The voice is high, sweet, and hesitant.
I turn, and the empty space beside me isn't empty anymore. The girl with the pink nails—the one from earlier—has slid into the gap Heesung left. She’s brought backup this time, two other omegas squeezing into the booth, effectively boxing me in.
"Is this seat taken?" she asks, batting her eyelashes. "The freshman table is so loud. And you guys seem like you're having way more fun."
My ego, which was starting to deflate like a sad balloon, instantly reinflates.
I lean back, spreading my arm along the top of the booth again, my bicep flexing against the tight fabric of my sleeve. I shift my legs, manspreading just enough to brush against her knee.
"For you?" I flash the grin—the Number Three, charming but dangerous. "The seat is always open."
She giggles, covering her mouth. Her scent is vanilla. Basic. sweet. Easy. It’s not peaches, but right now, I’m not looking for a challenge. I’m looking for a fan club.
"You’re Oh Sihwan, right?" one of her friends asks, leaning across the table. "I saw you on the department Instafam. You’re the one who organized the welcome party last year."
"Guilty," I say, picking up the tongs and flipping a piece of pork belly with a flourish. Grease sizzles, popping loudly. "I like to make sure things are done right. High standards."
"You’re so strong," Pink Nails coos, watching my forearm muscles bunch as I cut the meat.
See? This is how it’s supposed to work. Biology. Physics. I flex, they swoon. It’s the natural order of the universe.
I pile meat onto their plates, playing the benevolent king feeding his subjects. They eat it up—literally and metaphorically. I tell a story about my summer internship, exaggerating the details just enough to make myself sound like I single-handedly saved the company from bankruptcy. They hang on every word.
It’s soothing. It’s comfortable. It’s exactly what I need to wash away the weird, prickly feeling Heesung left behind.
But even as I flirt, winking at the vanilla girl and letting her pour me another drink, my mind drifts.
Heesung didn't react. Why?
Is he seeing someone? Doubt it. I would have heard. Is he not gay? He’s an Omega, so statistically, the odds are in my favor. Maybe he just likes the chase. Some Omegas are like that—they want you to work for it. They want to see if you’re actually a Dominant Alpha or just a poser with a gym membership.
I smirk, tossing a piece of garlic into my mouth.
Fine. I can work for it.
I’m Oh Sihwan. I have the best stats in the department. I have the car. I have the face. I have the deltoids. There is absolutely no universe where Yoon Heesung doesn't end up in my bed bymidterms. He just needs a little more... persuasion. A little more exposure to the brand.
"Sihwan-oppa, are you listening?"
I snap back to the present. Pink Nails is pouting slightly.
"Sorry," I drawl, turning my full attention back to her. I reach out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her breath hitches. "I was just thinking about how good this jacket looks on me. But you look better."
She melts.
Yeah. I’ve still got it.
"Drink up, ladies," I announce, raising my glass. "Tonight is on me."
I’ll worry about the peach-scented puzzle later. Tonight, the King needs to be adored.
Chapter Two
My neck is killing me.
It’s a good kind of ache, though. The kind that reminds me I spent the last eight hours tangled up in the sheets with a very enthusiastic graphic design major. Minchae? Minjun? Whatever. He was cute, he was loud, and he knew exactly how to stroke my ego. Just the way I like it.
I catch my reflection in the glass doors of the Arts building and pause to fix my hair. The chestnut dye job is fresh, perfectly waxed back to show off my forehead. My skin is glowing, tanned from a summer spent on my dad’s private yacht in Jeju. I adjustthe collar of my jacket—too hot for September, maybe, but my biceps look insane in this cut, so the heatstroke is worth it.
