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⋮ ⌗ act eight

IF YOU ever had the chance to go back in time, you swear you'd do everything differently. You wouldn't let yourself be driven by instinct, wouldn't let yourself spiral into that warm, confusing place your Omega kept pulling you toward. You wouldn't have chased after Jay like your heart was some unruly thing you had no control over.

If you had a chance to rewind, you would have chosen silence. You would have scrolled past his face in your memories. You would have let the scent of him fade into the background instead of curling into it.  You would've ignored that first flicker of hope the moment he tolerates your presence.

But who could blame you, really? When you're wired to crave, when your instincts hum louder than your logic, when you're walking around with a heart that beats in a rhythm you can't always understand. And then someone like him comes along, and your Omega folds like paper under heat. So no, you don't entirely blame yourself. But you're tired of this.

"Why are you such an idiot?! I said I wanted avocado shake!" you snap, nearly throwing your compact mirror into your bag as you glare at Yeonjun with all the frustration currently boiling in your system.

Yeonjun flinches, yelping as you smack him on the back of the head with your notebook. "Ow?! What the hell, woman?"

"I was very specific. Avocado. Not mango. Avocado. Do I look like I want mango right now?!" You bark, grabbing the drink he handed you.

He throws his arms up in exasperation, rubbing his head. "Fuck you! I told you there wasn't any avocado left and you said, and I quote, 'Just get whatever's available.' So I did! And now suddenly it's my fault?!" He huffs. "Fuck this life! I should've just left you dehydrated!"

A few classmates turn their heads at the raised voices, eyes flicking between the two of you, but they don't linger. Most of them are used to this by now, your mood swings, your tantrums, fights with everyone that always sound like a serious scene but are somehow just another Tuesday. It's your brand. It's expected. So they go back to their conversations and assignments, writing it off as noise they've already heard before.

But today, it doesn't feel like noise to you. Today, it feels like the whole world is pressing in on your skin, dragging across your nerves, making you want to scream. You drop into your seat, the shake Yeonjun got you sitting untouched on the table. You cross your arms, lean forward, and stare down at the scratched surface of the table like it holds answers you've never been able to find.

Fuck this life, you echo silently. Because truly, what the hell is happening to you? You're restless, overstimulated, irritable. You can't sit still, can't focus, can't breathe without wanting to either cry or snap or disappear into a spa and never come back. You told yourself you still had a month before your heat, your tracking app, your body's usual rhythm always gave you that much warning. But this time, it's all different. There's a heat blooming under your skin that feels different than before. More invasive. It's not just a dull ache in your lower belly or a sensitivity in your scent. It's a slow-burning need that twists in your gut, worse with every hour. You can feel your Omega coiling tighter and tighter, your scent beginning to shift in ways you can't fully mask. The light sweetness is still there, but it's being layered over with deeper—richer, warmer scent.

Your eyes narrow and your fingers twitch on the desk. You can feel someone staring. "What the fuck are you looking at?" you snarl, turning your head sharply.

The Omega girl flinches slightly but doesn't look away. She's sitting three seats down, her hand delicately curled around a designer pen, face perfectly powdered and soft—but your eyes zero in on her dress.

Dior. Or at least, that's what the little tag on the visible collar suggests. Except you know it's fake. The stitching is off. The hem is wrong. You've seen that same knockoff on Taobao for fifty bucks and the zipper sticks when it's real Dior. And her scent was thin. Covered in layers of store-brand fragrance and desperation.

You want to claw the smug look off her face. You heard the fake compliments from the girls around her, all clapping like trained seals about her "taste," pretending they didn't know her entire look was counterfeit. And now she has the nerve to look at you like you're the mess?

She looks at you with that judgmental, sweetened kind of pity like she thinks you're unraveling. And maybe you are. But at least you're not pretending!

And suddenly, you hate everyone.

You hate the Alphas who get up to stretch and throw their dominant scents around. You hate the Betas who sit there unaffected, quietly smug in their neutrality. You hate the Omegas who sit all pretty and soft, their schedules synced with their bonded mates who actually show up when their heats begin.

You hate the idea that you're alone and everyone here gets to pretend they're not. Because no one understands what it feels like to sit in a room full of people and still feel like you're suffocating. To be burning from the inside and have no one to pull the flames off your skin. To ache and ache and ache with no relief in sight, only the slow humiliation of knowing your scent is starting to leak into a desperation.

You're tired of the ache crawling beneath your skin. Tired of waking up hot and flushed, your limbs too heavy and your thoughts running in circles. You're tired of the phantom scent of him.

     THE DOCTOR clicks her pen and glances up from your chart. "You're experiencing premature heat symptoms," she says.

You blink, mouth slightly open, a sudden urge to curse out loud is rising fast in your throat. If you could blame anyone—or anything—it would always come back to him.

"Doc," your mother interjects, hands clasped tightly over her mouth, brows knit in worry. "My daughter has a regular cycle. Every six months. Is it... is it serious? Do we need to prepare for something?"

The doctor's expression doesn't shift. "Not serious, no. But it does suggest that her Omega may have identified an unbonded Alpha. The reaction is instinctual."

Your mother gasps sharply, eyes snapping to you. "An Alpha?" she asks, as if it's the most outrageous thing she's ever heard. "Is this true? You didn't tell me anyone was... involved."

Involved. You scoff internally. What involvement? There was no "involvement." There was just you, orbiting him. A star collapsing in on itself while he stood there, unmoved. If anything, you weren't involved—you were invested, alone.  You scoff inwardly, lips twitching. You can't even begin to explain it. Now he's acting like he cares. Showing up at your most vulnerable moments. Scenting you calm when your distress surges. Talking to you when you've already given up trying. It's enough to make your Omega stir again, confused and hopeful—hopeful, after everything. Maybe, it's because he can smell your pre-heat. Maybe that's the only reason. The biological imperative.

"I don't..." you start, but your throat closes up, too full of shame. Your mother leans in closer, clearly waiting for an explanation you're not prepared to give.  "It's nothing serious," you finally say, forcing the words out past the lump in your throat. "I'll be fine. Just—" your voice falters again, your hands curling tightly into your lap, "maybe some kind of medication?"

"I can't prescribe heat suppressants for this," she says.  "This is a premature heat. Suppressing it improperly could destabilize your cycle long-term. Your hormonal levels are too elevated for standard blocks, and there's no established bond to anchor the response."

You freeze. That phrase again. No established bond. "I can give you scent-neutralizing patches," she continues, "if the pheromonal response becomes overwhelming. But the root cause isn't something a patch will fix."

Your mother wrings her hands beside you, stiff in her seat, visibly distressed. "What about stabilizers? She's never had a history of imbalance. I never had history of imbalance. I— I don't understand. Why is this happening now?"

The doctor offers her a sympathetic look. "That's common. A presenting Omega might carry stable cycles for years before someone disrupts the balance. If her Omega has responded to an unmated Alpha, especially one within close proximity for extended periods, it can trigger early hormonal activity. The body reads it as readiness. Her system is beginning to align, preparing for what it thinks is a potential bond."

"But there isn't a bond," you say quickly, a little too defensively. "There's nothing—he's not—he doesn't want that."

Your mother's eyes are wide, her expression flickering between disbelief and dawning realization.

The doctor glances up from her notes. "Ah. A one-sided bond, then," she muttered, "That doesn't matter. Your Omega has already begun responding to his scent, and from what I see in your charts, your body is attempting to sync. Whether the Alpha reciprocates or not is irrelevant to your body."

You sigh heavily, rubbing your palm over your face. Every word is a confirmation of what you've been denying for weeks now. You've been spiraling into this heat because of something he didn't even give you. He didn't even claim you, he didn't scent you regularly, he barely gave you scraps of kindness. And yet, you're still experiencing all of this, your body still chose him.

Fuck this hierarchy. Fuck every structure built to remind you that no matter how hard you try to keep control, your body will always be ruled by something beneath the skin.

The doctor moves to stand, her hands smoothing out the hem of her coat.  "You just need to manage your stress," she says with gentle authority. "Keep yourself hydrated. Eat well. Rest when you can. Try not to overstimulate your system with strong scents or emotional surges. And if possible..." Her voice wavers. "Distance yourself from the Alpha."

You scoffed silently. Distance. Like that hasn't already been your first defense. Like you haven't already forced yourself to sit rows away in lectures, to swallow the instinct to check if he's behind you in crowded halls. 

You keep your expression blank, nodding once. The doctor doesn't press further. She's probably seen enough cases like yours to know which ones are about to fall apart and which ones already have. She offers you a paper bag with the scent patch, a mild suppressant in a sleek white box, and a bottle of electrolyte tabs.

"Just stabilize yourself," she says gently. "Even if you can't cut the bond, you can dull the symptoms. Give yourself time. Give your Omega space to detach—if it can."

If it can. There's always that part, warning that not all imprints fade, that sometimes the body doesn't forget the Alpha it first aligned with. And worse—sometimes it waits. Sometimes it breaks down slowly, months, years, unraveling.

You step out of the clinic, blinking hard against the sunlight. Your mother is at your side again, her expression tight, but she doesn't speak. But later, in the car, she tries in her own way. "Maybe we could stop somewhere," she says. "There's that boutique near the roundabout—didn't you say they have new arrivals this week? We could look. Or just window shop. Something to distract you." Her tone is mothering in the gentlest way, her fingers tapping against the steering wheel.

You sigh and lean your head against the glass. The suggestion is kind, sweet even, but there's a part of you that recoils at the thought of dresses and handbags. But still, you nod.  uThe silence settles again as it gives you space to think. What are you supposed to do? Rip him out of you like a root too deep to reach? Cut the string that ties your Omega to him? You scoff softly under your breath, eyes focusing on the moving blur of street signs and passing faces.

You almost laugh at the absurdity of it all. Exorcise him? As if Jay had ever been something so fleeting, so easily removed. He was embedded—threaded into your senses, branded into your chemistry. And for what? For nothing. For him to treat you like a nuisance one moment and then scent you like you belonged to him the next. Maybe he didn't know what he was doing. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe he just didn't care.

But you do. You care too damn much, you don't even know why.

Maybe the suppressants will help. Maybe they'll level out your imbalance, make the nights less cruel, keep your Omega from crying out for a bond that was never offered. Maybe the scent patch will shield you from inhaling him again and again. Maybe. But maybe not. Either way, you have to try. You have to claw your way back to center. Back to the version of yourself that existed before your biology hijacked your dignity.

Because if you don't—if you keep letting yourself unravel under this invisible thread, keep spiraling around every moment he chooses to show up and confuse you—you'll lose more than just your pride. You'll lose you. And haven't you already given enough?

⋮ ⌗ act nine

"WHY DO you have that?" Yeonjun's voice dripped with curiosity, but it grated on your nerves. Your eye twitched the moment his finger grazed over the edge of the cat-shaped patch stuck to the side of your neck, and you felt a familiar boiling sensation beginning to bubble beneath your skin.

You swatted his hand away with a slap, fixing him with a glare. "Don't touch it," you snapped, pushing the chair away from him, but he moved his chair closer to yours again.

Yeonjun chuckled, entirely unfazed by your tone. "Chill, I'm just asking. It's cute!"

"Fuck off," you snapped, kicking the leg of his chair so hard it screeched against the floor, jerking sideways. Ningning let out a yelp as she caught it before he toppled over.

"Geez! You've been a menace lately!" he complained, rubbing his side. "I'm seriously hurt! You're so painfully mean these days, I'm starting to think you're developing violent coping mechanisms."

You rolled your eyes, grabbing your compact mirror from your bag just to avoid eye contact.

"I can't believe we're going to be stuck together all second semester," Yeonjun added with a dramatic sigh. "I thought maybe you'd mellow out now that you and Jay are back to... whatever the hell it is you two are doing. You were all sunshine last last week when he brought your clip back, now look at you now."

You clicked your tongue and gave his chair another kick. "Don't. Even. Mention. His. Name."

Ningning tilted her head, her curiosity flaring immediately as her brows knit together. "Seriously? What happened this time? You two were like practically not—so flirting last time."

"I'm moving on," you said plainly, flipping your compact mirror open and pretending to inspect your mascara, even though you could feel both of their eyes practically drilling holes into you. A beat of stunned silence followed, then a gasp from both of them in sync. You didn't even look up—just reapplied your lip gloss.

"So you're admitting there was something going on?" Yeonjun was the first to speak, already leaning forward with a shit-eating grin on his face, eyes sparkling with the satisfaction of catching you slipping. "That's what I heard. Clear as day."

You kicked his chair again with less force but more intent, eyes still trained on your reflection. "That's not what I said."

"That's exactly what you said," he sang back. "You said, and I quote, 'I'm moving on,' which implies there was something to move on from."

You finally lowered the mirror, giving him a dry look. "If you keep talking, I'm moving on from your existence."

Ningning reached across the table to gently tug at your wrist, drawing your attention back to her. "Babe, for real. If you're trying to move on, that's totally valid. But... how about the bond?"

Your eyes met hers slowly, your jaw tight, your pulse a dull throb in your neck. You didn't even realize you were holding your breath until your chest tightened. "There's no bond," you said flatly.

For a second, there was only silence. Then, Yeonjun gasped, so exaggerated you almost threw your things at him. Ningning mirrored the reaction, hand flying to her mouth.

Your eye twitched with irritation. "God, both of you deserve an award for worst acting," you muttered, dragging your hand away from Ningning.

"You don't scent someone like that if there's nothing!" Ningning said. Yeonjun nodded quickly, supporting her claim. "Jay didn't just sit beside you and breathe. He was reacting. He reacted to you."

You looked down at your hands, your freshly done nails glittering faintly. Despite the mild spring warmth outside, your fingertips felt cold, like your body was refusing to settle, like your Omega was stuck somewhere between longing and denial. "He only reacts when I cry," you said. "He only notices when I'm falling apart. When I'm breaking in front of him. That's not bonding. That's..." You paused, the word sour in your mouth. "That's — I don't know? Pity? Basic human decency?"

Ningning didn't speak for a beat but when she did, her voice was gentler. "That's not whatever you think it is, love. That's instinct. That's Alpha behavior when they're drawn—when their instincts aren't neutral. If he wasn't reacting at all, if he was truly indifferent to your scent or your state, we'd be having a very different conversation right now."

You scoffed, dragging your nails across the table in a slow absentminded motion. "That's exactly what I'm talking about, Ning. It's all just instinct. Just... pre-coded biological nonsense. His Alpha reacts to my Omega. My Omega reacts to his Alpha. None of it means he wants me. None of it means anything real."

Ningning's brows furrowed, lips pressing into a tight line. "It could mean something real," she finally said. "Just because it starts with instinct doesn't mean it has to end there. That's how most bonds start. A flicker. A pull. And then choice. It becomes real because we choose it."

You exhaled, hollow, your thoughts curling around that last word. Heh. Choice? Jay also had a choice but he chooses to be cold, distant and guarded. Every time you offered even the smallest piece of yourself, he returned it either with silence, or scolding, or irritation.

A bitter smile tugged at your lips as you reached for your bag, standing up with an exhale. "You know what?" you said, interrupting the silence that followed your last admission. "We really have to stop letting my Omega confuse biology for something that pretends to be love."

Ningning and Yeonjun both straightened at your sudden shift in tone, watching as you began gathering your things. "I'm not being dramatic," you continued as you slung the strap of your bag over your shoulder. "This isn't about Jay anymore. This is about me. Guarding my peace, my Omega, my sanity. And finally choosing something different—because this back-and-forth has been toxic, and I'm tired."

Yeonjun gave a low whistle under his breath, impressed. Ningning looked like she wanted to cry. "So yeah," you added, already walking toward the door, "topics done."

You stopped just before the threshold, glancing over your shoulder at them. "Also... I'm skipping classes. Who's coming with me?" Yeonjun was the first to move, already pushing his chair back. Ningning didn't even hesitate—she threw her pen down and rose with a grin, looping her arm through yours as you all stepped into the hallway.

The conversation shifted easily as you walked. You didn't mention Jay again. Ningning was already excitedly chatting about the upcoming university games, and Yeonjun was making bets on who'd be crowned king this year.

     SINCE THE second semester had officially begun, the atmosphere on campus had shifted. The subjects, on paper, felt heavier—more academic and more demanding. Titles like Media Law and Ethics, Digital Media Production, Advanced Communication Theory, and the continuation of Media Research Methods, loomed large across your schedule. There was Audience Analysis, which sounded painfully dry, and Media Effects, which felt like a glorified summary of everything you already knew. Then there was Strategic Communication and PR Campaigns, and honestly, the name alone was enough to make your brain start buffering.

Still, with all those options laid out in front of you, you made your choice with one thing in mind: preservation. Of your mental health. Of your joy. Of your damn peace. Advertising and Promotion was the clear winner—not because you dreamed of building brand empires or writing catchy taglines, but because the syllabus looked manageable and the assignments felt less like theoretical death traps and more like hands-on creative output. And if you were being completely honest, it just sounded easier. After everything that had drained you last semester, you deserved easy.

You told yourself this was your redemption, It helped, too, that this semester came with a fresh schedule. A clean slate. A different crowd. A new seating chart in every classroom. And best of all? Park Jongseong was nowhere to be found!

No shared lectures. No overlapping labs. Not even a fleeting encounter in the corridors. You didn't see his face, didn't hear that sharp, indifferent voice, and perhaps most importantly, you didn't catch a single whiff of that painfully addictive Alpha scent that had once made your Omega curl.

It was a cleanse. A detox! And as each day passed, you became more and more convinced: life was easier without him. You could wake up without overthinking what you were going to wear in case he showed up. You didn't have to check your reflection fifteen times. You could reapply your gloss for yourself. Your Omega wasn't purring randomly, wasn't flaring its emotions at every second breath.

And for once, the universe seemed to be aligning in your favor—like it had finally decided to cut you a break after everything it put you through. You almost felt like you should start lighting a candle every morning in gratitude or whispering a little thank-you prayer into the void, because everything was just... working.

You tapped your foot against the floor of the campus café as you scrolled through your wishlist, excitement bubbling beneath your skin. Across from you, Ningning was mid-sip of her strawberry milk when you dropped your grand announcement. "I want to shop for new clothes for the University Games," you declared, glancing up from your screen. "And I definitely need a new bag. I swear I've already used all my cute ones last year, and I refuse to repeat an outfit cycle. Don't you agree?"

Ningning groaned dramatically and slapped a hand over her ear. "Please, spare me. I can't even think about bags right now—I have a date this weekend and I need to save money. Do you know how expensive one nice outfit can get?"

You stared at her. "What the fuck? Let your date pay for that!"

She burst into laughter, sliding her phone across the table to avoid the potential guilt trip from your wounded expression. "It's a first date! I can't just show up expecting him to foot the bill like I'm some spoiled heiress."

"Why not?" you shot back with a scoff. "You are a spoiled heiress in my eyes. If he can't handle that, dump him and move on to someone with a platinum card."

Ningning groaned and slumped back in her chair, dragging her drink closer. "I was the one who asked him out..."

You blinked. For a second, your brain refused to process it. "Wait—what?" Your voice was sharp with disbelief, your mouth falling open. "You asked him?"

Ningning winced and took another sip, avoiding your glare. "I did..."

"Oh my god." You leaned forward, hands gripping the edge of the table. "It's okay! First date etiquette exists for a reason! Men are literally hardwired to compete for attention and resources. It's their only evolutionary flex."

She snorted at that but didn't argue.

"I mean it! First dates are like ceremonial performances—they need to show off a little. Pick the place, foot the bill, act like they're worthy of your time. Not the other way around! You're the one who's soft and glowing and moisturized. He's the one that should be sweating!"

"It's not... I kind of... forced him," she muttered into her straw, and you nearly gasped, scandalized for all of two seconds—until the realization dawned on you, that you were exactly like that. Maybe not in the same brand of Ningning wielded so effortlessly, but the fire underneath it? The need to chase, to claim, to wrap your fingers around something the moment you decided it belonged to you—that was a language you both spoke fluently.

Because when the two of you wanted something, you didn't ask for permission. You didn't wait for it to be handed to you, or for fate to gracefully align the stars in your favor. No, you went after it. With the same fierce insistence you applied to limited-edition makeup drops, to the last size of a dress on sale.

You took what you wanted—unapologetically, recklessly, and sometimes with the kind of conviction that made people either fall in love with you or sprint in the other direction.

Her version of pursuit came with dangerously sweet smiles and paper-thin threats disguised as flirtation, the kind of behavior that somehow made men fall at her feet. Yours was subtler. Less sharp, more glazed in charm and a glimmer of need. You never threatened, never cornered. You dropped hints, left trails, spoke a little too sweetly, laughed a little too long. You tried to be soft enough to invite warmth and not too much to scare it away. Always just enough to be remembered, never quite enough to be kept.

You watched her now, bent over her phone, eyes dancing as she planned her weekend. Her certainty made you ache.

A pout tugged at your lips, God, were you really this hopeless? The envy, the slow-burning ache of watching someone love so easily, so cleanly — it all sat heavy in your chest. It wasn't the boy you were jealous of. It was her. That fearless kind of wanting. That persistent pursuit without hesitation, without shame.

Because you? You always second-guessed. You always bent to the shape of the person you were chasing, making yourself smaller, quieter, more palatable until you weren't even sure what you wanted anymore, only that you were exhausted from wanting it alone.

But maybe that was okay. You've survived longer seasons, you made it through a full year of watching people pair off while you learned how to love yourself in all the ways they couldn't. You learned to fill the quiet with laughter, to paint your own joy across days that didn't offer any.

You were still here. Beautiful. Loud. Rich in the kind of confidence that only came from rebuilding yourself every time you were chipped down. And if there's a piece missing? A puzzle edge that never quite locked into place? Then fine. You'd rather have a puzzle with an open ending than one completed with a shape that never really belonged to begin with.

⋮ ⌗ act ten

     FLORASIS COSMETICS —the rival to Flower Knows in your mental beauty Olympics—has finally made its way into your vanity, and you honestly feel like pulling your hair out just trying to process the beauty of it. The sculpting palette is nothing short of a work of art: delicate carvings pressed into fine powder, patterns so intricate they could be framed and mounted instead of swiped across your cheekbones. How were you supposed to use this? How were you supposed to dig a brush into something that looked like a museum artifact without feeling like you were defiling sacred ground?

The box—an actual gift box, not one of those cheap promotional kits—was brought in like a treasure chest by your father, who had just returned from a business trip to China. You had nearly tackled him at the door, tearing into the wrapping with the urgency of someone who had been emotionally deprived of joy and beauty for weeks. Inside: the kind of packaging that made you gasp out loud. Carved brass details, silk linings, the softest cushions hugging each product like they were crown jewels. Your hands had literally trembled.

You swore a part of your soul left your body when you caught the glint of the lipstick packaging shaped like an ancient scroll. A part of you wanted to display them in a glass case. Another part is wanted to use them immediately, to feel like a regal goddess in every passing mirror.

"Guess who got new makeup and a new perfume," you chirped, voice sing-song as you twirled with your shopping bag in hand, the hem of your skirt swaying with each step. You sank down dramatically between Yeonjun and Ningning, full of the high that came from indulging in luxury and the scent of Dior still fresh on your wrists. You expected the usual noise: Ningning's squeals, Yeonjun's fake gagging, both of them leaning in to inspect your haul and playfully beg for samples.

Instead, silence. Their mouths were slightly open, expressions oddly blank, both pairs of eyes staring past you in unblinking unison. You frowned, confused. "Hey. Hello?" You waved your hand between them. "I just said I got new makeup. A Florasis palette. New Dior scent. You two always freak out about this kind of stuff."

Still nothing. You reached out and tapped Ningning's arm. Nothing. Tapped Yeonjun's shoulder a little harder and he finally turned his head, slowly. "Guess who's gonna spiral later," he muttered with zero inflection.

Your heart dropped somewhere beneath the floor. "What are you talking about?"

And then you felt the air shifted around you. A subtle but sharp curled at the edge of your senses. That scent, so unassuming, yet so devastatingly familiar, brushed past your nose with that clean, slightly cool undertone you hadn't let yourself think about in weeks.

No... You turned your head and the world tilted. Park Jongseong! In the flesh!

Sitting in the back corner of the lecture hall, headphones were in, one hand holding an open book, the other absently tapping against his leg. His hair was pushed back again, effortlessly styled like it always was when he was too busy to care but still ended up looking stupidly sooooo good. The sleeves of his sweatshirt were rolled to the elbow. His brow furrowed as he read, jaw clenched ever so slightly like he was concentrating, or irritated, or both.

Your mouth parted. "What the fuck is Jay doing here?" The words scraped out of your throat.

Yeonjun winced like he'd been bracing for the explosion. "Surprise elective merge," he said, shrugging helplessly. "Professor Han's class got absorbed into ours. Jay's on the updated roster now."

You stared at him, then turned to Ningning, who nodded in silent confirmation, eyes still bouncing nervously between you and Jay's corner of the room. "And when," you said slowly, "were you going to tell me that my personal nightmare suddenly enrolled in this class?"

"We just found out," Ningning hissed in a whisper. "They emailed the schedule update late last night. And you were too busy texting about your spa booking and new contour brush—"

"I was in a good mood!" you snapped, hugging your Dior bag to your chest. "Why does fate have the worst sense of timing?"

And as if summoned by the sound of your voice alone, Jay shifted in his seat. He didn't look up, but you knew. You knew he knew you were here. Knew he felt it too—that invisible cord still tangled between you, no matter how much you tried to sever it. Your Omega stirred violently inside you, purring like a fool. Begging for attention.

Shut it, you hissed internally. You hadn't even been wearing your scent patch today. Idiot. You were so caught up in the glow of shopping and the shimmer of new makeup that you forgot the one rule you've kept religiously since deciding to move on—never let your scent bleed out around him again.

But it was too late. Your Omega had caught the scent of him too, and you could already feel the beginning ripples of that premature hormonal shift your doctor had warned you about. The low curl in your belly. That fuzzy, heat-prickled pressure that nestled between your skin and your bones.

Panic gripped you for a second. Okay, yes, fine, he looks good. So what? He always looked good. He was always handsome in that infuriating, sharp-boned way. Hair swept back just messily, long fingers flipping pages, jaw set with focus, lips pressed together in that unreadable line. That was just his face.

It's okay, you assure yourself again. It's just one course. One elective out of your entire schedule. You'll only see him once a week, and you've survived worse. You've already gone through the slow, brutal undoing of your pride, your patience, and your Omega. There's no reason why this should be any harder than what you've already endured.

You can handle this—with respectful distance, calm indifference, and a full commitment to self-preservation. You've trained yourself for this, haven't you? You don't need him. You're over it. Your logic is stronger than your instincts. You can do this.

But then, like some twisted joke the universe decided to play at your expense, he starts showing up in places he shouldn't be. Not just in that one elective—no. Suddenly, he's everywhere. Fucking everywhere!

You see him in the library when you're trying to print something for class, sitting across the room, eyes already on you. You catch him in the campus café, ordering two tables away, hands tucked in his pockets. You find him leaving the same building at the exact time your class ends—even when you know he doesn't have a lecture there.

Okay, campus is small. Schedules overlap. It's just a coincidence! He probably has his own reasons—assignments, club meetings, group work. Maybe his favorite café happens to be the same one you like. Maybe his classes just happen to end when yours do. He's not doing anything wrong, not really. It's not like he's chasing you. Not in any obvious way.

But there's a consistency. A thread pulling tight every time you turn a corner and see him already there. A breath caught in your throat when your eyes meet for half a second longer than they should. A pressure in your chest that builds every time you feel him near—even before you actually see him. You know this feeling too well. You've walked this path before—this rabbit hole of spiraling thoughts. You've memorized every turn it takes to fall into delusion, and you swore you'd never take the plunge again.

But, you feel yourself teetering on the edge, again. Get a grip, you hiss internally, forcing yourself to blink it away, to ground your thoughts, to remind your body who's in control here.

Ugh. You hate how your body responds before your mind has time to stop it. You hate the little things: the flutter in your chest when you smell him first; the way your Omega perks up, tail-wagging and alert, just because his presence registers nearby. You hate how your carefully constructed routines begin to warp—shifting to avoid him in the halls, choosing the longer route just to not pass by the old lecture building, holding your breath whenever you step into the library. It's like you're hiding from a ghost. Only Jay is very much alive, very much real, and whether he means to or not, he's haunting you.

     "THERE'S A whole meeting coming up for the University Games prep," Yeonjun groaned as he swung his bag onto the table with a dramatic sigh. He rolled his shoulders and stretched his arms. "I pulled a late-nighter reviewing terms for our summative. I swear my brain's leaking out my ears."

You barely looked up. Your gaze was fixed blankly on the whiteboard ahead, mind fogged, drifting somewhere far from the present moment. You hadn't even touched your notebook. Ningning had bailed on today's lecture with a casual 'Skip it, babe, not worth the stress—Jay's in that class anyway, just come over and nap.' You should've followed her advice. Should've turned on your heel the second you smelled him near the hall, should've saved yourself this tension gripping at your spine since you entered the room.

Instead, you sat frozen in your chair, arms crossed tightly as if you could physically anchor your emotions from escaping again.

Yeonjun dropped into the chair beside you, not bothering to glance around first. The next second, he let out a sharp yelp. "Ow! What the hell?! Who the fuck leaves their ID on a damn seat?" He shot upright, grabbing at his backside with one hand and snatching the culprit card off the chair with the other. His voice echoed through the half-filled classroom. Your face remained carefully blank, eyes locked on the whiteboard ahead, where nothing particularly interesting was written.

Yeonjun paused, staring at the object in his hand—a student ID card—before going uncharacteristically quiet. That caught your attention. Slowly, you turned your head to glance at him, one brow arching in question.

He startled slightly, caught in your gaze, then offered an awkward smile that didn't quite meet his eyes. "I—uh... damn, maybe someone just dropped it by accident or something," he said, voice an octave higher than usual. "I'll go, um... I'll just put it on the center table. Y'know. So they see it."

