I snatch the phone back up. The address is in a swanky district, obviously. Old money.
"Fine," I mutter, swinging my legs out of bed. "But I'm not staying for breakfast."
I grab a gym bag, throwing in a change of clothes and a bottle of water. I pause, looking at the lube on my nightstand, then scowl and leave it. He can provide the supplies if he expects me to do the heavy lifting.
I storm out of my apartment like I’m heading to a fight, not a hookup.
The drive over is a blur of city lights and aggressive lane changes. I blast EDM loud enough to rattle the windows, trying to drown out the voice in my head telling me this is a terrible idea. I’m gripping the steering wheel so hard the leather creaks.
I’m doing this forme, I tell myself as I weave through traffic. This is just a transaction. Mutual aid. I’m practically a humanitarian.
But as I turn onto the quiet, tree-lined street where the GPS says he lives, my heart is hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to break out, and I know it has nothing to do with charity.
Of course he lives in the Sky Palace.
I stand in the lobby, glaring at the marble floors that are polished to a mirror shine, feeling distinctly underdressed in my hoodie and gym shorts. This isn't just an apartment building; it’s a fortress for the tax-bracket-immune. My dad has money—loud, flashy, "look at my hotel chain" money—but this place screams quiet, generational wealth. The kind that judges you for breathing too loudly.
The elevator ride to the penthouse takes long enough for my irritation to curdle into anxiety. I tap my foot against the floor, watching the numbers climb.
Penthouse.What a cliché.
The doors slide open to a private hallway that smells faintly of lemon polish. I step out, my sneakers squeaking offensively on the tile. There’s only one door at the end of the hall. It’s massive, dark wood, imposing as hell.
I march up to it, ready to give him an earful about making me drive across the city at midnight. I’m already formulating the insult—something about how he better have imported snacks—when I reach for the digital lock pad.
The air around the door feels heavy. Thicker.
My hand hovers over the numbers. I catch the scent before I even touch the screen. It’s not the usual crisp winter air scent Donghwa carries around campus. It’s dense, impenetrable. Like walking into a freezer that’s been stuffed with burning pine and raw, metallic ink.
My breath hitches. My skin prickles, the bite mark on my shoulder throbbing a warning beat.
I press my thumb to the scanner.
Click.
I don't even get the chance to grab the handle.
The door is ripped open from the inside with enough force to rattle the hinges.
I yelp, stumbling back, but a hand shoots out of the darkness. It clamps around my wrist like a vice, burning hot.
"Shit, wait—"
He yanks me across the threshold so hard my feet leave the floor.
The door slams shut behind us, sealing off the polite silence of the hallway, and suddenly I’m in the dark, drowning in pheromones that taste like ozone and aggression.
"Hey! Watch the—"
My back hits the entryway wall.Hard.
The air leaves my lungs in a wheeze. I blink, trying to adjust to the dim light, and find a face inches from mine.
Donghwa looks wrecked.
Gone is the bored, stoic freshman who looks at everyone like they’re bacteria. The guy pinning me to the wall is unraveling at the seams. His hair is a damp, tangled mess falling into his eyes. His pupils are blown so wide his eyes look entirely black, swallowing the iris. He’s shirtless, sweat slicking his skin, making the black ink of the tiger on his chest look like it’s writhing in the shadows.
He’s panting, ragged, desperate breaths that fan hot against my neck.
