Seungchan squints. "Oh. Is that the freshman? And Heesung? Wow, they look cozy."
"They do not look cozy!" I snap, my voice rising an octave. "Heesung looks... confused! He’s probably trying to check Donghwa for a pulse! Look at him, he’s practically comatose!"
But I know I’m lying. Heesung doesn't look confused. He looks enchanted. He looks like he’s trying to climb into Donghwa’s lap.
And Donghwa is letting him. He’s sitting there, soaking up the attention that belongs tome, looking smugly content with his stolen prize.
The scent of winter air and ink drifts across the room, cutting through the stale beer and sweat. It’s faint, but to my nose, it’s like a slap in the face. It’s a challenge.
Oh, it is on. It is so on.
Chapter Seven
Donghwa
The bass in this apartment is vibrating my ribcage, and not in a good way.
I’m nursing a lukewarm Coke, mostly because I refuse to drink the jungle juice Jihyun mixed in a plastic trash can, and watching the chaos of the Visual Design department’s "bonding experience." It smells like gasoline.
I shouldn't be here. I could be developing the film from my ride last weekend. I could be sleeping. Hell, I could be staring at a blank wall, and it would be more stimulating than this.
"Just sit there and look brooding," Jihyun had begged me earlier, practically on his knees. "You're the bait, Donghwa. You attract them, you reject them, and I swoop in to comfort them. It’s the circle of life."
I owed him for covering for me in Art History, so here I am. The designated Omega Bait.
It’s exhausting. Truly. I don’t get the appeal of this—the mindless grinding, the pheromones so thick they coat your tongue. Everyone assumes that because I’m a Dominant Alpha, I should be trying to knot anything with a pulse. But biology is boring. Pheromones are just chemical shouting matches. I don’t care if you smell like vanilla and sunshine; if you can’t hold a conversation about something other than my family’s money or your heat cycle, I’m not interested.
I like a challenge. I like friction. I like things that don’t make sense.
I’m ninety percent sure the Basquiat print on the wall is from a gas station.
The lines are wrong. The color saturation is off. It’s offensive to my eyes, and I’m debating ripping it off the plaster to check for a barcode when the cushion beside me sinks under the weight of another body.
Yoon Heesung.
I don’t need an introduction. Our parents play golf at the same country club, and I’ve heard the horror stories. My cousin dated him for three months and is still paying off the credit card debt. Heesung is the "Perfect Omega" on paper—pale, slender, graceful—but in reality, he’s a high-maintenance black hole that consumes attention and spits out empty wallets.
He slides into my personal space like he’s parking a luxury sedan, thigh pressing deliberately against mine.
Then the smell hits.
Peaches and cream. It’s heavy, cloying, and directed entirely at me. He’s not just leaking pheromones; he’s weaponizing them. It’s the olfactory equivalent of a desperate billboard. I hold my breath for a second, trying not to gag on the sudden influx of artificial sweetness.
"You look lonely over here, Donghwa," he purrs, his voice pitched to that breathy, innocent tone that usually makes Alphas lose their minds.
I take a sip of my warm Coke to avoid answering immediately. I’m not lonely. I’m bored. There’s a difference.
"So, I heard your father is in charge of the Choi merger?" Heesung asks, his voice dropping an octave. He’s doing that thing where he tilts his head to expose the pale line of his throat. It’s textbook Omega seduction, page four. "My dad says it’s going to be the biggest shift in the market this year."
I nod. Just once. Minimal effort. "It's a merger. They happen."
Heesung giggles. It sounds like wind chimes in a horror movie. "You’re so serious, Donghwa. It’s kind of intense."
His hand creeps up my arm, fingers tracing the seam of my jacket. He’s trying to find skin, trying to mix his scent with mine. The peach smell is getting denser, turning into a heavy syrup that coats the back of my throat. It’s nauseatingly sweet. I take shallow breaths through my mouth, trying to filter the air, but it’s like drowning in a fruit cup. I keep my face blank, staring at a snag in the carpet while he prattles on about summer homes and gala invites.
"I'm just tired," I lie. I’m not tired. I’m bored.
"Maybe we could go somewhere quieter?" he suggests, batting his lashes. "I know a place—"
