The thought makes my knees buckle for real this time. I slide down the front of the sink, landing hard on the dirty tile floor. I pull my knees to my chest, burying my hands in my hair.
"I’m going to die," I mutter into my knees. "I am actually going to die."
I can feel it now. Now that I know what it is, I can’t ignore it. There’s a hollow, aching space in my chest, a pull that feels like a hooked fishing line. It’s tugging me. It’s looking for the other end of the connection. It’s looking forhim.
I’m sitting on the floor of a karaoke bar bathroom, smelling like bleach and despair, realizing that the universe hasn't just played a joke on me. It has ruined me.
I am Oh Sihwan, the Campus King.
And I apparently belong to the freshman.
Chapter Eleven
Donghwa
Waking up alone is standard procedure. I prefer it. I like my space, I like my silence, and I generally like my bed to myself once the main event is over.
But waking up alone last Sunday, with the sheets still wrecked and the room reeking of spiced rum and scorched earth, didn't feel like a victory. It felt like a theft.
Oh Sihwan, the loudmouth who usually can’t go five seconds without demanding an audience, had vanished like a thief inthe night. He didn't even leave a note. Just a cold spot on the mattress and a lingering scent that clung to my clothes and made my teeth ache.
That was six days ago. Six days of absolute, utter bullshit.
I’ve spent the entire week in a state of low-grade, slowly increasing irritation. It’s distracting. I’m in the darkroom trying to develop a roll of film, and instead of focusing on the contrast, I’m thinking about the way Sihwan’s eyes rolled back when I bottomed out inside him. I’m in Professor Yoon’s lecture, staring at the back of a head that looks vaguely like his, wondering if I can get away with dragging him out by his collar.
The worst part is the running.
For a guy who spent the last month getting in my face, tripping me in the cafeteria, and practically begging for my attention, Sihwan has suddenly developed the evasive skills of a fugitive. He’s wearing hoodies two sizes too big, hood up, head down. He sits in the back corner of the lecture hall, closest to the exit, and the second the professor dismisses us, he bolts.
I tried to corner him on Tuesday. I saw him heading for the vending machines, looking twitchy. I didn't even get within ten feet before he caught my scent, stiffened like he’d been tased, and sprinted in the opposite direction.
It’s infuriating.
And physically, I’m a wreck. I’m not used to wanting things I can’t have immediately. My patience, usually infinite when it comes to my work, is nonexistent here. Every time I catch a drift of his pheromones—that heavy, expensive musk that used to seem forced—my blood heats up. It’s a sharp, biting hunger that settles right in the pit of my stomach and refuses to leave. I’m walking around with a hair-trigger temper and a semi-permanent state of arousal that no amount of cold showers is fixing.
I’ve hooked up with plenty of people. Alphas, Omegas, Betas. It’s never been like this. It’s never been this… sticky. Usually, I scratch the itch and move on. But with Sihwan, it feels like we started a sentence and he slammed the book shut before the punctuation.
I can still feel the phantom pressure of the knot. The way his body clamped around me, desperate and terrified and hot. The way he tasted—sweat and salt and pure, undiluted Alpha ego breaking into pieces.
I want that again. I want to pin him down and ask him why he’s running, and then I want to make him scream until he forgets he has legs to run with.
Friday afternoon the practice room is quiet, save for the aggressive scratching of Soyoung’s bow against the strings of her violin and the percussive heavy-handedness of my fingers on the Steinway.
We’re running through the third movement of Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto. It’s fast, technical, and usually, I can play it in my sleep. Today, I’m dragging. I’m half a beat behind, my mind drifting from the sheet music to the memory of a bruised neck and the sound of a choked sob.
Soyoung cuts the sound abruptly, her bow slashing through the air as she pulls it off the strings. The silence that follows is loud.
"You're lagging," she says, lowering the violin and fixing me with that look that usually makes freshman Alphas wet themselves. "If you play any slower, we’re going to be playing a dirge."
I let my hands drop from the keys, leaning back on the bench. I don't bother apologizing. Soyoung doesn't care about apologies; she cares about competence.
"I'm distracted," I admit, staring at the black and white keys.
Soyoung snorts, reaching for her rosin. She’s wearing a leather jacket over a ripped band tee, looking less like a classical musician and more like she’s about to mug someone. "Let me guess. The meathead."
I don't answer, which is answer enough.
"Donghwa," she sighs, shaking her head, her blonde-tipped wolf cut falling over her eyes. "You look like a kicked puppy. It’s pathetic. What is going on with you two? I haven't seen him peacocking around the canteen all week. It’s been blissfully quiet."
