"I would have," I grumble, swirling the liquid in my glass until a miniature whirlpool forms. "If he hadn't stormed out like a soap opera diva before I could get a single word in."
I down the shot, the burn doing nothing to cool my temper. "You know how he operates. Logic is a foreign language to him. He thinks with his adrenaline and his wounded pride." I slam the glass down a little too hard. "It’s his default setting. If he feels threatened, it’s automatically my fault. He’d rather believe I’m some villain plotting to humiliate him than stop for five seconds to realize he’s being paranoid."
I run a hand down my face, exhaling a long, frustrated breath. The memory of him shouting, eyes wet with angry tears, is irritatingly vivid.
"Talking clearly isn't working with him," I mutter, my voice dropping lower, dark with a very specific kind of agitation. "What Ireallywant to do is drag him back to my apartment, bend him over my lap, and spank some actual sense into that thick skull of his until he learns to listen."
"Then do it."
Soyoung says it casually. She tips her bottle back, draining the last of the cheap beer with a throat-bobbing swallow that would make a lesser man flinch.
I stare at her. "Do it? You mean put him over my knee like a petulant child?"
"I mean handle him," she corrects, setting the bottle down with a heavy thud. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, her dark eyes sharp and entirely serious. "Stop trying to use logic, Donghwa. You’re trying to explain calculus to a Golden Retriever. It doesn't matter how right you are; all he hears is noise."
I frown, tracing the rim of my empty shot glass. "I'm not going to lower myself to caveman tactics just because he has the emotional processing power of a brick."
"You’re already lowered," she points out mercilessly. "You’re sitting in a dive bar whining about a boy who thinks you’re cheating on him with a twink in a sweater. You’re past the point of dignity."
She leans forward, elbows on the sticky table, invading my space.
"Look at him. Really look at him. Sihwan is a creature of instinct. He’s all posturing, pheromones, and gym mirrors. He doesn't understand 'communication' or 'healthy boundaries.' He understands hierarchy. He understands force."
She taps a chipped fingernail against the wood.
"When has he ever listened to you? When you asked nicely? No. He listened when you pinned him to a mattress. He listened when you beat him in the pool. He listened when you dominated him on the soccer field."
I open my mouth to argue, to defend my intellect against this barbaric assessment, but the words die in my throat.
I hate it when she’s right.
I think back to the last few weeks. Every time I’ve tried to be reasonable, Sihwan has escalated. Every time I’ve tried to ignore him, he’s gotten louder. But the moments where things made sense—wherewemade sense—were always physical. The friction of skin, the clash of teeth, the heavy, suffocating weight of pheromones forcing submission.
Sihwan doesn't want an explanation. He wants to be claimed. He wants proof, tangible and undeniable, that he hasn't been replaced. He needs to feel it because he’s too stupid to believe it.
"Speak his language," Soyoung says, her voice low, a predator recognizing another predator. "He’s a testosterone meathead, Donghwa. He responds to dominance. So stop talking and go remind him who the hell he belongs to."
I arch a brow, swirling the last drops of soju in my glass. "You want me to treat a grown man, a junior in university, like a toddler throwing a fit in the candy aisle?"
"I want you to treat him like the brat he is," Soyoung corrects, leaning in closer, her eyes gleaming with that terrifying amusement she’s famous for. "Don't knock on his door. Don't ask to come in. Just walk in there, grab him by the scruff, and drag him over your lap."
She makes a sharp, rhythmic motion with her hand—a flat palm slapping the air—that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination.
"Give him a good spanking," she says, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial, smoky register. "I’m talking red-ass, tears-in-his-eyes discipline. Humiliate him a little. Shock the system. Make him focus on the sting so he stops spiraling in that empty head of his."
She grins, sharp and wolfish. "And once he’s sobbing and clinging to you because his pride is in shreds? That’s when you flip him over and fuck his brains out. Thoroughly. Remind him that hole belongs to you and nobody else."
She sits back, crossing her arms with a satisfied nod. "Then, andonlythen, when he’s limp and boneless and high on endorphins, do you explain that you blocked the twink. He won't have the energy to argue. He’ll just nod and say, 'Yes, Alpha.'"
I stare at her. It’s crude. It’s barbaric. It’s completely lacking in dignity.
A smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth against my will. I shake my head, looking down at the table. "You are a menace to society, Han Soyoung."
"I'm a realist," she counters. "Am I wrong?"
I open my mouth to argue, to defend my preference for intellectual resolution, but the words die on my tongue. I think about Sihwan. I think about the way he freezes when I use my Alpha voice, the way his eyes dilate when I manhandle him, the way he craves friction because it’s the only language he truly speaks fluently. He doesn't want a debate. He wants to be overwhelmed. He wants to be forced to shut up because he doesn't know how to do it himself.
I let out a long, heavy sigh, the sound of a man accepting his fate.
