My jaw unhinges. I’m racking my brain, trying to remember seeing this before. But I haven't. I’ve never seen him shirtless. Not once. Because this pretentious asshole dresses like aforty-year-old architect in the middle of winter. Turtlenecks. Oversized coats. Layers upon layers of black fabric.
He’s been hidingthisunder those suffocating layers of cashmere?
I stare at the ink. It’s a tiger. A massive, snarling tiger tangled up with what looks like plum blossoms and some kind of demon face. It’s aggressive. It’s loud. It’s completely at odds with his bored, princely face and his 'I'm better than you' attitude.
And it pisses me off.
It pisses me off because it’s cool. It’s objectively, undeniably cool. It makes him look dangerous, like he’s got a secret life I know nothing about. And—goddamn it—it makes him look even hotter. Like a delinquent disguised as a scholar. It adds an edge to him that I didn't think existed, and my stupid, lizard brain is eating it up.
"Fuck this," I curse, the heat rushing to my face again.
I can't look at him. I can't look at that ink or that dick or the confused look on his face. I stomp toward the en-suite bathroom, trying to walk with some semblance of alpha swagger despite the fact that I’m waddling like a penguin with a stick up its ass.
"Just get out of my house!" I yell over my shoulder, slamming the door before he can answer.
I scrub my skin until it’s practically raw. I use half a bottle of body wash, the expensive stuff that smells like cedar, trying toscour away the scent of winter air and sex. It doesn’t work. The smell is stuck in my nose, or maybe it’s just burned into my brain circuitry.
I limp out of the bathroom, dressed in my baggiest gray sweatpants and a hoodie, fully prepared to reclaim my kingdom. I have a speech prepared. It involves a lot of pointing at the door and threats of restraining orders. I expect silence. I expect an empty apartment.
What I find is a hostile takeover of my kitchen.
Kang Donghwa is sitting at my dining table. He’s fully dressed now—unfortunately—in his usual black turtleneck and slacks, looking like he’s about to critique an art exhibit rather than the guy he just railed into next week. But that’s not the worst part. The worst part is the table.
It’s covered in takeout containers.
"I thought I told you to get out," I snap, freezing in the hallway. My voice is a little stronger now, but it still has that embarrassing rasp.
Donghwa doesn't even look up from his phone. He gestures vaguely to the spread with his free hand. "I ordered delivery. Figured you wouldn't have anything edible in your fridge besides protein shakes and sadness."
"I have food!" I argue, though we both know the crisper drawer contains exactly one withered lemon and a six-pack of Red Bull. "And I don't want your charity food. I want you to leave."
I open my mouth to launch into a tirade about breaking and entering, but then the smell hits me.
It’s rich, spicy, and savory.Haejang-guk. Hangover soup. The scent of ox bone broth and cabbage wafts across the room, and my traitorous stomach lets out a growl so loud it sounds like a tectonic plate shifting.
Donghwa looks up then. The corner of his mouth twitches. Just a millimeter. A microscopic smirk that makes me want to throw a chair through the window.
"Sit down," he says, popping the lid off a bowl of rice. "Before you pass out."
I glare at him. I glare at the food. I weigh the pros and cons of maintaining my dignity versus the absolute cavernous void inside my stomach.
Dignity loses. It usually does when I’m this hungry.
I stomp over to the table and throw myself into the chair opposite him, wincing as my sore ass hits the cushion. I snatch up a spoon like it’s a weapon. "I’m only eating this because I need the calories to kick your ass later," I mutter.
"Sure," Donghwa says dryly. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."
I don't dignify that with a response. I just eat. And god, I hate him, but the bastard has good taste. The soup is perfect—spicy enough to clear my sinuses but rich enough to settle the gnawing ache in my gut. I shovel rice into my mouth, barely chewing, ignoring the way Donghwa just sits there, sipping an iced americano he seemingly pulled out of thin air, watching me.
He doesn't eat much. He just watches. His dark eyes track the movement of my spoon, his expression unreadable but tinged with that same infuriating amusement. Like I’m a stray dog he just fed.
I finish the bowl in record time, slamming the spoon down on the table with a clatter. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and sit back, crossing my arms over my chest.
"Feel better?" he asks.
"No," I snap, scowling. "I feel like shit. And you're still here."
Donghwa leans back in his chair, mirroring my posture but looking infinitely more relaxed about it. "I paid for the food. I think I’m allowed to sit."
