Donghwa waits. He waits for a second, two seconds. He searches my face for something—a denial, a confirmation, anything.
When I don't speak, the light in his eyes goes out. He nods once, a small, sharp motion.
"That's what I thought," he murmurs.
He turns around.
"Donghwa, wait," I say, my voice cracking.
He doesn't stop. He doesn't pause. He just walks away, his long coat swirling around his legs, his stride long and purposeful.
I stand there in the middle of the hallway, my hand half-raised. I wait for him to look back. He always looks back. He always tosses a smirk over his shoulder, or a wink, or a middle finger. It’s our game. It’s how I know he’s not really gone.
I watch him reach the double doors at the end of the corridor. I watch him push through them.
He doesn't look back.
The doors swing shut, cutting off the sight of him, and suddenly the hallway feels massive. Empty.
I’m alone. And for the first time since that night at the party, the silence isn't peaceful. It’s terrifying.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Donghwa
Three days.
It’s been three days of absolute radio silence, and frankly, I’m bored.
I’m sitting in the back of the Visual Design studio, sketching on my tablet, while the rest of the department buzzes around like a hive of agitated bees. Usually, I tune them out. The noise is just static. But today, the static has a specific, grating frequency, and its name is Oh Sihwan.
He’s currently standing by the laser cutters, laughing too loudly at something Seungchan said. It’s a performance. A bad one. His shoulders are too tight, his smile doesn't reach his eyes, and he keeps darting glances toward my corner of the room every thirty seconds like he’s expecting me to explode.
I don't look up. I keep my stylus moving, shading in the heavy contrast of a charcoal study.
I’m not angry, exactly. Anger implies a loss of control, and I have plenty of control. I’m disappointed. Which is infinitely worse for him, though he’s too dense to realize it yet.
We had a breakthrough. I felt it. That weekend at my parents' house wasn't just about sex—though the sex was phenomenal. It was about the quiet moments in between. The way he let his guard down in my childhood bedroom, the way he looked at that sketch, the way he let my mother fuss over him without his usual defensive posturing. For forty-eight hours, he wasn't the showy alpha or a desperate heir trying to prove he wasn't a failure. He was just Sihwan. My equal.
I thought he finally got it. I thought he realized that nobody gave a shit about his hierarchy nonsense except him.
Then we stepped back onto campus, someone whispered a rumor about me being bonded, and he folded like a cheap lawn chair.
"Man, whoever caught Donghwa is lucky, right?" I hear Seungchan say, his voice carrying over the hum of the machines. "Must be some top-tier Omega from Yonsei or something."
I pause my hand. I wait.
"Yeah," Sihwan’s voice floats over, tight and strained. "Probably some model. Someone... fitting."
Fitting.
I press the stylus down hard enough that the digital ink bleeds a black blotch across the screen.
Coward.
He’s ashamed. Not of the bond itself—I know he craves it, I can smell the distress rolling off him from here—but of the optics. He’s terrified that if people know he bent the knee to another Alpha, his entire fragile identity will shatter. He’d rather pretend I’m a stranger than admit he’s mine.
I exhale slowly, locking my scent down tight. Usually, I let a little winter chill bleed into the air to keep him grounded, especially when he’s anxious. Not today. If he wants to act like we’re strangers, he can handle his anxiety like a stranger.
