My jaw tightens. I turn to look at him fully, letting a little bit of my alpha weight drop into the air between us. It’s a warning. "Heesung. Stop."
He blinks, feigning innocence, but there’s a glint of something malicious in his eyes. He’s bored, he’s rejected, and he’s smart enough to know that something doesn't add up.
"I'm just curious," he says lightly, leaning back but keeping his eyes locked on mine.
"We have nothing to talk about," I say, my voice flat.
"Is that so?" Heesung murmurs.
I don't like this. I don't like the way he’s looking at me, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. Heesung is vapid, sure, but he’s observant when it comes to social dynamics. He knows how pheromones work. He knows how alphas posture.
"Focus on the lecture, Heesung," I say, turning back to the front, effectively dismissing him.
He chuckles softly, opening his notebook. "Aye aye, captain."
I stare at the projector screen, but I’m not reading a word. My senses are dialed up to eleven. Behind me, I can feel Sihwan’s distress spiking—he saw Heesung sit next to me, he saw the leaning in, the whispering. He’s probably tearing his eraser to shreds right now.
Let him stew. It'll be good for him.
But beside me, Heesung is humming a little tune under his breath, looking far too pleased with himself. He’s up to something.
Finals are a joke.
I walk out of the lecture hall, thumbing through my notes on color theory, barely registering the chaos of the hallway. My brain is half-asleep, already dissecting the flaws in the exam questions rather than worrying about the grade. I turn the corner toward the restrooms, head down, reading a paragraph about saturation levels.
I don't see the wall of muscle until I slam right into it.
It’s a solid impact. Not the soft yield of a Beta or the slender frame of an Omega. This is dense, heavy mass. We both stumble back, the air knocked out of us.
"Shit, sorry didn't see—"
My hands shoot out on instinct, gripping the guy's forearms to keep him upright. My fingers dig into thick biceps through the fabric of a jacket. Hard. Familiar.
The scent hits me a split second later. Spiced rum, musk, and a sharp, underlying note of pure panic.
I look up.
Sihwan stands there, frozen. His eyes are wide, pupils blown, staring at me like I’m a ghost or a executioner. My hands are still gripping him, holding him steady, the heat of his skin bleeding through his sleeves. For a microsecond, my thumb brushes the inside of his elbow, a possessive reflex I can’t kill fast enough.
The apology dies in my throat.
My expression hardens. The concern vanishes, replaced by a cold, bored irritation. I don't let go immediately. I hold himthere for a beat too long, just to let him feel the weight of it. To let him feel exactly who he’s running from.
Sihwan swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. He looks at my hands on his arms, then up at my face, terror flashing behind his eyes. He looks like he’s about to vomit or beg, and he doesn't seem to know which one he wants to do more.
He chooses neither.
He jerks his arms out of my grip, stumbling back a step. He mumbles something incoherent, keeps his head down, and practically sprints down the hallway, putting as much distance between us as physically possible.
I stand there, hands empty, watching his retreating back. Coward.
I scoff, adjusting my coat, ready to wash the encounter off my hands in the bathroom sink. But the hair on the back of my neck stands up. That prickle of awareness again. Being watched.
I turn my head slowly.
Across the hall, leaning against a side table, is Heesung.
He isn't looking at his phone. He isn't talking to the group of girls next to him. He’s looking right at me.
