Then, as if he has a radar specifically tuned to my misery, his head turns.
Our eyes lock across the smoky room.
My stomach drops through the floor. The bond—that treacherous, invisible tether hooked into my gut—gives a sharpyank. It’s not a romantic flutter. It’s a biological demand. It’s my body screamingThere he is. Go to him. Sit on his lap.
I want to die.
"Hey, let's grab those seats by the freshmen!" Seungchan yells, grabbing my bicep and trying to steer me toward the danger zone.
I dig my heels into the sticky floor. "No."
Seungchan blinks, confused by my sudden imitation of a concrete pillar. "Huh? Why not? It’s prime real estate, bro."
"The ventilation," I say, my voice coming out a little too loud. "It’s terrible over there. You know how I get about smoke in my pores, Seungchan. Do you want me to break out? Do you want my complexion to suffer?"
Seungchan looks at the perfectly functioning exhaust hood above the freshman table, then back at me. "Uh..."
"Trust me. The airflow is much better in the back. Near the exit. Far away from... the drafts."
I don't wait for his agreement. I physically manhandle my gym-bro best friend, shoving him toward a table in the absolute nosebleed section of the restaurant, tucked behind a decorative partition and right next to the restrooms. It is the loser table. It is social suicide.
But it is safe.
We sit down with a few other stragglers from my year. I immediately pour myself a shot of soju and down it, relishing the burn.Okay. Good. We’re safe. I can’t see him from here.
I exhale, loosening my shoulders. I start to grill the meat, falling into the familiar rhythm of flipping pork and making loud, boisterous comments to prove I’m having a great time.
"So I told the professor," I say, gesturing with the tongs, "if you want minimalism, I'll just turn in a blank canvas next time. Right?"
The table laughs. I grin. I am the King. I am in control.
Then the hair on the back of my neck stands up.
It starts as a prickle, a low-level hum of anxiety that skitters down my spine. I try to ignore it. I drink another shot. But the feeling intensifies. It’s a physical weight, heavy and warm, pressing against my shoulder blades.
I know that feeling.
I slowly, carefully lean back in my chair, trying to peer around the wooden partition separating us from the main floor.
Donghwa hasn't moved. He hasn't turned his chair. He’s seemingly listening to a girl with pink hair talk about her portfolio. But his eyes aren't on her.
He is staring directly at me.
He’s holding a glass of amber liquid—probably whiskey he brought himself because he’s too snobbish for beer—and he’s watching me with that dark, unreadable intensity. He’s not glaring. He’s not smiling. He’s just... observing. Like I’m a specimen in a jar. Like he knows exactly where I am in the room without even having to look, and he’s just verifying the data.
Even from twenty feet away, through the smoke and the noise, the connection hits me. My breath hitches. My skin feels too tight for my body.
He takes a slow sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving mine.
I duck back behind the partition, heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
"You okay, Sihwan?" Seungchan asks, mouth full of lettuce wrap. "You look kinda... sweaty."
"It's the grill," I snap, grabbing the water pitcher with a shaking hand. "It's just really hot in here."
The door chimes, cutting through the din of sizzling meat and clinking glasses. Like a conditioned response, half the restaurant turns to look.
It’s Yoon Heesung. Of course it is.