You narrowed your eyes slightly, confused by the shift in his tone. But you said nothing, watching him as he stood up and briskly crossed the room, the ID clutched a little too tightly in his fingers. He set it gently down on the table at the front before returning to his seat, brushing his pants off like the ID had burned him.

You blinked once, then shrugged, pushing the interaction aside and sinking back into your thoughts. Your mind had been a cyclone of clutter since the moment you stepped into the lecture hall—ever since you'd sensed a familiar presence brushing too close, like a scent you couldn't scrub out of your skin.

You endured the next three hours of the painfully dry lecture with gritted teeth. The professor's voice blurred into a steady drone, too monotone to hold anyone's attention, especially not yours. Your fingers tapped restlessly on your notebook, and you had to stop yourself from sighing for the twentieth time in the past ten minutes. On your right, Yeonjun had long since surrendered to the lull of the lecture, head tilted slightly back, lips parted as he snored softly with absolutely no shame. The sound grated on your nerves and you didn't know if you were more annoyed at him for dozing off while you suffered or at yourself for not being able to zone out the same way.

But the truth was, you couldn't relax. Jay's presence pressed at your awareness. He wasn't even doing anything. Just sitting there—silent, poised, occasionally jotting down notes with his signature. But it was enough to unsettle you. Every time he shifted, your eyes involuntarily flicked toward him. Every time his scent subtly curled through the air, your Omega responded instantly, purring traitorously despite your best efforts to ignore it.

It wasn't even a strong scent today: neutral, faintly clean, but your Omega reacted like it was ambrosia. God, you wanted to scream. And to make matters worse, the adhesive patch on your scent gland—already half-worn from overuse—was starting to itch like hell. You resisted the urge to scratch at your neck, rolling your shoulder instead in an effort to relieve the sensation without drawing attention. It didn't help. The irritation only amplified the restless coil tightening in your belly.

It felt like your Omega was trying to claw its way out, pressing up against your skin. You clenched your jaw and forced your gaze back to the front, blinking hard, trying to refocus on the slide about ethical dilemmas in digital advertising. It might as well have been written in a foreign language.

The back of your neck was prickling now, heat crawling up your spine. You tugged the collar of your shirt slightly, willing the sensation to ease off, but it didn't. The discomfort was relentless. A low thrum of biological tension building under your skin. Maybe it was the air circulation. Or the broken AC. Or the fact that you hadn't slept properly in three nights because your body was going haywire again, dancing on the edge of another hormonal shift.

Your hands curled into fists in your lap. You almost wanted to kick Yeonjun awake, just to have someone to blame.

You needed a massage, a facial, a two-hour-long scalp treatment. You wanted to lie down in a silk robe while someone pressed hot stones along your spine and whispered that everything would be okay. Maybe a shopping spree would help. A new pair of heels, another designer bag you could photograph and flaunt. You were already planning the text to your father: Daddy, Dior dropped a new saddle bag and it's giving limited edition... please? ૮ ⸝⸝o̴̶̷᷄ ·̭ o̴̶̷̥᷅⸝⸝ ྀིა⸝

Instead of going to your next class, you skipped the rest of your schedule entirely and took a cab straight to Ningning's house.

All you got was a casual, "He definitely wants you that bad," muffled slightly through her salmon roll as she sat cross-legged on the floor, scrolling her phone while dipping sushi in soy sauce.

"That's it?" you snapped, yanking a pillow into your arms. "That's all you have to say?"

She shrugged. "What else do you want me to say? You came in here with that look on your face and said his name within five minutes. What am I supposed to do—not assume he's got you all twisted again?"

You scowled at Ningning, lips pursed, but it was more out of habit than true annoyance. You didn't have the energy to argue with her, because as much as you wanted to dismiss her words, to chalk them up to her usual dramatic flair—she wasn't wrong. You did feel twisted. Frayed at the edges. Emotionally constipated. Whatever poetic metaphor you wanted to use for being perpetually on edge—none of them could really capture the constant, low-burning confusion you carried every time you saw Jay.

And, he was everywhere. Again.

The more it kept happening, the harder it became to ignore. And Ningning was having the time of her life narrating your slow descent into reluctant delusion.

"Oh my God," she whisper-hissed one afternoon, grabbing your wrist as the two of you stepped out of the admin building. "He's there. At the top of the stairwell."

You didn't even have to ask who.

"And now he's walking down—like right as we appear. I swear, he was standing there for five minutes doing nothing."

You pretended not to care, focused intently on your phone screen, but your Omega was already humming, alert and all-too-excited.

The next day, Ningning didn't even wait for a proper sighting.

"Okay, what the hell?" she hissed, sliding into the booth across from you at your usual café. "You're telling me he's suddenly into iced lavender matchas and this place's god-awful acoustic playlist? No. He is not a coffee person. I've never seen that man drink anything!"

You didn't even look over your shoulder. You'd felt the shift in the air the moment you walked in. That familiar weight settling at the back of your neck. "I'm telling you, he's hovering," Ningning continued, dropping her voice as she leaned forward. "And he's only doing it because you won't look at him."

You gave her your best withering glare over your straw, "I'm ignoring him because I'm trying to move on. Not because I want to bait him into doing something."

She raised both brows and popped a macaron into her mouth. "Babe, you are not ignoring him. You're avoiding him. And you know what happens when you avoid something that wants your attention?"

"I swear to God, if you say it grows stronger—"

"It grows stronger," she said, grinning. You groaned and dropped your forehead to the table, muffling your frustration in your arms. But you couldn't stop the restless pulse of your thoughts.

You weren't that pathetic! Your life didn't revolve around a single man's presence—or worse, absence. But your chest had been feeling heavier lately. The quiet days were harder to get through. There were moments when you glanced toward a doorway or listened for footsteps that never came, and the disappointment curled in your gut. And under the layers of pride and anger and well-constructed apathy, you knew that you were doomed the moment your body started keeping track of him.

You had memorized him. His presence wasn't just something you recognized. It was something your body anticipated. And under all the pride you wore all the carefully layered apathy, all the glitter and gloss you applied—you knew. You had been doomed the moment your body started tracking him. You were absolutely, irrevocably fucked the second you realized your eyes scanned the room automatically. The second you noticed your own awareness sharpening whenever he was near, even if he didn't say a word. Even if he was just there.

It wasn't fair! He didn't even have to do anything anymore. Just existing within your vicinity was enough to stir everything you'd spent weeks trying to bury. And still, you kept your routines, sat in your usual spots, retouched your gloss every thirty minutes, let Ningning drag you around the campus café circuit, hoping distraction would erase the obsession. But it didn't. Because he kept showing up. Always!

"What the fuck is he doing at the ladies' bench?" you snapped. "That's, like, the most feminine corner on campus—soft pink umbrellas, flower-painted tables. Why is he studying there?"

Ningning didn't even flinch. "He's been there for thirty minutes. Didn't even open his laptop. Just sitting and occasionally glancing. You sure he's not waiting for you?"

You waved her off, muttering curses, heart jackhammering in your chest like you were about to be ambushed. Jay this. Jay that. You didn't even notice how often his name slipped from your mouth until you heard it echoing back at you. You didn't even realize that your every minute—your thoughts, your movements, your entire schedule—had started to orbit around him.

You were done for the day he didn't show up and everything felt off. Fuck!

⋮ ⌗ act eleven

     "YOU NEED to join at least two minor games or sign up to facilitate one," the Government rep from Education was saying into the mic. "Event logistics, food coordination, support for the major teams—whatever your strengths are, we'll find a spot. We also need volunteers for infractions and violation tracking—points, fouls, that sort of thing."

You leaned forward toward Ningning, completely disengaged from the mandatory meeting. "Hey," you whispered, flicking your nails together lightly, eyes gleaming with quiet excitement. "I got it. The new Dior blush—the one with the redesigned packaging? Forty bucks. The shade's softer now, less of that neon-cool pink from before. It's more muted, moreeee wearable."

Ningning's eyes snapped wide as she turned toward you, forgetting entirely about the ongoing announcements. "Already?! I saw the previews online. I'm not gonna lie, I'm not sold on the new packaging yet. The text is kind of... oversized?"

You rolled your eyes. "Who cares about the packaging? The formula, babe. The formula is everything. I did side-by-side swatches last night. The old one's a little chalky compared to this—it's so finely milled now, almost like silk. Blends like butter. No fallout either."

"Ugh, I hate you," Ningning groaned softly, eyes sparkling with envy. "Let me try it next time we hang out. I want to feel that buttery blush on my skin."

You smirked, flipping your hair back. "Of course. And wait 'til you see the bags I bought too. Bags, plural. Like—more than one. Because—"

Your words died mid-sentence. A shadow fell behind you, and your breath hitched. Something inside you tensed, your instincts flaring up. Slowly, almost reluctantly, your head turned toward the figure standing just behind your chair.

Park Jongseong?! It was him, wearing that usual booooring clean, muted palette of grays and blacks, eyes calm and unreadable behind the rim of his glasses, expression completely devoid of emotion. His backpack was slung casually over one shoulder, his presence as quiet as it was disruptive. Since you were sitting at the leftmost seat of your row, Ningning in the center and Yeonjun on the right, both of them followed your movement, turning their heads almost in sync with yours. You could feel their collective stillness tighten as the air shifted.

"What the fuck?" you snapped, mix with panic you hated. "Can't you see that this chair's for our bags? Like, obviously? This is not your seat." Your tone wavered slightly at the end, the bite softened only by the way your Omega stirred—rattling behind your chest.

Jay stared at you, unmoving for a heartbeat. Then, as if the tension in your voice didn't register, he spoke in his usual clipped, impassive tone. "There's no seat available."

You blinked, glancing around the lecture hall—okay, fine. Most of the chairs were already taken. People had crammed in at the last second, and yes, you might've been using the extra seat as a glorified handbag throne. But still!

"That's not my problem," you muttered, but the protest had lost momentum. Your hands moved on their own, dragging your bag with a little too much force. You avoided looking at him as he took the now-cleared chair beside you, moving with the effortless quiet that annoyed you to your core.

Yeonjun looked between the two of you, eyes narrowing. Beside him, Ningning shifted in her seat, biting down on the inside of her cheek, her entire body visibly vibrating with barely-contained excitement "The plot is plotting something," she hissed under her breath.  "The plot is plotting something!"

You didn't even turn your head. With the smallest twitch of muscle and the elegance of someone who'd done this more times, you reached under the table and pinched Ningning's thigh. She let out a small yelp and covered her mouth, giving you a wide-eyed glare. You crossed your legs carefully, your entire posture shifted. You turned your body just enough to face Ningning, presenting your side to Jay.

"—Most of the minor games are based on child-friendly formats," the representative was saying. "Some are casual online games like Roblox, while the major events include Mobile Legends, basketball, volleyball, cheerdancing, swimming competitions, and more."

Your attention was half there, half flickering in annoyance as you felt the brush of an arm—his arm—bump into yours. You hissed under your breath, your brow instantly furrowing as you turned to glare at Jay. He didn't even look the slightest bit fazed. His fingers casually ran through his hair like the brush of his skin against yours was completely unintentional. And the audacity? He didn't even offer a damn apology.

You scoffed softly, flipping your hair with irritation as you shifted your entire body slightly away from him, putting your focus elsewhere.

"—We're estimating a contribution of around seventy dollars per student on the team," the organizer continued, clearly reading off notes. "That may vary depending on whether the head department decides to sponsor a portion. But our projected budget is about two hundred and fifty thousand dollars total. That includes uniforms, props, transport allowances, and basic essentials for team prep."

Just as you were about to reach for your iced coffee, Jay's elbow nudged yours again. Your head whipped in his direction, a sharp glare forming in your eyes—only to catch him smoothing his hair back again, eyes lazily forward. Again?! You sighed sharply through your nose, pulled your chair a few inches to the left, and tried to pretend he wasn't there.

The speaker's voice droned on. "—Of course, a lot will fall under coordination. We'll need volunteers not only for player support but also for logistics, media coverage, and audience management. There will be performance numbers, cheer squad allocations, and disciplinary committees to monitor violations. Our biggest competitors will be CHS—they're known for their full-sponsorship systems and aggressive prep. So we need full cooperation this year—especially from the upperclassmen."

Jay's shoulder brushed against yours again.

You clenched your jaw, turning your head slowly. "What the hell is wrong with you?" you snapped under your breath, arms folding tightly across your chest. "If you're that desperate to fix your hair, there's a whole damn restroom for that. Go stare at yourself in the mirror like a normal person. Geez, what's with—"

"What the—?! You dyed your hair?!" Yeonjun's voice cut through the air before you could finish yours. His reaction drew a few curious glances from the students sitting nearby.

You turned, actually seeing Jay now. And there it was: silver. Cool-toned silver, like rain-washed chrome, with the undercut now even more prominent, sharp lines framing his already angular face. His fringe was swept back effortlessly.

What the fuck? You hated him, and his hair looked really, really good. For a split second, your eyes followed the line of his jaw to the edge of his neck, then the slope of his nose. Your Omega let out the quietest purr in the pit of your chest, like some embarrassed reaction you couldn't control, and you cursed internally, dragging your gaze away before it wandered further.

Yeonjun was still gawking like Jay had just walked onto a runway. "Dude, I swear, if you didn't already have that resting death stare, you'd be making people fall left and right!"

Jay didn't respond. He just leaned back in his chair and tapped his pen on the edge of the desk, focused on the front as if he couldn't feel your barely concealed stare burning a hole in the side of his head.

Yeonjun pulled a face at being ignored, the moment losing its momentum. His shoulders slumped as he sighed, stretching out his legs and flopping his arms. "I think people treat me this way because I'm a Beta," he grumbled.

You turned your head slowly, brow raised, finally glancing at him. "You act like being a Beta is a curse."

"It is!" he huffed. "I'm literally the most approachable, least threatening person in every room and still I get no attention. Meanwhile," he gestured vaguely toward Jay, who remained unbothered, still tapping his pen, "mister Alpha here just breathes and people trip over themselves."

"—We'll be passing around sign-up sheets for the University Games tasks," the student organizer called out through the mic. "Please choose roles according to your ability and availability. Let's all do our part to make this event successful!"

You leaned back with a groan, tilting your head toward Ningning with a sigh. "Okay, what's the least energy-draining, makeup-safe, non-haggard role I can grab without ruining my nails? Just pass me the damn paper. I'll pick something brainless and get the hell out of here."

The paper made its way toward you—after brushing across Jay's arm—and you snatched it without a glance in his direction, though your Omega stirred immediately at the proximity. Stupid instincts.

"You did not just salivate while looking at that man's face!" Ningning whisper-shrieked beside you, eyes wide. "My God, you looked like you were about to bite his hand off—or kiss it!"

You kicked her ankle under the table in retaliation, shooting her a warning glare while quickly scanning the list of roles.

"'Documentation—Violation Monitoring' and 'Charades (Minor Games)' sound tolerable enough," you muttered, clicking your pink gel pen. "I'll just snap a few pictures, wear sunglasses, and laugh at people. That's it." You scribbled your name in your usual cursive signature.

"Write mine too," Jay said suddenly, glancing sideways.

Your pen froze midair. "Excuse me?!" you barked, twisting your head to glare at him fully. "You have two functioning hands and your own alphabet system. Write it yourself!"

Jay blinked once, completely unfazed. "You already have the pen."

You stared at him in disbelief. "So what?" you hissed, waving the pen dramatically. "What, do I look like your secretary? How am I even supposed to know which games you're planning to join?"

He didn't flinch. "Same as yours."

Your mouth dropped open. "Excuse me?!" The second shriek of the day tore out of your throat, louder, shriller. "Charades? Seriously? That's your pick?" you asked, incredulous. "You—you—are going to join Charades? That game is literally about exaggerated body language and miming! You?! You?! You're going to make the team lose!"

Jay's gaze remained steady, the corner of his lip twitching slightly as he said, "You're playing it."

You scoffed, incredulous, "Yeah, because I'm good at it! I have range, I can express, I can act—I know how to sell it." You gestured to yourself. "What about you, huh? You barely blink. You probably give the same face when someone confesses their love and when someone tells you the building's on fire."

Jay didn't even flinch. He met your stare evenly, "I can guess your acting."

Your mouth fell open. "Excuse me? Excuse me?!" You shot up slightly from your seat, your voice pitching so high you were almost squeaking. "A-Are you insane?! What the hell is that supposed to mean?! That's the most arrogant thing I've heard today."

Ningning leaned forward with her face half-buried in her hoodie sleeve, trying to muffle her laughter, while Yeonjun threw his hands up. Jay, who looked completely unfazed by your rising blood pressure. He was watching you like you were being ridiculous, like you were giving him exactly what he expected—and he liked it. Smug bastard.

"Just pick another damn game," you hissed through gritted teeth, narrowing your eyes. "There's like fifty other things you can do. Go do something that fits your boring personality, like counting scorecards or gluing banners or—I don't know—standing still and breathing silently in a corner."

A polite cough echoed from behind you, one of the organizers clearly signaling that you were getting too loud, again. You slouched a little in your seat, glared forward, then muttered under your breath. "I just need to participate," you mumbled, biting the inside of your cheek.

Jay didn't hesitate. "Then participate."

You twisted your neck back toward him sharply, eyes narrowed. "In other games. Why not literally anything else? Are you doing this on purpose?!"

"No. Why would I?" he replied, far too calm. "Charades is the easiest option. I don't see a problem."

You flushed, the heat rising up your neck and blooming across your cheeks. You stared at him, at his face so infuriatingly relaxed. Your jaw tightened as you grabbed the pen again and furiously scribbled his name in capital letters, aggressively neat, right beside yours "There!" you snapped, shoving the clipboard toward him, letting it hit the desk with more force. "Happy now?"

Jay tilted his head slightly, glancing at the paper, and then—your eyes widened—his lips twitched. A small, subtle pull at the corner of his mouth. "Very," he said, and it was enough to make your already-overheated skin burn hotter.

Oh my God. So handsome. You screamed mentally, slapping yourself internally. How the hell were you supposed to survive this semester when the universe insisted on throwing him directly into your path like a walking, brooding landmine? Your patch was starting to itch again, a subtle irritation blooming along the sensitive skin of your neck. It was your Omega—restless, unsettled, silently whining beneath your skin like a spoiled child denied its favorite scent. Fucking Jay! Annoying, emotionally unavailable, completely infuriating—but absurdly handsome—Jay.

You sat rigid in your chair, back unnaturally straight, hands folded tightly on your lap to stop yourself from clawing at the patch. You scratched the side of your neck instead. Another few minutes crawled by. You tapped your foot with impatience, irritation, and the overwhelming need to move—to get away from the heat simmering under your skin and the mess buzzing inside your chest.

The moment the student organizer dismissed the meeting, you bolted up from your chair so quickly it screeched against the floor. You didn't even care, grabbing Ningning's hand. "Come on, I'm starving. I'm craving burgers—extra bacon, extra cheese—" But you never finished the sentence.

A group of tall, broad-shouldered Alphas were suddenly blocking your path. You froze mid-step, heart thumping, your Omega coiling so fast it felt like your lungs collapsed. The air grew heavier, saturated with the thick, sharp press of testosterone. You immediately tilted your head back, blinking up at their towering figures. That cocky, easy swagger of males who knew they had presence. Your breath hitched. And without meaning to, you instinctively stepped back.

Your Omega didn't like this. Not even a little. It wasn't about submission—it was recoil. Threat. These Alphas weren't your Alpha. And your instincts knew it instantly. One of them—the tallest, with soft eyes, voice directed in front of you.

"Park Jongseong, right?"

Your eyes darted back toward where Jay still sat, gaze already lifted. Since he was seated at your side, the group of Alphas—four, maybe five of them—stood directly in the path infront of him and the rest of you. There was no leaving now. You were stuck behind a wall of their alpha pheromones, your Omega instantly curling inward in discomfort, unsure whether to brace or bolt.

The one in front, obviously the leader, stepped forward, "Choi Soobin," he introduced. "Basketball team. We've been scouting players for varsity matches next month."

You narrowed your eyes, confusion flaring as your gaze flicked between him and Jay. "Word is, you're an Apex Alpha. We want someone like you to anchor our team. Someone who can carry pressure. Someone who leads."

Apex Alpha? Your breath hitched as the phrase settled in you. You blinked hard, as if your brain needed time to process what your ears had just heard. Apex Alpha? Like a Prime Alpha? You scrambled through the dusty, half-retained memories of your ABO History lectures—those classes you mostly ignored.

Prime or Apex Alphas were considered elite. A rare, dangerous subclass. Born into old, prestigious bloodlines, often exhibiting traits far more potent than the average Alpha. Their ruts were intense, their scent practically intoxicating to any Omega within range. It could trigger early heats. Induce involuntary scenting responses. Break down barriers you didn't even realize your body had built.

It made sense! The way your Omega reacted to Jay—how she curled, howled, melted even with the smallest proximity. He was the only Alpha your Omega had ever accepted. Your Omega had always been so selective. Why every other Alpha made her flinch, or fall into dead silence. Why none of their scents worked, why their attempts to soothe or bond never even registered.

You're not broken, your Omega is not cold. She just had the highest fucking standards. And Jay—Park Jongseong, Apex Alpha, Prime bloodline, emotionally unavailable bastard with hands you wanted to hold and a voice you wanted to strangle—somehow met them all. And of course, Jay's Alpha scent affect you that strong because he's an Apex.

And because you were a deeply unwell, fully spiraling, possibly scent-drunk mess, you leaned toward Ningning and hissed under your breath, "Does it mean he's like... super rich?"

Ningning blinked at you, visibly stunned, before her brows shot up and she leaned in with a deadpan stare. "Seriously? That's your first thought?" she muttered. "Out of everything that just happened—you went with money?"

Your lips parted, then shut again. You coughed. "W-What? No! I mean—yes. I mean—I just wanted to confirm, like, a detail. You know? For context."

"You're spiraling," Ningning said flatly.

"I am not," you muttered through clenched teeth, your eyes flickering back toward Jay and the group of Alphas still hovering around him. They were talking about the varsity team—mock schedules, warm-up games, practice formations, sports events.

"I don't play team sports," Jay said with that signature unbothered edge.

Soobin blinked, slightly thrown off by the flatness of Jay's rejection. But instead of pushing back, he just let out a low chuckle, clapping Jay once on the shoulder in a gesture of friendly defeat. "Alright, alright. Still—think about it," he said with a nod. "Apex or not, you'd change the game."

The other Alphas murmured in agreement, but most began to drift away, muttering about scrimmage plans and heading out. Except one lingered, still eyeing Jay, his posture a bit too stiff, his scent spiking faintly. You could feel it even from your spot—not overpowering, but enough to make your Omega stiffen in warning. You scrunch your face as you smell it, you hated the smell, it was so wrong, too aggressive, too territorial. Not Jay.

You shifted your stance instinctively, chest tightening. And then, unexpectedly, Jay's voice cut through again. "Are you done?" he asked sharply, his gaze lifting for the first time since the conversation began. "And can you back off already?" Jay added. "There's an Omega here. Are you seriously going to keep standing there leaking scent like that? You trying to distress her?"

Your stomach twisted so hard it knocked the breath from your lungs. He noticed. He hadn't looked at you, hadn't addressed you by name, but it didn't matter. Everyone in that conversation knew who he was talking about. You were the Omega. You were the one he was lowkey shielding.

The Alphas backed off immediately, caught off-guard. One muttered an apology. Another gave Jay a stiff nod and turned on his heel.

You didn't wait for another beat. The moment there was space, you gripped Ningning's wrist, tugged her forward, and shouldered your way through the path that had been previously blocked. Ningning stumbled behind you with a squeak, and her hand latched onto Yeonjun's jacket to pull him along too, forming an escape chain.

You didn't need to look back to know Jay was watching. You could feel his gaze, lingering at the nape of your neck, behind your ears, deep into your spine.

"Wow," Yeonjun exhaled as soon as the three of you stepped outside the doors, blinking against the light, his tone caught between disbelief and admiration. "So that's why every Alpha suddenly knows how to shut up. That explains everything." You turned toward him with a confused scowl, but he was already shaking his head in mock amusement, tossing a casual glance back toward the hallway. "Have you seriously not figured it out yet?" he added. "It's not just how he looks. Or how he smells. Or even how he talks. It's the way everyone stays the hell out of his way. The kind of energy that just... makes room."

It pissed you off. How dramatic. You and your Omega—both of you were overindulgent messes, mirrors of each other in every inconvenient way. Your Omega's selectiveness was spoiled, like a princess too used to silk and refusing to touch cotton. And you were no better. Just as stubborn. Just as dramatic. Craving you swore you didn't want, again and again.

You huffed out a breath, fixing the strap of your bag on your shoulder as you picked up your pace, heart hammering for reasons that had nothing to do with cardio. "Can we not talk about it?" you muttered, not bothering to look at either of them.

Yeonjun opened his mouth like he was about to tease you again, but one glance at your expression had him wisely zipping it shut. Beside you, Ningning was biting back a grin behind her hand.

     AND SO the misery dragged on. Between the growing mess of university games preparation and your personal unraveling over a certain Alpha, your sanity was hanging by a shimmery thread—one you were trying to keep from snapping entirely.

Everyone around you was drowning in deadlines and rehearsals, meetings and budget finalizations. Even the ones who volunteered for simple tasks like handing out water bottles or fixing props were being pulled into everything else. You had thought assigning yourself to the easiest roles—minor facilitator, observer for group violations, and a light participation in charades—would buy you some peace. A clean getaway. But clearly, the universe had other plans.

"Cat? Tiger? WHAT?!" one of your groupmates blurted in frustration. They were standing dead center in the practice circle, waving their arms wildly in a manner that looked more like someone having a seizure than mimicking an animal.

You stood toward the back, arms folded, eyebrows scrunched together in a mix of confusion and disbelief. What the hell was the point of practicing charades? It was a game, not a professional competition. What were they trying to do? You scoffed under your breath and shifted your stance, only for your gaze to fall again on Jay.

He was seated on the sidelines, long legs stretched out in front of him, arms crossed, head tilted in the most indifferent angle possible. Not even pretending to guess, just watching. You tried looking away, forcing your attention toward the front, only to feel that gnawing awareness buzz again under your skin. When you looked back, he had shifted closer, slightly. Huh?

You blinked. No, surely that was just your overcooked brain playing tricks. Still, you took a quiet step to the left, casually. You repositioned yourself slightly, putting more space between the two of you. But minutes passed, and each time you glanced at him, intending to make it the last glance, he had moved again. Inch by inch.

You moved again, subtly this time, hoping no one would notice your slow migration toward the side of the gym. Your back brushed the wall now as you pretended to examine your nails. You sighed, pretending to look interested in the group still trying to guess whether the front actor was portraying a lion or having a breakdown. You exhaled slowly, pretending to be interested, when instinct tugged at your awareness once more—and your eyes, despite your will, slid sideways. What the hell?! He's closer again, and this time, time he wasn't even pretending to be subtle about it!

He sat himself against the row of benches just a few steps from where you stood, one arm slung over the backrest. His body was angled just slightly toward you. Was he trying to drive you insane? Your Omega certainly didn't mind. She stirred in response, all soft approval and giddy treacherous purrs, already reacting to his presence, to his nearness, to the subtle flare of his scent in the air.

You could practically feel the edge of his attention brushing against your skin. You took a half step to the right, hugging the wall as if proximity to stone would somehow create distance from him. You were running out of space to move, running out of excuses to act like you didn't notice the subtle pursuit happening right before your eyes.

What did he even want from you? He was too handsome for his own good. For your good. So handsome it made your stomach flip in betrayal, made your Omega thrum low with interest even when your mind screamed no. Soooo quiet and confusing.

You pressed your palm to your forehead, hissing softly under your breath. Was this all in your head? Were you spiraling again? Letting your mind fill in blanks? Because if Jay really was trying to get closer to you—if he really had intentions—shouldn't he be doing more than just orbiting you? Shouldn't he say something? Shouldn't he be... Alpha about it? Direct. If he had something to say, why didn't he say it?

You bit the inside of your cheek, jaw tight with frustration. If he stepped up, if he really approached you with something, you might even talk to him. You'd consider it. Maybe. Depending on how sincere he was. Depending on whether he finally decided to show something other than brooding detachment—

Ugh. You scowled at the floor, fingers twitching at your sides. "Get a grip," you muttered. You'd promised not to fall again, not to spiral, not to read into things that had no definitive shape. But here you were, teetering on the edge of hope like a fool all over again.

The actor's arm shot out, finger aimed directly at you. All eyes shifted to your spot near the edge of the group, and a few uncertain voices from the team began guessing aloud. "Girl?! Omega?!"

You scoffed at the predictability of it all, one brow arched as you crossed your arms and tilted your head ever so slightly. "Seriously? That's your guess?" You sighed. "Gorgeous girl? Or beautiful? Or goddess-tier attractive? Ethereal-level?"

Others rolled their eyes. The actor at the front gave you an exasperated look and waved their hand to signal an emphatic no. Without hesitation, they redirected their finger—this time, toward the person standing a few feet to your right. Jay.

Your smirk slipped, you narrowed your eyes and shifted your weight, watching him between mischief and challenge. "Oh," you said, dragging the word out as your gaze sharpened. "Okay. If it's him..."

You didn't even hesitate. "Boring?" you said dryly. There were a few immediate snorts from around the room. Jay's brow twitched ever so slightly. You pressed on, chin lifted, eyes still on him. "Annoying? Cold? Stoic to a fault?"

Jay finally turned his head, slowly, his eyes locked onto yours, unimpressed. "Mute? Robotic?" you added, your voice rising as you threw a hand in the air. "Is that it?"

The timer buzzed sharply, the actor at the front let out a frustrated groan, throwing their hands in the air before stomping once. They pointed between you and Jay, "It was mate! The word was mate!"

Someone in the crowd groaned. "What?! That was the answer?! Dude, you should've made a kissing motion or pointed between them and made a heart or something!"

"Yeah, how the hell were we supposed to get that? You can't just stare at them all intense and expect us to read your mind!"

The actor scowled and dropped their arms in defeat. "I thought it was obvious! They were the only Alpha and Omega here."

