I navigate the crowded room, dodging trays and backpacks. I approach Heesung’s table from the blind side. I’m going to ask him to the movies. Tonight. No motorcycles, no darkrooms, just me, him, and a bucket of popcorn.
"Heesung," I say, sliding up behind him. I put a hand on his shoulder, leaning down. "Hey."
Heesung jumps, turning around. "Oh! Sihwan."
He looks... guilty? He’s hiding something under the table.
"What’s up?" I ask, trying to keep my tone casual. "You busy tonight? I was thinking we could catch that new action movie."
Heesung shifts in his seat. "Um, tonight? I... I sort of have plans."
"Plans?" I narrow my eyes. "With who?"
As if summoned by the sheer force of my irritation, a shadow falls over the table.
Donghwa is standing there. He’s holding two cans of peach soda. He sets one down in front of Heesung.
"Here," Donghwa says. "The vending machine on the second floor finally restocked."
Heesung’s face lights up. He pulls his hands out from under the table—he was holding a bag of gummy bears. "You found it! You’re the best, Donghwa."
Donghwa looks at me. He takes a slow sip of his own soda, his throat working. It’s infuriatingly attractive.
"Plans?" I repeat, looking between them.
"We’re studying," Donghwa says flatly.
"Studying," I scoff. "You’re a freshman. He’s a sophomore. What could you possibly be studying together?"
"Art," Donghwa says. "It’s subjective."
Heesung is opening the soda, looking at Donghwa with those big, doe eyes. He’s not even looking at me anymore.
Something occurs to me.
I watch Donghwa as he leans against the table. He’s not looking at Heesung. He’s not preening or posturing for the Omega’s benefit.
He’s looking atme.
His dark eyes are locked on mine, cool and mocking. One corner of his mouth is quirked up in that barely-there smirk. He takes another sip of soda, maintaining eye contact, challenging me.
He doesn't want Heesung. He doesn't give a shit about the peach soda or the color theory or the darkroom.
He’s doing this to piss me off.
He sees me. He sees the effort I’m putting in, the desperation to maintain my status, the hunger for validation—and he finds it funny. He’s treating my love life like a game of Whac-A-Mole, and he’s holding the mallet.
My blood boils. It’s not just jealousy anymore. It’s personal.
I lean in close to Donghwa, invading his space until our noses are inches apart. The clash of our scents is violent—spiced rum battling against cold ink.
"You think you’re funny," I hiss, low enough that Heesung can't hear over the canteen noise.
Donghwa doesn't flinch. He just lowers his soda can.
"I think you’re loud," he replies, his voice deadpan.
"I’m not giving up," I tell him, my voice dropping to a growl. "Heesung is mine. You’re just a distraction."
