The door clicks shut.
Silence descends on the room again, heavy and thick, but the panic is gone, replaced by a vacuum of sheer absurdity.
I stand there for a second, staring at the closed door, my heart rate slowly coming down fromcardiac arresttomild panic attack.
Then I turn to look at Donghwa.
He’s still leaning against the cabinet, but the smirk has broken into a grin. He meets my eyes, and for a second, we just stare at each other—disheveled, sweaty, smelling like sex, standing nextto a table covered in my come, having just been lectured by the student council president like naughty children.
A snort escapes me.
It breaks the dam. I double over, a laugh bubbling up from my chest that sounds bordering on hysterical. Donghwa chuckles, pushing off the cabinet, his shoulders shaking.
" 'I can get you a yacht'?" he mocks, his voice rich with amusement. "Really, hyung? That was your opening play?"
"Shut up," I wheeze, wiping a tear from my eye, grinning like an idiot. "It almost worked. You didn't help at all, you asshole."
"I was providing moral support," he says, stepping closer and flicking a piece of lint off my shoulder. "Besides, watching you beg was... educational."
I shove him, hard, but I’m laughing too hard to put any real heat behind it. "Clean the table, freshman. That's an order."
"Make me," he shoots back, eyes glinting, but he’s already reaching for the paper towels.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Ilook like absolute shit.
That’s the first thought I have when I catch my reflection in the darkened window of the lecture hall. My hair is flat, my skin looks gray under the lights, and there are bags under my eyes big enough to carry my textbooks. I’m running on four hours of sleep, three shots of espresso, and the sheer, panic-induced terror of failing Brand Management.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Again.
I don’t even have to look to know who it is. Donghwa has been blowing up my phone for two days.
Come over.
I ordered spicy chicken.
You need a break.
I ignore it. I shove the phone deeper into my pocket and focus on the professor’s monotonous voice. I can’t go over there. If I go to Donghwa’s, we aren’t going to study. We’re going to end up naked, sweaty, and exhausted, and while that sounds like heaven, it’s not going to help me pass this final. My father has already threatened to cut my card if my GPA dips even a fraction of a point. I can’t afford distractions, especially not six-foot-three distractions that smell like heaven and taste like sin.
The lecture ends, and I’m the first one out of my seat. I need to get to the library before the good tables are taken. I shove my iPad into my bag, swing it over my shoulder, and turn toward the door—only to slam chest-first into a wall of black wool.
"Going somewhere?"
I stumble back, blinking. Donghwa is standing there, blocking the aisle like a gothic monolith. He looks annoyingly fresh. No dark circles. No stress lines. Just cool, unbothered perfection.
"Move, Donghwa," I snap, trying to step around him. "I have to study."
He steps with me, blocking my path again. "You’ve been ghosting me."
"I’ve beenstudying," I correct him, clutching my bag strap. "Some of us actually have to try to get good grades."
Donghwa narrows his eyes, scanning my face. I hate that look. It feels like he’s peeling back my skin and looking at the messy wiring underneath. He reaches out, his fingers brushing the pulse point on my wrist.
The contact hits me instantly. The bond flares up, a warm, soothing wave that crashes against my high-strung nerves. My shoulders drop two inches. My headache recedes. It’s infuriating how much my body wants him.
"You’re running on fumes," he says, his voice low. "You’re vibrating."
