Sihwan stares at me for a beat longer, his mouth slightly open, before he slowly closes it. He sinks back into the leather seat, the rigid tension in his shoulders dropping an inch. The air in the car shifts, settling into something less suffocating. He looks... unsettled. Like he prepared for a fight and found an open door instead.
The silence for the rest of the drive isn't uncomfortable. At least, not for me. Sihwan spends the remaining twenty minutes staring out the window, vibrating with a frequency that would probably shatter glass if we were in a smaller vehicle. I just enjoy the quiet and the occasional glance at his reflection in the glass, watching him chew on his lip until it’s a swollen shade of red.
It’s cute. In a pathetic sort of way.
We hit the outskirts of the city, winding up into the hills where the "New Money" likes to congregate. When the Oh estate finally comes into view, I have to physically restrain myself from rolling my eyes.
It’s exactly what I expected.
If my family’s home is a library—quiet, old, smelling of dust and history—this place is a casino. It’s massive, sprawling across the hillside with zero regard for the landscape. White marble columns that have no business being on a modern structure, gold-leaf accents on the gates, and a fountain in the driveway that’s probably big enough to swim laps in. It screams wealth. It screams,“Please look at me, I promise I’m important.”
It fits Sihwan perfectly.
I pull the coupe up to the front steps, the gravel crunching satisfyingly under the tires. Before the engine even cuts out, a valet in a uniform that looks more expensive than my first car is scrambling down the stairs to open my door.
I step out, buttoning my jacket. The air up here smells like manicured grass and chlorine.
"Welcome, sir," the valet breathes, eyeing the car with a mix of reverence and terror.
I toss him the keys without looking.
Sihwan is already out on the curb, smoothing down his suit jacket with frantic, jerky movements. He looks like he’s about to walk into a firing squad rather than a family dinner. He reaches for the trunk release, but I beat him to it.
"Relax," I mutter, stepping around him.
I pop the trunk and haul out his leather overnight bag, slinging the strap over my shoulder. Then I grab the shopping bags—expensive whiskey and a set of premium wild ginseng I picked up on the way. Standard courting gifts. Or apology gifts. Whatever this is.
Sihwan reaches for the handles. "I can get those—"
"I've got it," I say, shifting the weight easily. I shut the trunk with a solid thud.
I turn to face him. The image is almost comical. Here he is, the 'King of the Campus,' the son of this marble monstrosity, standing on his own front porch with his hands empty and useless at his sides. He looks stripped down, stripped of his usual bluster.
I, on the other hand, am holding his luggage and the gifts, looking for all the world like the one in charge.
"Lead the way," I say, jerking my chin toward the massive double doors.
Sihwan lets out a breath that sounds more like a tire springing a leak than a human exhale. He squares his shoulders—a physical reset I’ve seen him do before swim meets—and turns on his heel. I follow a step behind, the weight of the whiskey bottles clinking softly in the bag against my hip.
I watch the tension in his neck. It’s tight, corded. The guy is walking into his own home, but the pheromones rolling off him smell like he’s walking into a courtroom for sentencing. It’s bitter, sharp. It makes the hair on my arms stand up, my own instincts prickling with a need to find the threat. But there is no threat. Just a house.
Or a palace. Whatever this is.
The doors swing open, revealing a foyer that could double as a skating rink. And the staff.
I suppress a frown. There are four of them standing there. Two maids in crisp uniforms, a man who looks like he takes his job as a butler way too seriously, and someone else hovering in the back. For a family of three? It’s ridiculous. It’s theater.
"Welcome home, Young Master Sihwan," they chorus.
Sihwan nods, stiffly acknowledging them, avoiding eye contact as he ushers me past. "Thanks. Just... take the bags to my room."
I hand off the overnight bag to the butler but keep the gifts. I’m not trusting a stranger with vintage whiskey.
We move deeper into the house, and the feeling of walking through a museum intensifies. I scan the room as we pass through the main hall. It’s loud. Not in volume, but in design. Everything is gold, marble, or velvet. The furniture looks brand new, the kind of stiff, uncomfortable seating you buy to impress guests, not to actually sit on. There’s a massive vase that probably costs more than my tuition, positioned just so the light hits it.
But it’s what’s missing that bothers me.
I look at the walls. Abstract art. Generic landscapes. Mirrors with gilded frames.
