I shove the papers at the girl and slump back into my seat, fuming.
Okay,I think, glaring at the back of his head.You want to play the cool guy? Fine. Let’s see how cool you are when I actually start trying.
The canteen is just as much a jungle at lunchtime. By midsemester most of the rich kids abandon it to eat off campus, but at the start of the semester everyone is here to mingle. I strut past the salad bar, Seungchan flanking me like a loyal bodyguard. The air smells like fried pork cutlet and a mountainof omega and alpha pheromones, but underneath it all, I catch that irritatingly crisp scent of winter air and expensive ink and my mood curdles.
He’s sitting at a corner table, alone, because apparently he’s too good for company. He’s got a book open—paper, not a tablet, because he’s pretentious like that—and a tray with a bowl of spicy beef soup.
"Target acquired," I mutter to Seungchan.
"Uh, are we doing this?" Seungchan asks, eyeing the faculty table nervously. "He looks like he’s actually eating."
"He’s disrespecting the hierarchy by existing," I correct him. "Watch and learn."
I adjust my jacket, making sure the leather sleeves squeak just enough to announce my presence. I chart a course that takes us directly past his table. There’s plenty of room. The aisle is wide enough for a truck. But I’m not a truck. I’m a force of nature.
As I get close, I don’t even look at him. I keep my eyes fixed on the drink dispenser across the room, laughing loudly at a joke Seungchan hasn't even told yet.
"That is hilarious, bro!" I boom.
Then, I drop my shoulder. Just a shift in weight, a calculated stumble. My hip checks the edge of his table with the force of a linebacker hitting a tackling dummy.
CLANG.
The sound is beautiful. The metal tray jumps. The bowl of red, oily soup tips in slow motion, cascading over the edge of the table and splashing onto the pristine black denim of Donghwa’s jeans. The chopsticks clatter to the floor.
Silence ripples outward from the impact zone.
I stop, pivoting on my heel with practiced shock. "Whoa! Shit, man. My bad."
I loom over him, letting my pheromones roll off me in thick, choking waves. I want him to choke on it. I want him to jump up,grab my collar, and scream. I want him to acknowledge that I am a threat.
Donghwa doesn’t jump. He doesn’t scream.
He slowly closes his book. He looks at the red stain soaking into his thigh. Then, he looks up at me.
His face is a mask of absolute, crushing boredom.
"You have a wide turning radius," he says. His voice is flat. "Like a bus."
Seungchan snorts behind me, then quickly turns it into a cough when I glare at him.
"Maybe don't sit in the middle of the walkway next time," I sneer, leaning down so we’re face to face. "Accidents happen when you take up too much space."
Donghwa stares at me. He doesn't blink. He doesn't flare his scent to challenge me. He just reaches for a napkin, dabs at the soup on his leg with agonizing slowness, and then stands up. He’s taller than me. I hate that he’s taller than me.
"Enjoy your lunch," he says, dropping the dirty napkin onto the tray.
Then he walks away. He just… leaves. He doesn't demand an apology. He doesn't threaten me. He treats me like a minor inconvenience, like rain on a picnic or a slow Wi-Fi connection.
My hands curl into fists at my sides. "I’m not done talking to you!" I call after him.
He doesn't turn around.
For the next week, it becomes my personal mission to crack that stone face. If he wants to act like a statue, I’m going to be the pigeon that shits on him.
Tuesday.
I catch him heading for the elevator in the Art & Design building. He’s got his hands full with a massive portfolio case and a coffee. As he approaches, I speed up, jamming my finger onto the 'Close Door' button.