You rolled your eyes hard, pivoting away before anyone could catch the way your expression had cracked for just a second. "First of all," you snapped as you threw your bag strap over your shoulder, "you can't just point at me and him like that. We're not mates or whatever delusion you're trying to project. That's not how it works." Your words earned a mix of laughter and awkward glances from the group. You didn't care. You were already done with this entire thing. "Second," you continued, lifting your brows with biting impatience, "are we done? Or are we still pretending this is productive?"

Someone from the group coughed awkwardly. "O-Okay, okay. Let's call it for today. We'll send out the next schedule in the group chat."

You didn't wait for anything more. With a heavy sigh and the clatter of your bag's chain strap jingling from the abrupt movement, you turned on your heel and made a beeline toward the gym's exit. But the moment you reached the threshold of the doorway, a firm hand gripped your wrist and pulled you back. Your breath hitched in your throat, eyes snapping wide as your entire body jolted in surprise. Heat bloomed in your chest, and you instantly glanced down at where your skin touched his. Jay's fingers curled around your wrist.

Your voice came out breathier. "W-What? What do you want?" You tried to pull your hand back, but his grip remained.

Jay met your gaze with that same maddeningly unreadable expression of his. Then, slowly, his lips parted. "I'm not boring," he said.

You stared at him. Really? That's what he wanted to say? That's what he grabbed you for? Your eye twitched so hard, you yanked your hand out of his grip, fingers twitching as you pushed your hair behind your ears, trying to regain control of your composure. You blink and scoffing aloud. "Okay? So what?" You adjusted your bag with a jerky movement as you rolled your eyes. "Geez," you muttered under your breath,  "grabbing me just to make some random declaration? What do you expect me to say—thank you for not being boring, Jay? God."

You didn't wait for his response. Your steps carried you away. "Save that crap for someone who cares," you muttered under your breath. You didn't look back, not even once.

But if you had... You would've seen him still standing there, frozen in place long after your silhouette disappeared through the exit. Jay remained where you left him, hand slowly rising to the back of his neck as he stared at the spot you'd just vacated. His brows were drawn together. He dragged his hand up to rake through his hair, fingers lingering at his scalp, thinking if he's really... that boring?

⋮ ⌗ act twelve

     THE WEATHER today was a rare kind of perfect—sun-drenched, warm without stifling heat, the air light with the of early spring. The sky stretched out in a near cloudless blue, and a cool breeze swept through the campus, threading between the buildings and fluttering the edges of banners and flags already posted for the University's most anticipated event: the University Games. With classes canceled and most students bustling through final setup or cheering on their teams, the grounds were buzzing with energy. You couldn't help but admire the aesthetics of it all.

The theme colors were bold, but you were particularly grateful that your team had landed the color red. And conveniently, it aligned beautifully with your latest indulgences. You'd recently completed your Strawberry Cupid cosmetics collection. And as if that wasn't enough, your luck had been on your side with your latest blind box pull: a Hirono figure, one with a subtle red accent that matched your theme perfectly. You had it displayed in a protective case, clipped securely to your bag like a prized charm, joining a chorus of other preppy red trinkets that clattered softly with every step you took.

Your outfit for the day had been planned to the last detail. You wore a cream-colored tube top with a tiny cherry print pressed delicately at the center of your chest. The hemline dipped into an asymmetrical cut, paired beautifully with your choice of bottoms—bright red gingham ruffled mini shorts that flounced with every step, the layered fabric catching light and movement. Your legs were bare save for a pair of cream slouch socks pulled just above your ankles, tucked neatly into glossy red ballet flats that completed the look with an effortless, doll-like finish. Your accessories tied everything together. A red-and-white handbag hung at your side, your hair was styled in soft, airy waves that kissed your collarbones, a thin red ribbon headband adding a final bow to the entire ensemble.

"Wow," Giselle breathed, her mouth falling open in admiration as her eyes swept over your outfit. Clad in her own team's yellow-themed uniform. All around, students were beginning to gather—each department assembling by their designated colors as the short parade preparation commenced.

"Bitch," Ningning hissed under her breath, shooting a warning glance toward one of the faculty marshals pacing nearby. "We cannot be caught talking right now. Do you want to rack up a violation on the first day? They're being extra strict this year."

Giselle rolled her eyes with an exaggerated sigh, clearly unbothered. "Please. As if any of us care about their point deductions when we're drowning in deadlines. I've been buried under banners and rehearsals for three nights straight. I haven't even had the time to stalk your life updates, let alone breathe." Her voice dropped dramatically. "God help these competitive people. I swear the yellow team is training like we're about to enter the Olympics."

You smiled despite yourself, adjusting the ribbon in your hair as you caught your reflection in a tinted window nearby. "That's because you guys think school spirit is war."

"War is easier to win than keeping up with our cheer choreographer," Giselle muttered. "Also—hello, why did no one tell me you were showing up like a walking Strawberry Shortcake ad? Is this Dior? Don't tell me you got the blush already."

You gave a lazy tilt of your head and flashed a coy, smug smile as you adjusted the strap of your red-and-white handbag. "Ningning didn't tell you? I already got it," you replied, shifting your bag just enough to reveal the glint of the compact inside. The logo shimmered briefly in the sunlight, catching Giselle's full attention.

Ningning gave a sigh and crossed her arms. "She even pulled the red-accent Hirono figurine in her blind box yesterday. It's been nonstop flexing. Honestly, I'm exhausted."

"Okay, I'd brag too," Giselle snapped, without an ounce of shame, then squinted toward your bag with renewed suspicion. "Wait—wait a damn minute. Is that the strawberry lip glaze too? Bitch... Bitch?!"

"Don't touch it!" you squealed, laughing as you pulled your bag slightly away. But it was too late. The three of you were already spiraling into squeals, flailing your hands in a flurry of uncontained excitement. But just as you were about to gloat further about your matching blush-and-glaze combo, the air around you shifted.

The entire atmosphere of the field seemed to hush, as if everyone collectively sensed the gravity of someone approaching. Heads turned slowly, chatter dulled to whispers, and your own breath hitched when you finally followed their line of sight.

He wasn't walking through the crowd so much as parting it. People instinctively moved aside, their conversations falling silent in his presence. Every eye was on Jay, yet he remained unbothered, completely immersed in his own stride. Your mouth parted in disbelief, a soft "meow" slipping past your lips without your permission.

He was dressed in a deep red velvet jacket. Black trim lined the lapels and pockets in clean, elegant lines, echoing the sharp structure of the black collared shirt beneath it. And the pins—tiny enamel pieces, all vibrant—rested perfectly over his heart. A silver chain glinted at his throat. His hair was styled back, parted to the side in a soft wave that exposed the sharp cut of his jawline and the single silver hoop he wore in his left ear.

"Since when did he learn how to style?" Ningning whispered sharply beside you, her eyes wide as she nudged you with her elbow. "And—oh my God—he's not wearing his glasses! Are you seeing this? Your Alpha is getting hotter by the day. You better watch yourself before you fall flat on your face."

You opened your mouth to respond, but you didn't get the chance. A sharp whistle blew through the field. Students immediately snapped to attention like a ripple of panic, and Giselle practically leapt back into her designated team cluster like she was afraid she'd be penalized just for existing outside of her assigned line.

You and Ningning exchanged a silent look, then grabbed each other's hands out of habit, stepping into formation with the rest of your teammates dressed in bright shades of crimson. Your heart was still beating too fast, the residual heat from earlier making your palms slightly damp. As you adjusted your position in the line, another wave of scent hit the air. You recoiled slightly, nose wrinkling.

"Gosh!" you whispered under your breath, your hand tightening around Ningning's wrist. "I can smell Dior Sauvage layered over Alpha-grade pheromones. I don't like this!"

"What the hell," Ningning whispered back quickly, eyes flicking over the crowd. "It's that guy—look, from CHS. The one with the stupidly wide shoulders. God, he's marinating in it."

You tried not to gag as the scent continued to invade your space. It wasn't that it was bad, it was just so strong. Your Omega curled, restless, clearly displeased. You grimaced, fighting the urge to scratch at the patch on your neck as it began to tingle, reacting to the collision of Alpha presence in the air. It didn't want the ones broadcasting their dominance like a badge of honor. No. It wanted the quiet one in the red velvet jacket.

"The parade hasn't even started and I can already smell the Athletics department's goddamn pheromones," you hissed under your breath, fanning yourself with your palm even though the temperature wasn't to blame. Your brows furrowed sharply, frustration tightening your expression. "Why can't the university make an official rule to contain that shit for at least an hour? One hour! That's not too much to ask!" You groaned, nose wrinkling. "There are so many Omegas here, and none of these steroid-brained Alphas are bothering to keep themselves in check.Be fucking sensitive, assholes!"

Ningning tugged discreetly at your arm, her voice low and nervous as she leaned in. "Hey, hey—volume down. You're going to start a scene. They're already looking. Do you want us to grab the scent oil in my bag? Or change your patch? We can duck out for five minutes, seriously."

You exhaled in a rush, frustration curling hot under your skin. "Leave it," you said, jaw clenched. "I just need to stretch out what little patience I have left—"

But you didn't finish your sentence. Both you and Ningning turned your heads in unison, a shared instinct prickling at the base of your neck. Your heart immediately dropped to your stomach. There was Jay, moving behind you quietlyy. You hadn't even heard his footsteps, he was too close, near enough that you could already feel the subtle diffusion of his pheromones against your skin. It wasn't overwhelming like the other Alphas', not the raw musk of competition or lust. No, Jay's scent hit different — grounding, soothing. It was a calm you didn't ask for but your Omega reacted to instantly.

But then you noticed the two Omegas standing near him, heads tilted up, practically glowing under his presence. Their expressions were soft, eyelids heavy, and one even let out the smallest purr—an involuntary sound of want, shamefully transparent in its yearning. The sight made a sour feeling twist in your gut.

And it wasn't your Omega this time. It wasn't instinct that made your stomach coil, or your spine stiffen. It wasn't scent compatibility or hormonal alignment or any of those excuses you usually clung to when you wanted to justify the way he affected you. It was deeper, uglier. It was you—your own bitter, jealous flame hissing at the audacity of other Omegas being near him.

You sucked in a sharp breath and turned away, jaw clenched. Your eyes burned from the effort not to glance back at him, not to check if he noticed them, if he noticed you. So you moved. Stepped backward without thought, crafting a clumsy escape that looked like a little accident.

You let yourself stumble. Your balance tipped just slightly, and there he was. Jay's arm was already around you, one strong, sure hand curled low on your waist, steadying you. His chest met your back, your heart thundered against your ribs, betraying every carefully built wall you'd constructed.

You didn't immediately move away. You didn't shove him off. Instead, your hand moved behind you, seeking him out out of sheer need to reclaim, to assert something of your own. Your fingers found his wrist, curled lightly around the hand still resting at your waist. Your gaze, sharp with disdain, flicked back toward the two Omegas who were still watching—watching him, watching you, watching the space between. One tilted her head, the other biting her lip with a look that made your skin crawl. You met their gazes directly, cocking your head with your tongue pressed hard to the inside of your cheek, a single brow raised in a clear challenge.

Yeah. That's right. His hand is on yours.

You didn't mean for the thought to form. It just did. Only then did you turn your head slightly, speaking low, "I'm fine."

Jay coughed lightly in response, then, wordlessly, he let go of you. His touch disappeared as quickly as it had come. You straightened your spine with grace, brushing your hair back over your shoulder in a casual, indifferent sweep, even as your fingers trembled faintly from the leftover heat of contact.

Beside you, Ningning said nothing, but her lips were pressed together, trembling with the effort it took not to unleash a barrage of teasing remarks. She caught your eye, her gaze wide, gleaming with unshed laughter and then, mercifully, seemed to reconsider. Instead of speaking, she quietly reached into her pocket and pulled out a small roller bottle of scent stabilizer oil, offering it to you without a word.

You took it gratefully, pressing the vial beneath your nose, inhaling the grounding floral notes until your heartbeat began to settle. The faculty marshal's voice cut through, commanding the line to form and settle. A whistle followed. And just like that, the parade began. You moved forward, linking arms with Ningning as your team fell into stride, feet crunching rhythmically on the pavement. You refused to look back as you know that Jay is still behind you, if anyone asked, he was just walking in the same direction. Just part of the team. Just another Alpha in red. But you knew better, you could sense it in the way his steps matched yours perfectly, in the subtle bubble of pheromones he projected—not forcefully, not possessively, but to anchor the space around you. Like he was standing guard.

Damn him for existing like that, for breathing like that, for walking around campus with that face. For showing up with silver hair and that velvet-red jacket. For looking so good you could practically taste him. Ugh. You're so hungry, you could eat Park Jongseong.

     BORING. That was the only word you could use to describe the atmosphere as your group filed into the stuffy theater hall for the official kickoff of the University Games program. Each department team was set to perform—either a dance, a cheer, or some half-hearted thematic act—but none of it sparked even a flicker of your interest. You weren't here for the school spirit or the applause. You were here because attendance was required, and the penalty for skipping involved a long conversation with the student council and a deduction from your participation credits.

You shifted in your seat, elbows pressed to the armrest, chin propped against your hand as your eyes lazily traced the glitter on your nails. At least those were worth your attention—Strawberry Gel Gloss, imported and cured perfectly. The subtle shimmer caught the lighting just enough to distract you from the secondhand embarrassment unfolding on stage.

Why does this day have to be sooo long? Beside you, Ningning had long since surrendered to the tedium, slumped in her seat with her arms crossed, head tilted at a sharp angle as she let out a soft, very unladylike snore every few minutes. You didn't even bother to nudge her awake. She wasn't missing anything of value. On your other side, Yeonjun had decided the only way to endure the event was by blasting ridiculous sound effects on his phone to mock whatever act was happening on stage. You would've told him to stop, but honestly, it was the only source of entertainment keeping you from standing up and walking out.

You sighed, slumping deeper in your seat as the stage lights shifted for the next performance, another over-rehearsed dance team stepping out with manufactured smiles and glittery costumes. You could already feel your patience thinning. With a sigh, you rose from your seat, slipping your small makeup purse.

"Restroom," you muttered, half to the facilitator and half to yourself, not bothering to explain further. Before leaving, you leaned over and pinched Yeonjun's arm hard enough to make him jolt upright.

"Ow! What—?"

"Watch my stuff," you said flatly, already turning away before he could argue. As you shifted out of the row, your gaze unintentionally brushed past the row behind. Jay was sitting a few seats back. Your breath hitched, and you immediately looked away.

You huffed under your breath and headed toward the exit doors. The moment you stepped outside the auditorium, the heat of the air hit you. God, you needed a moment. You navigated the hallway, zeroing in on the nearest restroom. But when you rounded the corner, your heart sank, a long, snake-like, unreasonable line. Dozens of girls outside the restroom door, chatting, fixing hair, spraying perfume. You stared at the scene for a moment, there was no way in hell you were going to wait in that disaster.

With another exhausted huff, you turned on your heel, heading in the opposite direction without a word, already scanning the halls for an alternate restroom —only to realize with a grimace that it was in an entirely different building. Too far. And honestly? Maybe worth it. The program was dragging anyway. No one was checking attendance between segments, and as long as you returned before the final signature round, you wouldn't be marked absent.

So with zero remorse and zero intention of turning back, you pushed open the exit doors, stepping out into the warm air with relief—only to be met with a sudden blur of movement then a splash of a full, icy wave of water hit you from the left, soaking your upper body. Your entire torso and face were instantly drenched, droplets clinging to your lashes, your cherry tube top is soaked, your hair plastered flat to your cheeks in soaked strands. Your mouth fell open in pure disbelief, hands raised midair.

A group of students in green team uniform stood frozen in place for a split second before one of them, a Beta girl with wide eyes and a guilt-stricken face, stammered, "S-sorry!" Then she bolted. The rest of her group followed, scattering, shouting over their shoulders, pretending not to see the aftermath of their recklessness.

You stood motionless for a beat, trembling. Your perfectly curled hair was now dripping. "Are you freaking serious right now?!" you hissed, pushing your wet hair out of your face. You took a step forward, heels slapping violently against the concrete, eyes narrowed to slits.

"Fuck!" you shouted, unable to hold it in anymore. "I will personally observe and write every single one of your team's goddamn violations during every game this week, you fucking losers!"

Your voice echoed across the building's outer walkway. A few nearby students turned their heads, startled, but quickly looked away, pretending not to hear your meltdown. You didn't care. Your fists clenched at your sides, shaking with frustration, your chest heaving as you tried to collect yourself. Inhale. Exhale. Your teeth grit together. Your jaw ached from how hard you were biting down to keep from screaming. You stood still for a few more seconds, head tilted up toward the sky, eyes clenched shut, fists trembling in midair.

Okay. Breathe. Spiraling right now would only make things worse. Sending out distress signals through your scent? Even worse. You couldn't afford that. You glanced down at your soaked top, returning to the theater hall in this condition was not an option. You were already one wrong breath away from an emotional meltdown, and going back in front of dozens of people—including him—would only send you hurtling over the edge. You needed privacy. A place to breathe. A place to reset. Somewhere you could hide, wipe down, and at least try to salvage what was left of your dignity before figuring out what excuse to file for an early dismissal. Yes. That was the plan. Go somewhere quiet, breathe through it, pull yourself back together. You were smart. You could handle this.

With your jaw clenched and your shoulders stiff, you hurried toward the adjacent building. The water from your clothes leaving small, wet footprints in your wake. You rubbed your bare arms for warmth and clutched your purse tightly against your chest. You reached the restroom and tried the handle. Locked.

"Fuck!" you snapped, voice cracking at the edge. You kicked the door with the side of your foot. Frustration seethed through you, and you could feel your scent patch beginning to lose its grip—literally and biologically. The adhesive was already slipping at the edge of your neck, the warmth of your skin making it worse, and under it your scent glands throbbed with suppressed irritation.

You could feel your Omega starting to rise beneath your skin, agitated and uncomfortable, your body was undeniably distressed, and the scent trying to claw its way out was getting harder and harder to suppress. Your jaw was locked tight, your eyes blinking hard against the sting of overwhelmed tears that threatened to spill at the corners. The wet fabric clung mercilessly to your skin. It was sticking under your arms, your back, your chest, your skirt was wet at the hem. The discomfort was physical, but it was also emotional, like every inch of your pride had taken a direct hit.

You stormed down the corridor again, testing every door you passed, one after the other. Locked. Locked. Locked. Every knob that refused to turn made your breath shallower, your chest tighter. There wasn't even a custodian in sight, no staff or faculty nearby to beg for a key. The building was quiet, abandoned for the weekend games. You paused near the stairwell at the end of the hall, pressing the heel of your hand against your temple. You could feel yourself unraveling, the wetness of your clothes feeding your panic, and the creeping warmth of your scent threatening to spike into full Omega distress.

You were close, so achingly close, to spiraling completely. Your lungs felt too tight, your heart racing with the sort of panic that brewed just beneath the surface of logic. Your Omega instincts were beginning to fray at the edges, and the soaked, clinging fabric of your clothes was not helping. You needed somewhere to regroup before your emotions fully detonated.

That was when your eyes caught on the slightly ajar door across the hall, the gold-plated sign reading Faculty Room B. The overhead lights were dim, but the gentle hum of the air conditioning told you the room wasn't fully shut down. You hesitated only for a second before approaching, your steps slow and cautious, fingers brushing against the doorframe as you peeked inside. It was empty, or so it seemed. You knocked once—lightly. Then again, no answer, taking a careful breath, you slipped inside and shut the door behind you. The room was too cool. The air from the vents blasted steadily, goosebumps rising along your bare arms and soaked shoulders. You winced, arms wrapping around yourself as you stepped deeper into the room.

Tears pricked at your eyes again. You had looked so good today. Every detail was perfectly curated—from your cherry-print top to your soft waves tied back with the matching red ribbon. You had spent hours getting ready, all for what? To be doused like a wet rag by careless teammates hauling around gallons of water. You didn't even have a change of clothes. What were the odds something like this would happen today of all days? And your phone—God, your phone was inside your bag in the theater hall, with Yeonjun, and probably buried under other people's bags by now. You were stranded. Humiliated. Cold. And your scent patch was definitely beginning to give up on clinging to your damp skin.

You shivered under the sharp current of the AC, stepping toward the control panel near the window and jabbing at the buttons to lower the power. Nothing. Your eye twitched. It didn't respond, and the icy air just kept blowing, relentless and indifferent. Your teeth clenched, body shaking slightly—not just from the cold, but from the rising tide of every little thing that had gone wrong.

"Fuck this life!" You screamed, wanting to cry loudly. Or maybe be held... or scented.

Maybe... maybe if Jay were here, he'd do something. He always did. Whether it was scolding you or pulling you back from the edge, he always seemed to know exactly when you were about to break. Your body remembered the calm he could bring, the way his presence seemed to quiet everything, and for a moment your heart genuinely wished he'd appear right then, take one look at you, and just fix it all.

"Loud." A groggy voice, interrupted your spiraling from somewhere behind.

Your body jolted, startled, as your pulse slammed against your ribcage. A soft, strangled sound escaped your lips as your eyes frantically scanned the room again. You had been sure—absolutely sure—that you were alone. But as your gaze slid past the cluster of stacked chairs and cluttered filing cabinets, it landed on a shadow you'd missed. Tucked away behind one of the larger staff desks, nearly swallowed by a mismatched collection of boxes and forgotten bulletin boards, was a worn leather sofa. And on that couch, now stirring and stretching with a yawn that cracked his jaw open, sat a figure slowly rising from the grip of sleep.

His movements were sluggish, bleary-eyed, disoriented like someone still not entirely convinced they were awake. He rubbed his eyes with the back of one hand and dragged the other through his silver-gray hair, which stuck out at every possible angle. It was styled in a loose undercut. His yellow jersey clung to the shape of his arms and torso, crumpled. He was blinking at you. Just as confused as you were. Just... far more composed about it.

You, on the other hand, let out a pitchy, breathless squeal. Your hand flew to your chest as if to hold your heart in place. The panic bloomed across your face, cheeks heating in humiliation as your feet instinctively stepped backward, nearly stumbling over themselves. Your purse slipped down your wrist.

The man on the couch tilted his head lazily, still groggy, his voice laced with irritation. "Did you close the door?"

You blinked at him, confused. "What?"

"The lock's busted from the inside," he muttered, gesturing vaguely without lifting his head. "You won't be able to open it again. We're stuck unless someone opens it from the other side."

Your stomach dropped. Immediately, you spun on your heel and stormed back toward the door, gripping the handle and yanking it hard. Nothing. You jiggled it again, then again, a little louder each time, until your fists were pounding against the wood, your voice rising into panicked calls for help. "Hello?! Someone?! We're locked in! Hello?!" The only response was the muffled hum of distant noise down the hallway—likely the sound of cheers from the program.

The man behind you sighed, long and bone-deep, as if the sound of your distress physically exhausted him. You turned around, chest heaving. "D-Do you have your phone? Call someone! C-call your teammates! I don't want to die in here!"

He stretched his arms above his head, visibly unbothered. "Skipped basketball practice," he said lazily. "Didn't bring my phone."

You stared at him, lips parting, speechless. The weight of everything that had happened—your ruined outfit, your ruined mood, your ruined pride—pressed down on your shoulders. With a broken sob, you dropped to your knees near the doorway, the tile floor cold against your skin, and finally let it happen. The tears spilled faster. Your palms rubbed against your arms, trying to create friction, some sort of warmth. Your chest rose and fell in unsteady gasps, jaw clenched from how hard your teeth chattered. "God, I'm going to get pneumonia," you mumbled to no one, vision blurring with fresh tears.

From behind, you heard the soft creak of leather and the rustle of fabric. "You're seriously making my ears ring," the man muttered, not moved with your spiral as he rubbed the back of his head. You ignored him, curling inward slightly, clutching your cold arms to your chest. Your wet clothes clung tighter by the second, and your scent patch had completely given up. You could feel your scent struggling not to escape, your control thinning out. All you wanted was warmth, comfort. You wanted Jay. You wanted him. You were too exposed, too shattered, and all your instincts screamed for the one Alpha your Omega had ever let in. You didn't even have the energy to be embarrassed by it.

Your answer came in a sob that was nearly a wail. "I'm cold," you choked out, the words tumbling between shivers. "So cold, I can't—I'm gonna dieeeee..." You didn't know if the tears were because of the actual cold or just the absurdity of your situation. You wanted to lie down. You wanted to disappear. You wanted Jay's voice, Jay's scent, Jay's arms. "I need—" Your voice cracked, and you couldn't say the rest. You need Jay. But it sounded too real, too humiliating to say aloud.

The man groaned under his breath again. You could hear the irritation in it, like he was holding back the urge to cover his ears as though your very presence was testing the limits of his patience. He pushed himself to his feet, borderline irritated. Then, without warning, he reached for the hem of his yellow jersey and pulled it off.

"W-What are you doing?!" you shrieked, hands flying up to shield your eyes. "Pervert!"

"I'm not," he muttered with complete disinterest, like he didn't even have the energy to be offended by your accusation. Before you could register what was happening, something hit you in the face. You flailed, letting out another shriek as the fabric slid down your arms and into your lap. "Put it on," he grumbled, already flopping back down onto the sofa. "Wear it or die in the cold. Either way, it's not my problem anymore."

You blinked down at the crumpled fabric in your hands, your lip curling slightly. His scent clung to the jersey, so masculine, it wasn't exactly unpleasant, but it was overpowering in your already heightened state. You inhaled shakily and glared in his direction, even though he wasn't looking at you. "C-Can't we just turn off the damn AC?!"

"Try," he shot back flatly, eyes closed again, arm thrown over his forehead like he was trying to nap. "There's no remote. Outlet are on the wall—practically mounted near the ceiling. You planning to fly up there?"

You glanced toward the unit, your expression souring. Sure enough, the panel was ridiculously high up, nowhere near your reach even if you stood on your toes and prayed. "Are you kidding me?" you muttered through clenched teeth.

"Nope." He sounded positively indifferent. "Been stuck in this room enough times to know it's useless unless you're over six foot or suicidal."

You bit your lip, the frustration building again. You didn't want to wear some stranger's scent-marked jersey, but your body was shivering violently, and your scent glands were screaming. Fine. You were past caring. With a slow, shaky breath, you reached up and peeled off the nearly useless patch from your neck. The adhesive tugged, the last bit of restraint coming undone with it. You hissed softly at the exposure but the relief was immediate. Your Omega shifted beneath your skin, uncurling like a cat finally freed from a box. You glanced toward the Alpha still lounging on the sofa across the room. His eyes were closed, clearly uninterested in anything involving your emotional breakdown. Good.

"You're naked. Aren't you cold?" you asked, your voice wobbling slightly as you tried to shift the attention off your own spiraling nerves.

The guy barely cracked an eye open from where he was reclined on the old staffroom sofa. His bare chest rose and fell slowly, unbothered, and his voice came out uninterested. "I'm an Alpha. Our bodies regulate heat differently."

You blinked at him, stunned by the sheer nonchalance. Meanwhile, your body was about two shivers away from collapsing. "I—I'm going to change now," you declared, voice catching at the beginning, but you straightened up, planting your feet firmly. You shifted a half-step toward the wall, clutching the jersey close to your chest. "Don't look. Seriously. If you even glance in this direction, I will kick your head clean off your neck. I studied karate. I'm a Yellow belt. I know things."

He didn't even glance over. "Not interested," he said. You narrowed your eyes suspiciously and shot him one final glance, as if to make sure he wouldn't try anything. He had one arm draped lazily across his eyes, his posture loose, the epitome of bored indifference. With a huff, you turned back and exhaled through your nose, peeling the soaked tube top from your skin. The chill from the AC hit immediately, making you clench your jaw. Your tube bra was no better—cold, wet, and absolutely miserable against your skin. You reached behind and unclasped it, letting it fall silently to the floor.

Just as you were about to yank the jersey over your head, a low, drawn-out whistle cut through the silence. Your head snapped on him, cheeks warming. He was still sprawled on the worn leather sofa. His arm was still thrown over his eyes, but you could see the curve at the edge of his mouth. A smirk stretched slowly into place.

"Fucker," you hissed in mortification. In a panic, you yanked the oversized jersey back down, the fabric clinging awkwardly to your skin as you stormed toward him. Your legs carried you fast across the floor, fists clenched.

Without a second thought, you slapped your hand against his shoulder. His body jolted slightly with the impact, but he didn't so much as flinch. He merely lowered his arm enough to look at you, one eye cracking open lazily, his smirk never faltering. "Damn," he drawled, still unbothered, "you hit like a damp tissue."

You gaped, your mouth floundering for words that wouldn't come out in full shrieks. Your fingers twitched at your sides, torn between strangling him and wrapping yourself tighter in the borrowed fabric. "You—you pervert—!"

"I'm not," the man replied coolly, shifting on the worn leather couch as he propped himself up on one elbow to look at you more directly. Your breath hitched sharply as his eyes dragged over you. Not in a leering way, but it didn't matter. You weren't wearing a bra, and the oversized jersey did little to hide the shape of your body beneath it. You gasped, one arm shooting up to shield your chest, jaw hanging open in disbelief.

His gaze didn't waver. His head tilted slightly, brows furrowing in a lazy sort of intrigue. "Damn," he muttered. "Damn... you're actually really pretty. Now I'm interested."

Your mouth fell open, rage eclipsing embarrassment in an instant. "Well, I'm not interested!" you snapped, voice cracking on the edges of indignation as you shoved your foot toward the couch in a warning kick. He leaned away slightly and let out a chuckle, one hand patting the empty space on the cushion beside him.

The audacity! Your eyes widened further, lips parting in disbelief as your body instinctively retreated a step, horror blooming across your features. He didn't move closer or didn't push but that didn't lessen the surge of unease and fury twisting inside you.

"Okay," he said after a long beat, stretching. He slouched back again, fingers lacing behind his head, and let out a low sigh of satisfaction. "But damn. You've got one hell of a presence. Can't really blame a guy for being honest."

