Donghwa:Stop running. We need to talk.
I ignore it.
Donghwa:What was that back there?
I ignore that too.
Donghwa:I’m coming over tonight.
Panic flares again. No. Absolutely not. If he comes over, someone might see him. If he comes over, I’ll let him in. If I let him in, he’ll touch me, and I’ll forget why I’m supposed to be terrified, and then we’ll do something stupid like hold hands in public and my life will be over.
I type back, my fingers fumbling over the keys.
Me:Busy. Don't come.
Donghwa:Sihwan.
Me:I mean it. I have family stuff. My dad is coming by.
It’s a lie. A cowardly, pathetic lie. But it works. The dots stop appearing on the screen.
I spend the rest of the afternoon hiding in the university gym, lifting weights until my arms shake, trying to sweat out the anxiety. But every time I check my phone, the silence from Donghwa feels heavier than the iron plates.
I tell myself I’m doing the right thing. I’m protecting my reputation. I’m protectingus, in a way. Because if the world finds out, they’ll tear me apart, and there won’t be anything left of me for Donghwa to want anyway.
But when I leave the gym, spotting a group of Omegas whispering and giggling about Donghwa's "mystery princess," I don't feel like a King. I feel like a coward. And worse, I feel lonely.
I go home, double-lock the door, and eat cold leftovers alone, jumping every time I hear footsteps in the hallway, terrified—and hoping—it’s him.
I’ve become an expert at tactical retreats.
For four days, I’ve been living my life like I’m in a stealth video game. I time my bathroom breaks to avoid the between-class rush. I take the long way to the Visual Design building, cutting through the engineering quad where the air smells like ozone and despair instead of winter air and ink. I sit in the back row, hoodie up, and the second the professor dismisses us, I’m a ghost.
It’s pathetic. I know it’s pathetic. But every time I think about stopping, about turning around and facing him, I hearSeungchan’s voice in my head:Fragile porcelain doll.I hear the whispers in the cafeteria.Sihwan isn't a Top. He’s a bitch.
So I run.
Friday afternoon, I think I’m in the clear. The hallway is mostly empty, the late afternoon sun cutting long, dusty rectangles across the linoleum. I’ve got my bag hitched high on my shoulder, my keys already in my hand, ready to sprint to my car and spend the weekend miserable and alone in my apartment.
I turn the corner toward the exit, and my heart slams into my ribs.
He’s there. Leaning against the wall next to the trophy case, arms crossed over his chest. He’s not looking at his phone. He’s not looking at the trophies. He’s looking right at me.
There’s no smirk today. No playful glint in his eyes. His face is a mask of cold, marble indifference, and it scares me more than his anger ever has.
I freeze, my flight instinct screaming at me to turn around, but my feet are rooted. The bond—that traitorous, invisible tether—gives a sharp tug in my chest, singing with relief at finally being close to him.There he is. Safe. Ours.
I shove the feeling down and force a tight, fake smile. "Hey. I’m actually running late for—"
"Don't," Donghwa says.
It’s one word, spoken quietly, but it cuts through the air like a whip crack. He pushes off the wall and steps into my path. He doesn't crowd me, doesn't use his height to intimidate me like he usually does. He just stands there, an immovable object.
"Donghwa, seriously, I have to meet my dad," I lie, the excuse tasting like ash in my mouth. "Family business."
"Your dad is currently in Jeju for a conference," Donghwa says flatly. "I saw it on the news this morning."
My mouth snaps shut. Of course he did.
