That’s better.
"Ladies," I drawl, flashing the smile that usually gets me free drinks at the club. "What’s the main event? Someone trip and fall?"
They don't answer, just part like the Red Sea, giving me a clear line of sight to the rectangular window in the door. I step forward, ready to be unimpressed.
Then I hear the music.
It’s a piano. Not the clunky, halting scales of a music major panicking before a midterm. It’s fluid. Complex. Dark. It sounds like rain against a windowpane at midnight. And it’s coming from inside the room.
I lean in, squinting through the smudge-free glass, and immediately wish I hadn’t.
Of course. Offuckingcourse.
It’s the freshman. Kang Donghwa. The Prince of Darkness himself, sitting at the baby grand like he was born on the bench.
He’s not just playing; he’s practically making love to the instrument, which is a gross thought, but accurate. His posture is infuriatingly perfect—straight back, relaxed shoulders, that bored, detached expression on his face like he’s doing his taxes instead of performing a concerto that sounds like it requires twelve fingers.
His sleeves are pushed up just enough to show off the tendons in his forearms shifting with every complex chord. He isn’t even looking at the keys. He’s staring out the window at the brick wall of the science building, looking pensive and tortured.
"He's so talented," the girl beside me whispers, clutching her chest. "I heard he didn't even major in music because he thought it was too easy."
I feel a vein in my temple throb.Too easy?
I played violin for six years. My mother made me practice until my fingers bled and I wanted to smash the wood against the wall. I know what "easy" looks like, and this isn't it. This is showing off. This is a calculated, pretentious display of effortless superiority designed specifically to piss me off.
The music swells, a dramatic, crashing crescendo that vibrates through the door, and the little fan club outside lets out a collective, breathy sigh. The air in the hallway is starting to smell like rain and ink—his scent—and it’s drowning out mine.
That’s it. I’m done.
I scoff, loud enough that a few of the omegas jump, and spin on my heel.
"It's a little sharp, don't you think?" I lie loudly, not waiting for a response.
I shove my hands into my pockets and stomp down the hall, putting as much distance between me and that hauntingly perfect melody as possible. Who the hell just sits around playingRachmaninoff—or whatever dead Russian guy that was—in the middle of the day?
"What a try-hard," I mutter to myself, kicking at a scuff mark on the floor.
The guy is doing the absolute most to look like he’s doing the absolute least. It’s annoying. It’s exhausting. And worst of all, it’s working. I need to get to the gym. I need to lift something heavy until I forget that guy's stupid, talented hands.
The East Wing bathroom is my sanctuary.
It’s far enough from the design studios that the desperate smell of acrylic paint and panic doesn't reach it, and the lighting is actually decent. It’s the only place on campus where I can fix my hair without some freshman asking for my number or a professor asking why I haven't submitted the sketches for the branding project yet.
I shoulder my bag, humming a little tune—some EDM track that was blasting at the club last weekend—and push through the heavy door. I’m ready for silence. I’m ready for the smell of industrial lemon cleaner and the sight of my own beautiful face in the mirror.
Instead, I get hit with a blast of cold air.
Not from the AC. The ventilation in this building is older than my father. No, this is a scent. Sharp, crisp, and annoying as hell. It smells like winter wind and bitter ink.
My stomach drops.You have got to be kidding me.
There, standing at the middle sink like he owns the plumbing, is Kang Donghwa.
He’s bent slightly over the basin, rinsing soap from his hands. Even the back of his neck looks arrogant. His oversized black coats draping over shoulders that are irritatingly broad.
I freeze in the doorway, hand still on the brass handle. This ismyspot. I found it freshman year. I claimed it. I practically peed in the corners to mark the territory. What is he doing here?
Donghwa doesn't turn around. He doesn't even flinch. He just keeps scrubbing his hands, slow and thorough, like he’s a surgeon prepping for a heart transplant.
