"It’s the caffeine," I lie, though I lean into his touch for a split second before jerking my hand away. "Seriously, I don't have time for a quickie in the bathroom or whatever you’re planning. I have a paper due on Monday."
"I’m not looking for a quickie," he says, sounding offended. He grabs my elbow and steers me out of the flow of students, pulling me into a quiet alcove near the stairwell. "I’m looking for a solution. We’re both burnt out."
I cross my arms, leaning against the wall. "Okay, Dr. Phil. What’s the diagnosis?"
"We need to leave."
I blink. "Leave? Like, drop out?"
"Leave Seoul," he says. "For the weekend. My parents want me to come home to the estate. They think the city air is 'stifling' during exam season." He rolls his eyes, clearly thinking it’s ridiculous, but then he looks at me pointedly. "I want you to come with me."
I stare at him. "You want me to go to your parents' house? The spooky Old Money castle?"
"It’s not a castle. It’s a traditional estate."
"Same thing." I shake my head. "No way. I can’t lose a whole weekend. I need my books, I need my notes—"
"It’s quiet there," Donghwa interrupts. "We have a library bigger than this department's. No noise. A chef who will make you whatever you want. And..." He steps closer, boxing me in against the wall. His scent wraps around me, drowning out the smell of stale coffee and floor wax. "You won’t have to sleep alone."
My resolve wavers. A weekend of actual sleep? Good food? Donghwa’s body heat without limitations?
"Why?" I ask, suspicious. "Why bring me?"
"Fair exchange," he says simply. "I survived dinner with your parents. You owe me."
I groan, tilting my head back against the concrete wall. He has a point. He sat through the agony of my parents.
"Also," Donghwa adds, as casually as if he’s telling me there’s a sale on turtlenecks, "my rut is due to hit sometime this weekend."
I choke on my own spit. I actually cough, hacking into my fist while he watches with that infuriatingly calm expression.
"You want to go through your rut at yourparents’ house?" I hiss, keeping my voice down so the students passing by don’t hear that we’re discussing his biological sex schedule. "Are you a psychopath? Who does that?"
I’m picturing my own house—thin walls, nosy staff, my mother’s hawk-like hearing. The idea of sweating through a fever and railing someone while my parents are watching TV downstairs is the stuff of nightmares.
"It’s not like that," Donghwa says, leaning a shoulder against the wall. He looks amused by my horror. "The estate is... equipped for it. We have a detached annex. It’s traditional. Soundproofed, private, separate from the main house. The staff knows the drill. They leave food at the door and don't ask questions."
"Equipped for it," I repeat, staring at him. "You make it sound like a medical procedure."
"It’s just routine," he says, and then catches himself, smirking. "It’s comfortable. Better than cramping up in my apartment or worrying about your mom walking in on us again."
I flush hot at the reminder. "Low blow."
"Just facts, hyung." He steps closer, dropping his voice to a register that vibrates right down my spine. "Think about it. One dinner. You put on a nice shirt, charm my mother—which I know you can do because you’re terrifyingly good at fake-smiling—andthen we disappear. No studying, no phone calls, no stress. just me, you, and a very large bed in a very private room for two days."
I bite the inside of my cheek, warring with myself.
On one hand, this sounds like a trap. Going into the lion's den of the Intellectual Elite sounds exhausting. I know how these Old Money types look at people like me—new money, loud, "tacky." I’ve spent my whole life trying to prove I belong at their table, and now I’m voluntarily walking in to be judged by the final bosses of Korean high society.
On the other hand... I’m dying to know.
I’ve seen the way Donghwa carries himself. I’ve seen the casual way he dismisses things that cost more than my car. I want to see where he comes from. I want to see the environment that createdKang Donghwa. And, if I’m being honest with myself—which I hate doing—the bond is already reacting to the news of his rut. My stomach gives a traitorous little flip of anticipation. My body remembers exactly what happened during his last rut, and despite my brain screamingdanger, my skin is prickling with the need to be close to him when it happens.
Plus, the idea of someone else cooking for me and not having to think about Brand Management for forty-eight hours sounds like bliss.
"One dinner?" I verify, narrowing my eyes. "I don't have to talk politics or art history or whatever you people talk about for the whole weekend?"
"Just Friday night," he promises. "After that, the annex is ours. My parents value privacy above everything. They won't bother us."