You recoiled further, glaring at him. "This is harassment," you hissed under your breath, shoulders bristling as your eyes darted to the door again. Still locked. No sounds from outside. "This is exactly what I expect from Alphas like you. You were practically drooling over a nap a minute ago, and now suddenly I'm your new fixation?"

He blinked slowly, dragging one hand down his face. "Sleep resets your system," he mumbled. "Helps the senses recalibrate. Clears your mind. Maybe even helps you notice... certain things."

"God," you muttered, throat tight. "Are Alphas all like this? So cryptic? Always acting like they're saying something profound?"

He didn't answer immediately. Just studied you, unmoved by your contempt, "And you—you walked in here soaked, upset, wrapped in my scent. You were sobbing. That kind of thing... it doesn't just disappear from a guy's head."

A slow, crawling discomfort crept up your back, one vertebra at a time, until your entire spine locked in place, unwillingly stiff. You could feel that subtle flicker, that disoriented stir of your Omega instincts, fumbling for footing it didn't have. Confusion, annoyance, a strange curl of heat. You clenched your jaw, grinding down the reaction before it could show, though your face was already betraying you—flushed cheeks, twitching eye, the whole storm of irritation you were trying not to wear. So annoying!

That guy just stood there, half-naked and completely unfazed. Did he think he was attractive? Seriously? Please. If he was expecting a compliment, he'd have to dig through hell and ego first. No. There was only one Alpha you had ever looked at and actually felt something in your chest that wasn't immediate disgust—and that was Park Jongseong. Annoying, boooring, infuriating Jay. As much as you wanted to hate him, his presence was a whole different gravitational pull. You hated how he moved, how he looked at you, how he lingered.... but none of it compared to the raw, unfair truth: Jay was hot. Unbearably, insultingly hot.

And this stranger? He was just... shirtless and in the way. How the hell were you supposed to take anything he said seriously when he looked like that?

You needed to get out. Not just from this room—but from this entire moment. Spinning sharply on your heel, you stormed toward the door, jaw set, heartbeat tapping erratically in your ears. You slammed your palm against the panel with a force. "Hello?!" your voice cracked at the edge, but shame wasn't your priority right now. "Anyone?! Can somebody hear me?! This isn't funny—open the damn door!"

"Why are you masking your scent?" His voice floated from behind.

You froze for a beat, then turned so fast your hair swung with you. "What?

"You removed your scent patch," he said. "Earlier, it was still faint—peeking through in places. Not fresh. It's messy. Like you peeled it off and hoped no one would notice. But now..." His eyes narrowed slightly as he tilted his head and inhaled, subtly. "There's an imprint underneath. Old. But it's there."

You stared at him, blood suddenly loud in your ears. "What the hell are you talking about?" you hissed, taking a sharp step toward him. "Okay—first of all, shut up. Don't throw around bond terms like you're some kind of scent analyst. You don't know me." Your arm shot out, finger aimed directly at his face. "Imprint? Are you serious? Who do you think you are? Going around sniffing people? God—I knew it! You're one of those creepy, repressed Alphas who acts quiet so no one notices the weirdo underneath."

"I didn't assume anything," he said, tone as neutral as before. "I noticed."

You stared at him, caught between fury and disbelief. "You noticed?" you echoed, voice inching toward hysterical. "You noticed? What, is that supposed to make it better? That's your defense?" You scoffed loudly, throwing your hands up. "Do you even know what imprinting means? Do you understand how insane you sound right now? That requires actual physical proximity. Closeness. Repeated exposure. A bond—not a scent accident. And guess what? I don't touch Alphas. I don't talk to Alphas unless I'm forced to by divine misfortune. No one has ever been close enough to leave any kind of mark on me, scent or otherwise."

Even as the words poured from your mouth, your mind betrayed you with flashes of memory you hadn't invited in. Jay had always been there, in this persistent, maddening way that never allowed you to forget him. The only times you'd truly let yourself near him was when you were chasing him. When your Flower Knows favorite hair clip vanished. You'd snapped at everyone in sight, too distressed to think clearly, until Jay, of all people, calmly handed it back to you.  And for some reason, without thinking, you hugged him. No way, it's impossible... But still—surely you'd feel it if something had happened then, you would have noticed, wouldn't you? Snapped out of it! You forced yourself to swallow the thought. It didn't matter. None of it mattered.

"I'm not someone people imprint on," you muttered under your breath.

The guy tilted his head slightly, there was a glint of curiosity? amusement?—in his eyes that only made your skin crawl further. "Hmm," he murmured, unconvinced. "Must've been a powerful Alpha to leave that kind of imprint."

Weirdo. You didn't even bother answering. You were too tired, too over it, too seconds away from breaking the door down yourself. You turned away from him completely, knuckles already preparing for another round of pounding against the door. But just as your hand drew back to knock again, the door swung open without warning, and the motion startled you so badly that you let out a high-pitched shriek. The sudden rush of light, air, and relief hit you at once, and your eyes immediately welled with tears.

And there, standing in the doorway, was Ningning. Your beautiful, perfect best friend, looking mildly confused. Without hesitation, you threw yourself into her arms, burying your face into her shoulder as the tears finally spilled over. "Ningie," you cried into the curve of her neck, clutching her. "Oh my God, thank you—I was trapped—I thought I'd die in there—"

But Ningning didn't hug you back. Instead, she let out a loud, startled shriek that made you jerk back instinctively. Her hand flew up, pointing with trembling fingers over your shoulder. "Oh my God! N-Naked!" she shrieked, eyes wide with pure horror.

You blinked, confusion flickering through your lashes as you turned your head over her shoulder, dread already twisting in your stomach. Slowly, you pulled away from Ningning, lifting your eyes—and that's when you felt the air leave your lungs. There was one people. Because standing just behind her, half-shadowed by the frame of the open door, was Jay.

Your entire system short-circuited. Cold. Then heat. Then a full-body freeze so intense it made your fingers numb. Panic rippled through your nerves, your Omega curled deep inside your chest, cowering. You couldn't even form a thought, let alone an excuse. You looked away immediately—hard left, anywhere but at him. But your body didn't obey the instinct to flee. You stepped back from Ningning, as if pulled forward by something magnetic and quiet and impossible to reason with. Your feet moved before your mouth did. Moved toward him. "I-It's not what you t-think," you stammered,  "I—It's not—I didn't—he wasn't—nothing happened—"

You were trying to speak but every word landed wrong, cracked in half before it even made it out of your throat. Your mind was spinning, you couldn't explain it, not with Jay standing there looking like that, expression too calm, and definitely too close to seeing through you.

Ningning's shriek tore through the air again, unhelpful and explosive. "Why is he naked?! What the hell is going on?!"

You opened your mouth to reply, to protest, to lie—something—but nothing came out. Instead, before you could even process what was happening, Jay stepped forward.

Silently, without speaking a word, he shrugged off the red velvet jacket he'd been wearing and draped it carefully over your shoulders. You were cold. He noticed. So he fixed it.

You stiffened, overwhelmed by the shift in warmth, the sudden weight of the fabric, the soft brush of it against your neck and arms. His scent was already embedded in it, and your Omega coiled tighter in response. Still trembling, you turned slightly, uncertain of what to do or say next—when Ningning's voice cut in again. "Wait—did he do something to you?!" she snapped, stepping between you and Jay with her fists already half-raised. "Say the word and I'll punch him. I swear to God, I'll break his Alpha jaw."

"Calm down. I didn't do anything to the Omega," the guy muttered, irritation creeping into his voice.

But you didn't lift your head. You didn't understand why your voice had abandoned you, why your throat refused to shape the words clawing just beneath the surface. You weren't scared. No one had laid a hand on you, and yet there you stood, silent, breath shallow, eyes averted like you had something to hide. What made it worse was the guilt that had begun to bloom low in your stomach. You weren't anything. So why did wearing someone else's scent feel like a betrayal? It shouldn't matter!

As if your body had given up waiting for your brain to make sense of anything, you started moving again. Just one step, then another. A soft whine slipped from your throat, then a low, shaky purr followed, rumbling beneath your breath. Mortification hit you, and you froze mid-step, eyes widening, hands clenching the jacket tighter. The shame was instant and scorching, washing over you in waves that made your skin burn and your Omega retreat in embarrassment.

You couldn't even look at Jay now.

"How are we supposed to believe that, huh? You're naked, and my friend was on the verge of a breakdown banging against the damn door! You think that doesn't look suspicious?!" Ningning's hand lashed out without warning, delivering a sharp slap to the stranger's arm. The Alpha barely flinched. He rubbed the spot on his arm with a mild frown, more annoyed.

His jaw tensed for half a second before he exhaled slowly. "She's the one who came into the room," he said. "She was soaked through. Crying. Completely spiraling and shivering. I gave her something dry to wear. That's it."

Ningning scoffed, unconvinced. Her arms folded tightly across her chest, lips pressed into a thin line as her eyes darted between you and the half-dressed Alpha standing in the doorway. "If that's your version of events," she muttered, narrowing her gaze, "then you better hope he believes it too." She jerked her chin toward Jay without looking at him.

Jay hadn't said a word yet, but his silence was louder than any outburst. Your head dipped lower beneath it, eyes fixed to the floor. The other Alpha raised an eyebrow at Ningning's challenge. "I don't care if he believes me," he said, flatly. "I'm not guilty. If you've got a problem, write a letter. Student Affairs, Disciplinary Board—whatever makes you feel better. I've got nothing to explain."

Ningning gasped, scandalized, her jaw falling open at the nerve of the man. She looked like she was about to launch into another tirade, but before she could get the words out, the Alpha stepped forward—out of the room. His movements were slow, he didn't look at Ningning, he looked at you, then Jay.

The air shifted instantly. The moment his eyes landed on Jay, something tightened. It wasn't obvious, but you felt the hallway dropped a few degrees. Two Alphas sizing each other up without a single word exchanged.

You felt your breath catch in your throat. Instinct took over again, before you could stop yourself, your body inched closer to Jay. The man paused briefly, his gaze still moving between the two of you. Then he clicked his tongue. "Lee Heeseung," he said finally, tone dry and dismissive. "That's the name."

And without waiting for a reaction, he turned and walked away down the hall, bare-chested, unbothered, and entirely unapologetic.

The events that followed unfolded in a haze, everything moving too quickly and too loudly for your brain to keep up. There were voices, hands on your shoulders, questions flying at you from every direction, but it all felt distant, like sound underwater. You remembered Ningning grabbing your arm, dragging you down the hallway with a fierce grip that was more protective than angry, her voice rising in disbelief every few seconds. But your responses—if you gave any—were delayed, quiet, or maybe non-existent. You weren't sure. You couldn't even remember the walk back to your house, only that somehow, you ended up here.

The next thing you truly registered was the soft tug of Ningning's fingers combing gently through your hair, "I still can't believe this," she huffed, brushing a little harder than necessary. "The group that soaked you should pay for damages!"

You didn't answer. You were curled under the blanket, knees drawn up, Jay's jacket folded next to you, your fingers kept brushing against the edge of the velvet, guilt lingering in your chest.

Ningning let out another sharp exhale as she grabbed a different comb from your nightstand and switched tactics. "And I'm glad Jay woke me up, by the way," she added, "He said he heard you scream, and that something about it just... felt wrong."

That finally pulled you out of your fog a little. Your brows furrowed as you turned your head toward her, eyes narrowing. "Wait—what scream?" you asked slowly. "I mean, yeah, I was panicking, but I was at least two buildings away from the theater hall. How would he even hear that?"

Ningning stopped brushing for a moment, her fingers hovering in your hair as she gave a shrug. "I don't know. That's what he said. Something about how your voice echoed. Said it sounded off? He looked kind of scary, honestly. Geez, It was the first time I ever talked to him."

You blinked slowly, processing that piece of information. She sat down beside you with a sigh, tossing the comb onto your vanity. "He even got into it with Yeonjun," she muttered. "Told him he should've noticed something was wrong, said it wasn't like you to disappear for that long. And Yeonjun looked so confused and kept saying you were just in the bathroom or getting snacks."

Your brows knit deeper together, thoughts still spiraling, but then a slow, creeping realization settled into your chest, interrupting the emotional numbness you'd been floating in. Something was missing. Not metaphorically—physically missing.

"Ningning," you said suddenly, eyes scanning your room as you tapped around the bedcovers, then moved to brush your fingers across the top of your vanity table. "Where's my bag?"

Ningning froze for a second, her posture straightening as her hands flew to her head, pressing against her temples like she was forcing the memory to rewind. "Oh my God," she muttered. "No, I—I didn't. I think... I think Yeonjun had it? I saw him near the bleachers after Jay found you, maybe he grabbed it? Wait—huh?"

You groaned softly, dragging a hand down your face. "That bag has my phone, my ID, all of my cards." You stood up abruptly, the blanket falling off your lap, and began pacing as Ningning already had her phone out, fingers tapping with speed as she called Yeonjun.

You watched her carefully as the call connected, her expression flickering from impatience to confusion, then suddenly her eyes widened, mouth dropped open.

"What?" you demanded. "What is it? What did he say?"

Ningning slowly pulled the phone away from her ear, staring at you like she wasn't sure whether to laugh, scream, or panic. "Yeonjun said... Jay has it."

You blinked once. "What?" you choked out, voice climbing. "Jay? Jay has my bag?!"

⋮ ⌗ act thirteen

    YOU MOVED through the team hall with careful steps, your eyes sweeping across the space in search. The air was filled with overlapping voices, laughter, the shuffle of sneakers on linoleum floors, and the occasional cheer from one of the outdoor games echoing faintly through the open windows. You barely registered any of it. Your focus was singular: locate Jay.

You are painfully aware of the eyes around you. Well, the fitted red knit dress you wore hugged your upper body snugly while the skirt flared into a soft ivory bell lined with a feathered white hem that danced slightly with each step. You'd layered a cropped ivory sweater over it, the cable-knit texture stitched with delicate fringe, intentionally letting the bold red collar of your dress peek through for contrast.

It was the second day of the Games, and the energy had only gotten more competitive. Everyone was scrambling around, cheering for their assigned teams, decorating booths, carrying snacks, losing their voices over sports they didn't actually care about. There was too much sound, too many bodies, too much everything. And honestly, you'd rather be anywhere else—shopping, napping, locked in a cold boutique fitting room with ambient music. But no. Attendance was mandatory, and the events hadn't even kicked off yet and you were already mentally checking out. The day hadn't even started, and somehow, you felt done.

Your jaw tightened slightly as you tried to stay composed, irritation simmering just under your skin. Where the hell is Jay? You had been searching for him all morning, and still nothing. You just wanted your damn bag back. Your phone, your keys, your wallet—your life—were in there, and the fact that you couldn't even send a text or check your messages without borrowing someone else's device was driving you insane.

You spotted a girl standing near one of the refreshment tables, an Omega, familiar, from your department maybe, and you didn't hesitate, you reached out and tapped her shoulder.

"Hey," you said, trying to keep your tone casual despite the growing urgency in your chest. "You know Jay, right? Park Jongseong? I heard he's doing logistics for the games—do you know where he's stationed right now?"

The girl blinked, clearly caught off guard by the question, but then recognition lit up her face and she clapped her hands together. "Ah! Yes, I saw him earlier," she replied, nodding. "He joined the basketball team yesterday. He's been practicing since this morning—probably still at the gym."

You stared at her, not quite processing. "Basketball?" you repeated in disbelief. You rubbed your ear like it would somehow fix the sound.

She nodded again. "Yeah, the tournament's scheduled for the end of the week, so they've been doing practice rounds. He joined last minute."

You blinked slowly, mouth falling open. "He what?" you muttered under your breath, a delayed thank-you leaving your lips as you turned away.

You walked off, mind racing. Basketball practice? Jay? The same Jay who, just a few weeks ago, had flatly refused the sports committee's recruitment offer? The one who said, and you quote, "I don't play team sports." What the hell was he doing now, suddenly dribbling basketballs?! But honestly, you were too exhausted to untangle the mystery right now. You just wanted your bag. That was the priority.

With determination tightening in your jaw, you pushed through the outer doors of the gym building, your steps echoing across the polished floors as you made your way inside. The moment you entered the gymnasium, however, instant regret washed over you in a hot, overwhelming wave.

The smell hit you.

Your face twisted in disgust as your hand flew up to pinch your nose, the scent practically clawing at your sinuses. "What the fuck," you muttered under your breath, already feeling your head start to spin. The air was heavy with Alpha pheromones, sweaty, competitive, aggressive and it clung to every surface, saturated the floorboards, the padded walls, even the damn water coolers. You hadn't expected a scent this strong, overwhelming, and entirely suffocating.

You took a cautious step back, instinct screaming at you to retreat, but before you could fully process whether to hold your breath or just bolt, a panicked Beta came stumbling into view. He looked like a student manager, clipboard in hand and sweat already forming along his temple.

"H-Hey! Omega presence isn't permitted during team practice hours!" he stammered, trying to usher you out. He reached for your elbow and your brows arched as you stepped to the side and delivered a sharp slap to his arm that was about to hold you.

"Don't touch me," you snapped, eyes narrowed to communicate that you were not in the mood for being handled like a lost freshman.

The Beta immediately froze mid-motion, hand suspended awkwardly in the air as his expression crumbled into panic. His mouth opened, then closed again, clearly searching for the right words to de-escalate the situation, but you didn't bother waiting for them. You brushed past him, you didn't miss the shift in atmosphere around you. The ripple that spread through the rows of resting players, the subtle halt in bouncing basketballs, and the sudden awareness settling into the shoulders of those sitting on the benches. A few turned to whisper to each other. Others didn't even pretend not to stare.

The moment you walked deeper into the gym, a visible shift occurred among the Alphas on the court. You watched them stiffen—spines straightening, postures tightening, muscles coiled. Their heads lifted slightly, the scent in the air thickening as tension coiled around them. You kept your expression neutral, gaze forward, refusing to give them the satisfaction of acknowledging the stir your presence had caused. You kept scanning through the crowd of until your eyes locked onto him.

Jay was drenched in sweat, chest rising and falling in slow, controlled breaths, his shirt clinging to his torso. His jaw was clenched, brows drawn together in annoyance. His hair was damp, messier than usual, and his arms were taut where he stood, barely masked tension rolling off him in waves. His gaze met yours with a directness that made your stomach twist. And then he glared. At you.

What the hell? Why was he glaring at you like you'd committed a crime by simply walking into the gym? You narrowed your eyes in return, raising your chin, refusing to be the first to look away.

Another Alpha pointed in your direction and blurted, "Huh? There's an Omega on the court!"

Before anyone else could react, Jay was already moving. You were still walking toward him, fists clenched at your sides, ready to start a fight over your damn bag, when he met you halfway. And then, without warning, he bent low, one arm sliding behind your knees, the other bracing your back, and lifted you off the floor in one swift, solid motion. You let out a high-pitched shriek, startled beyond reason.

"Jay?! What the—?! Put me down, jerk!" You gasped, your hands flying to his neck for balance as your feet left the ground.

He didn't answer, he just carried you out of the gym. The stares followed you the entire way, but Jay didn't spare them a glance. Once you were out of the suffocating heat and scent of the gym, he stopped just outside the building. Without a word, he set you down, slowly, carefully, his hands steady as he placed you on your feet.

The moment your feet touched the floor, you spun on him with wide eyes and a breathless scoff. "What was that?! What the hell is wrong with you?!"

Jay exhaled hard, nostrils flaring, jaw still tight. "What are you doing here?" he hissed, scolding. "Did you not see the sign? Omegas aren't allowed in the gym during Alpha practice hours."

You gawked at him, mouth falling open, the nerve of him sending a fresh wave of indignation up to your brain. "Wow, okay. I should be the one asking you that," you snapped, hands flying to your hips. "Why the hell did you suddenly join basketball? You don't do sports, remember?!"

Jay opened his mouth, clearly ready to respond, but you were already done with the conversation. Before he could get a single syllable out, you stepped forward and pressed your finger firmly against his lips. "Whatever," you said coolly, cutting him off. "Save it. I don't care about your explanation." You lowered your hand, extended your palm between you, raising your eyebrow. "My. Bag."

Jay blinked at you, still slightly breathless from practice, eyes flicking from your outstretched hand to your face, his jaw ticking again. "You couldn't wait until later this afternoon?" he asked, irritated, though not exactly surprised by your intensity. "I said I'd give it to you."

You let out a sharp, incredulous scoff, stepping closer until there was barely a breath of space between the two of you. "Of course I couldn't wait," you snapped, "my cards are in there. My phone. My student ID. That is my entire life compressed into one overpriced designer handbag. You don't just walk off with someone's personal belongings and wait for the mood to strike before returning them. And on top of that, you didn't even bother to tell me you had it!"

Jay exhaled deeply, dragging a slow breath through his nose before closing his eyes for a second longer than necessary, as if silently counting down from ten. "It's at my apartment," he finally muttered.

Your mouth dropped open. "Apartment?" You blinked once. Then, despite yourself, you laughed out of pure disbelief, the kind of dry, edge-of-sanity laugh that meant you were dangerously close to unhinged. "Then call your butler and have him bring it here."

Jay let out a low groan, running a hand through his damp hair in frustration. "I don't have a butler."

You gave him a look so full of skepticism. Hah. A Prime Alpha without a butler? He's practically kidding! You were tired! The past few days had been one long stream of disasters stacked on top of humiliations, and now—this. Nothing beautiful had happened lately. Nothing soft or safe or remotely easy. It was just pure bad luck, and Park Jongseong somehow always showing up in the middle of it all, disrupting your balance with that expressionless handsome fucking face.

You took a step back, inhaled slowly, and crossed your arms. "Skip practice. Right now. We're going to your apartment."

Jay's eyes widened instantly, his entire body reacting, and you swear, you saw a flicker. That rare flicker of visible emotion breaking through his stoic facade. It cracked across his face in the perfect mask he always wore: a flash of hesitation, confusion, and unmistakable panic.

"W-What?" he stammered. "You can't just order me around—" he began, words tumbling out in a rush, like they were trying to catch up with the situation in front of him. His composure slipped another degree, lips parting with another excuse he couldn't seem to form fast enough. "I—I'll bring it here later—"

But your patience was long gone. You leaned forward slightly, narrowing your eyes. "I need it right now," you hissed through your teeth. You hadn't even noticed your fangs pressing into the soft flesh of your lower lip. It was your Omega reacting, agitated by the mix of his scent, your stress. Your gums throbbed faintly, a physical reminder of how close you were to losing the last thread of composure you had left.

Jay continued staring at you, and for a brief moment, it looked like he might argue again. His throat bobbed with a slow, visible gulp—like he was forcing something down. Then he sighed, his shoulders shifted slightly, as if bracing himself, and without another word, he turned and jerked his chin toward the gate in a silent cue for you to follow.

You didn't move right away, still watching him closely, trying to read whatever expression flickered beneath that calm, quiet surface. But then your legs responded and you fell into step behind him as he led the way out of the practice building and into the university's parking lot.

You were already mentally preparing for what you were about to see. Given who he was—the stoic, elegant, too-put-together-for-his-own-good Jay— you were expecting a deep black luxury sedan, maybe a matte-gray Rolls-Royce, or some obnoxiously expensive imported car with tinted windows and too much horsepower. You were already rolling your eyes in advance.

But when he came to a stop, it was in front of a... scooter. Not even a motorcycle. Not a hoverboard. A bright red electric scooter. You blinked once. Your footsteps stalled as your eyes locked onto the sleek little thing, and you stared at it in stunned silence. You tried to form a thought, but your brain refused to cooperate. It was just... so damn cute. Clean. Efficient. And somehow even worse—it had stickers. Tastefully minimal ones, but still stickers.

Jay turned slightly, glancing at you over his shoulder. He didn't speak at first, just watched you for a moment longer, his eyes narrowed in anticipation. Like he was waiting to see how you'd react. If you'd laugh. Mock him. Judge. If you'd ruin the quiet, almost personal thing that this was. But your eyes didn't leave the scooter. Jay drives this? you thought, almost dazed. This was not on your bingo card. At all.

He reached toward the handlebars and pulled off one of the helmets hanging from the side. "Here," he said simply, extending it toward you.

You took it without question, too caught in your swirling thoughts to ask why he had two helmets ready. It didn't even matter. You were still processing the sheer unexpectedness of everything. Your fingers curled around the helmet's edges, and you started to raise it toward your head, but your hands fumbled slightly, distracted, unsure if it would mess up your carefully styled hair or worse—slip and smudge your makeup.

Jay noticed, he let out another small sigh, and gently reached out, taking the helmet from your hands. You froze as he stepped in front of you, surprisingly close, and his fingers brushed lightly against your hair, cautious, as though he was being absurdly careful not to tug or displace anything. His touch was so warm that it sent a small, involuntary shiver straight down your spine.

Your heart flipped. Annoyingly. Why is this doing something to you? you screamed internally, trying to focus on anything other than the way his eyes narrowed slightly in concentration as he adjusted the helmet, ensuring the fit was snug but not uncomfortable. He avoided your skin, even as his hand lingered just at your jaw, his fingers brushing close but never quite touching as he clipped the strap beneath your chin.

Your eyes drifted to his face—his lashes low, mouth set in a faint line of focus, brows drawn in concentration. So handsome! Jay stepped back once the helmet was secure, his hands falling away, and still he said nothing but his eyes stayed on you just a second too long.

You didn't let yourself dwell on it. Instead, you adjusted your dress, and carefully perched sideways onto the seat, your knees pressed together, legs to one side, one arm curling instinctively around Jay's waist for balance. Your other hand found the back of his shirt and tightened there, knuckles brushing against the thin fabric as you braced yourself. You could already feel the heat of the sun on your skin, the warmth of his body just beneath your palm, and worse, his scent—so annoyingly clean and muted, yet distinctly him curling into your senses with every gust of wind that rushed by.

The scooter rumbled gently beneath you as Jay started driving, the silence between you is broken only by the low whir of the motor and the occasional flutter of your hair catching the wind. You tried to act composed, calm or unbothered. But then you looked down.

"Wow," you whispered, a breathless sort of awe slipping from your lips as you blinked at the road beneath you. "Wow," you said again, barely able to believe what you were seeing. Your feet—nearly touching the ground. It was surreal. Slightly terrifying. And definitely unforgettable!

"Core experience," you muttered under your breath, unable to stop the grin twitching at the corner of your mouth. You didn't mean to enjoy it, but the absurdity of the moment, the thrill of the wind whipping past your face, the way you had to grip him tighter every time he took a sharp turn—it all added up. Goddamn it, this was kind of... fun.

Eventually, the ride slowed as Jay pulled up to a modest two-story apartment building. The neighborhood was calm, framed with trimmed hedges, a few overgrown trees, and minimal foot traffic. Not flashy. Not luxurious. Just... ordinary. Jay parked the scooter and removed his own helmet first, but his eyes flicked to you immediately—hesitant again. Like he was waiting for something. A comment, or judgement, a reaction, but you were too busy turning your head, surveying the area with curiosity.

"My apartment's on the second floor," he said with a kind of caution you didn't often hear from him. He reached out toward you again, hands careful as he unclasped the helmet's strap beneath your chin. You stilled without protest, letting him remove it.

You didn't say anything. You just followed him, watching the way his shoulders tensed as you climbed the stairs behind him. He glanced back only once, and when he did, it wasn't impatience you saw.

When he finally stopped at a small dark-brown door, he hesitated a moment longer before unlocking it. He didn't open it fully, just nudged it halfway and turned toward you with a tight expression, like he was preparing for disappointment. "I know you know I'm an Apex Alpha," he began, eyes avoiding yours as he spoke. "And I know most of them live... differently. The luxury. The image. I get it. I know this isn't what you were expecting—"

"What are you talking about?" you cut in flatly, brow arching as you leaned against the doorframe, thoroughly unimpressed with his dramatics. "Jay, I don't care if you sleep on a yoga mat or a gold-plated bed. Just go inside and find my bag."

Jay blinked, momentarily stunned by your lack of reaction. His mouth parted as if he were going to say something, but no words came. Eventually, he just gave a tight nod and stepped inside, and you followed closely behind.

The moment you stepped over, his scent hit you. It wasn't just faint traces clinging to his jacket —it was everywhere. It wasn't overwhelming, not like the gym. It was so familiar in a way that made your skin prickle. It wrapped around you and you stood there, unmoving, blinking against the sudden dizziness that came not from disorientation, but from how right it felt. Your muscles, so tense just moments ago, slackened without your permission. Comfort. Safety. Stability.

Your eyes flicked around the room again, trying to anchor yourself. The interior of the apartment was... small. Minimal. Clean, definitely. The walls were bare, the furniture practical, and everything seemed organized within an inch of its life. The color palette was expected—black, gray, a few white accents—but there wasn't a single thing that hinted at personality. No photos. No posters. No art. Not even a clock!

You walked further in, eyes slowly scanning every corner. It wasn't bad. Just... boring. Predictable. The opposite of your space, which was a colorful textures, clothes, cosmetics and more cosmetics. Your gaze drifted toward the single window, where soft daylight spilled in through half-closed blinds. And that's when you saw a small cactus, sitting on the ledge. The pot was matte black, the cactus itself was mature, its shape clean and symmetrical, not too large, but clearly well-kept. It was the only sign of something living in the entire apartment besides him.

"Hah," you breathed out quietly as your fingers lightly brushed the surface of the cactus pot. Your fingertip traced a slow circle along its rim, as if expecting the little plant to respond. "Poor you," you murmured, eyes narrowed in sympathy. "No one to talk to." You paused, tilted your head thoughtfully, and imagined the cactus silently agreeing with you.

Before your fantasy plant friend could offer any more unspoken wisdom, Jay's voice broke through the silence from behind you "Here," he said, and you turned to find him holding your bag out, arm extended.

