I let out a long, ragged sigh, letting my head thump back against the wall. I’m going to regret this. I’m absolutely going to regret this.
"Fine," I grumble, avoiding his triumphant grin. "But if your dad makes a comment about my hair, I’m stealing the silverware."
Donghwa laughs, a low, rich sound that makes my chest tight. "Deal. Pick you up at five on Friday. Bring something nice, but pack light." He leans in, his lips brushing my ear, his voice dropping to a whisper that makes my knees weak. "You won't be wearing clothes for most of the weekend anyway."
He pulls back before I can punch him, winks, and saunters off down the hall, leaving me flushed, annoyed, and terrifyingly excited.
I have changed my shirt five times.
Five.
The current winner—or loser, depending on how this night goes—is a charcoal cashmere sweater that cost most of my closet combined. It’s soft, it’s understated, and it has absolutely no logos on it. It makes me feel naked.
I stand in front of the full-length mirror in my hallway, smoothing the fabric over my chest for the hundredth time. Usually, I like my clothes to scream. I want people to know exactly what brand I’m wearing and how much it cost from fifty feet away. That’s how my mother raised me: if it doesn’t have a label, did you even buy it?
But tonight isn’t about volume. It’s about...heritage. Or whatever the hell Donghwa’s family has.
"I look like a librarian," I mutter to my reflection, turning to check my profile. "A very expensive, very muscular librarian."
I grab a bottle of cologne and then freeze. Donghwa said his parents hate strong scents.Natural is better.I curse and put the bottle down, settling for just a dab of unscented deodorant. I feel stripped. No logos, no scent, hair styled back instead of up. I’m trying to erase the "Oh! Paradise Hotel" tackiness that’s been bred into my bones, but I’m terrified that the moment I walk through their door, they’re going to smell the new money on me like cheap hairspray.
I pace the length of my living room, my overnight bag heavy on my shoulder.
Why am I sweating this much? I’ve met rich people before. Hell, Iamrich people. I’ve shaken hands with CEOs and investors since I was six years old.
But this feels different.
I stop by the window, looking down at the street, waiting for Donghwa’s car. The anxiety churning in my gut isn't just about social climbing. It’s abouthim.
Back when we were just rivals, I wouldn't have given a damn what his parents thought. I would have walked in there in my loudest varsity jacket just to piss them off. But now... now we’re bonded. Now, when he looks at me, I feel it in my chest. And for some stupid, pathetic reason, the idea of his parents looking at me and seeing somethinglackingmakes me want to throw up.
I don't want to be the "tacky mistake" their son brought home. I want to fit in his world. I want to be worthy of the way he looks at me when we’re alone.
The chime of my phone cuts through the silence of the apartment like a gunshot.
I swear to god, I actually jump a full foot in the air, my heart slamming against my ribs like it’s trying to break out. I clutch my chest, glaring at the screen as if it personally offended me.
I’m outside.
Short. To the point. Typical Donghwa.
I blow out a breath that rattles in my chest, grabbing the strap of my overnight bag with a grip tight enough to turn my knuckles white. "Okay," I mutter to the empty room, checking my reflection one last time. "Showtime."
I’m committing to this. Whatever happens—humiliation, judgment, or just a weekend of awkward silence while his ancestors judge me from oil paintings—I’m doing it.
I march downstairs before I can talk myself out of it.
He’s waiting by the curb. The car is the same sleek, black beast he drove to my parents’ place, gleaming under the afternoon sun like a shark in still water. But Donghwa... Donghwa looks different.
He climbs out as I approach, and I feel my step falter.
He’s not wearing a suit. He’s not wearing the stiff, formal attire I expected for a visit to the family estate. He’s wearing a black henley with the top buttons undone, exposing the column of his throat and just a hint of the ink on his collarbone. Dark jeans that fit him perfectly, hugging his thighs in a way that should be illegal. Sunglasses perched on his nose.
He looks casual. He looks comfortable. He looks like he didn't spend three hours agonizing over his outfit in front of a mirror, terrified of being too loud or too tacky.
I stop a few feet away, feeling a hot, prickly flush of insecurity crawl up my neck. I’m standing here in my muted, tasteful, "please accept me" cashmere, hair sprayed into submission, and he looks like he’s just heading out for a coffee run.
I look like I’m trying too hard. Again. It’s the story of my life—Oh Sihwan, always dancing for applause while the real elites just sit back and watch.
