I spin around, gasping for air, and he’s right there.
Donghwa is standing with his back against the door, effectively locking us in. He doesn't say a word. He doesn't have to. He just takes one step forward, and I collapse into him like a building with its supports kicked out.
I don't think. I don't plan. I just grab the front of his expensive black shirt and bury my face in the crook of his neck, inhaling like a drowning man breaking the surface.
"Fuck," I breathe, the word vibrating against his skin.
The scent is a drug. It’s an antidote. It clears the fog in my brain instantly, replacing the sick, roiling feeling in my gut with a heavy, grounding warmth. My heart, which had been trying to beat its way out of my chest, syncs up with the steady, slow thud of his pulse against my cheek.
Donghwa’s arms come around me, solid and heavy. One hand splays across the small of my back, pulling me flush against him, while the other comes up to cup the back of my neck, his thumb pressing into the sensitive spot right over the bond mark.
"Breathe, Hyung," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble in his chest. "I've got you."
I shudder, pressing closer, trying to get as much surface area contact as possible. The friction of his body against mine sparksa different kind of heat—not the feverish sickness from before, but the electric, addictive pull of the bond.
"He smells..." I gasp, my nose brushing against his collarbone. "He smells like garbage."
"I know," Donghwa says, his nose skimming along my hairline, inhaling my scent in return. "You smell like distress. It’s annoying."
"Shut up."
I lift my head, just an inch. I shouldn't. I should push him away. I should punch him for following me. But I can't make my hands let go of his shirt.
We’re standing toe-to-toe in a grimy restaurant bathroom, surrounded by graffiti and the sound of a dripping faucet, but all I can focus on is the dark ring of his iris. His eyes are half-lidded, focused entirely on my mouth. The air between us is suddenly thick, charged with a static tension that makes the hair on my arms stand up.
His hand slides from my neck to my jaw, his thumb tracing my bottom lip. His skin is rough, warm.
"Better?" he asks softly.
"Yeah," I whisper. My gaze drops to his lips. They look soft. I remember exactly what they feel like.
He leans in. I tilt my head back. The distance between us shrinks to nothing, the magnetic pull inevitable. I can feel his breath on my lips, smelling of whiskey and mint. My eyes flutter shut, my body leaning forward to close the gap—
Creak.
The door handle rattles.
We spring apart like two magnets with the polarity suddenly reversed.
I stumble back into the sink, my hip checking the porcelain hard enough to bruise. Donghwa takes a smooth, calculated stepback, his face instantly transforming fromintense lovertobored indifferencein a millisecond.
The door swings open.
Seungchan stands there, hand still on the knob, blinking at us.
The tableau must be incredible. Me, clutching the sink like a lifeline, face flushed and hair disheveled. Donghwa, standing three feet away, calmly adjusting his cufflinks, looking like he just finished a business meeting.
The silence stretches for three agonizing seconds. The air is still thick with our combined pheromones—a chaotic mix of my distress and Donghwa’s heavy, protective winter scent.
Seungchan’s eyes dart from me to Donghwa, then back to me. His brow furrows. He sniffs the air, confused.
"Uh," Seungchan says eloquently. "Everything... good in here?"
Panic, cold and sharp, douses the heat in my veins.
"Food poisoning!" I shout. It comes out way too loud. I immediately turn on the faucet full blast and splash water onto my face, ruining my foundation. "It was the pork! I knew that pork looked suspicious! I told you the ventilation was bad!"
I grab a paper towel and scrub at my face, refusing to look at either of them.