You stared at him for a beat longer then took the bag from his hands. Without offering a word of thanks, you immediately unzipped it, fingers moving through the contents. Wallet—still there, still depressingly holding only forty bucks. Your cards—campus ID, bank, library, cafe loyalty (with two sad stamps). More cards, a half-empty bottle of mouthwash, your trusty alcohol spray, an entire family of tissues and wet wipes, a slightly dented pepper spray canister

You looked back up at him, face is blank for a moment, then gave a long, exaggerated roll of your eyes, making sure he saw it. Jay's brow furrowed instantly, his face shifting into the kind of confused scowl.

"Okay," you said, voice a little too cheerful, as you slung your bag over your shoulder, "let's go back, pretend this never happened, and—if the stars are kind—let's hope we never see each other again. Ever. As in never ever again." You even wiggled your fingers a little for extra flair on the final words.

Jay didn't flinch, just nodded once, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly, the barest hint of amusement flickering in his eyes. "Okay," he said, almost too agreeable. Like he was humoring you.

Which was suspicious. You narrowed your eyes, but didn't linger. You were too tired for another round of whatever game he was playing. If the universe had any sense of justice, that would've been the last time you ever had to see his face.

But as it turned out, the universe was kind.

Jay, however, was not.

THE THIRD day of the University Games dawned far too early. You were dead asleep, dreaming about clawing your way into a luxury spa. It was 5:30 in the goddamn morning, and the sun wasn't even up properly, but your phone had decided to become possessed, vibrating across your nightstand.

You groaned, half-asleep, limbs tangled in your blanket, and reached for it blindly. "It's five-thirty in the morning," you hissed to no one in particular, voice croaky with sleep. "Who the hell thinks this is a good time to ruin my skin cycle?"

Your hydrating face mask had slid halfway off your cheek, clinging on for dear life, and one of your heatless curls flopped onto your forehead. You snatched the phone without checking the caller ID, already prepared to eviscerate whoever it was with the same energy you reserved for late assignments and bad service.

"What time do you usually sleep for you not to wake up at five?" came the voice on the other end—calm, composed, and unmistakably male.

Your brows furrowed. The voice clicked in your brain a beat later, and your eyes snapped open fully. You squinted blearily at the screen. It was an unknown number. Unregistered contact. Fucking Jay.

You sat up, face mask dangling off your chin now, your voice are clearly in disbelief. "First of all, who the hell wakes up at five unless they're being punished by the gods? And second—what the hell do you want?!"

There was a pause. Then: "I need my jacket."

Your mouth dropped open. Your eyes swung toward your vanity table, where said jacket was currently draped over the back of your chair. "You called me at five-thirty in the morning... for your jacket?"

"I figured you'd be up," he replied, not even bothering to sound apologetic.

"You figured wrong," you growled, flopping back onto your pillow. "You couldn't wait until literally any reasonable hour? I was going to give it back later, obviously! Are you seriously calling me over a piece of clothing right now?!"

Without even a hint of shame, he said, "You don't just walk off with someone's personal belongings and wait for the mood to strike before returning them."

Your jaw dropped. He did not. He did! He just threw your words back at you!

"6:30 a.m. I'll meet you at my apartment." The call cut off. Just like that.

You stared at your phone. Your blood pressure shot through the roof. You let out a high-pitched screech and launched your pillow across the room. "Fuck you!" you screamed at the now-black screen. "I hope you choke on your bland-ass breakfast!"

Then you stomped out of bed, and stormed toward your massive, color-organized closet. You flung the doors open so fast one of them bounced off the hinge. If he wanted petty, you could do petty. You could do petty in style. But time was slipping, and styling was suddenly a luxury you couldn't afford. You only had an hour. Sixty minutes. For a girl like you, it was hell!

So you threw something together. You pulled on an oversized white hoodie, soft fleece inside, the sleeves long enough to cover your hands, the only pop of color being the deep red drawstrings hanging. Underneath, your favorite branded white sports briefs sat high on your waist, their waistband peeking out deliberately from beneath your crisp white shorts. Your legs were wrapped in mismatched sheer knee-high socks, one plain, the other adorned with bold red stripes that matched the hoodie drawstrings. You finished it off with your white-and-black Adidas sneakers.

Makeup was on emergency mode. Concealer, winged liner, highlighter, and a quick pop of gloss. You grabbed your bag, flung the door open, and stomped out of your house with your driver. All for one jacket.

Your driver blinked awake, still groggy, rubbing his eyes behind the wheel. "It's okay!" you chirped with a wide, falsely sweet smile, slipping outside the passenger seat. "I can handle the commute from here, I just need to finish some business. Really quick. Promise. You go home and rest—you look exhausted. Sorry for waking you up so early. Love you!"

The moment the door clicked shut behind you, your face flattened into a withering glare. The smile evaporated. Your irritation returned with full force, bubbling just beneath your skin. You stomped your way up the stairwell of Jay's apartment. You could already smell his pheromones bleeding into the corridor but you were too angry to let it rattle you. Your Omega twitched at the edges, unsettled by the scent, but you forced her down. This was not the time!

You raised your fist and slammed it against the door, hard. No response. You clicked your tongue, rolled your eyes, and knocked again—this time with more pressure, the flat of your palm echoing against the wood. Still, no response. Just as you raised your hand for a third, even more aggressive strike, the lock clicked and the door creaked open.

"I have neighbors," Jay said flatly, "If you don't want me to get a noise complaint, maybe stop trying to break my door."

You opened your mouth to snap something back—but then you saw him. The words froze mid-breath. Jay stood there, barefoot, wearing a black sando that clung unforgivably well to his chest and shoulders, and a pair of light gray pajama pants that immediately sent your brain into a mental spiral. His silver hair was mussed, pieces falling over his forehead. His eyes—those cold, sharp eyes were fixed on you. You didn't know what was so special about his expression. It was always the same blank, emotionally constipated face he always wore.

And yet—God. Your gaze dipped before you could stop it. Down right to those pants. Gray. Pajama. Pants. Suddenly, Ningning's voice echoed in your head: "Gray sweatpants? Oh honey, they reveal everything. Even if it's not hard? You'll still see God."

And wow. Woooow. Oh my God. There was no logical reason why this one particular shade of pants could wreck a woman's entire thought process—but here you were, doing mental gymnastics trying not to faint from the very real, very visible outline haunting your vision.

Was it... Was it even fully soft? Why is it that big just... existing like that? Your mouth went dry. Your palms went warm. For one cursed, embarrassing second, you almost gasped in holy reverence.

Snap out of it! Your Omega nearly purred and you practically hissed at her to shut up. You shook your head. You narrowed your eyes, forcing your voice steady as you bit back everything your traitorous body wanted to say. "You open the fucking door when I knock," you seethed, each word pushed out with a tight smile and clenched jaw. "The first time."

Jay, entirely unbothered, simply widened the door and turned away, leaving it open behind him as he walked further inside.

You scoffed, half in disbelief, half in outrage, before marching in after him with a vengeance. "Here's your ugly jacket," you snapped, waving the paper bag.

"Put it on the table," he replied without looking back, voice even and careless, like you were some delivery person. You gasped audibly.

Your mouth opened, closed, then opened again. "I—Excuse me?" The sheer nerve. The audacity. This man woke you up at dawn, summoned you to his apartment, barely acknowledged your existence, and now he wanted you to just waltz in like some obedient little errand girl and drop it off? You bit down on your lip so hard you felt the sting. Somewhere in your brain, a nerve twitched. Your eye followed suit. You stepped inside, crossed the room with a stomp in every step, and slammed the paper bag onto his kitchen table. You even gave the table leg a small kick on your way back. "There," you said. "We done now? Great. I'm leaving."

But Jay, unhurried as ever, was already reaching into a cabinet and placing not one, but two plates on the table.  "Let's eat," he said calmly. You blinked, eyebrow raised and brain short circuited. Huh?

"Wha—Are you fucking with me right now?" you practically screeched, staring at him. "I am not—not—eating breakfast with you. You dragged me out of bed at the break of dawn to return your stupid jacket, not for a sit-down meal. Who even does that?!" You fanned yourself with your hand, more from the emotional overheating than the temperature. You were genuinely at risk of hair loss from the stress of this man's behavior.

Jay just set down a glass, pulled a chair out from the table, and tilted his head slightly—gesturing for you to sit. No words, the smallest hint of challenge in his eyes, like he was daring you to keep being difficult.

Your mouth opened again but your gaze betrayed you. It dropped, straight to his biceps. They flexed subtly as he held the chair in place, the curve of his forearms tightening. Your lips parted in a silent curse, and you swallowed hard, trying to drag your eyes back up. But then his eyes met yours, soft brown, framed by lashes far too long for someone who clearly didn't care about skincare—and for some reason, your knees stopped listening to you. Before you even realized it, you were sitting.

What are you doing?! Get up! Fight! Bite him! Throw the chair! But there you were, lips slightly pursed, sitting at Jay's table. Stupid. You were so disappointed in yourself. Disappointed in your lineage, your entire bloodline, in every proud Omega empowerment seminar you'd ever half-attended for extra credit. Was this what your foremothers fought for? To be reduced to a flustered heap at the sight of an Alpha's biceps flexing through a tank top? You were supposed to demand your worth, blaze trails, radiate strength—not crumble at the sight of defined triceps and the vein down his forearm. Stupid. So stupid.

"Coffee?" Jay's voice broke into your silent, he opened a cabinet and reached for two mugs without even looking at you. You narrowed your eyes, your lip twitching as you rolled them.

"I want an iced vanilla latte," you replied, chin lifted.

Jay paused mid-reach and turned his head slowly toward you, one brow raising just a little. His eyes trailed over your face, taking in the unapologetic challenge in your tone. "I don't have that," he said.

"Well, that's too bad," you shot back without missing a beat, crossing your legs under the table. "Because I want it."

You watched his jaw tighten. Jay stared at you for a beat longer, like he was trying to process whether or not you were serious. You stared right back, unflinching. Heh. If he was going to play the host, then you were going to play the guest—and a very high-maintenance one at that.

To your disappointment, he didn't argue. Didn't roll his eyes, didn't even sigh dramatically. He simply turned back to the cabinet and grabbed a glass. You blinked once. That was it? No fight? No eye-roll? He was just... complying? Your eyes trailed after him as he began placing dishes on the table. Eggs. Rice. Kimchi. Toast. Even a bowl of sliced fruit. He moved without rush, setting things down.

Your brow furrowed. "What the—?" You blinked again, narrowing your eyes to the soup. "Did you—? Is that—?" You pointed at the bowl. "Is that egg soup?"

Jay didn't look up from where he was neatly arranging utensils. "Yeah."

"Like... real? Not from a packet?"

"No packet."

You stared at him, genuinely scandalized. "Are you telling me you actually cooked?"

Jay glanced up at you. "You don't think I know how to cook?"

You snorted. "I didn't think you knew how to speak until last week." He didn't answer. Just pushed the bowl of soup toward you and set down a clean spoon next to it.

You stared at the bowl, then at him, then back at the bowl. Steam curled from the golden broth, gentle and warm, carrying the faint, rich scent of sesame oil and soft herbs. A few tender scallions floated along the surface. It was too well made to be instant. You could see the care in it, and worse, you could smell the fresh, savory, and comforting in a way that made your stomach tighten. How much cholesterol does an egg even have? You mentally tried to remember that one diet chart you saved during your health-obsessed week two months ago. Was it 180? 210?

Jay, who had just reappeared at your side, setting down a tall glass filled with what suspiciously resembled a vanilla latte. Cold, and perfectly creamy, He said nothing, just quietly placed it on the table in front of you. Your mouth opened slightly in shock. He actually... made it? Before you could ask, he sat down across from you and began scooping rice onto your plate. He didn't even glance up, just calmly portioned the meal as if you hadn't threatened to never see him again less than 48 hours ago.

You stared at him, bewildered, impressed and hungry. The worst part is you could feel yourself softening. You looked down at the food, then took a spoon. You could always fight him after second bite, maybe third, or fourth.

     YOU FOUND yourself staring at the cactus near the window, head tilted slightly, lips pursed in curiosity. You didn't know what it was exactly but something about the tiny creature just... intrigued you. It was undeniably cute in the most underwhelming, passive-aggressive way. You kind of admired it. You also kind of wanted to interrogate it. Did it have a name? Did Jay talk to it when no one was around? Did it have a designated birthday? You narrowed your eyes and leaned in.

Meanwhile, Jay was behind you, washing dishes at the sink with silence. The soft sound of water running and porcelain clinking was oddly domestic, unsettlingly gentle. You weren't used to this kind of quiet. Certainly not around him.

Your eyes drifted back to the cactus. You'd been staring at it for—what, twenty minutes now? It was so visually uneventful that it actually started making your brain itch. Cute, yes. But also boring. Like everything else in this apartment. You frown, did cacti bloom? You were pretty sure they did. You'd seen pictures. Tiny flowers, delicate and absurdly lovely, sometimes pink or yellow or white, sprouting from the spikes. You liked that idea. That even something that armored and still could suddenly bloom. This one deserved to bloom. It deserved something pretty. Without thinking, you reached for your bag and opened the small front pocket. Inside, tangled between your hand sanitizer and spare lip tint, was a pale pink satin lace. You unwound it from the keychain and carefully wrapped it around the base of the cactus's pot. You tied it into a small bow, a makeshift ribbon. You sat back and admired your work, head tilting again. It looked objectively better.

Behind you, Jay turned off the faucet. You glanced over your shoulder just in time to catch him drying his hands. Then, he reached for his black jacket hanging neatly by the door—your attention sharpened as he shrugged it on. You narrowed your eyes. It wasn't just any jacket. It was Prada. Jay slipped into it, the label stitched at the collar caught the light for a second. Your head tilted slightly, your suspicion growing in real time as the details started lining up in your head.

"Ready to go?" he asked. You gave him a slow look, one brow lifted, the kind that immediately made him tilt his head ever so slightly, like he was trying to guess what kind of trouble was brewing behind your eyes. He didn't press you for an answer. Smart man. You didn't say anything either. Just grabbed your bag from the table, slung it over your shoulder and headed toward the door without a word.

You stepped outside first. Behind you, Jay locked the apartment, then he followed slinging his bag over his shoulder—another Prada. You squinted again. You recognized that design. Same model he had slung across his back the first time you saw him. And then your eyes dropped slightly to his glasses. Also Prada. You were sure.

Okay, sure. Apex Alphas were known for their proximity to luxury. That wasn't news. Statistically, they were born into families that could afford private medical enhancements, exclusive early education, access to inter-Alpha networks. Even the lowest-ranking Apex could land a sponsorship just for breathing near a prestigious program. And most high-paying jobs were designed to be physically and pheromonally exclusive anyway—companies wanted Alphas. The stronger, the better. Politics loved them. Even universities made exceptions and handed out funds during Alpha enrollment campaigns.

So no, it wasn't shocking that Jay had Prada accessories. Not even a little. What was strange was the hesitation. The awkwardness from yesterday. The way he'd stood in that apartment, muttering something about not living the lifestyle people expect. He'd sounded... reserved. Like he didn't want you to think he was that type of Alpha, even though his wardrobe alone could buy you an entire designer weekender set with matching heels.

You don't actually care, rich or not. But something about the contradiction rubbed at your thoughts. As you followed him down the narrow stairwell, your gaze locked on the smooth line of his back, broad under the designer jacket, and your brain wandered—building theories. If he had money, why hide it? If he didn't, how did he have those things? And if he did have it but pretended not to care... why act so cagey?

You hopped back onto the scooter, despite how annoyed you were, your body betrayed you by leaning forward unconsciously, chin hovering almost obnoxiously close to Jay's shoulder as you squinted sideways at his profile. You weren't even trying to be subtle about it anymore. Jay didn't comment at first, he simply drove. But when the scooter rolled to a stop near the university gates and he got off to help remove your helmet, his eyes flicked toward your suspicious expression. He paused as he unclipped the strap under your chin, clearly holding back the urge to ask what was wrong with you.

"Why do you have two helmets?" you asked abruptly, lips pursed in a tight pout, eyebrow raised high.

Jay blinked, briefly thrown off by your tone. He recovered quickly, fingers moving carefully as he lifted the helmet off your head without messing up your hair. "I have a younger brother," he replied, like it was obvious.

You tilted your head, suspicious curiosity deepening. "Huh? Where is he?"

Jay turned away to grab his bag from the scooter's compartment and slung it over his shoulder, then gave a nod toward the sidewalk as a silent cue to start walking. "At my parents' house," he said evenly.

You fell into step beside him, still brimming with nosiness. "Wait, so why aren't you at your parents' house? I live with my parents! And my maids. And my driver. And two part-time gardeners. You mean to tell me you're living independently? In a tiny apartment with no butler? How are you even surviving that? You're an Apex!"

Jay didn't flinch at your curiosity. "I don't want to live with them anymore," he said calmly. "And I can't afford a bigger place."

You narrowed your eyes, slowing your steps as you absorbed that answer. "But why?"

He stayed quiet for a moment, that you thought he might ignore the question completely. Then he exhaled, eyes still ahead. "Because the price of freedom is high. And mine didn't come with a platinum card."

You blinked, caught off guard. Your gaze lifted instinctively, eyes drifting toward his face as your brain tried to process what he'd just said. There was something about the way he said it. It was like pushing further would cross a line he hadn't even officially drawn, but you could feel it all the same. You didn't know what to say back, and the topic sounds so sensitive so you adjusted your bag with a small huff, laced your fingers together behind your back, and kept walking at his side.

You walked in silence for a stretch of sidewalk. But then, because you were you—and because lingering sincerity made your brain itch—you cleared your throat and huffed a dramatic sigh. "Not that it matters," you muttered, lifting your chin slightly, your tone sliding back, "but I don't actually care. Just in case you're having some weird internal crisis about what I think of your tragic little lifestyle."

He didn't answer, so you keep going. "I mean, if you think I care—like care care—then you're delusional. I do not. Not at all. Couldn't be me." Jay glanced at you sideways, but you ignored it. "Whatever. Byeee." You tossed the word over your shoulder, adding a flip of your hair. Then you strode ahead of him with your exit walk.

Jay slowed to a stop for a second, staring at your retreating figure. His eyes followed the sway of your steps, the bounce of your styled hair, the unapologetic swing of your shoulders as you marched off. And then he scoffed under his breath. A faint smile ghosted across his lips. He shook his head to himself and followed behind you. Silently. As always.

⋮ ⌗ act fourteen

     "VIOLATION OF not wearing a proper dress code from Green Team."

Your voice rang out across the court, lollipop stick clutched between two fingers, the bright candy tucked between your lips as you casually snapped a photo with your phone. "Based on the regulations clearly outlined in the student handbook—which, by the way, I doubt any of you have ever read—uniform protocol for all players participating in intramural sports requires footwear that supports ankle safety and team consistency," you began, scrolling through the notes on your phone. "That Alpha over there is wearing off-brand running shoes with no grip. Immediate violation."

Someone on the sidelines groaned loudly. You didn't even flinch "And another infraction," you continued, drawing out your words as you made a show of sniffing the air, then pointing your pen directly at the guy in question. "Excessive scent release. Intentionally broadcasting dominant Alpha pheromones in a co-ed match? Yeah, that's not just poor sportsmanship, it's a form of intimidation. This is a mixed bracket. That Omega on the opposing team is literally blinking like he's been chloroformed. Unacceptable. Eight-point deduction."

The eruption of protest was immediate. "What the hell?! You're seriously gonna call us out for that when you're walking around dressed like that?!"

You slowly turned your head, gaze lifting over the rim of your sunglasses as you pulled the lollipop from your mouth. "Dressed like what exactly?" you asked flatly. "Be specific, since you seem so comfortable evaluating appearances. Is it the cropped team jacket? The standard-issue mini skort? The approved colors? The school-endorsed athletic shoes that I'm wearing while not even playing? I'd love to hear which part offends your fragile Alpha sensibilities most."

You began scribbling on your form with flourish, making a show of it. "Also—another violation," you added sweetly without missing a beat, "for harassment of officiating staff. Verbal aggression. That's two-point removal and an official warning. Want to keep going? I've got a whole page of penalties just waiting to be assigned, sweetheart."

The boy opened his mouth again, but the teammate beside him shoved his elbow into his ribs and whispered something, clearly urging him to shut up before the deduction got bumped to a full disqualification.

You smirked as the lollipop slid back between your teeth, cherry-sweet and smug as your pen scratched confidently against your clipboard. With your phone tucked under your arm and your fingers flying over the notes app, you continued documenting every violation. There was a certain power in it—standing at the edge of the court, perfectly dressed, entirely unbothered, while others scrambled to clean up their infractions.

But then, something shifted, a change in the air pressure beside you, a subtle tension brushing your shoulder. Your brow creased automatically, muscle memory responding. You turned your head with annoyance, fully prepared to glare at whichever unfortunate Beta or misguided assistant had wandered into your bubble.

But instead of some flustered student intern, you were met with the sight of a tall figure in a fitted yellow jersey. His fingers brushed back silver hair, eyes already fixed on you with a glint you absolutely did not trust. And then—God help you—he smiled. Your mouth parted slightly, the gasp catching in your throat. Not because you were impressed. No. No, no, no. But because you knew that face. Your eye twitched hard. Memories flashed against your brain, you had barely recovered. And here he was, right in front of you. What was his name again? Heedong? Hee-something? Heeseung?

The name clicked into place right as his expression shifted into a knowing, wicked grin. He had the audacity to wink. Wink. "Didn't expect you to be this serious, Omega," he said smoothly.

Your expression flattened, flipping rapidly from disbelief to offense in less than a second. You pull out the lollipop in your mouth. "Didn't expect you to still be alive," you muttered. "But here you are. Unfortunately."

He just grinned wider, like your snark only fueled whatever delusion he was currently riding. "Alive and well," he replied, gesturing casually to himself. "And I've been missing you, actually."

What?! Before you could even respond, he had the audacity to lift a finger and point toward his neck, then at yours. "You're not wearing your patch," he observed, far too confidently. "I can see it. The imprint."

Your eyes nearly bulged out of your skull. Did this man have no shame? No internal filter? Did the concept of boundaries get erased? "Still with that imprint bullshit?" you snapped, stepping back, your hand clutching your clipboard because it was the only thing keeping you from launching it at his face. "Bruh. I don't know what kind of nose you're operating with, but there is nothing there. Nothing. If someone imprinted on me, newsflash: I would've sued them. And even if there was something—which there isn't, thank you very much—why are you acting like it's your business?"

He tilted his head, eyes dancing with far too much amusement. "It's just... irritating," he said. "You're interesting. And it pisses me off that someone had the nerve to leave a mark on you before I could."

You stared at him, horrified that this was real. That this was a conversation happening in public. In daylight. On a campus that was supposedly accredited. Your scoff came out loud. "Okay. Wow. That's definitely your Alpha talking. Must be exhausting carrying around that much ego with zero emotional intelligence. Do you all just imprint on girls like you're tagging street cats? God, no wonder the Omega Empowerment Alliance exists."

You rolled your eyes so hard it gave you a headache, turned on your heel, and stormed off with your clipboard hugged to your chest. You weren't even going to entertain whatever fantasy this man had conjured up. This was why you kept your scent blockers industrial-strength and your walls emotionally reinforced. If this Hee-something boy thought he was going to claim you just because he looked like a Pinterest thirst trap and knew how to smirk, he had another thing coming. And honestly? You were starting to understand why your Omega was so damn picky. Because Alphas? Alphas were exhausting.

"Sorry, did that make you uncomfortable?" His voice dropped as he stepped in closer. "I think I can feel the bond."

You turned to him slowly, eyes narrowing into a glare as you twirled your index finger near your temple, the universal sign for certified lunatic. "I think I can feel the delusions," you replied with absolute dryness, not bothering to hide the cringe curling at your lip.

That earned a reaction. He threw his head back with a laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. "You're too cute," he said between chuckles. Ew. You already knew you were cute. That wasn't the issue. The issue was men like him thinking they could state the obvious and act like it was some gift from the heavens.

Unfazed, he merely shrugged and leaned slightly back, still grinning. "Anyway, I just need my jersey back." Your expression dropped immediately. The flicker of disgust was replaced by unfiltered disbelief as you blinked at him, letting the silence stretch. Are All Alphas like this?! So obsessed with their own belongings?!

"I already burned it," you said with a straight face.

It was a joke, technically, but at this point, it might as well have been. The jersey in question had been thrown into your laundry basket the moment you got home, and you'd immediately instructed your maid to wash it not once, but ten separate times. When it came back clean and folded, you still weren't satisfied. The scent was gone, sure, but the idea of it wasn't. So out of nothing more than principle—and maybe a little spite—you had it tossed back into the wash, twice. It had sat on your vanity for a grand total of three hours before the mere sight of it annoyed you all over again. So you banished it once more to the laundry room, telling yourself you'd decide what to do with it later, and then promptly refused to touch it again.

You glanced sideways, watching for any sign that he might take the hint and drop it altogether, but instead his grin only stretched wider. His confidence wasn't shaken in the slightest—in fact, if anything, he seemed encouraged by your visible annoyance. "Really?" he asked. "That's a shame. I kind of need it back for our match on Friday. But hey, you know, as payment. One date in exchange for a jersey—seems fair, doesn't it?"

You blinked at him, your lips parting. With a sharp laugh, you reached out and gave his shoulder a solid slap. "I'm kidding!" you said brightly with mockery. "You really don't have a sense of humor, do you?"

He looked mildly confused for a second.

"Relax," you continued, exhaling as you folded your arms and gave him a quick once-over. "I'll give it back tomorrow. Washed. Folded. Maybe even steamed if you're lucky—but that's where my generosity ends. So, if you could kindly evaporate from my vicinity and stop hovering, that would be fantastic." You didn't give him a chance to respond, already turning slightly, your attention shifting pointedly back to your clipboard and whatever half-baked rule enforcement you had lined up next. "I'd rather not get slapped with a violation for chatting with the enemy," you added over your shoulder. "And believe me, you're not worth the deduction."

"Hmm. Okay, Miss," he said, drawing out the words. You thought that was the end of it until you suddenly felt a hand brush your wrist. Your head snapped back toward him, a glare already forming, ready to bite out something—only to freeze as you watched him pluck the lollipop from your hand. Before you could stop him, he popped it into his mouth, sucking once. His eyes held yours, mischief gleaming unapologetically, and then he had the nerve to wink again before casually stepping back.

"Watch my match on Friday," he called out, already turning toward the court. "I'll be playing against your team."

Your jaw dropped as the audacity of it fully landed. And then came a sharp, high-pitched squeal of outrage that escaped your throat. "You absolute fuck! You think this is funny?!" you yelled, stomping your foot against the polished floor. "Fine! I'll watch your stupid match, and I'm going to tally every single one of your violations! I swear to God, you won't last five minutes before I have you benched and deducted!" You didn't care that you were drawing attention. You didn't care that a few heads turned or that someone on the sidelines snorted into their sports drink. Your blood was boiling! It was fucking boiling!

He didn't even look back. Not once. Just kept walking toward the other end of the court with your lollipop in his mouth like he'd won. Fuck him!

     YOUR MOOD had been steadily declining since noon, but by the time the late afternoon sun had dipped behind the university's western bleachers, it had bottomed out completely. You stormed across the event grounds with your clipboard clutched so tight your knuckles were pale, brows permanently drawn together in a scowl. The worst part? Ningning had somehow managed to skip the entire day. Not a single text, no check-in, just radio silence while you were drowning in endless committee announcements, senseless violations, and last-minute logistic changes that no one consulted you about. How was it that she could disappear and no one said a word, but you missed one event briefing, and suddenly three different facilitators were breathing down your neck.

You let out a frustrated, high-pitched squeal that startled two passing Beta volunteers. You stomped toward the corner of the field where the recycling bins were lined up, spotted a half-empty trash can that looked slightly unstable, and kicked it without hesitation. Worst, you were eliminated at the Dress to Impress game at Roblox for having a VIP access. That's not even in the rulebook!

You stomped in place, foot hitting the ground again and again like your frustration was trying to escape through your heels. Your hands waved in the air, almost flailing, your hair bouncing with the force of your movements, unaware that your phone had been vibrating steadily in your bag. The screen lit up again and again until finally, you snatched it out with a shaky hand, not even glancing at the caller ID before pressing accept.

"What?!" you screamed into the phone, breathless.

There was a pause. Then, a low voice—infuriatingly calm—slid into your ear. "...Are you okay?"

You froze for a minute before you sucked in a slow breath through your nose, clenching your jaw. "What do you want, Jay?"

"I just finished my preliminary basketball game."

You could practically feel your eye twitch. "Okay? And what do you want me to do? Throw you a parade?"

There was a short pause, followed by an annoyingly even reply: "I have your ID."

You blinked. Your head snapped down, eyes darting to your open bag, hands rustling through its contents as if to prove him wrong. Lip gloss? Check. Backup perfume atomizer? Check. Five pens, three hair ties, a scrunchie, and a receipt from last week's café run. All there. But your ID—absolutely missing. A growl of disbelief tore from your throat. "Why do you have it?"

"You left it on the table earlier," Jay said. "During breakfast. I thought you knew."

You almost screamed again. "Then why didn't you give it to me sooner?!"

"I was at my game."

You huffed so hard your nostrils flared. "Give it back to me right now, Jay. I swear—"

"...Are you sure you're okay?"

That question again. Your hand tightened around the phone, the words sticking in your throat. You opened your mouth, closed it, then sighed. "I've been screamed at by three facilitators, eliminated by a jealous team over a fake rule, and now I'm standing next to a trash can I kicked over at the Seniors Building because nothing today is going right. So no, Jay. I am not okay."

There was silence on the line for a moment before he speak up again. "I'll meet you in ten. Stay where you are."

You didn't respond. Just ended the call with a frustrated tap and let your hand fall limp into your lap.

By the time he arrived, you were fully committed to your drama. Slumped on the grass near the half-toppled trash bins, head resting heavily on your knees, hair falling over your face. You hadn't even lifted your head, but you felt him —it was like your Omega could sense him from meters away, whispering: He's here.

"Give me my ID and leave me alone," you muttered without looking at him, stretching one hand out with your palm up, fingers twitching in demand.

There was a soft rustle, then his voice again. "Want an ice cream?"

