Get it together, Sihwan.
I stare at my reflection, water dripping from my chin. What is wrong with me? I’ve hooked up with omegas wearing half a gallon of perfume before. I’ve never had a reaction like that. It wasn't just a bad smell; it was a biological rejection. My body treated that sweet, cloying scent like a threat.
Just thinking about Hyesoo’s strawberry scent makes my stomach give a warning lurch. I squeeze my eyes shut, breathing through my nose.In, out. You’re fine. You just ate something bad. Bad shrimp. It was the shrimp.
The bathroom door swings open behind me.
I tense up instantly. Instinct kicks in—posture check, shoulders back. I don't want anyone seeing the Great Oh Sihwan looking like a drowned rat in a public restroom.
Heavy boots scuff against the tile. A guy walks in—tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a leather jacket that’s seen better days. He’s another student, maybe a senior in Engineering by the look of the grease stain on his jeans. Definitely an Alpha.
He doesn't even look at me. He strides past the sinks toward the urinals, invading my personal space with the casual arrogance of someone who knows they take up room.
And then his scent reaches me.
It’s rough. Unrefined. It smells like motor oil, stale tobacco, and heavy, woody cedar. Normally, this is the part where I’d bristle. I’d flare my own scent, push back, establish dominance. It’s the Alpha handshake—a silent, pissy little war ofI’m bigger than you.
But I don't bristle.
Instead, the moment that heavy, masculine musk washes over me, the nausea in my gut vanishes. It just… evaporates.
And is replaced by a flutter.
My stomach doesn't clench; it flips. A weird, hot swoop low in my belly, like I missed a step on a staircase. My knees, which were already shaky, go soft for a completely different reason. I catch a lungful of that motor oil scent and my brain goes fuzzy, a sudden, traitorous spark of interest lighting up my nervous system.
Oh, that smells good.
The thought fires across my synapses before I can strangle it.
I freeze, water still dripping off my nose. My heart gives a stupid, excited little kick against my ribs. I’m not angry. I’m not competitive. I’m… flustered.
The guy unzips his fly at the urinal, completely oblivious to the fact that I am gripping the edge of the sink, staring at his back with wide, horrified eyes.
Heat rushes into my face. Not the cold sweat of sickness, but a genuine, burning blush. I feel it crawl up my neck, scorching the skin under my collar.
What the fuck?
I look at myself in the mirror. My cheeks are pink. My pupils are blown wide. I look like I just saw my celebrity crush, not some random grease-monkey Alpha taking a leak.
I am an Alpha. I like soft, sweet-smelling things. I like curves and submission. I do not get weak in the knees for the smell of cedar and sweat.
But my body is singing a different tune. It’s humming, vibrating with a confused, desperate need that feels terrifyingly similar to how I felt when Donghwa had me pinned to that mattress. It’s like my wires have been crossed. Like someone went into the control room of my brain and switched the labels on the "Attraction" and "Aggression" buttons.
The bathroom door swings shut behind the grease-monkey Alpha, cutting off the heavy thud of his boots. The silence rushes back in, magnified by the buzzing of the fluorescent lights, but the air still feels charged.
I’m gripping the sink so hard my knuckles are turning white. I stare at the door, my chest heaving, trying to understand why my knees are still weak. Why my heart is doing a traitorous little tap-dance against my ribs.
The nausea from the girls in the VIP room is gone, replaced by this confusing, restless heat that’s buzzing under my skin. It feels like my internal compass is spinning wild, the needle snapping off and pointing in the completely wrong direction.
Unconsciously, my hand drifts up.
It’s a reflex. A need to ground myself. My fingers brush against my collarbone, sliding under the fabric of my shirt until they find the edge of the bandage on my shoulder.
I freeze.
Through the thick adhesive pad, I can feel it.
It’s been three days. I’m a Dominant Alpha. My metabolic rate is insane; I heal like Wolverine. A bruise usually fades in twenty-four hours. A cut closes up overnight. By all medical logic, the bite mark Donghwa left on me should be a fading memory by now—a dull ache, smooth skin knitting back together.
