Excuse me? The audacity.
I tighten my grip on the back of Heesung’s chair, pumping out a warning wave of musk and spice.Back off.
Donghwa ignores me completely. He turns his body toward the center, effectively boxing Heesung in between us. Heesung, the fickle little traitor, immediately swivels in his seat, turning his back to me to face the freshman.
"Donghwa!" Heesung chirps, his voice pitching up. "I didn't think you were coming today."
Donghwa leans his chin on his hand, looking at Heesung with that same detached amusement. "And miss Art History? I wouldn't dare."
His dark eyes flick to Heesung’s neck, then back up to his face. "How was the rest of your weekend? recover alright?"
My jaw clenches so hard my teeth creak. The nerve of this guy. He’s rubbing it in. He’s sitting right there, smelling like winter and arrogance, asking about the weekend I spent agonizing over.
Heesung flushes a pretty shade of pink. "Oh, you know. It was... quiet. After I left the party."
"Quiet is good," Donghwa says, and I swear he glances at me for a split second, his eyes dancing with mockery. "Sometimes excitement is overrated."
I’m sitting right here. I am literally right here, occupying more cubic feet of space than both of them combined, and I might as well be a ghost. Heesung has completely forgotten his eight-thousand-won coffee. He’s staring at Donghwa like the guy just invented fire.
I am going to pop a vein. A major artery is going to burst right in my forehead, and I’m going to die here in Art History 101, leaving behind a beautiful corpse and a legacy of unfulfilled potential.
For the last forty minutes, I haven't heard a single word Professor Ahn has said about the Renaissance or whatever dusty old paintings we’re supposed to care about. My entire existence has been reduced to a turf war over the three feet of desk space occupied by Yoon Heesung.
Heesung, for his part, is loving it. He’s practically humming, soaking up the crossfire of pheromones like a sponge in a rainstorm.
"You're cold," I whisper-shout, noticing Heesung rub his bare arms. The AC in here is set to 'morgue,' probably to keep the ancient professor preserved.
I immediately start to shrug off my jacket. It’s a classic move. The Alpha gives the Omega his jacket, the Omega smells like the Alpha for the rest of the day, everyone knows who he belongs to. It’s primal. It’s perfect.
"Here," I say, wrestling one arm out of the sleeve. "Take this. It’s fleece-lined."
But before I can even get the thing off my shoulders, a black blur moves in my peripheral vision. Donghwa, without even looking away from the projector screen, simply unbuttons his oversized flannel overshirt and drapes it over Heesung’s shoulders.
"It’s lighter," Donghwa murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through the desk. "You won't overheat."
Heesung blinks, surprised, then snuggles into the black fabric. "Oh. Thanks, Donghwa. It smells... nice. Like wintergreen."
I freeze, one arm stuck in my jacket sleeve like a toddler who can't dress himself. I glare at Donghwa. He’s leaning back in his chair, twirling a pen, looking bored out of his mind. But then his eyes slide sideways, meeting mine.
He smirks. A tiny, barely-there lift of the corner of his mouth.
You little shit.
I shove my arm back into my jacket, huffing loud enough that the girl in the row ahead of us turns around to shush me. I ignore her. This is war.
I shift in my seat, spreading my legs wider so my knee presses firmly against Heesung’s thigh. A reminder.I’m here. I’m bigger. I take up more space.
"So, Heesung," I whisper, leaning in close enough that my breath stirs the hair by his ear. "I was thinking about that shoot you did forVoguelast month. The lighting was trash, but you made it work. You really have an eye for angles."
Heesung preens, turning toward me, his knee pressing back against mine. "You saw that? I hated the stylist, she kept trying to put me in pastels."
"Pastels wash you out," I agree quickly, nodding like I’m an expert on color theory and not just repeating what my mother tells me every time I wear yellow. "You need bold colors. Like red. Or navy." I flex my bicep, subtly drawing attention to my navy shirt.
Heesung giggles, his hand drifting to my forearm. "You're so right, Sunbae."
I shoot a triumphant look over Heesung’s head at Donghwa.Beat that, freshman.
Donghwa doesn't even blink. He just reaches out with his long, pale fingers and tucks a stray lock of hair behind Heesung’s ear. It’s such an intimate, casual gesture that Heesung stops talking mid-sentence, his breath hitching.