That made you lift your head, slowly and with all the grace of someone who absolutely did not want to be intrigued but was. You squinted up at him through your lashes, taking in the sight of him standing there in his red jersey and loose basketball shorts, his silver hair still slightly damp from sweat. He had a plastic bag in one hand, and from the top peeked the bright wrappers of ice pops—an almost ridiculous sight, if he didn't somehow still look annoyingly composed.

"Fuck off," you said, brows furrowed.

"Strawberry or matcha?" he asked again, ignoring your scowl entirely as he lowered himself beside you on the grass. He didn't look at you, just kept his eyes ahead, watching the sun as it dipped slowly toward the horizon. The light bathed everything in a warm glow, and the subtle hum of his pheromones drifted from his skin. Your chest tightened. Your heartbeat thumped faster, in that way that had become far too familiar when he was around.

Without another word, he unwrapped one for himself and popped it into his mouth, the crackle of plastic and the snap of the popsicle breaking the silence between you. You rolled your eyes, but your hand reached out anyway—snatching the matcha. If he insisted, then fine. You weren't going to suffer for pride when there was free sugar involved. You leaned back slightly on your elbows, legs stretched out in front of you, the cold treat resting against your lips before you took a slow bite.

You tried not to glance at him again, but your eyes drifted anyway—sideways, quickly—just to check. The sunlight kissed the side of his face, outlining the line of his jaw and making the silver in his hair glow faintly gold. Your mouth tightened. It was annoying how effortlessly good he looked, especially when you were actively trying to be pissed at him.

You chewed slowly, facing forward again. "Where's my ID?" you asked, the ice cream still pressed against your tongue. Jay didn't respond immediately. He reached into the pocket of his shorts and pulled it out—your student ID. He held it between two fingers, offering it without looking at you.

You took it, inspecting it with a suspicious eye, then tucked it safely into your bag with an annoyed huff. "Geez," you muttered under your breath, sucking the remaining flavor off the stick.

Another long silence stretched between you and Jay. The breeze rustled the leaves above, birds chirped somewhere in the trees nearby, and the only other sound was the faint crackle of your popsicle wrapper as your fingers played with the plastic. You shifted your legs, idly swinging one foot over the other. The end of the University Games was crawling into your thoughts again, with all its mess, pointless rules, annoying team members, and overly eager Alphas. You thought about that Heeseung guy, about the way he spoke to you. But what kept creeping in louder than all of that—more often, more sharply—was Jay. How he was always there. How his timing always seemed to land precisely when your world tipped sideways. And how he never said the right things, but still left you with a feeling that curled under your skin and refused to leave.

You let out a slow exhale through your nose and leaned your chin on your knees. "Jay," you said. He glanced over at you, popsicle paused halfway to his mouth. You didn't look at him. Just lifted a finger to your neck, touching lightly over the sensitive area just under your jaw. "Can you tell if there's an imprint?" you asked quietly. "You'd know, right? You're an Apex. Or whatever."

The air change with the way Jay's body subtly stilled completely. He didn't answer right away. You could feel him stiffen beside you, the shift in his posture. He swallowed. "Why are you asking me that?"

You rolled a shrug off your shoulder, pretending it didn't matter. "No reason." But your fingers betrayed you, immediately fidgeting with the laces of your shoes. Your thoughts started spiraling again before you could stop them.

If there really was an imprint—if there was even the slightest chance—then the only Alpha you could think of was Jay. No one else had been close enough. But it didn't make sense. He didn't like you. He barely spoke unless necessary, never gave any clear signal beyond those annoying stares. He treated you like a storm he chose to walk through, not someone he was drawn to. Could an imprint really form without affection?

"There's no imprint," he said.

You should've felt relieved. The weight in your chest even lightened slightly, but the way he said it—that carefully detached, struck something in you and his gaze didn't even meet yours.

"It looks like just a residual scent transfer," he added.

Your eye twitched, irritation flaring even as confusion gnawed at you. You looked down again. What the hell were you even expecting? You didn't know whether you were supposed to be relieved that it wasn't real, or offended that it didn't mean anything.

"Right," you said at last, aiming for a breezy tone, but your voice came out strained. "That's good."

"Hm." Jay's voice was quiet as he gave a single nod. The silence that followed stretched long, filled with an awkward tension neither of you seemed willing to break.

You exhaled through your nose, resisting the urge to fidget again. Your lips parted slightly in frustration, a sigh catching in your throat as your thoughts circled back to the same conclusion that had haunted you since day one: You really hated Alphas.

⋮ ⌗ act fifteen

     FOURTH DAY of the University Games, today's lineup featured the charades competition—arguably the least stress event so far—but that didn't make it less exhausting. If anything, it somehow demanded more of your soul. The only true gift the universe offered you today was that Jay, due to already being rostered for a major event, was no longer eligible to join any of the minor games, including charades. Finally, some space to breathe without that man's silver hair appearing from the side of your vision and ruining your pulse rate for no reason. But the victory itself? Not worth the cortisol spike. You'd helped your team snatch a clean win during the final round of charades, and the reward for that stunning display — a plastic pin with a glittery sticker that read "You Win In My Heart <3" and a handful of candies that looked like they were fished from the clearance bin at a local grocery store. Truly, an insult disguised as appreciation.

You threw the paper bag onto the table with a grunt just as Ningning sighed beside you, aggressively fanning herself with her mini turbo fan. "Damn, can't even go out. I need lunch!"

You narrowed your eyes at her with a smirk. "Wow, look who remembered to exist today."

Ningning blinked at you, then leaned back. "Oh my God—you're so pretty, I forgot to say it earlier. That outfit is giving actual main character."

Your gaze flicked toward her, unimpressed. Still, you made a half-hearted twirl of your wrist as you sat down next to her, your movements lazy and irritated. You had put effort into today's look, not that it mattered anymore. The off-shoulder top with sculpted rose along the neckline was already beginning to stick to your skin, the wide-leg jeans heavy around your ankles despite the bold red platforms that added just the right height. The little cherry chain swinging from your belt loop was the only part of you enjoying itself.

You leaned on the table, propping your chin on your fist. "Where's the yellow team practicing their basketball today?" you asked. "I need to finish some business I should've burned yesterday." Your nails were already scratching absentmindedly at the edge of your scent patch, the thought of that guy reappearing in your path again souring your mood faster.

Ningning, who normally couldn't care less about team formations unless it meant extra snacks, finally lifted her head and gave your question a second of actual thought. "I think they're practicing at the south gym. Our team's stationed in the east, and I saw the Blue and Green teams out on the main field earlier. Since tomorrow's the last match day, everyone's on high alert."

You gave another roll of your eyes. Why was everyone so obsessed with it lately? Basketball, basketball, basketball. God, it wasn't even that impressive. Just a bunch of tall Alphas running around, grunting, dunking a ball into a net. And sure, some of them were attractive, if you were into the whole sweat-drenched ego-on-legs vibe. But you weren't. Definitely not. Absolutely not!

"It's not like I care," you muttered to yourself, before Ningning started talking again.

"A lot of people are hyping up the Yellow versus Red match," she said, tapping her phone. "I heard there are a lot of hot Alphas on the Yellow team. They've got half the Omega dorms setting alarms just to watch their warmups. God, why is my life like this? I should've called in sick today. But no—here I am, stuck on cheers and design duty. Under the sun!" She showed you her fingers, now stained with streaks of red, gold, and a murky blue that looked suspiciously like it came from the spray can she wasn't supposed to use. You gave her a glance of sympathy, but your mind had already begun drifting back to what she said earlier.

South gym. Your eyes narrowed slightly as you absently peeled a label off your bottle. You weren't stalking. You weren't going there to ogle or be curious. No, you had unfinished business with that imprint-obsessed Alpha, Heeseung—or whatever his name was.

"Don't you dare sneak out," Ningning added suddenly, squinting at you as if she'd just read your thoughts. "If you get caught by the facilitators, I am not bailing you out."

You stood up, smoothing your top. "Who said I'm sneaking out? I'm just taking an... unscheduled inspection tour."

Ningning groaned as you flounced away. "Unscheduled my ass," she mumbled. "At least put your scent patch on straight this time!"

You just had one objective, and it wasn't even personal—well, not entirely. You needed to return a jersey. Simple! Except, maybe, you also wanted to check what the Yellow team was up to, especially considering half of them were CHS students. If you knew anything about that school, it was how painfully competitive their athletes were. And it wasn't beneath you to keep an eye on potential stunts they might pull. If sabotage happened along the way, like their sneakers mysteriously vanishing or their water bottles getting switched with vinegar, then that was just... divine intervention.

And if Ningning disapproved? Well, she had zero authority. She followed you anyway, even after all her whining.

"Go already!" she hissed from behind a row of decorative banners near the entrance of the south gym. "I'll stay here and watch. I've got extra perfume to mask your scent if anything happens. Just drop the paper bag and don't do anything stupid. They can track scent trails!"

You shot her a thumbs-up over your shoulder, already tiptoeing toward the building. You eased through the back hallway, careful not to let your shoes click too loudly. The muffled thump of basketballs echoed through the open court on the other side of the wall. You slowed your steps, eyes narrowing through the slits of the divider as you peeked into the gym.

A handful of Alphas were scattered across the court, some practicing shots, others jogging drills. You recognized more than a few of them. Huening Kai was definitely there, tall and expressionless, calmly dribbling. But there were red jerseys mixed in too, which didn't make sense. Why was Red team here with Yellow? This was supposed to be a closed practice.

You sniffed the air instinctively, trying to pick up Jay's scent, only to be reminded that your scent blockers had been amped up lately thanks to your inconvenient, creeping pre-heat symptoms. You'd doubled the dosage earlier, and now the scent haze around the gym was nothing more than vague Alpha musk and expensive deodorant.

"Whatever," you muttered under your breath, gripping the paper bag tighter. "Just drop it and go."

You padded over to the locker room entrance, ignoring the subtle thrum of adrenaline in your chest, and crouched low near the first bench, you lowered the paper bag beside one of the cubbies—your handwritten sticky note sticking awkwardly to the top with just enough passive-aggression in its message: To: Heesong. Return complete. Don't speak to me again. :)

You dusted your hands dramatically, ready to make a clean exit. But just as you turned, your eyes drifted to the row of shoes lined up neatly beside the locker room bathroom door. Bright, clean and clean sneakers. Your fingers itched. You didn't have to steal anything. You were better than that. Morals. Self-control. You had both... barely. Maybe next time... You turned away with a silent sigh of restraint, but as you took a single step toward the hallway exit, a shadow blocked your path.

"Shit—"

That Heeseung guy was standing casually in front of you, water dripping from his silver hair, trailing down the sculpted lines of his bare chest. His shorts hung low on his hips, towel thrown lazily around his shoulders, skin still glistening from a post-practice shower, his finger rose to his lips. He smiled, "You're here for me?"

Your mouth dropped open, but only one word made it out. "Yuck." You instinctively took a step back, casting a quick glance over your shoulder to check for a clear exit route. You lifted your arm and pointed stiffly toward the bench behind him where the paper bag sat. "Your jersey's over there," you said. "I've done my part. I'm leaving."

But of course, nothing was ever that simple when it came to Heeseung. He stayed exactly where he was. "Already?" he asked. "What about catching up?"

You stared at him, unimpressed, then slowly set your hand on your hip, weight shifting as your patience visibly thinned. "Can you stop being a weirdo and just let me leave?" you snapped. "God, I get it—I'm pretty. I know. Thank you, the mirror tells me every morning. But just to set the record straight, bursting your little fantasy bubble: you're not my type. Not even close." You gestured vaguely at his entire being. "I hate smug, arrogant, flirt-happy, attention-seeking Alphas who think the world revolves around their scent. Especially ones who corner people in locker rooms like it's cute. And yes, sure—you're objectively handsome, congratulations—"

His eyes lit up instantly. "You think I'm handsome?"

And just like that, your entire monologue derailed into flames. You blinked at him, stunned that that was the part he chose to latch onto. "Wow," you said slowly. "Out of everything I just said, that's what you heard?"

He smiled wider, clearly enjoying himself far too much. "Well, it was the only part that felt sincere."

"I am not sincere," you snapped back, already spinning on your heel before the conversation could spiral further into delusion. You didn't wait for a reply, your voice trailing behind as you stormed toward the exit. "I'm done. I'm leaving."

"Hmmm. Okay," he said behind you. "Let me guide you out, then. Make sure you don't get caught lurking where you shouldn't be."

"You're naked, Heeseung!" you hissed over your shoulder without stopping. "Put some clothes on! God, please!" You reached up to cover your eyes, already regretting every decision that had led you here, but then you felt his hand land lightly on your shoulder, guiding you.

"It's not a big deal. Alphas walk around like this all the time, especially after training. I'm an athlete—it's normal," he said. "Why so conservative, princess?"

"Don't call me that," you groaned, swatting his hand off your shoulder. "And I am not conservative. I just don't enjoy seeing half-naked Alphas wandering around like it's some kind of fashion statement. There is nothing attractive about this. It's not hot. It's actually—"

The second you turned the corner toward the hallway leading to the exit, another Alpha emerged from the shower room—towel slung casually over his shoulder, chest completely bare, water still trailing down his skin in slow, glistening lines. His hair was dark and wet, tousled from the steam. "The hell, man? Why's an Omega in the locker room?" the stranger asked, his voice was with a thick Australian accent that only made the moment more absurd.

Your eyes locked on him—and unfortunately, so did everything else. Your mouth fell open as you stared, completely frozen. His shoulders were impossibly broad, abs chiseled. Your hand shot up to cover your mouth, but it was too late. You were already staring.

"Jake," Heeseung's voice came from just behind you, surprisingly composed. "Lower your voice, alright? She's just here to return something. If she gets caught, she'll end up with a bigger problem than whatever that is in your hand." You weren't even going to ask what Jake was holding. You didn't want to know.

Jake tilted his head, his brow lifting just a little as he looked you over. Then he shrugged, completely unbothered. "Alright, chill. I'll guide her out then. Locker room's a maze if you're not used to it."

"Wait, what?!" you shrieked, turning fast on your heel as Jake stepped forward. "I can walk! I have feet! I am perfectly capable of exiting a door without an escort!" But your protest died just as quickly as it started, because behind Jake, another guy appeared—also freshly out of the showers, towel thrown around his neck, absolutely no shirt in sight.

You blinked. He blinked back.

Then his finger rose slowly and pointed at Heeseung's hand resting a bit too casually near your back. Then at Jake's arm, which had lifted like he was about to guide you by the elbow.

"Bro?" the new Alpha said with confusion. And that's when your soul nearly exited your body. Water was dripping down his arm—slow, gleaming trails that curved right over his flexed biceps, down to his forearm, before disappearing into the waistband of his shorts. Shorts that, in your opinion, barely counted as decent. Your eyes went wide. Wider than wide. They hurt, from the effort of trying not to look any longer. You practically slapped your own face to remind your brain to shut down immediately.

"That's Jay's Omega. Back off," came from the man who'd just stepped out of the shower. His arm shot out, brushing off Heeseung's hand from your shoulder and halting Jake just as he was about to place a palm near your lower back. You stumbled a step away, not from fear, but because the entire situation had escalated into something so absurd your brain couldn't keep up. All of them were half-naked. You were surrounded. Your mind was still catching up to the phrase that had come out of that man's mouth.

Jake scowled, his brow drawing low, clearly not satisfied with the declaration. "The hell, Sunghoon? Anyone can throw claims like that. I don't see a mark. She's unmated. Don't start acting territorial just because you think she's pretty."

"Doesn't matter. You don't need a scent bond to understand boundaries. If someone's protecting her, you respect that. Alpha or not."

Heeseung's lips curled into a scoff, eyes flashing as he stepped slightly forward, shoulders squaring. "Calm down?" he echoed, mocking. "We weren't doing anything. She's a friend. She came to say hello. Or is that suddenly a crime now?"

The tension in the room sharpened, and though you'd taken your scent blockers religiously that morning—double dosed, in fact, just to keep your pre-heat symptoms under control—it wasn't doing much now. The moment their pheromones began to bleed into the air, it became impossible to ignore. So oppressive that it was like being trapped in a room slowly filling with steam, your lungs working harder than they should, your heartbeat quickening against your will.

God, why can't Alphas just love each other and leave the rest of you — Omegas out of it? you thought, teeth gritted, irritation mounting just as fast as the scent pressure building around you. Always posturing. Always testing boundaries. It was like watching dogs circle each other with slightly more vocabulary.

"What the hell is going on?"

Your entire body went still. You turned your eyes to the fourth voice you heard and your mouth parted on instinct at the catastrophic sight in front of you. Jay had stepped out from the shower hallway, hair soaked and slicked back, droplets of water cascading down his temple, trailing past the line of his sharp jaw and down his neck. His bare chest, still glistening, rose and fell slowly as he surveyed the scene—eyes narrowing first at the other three Alphas, then landing on you.

Your body reacted faster than your logic. Blood rushed everywhere, your heart thudded too loudly, and heat prickled behind your knees. You bit your bottom lip before it could tremble, gaze dropping against your will to follow the curve of water running from his collarbone to the firm lines of his torso and—Goddamn it, look away!

You were spiraling, embarrassingly fast. The argument around you continued, but everything else blurred into background noise. The voices became muffled, meaningless, as the air distorted around you. All you felt was the proximity, the weight of Jay's stare, and then—suddenly his hand was on your wrist. He didn't yank or tug, just shifted his body until he was directly between you and the others, shielding you completely from view. And just like that, Sunghoon flanked him without needing instruction, shoulder-to-shoulder like a wall had been built between you and the rest.

You could barely focus, your brain caught somewhere between oxygen deprivation and a full hormonal breakdown. Your ears were ringing, and the only thing you could clearly register was the vibration of voices.

"Why are you getting so worked up, Park Jongseong?" Heeseung's voice slithered. "We had an agreement. Don't play dirty now."

"She's still bonded to me, Lee Heeseung. You can't demand I cut it because you suddenly decided to care."

You barely registered Jay's voice or the weight of what he said. The words floated around the edges of your consciousness, slipping past you without meaning. You weren't even remotely interested in their territorial Alpha argument—not when your eyes were fixed on something far more distracting. Jay's torso, a single bead of water trailing slowly down the ridge of his abs and disappearing beneath the waistband of his shorts.

Your brain short-circuited, you could feel saliva pool beneath your tongue as your throat tightened, and you forced yourself to swallow the lump gathering there, though it did nothing to stop the fire spreading through your veins. Your gaze, which should have been respectful—hell, at least subtle—refused to move elsewhere. Your attention dropped lower, sliding past his hips, until it hit the line of his shorts. You froze. And then you made the mistake of looking lower. Oh God.

You clamped your mouth shut before something embarrassing could escape, pressing your lips into a thin, desperate line, trying to keep it together. The heated air, already saturated with Alpha pheromones, was thickening around you. Your knees felt increasingly useless.

Heeseung scoffed behind the haze. "Hah. You're seriously pulling that card now?" he hissed. "You haven't even claimed her properly. You don't get to hold her in place and pretend she's yours when you haven't done a damn thing to prove it."

Jay didn't flinch. His voice remained even. "I never said she was mine," he said firmly. "But I'm not about to let you toy with her either."

And just like that, you forgot how to breathe again. Because in the next moment, Jay's grip on your wrist shifted, and without waiting for a response from you or anyone else, he drew you closer, his body shielding yours completely. You stumbled forward slightly from the sudden shift in gravity, your hand splaying against his torso. And oh, God—you could feel it.

Around you, the rising heat of the room was tangible —but you didn't care. Your entire brain had condensed into a singular focus: your hand, resting flat against his stomach. You blinked once, trying to claw your way back to reality, but the moment was already slipping from your control.

"I can treat her better than you," Heeseung growled, stepping forward again.

You didn't hear the rest. The pressure behind your eyes throbbed. Your heart skipped a beat, then another, the rush of your blood too loud in your ears. Jay's scent curled into your lungs, too potent for your weakened blockers to resist any longer.

You opened your mouth to speak, to protest, to snap, but the room spun so suddenly that you didn't even get the chance. Everything swayed, tilted, fell sideways. And then you collapsed—right into Jay's chest, the last thing you saw before everything went black.

    EVERY OMEGA has a choice. No matter what the world, the rules, or the Alphas may claim, the right to decide is always in their hands. No bond, no mark, no so-called instinctual claim could ever override that truth. Every connection—no matter how fierce or instinctive—demands consent. The right to say yes. The freedom to say no. And the power to break it when necessary.

The weight of those words echoed somewhere far in the back of your mind as you drifted upward through a dense fog of unconsciousness. Your limbs felt heavy, your mouth dry as paper, your head thick and muffled like it had been wrapped in cotton. Blinking slowly, the first thing your eyes focused on was the whiteness of the ceiling above you. You recognized the faint hum of a light, and—more strongly—the scent of stabilizers in the air.

Your throat burned. Your lips felt cracked, parched beyond comfort. You shifted slightly, and the only word you could muster, hoarse and pathetically faint, was: "Lipgloss..."

A shriek rang out immediately after, followed by the sharp shuffle of footsteps and the nurse's concerned face leaning into view. The student medic did a routine check, murmuring something about vitals and scent suppressant stabilizers.

Ningning wasted no time diving into a full-blown explanation. You barely reacted, eyes unfocused as you stared past her, the antiseptic white of the clinic ceiling offering nothing but emptiness. You listened without interrupting, the pieces of her words falling into place slowly, like puzzle pieces that refused to lock in.

"You passed out because of the scent overload," she was saying, pacing beside the bed with wild gestures. "Your suppressant wasn't strong enough—probably because your heat symptoms have been acting up lately—and then, add three territorial Alphas practically leaking pheromones and your poor Omega system couldn't take it."

You didn't respond. Your eyes didn't move. You were still frozen on the part she said just before that.

Imprint. An old imprint, she said. You had an imprint? You had a mark? Somewhere on your neck, hidden under patches, under layers of self-control you lived by—there was an Alpha's imprint?

But how? When? Who—? Jay?

The only possible answer that surfaced in your thoughts. He was the only Alpha whose presence your body seemed to betray you for—one you involuntarily reacted to. It was always him. So why had he said there was no imprint? Why had he looked you dead in the eye and calmly dismissed it as residual scent transfer? Why had he lied?

The more you thought about it, the more absurd it all became. Ridiculous. That was the only word for it. You'd been walking around all this time, unaware of something so fundamental happening to your own body. Your fists clenched the blanket tighter as the realization dawned harder and harder.

Why the hell does everyone else know what's going on with your body—except you?

And worse, why didn't Jay tell you? Was it to protect you? To spare you? Or was it just another one of those decisions Alphas made without bothering to consult the Omega involved?

The more you tried to make sense of it, the more it all dissolved into one massive, tangled blur. You couldn't even think straight anymore. Your thoughts were colliding with each other, folding over fragments of memory. Furious wasn't even close to describing what you were feeling now. You'd stormed out early, snapped at Ningning, and used a flimsy excuse to get out of your duties, locking yourself in your room for the rest of the day.

You sat motionless at your vanity, staring at the single flower Yeonjun had given you earlier in an awkward attempt to comfort you.

None of this made sense. You retraced every conversation you had with Jay. There was a pattern, but it led nowhere clear. This was exactly why you hated Alphas. Their unpredictability. Their possessiveness. Their habit of acting first and explaining later. Why imprint someone if you were too much of a coward to face it directly? The last question wasn't even Alpha behavior!

You let out a high-pitched shriek and hurled your pillow across the room, following it with a flurry of punches into the mattress as your frustration peaked. You hated Heeseung—his cocky smirk, his walking-pheromone problem. You hoped his feet started stinking and he suffocated in his own scent cloud.

And Jay—God, you hated Jay even more. You hated how quiet he was. How he showed up in every corner of your life without warning. How he stirred something in you even when you were trying to ignore him. And imprinting?! God! He didn't even like you!

You didn't even want to think about their stupid basketball match tomorrow. You weren't going to be there. You hoped they both ran into each other at full speed and knocked each other out cold, maybe that would finally jolt some clarity into their thick skulls.

You shrieked again, even louder this time. You stormed to your vanity to pack your bag, only for your blush compact to fall with a loud clatter.

"Fuck!" you dropped to your knees, reaching under the table, stretching your arm toward where the blush had rolled—only to spot something else.

A glimmer of blue.

Your hand paused mid-reach, then curled around the delicate object. It was your blue ribbon hair clip, dusty from being under the vanity... Wait. What?

You stood slowly, brushing off the clip with trembling fingers, staring at it in growing confusion. You were sure you hadn't seen this clip in days. Jay had handed you your "lost" hair clip after the presentation. But you clearly remembered wearing it that day—right at this table, when you were doing your makeup. You'd taken it off before changing your outfit and left it right there on the vanity. Hadn't you?

Heart thudding, you crossed the room to your storage drawers, pulling open a box where you kept your backup accessories. You grabbed the satin version of the same ribbon—another gift from Ningning—and held them side by side. The exact same model. The same sheen, same cut, same clasp. But... you'd never bought another one. Ningning had only given you one. The clip you found today was the one you lost. So then... what the hell was the one Jay returned?

Your eyes widened, the pieces beginning to click in. Did Jay replaced it?

You sank onto your chair again, clutching the clip as your brain spiraled into the implications. Jay had seen your distress. He'd watched you cry over something he knew he didn't actually have. And instead of correcting you... he found the exact same ribbon and brought it to you. Without saying a word. Just so you wouldn't be upset.

But why? Why go through that trouble? Your hand clenched around the ribbon, thoughts spun faster. Was it guilt? A sense of duty? Was this just another way Alphas acted without meaning? And yet... no. It didn't feel thoughtless, it felt intentional. So then—what was it?

Did he like you? Or not?

⋮ ⌗ act sixteen

     ALPHAS are wired for protection, possession, and preservation. It's in their nature, embedded deep into their biology. Their instincts aren't always logical; they act before thinking, driven by the urge to claim—people, space, scent, habits—anything that signals a sense of "mine." And that behavior, that entitled assumption of ownership, that overwhelming need to dominate everything around them without thought or question, is exactly what you hate.

You've spent years guarding yourself against it, you've taken pride in the way your Omega instinct remained steady, discerning, unmoved by proximity. You're grateful for it, honestly. For not folding just because someone looked at you a certain way or growled in that low, stupid Alpha register they all think is so charming. You're glad you didn't get swept into someone else's hormones. That your biology didn't betray you like it so often does with others.

But now? Now, you're not sure.

Jay wasn't loud. He didn't circle you or demand attention. He didn't mark his scent around you. He just acted like it. Without ever calling it what it was, which unsettles you. You could handle the usual Alpha arrogance. You could block it, bite it back, scream it, but whatever Jay was doing...it was quiet. Is that better? Or worse?

"Huh?!" Yeonjun gasped, nearly dropping the team banner he'd been holding as you appeared beside him without warning. His eyes widened, disbelief etched across his face. "Wait—what the hell? Weren't you supposed to be on your way to Japan by now? Your dad booked the ticket himself!"

On your other side, Ningning choked mid-sip from her water bottle, sputtering and slapping her palm against her chest as she stared at you. "What the—?! Why are you here?! I thought you were halfway to the airport! And—wait—did you even take your scent suppressants? The Alpha pheromones in this place are thick enough to bottle and sell—do you want to pass out again?!"

You didn't respond to either of them. Your arms stayed firmly crossed over your chest, shoulders drawn tight as your gaze remained locked on the basketball court below. The noise of the crowd, the bounce of the ball echoing off, and the sharp, repetitive shrill of the referee's whistle all blended into a white noise that buzzed somewhere behind your thoughts.

"What's going on?" you asked, finally lowering yourself between them on the bleachers, eyes never leaving the game.

Yeonjun blinked at you, his head tilted, brows knitting in disbelief as he scanned you from head to toe. "What do you mean, what's going on? I should be the one asking you that!" he blurted.

"I just wanted to watch," you replied calmly, brushing off his reaction. "Didn't want to miss the last match. Everyone worked hard for this. Would be a shame not to show a little support."

Despite the casual tone you forced into your voice, your eyes betrayed your focus as they scanned the court, trailing across the players. Your attention moved over until it landed on Sunghoon, whose stance was locked and composed despite yellow team closing in on him. He pivoted quickly, faking left before darting right, shielding the ball with clean, practiced movements. Four defenders from the Yellow Team tried to close him off from every angle, their shoes shrieking across the court in quick, aggressive slides, but he held his own, determined to protect the ball.

Your gaze flicked to the scoreboard, squinting. The Yellow Team was leading, and the Red bench looked tense, some standing now, voices rising over the crowd in overlapping instructions. You could feel the heat of the game, and for a second, you forgot about everything outside the court.

As if pulled by something invisible but persistent, your gaze landed on a figure crouched near the key, hands braced on his knees, his breathing visibly heavy. His silver hair was damp with sweat, strands clinging to his forehead, his red jersey darker now, plastered to his chest.

Jay wasn't looking at the game. Not the ball, not the score, not the frantic coordination of his teammates. He was looking at you. Straight at you.

It took a second for you to realize the weight of that gaze—what it meant, how direct it was. You expected the usual straight mask he wore so well, the blank distance he used. But that wasn't what you saw now.

What met you across the court was something else. His expression held a vulnerability it almost hurt to witness. There was no smugness, no dominance, no flicker of Alpha pride. Just those eyes, fixed on you.

Your breath caught, your spine straightened, and yet your arms stayed folded across your chest, refusing to betray how those eyes made something inside you stutter.

"They're exhausted!" someone exclaimed, snapping you back into your body. "They're relying too much on Jay—he's got more stamina, yeah, but that's because he's an Apex. He doesn't even have a basketball history, what are they doing?!" The voice belonged to an Omega a few rows down, clearly panicking, hands flailing as she tugged on her banner. "They're going to burn him out!"

You blinked, shaking your head, breaking the gaze that held you in place. You leaned slightly forward to observe the court again, but your focus faltered as another Omega directly in front of you pointed and squealed. "I don't care about Jay's stamina, look—Soobin just lifted his jersey!"

