Then his hand slides down my chest.
It drifts over my stomach, hot and heavy, and dips lower, his fingers brushing the waistband of my shorts.
The sensation is like a bucket of ice water.
Public. Bathroom. Door unlocked.
The fog in my brain snaps. The panic overrides the pleasure, and the humiliation of being fondled in a public restroom by a freshman gives me a sudden, violent burst of clarity.
I wrench myself back, breaking the kiss with a gasp, and drive my fist into his stomach.
It’s a solid hit. My knuckles connect with his abs hard enough to make a dullthud.
Donghwa doubles over, wheezing, stumbling back a step. He coughs, clutching his midsection, but when he looks up, his eyes are dancing.
"Fuck," I pant, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand like I can scrub the taste of him off. My chest is heaving, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. "Keep your fucking pheromones to yourself in public, you psycho!"
Donghwa straightens up, still grimacing but grinning through it. "You liked it."
"I'm going to kill you," I choke out.
I shove past him, my shoulder checking his hard enough to knock him off balance again, and scramble for the door. I burst out onto the green, sucking in the stale air like a drowning man, my face burning so hot I think I might actually be glowing.
Behind me, echoing off the tile walls, I hear him laughing.
Chapter Sixteen
Iwould prefer a fistfight.
I’m not joking. I would genuinely prefer it if Kang Donghwa dragged me back into the locker room and tried to rearrange my teeth. I understand violence. I understand the hierarchy of physical aggression. If he swings, I swing back. Simple. Clean. Masculine.
But this? This new psychological torture method he’s decided to deploy? It’s ruining my life.
"Mr. Oh? Are you with us, or are you busy contemplating the structural integrity of the ceiling tiles?"
Professor Lim’s voice snaps me back to reality. I jolt in my seat, my knee banging loudly against the underside of the desk. A ripple of laughter goes through the lecture hall.
"I'm listening," I lie, smoothing down the front of my shirt. "Just thinking about the... negative space."
"Fascinating," Professor Lim draws out, adjusting his thick-rimmed glasses. "Since you're so engaged, perhaps you can offer a counterpoint to Mr. Kang's analysis regarding the use of tension in visual narratives."
I freeze. I haven't heard a single word Mr. Kang has said for the last twenty minutes.
I risk a glance to my left. Two rows down, Donghwa is leaning back in his chair, looking like he owns the building. He’s wearing a black turtleneck that hugs his shoulders in a way that should be illegal, his expression bored and unreadable to everyone else.
But when his dark eyes slide over to meet mine, the boredom vanishes. A corner of his mouth quirks up. It’s microscopic. If you didn't know him—if you hadn't had his knot inside you—you’d miss it.
"I was saying," Donghwa’s voice is deep, smooth, carrying effortlessly through the quiet room, "that tension isn't about the conflict itself. It's about the inevitability of submission. The viewer knows the subject is going to break; the art is in prolonging the moment before they finally give in."
My mouth goes dry. My heart does a traitorous double-tap against my ribs.
He’s talking about photography. He is objectively talking about photography. But he’s looking right at me, his gaze dropping to my throat, then back up to my eyes.
"Right," I choke out, my voice sounding a octave higher than my usual alpha baritone. I clear my throat aggressively. "Yeah. Sure. Submission. Whatever."
"Eloquently put, Mr. Oh," the professor sighs, moving on.
I sink low in my seat, glaring at the back of Donghwa’s head. He knows exactly what he’s doing. Ever since the bathroom, he’s stopped trying to physically intimidate me. Instead, he’s started treating me like a secret only he gets to enjoy.
