I stand up, packing my tablet into my bag. The movement catches his eye immediately. He stiffens, his conversation with Seungchan dying mid-sentence.
I walk toward the exit. I have to pass right by him.
As I get closer, I see the panic flare in his eyes. He wants me to stop. He wants me to drag him into a supply closet and kiss the anxiety out of him, or maybe just acknowledge him so he knows I’m not actually leaving him. He’s waiting for the chase. He thinks this is just another round of our game.
I don't break stride.
"Donghwa," Seungchan greets me as I pass, oblivious to the tension thick enough to choke a horse. "Heading out?"
"Yeah," I say, my voice flat. "Air in here is stale."
I don't even look at Sihwan. I stare straight ahead, breezing past him with indifference. I feel him flinch as I pass, a physical reaction to the cold shoulder, but I don't stop.
I’m done chasing. I’m done playing the villain in his little high school drama. I showed him what we could be. I gave him a seat at my family's table. I gave him control in my bed. If that’s not enough to make him grow a spine, then I’m not going to drag it out of him.
He wants to be the Campus King? Fine. He can sit on his throne alone.
I push through the double doors and step out into the hallway, the heavy silence of the studio cutting off behind me. I check my phone. No texts.
Good,I think, though the bitter taste in my mouth says otherwise.Keep hiding, Sihwan. See how warm that keeps you at night.
Ignoring Oh Sihwan requires a level of discipline I usually reserve for three-hour charcoal studies, but I’m committed to the bit.
It’s been a week since he decided his reputation as a "top alpha" was more important than the fact that he spent the weekend begging me to knot him in my childhood bed. A week of him acting like a skittish deer every time someone mentions my name, a week of me looking right through him like he’s made of glass.
I can feel him, though. That’s the annoying part about the bond. Even with my back turned, I know exactly where he is in the lecture hall. I can feel the weight of his stare drilling into my shoulder blades, anxious and heavy. He’s sitting three rows back, humming with anxiety, waiting for me to turn around and give him a sign. A smirk, a nod, anything to tell him we’re okay.
I don’t turn. I keep my eyes on the professor’s slideshow, my expression bored and unreadable. If he wants reassurance, he can come get it. If he wants to be claimed, he can claim me back. Until then, he can sit in his self-imposed exile and rot.
"Is this seat taken?"
The voice is sugary sweet, laced with a scent that hits my nose like rotting fruit. Peaches and cream.
I don’t suppress the sigh that leaves my chest as I look up. Yoon Heesung is standing over my desk, hip cocked, smiling down at me with a brightness that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
"Depends," I say, not moving my bag from the empty chair next to me. "Are you going to talk through the lecture?"
Heesung laughs, a forced, tinkling sound, and sits down anyway, sliding my bag onto the floor with presumptive familiarity. "You’re always so grumpy, Donghwa. It’s part of your charm, I guess."
I go back to my notes. For weeks, Heesung has been giving me the cold shoulder—pouting because I didn't fall for his damsel act and Sihwan stopped chasing him. He’s been sulking in the corners of the cafeteria, shooting daggers at anyone who breathes in his direction.
But suddenly, the ice age is over. For the last two days, he’s been hovering. Like a fly you can’t quite swat away.
"So," Heesung whispers, leaning in close enough that his hair brushes my arm. I instinctively lean away. "The whole department is buzzing. They say you finally got snagged."
I keep writing. "People talk too much."
"They say you brought someone home to meet your parents," he presses, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. "That’s serious, Donghwa. I didn't think you were the settling down type."
"I'm full of surprises."
"Is she pretty?" Heesung asks. His eyes are sharp, scanning my face, looking for a micro-expression. "She must be stunning to take the Ice Prince off the market. Is she a student here? Someone from the dance department, maybe?"
The specific probing makes the hair on my arms stand up. This isn't just idle gossip. Heesung is digging. He’s fishing for a name, a description, a slip-up.
"It’s private," I say, my tone sharpening. "Which means it’s none of your business."
Heesung doesn't recoil. Instead, he hums, tapping a manicured fingernail against his chin. "You know, it’s strange. I haven't seen you with any girls. And you haven't been at theusual clubs." He tilts his head. "It makes a person wonder who exactly is keeping you so busy."
