He sees me through the narrowing gap. Our eyes meet. I grin, waving my fingers at him.
"Full up, sorry!" I chirp, even though I’m the only one in the car.
The doors slide shut right in his face. I wait for a shout, a curse, a banging on the metal. Nothing. Just silence. When I get to the lobby, I check the stairwell. He’s walking down the stairs, looking at his phone, completely unbothered.
Wednesday.
I spot him in the library. He’s in one of the private study cubicles, headphones on, editing photos on his laptop.
I grab Seungchan and two other guys from the swim team. "Team meeting," I announce, dragging them to the table directly behind Donghwa’s cubicle.
We are loud. We are obnoxious. I recount a story about a party that never happened, laughing like a hyena, slapping the table.
"And then she said, 'Is that a knot or are you just happy to see me?'" I howl.
I watch the back of Donghwa’s head. I see his shoulders tense.Got him.He takes off his headphones. He turns in his chair.
Here it comes. The explosion.
"Could you keep it down?" he asks. "Some of us are actually trying to get a degree, not just buy one."
My jaw drops. "Excuse me?"
He puts his headphones back on and turns around.
Thursday.
The vending machine near the lecture hall. He’s standing in front of it, digging for his card. I see what he’s looking at—the last can of the premium cold brew coffee.
I stride up, shoulder him aside—"Excuse me, emergency"—and tap my card against the reader before he can react. I punch in the code. The machine whirs, and the cold brew drops.
I crack it open right there, taking a loud, exaggerated slurp. "Ah. Nectar of the gods."
Donghwa looks at the empty slot. He looks at me. He looks at the can in my hand.
He shakes his head, a tiny, pitying smile touching the corner of his mouth.
He buys a bottle of water and walks off.
Friday.
I’m losing my mind. Nothing works. I’ve tripped him, blocked him, stolen his caffeine, and polluted his air space with enough pheromones to send a lesser Alpha into a coma. And all I get is that same look. That look that saysyou are a child, and I am waiting for your parents to pick you up.
It’s not just the disrespect that’s killing me. It’s the math. The math isn’t mathing.
I am six-foot-one of prime, gym-sculpted Alpha. I smell like expensive spiced rum and victory. I have a smile that my mother’s PR team assured me tests well with all demographics. By all laws of the universe, Yoon Heesung should be draped over my arm like a designer jacket by now.
But he’s not. He’s slippery. Like a bar of soap in a shower, every time I think I’ve got a grip on him, he just… slides away.
That afternoon as I'm passing the quad I see Kang Donghwa sitting on a bench in the courtyard, visible through the glass doors. He’s doing absolutely nothing. He’s not on his phone. He’s not studying. He’s just sitting there, legs stretched out, staring at a tree like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.
And he is surrounded.
It’s like a nature documentary. A flock of omegas—mostly freshmen, but a few sophomores who should know better—are hovering around him in a semi-circle. They’re chattering, giggling, preening. The air around that bench must be thick withsweet pheromones, but Donghwa looks like he’s meditating on a mountaintop.
I step closer to the glass, squinting.
"Oppa, did you see the party flyer?" one of the girls asks, leaning in way too close. "Are you going?"
