I am not a chihuahua. I am a wolf. A very large, very expensive, very well-groomed wolf. And Kang Donghwa is going to learn that the hard way.
By Wednesday, I’ve decided that passive observation is for Betas. If Donghwa wants to act like he’s above the natural orderof things, I’m going to drag him down into the mud with the rest of us.
We’re in Professor Lim’s "History of Visual Culture" lecture. That i have more than one class with the little upstart makes it even worse. It’s a required course, which means the room is packed. And Donghwa, sitting three rows ahead of me, smelling like a damn luxury ski resort. It cuts right through my scent, and I have to flare my pheromones just to reclaim my personal space.
"Can anyone tell me the significance of the Dada movement in relation to post-war trauma?" Professor Lim asks, waving a stick of charcoal like a magic wand.
Before anyone can even pretend to read the textbook, a voice speaks up.
"It was a rejection of logic," Donghwa says. His voice is deep, calm, and annoying as hell. He doesn't even look up from his notebook. "Reason and logic led to the war, so the only way to create honest art was to embrace chaos and nonsense."
Professor Lim beams. "Precisely! Mr. Kang, excellent as always."
I lean over to Seungchan, keeping my voice just loud enough to carry. "God, look at him. Does he think this is high school? Someone’s desperate for a gold star."
Seungchan snickers, covering his mouth. "Teacher’s pet."
"Right?" I continue, slouching back and crossing my arms, making sure my biceps bulge against the sleeves of my V-neck. "Probably spent all night memorizing the wiki page. Try-hard."
Donghwa doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t stiffen. He doesn’t do anything. He just keeps scratching away in his sketchbook with a fountain pen that probably costs more than my car.
Being ignored is worse than being punched. It makes my skin itch.
"Okay, okay, settle down," Professor Lim says, shuffling a stack of papers on his desk. "I have the updated syllabuses.Mr. Kang, since you’re so engaged, would you mind distributing these to the back rows?"
Donghwa stands up. He’s wearing all black again—an oversized coat over a sweater that hides everything. It pisses me off. If you have muscles, you show them. That’s the rule. Hiding them just means you think you’re too good for the game.
He takes the stack of papers and starts moving up the aisle. The omegas in the row ahead of me throw themselves onto the floor as he passes, scenting the air like eager puppies. It’s disgusting.
I wait. I time it.
As he steps toward my row, I stretch my legs out. I don’t trip him—that’s amateur hour. Instead, as he goes to hand a stack to the girl sitting across the aisle, I swing my arm out in a wide, dramatic stretch, "accidentally" backhanding the papers right out of his grip.
Smack.
The papers explode like confetti, scattering all over the dirty lecture hall floor.
"Whoops!" I grin, leaning forward, elbows on my knees. "My bad, man. Didn't see you there. You blend into the shadows with all that black."
Seungchan and the other guys burst into laughter, high-fiving me under the desk. A few people in the back snicker. This is it. This is the moment where he gets flustered, scrambles to pick them up, and looks like an idiot.
But Donghwa doesn’t scramble.
He stops moving completely. He looks at the papers scattered around his boots, then slowly lifts his gaze to meet mine.
His eyes are dark, flat, and terrifyingly bored. There’s no embarrassment. No anger. He looks at me the way a human looks at a bug that just flew into a window.
The laughter around us dies down, choking off into awkward coughs.
Donghwa doesn't say a word. He doesn't bend down. He just holds my gaze for three long seconds—long enough for me to feel a trickle of sweat start down my back—and then he stepsoverthe papers.
He walks right past me, drops the remaining stack on the desk behind mine, and returns to his seat.
"Uh," the girl across the aisle whispers, looking at the mess on the floor.
"I'll get it," I snap, my face heating up.
I end up on my knees, gathering the papers myself while Donghwa sits perfectly still in his seat, twirling his expensive pen. I wanted to make him look small. Instead, I’m the one crawling on the floor while he looks like a king who just stepped over a puddle.
