Heesung is practically purring, rubbing his cheek against the shoulder of Donghwa’s coat like a cat marking territory. And Donghwa? He’s just sitting there, looking like a bored emperor tolerating a concubine, occasionally flicking those dark eyes toward me to make sure I’m witnessing my own social execution.
"I need air," I snap, standing up so fast my knees hit the coffee table. The drinks wobble.
"You just got here," Seungchan protests, a half-eaten slider in his mouth.
"And now I'm leaving. Don't wait up."
I don't wait for a response. I turn on my heel and march away from the couches, shoving past a couple making out against the wall. I need out. I need silence. I need to punch something soft, like a pillow or maybe Donghwa’s face.
I make it to the hallway that leads to the bedrooms, the thumping bass of the living room dulling to a muffled vibration in the floorboards. It’s cooler here, away from the body heat of fifty sweaty students, but I’m still burning up. My skin feels too tight.
I pace a tight circle on the rug, running a hand through my hair. It’s the disrespect. That’s what gets me. If he actually liked Heesung, I could almost—almost—respect the hustle. But he doesn't. He’s playing with his food just to starve me out. It’s petty. It’s childish.
It’s exactly something I would do, which makes it infinitely more annoying when someone does it to me.
"Stupid, arrogant, trust-fund baby," I mutter, kicking at the baseboard. "Think you're so cool with your gap year and your stupid motorcycle."
I stop, leaning back against the wall, squeezing my eyes shut. I need to calm down. My pheromones are probably stripping the paint off the walls right now.Spiced rum and scorched earth.Great. I smell like a pirate ship on fire.
Movement flickers in my peripheral vision.
My eyes snap open.
Down the hall, emerging from the living room chaos, is a tall, dark figure. Donghwa. He’s alone. No Heesung attached to his hip. He’s walking with that loose-limbed, lazy stride of his, hands buried deep in the pockets of his coat, head tilted back like he’s examining the crown molding.
He looks so peaceful. So unbothered.
The rage flares up again, hot and instant, bypassing my brain entirely.
He’s coming this way, probably heading for the bathroom or maybe just looking for a quiet place to be pretentious in private. He doesn't see me yet—I’m tucked in the shadows of a doorframe.
I don't think. I don't plan. I just react.
I step back into the empty guest room behind me, leaving the door cracked. I wait. My heart is hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs, a war drum.
One step. Two steps.
I see the black fabric of his coat pass the gap.
Now.
I lunge.
I reach out, grabbing a fistful of his expensive wool coat and the shirt beneath it. I yank hard.
Donghwa stumbles, letting out a sharp huff of air as I drag him into the dark room. He’s heavier than he looks—dense muscle under all those layers—but I have the element of surprise and the hysterical strength of a bruised ego.
I spin him around and shove him back, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to make a point. Then I slam the door shut with my foot, the lock clicking into place.
I slam him back against the wall.
It makes a satisfyingthud, the sound of a large body hitting drywall. The room is dark, lit only by the streetlights filtering through the blinds, slicing stripes of orange across the floor.
I’m breathing hard, my chest heaving, adrenaline flooding my system like jet fuel. I’m close enough to count his eyelashes, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body.
Donghwa doesn’t even blink. He doesn't shove me back. He doesn't swing. He just looks down at me—because of course, he has to lookdown—with that same infuriatingly bored expression, like I’m a minor inconvenience, like a fly buzzing around his head.
"Is there a problem, hyung?" he asks. His voice is calm. Too calm.
