I don't answer immediately. I look back at Sihwan.
The moment Heesung leans in, Sihwan’s expression crumples. His jaw muscles bunch so hard I’m surprised his teeth don't crack. He takes a step forward, then stops himself, his hands flexing into fists at his sides. The scent of scorched earth and rum spikes in the air, bitter and jealous.
Click.
The puzzle pieces slot together so fast it’s almost embarrassing I didn’t see it sooner.
Of course.
I look at Heesung—perfect hair, designer clothes, the kind of face that gets plastered on university brochures to prove the student body is attractive. He’s a walking, talking status symbol. He’s the limited-edition accessory every insecure Alpha thinks they need to prove they’ve made it to the top of the food chain.
And Sihwan? Sihwan is nothing if not obsessed with the aesthetic of power.
He doesn't just want to be the Campus King; he wants the Queen to match. He wants the power couple photo op. He wants to walk into the cafeteria with Heesung on his arm so everyone can see that he, Oh Sihwan, won the prize. It’s so painfully predictable, so on-brand for a guy who treats his social life like a marketing campaign, that I almost want to laugh.
Heesung isn't a person to him. He’s a trophy. And right now, the trophy is draping itself all over the one person Sihwan hates most in the world.
A slow, wicked curl of amusement uncoils in the pit of my stomach.
I have absolutely zero interest in Heesung. Being in a relationship with him sounds like a part-time job I didn't apply for. But looking at Sihwan’s face—the sheer, impotent rage radiating off him—I realize I suddenly have a very strong interest inpretendingto be interested.
If Sihwan wants the toy, the funniest thing I can possibly do is hold it just out of his reach.
"You know," I say, my voice dropping to a low rumble that I know carries well enough for an Alpha’s hearing. I finally turn my full attention to Heesung, shifting my body so I’m boxing him in against the cushions. "I didn't think so before, but now that you mention it... you might be right."
Heesung’s eyes widen, surprised that the stone wall is finally talking back. He preens, his scent blooming sweeter.
"You have a really... unique perspective," I murmur, the lie sliding off my tongue. I shift my legs, opening my stance just enough to create an invitation. "Tell me more about that."
I don't even know what "that" is. I think he was talking about the aesthetic merits of a handbag, or maybe the geopolitical climate of the French Riviera. It doesn't matter. The bait is in the water.
Heesung’s eyes light up like I just handed him a black card. He takes the opening immediately, shifting his weight until he’s practically pouring himself into the space between my knees. "I knew you’d get it, Donghwa. Most Alphas here are so... basic. They just want to talk about gym stats."
He casts a dismissive glance over his shoulder—right at Sihwan—before turning back to me with a conspiratorial smirk. The irony is delicious.
"You're different," he coos, and then he moves.
Bold. I’ll give him that. He doesn't ask; he just swings a leg over my lap and settles down, straddling my thighs. The sudden weight is heavy, warm, and smells like a peach orchard caught fire. His knees bracket my hips, and he leans back slightly, resting his hands on my shoulders to steady himself.
The room seems to freeze. I can feel the collective intake of breath from the people nearby. This is a statement. In the hierarchy of university politics, sitting in a Dominant Alpha’s lap at a party is basically a press release.
I rest my hands loosely on his waist. Not gripping, just resting. Just enough to sell the image.
"Comfortable?" I ask, deadpan.
"Very," Heesung whispers, his eyelids fluttering shut as he leans down.
He doesn't wait for a signal. He just goes for it. His mouth presses against mine, soft and wet and tasting aggressively of strawberry lip gloss. It’s not bad, objectively speaking. He knows what he’s doing. But to me, it feels like kissing a mannequin. There’s no spark, no friction, just biology and performance art.
I don't close my eyes.
Instead, I look past the curve of Heesung’s cheek, straight across the room.
Sihwan is watching. Of course he is.
And it is glorious.
The look on his face transcends anger. It’s a total system failure. His mouth is slightly open, his eyes bugging out like a cartoon character who just watched an anvil drop on his head. The scent of burnt rum and musk explodes in the room, so acrid and violent it actually drowns out Heesung’s peaches for a second. He looks like he’s reaching a vibration frequency previously unknown to man, his whole body rigid with a mixture of shock and pure, unadulterated jealousy.
