Fuck it.
I snatch my phone off the desk, shielding the screen from the professor’s line of sight. My thumb hovers over his contact name—saved simply as "Freshman" because I refuse to give him the dignity of his actual name in my contacts.
My pride screams at me to put the phone down.Don’t chase him. You’re the senior. You’re the King.
My body screams louder.
I type it out before I can second-guess myself.
Me:Clubhouse. After class.
Short. Commanding. Like I’m the one in charge here.
I hit send and watch him like a hawk. A second later, I see him shift. He pulls his phone from his coat pocket, keeping it low under the desk.
He pauses. Then, he turns in his seat.
He doesn't look around the room confused. He turns straight to the back row, locking eyes with me instantly. One dark eyebrow ticks up, a slow, lazy arch that screams amusement. The corner of his mouth quirks. He holds my gaze for a beat—long enough to make my face heat up—then turns back around and pockets the phone.
Bastard. He knows he won.
The next twenty minutes are torture. I don’t hear a word the professor says about market segmentation. I’m just watching the clock, watching Donghwa’s shoulders, and trying to keep my leg from shaking the entire desk apart.
The second the professor dismisses us, I’m moving.
"Sihwan, are you coming to lunch?" Seungchan asks, starting to pack his bag.
"No," I snap, slinging my backpack over one shoulder. "Forgot something in the... office. Catch you later."
I don't wait for an answer. I bolt.
I weave through the crowd of students shuffling toward the door, practically shoving people out of the way. I hit the hallway and power-walk toward the Visual Design clubhouse. It’s basically a glorified storage room with a couple of beat-up couches and a mini-fridge that the department uses for "meetings," but right now, it’s usually empty.
I shoulder my way into the clubhouse and slam the door, plunging the room into silence. It smells like a hundred procrastinated projects. I don't care. I cross the room in three strides and slap the light switch, killing the fluorescent hum.
Darkness swallows the beat-up couches and the stack of easels in the corner. I stand there, chest heaving, adrenaline vibrating under my skin like a plucked wire. My hands are shaking. I clench them into fists, forcing myself to breathe, to get a grip. I am the one calling the shots. I summoned him, and he’s coming to me.
The latch clicks.
I don't need to see him. The air in the room shifts instantly, the stale dust obliterated by a wave of cold winter air and sharp ink. It hits my nose like a drug, settling the frantic buzzing in my veins and replacing it with a heavy, molten heat that drops straight to my groin.
The door opens a crack, a slice of hallway light cutting across the floor.
I don't wait.
I lunge. I grab a fistful of that expensive black coat and yank him into the dark, kicking the door shut with my heel. He stumbles, just a step, but I’m already on him, slamming him back against the wood.
"You took your time," I snarl, but the words are swallowed as I crash my mouth onto his.
It’s not a kiss. It’s a collision. I’m starving for it, devouring him, teeth clashing against teeth as I force his mouth open. He tastes like mint and I need more. I groan into his mouth, the sound pathetic and needy, my hands scrabbling frantically at his waist. I need skin. I need friction.
I rip at his belt, my fingers clumsy with haste, popping the button of his jeans.
"Fuck," I curse against his lips, tugging at the zipper. "Open, dammit."
Donghwa growls, a low, vibrating rumble in his chest that I feel against my own. He doesn't push me off. Instead, his hand snakes up, fingers tangling brutally in the hair at the back of my head. He yanks my head back, breaking the kiss with a wet pop, exposing my throat.
"Impatient," he rasps, his voice dark and amused.