"Oh my god, those abs!" her friend gasped, clutching her arm. "He's glistening like a God."

You rolled your eyes, dragging your gaze away from Jay to where Soobin, indeed, had momentarily lifted his jersey to wipe his face. The group of Omegas in front of you practically burst, losing their minds over the sharp cut of his waist and the stretch of his toned muscles.

You leaned back, exhaling slowly, trying to tune it all out. But your eyes still drifted sideways—back to him.

The game had resumed at a pace twice as fast as before, both teams locked in a tug-of-war of strategy and desperation. The Yellow Team clearly had more refined players with better coordination, but the Red Team had grit—rough around the edges. Each time the ball landed in his hands, the dynamic shifted.

His movement was fluid, deliberate but fast—like he didn't second-guess the weight of responsibility being thrown on him again and again. Sweat dripped from his temples down to his jaw, his expression tense with focus, but he didn't fumble nor flinch. You watched as he cut through defenders, shielding the ball like it was instinctual, eyes scanning, calculating, moving with a predator's grace.

You didn't know the rules of basketball in detail, weren't sure what counted as a violation or what the term "full court press" even meant, but somehow you found yourself rising from your seat each time the ball left Jay's hands and soared cleanly through the hoop. You didn't even realize you were clapping until Ningning nudged your side, and Yeonjun leaned over with a teasing grin.

Your cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment and stubborn denial as you cleared your throat and quickly sat back down. Ningning, of course, was already watching you with narrowed eyes and a knowing smile.

"Yellow team's still ahead," she said, folding her arms with a small sigh. "Honestly, at this point, I've already accepted the loss. Everyone's looking burnt out except for Jay. He's the only one still fighting."

You didn't respond right away. Your eyes followed Jay again. You swallowed hard. Ningning, ever the nosy friend, tilted her head toward you. "You're not angry at him anymore, are you?"

You blinked. "Angry? Angry at what?"

She didn't hesitate. "For imprinting you," she said bluntly, shrugging. "Come on. You know it's him. You've always known. He's the only one who could've left an imprint strong enough for your Omega to react the way it did. We didn't want to say anything earlier because we thought you'd explode."

You were silent for a moment, then let your gaze fall to the polished tips of your shoes, your mind fogging over with thoughts that swirled without direction.

Were you angry? Maybe you had been. When it first hit you. You hated the loss of control, the uncertainty of not knowing what was happening inside your own body, the fact that someone else had crossed a boundary so quietly and so intimately.

But now? Now, you weren't sure what you felt. The anger had softened, bled into confusion, into curiosity. Into questions you weren't ready to ask out loud. Before you could formulate a proper response, Ningning continued, waving her hands. "But you know, it's okay if you're still mad. Seriously. He's so emotionally constipated sometimes it's actually impressive. But also—me and Yeonjun? We've been shipping the two of you since day one. You guys are like... peak slow burn. The entire student body is practically waiting for you two to snap and make out behind the bleachers."

Yeonjun, clearly eavesdropping, threw up two fingers in a peace sign and added, "We're your biggest fans, honestly."

You groaned audibly, dragging a hand down your face in exasperation. "Shut up. No one is making out behind the bleachers," you muttered, though your eyes remained glued to the court. The numbers on the digital scoreboard glared back at you—58 for the red team, 65 for the yellow. Time was draining fast. The gap wasn't impossible to close, but it was getting harder with each passing second.

Yeonjun leaned closer again, lowering his voice. "You know, I'm not entirely sure, but I think Heeseung challenged Jay. That's why he even agreed to play in the first place."

Your body went rigid, an electric feeling crawling along your spine as your gaze snapped back to the court. Jay was there, caught in a corner of the court, three defenders pressing around him, Heeseung leading the charge. You could see it clearly on how his fingers trembles, the barely-disguised falter in his breathing. His shoulders were squared but heavy, he was running out of energy.

"I don't know what kind of pissing match they've got going on," Yeonjun murmured next to you again, "but I'm glad I'm not an Alpha. If you ask me, this is all just ego. Pride games. Honestly, if you think there's something there—between you and him—maybe go for it. One more move, you know? What do you have to lose?"

You rolled your eyes, shoving him lightly with your elbow. "Go write a blog about romance. You had a talent for it."

"Already have one," he grinned.

You didn't bother responding, attention snapping back to the court as your stomach twisted with nerves. Your breath caught when you realized Jay had the ball again. He was surrounded—boxed in by the yellow team with nowhere to pass, nowhere to pivot. And at the center of it all, Heeseung. The smug set of his jaw was clear even from this distance. You gripped the edge of your seat unconsciously, legs stiffening with tension.

And then Jay looked up, his eyes flicked to the crowd, and found you. There was no confusion in his gaze. He knew exactly where to look, as if he'd already memorized the section, the seat, the way you sat with your arms crossed. Your chest clenched when your eyes locked—his expression cracked open for the briefest moment, and you saw it. A question.

Was this his answer to the challenge? The fight Heeseung had demanded, the one he'd agreed to without a word? Was this how Alphas proved a claim?

You shook your head slowly. The tiniest, instinctive motion.

But Jay saw it, and he listened, because suddenly, he stopped. His body relaxed all at once, his hands fell open. The ball slipped from his fingers.

And in the next breath, Heeseung snatched it.

The yellow team surged, the gym exploded in noise, sneakers screeching against the floor as Heeseung drove the ball down the court. A sharp pass, a clean leap, and then the final whistle. The scoreboard blinked red. The crowd roared. Yellow team erupted into victorious cheers while the red team deflated collectively, chests heaving, hands falling to hips or knees in exhaustion.

Your gaze remained fixed on Jay. He stood still for a second, his head lowered, his silver hair shadowing his eyes as his teammates closed in around him, patting his shoulder, murmuring something you couldn't hear.

And just like that, the moment blurred after. You barely registered the victorious roar of Heeseung being lifted by his teammates, arms spread wide, triumphant grin plastered across his face. The yellow team surged around him, claiming the court. Meanwhile, Jay walked out of the scene, towel pulled up to wipe his face.

You watched the shift ripple through the red team—the way their pride adjusted into polite applause as they made their way off the court, nodding respectfully to their opponents, offering congratulations they didn't entirely. It was part of the game, but none of it settled the anxious twitch in your fingers as you fumbled with the zipper of your bag, barely aware of the way your Omega instincts had fully taken the reins.

Because no matter how much you told yourself not to care, your body had already decided for you. The urge to check on him. To find out if he was okay. To demand answers. To scream at him and maybe, to your own horror, comfort him. Curse these hormones. Curse these goddamn dynamics.

You didn't wait for your thoughts to catch up with your feet. You grabbed your bag, slinging it onto your shoulder and stood up. Ningning blinked from beside you, startled by the sudden movement. Yeonjun tilted his head but didn't ask. Your legs moved, descending the stands with determined steps, pushing past the clusters of students flooding the aisles toward the exits. But you didn't head for the exit. Your feet knew where to go—the locker rooms.

Behind you, Ningning and Yeonjun exchanged a look—hers wide-eyed and almost concerned, his filled with knowing exasperation. "I think we already know who actually won," Yeonjun said dryly, adjusting his lanyard and falling into line behind the stream of students heading out.

Meanwhile, you kept walking. You didn't know what you were going to say when you found Jay. You didn't even know if you'd be able to say anything at all.

But that didn't stop you pushing through the double doors that led toward the inner hallway of the gym, until you found him, sitting alone on the bench, elbows resting on his thighs, hands slack between his knees, head bowed. His legs were spread, his posture one of complete exhaustion.

You inhaled sharply, squared your shoulders, then crossed your arms. "God, you're such a loser," you said flatly. "If you don't know how to play or have any background in basketball, why sign up?"

His head lifted slowly at your words and you faltered. Not because you regretted what you said—but because of the expression that met you. His lips twitched upward in the faintest smile, tired, but somehow still warm.

It was the strangest, most unsettling smile you'd ever seen—and yet it was so disarmingly handsome your heart gave a reluctant jolt. You clenched your fists at your sides, straightening your posture.

"I wanted to prove I could be good at everything," he said.

You scoffed, eyes rolling as you turned your face slightly away. "Not everyone is good at everything, Jay. That's just reality. You don't have to win every time. You're academically smart, sure—but emotionally?" You clicked your tongue. "Your EQ is a disaster. You've really mastered the whole 'typical Alpha' thing."

You considered turning around and leaving, you really did. But something in the way he remained seated kept you rooted. Your fingers twitched toward your bag. You swore it wasn't your Omega instincts, it was just a decision you made.

What would you lose? Nothing you hadn't already risked.

You stepped forward, closing the distance between you and him. Your hand reached into your bag as your feet planted firmly in the space between his knees, and he blinked up at you in confusion. His lips parted slightly, as if about to speak, but no words came.

With trembling fingers, you pulled the small pin from your bag and gently leaned forward. You were close—so close you could feel the faint heat of his breath against your cheek, the scent of his fading pheromones barely clinging to the air around him. You lifted the pin to the edge of his jersey, your fingers brushing against the damp fabric as you secured it just above his number.

Jay's eyes never left your face. His hands remained planted on the bench at his sides, unmoving. A faint release of scent curled from your skin into the space between you as if to soothe, to anchor, to comfort, just like he always do.

Jay looked down. His eyes landed on the pin you'd fastened to his chest.

You Win in My Heart <3

He exhaled through his nose—slowly, deeply—and with it, a ribbon of his pheromones released into the air between you.

"Why did you accept his challenge?" you asked, straightening your posture though your knees already felt too weak to hold your pride. "I didn't expect you to be the kind who picks a fight over ego."

Jay looked at you for a long moment, the flicker of tension passing across his brow. "It's... an Alpha instinct," he answered quietly.

You cringed, face twisting, and you didn't bother to hide it. "Of course it is. You really are no different from the rest of them," you muttered.

Jay's gaze didn't shift. "He said if he won, I had to remove the imprint."

Your heart stuttered. For a second, the words didn't quite register, him admitting the imprint and when they did, you blinked at him—then scoffed. "And the imprint?" you asked, lifting your chin. "Was that just your instinct too?"

When he nodded, your chest deflated. You felt your breath falter, just a little. Like something in your chest had been punctured. You turned away almost immediately, trying to hide how it knocked the wind out of you. Your arms crossed tighter against your chest, your hand clenching the strap of your bag. 

"Well, I don't care," you said, your voice carefully detached, clipped. "Remove it, or don't. As if I'll be swayed by that smug, overcompensating Alpha shit. Let him think he won."

You swallowed hard. The lump that had formed in your throat was too heavy. You didn't even know if you were mad at him or mad at yourself—for hoping, for imagining, for reading something soft behind his gaze when it had only been instinct all along.

Damn it. You liked him. And you hated that you did.

You hated how you can't read him, how tightly he reined in everything, how he never let you see more than fragments. But now you had seen enough to confirm what you feared: maybe you were the only one feeling anything real.

And just when you told yourself to let it go—to walk away for good—his voice reached you again.

"I'm not removing the imprint."

You froze mid-step, his words halting you. You turned slowly, head tilting, your brow rising in challenge. "Go touch some grass and reflect—"

"I like you." The words didn't tremble, didn't hesitate. They came out clear. And then again, softer, slower, as he began walking toward you: "I like you."

And just like that, something inside you ruptured. The world slowed, dulled to a blur around the sound of his voice. It was ridiculous how cliché it felt—the heat blooming up your neck, the imaginary fireworks bursting behind your eyelids, the sudden hitch in your breath that made it hard to speak.

You quickly looked away, cheeks burning, fingers gripping your bag. "Is it your Alpha instinct again?" you asked, almost whispering. "Another convenient chemical reaction?"

"No," he said without pause. "It's not instinct. It's me... Just me."

You bit the inside of your cheek, your jaw tightening, the war between pride and longing already clawing at your ribs. Still, you didn't turn around. You stayed rooted there with your back to him, your fists curling, a thousand unspoken thoughts swirling in your head, waiting to break.

"Talk to me," his voice reached you again, almost pleading. "Talk to me about your makeup, the palettes you like, that shopping vlog you always watch. Show me more of those ridiculous bags you keep collecting, the ones with pearls and strawberries. Keep telling me about 'Flower Knows' and why the packaging matters so much to you. Wear your Jo Malone again—the one you always wear when you sit next to me in class. I... I memorized it before I realized I even liked it."

Your lips parted, air rushing out of your lungs as your heart twisted. You stood there, shaking, held together by nothing but sheer restraint, your body screaming to turn around, your Omega humming, quietly, insistently, for the truth.

The kind of truth that didn't come from instincts. But from feelings. And Jay was giving you all of it, finally.

"I noticed every time you wore it. I could tell when it faded. I hated how easily I could pick you out in a crowd, and hated myself more for liking it."

You still hadn't turned around, but your body betrayed you in the smallest ways—fingertips twitching, knees gently swaying, the way your spine arched just slightly, as if the gravity between you and him had grown stronger.

"I lied," he continued. "About the imprint. I knew it the second it happened. I felt it snap into place the moment it formed. But I didn't say anything because I didn't want to lock you into something you hadn't chosen."

He took a breath, the kind you only take when you're standing at the edge of a ledge. "I didn't mean to imprint you. I didn't even know it could happen like that, so fast." You could hear him take another step forward. The heat of his presence crept up your back.

"I've been so afraid of doing this wrong. Of messing it up. You're... you're everything I didn't think I was allowed to want. You talk so much and half the time it's about things I don't understand, but God, I want to learn. I want to keep hearing it. Even the things you rant about when you think no one's listening—those are the things I remember the most."

Your breath caught as he stepped closer, his voice barely above a whisper, right behind you. "You don't need anyone—but I want to be someone you want anyway."

"— And I lied. I didn't fight Heeseung because I thought it would win me anything. I fought him because he tried to reduce you to a prize. And because even if I never get to call you mine, I won't stand by and let someone treat you like something to win."

Your hands had gone limp at your sides, bag forgotten. The walls you'd built around yourself were disintegrating, trembling under the weight of everything he was saying. 

"I like you," he said again, firmer this time, no longer a question but a vow. "Not just in the way an Alpha is wired to like an Omega. I like you. The person. With all your contradictions. I like you more than I know how to say."

Make him yours. Your Omega purred beneath. But your walls, built so carefully around years of protecting yourself, didn't come down all at once. So instead, with your throat tight and your vision swimming, you gathered what little armor you had left, swallowed hard, and bit out the only word your pride could manage.

"Fuck off," you snapped.

You turned away fast, heels clicking against the floor, spine rigid. The kind of exit you'd perfected—one that screamed indifference. Except it wasn't indifference, and Jay saw it. He saw the flicker in your steps, the slight stumble in your stride as you reached the door. Saw how your fingers tightened around the strap of your bag, saw how your scent, no matter how restrained or suppressed, trembled in the air like loose threads unraveling behind you.

He didn't call after you. Because the moment you stepped outside the locker room doors and were out of his sight, your composure cracked into a hundred glittering pieces.

A high-pitched screech echoed down the hallway, followed by the unmistakable sound of you jumping on the spot like you'd just won the lottery. "Fuck—fuck—fuck!" you squealed under your breath, fanning your face with both hands like you were overheating, cheeks burning as if the confession had lit your skin on fire. You slapped your own cheeks twice. Not hard, but enough to try grounding yourself in the reality you'd just walked away from.

Your lips stretched into a grin you couldn't contain, fingers twitching as you let out a little hop, whisper-screaming into the palm of your hand. "Stupid fucking Jay! Why did he have to say that like that?! Why did he have to be good at it?!"

Back in the locker room, Jay hadn't moved. He was back at seated on the bench, hunched slightly forward, the sweat on his skin cooling in the post-game silence. His fingers, however, remained in motion—slowly, gently with care brushing over the little badge now pinned to his jersey.

You Win In My Heart <3

It was corny. Incredibly so. But his lips curved anyway, the smile starting small and growing with each passing second.

Outside the locker room, your voice echoed faintly through the hallway—shrieking, laughing, with wild and breathless. His advanced senses picked up every word, every thud of your feet against the tile, every muffled curse and squeal as you tried to compose yourself and utterly failed. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting it wash over him, laughing softly.

There you were. Still difficult. Still infuriatingly unpredictable. Still saying one thing while your scent betrayed another. Still the same girl who rolled her eyes at Alpha antics but scented him in the most delicate, protective way.

Still, somehow, his.

Jay's hand lingered over the badge again, fingertips pressing. He thought about your sharp tongue, your firecracker temper, the way you folded your arms when you were about to deliver one of your trademark verbal takedowns. He thought about how stubborn you were, how emotionally guarded.

He didn't mind the walls. He didn't mind the attitude. He didn't even mind that your version of affection came wrapped in sarcasm and profanity. If anything, he preferred it that way. Because it meant that every piece you gave him was real.

Jay leaned back, letting his head fall gently against the cool metal of the locker behind him. His fingers still played with the pin, heart thudding quietly beneath it.

You weren't going to make this easy. You were going to fight him at every step, throw fits in hallways, and scream. But that didn't scare him.

Because now he knew. He just had to prove it.

This was a weird arrangement. You could admit that much, because it wasn’t normal for someone that was well out of the academic scene, with a brilliantly paying job and a well-established social scene, to want to jump back into schooling of all things—especially when it was math that you were trying to re-learn.

You flatten your hands across the linen of your pants. At second-glance, they looked far too similar to pajamas, but as the clock ticks closer to 7, you decide it’s too late to change out of them for something more appropriate. It should be fine. After all, you were in your home. You can dress however you wanted to.

You huff out a frustrated sigh and stand from your dining table chair. You were overthinking this. You were turning 30 soon, and you were bad at math. Those were two facts. You have an established career that comes with good money, and with said established career, you’ve earned the luxury of a slightly shorter workweek. Those were also two facts. The promotion you’re surely about to receive will definitely require some math in the near future. 

And that, unfortunately for you, was also a fact.

Sometimes it surprised you that you had even managed to make it this far. You had gotten through high school just fine, but in college, you had your fair share of a struggle. In the middle of the night several weeks into your first semester, with your hair clutched tightly between your whitening knuckles, you were bent over your tear-stained precalculus textbook and decided the bare-minimum would just have to be good enough. 

So with that philosophy, you drudged forward, using a combination of flirting with the unfortunate boy that next to you and restricted calculators, you managed to score a measly C-average in your math classes throughout your college career. 

You knew a managerial promotion was on the cards for you; you were even looking forward to it. In an attempt to build niceties, you had taken the acting manager of your team to lunch last Friday, but what you didn’t expect was learning how much math she does on a daily basis. As she made her way through her salad, your smile faltered into bewilderment. 

There was no way you would be able to do this yourself or put it on someone else. 

Later that night in the quiet of your apartment, you’d downed three cans of beers in a worry. You could decline the promotion? But you’ve been wanting it for so long. You could load the work onto someone else? No, that’d be a real shitty move, especially as a newly promoted manager. You could just fake it till you make it? No, that now has the potential to very badly go south. 

It was a little comical; there you were in your pajamas, swirling your wine in a coffee mug, as you said to yourself, more serious than you’d ever been before, “No. I need to learn math.”

Closing in on a decade of being a professional adult, you figure no time is better than now. So, slightly less tipsy now, you decided to look up math tutors in your area, but your discouragement was quick to grow with what seemed like an unending amount of options for children, the need to down another beer strong but that’s when you came across him. 

As you clicked on the fourth link of the seventh page of your Google results, you landed on Park Seonghwa’s university contact page. 

Next to his email, phone number and office hours was a professional headshot. At first glance, he looked, for a lack of a better word, derpy. The frame of his black glasses looked too thick for his slender face, and there was a politely childish smile on his face. His raven black hair beautifully fell around his face, and his lips were plush and moisturized. Somehow, at second glance, he looked kind of adorable.

Cute, nerdy boys had never been your type, but you think, maybe for Seonghwa, you could change that. Besides you were getting older, and your list of married friends had grown longer than your list of single friends. Maybe I should sign up for a dating app?

No! Shaking the inebriated thoughts away, you pull yourself together, deciding to unpack that baggage for another time. 

You bring your attention back to Seonghwa’s picture, thinking as critically as you could. Although he was extremely cute, he frankly didn’t look old enough to be a teacher. Ever the skeptic, you copied his name to quickly run it through RateMyProfessor, only to pleasantly be proven wrong. 

With a sturdy 4.3, most of his students only had nice things to say. Kind, good teacher, and not too hard on the eyes. Don’t buy the textbook. Beware of his paper exams. Gives out lots of extra credit. Super accessible office hours. And that was all you needed. 

You suppose you should’ve waited to sober up before you sent him the god-awful rant of an email you’d written, but what was done couldn’t be undone. The wait was tortuous, and you anxiously paced your apartment, trying to convince yourself that surely no professor checks their email over the weekend, as you checked your email every ten minutes. That was until you’d seen his response agreeing to help come in close to midnight on that Sunday night.

You breathe out heavily and look back at your clock. 6:58 p.m. This definitely wasn’t normal, and while you were sure he was nice, there was no doubt in your mind that he was filled with sorry judgment towards you. What kind of corporate professional needs a math tutor? You scoff ridiculously before thinking, Me, I do. 

With a frustrated sigh, you fluffed the pillows on your couch and looked around to see if anything else required tending to as you waited for Park Seonghwa to ring your doorbell.

*****

Seonghwa thought this was a weird arrangement. He felt comfortable admitting that because you had thankfully admitted it first.

When he had spotted your email in his inbox last week, he was sure you were looking for someone to teach your kid. But as he kept reading, your long message becoming ever so desperate, it became very clear that you were the one requesting his help. 

And sure he offers help, but that’s typically limited to his students which is usually during office hours. Never once, throughout the entirety of his career, has he been asked to tutor someone who was not a student in any capacity. So he lets your email sit in his inbox for the weekend, your offer to pay him handsomely for his services constantly bouncing around in his head. 

Finally, when he’d had enough of it, he’d sat down at his computer far too late into the Sunday evening and scrolled through your LinkedIn profile. He was thoroughly pleased to find out you were in fact a real human and not a scamming chatbot.

You were stunning, and you looked assured standing next to what Seonghwa assumed were your co-workers in a picture you had posted last week. He kept scrolling to find more and more pictures of you shaking hands with partners when you’ve signed a deal or clinking your champagne flute with your team after closing out a successful quarter. Your life was fast-paced, and you seemed to like it that way.

Seonghwa was able to gather your intelligence and resiliency as he looked at your active feed and impressive work experiences. But what he wasn’t able to understand was why, when heading into your 30s, you were suddenly interested in obtaining math as a skill. It was absolutely an important skill to have, that there was no doubt about that in Seonghwa’s mind, but you had been plenty successful without it so far. 

So with more questions than answers, he writes you an email back, happy to be of help. 

But now, when he’s standing in the lobby of your apartment building in the city, he’s not too fond of his decision to get to know you better. 

Your apartment, located in the northern side of the city, had stopped Seonghwa in his tracks. The building rose high amongst its neighbors, and the exterior was elegant, stone carvings hugging the arching entrance, where Seonghwa was greeted by a courteous doorman. 

With slow steps, Seonghwa walked into the cool air of the building’s lobby. It looked almost like a hotel to him. There was a massive electrical fireplace, and while it was off for the summer, its presence set the tone for the rest of the collectively expansive lobby.

Cool marble lined the entirety of the floors and reflected the light of a golden chandelier that hung glamorously from the ceiling. Along the high ceilings were delicate oil paintings portraying blurred visions of the city’s renowned skyline. To his left, mail was being dropped into their corresponding sleek black boxes, and to his right, sweaty residents were exiting the modernly equipped gym. Several dark velvet chairs and couches sitting on plush rugs invited him further into the center of the lobby, and behind them, he saw a reception area bustling with busy employees. Past that was a luxurious elevator. 

Clearing his throat and readjusting his worn leather messenger bag over his shoulder, he walked towards it, begging his racing heart to calm. He presses the up button, and the whirr of the awakening elevator quiets the sound coming from the bustling lobby, enough for Seonghwa to take his first full breath after entering the overwhelmingly grand building.

Seonghwa didn’t ask for much. He didn’t ask for respect from his students or his co-workers, and to be completely honest, he didn’t want it. He was more than satisfied with his life. He had a job that he enjoyed and research that kept him curious. He even had a fantastic office, even if it was originally meant to be a closet. Seonghwa had cleared out the seemingly unending amount of stuff to reveal a beautiful window with a view of the campus square. 

He had a small house in the outskirts of the city that he kept well-maintained. He had a cute cat that waited for him to come home, and the show he really liked had a new season coming out soon. He enjoyed taking the train to and from the university campus. He liked that there was ample amount of things to do in the city when he wasn’t working on his research. 

So when he finds himself repeatedly looking through your LinkedIn profile leading to today, he isn’t sure why he felt inadequate.

He supposes his good enough, his normal, probably doesn’t seem like much in comparison to your accomplishments, your accolades, your success. Seonghwa was just really good at math. That was the end of it.  

After his final lecture yesterday, Seonghwa found himself scrolling through your LinkedIn page for the umpteenth time that week. You had posted a picture earlier celebrating the students that had landed an internship at your company for the summer, wishing them the best for their time there. 

You looked so lovely standing between the bright-eyed students. You’d worn a baby blue blouse that was neatly tucked into a pair of cream dress pants that brought out your own eyes. Your smile was big and genuine, just as it was in every single one of your other pictures. You were really pretty. Seonghwa stared at that picture for much longer than he would like to admit.  

The elevator dings open, and Seonghwa steps in, pressing the button for the 8th floor.

He wasn’t sure why he took on this gig. Perhaps your pictures had done him in, but even then, his curiosity should’ve stopped there. It’s not as if he doesn’t have other things to focus on. He had to teach two summer sessions these next couple of months. His research was still ongoing and his incomplete publication for the mathematics journal had been edited more times than he’d care to acknowledge. He was supposed to renovate his outdated bathroom and buy his cat a new scratch post. He was also working on secretly pulling out the god-awful carpet in his office square foot by square foot. 

Besides, he’s never really been a people person, preferring emails anyways. He can’t even look most of his students in the eyes, choosing to look at the back of the classroom or his projectors instead. He doesn’t like socializing much either, and he only stays a generous 30 minutes to the university events or fellow professors’ birthdays he’s invited to. 

But here he is, standing in an elevator too majestic to simply be just an elevator heading up to a gorgeous woman’s expensive apartment to teach her math. It sounded too ridiculous to even think about. As the elevator slowly climbs upwards, he thinks God, why am I even here?

Before he’s able to spiral deeper into the thought, the elevator arrives and opens to the 8th floor. Taking a look at the address you’d emailed him, he steps out in search of your apartment. When he arrives at your door, he nervously chews at his lip. 

He’d taken the bus here straight from campus and hadn’t had a chance to even look at himself in the mirror. Quickly sliding the camera on his phone open, he begins to adjust the strands of hair the summer wind had managed to blow out of place as best he can. He pats down his outfit, puts lip balm over his bitten lips, and pushes his thick glasses up his nose. 

Then, after what seems like the longest time, Seonghwa clears his throat and rings your doorbell.

When you finally hear the long-awaited ding dong!, your rushed pacing comes to a halt. You’ve fluffed every pillow, straightened every cloth, and spritzed your apartment with a soft lavender scent multiple times over, all in an attempt to make a good first impression, hoping to maybe compensate for your stupidity with good taste. 

But you look around the living room once more, just in case. The nauseating overhead lights have been turned off and you’ve lit your collected array of oddly shaped and sized lamps, and usually you’d be proud of the arrangement, but right now, it looks almost romantic. 

You’ve got no time to change it when the doorbell rings again, and you call out, “Just a moment!” You straighten the wrinkles in your linen pants again and take a deep breath before opening the front door. 

Behind the door, the sight of Seonghwa beyond his university profile picture makes you inwardly melt. His glasses rest crookedly on his face, and there’s a blush decorating his cheekbones. His soft yellow cardigan is bent as if it had crumpled underneath him when he sat, and his hair looks as if it had gotten tousled in the wind. 

He looks lovingly adorable, yet when he readjusts his dark leather bag hanging from his shoulder, you’re able to spot his broad chest under it. Inside his yellow cardigan, he had worn a cream shirt that had been tucked into his dark brown pants, secured with a clunky belt looped around his beautifully thin waist. Beyond the blush, his cheekbones were pronounced, making his face look angled and sharp. Park Seonghwa was unexpectedly handsome, but you push the thought aside as you greet him with a simple “Hi.”

“Hello, it’s really nice to meet you. I’m Seonghwa,” he adjusts his bag once more and holds out his hand for you to shake. Taking his slender hands into your own, you’re unable to stop thinking about how his fingers would feel around your waist, and maybe around your throat, and maybe curled just right inside of you.  

What are you doing? Stop it! Introducing yourself, you add, “Thank you, you too. Please, come in,” and step aside, letting him enter your apartment. 

As he starts to remove his shoes, he curiously eyes your space, taking in the interior. There must have been a dozen or so lamps illuminating your very well-lit living room, leaving no corner dark, the crown molding only amplifying their effect. Your apartment was designed similarly to the lobby, exuding sheer confidence and class. Your dark brown couch was draped with dark green cushions and a silky wine red shawl. Above it, there was a massive oil painting of a naked couple participating in an explicit scene that had Seonghwa blushing. 

Your appliances were dark brown, or black, Seonghwa couldn’t tell in the golden light. There was a neatly arranged bookshelf filled with hundreds of books lining one wall while the other was decorated with several picture frames. Variously colored vases held an array of colorful flowers, and in front of them was a collection of small Lego structures. Soenghwa liked you, but what he says instead is, “You’ve got a lovely home.”

“Oh, thanks, I’ve just recently had it renovated.” Leading him to the dining table, you gesture at the chair, “Please, sit.” And as he does, you add, “Can I get you anything, some water or something to eat?”

“I’m alright, thank you for offering,” Seonghwa responds, but as he does, he feels his throat drying. “Actually, I’m sorry, some water would be nice.” 

