He looks me up and down, searching for a defect. "Wait... are you not into Omegas? I heard a rumor that you might be—"
"No," I interrupt, grinning. I lean back against the doorframe, shoving my hands into my pockets. "I like Omegas just fine. And Betas. And Alphas. I’m an equal opportunity employer."
"Then what is it?" He crosses his arms, looking offended. "Am I not your type?"
"It's not that," I lie smoothly. I tap my temple. "I think that punch had something in it. My head is spinning. If we do this now, I’m probably going to pass out or throw up, and neither of those is a good look for you."
It’s a weak excuse. We both know I’ve been drinking warm Coke all night. But it gives him an out. It saves his ego.
Heesung stares at me, scrutinizing my face. I keep my expression open, apologetic, charming.
"You're serious," he huffs, dropping his arms. He looks annoyed, but not devastated. He’s Heesung; he’s used to getting what he wants eventually. "You're really going to leave me hanging?"
"I'm doing you a favor," I say, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind his ear. A consolation prize. "You deserve my full attention, right? Not me passing out on top of you."
He preens at that. "Well. That’s true."
"Maybe another time," I say, pushing off the door. "Raincheck?"
He sighs, dramatic and long-suffering, but the anger is gone. "Fine. Raincheck. But you owe me, Donghwa."
"Put it on my tab," I say.
I slip out the door before he can change his mind, leaving him in the room with the coats.
The second the door clicks shut, I exhale so hard my lungs burn.
Jesus Christ.
I scrub a hand over my face, trying to wipe away the phantom sensation of sticky, sugary lip gloss. The hallway smells like dust and old drywall, and it is the most beautiful thing I have ever smelled in my life.
Being in that room with Heesung was like being trapped inside a scented candle factory during a heatwave. The peach pheromones were so thick I could practically taste the fuzz on my tongue. It’s not a bad scent, objectively—if you’re into drowning in fruit syrup—but the sheer density of it was enough to give me a migraine. It’s desperate. It’s loud. It screams,Look at me, want me, breed me,in a pitch that shatters glass.
I lean back against the wall for a second, tilting my head up to stare at the water-stained ceiling.
I have absolutely zero desire to go back in there. The thought of actually sleeping with Heesung sounds about as appealing as filing my taxes or sitting through a three-hour lecture on the history of font kerning. He’s beautiful, sure, in that manufactured, doll-like way that looks great on Instafam and feels like plastic in real life. But there’s nothing there. No friction. No bite. Just endless, needy compliance.
But then I think about Sihwan’s face.
I think about the way his eyes bugged out, the way his skin turned that violent, blotchy shade of crimson, the way his pheromones spiked into the air like he’d just been set on fire.
A slow, dark smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth.
God, that was satisfying.
It’s petty. I know it’s petty. I’m a grown man—technically—and I should be above using a human being as a prop in a pissing contest. But Oh Sihwan makes it so easy. He’s so fragile, so terrified of losing his spot on the pedestal, that all I have to do is look in the direction of something he wants, and he falls apart.
If pretending to be interested in Heesung is the price of admission for the Oh Sihwan Meltdown Show, then pass me the peaches. I’ll bathe in the stuff if I have to.
I push off the wall, shoving my hands into my pockets. I need fresh air. Real air. Not the recycled sweat and cheap beer fumes of the living room.
Chapter Eight
Sihwan
Ididn't sleep. Not a wink.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw it. That grainy, high-definition nightmare of Kang Donghwa’s hand on Heesung’s waist. The way Heesung, the department’s crown jewel, had looked at that gloomy freshman like he was the last bottle of water in a desert.
