Every time I think about starting shit, or ignoring a text, or even looking at another person for too long, my brain unhelpfully supplies a 4K replay of Donghwa’s palm cracking against my skin and the humiliating, confused heat that pooledin my gut right after. It’s Pavlovian. I’m a conditioned dog. It’s disgusting.
It’s also quiet. Suspiciously quiet.
Sejun has vanished into the ether. I haven't seen his perfectly styled hair or heard his annoying laugh near the Visual Design building all week. Rumor has it he’s suddenly very interested in the Engineering department, which is fine by me. Donghwa said he handled it, and apparently, "handling it" meant freezing the guy out so thoroughly he got frostbite and moved on.
I should be mad that Donghwa fought my battles. I’m the upperclassman. I’m the big bad Alpha. But when I see Donghwa sitting in the lecture hall, scrolling on his phone with that bored, disinterested look he gives the rest of the world, I don’t feel angry. I feel… settled.
I drop my bag on the desk next to him. He doesn’t look up, but the corner of his mouth twitches.
"You're late," he says.
"I'm on time," I counter, sliding into the seat. "Professor isn't even here yet."
"You're usually here five minutes early to pose for the omegas." Donghwa finally glances at me, dark eyes sweeping over my face before dropping lower, lingering on my neck where the collar of my shirt hides the bond mark. "Giving up on your fan club?"
"Shut up," I grumble, opening my laptop. "Maybe I just don't want to smell their cheap perfume today."
"Good boy."
The words are quiet, barely a murmur under the noise of the class settling in, but they hit me like a taser. My spine snaps straight, and I feel heat rush up the back of my neck. I hate that. I hate that two words from this insolent freshman make my heart stutter.
I glare at him. "Don't call me that."
"Don't act like one, and I won't have to," he shoots back, smooth as whiskey. He leans back in his chair, stretching his long legs out, looking entirely too comfortable for a guy who beat my ass in the gym mirrors less than a week ago.
I try to focus on the lecture once it starts, but Donghwa’s presence is a heavy weight on my right side. It’s the bond, I tell myself. It’s just biology rewiring my brain to be hyper-aware of him. It’s not because I’m wondering what his hands are doing.
Halfway through class, he shifts, reaching into his bag. His hand moves fast, a blur of motion in my peripheral vision.
I flinch.
It’s a small movement, a jerk of my shoulders like I’m bracing for impact, but I catch myself instantly. I freeze, staring straight ahead at the whiteboard, praying he didn't see it.
Of course he saw it. He sees everything.
Donghwa pauses, his hand hovering over a notebook. He doesn't pull it out. Instead, he slowly withdraws his hand and rests it on his thigh, turning his head to look at me. The air between us gets thick, charged with that winter-chill scent of his.
"Relax," he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave. "We're in public, Hyung. You're safe."
"I know that," I hiss, keeping my voice low. "I'm not scared of you."
"I know you aren't."
He moves his hand again, slower this time. He doesn't go for his notebook. He reaches over and rests his palm on the back of my neck, his thumb brushing against the sensitive skin right over my pulse point. It’s a possessive, grounding touch. A claim.
"You liked it," he whispers, the words ghosting against my ear.
My grip on my pen tightens until the plastic creaks. "You're delusional."
"Am I?" His thumb rubs a slow circle against my skin. "Your heart is racing. I can feel it. You're not scared I'm going to hit you again. You're hoping I will."
"Fuck you," I breathe out, but I don't pull away. I can't. The warmth of his hand is seeping into my spine, melting the tension there. It’s sick. I’m the Dominant Alpha of the junior class. I bench press more than most of these guys weigh. And yet, here I am, melting into a puddle because a freshman is holding me by the scruff of the neck.
"Later," he promises, giving my neck a firm squeeze before letting go. "If you keep behaving."
He turns back to his notes like nothing happened.
I stare at the side of his face—the sharp jawline, the stoic expression—and I realize I’m in so much trouble. The fear is gone, replaced by this buzzing, electric anticipation that makes it impossible to sit still.
