"You play so beautifully, Donghwa," he’d cooed, leaning against the piano, trying to make eye contact.
I’d just kept playing, louder, drowning him out until he got the hint and left, looking miffed.
And the lecture halls. God, the lecture halls. He’s been cornering me after every class, asking for notes he doesn't need, brushing his arm against mine, flaring his pheromones so aggressively it’s a wonder the professors haven't sent him to the nurse and even I can detect hints of it. It’s desperate. It’s pathetic. And frankly, it’s insulting that Sihwan thinks I’d downgrade tothatwhen I have a feral, muscle-bound idiot who actually challenges me.
I toss the phone onto the nightstand with a little more force than necessary. It lands face down, which is for the best. If I see one more winky face or suggestive eggplant emoji, I might actually throw the device out the window.
The irony is rich enough to choke on. Sihwan thinks I was entertaining Sejun? Please. I spent the last week treating that omega like he was a radioactive isotope, all while trying to handle him with kid gloves because my bonded partner has the emotional security of a wet paper towel.
I couldn't exactly tell Sejun to fuck off because I'm taken. That leads to questions. "Taken by who?" "Since when?" "Is it serious?" And since Sihwan treats our bond like a state secret that could topple the government if revealed, I had to play the diplomatic card. I gave Sejun the polite brush-off. I used the "I'm focusing on my studies" line, which is hilarious considering I basically coast through these introductory classes.
I thought I was being subtle. Considerate, even.
Apparently, Sejun took "I'm busy" as "Please try harder to stalk me."
I rub a hand over my face, feeling the exhaustion of the last few hours settle into my bones. I didn't even give the kid my number. Some helpful idiot in the department group chat must have leaked it on Friday thinking they were doing me a favor. Since then, my phone has been vibrating non-stop. I answered maybe three texts, all with one-word dismissals, hoping he’d get bored and move on to the next shiny object.
I had no clue he was Sihwan’s ex.
How was I supposed to know? Sihwan doesn’t talk to me. He yells, he snarks, he moans, and occasionally he threatens bodily harm, but he doesn't actuallycommunicate. If he’d just opened his mouth and said, "Hey, that guy used to date me and he’s a stage-five clinger," I would have handled things differently. I would have been a lot less diplomatic and a lot more explicit about where Sejun could shove his interest.
But no. Sihwan prefers to bottle it up until he explodes, storming out of my apartment half-cocked and fully delusional, accusing me of wanting his "leftovers."
My gaze drifts to the door he just slammed. My instincts—the primitive, lizard-brain part of me that’s been rewired by the bond—are screaming at me to go after him. To drag him back here, pin him down, and force him to listen to logic until he stops shaking.
I stay right where I am.
I’m not chasing him. Not tonight.
I’m irritated, too. I just spent hours worshipping his body, taking him apart until he couldn't remember his own name, and his takeaway is that I’m looking for an upgrade? It’s insulting. It insults my taste, and it insults my intelligence. If he wants to run away and sulk because he can’t handle a simple misunderstanding, let him.
I sit on the edge of the bed, the sheets still tangled and warm from his body heat. He needs space. And frankly, so do I. If I go after him now, I’ll just end up saying something cruel that I can’t take back.
"Idiot," I whisper into the dark, falling back onto the mattress.
I'll handle my stupid bond mate later, when I've had rest.
The ice in my glass has melted down to pathetic little slivers, diluting the amber liquid that’s supposed to be numbing my irritation. It’s not working.
I stare at my phone lying face up on the sticky wooden table. The screen is black. Silent. Dead. It has been exactly twenty-four hours since Sihwan stormed out of my apartment like a drama queen in a K-drama, and I haven’t heard a peep. No angry texts, no drunk dials, not even a passive-aggressive emoji.
"If you stare at it any harder, you’re going to set the battery on fire," Soyoung says, her voice cutting through the low hum of the bar.
I look up. Soyoung is leaning back in her chair, one boot propped up on the empty seat next to her, looking effortlessly terrifying. She’s nursing a beer, her sharp eyes tracking my every micro-expression with amusement.
"I'm checking the time," I lie smoothly.
"You have a watch," she points out, nodding at my wrist. "And a clock on the wall behind me. And you haven't unlocked that phone in twenty minutes. You’re just waiting for a notification."
I scowl and flip the phone face down. "I'm not waiting for anything."
"Right. You’re just naturally this pleasant to be around." She reaches across the table, grabs the bottle of soju we ordered as a chaser, and fills my shot glass to the brim. "Drink. You’re pouting. It’s annoying."
I pick up the glass and down it in one go. The alcohol burns pleasantly on the way down, but it doesn't touch the knot offrustration in my chest. It’s the principle of the thing. I am not texting him first. He’s the one who threw a tantrum over a picture I didn't ask for and a situation I didn't create. If I text him now, it validates his delusion. It says,Yes, Sihwan, your paranoia is reasonable and I am begging for your forgiveness.
I’d rather eat glass.
"Spit it out," Soyoung commands, refilling my glass immediately. "You’ve been sulking since you sat down. Is it the meathead?"
