"No," I admit, pushing my empty glass away and standing up. "Unfortunately, you're probably right."
Chapter Twenty-One
Sihwan
Thwack.
The heavy bag swings violently on its chain, the leather groaning under the impact of my right hook.
Thwack.
That one is for the smirk. The smug, barely-there lift of the corner of his mouth that makes me want to commit felonies.
Thwack.
That one is for the text. For Sejun’s smarmy smile lighting up his phone screen like a neon sign advertising that I’m yesterday’s news.
I dance back on the balls of my feet, shaking out my hands. My knuckles ache pleasantly inside the wraps, a dull throb that grounds me. Sweat is pouring down my back, soaking the waistband of my shorts, stinging my eyes. Good. I need this. I need to sweat out the humiliation, the rage, and the stupid, irrational jealousy that’s been eating a hole in my gut since I stormed out of his place.
It’s not that I care about Sejun. I don’t. The guy was clingy and annoying, and his pheromones were like drowning in a vat of vanilla syrup. But he wasmine. And now he’s throwing himself at Donghwa, and Donghwa—that arrogant, stoic prick—is just standing there catching everything I drop. It’s insulting. It’s like he’s going through my trash just to prove he can recycle better than me.
I grit my teeth and launch a flurry of jabs, left-right-left, burying my fist into the bag with a grunt of exertion.
"Stupid," I pant, driving a knee into the bag for good measure. "Arrogant. Thief."
I deliver one final, haymaker cross that sends the bag flying back so hard the chain rattles against the mounting bracket. I stand there, chest heaving, lungs burning, staring at the swinging leather until it slows to a dull sway.
"Fuck you," I tell the bag. It doesn't argue back.
I turn away, grabbing the towel off the bench and scrubbing it over my face and hair. I’m a mess. My hair is plastered to my forehead, my tank top is clinging to my chest in damp patches, and I probably smell like a locker room. But whatever. It’s my apartment's private gym. I pay the exorbitant rent; I can smell like a swamp if I want to.
I grab my water bottle, unscrewing the cap and tilting my head back to chug. The water is lukewarm, but it hits the spot. I lower the bottle, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, and instinctively check the floor-to-ceiling mirror on the far wall.
Habit. I always check the form. Even when I’m miserable, I need to know the delts are popping.
I freeze. The water bottle slips from my fingers, hitting the rubber mat with a dullthudand rolling away, spilling a puddle across the floor.
I’m not alone in the mirror.
Leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, is a figure dressed in black. He’s perfectly still, blending into the shadows of the hallway so well I didn't even hear him come in. Or maybe I was just making too much noise throwing my tantrum.
Kang Donghwa.
He’s watching me. His dark eyes are fixed on my reflection, heavy and unreadable, lids lowered in that bored, sleepy way that usually means he’s about five seconds away from ruining my life. He looks infuriatingly put-together—black coat, black turtleneck, silver rings glinting under the harsh gym lights. He looks like a model who took a wrong turn into a sweaty boxing gym.
And he’s looming. Just standing there, taking up all the oxygen in the room without moving a muscle.
My heart does a traitorous double-tap against my ribs. Not fear. Definitely not fear. It’s the bond, that stupid biological wire tripping in my brain, recognizingAlphaand sending a jolt of adrenaline straight to my groin.
"Thought I might find you here," he says. His voice is low, a rumble that seems to vibrate through the floorboards and travel straight up my legs.
I whirl around, water splashing over my sneakers as I stomp away from the puddle. My hands curl into fists inside the wraps, the leather crunching.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" I snap, the words tearing out of my throat raw and jagged. "I didn't invite you. Get out."
Donghwa doesn't flinch. He doesn't even blink. He just straightens up from the doorframe, unfolding that long, lean body with a casual grace that makes me want to punch him in the teeth. He takes a step into the room. Just one. But it feels like he just claimed the entire gym.
My shoulders hike up toward my ears. Every muscle in my back goes rigid, the flight instinct warring with the urge to swing at him. "I said get out, Donghwa. I'm not in the mood for your—"
