"Hi there," I hear Sejun say. His voice has dropped an octave, aiming for sultry. "Is this seat taken? The place is packed."
The place is not packed. There are three empty tables right next to them.
Donghwa doesn't look up. He doesn't even blink. He just taps a key on his laptop. "Yes."
"Oh." Sejun falters for a millisecond, but he’s a professional. He laughs, a tinkling, bell-like sound that makes my teeth ache. "You’re funny. I like that. I’m Sejun. Lee Sejun."
He waits for the recognition. He’s used to Alphas perking up at his name, recognizing the campus "It Boy."
Donghwa finally lifts his head. He stares at Sejun with the same level of interest one might give a smudge on a windowpane.
"Okay," Donghwa says.
I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from snorting. God, he’s an asshole. I hate how much I like it.
Sejun’s smile twitches, but he doubles down. He pulls out the chair and sits anyway, uninvited. The audacity is almost impressive.
"You’re the new freshman everyone is talking about," Sejun purrs, leaning forward on his elbows so his collarbone is on full display. "Kang Donghwa, right? I heard you’re... difficult."
"I'm busy," Donghwa corrects, his voice flat.
"Busy is good. Alphas should be driven." Sejun reaches out, his fingers dancing near Donghwa’s coffee cup. "My ex was like that. Always so busy with his swimming and hisimage."
My heart stutters. I grip the muffin display so hard I crush a blueberry scone. Don't bring me into this, you little demon.
He looks Donghwa up and down, licking his lips.
I see red. Actual red spots dancing in my vision. The bond in my chest gives a violent, angry lurch. It’s a primal, ugly feeling—mine. That’smine. Get your vanilla-scented claws off him.
I take a step forward, ready to storm over there and cause a scene that will ruin my reputation forever, but then Donghwa’s eyes flicker.
He looks past Sejun. Straight at the muffin display. Straight at me.
He knew I was there. The bastard probably smelled me the second I walked in.
A slow, wicked smirk curls the corner of Donghwa’s mouth. He doesn't expose me. Instead, he turns his attention back to Sejun, his expression shifting from bored to predatory amusement.
"Is that right?" Donghwa asks, his voice dropping to a low rumble that I can feel in my toes from twenty feet away.
"Oh, totally," Sejun lies effortlessly, twirling a lock of hair. "He practically begged me not to break up with him. But you know how it is. I need someone who can handle me. Someone with... status."
Sejun releases his scent. I can smell it from here—a wave of clingy, sugary sweetness meant to trigger a rut.
My stomach revolts instantly. I gag, clapping a hand over my mouth, bile rising in my throat. It’s disgusting. It smells like desperation.
But Donghwa doesn't recoil. He doesn't look affected at all, thanks to the bond, but he plays along. He leans in closer to Sejun, resting his chin on his hand.
"And you think you can handle me?" Donghwa asks softly.
Sejun flushes pink, his eyes widening. "I think I’d like to try."
"Interesting," Donghwa hums. He holds Sejun’s gaze, but I know—Iknow—he’s performing for an audience of one. "You must be something special."
Sejun preens, practically glowing. "I am."
I don’t stay to hear the punchline.
The sight of Sejun leaning in, his button-down gaping open like an invitation to a cheap motel, combined with the look of predatory amusement on Donghwa’s face, is enough to make my vision blur. It’s not the nausea this time—though the lingering stench of vanilla syrup is still making my stomach do backflips—it’s the rage.
