usual spots first—the quiet corner behind the library, the empty lecture hall we sometimes sneak into, even the parking lot where his flashy car usually sits.
Nothing. The campus is buzzing with the festival, noise bleeding into every corner, and panic starts to prick at the back of my neck again.
Did he leave? Did he drop that bomb on my reputation and then just drive off into the sunset, leaving me to deal with the fallout alone?
Then something occurs to me.
I turn on my heel and jog toward the athletic complex. The heavy double doors to the natatorium are unlocked, and as soon as I slip inside, the noise of the festival cuts out, replaced by the low, rhythmic hum of the filtration system and the echoing drip of water.
It’s empty. The water in the Olympic-sized pool is glass-smooth, reflecting the overhead lights in wavering blue lines.
And there he is.
Sitting halfway up the bleachers, legs stretched out over the row in front of him, leaning back on his elbows like he’s lounging on a beach in the Maldives instead of a humid, concrete box. He’s not looking at his phone. He’s just watching the water, looking infuriatingly peaceful.
He hears the door click shut, but he doesn't turn around. He just tilts his head slightly, a slow, lazy acknowledgment that he knows exactly who it is.
I walk over, my sneakers squeaking loudly on the tile. The walk up the bleacher stairs feels like a march to the gallows, which is ridiculous, considering I’m technically the "winner" of the day.
When I reach his row, I stop. Donghwa looks up at me.
He is the picture of smug satisfaction. There’s a little curl to his lip, a glint in those dark eyes that says I told you so without him having to utter a single syllable.
He looks unbothered, untouched, and annoyingly handsome in his black henley, contrasting sharply with my disheveled, half-naked state—I’m still shirtless, clutching my wadded-up jersey in one hand.
"Enjoying your victory lap, Top?" he draws out the word, lacing it with so much sarcasm it’s practically dripping.
I wince, dropping down onto the metal bench beside him. I put a safe foot of distance between us, then immediately close it, leaning my elbows on my knees and putting my head in my hands.
"Shut up," I groan into my palms.
"I thought it went well," Donghwa muses, sounding far too cheerful. "Seungchan seemed very impressed. I believe he called you a 'legend.' That’s a step up from 'meathead,' isn't it?"
I stare at my sneakers. They’re scuffed at the toes, grass-stained from the field, and looking about as pathetic as I feel right now.
"I owe you for that," I say. My voice sounds rough, scraping against the quiet hum of the pool filters. "Big time."
I squeeze the wadded-up jersey in my hands until my knuckles turn white.
It’s ridiculous. I’m the upperclassman. I’m the one who’s supposed to be in charge, the one with the experience and the status.
But here I am, sitting next to a freshman who just nuked his own reputation without blinking, all to protect the one thing that’s been ruining us from the start.
"My stupid pride," I mutter, shaking my head. "It’s the only reason I’ve been pushing you away. I was so terrified of people finding out... finding out I wasn't the one on top."
I risk a glance at him. Donghwa hasn't moved. He’s just watching me, his expression unreadable, but he’s listening. He’s not mocking me now.
"I think I knew," I admit, forcing the words out past the lump in my throat. "Early on. Maybe even right after the first time. I knew this... whatever this is between us... wasn't just physical. It wasn't just the bond or the hormones or the sex."
I let out a shaky breath, running a hand through my damp hair.
"But I couldn't admit it. Because if I admitted that, then I’d have to admit that I needed you. And I didn't want to need anyone."
I turn fully toward him then, meeting those dark, intense eyes that have seen me at my absolute worst and somehow decided to stick around anyway.
"But I know now," I say, my voice dropping to a whisper. "I knew weeks ago. That week when I was dodging you? I felt like I was going insane. I couldn't stand being away from you for more than a few hours. It wasn't just the bond itching under my skin. It was you. I missed you."
I swallow hard, the confession leaving me feeling more naked than I am right now.
"I'm sorry," I say, and I mean it more than I've ever meant anything. "I'm sorry you have such a coward for a mate."
Donghwa doesn't say anything at first. He just hums, a low rumble in his chest that I feel more than hear, considering how close we are.
Then, he stands up.
He unfolds that long, lean frame of his with a fluid grace that makes me feel clumsy just watching it. I expect him to walk away, or maybe gesture for me to follow him out so we can pretend this conversation never happened.
Instead, he steps right into my personal space.
He moves between my spread knees, the denim of his jeans brushing against my bare inner thigh. The contact sends a jolt of static electricity straight to my groin. I freeze, my breath hitching in my throat, looking up at him like a deer caught in the headlights of a very expensive sports car.
"You're an idiot," he says softly.
Before I can argue—or agree—he reaches down. His fingers, cool and firm, curl around my jaw. He tips my chin up, forcing me to crane my neck, forcing me to meet his gaze head-on.
His eyes are dark, dancing with that familiar, infuriating amusement. He’s not looking at me like I’m broken. He’s looking at me like I’m his.
"But it's okay," he murmurs, his thumb brushing over my bottom lip, dragging it down just enough to be suggestive. He leans in, his winter-air scent drowning out the chlorine, sharp and possessive. "I can be Alpha enough for the both of us."
My face burns. It’s an insult. It’s a challenge. It’s the hottest thing I’ve ever heard.
He smirks, seeing the conflict play out in my eyes, and leans closer until his breath ghosts against my ear.
"But you should know," he whispers, his voice dropping to a velvety growl that makes my toes curl inside my sneakers. "You’re going to have to do a lot of making up for it later."
My throat clicks as I swallow, my pulse hammering a frantic rhythm against the pad of his thumb still resting on my lip. My imagination immediately supplies about five different scenarios, each one more embarrassing—and enticing—than the last.
I look up at him, trying to gauge just how much trouble I’m in.
"What..." My voice cracks, and I hate it, but I can't clear the huskiness away. I wet my lips, tasting the salt of my own sweat and the phantom linger of his scent. "What kind of making up?"
Donghwa’s smirk deepens, sharp and dangerous. The sound starts low in his chest, a vibration that travels through the denim of his jeans and straight into my knees.
"Get creative," he rumbles.
Before I can even process the implications of that, he closes the distance. He crushes his mouth to mine, swallowing my gasp, his hand tangling in the damp hair at the nape of my neck to hold me in place. It’s not a soft kiss. It’s a claim. It’s a promise.
And as I melt into him right there on the bleachers, my hands gripping his waist like a lifeline, I realize I don't care who thinks they’re the King of the Campus anymore. I know exactly who holds the crown.