"Your hair is getting in your eyes," Donghwa says flatly. He pulls his hand back, but not before his knuckles brush Heesung’s cheekbone.
Heesung turns bright red. He looks like he’s about to melt into a puddle of peach-scented goo right there on the floor.
I grip the edge of the desk so hard the laminate creaks. This isn't fair. I’m putting in the work here. I’m using words, I’m using body language, I’m usingstrategy. Donghwa is just... existing. He’s doing the bare minimum and getting maximum results. It’s inefficient. It’s insulting.
The rest of the class is a blur of me trying to one-up him. I offer Heesung my specialized gel pen; Donghwa silently slides over his iPad with the notes already organized. I offer to buy Heesung a snack from the vending machine; Donghwa produces a bottle of premium mineral water from his bag like a magician.
By the time Professor Ahn dismisses us, I’m exhausted. My pheromones are churning, thick and agitated, smelling likeburnt sugar and aggression. Donghwa still smells like cool, unbothered ice.
But the game isn't over. I have the ace up my sleeve. The lunch invite.
Everyone knows lunch is the gateway drug to dating. You get lunch, you get dinner. You get dinner, you get the weekend.
As the students start shuffling out, I stand up abruptly, towering over the two of them. I flash my brightest, most blinding smile—the one that won me "Best Smile" in my high school yearbook.
"Heesung," I start, pitching my voice to be heard over the scraping of chairs. "There’s this new sushi place that just opened downtown. I know the owner, I can get us a private booth. Let’s go. My treat."
I hold out my hand, ready to help him up, ready to whisk him away to a land of raw fish and expensive sake.
Heesung looks up at me, eyes wide. He opens his mouth, looking like he’s about to say yes.
"Actually," a deep voice cuts in, smooth as silk.
Donghwa stands up. He doesn't rush. He unfolds his long limbs with an annoying amount of grace, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. He looks at Heesung, completely ignoring my outstretched hand.
"I'm heading to the Performing Arts building to drop off some paperwork," Donghwa says. He looks at his watch, then back at Heesung. "Isn't your next class Modern Dance? That’s in the same building."
Heesung blinks, distracted. "Oh! Yes, it is."
"I'll walk you," Donghwa says. It’s not a question. It’s a statement. "The campus is crowded today. Better to have an escort."
Heesung beams, scrambling out of his chair. "Really? That would be great! I hate walking through the quad alone when it's this busy."
I stand there, hand still extended into empty air, looking like a statue of a moron.
"Wait," I say, my smile faltering. "What about sushi? I have a car. We can drive."
Donghwa finally looks at me. His eyes are dark, unreadable pools of calm. "Maybe next time, Sunbae. You wouldn't want him to be late for class, would you?"
He doesn't wait for an answer. He just turns and starts walking toward the exit. And Heesung—my prize, my future accessory, the love of my semester—trots after him like a puppy, clutching Donghwa’s flannel shirt around his shoulders.
"Bye, Sihwan!" Heesung calls over his shoulder, giving me a little wave. "Thanks for the coffee!"
I watch them go. I watch Donghwa hold the door open for him. And just before the door swings shut, I see Donghwa glance back at me.
He winks.
I crush the empty coffee cup in my hand, caramel drizzle exploding over my knuckles.
I am being haunted.
That is the only logical explanation. I am being haunted by a six-foot-three demon in oversized Balenciaka who smells like a pine forest in the dead of winter.
For three days, I have been trying to execute a simple, foolproof plan: Isolate the target (Heesung), deploy charm (Me), and secure the asset (Date). It’s a strategy that has worked since middle school. I have a 98% success rate.
But Kang Donghwa is the 2%.
Tuesday
