It cuts through the humidity of the party. Cold winter air. Sharp ink. Bitter ginseng. It’s not aggressive—it’s not trying to choke anyone out—but it’s so heavy, so undeniablypresent, that it instantly dampens every other scent in the room.
My smile freezes. The lilac girl stiffens against me, her nose twitching.
"Who is that?" she whispers, her voice breathless. She’s not looking at me anymore.
I follow her gaze, though I already know exactly who I’m going to see.
Of course. Just when I was starting to feel like a god again, the atheist walks in.
Kang Donghwa strolls through the entryway like he owns the building, the mortgage, and the very air we’re all trying to breathe. He’s wearing another one of those oversized black coats that are ridiculously out of season, looking effortlessly, infuriatingly cool. But that’s not what makes my molars grind together until I hear a distinctcreakin my jaw.
It’s the accessory attached to his hip.
Yoon Heesung is tucked into Donghwa’s side, practically glued there by the heavy, possessive weight of Donghwa’s arm hooked around his waist. The sight douses my good mood like a bucket of ice water. Heesung looks radiant, glowing under the strobe lights, soaking up the dark, wintry pheromones rolling off the freshman like he’s basking in the sun.
I hate it. I hate everything about it.
"Oh, look! It's Heesungie!" Seungchan yells over the bass, waving his arm like a windmill. Traitor. Absolute traitor.
I stiffen as Donghwa’s eyes scan the room. They slide over the dancing bodies, the drinking games, the desperate hookups, completely uninterested—until they land on me. One corner of his mouth ticks up. It’s barely a smile. It’s a micro-expression of pure, distilled smugness.
He steers Heesung straight toward us.
My pheromones spike, the scent of spiced rum turning sharp and acrid, but it’s useless. Donghwa’s scent is a heavy, wet blanket of ginseng and cold air that just muffles everything else in its radius. The lilac girl next to me actually shivers and pulls away slightly, her attention drawn to the new Alpha like a moth to a bug zapper.
"Hey, sunbaes," Heesung chirps, his voice sweet as syrup as they reach our cluster of couches.
"‘Sup," Donghwa says. One word. Low, rumbly, and dismissive. He doesn't even nod at me.
They don't just say hello and move on. No, that would be too merciful. Donghwa drops onto the leather loveseat directly across from me, spreading his long legs wide in a display of casual dominance that makes my eye twitch.
I keep my mouth shut, mostly because if I open it, I’m going to bark something humiliating. I just glare, gripping my red solo cup so hard the plastic starts to buckle under my thumb.
"We were just at the bar downtown," Heesung says, giggling as he looks down at Donghwa. "Donghwa saved me from some creepy old beta."
"Heroic," I deadpan, my voice dripping with enough sarcasm to drown a small village.
Donghwa ignores me. He doesn't even look at me. Instead, he shifts, tapping his thigh. "Sit."
It’s a command. A quiet, arrogant command. And Heesung, the guy who made me chase him for weeks, who played hard to get every time I so much as breathed in his direction, just melts. He drops into Donghwa’s lap like it’s the only seat in the house.
I see red. Actual, physical red spots dancing in my vision.
Donghwa wraps an arm around Heesung’s waist to steady him, his large hand splayed flat against the expensive fabric of Heesung’s shirt. It’s a claim. A stamp of ownership right infront of my face. Heesung sighs happily, turning to straddle Donghwa’s thigh a little, and reaches up to weave his slender fingers through Donghwa’s dark hair.
"Your hair is getting long," Heesung murmurs, toying with the strands near Donghwa’s ear.
Donghwa leans back, his head tilting just enough to allow the touch, his eyes half-lidded and bored. But I catch it—that flicker of a glance in my direction. He’s checking. He wants to make sure I’m watching this.
He knows exactly what he’s doing. He doesn't even like Heesung. I’ve seen the way he looks at people; he looks at everyone like they’re furniture. But right now, he’s letting the campus idol pet him like a house cat just to prove that he can take what I want without even trying.
My drink crunches loudly in my hand, beer spilling over my knuckles.
"You okay there, Sihwan?" Seungchan asks, leaning in, his voice full of confused concern. "You’re looking a little... veiny."
"I’m fantastic," I hiss, not breaking eye contact with Donghwa. "Never been better."
I can only watch a train wreck for so long before I have to look away, or in this case, before I have to physically remove myself from the blast zone to keep from flipping a table.
