"I'm really booked up this week, Sejun," I say, stepping back faster than is socially acceptable. "Seriously. Don't wait up."
I flee to my seat before he can answer, dropping my bag with a heavy thud. I risk a glance across the room and immediately regret it. Donghwa is already there, slouching in his usual spot in the back. He’s watching the whole interaction with one eyebrow raised, looking entirely too entertained by my misery.
I glare at him. He smirks and turns a page in his sketchbook. Bastard.
I thought the brush-off would be enough. I thought Sejun, with his fragile ego and high maintenance needs, would take the hint and move on to an easier target.
I was wrong.
Sejun is like a heat-seeking missile, and apparently, I am the heat.
For the next three days, he is everywhere. I walk out of the gym, smelling like chlorine and exhausted, and he’s there, leaning against the brick wall with a protein shake in hand.
"I got you chocolate," he says, beaming.
The smell of the synthetic chocolate mixed with his milky vanilla pheromones makes my gut churn. I have to pretend to tie my shoe just to put my head between my knees for a second.
"I already drank one," I lie to his shins.
"Oh."
Two hours later, I’m in the library, trying to actually study for once because I’m terrified of failing this semester amidst all the bonding drama. I feel a presence before I see it.
Sejun slides into the chair opposite me. He doesn't even have a book. He just props his chin in his hands and stares at me.
"You look so serious," he whispers loudly. "It's sexy."
I grip my pen so hard the plastic creaks. "Sejun, I am trying to work."
"I know, I know. I just wanted to see you." He slides a note across the table.Dinner tonight? My treat. I’m wearing that shirt you used to like.
I stare at the note. The shirt he’s referencing is a sheer mesh thing that, three months ago, would have had me cancelling all my plans to get him into bed. Now, the mental image just makes me feel tired and vaguely queasy.
"I have a family thing," I whisper back, sliding the note away. "My dad is... in town. It's a whole crisis. Can't talk."
I pack up my stuff and leave before he can ask why my dad, who lives forty minutes away, constitutes a crisis.
It comes to a head on Thursday.
I’m cornered near the vending machines in the design building, trying to buy a bottle of water to wash down the bile that seems to be permanently stuck in my throat these days.
"Sihwan," a voice croons right behind my ear.
I jump, slamming my shoulder into the glass of the machine. Sejun is right there, in my personal bubble, effectively pinning me between the snack dispenser and the wall.
"You've been avoiding me," he says. The innocent act is slipping, replaced by a petulant edge. His scent flares—sweet, sticky, demanding attention. "It's not nice. I'm trying to be nice to you."
"I'm not avoiding you," I say, pressing my back flat against the machine. The cool glass is the only thing keeping me grounded. "I told you, I'm busy."
"Too busy for me?" He steps closer, placing a hand on my chest, right over my heart. His palm is warm. "Come on. Stop playing hard to get. It was cute at first, but now I'm bored. Let's just go to your place."
He leans up, trying to nuzzle his face into my neck, right over my scent gland.
The reaction is instantaneous and violent. My stomach flips completely over. It’s not just dislike; it’s a biological rejection so strong my vision swims. My body screamsWRONG, screaming that this isn't the right scent, isn't the bite that marks my skin.
I shove him.
It’s harder than I mean to. Sejun stumbles back a few steps, looking shocked.
