He stands in the entryway, bathed in the harsh fluorescent light, looking like he just stepped out of a K-pop music video while the rest of us look like greased-up potatoes. He’s wearing a white sweater that looks impossibly soft, his hair perfectly tousled.
I watch, jaw tight, as his eyes do a quick, hopeful sweep of the room. He’s not looking for me.
His gaze lands squarely on the window seat. On Donghwa.
I feel a spike of irritation so sharp it almost overrides the nausea churning in my gut. It’s pathetic, really. Even after everything—the cold shoulders, the obvious disinterest—Heesung still looks for the freshman first. He pauses there, lips parting slightly, waiting for acknowledgment. Waiting for the "Dark Horse" alpha to give him a nod, a smile, anything.
Donghwa doesn't even look up from his glass. He’s visibly ignoring him. It’s a brutal, silent rejection that screamsyou don’t exist to me.
I should be happy. I should be thrilled that my rival is fumbling the bag so hard. But instead, I just feel annoyed that Heesung is wasting his time.
Heesung’s smile falters for a fraction of a second—a tiny crack in the porcelain mask—before he recovers. He stiffens, his chin lifting as he pivots. He scans the room again, more aggressively this time, until he finds me.
His face lights up. It’s a bright, dazzling expression that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
"Sihwan-sunbae!" he calls out, his voice sweet and carrying.
Oh no.
Before I can pretend to be deeply engrossed in a piece of pork belly, Heesung is making a beeline for our table. He moves with purpose, weaving through the crowd, and I realize with a sinking dread that he’s decided if he can’t have the freshman, he’s going to settle for the King.
"Make room," I hiss at Seungchan, kicking him under the table.
"Ow! What the hell—oh, hey Heesung!" Seungchan grins like an idiot, sliding over.
Heesung arrives in a cloud of scent.
It's practically assaulted with it. Peaches. Ripe, sugary, concentrated peaches. A month ago, I would have thought he smelled like heaven. I would have been inhaling deeply, letting it fuel my ego.
Now? It smells like fruit that’s been left out in the sun too long. It’s thick, nauseating.
"Is this seat taken?" Heesung asks, though he’s already sitting down. He drops into the empty chair right next to me—tooclose. His thigh presses against mine under the table.
"It is now," I manage to say, forcing a tight smile. I try to breathe through my mouth. "Fashionably late, Heesung?"
"I had a photoshoot," he sighs, leaning into my space. He picks up the soju bottle and pours into my glass, his movements fluid and practiced. "But I needed to unwind. I knew you’d be the life of the party, Sunbae."
He flashes me a look through his lashes. It’s textbook flirtation. It’s exactly what I spent the last few weeks trying to achieve. I have the campus idol hanging off my arm, pouring my drinks, and directing all his attention at me in front of the senior hierarchy.
I want to throw up.
"You know me," I say, my voice sounding strained. I pick up the glass just to have something to do with my hands. "Always... here."
Heesung giggles. He leans closer, his shoulder bumping mine. The scent of peaches intensifies, mixing with the smell of grilled pork fat and cigarette smoke. My stomach gives a violent lurch. The bond mark on my shoulder itches furiously, a warning flare from my nervous system.Wrong. Wrong scent. Wrong omega. Wrong.
"You’ve been so distant lately," Heesung purrs, lowering his voice so the others can’t hear. He rests his chin on his hand, staring at me with wide, glassy eyes. "I missed you in class."
"Busy," I choke out. I try to inch my chair away, but I’m blocked by the wall. "Midterms coming up. You know how it is."
"Mmm. You work too hard."
Then I feel his hand slide under the table. It lands on my thigh, fingers splayed.
My entire body locks up. It’s not a thrill. It’s a recoil. My skin crawls where he touches me, a cold sweat breaking out on the back of my neck. It feels invasive, wrong, like wearing a wet wool sweater.
Heesung’s fingers walk higher, squeezing my quad. He’s doubling down, trying to provoke a reaction, trying to prove to himself—and probably to Donghwa across the room—that he’s still desirable.
"Maybe I can help you relax," he whispers, his breath hot against my ear.
