"Whoa," he says, blinking. "Hyung?"
I’m breathing hard, wiping my neck where he tried to touch me like I’m scrubbing off acid.
"Stop," I snap, my voice harsh in the quiet hallway. "Just stop, Sejun."
"What is your problem?" He crosses his arms, his eyes narrowing. "You're acting weird. Is it because of someone else? Are you seeing someone?"
"This isn't about anyone else," I lie through my teeth, though the mere mention of him in passing makes the nausea recede slightly, replaced by a headache. "I'm not interested, Sejun. We tried it, it didn't work. I'm not doing this again."
"You were obsessed with me," he argues, stamping his foot lightly. "You cried when we broke up!"
"I did not cry," I roar, my face heating up. "I had allergies!"
"You're lying." He scoffs, stepping forward again, releasing another wave of vanilla pheromones to try and subdue me.
I gag. I can't help it. The sound is wet and ugly. I cover my mouth with my hand, backing away until I hit the opposite wall.
"Don't," I warn him, my voice muffled behind my hand. "Stay back. I mean it. I'm not... I can't do this. I'm not interested in getting back together, and I'm not interested in being your accessory for the semester."
Sejun stares at me, processing the fact that his usual tricks—the scent, the eyes, the touch—are failing spectacularly. For a second, he looks genuinely confused, like a magician whose rabbit died in the hat.
"Fine," he spits out, smoothing down his sweater. "Be like that. You're not the only Alpha on campus, you know."
"Good," I choke out. "Go find them."
He huffs, spins on his heel, and storms off down the hallway.
I wait until he turns the corner before I slump against the wall, sliding down until I’m crouching on the linoleum floor. I put my head between my knees, taking deep gulps of the stale hallway air.
Jesus Christ. I’m the biggest, baddest Alpha in the junior class, and I’m hiding by a vending machine because a five-foot-six Omega smells like vanilla extract.
I check my phone. No texts. No sign of Donghwa.
I hate that my first instinct is to check for him. I hate that the only thing that would make my stomach settle right now is the scent of the guy who ruined my life.
"Get it together," I mutter to the empty hallway.
I stand up, straighten my jacket, and walk in the opposite direction of where Sejun went. I need to find a bathroom, and then I need to find a way to survive the rest of the semester without vomiting on my ex.
I figure I’m safe in the campus coffee shop. It’s the expensive one, the one that sells fair-trade beans and pastries that cost more than my gym membership, which usually filters out the riff-raff. I’m just here to get an iced Americano—my fourth of the day—and try to drown the lingering memory of vanilla scent that’s been haunting my nightmares for three days.
I should have known better. Safety is an illusion when you’re living in a tragic comedy written by a sadist.
I spot him before I can even get to the counter.
Kang Donghwa is sitting at a corner table by the window, looking like a spread inVogue: Depression Edition. He’s wearing a black pullover that highlights his jawline in a way that is frankly rude, nursing a cup of black coffee and editing photos on his laptop. He looks completely unapproachable, radiating that "do not perceive me" energy that usually sends people running.
Except for one person.
I freeze behind a display of gluten-free muffins as I see Lee Sejun prowling through the tables. He’s changed tactics. Gone is the oversized yellow sweater. Today, he’s wearing a white button-down that’s unbuttoned one shy of scandalous, and tight jeans that leave nothing to the imagination.
He’s not looking for me. His eyes are locked on the corner table.
"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," I mutter, ducking my head.
I should leave. I should turn around, walk out, and go do literally anything else. But my feet are glued to the floor. It’s like watching a car crash in slow motion, except one of the cars is my ex-boyfriend and the other car is the guy who knotted me last week.
Sejun stops at Donghwa’s table. He brushes his hair behind his ear—practiced, purposeful—and leans a hip against the edge of the table.