When you were at university, you learned about something called sympathetic resonance. It happened when a passive string responded to an external vibration, matching its harmonic likeness. When you began interning and eventually working, you found out you were really good at sympathetic resonance. Matching others’ vibrations to your own felt easy, and once you mastered it, it felt like you could move nowhere but up. But for your sympathetic resonance to work effectively, you had to be in the presence of someone extraverted, someone loud, of which there was no lack of in the corporate world. 

But with Seonghwa? You couldn’t help but feel as reserved as him. It almost felt like a first date. 

But nonetheless, you persist, placing a glass of cold water on a coaster and sliding it over to him, asking, “I hope my place wasn’t too hard to find?”

“No, not at all,” Seonghwa answers, taking a sip of the water. In the time it takes him to respond, condensation has built up around the cup, and you feel the time moving in slow-motion. Seonghwa wasn’t meeting your eyes, instead choosing to look at the city from behind your sheer curtains. 

“Because I don’t mind meeting somewhere else if the time or place doesn’t work out for you,” you continue.

“This works well for me,” Seonghwa says, taking another sip. As he does, he tips his head back, exposing his throat. Even his throat is handsome… God, I need to download those dating apps. “There’s a bus that runs directly from the campus to this side of the city, so really, it’s no problem.”

“Okay, perfect.” You feel like you’re droning, so to fill the silence, you ask, “So what do you prefer?”

Seonghwa looks into your face for the first time, tilting his head. “Sorry?”

“Professor Park? Dr. Park? Sir?” Oddly enough, your face warms at your own words. Sir had never been a sexual innuendo for you. In fact, you’d used it so often in your line of work that all you associated with the word now was elderly men that were much too old to be running an office. Yet the unintended implication makes you look down to your feet, giving you a chance to recollect yourself.

“Oh!” Seonghwa shakes his hands, eyes widening. “Just Seonghwa is fine!” he insists, adding, “We’re very close in age.” 

Somehow, now that he’s finally able to look at you, the heavy tension has broken. “Okay, Seonghwa,” you say, finally sitting down across from him. “I really appreciate you doing this.” You rest your vulnerability softly on the table between you. 

“Of course,” Seonghwa’s lips curl into a half-smile. Now past the niceties, you can feel his stiff form loosening. From his bag, he starts to pull out thick books. “So I bought a couple of textbooks that cover the basics of algebra and others that dip into trigonometry, but we can start with some algebra review before we move into those things,” he says, stacking the textbooks one on top of the other. “Whatever you’re comfortable with,” he adds, leaning back into your wooden chair, much more relaxed. 

But your silence makes him nervous again. There’s a gentle ticking coming from a large clock just past your head, and Seonghwa watches several seconds pass by before you nervously say, “I was hoping that maybe we can start at the beginning? Like all the way at the beginning?” you tell him, looking down at your fiddling fingertips.

It wasn’t easy to tell another adult you were shit at simple arithmetics. A child? Sure, you could let them know, no worries, no damage to your reputation. But another adult? That teaches math for a living? You felt like crawling under your dinner table and staying there until Seonghwa decided to leave on his own, his head shaking with disappointment. 

But to your surprise, he simply nods and pushes the intimidating pile of algebra and trigonometry to the side. Reaching into his worn leather bag once again, he pulls out several sheets of paper. At the smaller numbers and lack of letters, you calm.

“How about some basic math?” he offers, pushing the frame of his thick glasses up his slender nose. The material of his yellow cardigan glimmers in the soft light of your apartment, giving him a halo effect. 

With a relieved smile, you exhale, “Yeah, that sounds good.”

*****

You had an affinity for paper. It was surely an odd thing to have an affinity for, but writing on paper felt fulfilling. It felt like being alive to you. You’d write your tasks down on paper, crossing each differently shaped square box with an X. You’d draft your emails in your journal, using different pens to mark it for when the time came to type it. 

You kept every hand-written letter you’ve received, each memo from work, each signed receipt, and each graded paper safely in a collection of boxes in your closet. 

It felt like you were leaving your mark on the world. So when Seonghwa grades the printed worksheets you do throughout the week with a glittery blue smiley face that strangely resembles his own face, you can’t help but add it to your collection. 

Though other times, he picks up the red pen. You’re filled with dread during the time Seonghwa spends between grading your work in front of you, fingers hovering over the glittery blue and distressing red pens.

As your lessons continue, it becomes increasingly difficult to pay attention to him. Sometimes, you find eyes flickering down to his lips when he’s explaining things to you, wondering how they’d feel pressed up against yours. They were always moisturized, and when he passed you on his way out, you could faintly smell the cinnamon of his gum. Other times, you watch his fingers correct your work, wondering how good the long digits would feel inside you. 

It doesn’t take long for Seonghwa’s face to pop up in your brain when you’re masturbating at night. You’d decided he’d look the cutest between your thighs, round eyes looking up at you. Other nights, you’d be under his broad chest as he roughly rut into you. You rotated endlessly between the two, yet either managed to get you off every single time. 

That was until the guilt settled in later. Seonghwa was sweet. He always sounded intelligent and sophisticated, but he never made you feel like you were stupid. He went over concepts until they would stick, and when that didn’t work, he didn’t get annoyed, instead opting to look for another method. His blue and red pen were encouraging, and he spent a great deal of time reassuring you as you worked through each problem. He never overwhelmed you with information and kept his lessons digestible. 

All he wanted to do was help you, and there you were, getting off to him like some pervert. You’d shame yourself for it, only to fall back into the vicious cycle week after week.

Still, in seven weeks time, you had built up a decent collection of Seonghwa’s good job! paper notes, ripping them off the corner of your worksheets. You liked to feel the paper where his skin had been, and in time, some of them even made it to your work desk, encouraging your endeavors outside of math. 

And in that way, you were much like Seonghwa, because like you, Seonghwa liked giving out his exams on paper. Sure, it would be much simpler to administer exams online, letting students take them from the comfort of their own home and letting the computer do the grading. It definitely earned him some nasty glares when he mentioned this fact on the first day of class, but he thinks his students come around when they discover his ample leniency when they get their first exams back.

The handwritten answers and work help him see. He can see the uncertainty or lack thereof in his students’ answers. He can feel the roughened paper that had been erased over one too many times under his fingertips. And occasionally, a paper littered in dried tears from his differential equations class. Either way, while his grading process took a much longer time, he enjoyed getting to know his students this way. 

So when you email him to let him know you’re running late, he’s grateful the doorman lets him in to wait in the cooled lobby instead of melting into the summer night outside. Seonghwa takes a seat in the corner of the lobby on one of the dark velvet couches, reaches into his bag, and begins to grade the summer class’ midterm exams by hand. 

He’d liked tutoring you. Or maybe he just liked you. Seonghwa wasn’t sure, but he didn’t mind the uncertainty.

You had a really beautiful smile, and Seonghwa had grown a little too fond of it. It was bold, happy, and genuine. He supposed it was a skill you had to learn to succeed in the corporate world. On the other hand, Seonghwa had mastered his nod, which wasn’t too formal, yet still carried respect, which his older tenured associates seemed to prefer anyways. 

But your eyes attracted Seonghwa like no other. They had a way of pulling him in, and when he sat adjacent to you, he’d observed them into remembrance. He loved everything about them. The way a fire burned behind them when you were frustratingly learning about proofs, or the way they crinkled shut in happiness at his gentle praises of doing a good job. 

In the silence of his office before his office hours, Seonghwa would lose himself in his thoughts of you. What you sounded like when he complimented your progress. What you’d sound like greeting him. What you’d sound like under him. What you’d look like in a pretty sundress. What you’d look like in his clothes. What you’d look like naked.

Okay, maybe more often than not, his thoughts were perverted. But in all honesty, Seonghwa just couldn’t help it. He’d think of you when no one came to his office hours, he’d think of you when he was lecturing, and he’d think of you when he was in bed, all much too often for his own good.

Seonghwa’s fantasies were vivid, his imagination running amok when he’d think of the things he’d want to do to you and what you might do to him. How he’d eat you out, how he’d deep he’d fuck into you, how he’d bruise your skin with his hold. How you’d suck him off, how you’d ride him, how you’d tug at his hair. It was all too much and all too vivid in his head. 

He’d have his way with you in your home, fucking you at your dining table. Other times, it would be in his office, with you splayed out against the window that looked out onto the campus square. You’d whimper out his name as he gave you orgasm after orgasm. So while Seonghwa wasn’t a people person, he was starting to become a you person.

But when you’d welcome him into your hold the following Friday with your pretty smile and sweet eyes, Seonghwa would feel intense and  apologetic regret. God, you were just so kind, and he was such a terrible person. 

“You’re a lifesaver” you had told him after a particularly difficult lesson. 

Never in his life had Seonghwa been someone’s lifesaver. But to be yours? He would live a thousand lifetimes and never feel as accomplished as he did then. So while Seonghwa wasn’t a people person, he was starting to become a you person. He wanted to admit that to you, but all he could say in the moment was that it was his job and he was more than happy to help. 

He notices that you enjoyed his little comments he left on your graded worksheets, and so, riddled with guilt, he continues to leave smiley faces and iterations of good job! and well done! on your worksheets with his glittery blue pen, hoping it would ease his mind when he eventually jerked off to you later that night. 

Seonghwa grades several more midterms before you finally walk through the entrance of your apartment lobby. Seonghwa had begun to smile more often. He stretched his lips into a wide smile like yours, but when he looked in the mirror, all he could see was a pained expression. Nonetheless, he persisted, smiling more at his students, the tenured professors, and even the bus driver that took him to your apartment. 

Now, as conceited as it sounded, the big, wide smile seemed natural to him, so that’s how he smiles when your eyes catch his. But this time, unlike other occasions, you greet him not with your usual happy smile, but with a tight-lipped one instead.

Seonghwa’s out-of-place bright smile falters a little, and instead, he chooses to mirror yours. Hurriedly, he shoves his students’ partially graded midterms into his bag and follows you as you politely greet the employees at the reception desk. 

When the two of you step into the majestic elevator that Seonghwa has yet to get used to, he finally observes your still form standing besides his. Your usually tall shoulders are rounded in fatigue, and your eyes are sunken with exhaustion. You’re uncharacteristically quiet too, not even a How were your lectures this week? falling from your lips. 

So Seonghwa stays quiet as well, unsure how to approach you. 

It’s when you’ve both set your bags down inside your dark apartment that Seonghwa finally asks, “Is everything okay?”

Apologetically, you look at him. “Yeah, I’m sorry,” you say, sighing deeply. “I just had a really shitty day at work,” and with that, you begin to light your multitude of lamps.

“Oh, we can reschedule for another time if you’re tired today,” he says, watching you flicking the switch for some lamps while twisting the knobs for others, illuminating the dim space. 

“No, that’s alright. I just wish I could’ve let you know earlier, I probably would’ve saved you the trip up here.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. He wanted to say he didn’t mind it in the slightest, he would’ve dropped everything if you’d tell him so. But Seonghwa doesn’t say that and you’re still distracted, far away, stalling by straightening the shawl draped over the couch. 

So he does as you’ve paid him to do, teach. Flipping the cover of his bag over, he grasps the textbook you’ve been making your way through tightly and a folder filled with worksheets he’s printed just for you between his fingers. As he begins to lay out the printed practice sheets on your dining table, you sigh. “Would it be alright with you if I had a beer?”

Seonghwa stops organizing the worksheets and holds them awkwardly in his hands, answering, “Of course.”

With slightly more elated steps, you rush to grab three cans from your fridge and walk past the dining table, deciding to plop down on your couch. With a swift crack of the can, you hungrily swallow down the beer. You turn, finding Seonghwa standing unmoving behind you. Picking up one of the extra cans from your coffee table, you reach behind the couch and hold the can for him to take. 

For the past several weeks, Seonghwa had followed a direct line from the front door to his designated chair at the dining table. He never even so much as used your restroom. It felt impolite, like he would be overstepping. So, when Seonghwa pushes the chair back into the dining table and rounds the couch past the familiar threshold, it's as though he's crossing into uncharted territory. The air seems to shift, carrying with it the scent of lavender and old books. 

This was different from the sturdy wooden chairs of your dining table. The colors in the room appear more vivid, the textures more pronounced. The soft hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen mingles with the ticking of your clock. Seonghwa could read the titles of your books without squinting, and he could make out the details of your lamps. At the realization of the intimacy, Seonghwa stiffened. 

But you’ve relaxed a little, so Seonghwa tries to do the same, asking, “Do you wanna talk about it?”

You take a couple of small sips, an annoyed expression coloring your face. “It’s just this stupid guy at work.”

Seonghwa waits on you to elaborate, opening his own can and taking the smallest possible sip. 

“He came in this morning asking for the quarter’s report before the quarter’s even finished, so obviously we started panicking and began working on it. When it doesn’t get done by lunch, which it was never going to, he starts messing with the interns! Like hassling the poor kids is going to get the report done. Worst of all? The asshole left early.” You shake your head bitterly. “Anyways, I just…” you finish off the beer with a sigh and place the empty can back on the wooden coaster on your coffee table. “I really don’t want to talk or even think about him anymore. Will you distract me?”

Seonghwa's breath hitches and his heart beats irregularly fast. He’s grateful that in that moment your air conditioner kicks in as loudly as it does, hiding the thump thump thump of his anxious heart. Clearing his throat, he asks, “How?”

“Hmm,” you think for a moment. You’re beginning to feel the alcohol's warm haze, and with it, you abandon your usual caution, craving comfort over contemplation, and bravely decide to readjust your legs over the arms of the couch and lay your head on his lap. It definitely catches Seonghwa off guard, the fragrance of your perfume fills his senses and he swallows, momentarily closing his eyes. “Tell me something, anything,” you say, looking up at him. 

One of Seonghwa’s hands is nervously curled into a fist, glued to his side, while the other is tightly clutching his can of beer, and you’re desperately eager to take them into your own, placing one on your stomach and the other in your hair. But as the blush on his cheeks only darkens, you suppose this is better than nothing.

“Oh, okay…” he clears his throat again, gulping down a couple of large swigs of his untouched beer. “Well, there’s a tenured professor in my department that’s exactly like this guy at your office.”

“Oh, yeah? 

“He loses track of reports and dates all the time, but we can’t complain about it. And he treats the department’s teaching assistants like crap. And he manages to turn every conversation into an ode to Euler’s theorem.”

“At least he’s passionate?” you offer, but this is the first time Seonghwa’s complained about this guy out loud; he wants to set the record straight, even if you’re probably never going to meet the old man. 

He shakes his head, “More like obsessed. He’s spent multiple lunch breaks raving on and on about its beauty and elegance like it’s the only theorem in the world, like Gödel and Fermat don’t exist. I mean, sure, I like Euler’s theorem as much as the next mathematician, but he should at least admit you have a favorite and move on.” Wow, it felt good to get that off his chest. Seonghwa didn’t even know he’d been this irritated at the man, but accepting the fact rather quickly, he takes a generous sip of beer.

“Do you have one? A favorite theorem?”

He laughs, pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose, answering “Of course, I do.” He takes a large gulp, and you watch his adam's apple bob as he swallows, pressing your thighs closer together. “That’s like asking a writer if they’ve got a favorite book.”

You roll your eyes and playfully scoff, “Okay Professor Park, what’s your favorite theorem then?” You fold your arms over your chest and look up to his face. The action pushes your breasts closer together and upwards, and Seonghwa has to look away. 

Seonghwa was not a drinker, but having you rest in his lap, looking as good as you did, calling him Professor, was making him ridiculously horny, enough to need another beer. He was praying he wouldn’t pop a boner, and to quell the need, he sits up, takes another big sip, and runs his hair through his hair, focusing on answering your question. “I have three. Do you know who Kurt Gödel is?” From his lap, you watch his hair land floppily over his forehead and shake your head. 

“Well, back in the 1930s, he published this set of theorems that talks about how it’s impossible to find a complete and consistent set of axioms for the entirety of mathematics.” Seonghwa catches the confusion that speeds across your face and stutters, “Oh…” as he searches for an analogy. His eyes light up when he spots the Lego structures on your television stand. “Imagine we're building a giant Lego city, with lots of rules about how to connect the pieces.” 

“Oh, okay.” You close your eyes, trying to imagine. Now that your eyes are no longer on him, Seonghwa relaxes slightly into the cushions of your couch.

He takes another sip from his can before continuing, “Gödel's first theorem says that no matter how complete you think your rulebook is, there will always be some questions about your city that the rulebook can't answer. There will be statements about numbers and math that are true, but you can’t prove them using just the rules in your book. It’s like having a beautiful, detailed map that still leaves out some important paths.”

Seonghwa takes yet another sip. He knows he should probably stop, but he likes the buzz that’s running through his body. The buzz that helps him calm even with the weight of your head in his lap and the smell of you filling him up. The buzz that encourages him to shut his own eyes, lean his head against the back of the couch, and softly run his unoccupied hand through your scalp. 

The buzz that helps him continue, “The second theorem says that your rulebook can’t prove its own reliability. Pretend you wrote down all the rules and wanted to be absolutely sure that there are no mistakes in your rules. Gödel said that you can't use the rules themselves to prove they are always correct. It’s like… having a detailed instruction manual for building a Lego structure that can’t guarantee it’s free of errors using its own instructions.”

You hear him sip from his can again and open your eyes. Seonghwa’s face was flushed, the tips of nose and ears tinted pink. His throat bobbed as he swallowed down the alcohol. With his eyes still shut, he breathes out deeply. 

“Even with a perfectly designed set of rules, there will always be questions we can't answer and a level of certainty we can't achieve. Almost like nothing has any meaning at all. Call it nihilistic, but I think it’s so comforting that nothing has an answer. We’re just here and nothing really makes sense, but we try so hard to make it make sense… Am I making sense?”

With a reassured nod, you answer “Yeah.”

At the movement, Seonghwa opens his heavy lids, briefly looking at you before turning to the view of the bright, blinking city outside your window. “Some of us work to make it make sense, and we go crazy trying to make it make sense. But others… don’t. And they’re okay with the fact that it doesn’t make sense. They keep going, never wanting it to make sense. And they die, knowing that even if it made any sense, it wouldn’t matter anyways.” Seonghwa empties his can of beer and removes his hand from your hair.

His words have grown slurred, yet you knew they were genuine. It did make sense, even if it really didn’t. Okay, now I’m not making any sense. But Seonghwa’s grown sentimental, and you feel a veil of sadness wash over him.

You sit up and scoot closer to him, watching his calm stature. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him this relaxed, or maybe it was dejection, you didn’t know. But let yourself stare at him, taking in the smudged glasses that sat atop his nose bridge. You look at his glossy lips and even glossier eyes that look like they’re filling with tears. 

In an attempt to distract him, you tap his shoulder and ask, “What’s the other one?”

Seonghwa blinks the unfallen tears away and turns to look at you. “Hmm?” His round eyes take in your own and at your question, his pouted lips twitch. 

“The other theorem?”

“Oh, it’s the, uh… it’s the ham sandwich theorem. That theorem guarantees that no matter how components are arranged, there’s always a perfect way to make this equal division with a single cut, but… Can I be honest?” You nod. “I only like that theorem because it’s got a silly name.” 

Temporary shock flashes across your features before you finally laugh, gently shoving his shoulder. Seonghwa laughs, too, and in his tipsy stupor, has left the existentialism he was experiencing moments ago behind. He grabs the last unopened can of beer from your coffee table, snapping it open, before continuing.

“Did you know its Wikipedia page has an image of an actual ham sandwich? Speaking of Wikipedia, it’s not that bad of a resource to use considering they provide links to the actual resources they use—”

He talks and you listen as best as you can. He talks about axioms and Wikipedia and bad students and terrible thesis topics and other theorems, and you just listen. You watch him explain and complain and talk for what seems like hours, and you didn’t mind it least. And that’s when you realize, you weren’t just sexually attracted to Seonghwa, you had a crush on him. 

At the ripe age of 29, you had a crush on your math tutor. You felt like a silly teenager, wondering if you’d be compatible. Maybe I should ask him his birthday? But would you even be compatible outside of unreliable zodiac readings? He probably wanted someone that knew how to solve basic polynomials. He probably wanted someone that was able to do arithmetics without the itching need of a calculator. He doesn’t want somebody stupid like me. No, stop it, you’re better at math now. You’re better because of Seonghwa. Don’t sell him short.

The muddled thoughts are a bit overwhelming to process coherently, and before you can stop yourself, you blurt out, “Do you have a girlfriend?” As soon as the collection of words leave your mouth, you suddenly sober, laser-focused on the words that were to come from Seonghwa.

Seonghwa’s eyes widen at your question, and his cheeks only blush more. “Wha— No!” he vehemently denies, before looking away, embarrassed. He looks at the pile of textbooks that were sitting ignored on your dinner table and plays with the frayed end of his dress shirt, asking, “Do you? Have a boyfriend, I mean?” The question is brave, and you know he wouldn’t have asked it had it not been for the alcohol in his system.

“I don’t have time for a relationship,” you sigh. “Too many work duties.” Seonghwa doesn’t answer, instead hiccuping. 

“Ha, duties.” He can’t believe he’d said that, covering his mouth in embarrassment, looking away from you, before he hiccups again and giggles sheepishly. 

Your insecurity temporarily vanishes at his laughter. Still slightly worried, but thoroughly amused, you ask “Seonghwa, are you drunk?”

He uncovers his mouth. “No, I’m not drunk, you’re drunk.” Still clutching the can of beer in one hand, he folds his hand into a finger gun and shoots it at your concerned face. “Pew, pew,” he says with a giggle, taking another sip. 

You stand from your spot on the couch and reach to grab the can from his hand, “Okay, maybe you’ve had enough—”

In a swift motion, Seonghwa reaches for your forearm and pulls you firmly back into his lap. Although this time, you’re sitting squarely on his semi-hard dick. He buries his head in the crook of your neck and softly inhales. “You always smell so fucking nice,” he says, his eyes shutting at your proximity, taking in your scent. 

His display of strength was new. You’d assumed him to be frail, fluttering in the wind if there were a strong breeze despite his broad chest, but this was a good surprise. It was a great surprise. The hand he’s got wrapped around your forearm is warm and secure. The other hand, that was still unfortunately hanging on to his can of beer, was heavily slung over your thighs. The cursing was also new, but you welcomed it, even rash words sounding sophisticated falling from his intoxicated lips.

Seonghwa mumbles something incomprehensible into your neck, sending tingling vibrations to the tip of your lips. “What?”

Turning his head, with his cheek now resting against your collarbones, he repeats, “I asked if I could kiss you?” Oh. 

Letting yourself indulge in the moment temporarily, you bring your hand up to card your fingers through his soft hair. The action has him relaxing into you even more, and you can feel your resolve crumbling away with every passing second. But still, you answer, “No, you’re drunk.”

“So are you,” he says, nose nuzzling into you. He lowly exhales, his warm breath on your chest sending shivers down your spine.

“Exactly,” you desperately push the desire away. Emboldened, you add, “Besides, I’d rather kiss you when we’re both sober.” At this, Seonghwa backs away slightly, large eyes boring into yours, as if to ask Really? Your eyes subconsciously flicker down to his lips, and you just know exactly what he’d taste like. 

You know you’d taste the gentle vanilla he always smells like. You know you’d taste the coffee from the ancient coffee machine he’s told you about in the teacher’s lounge. And you were certain you’d taste like the one-and-a-half can of beer he’d downed too fast for his own good. 

And you’re so desperate to taste it all, anything, everything, from him. But when you look back up into his drooping eyes, you know, and he knows, that this isn’t the time or place for any of it. 

So with the utmost willpower and determination, you slip out of his grasp, forcing yourself away from his warm body and his strong arms to stand. “Let me drive you home.”

*****

The next week is agonizing. When you drove Seonghwa home that night, he’d been oddly quiet sitting in the passenger seat of your car as you silently followed the navigation to his home. As you were stopped at the occasional red light, your eyes would quickly dart to his figure. His posture was calm, but his mind seemed to be racing with unlimited thoughts. You would look over to find the city lights reflecting off his raven hair, his eyes focused on their gleam. 

And when the light turned green, you would look away, focusing on the road to his house. 

Then, he’d wobbled to his door, thanked you politely, albeit slurred, and bid you a soft goodnight. 

It was well-mannered. It was respectful. And it was most definitely Seonghwa. 

Yet you had a terrible feeling that he wouldn’t be coming back. 

Maybe your recollection was hazy, but thinking back on it, maybe the color had drained from his face when you admitted you wanted to kiss him back. Maybe his eyes had frowned in disgust. Now sober, you couldn’t seem to remember. 

He would have certainly been embarrassed. It wasn’t right. You were, after all, paying him to teach you math. You weren’t even looking for a relationship, your downloaded dating apps sitting abandoned in a folder on your phone.

But maybe this is just who Seonghwa was. Over the past weeks you’ve spent with him at your dining table, you’d come to understand he was reserved. Maybe he doesn’t like jokes like this. Because that was what it was right? It was just a joke. 

No, it wasn’t. You really did want to kiss him. And he wanted to kiss you. But you rejected him. Maybe he was upset about the rejection?

The useless thoughts swirled recklessly in your head, and in the span of the week, you’d convinced yourself that Seonghwa was never coming back.

Friday brings a certain dread. You had met with Seonghwa consistently for the past 8 weeks. What were you going to do today in your empty apartment? God, you should’ve never admitted that you wanted to kiss him. You were still in the middle of understanding synthetic division. You hadn't even gotten to logarithmic functions yet. You were utterly fucked. 

So, as a pick-me-up, you’d left a little earlier from work, citing a terrible excuse, gotten a large tub of ice cream from the grocery store, changed into a silky, not-so-modest night set, and turned on a crime documentary for the remainder of the night. 

And still, not even the harrowing murder being described in gory detail on the scene was enough to distract you.

You look over to your empty dining table and the chair where Seonghwa liked to sit. The area looked sad without him. You’d even only turned on one of your lamps tonight, deciding to sit in the dim loneliness of your apartment. 

With a sigh, you dig your mistakenly grabbed soup spoon into the tub of butterscotch ice cream, looking back at the television to watch the detective’s perspective play out on the screen. 

Several more spoonfuls and narrative testimonies later, your doorbell rings.

You should’ve checked who it was and you definitely should’ve covered up, but with leaping steps, ridiculously large spoon still in hand, you rush to open the door in the hopes that it was who you thought it was. 

Behind your door was Seonghwa, dressed oh-so-lovingly in blue, his messenger bag resting familiarly over his shoulder. He looked surprised when you opened the door, almost as if he hadn’t meant to knock or expected you to answer. 

But you did and he was beyond elated, until his eyes trailed down your body. 

In no mood to cover up, you ignore his bashful gaze and breathlessly say, “Hi.”

His eyes quickly dart up to yours. “Hello.” And then it’s silent. He fiddles with a white and blue bandana that’s tied around his neck and pushes his glasses up his nose. You only stare, unable to come up with any words. What would you say? Should you apologize? Should you tell him you want to kiss him too? You debate the statements when Seonghwa adds, “I’m not drunk.”

What? “Oh, okay,” you respond, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“Are you?”

“No,” you shake your head. 

Seonghwa looks down at his neatly tied shoes, and the beret on his head tips forward a little. He looks, for lack of a better word, adorable. The white button down he’s worn inside his jean jacket has clearly been ironed to perfection, and the denim of his jeans fit nicely around his waist. Seonghwa looks back up, tipping his beret back with him and says, “Then, if you still want to, can you kiss me now?”

Oh. 

After the split-second it takes you to process his words, your lips are on his. It’s like the floodgates had burst open. After weeks and weeks and weeks of pent up frustration, the unsatisfying orgasms, and the stupid crush, you were finally kissing Seonghwa. And you were beyond happy to know his lips tasted exactly as you’d imagined. 

Grabbing his neat collar, you pull him inside your apartment, kissing him hungrily, wanting to make up for the week of despair. Once you’ve rid him of his messenger bag, your hands cup his jaw, coaxing his mouth open for your tongue. He gasps in surprise and finds his hands grabbing at your waist. 

When the back of your knees touch your couch, you’re quick to turn around and push Seonghwa onto the cushions. He’s utterly mesmerized, looking up at you in your sheer clothes, craving you. 

With your knees on either side of his lap, you sit against him and search ravenously for his lips. They taste so sweet and so familiar that you take and take, wanting to memorize his taste. They were soft, yearning for more, yet he still hesitates. Seonghwa’s barely able to keep up, kissing you back as best as he could, but he’s quickly running out of breath. Luckily for him, your lips kiss the side of his mouth and begin to move down his jaw. 

Seonghwa’s eyes close at the feeling, and when you experimentally nip into his neck, he opens his eyes with a gasp. His hands come to rest on your thighs, gently squeezing the flesh, which has you humming into his neck. Then, he suddenly spots his bag sitting precariously on the edge of your couch. 

Seonghwa really thought you’d never want to see him again. He was extremely unprofessional. What was he thinking getting drunk like that when he knew he was a lightweight? After sobering up, he’d promised himself that he wouldn’t ever think of you inappropriately again. He had come here in the hopes of either getting on his knees and apologizing or acting like nothing happened. It was dependent on your reaction.

But when you open the door in hardly any clothes, all he wanted to do again was kiss you. 

And he’s glad you did too, but he had an unyielding need to complete his duty as your tutor to help you get through today’s lesson. You were doing so well, and he’d hand-written the worksheet for you to complete today. So, as much as it pains him, he tries to get you to stop. 

“We should—” You grind against him, teasingly, trying to test the waters. You feel greedy, deprived even, cutting off his words to taste him better, but he just feels so good, you can’t help it. He gasps, and you take your chance to slip your tongue back into his mouth. Still, in between kisses, he tries to continue, “We should still try to get some work done.” 

His grip on your thighs felt good, tightening a little at your persistence, and in response, you grind down on his lap harder. Backing away, you pant, “We will, just five more minutes,” before you’re kissing him yet again. 

When five minutes come and go, Seonghwa’s face is red, he can’t seem to catch his breath, and his dick has grown painfully hard. But the cover of his leather bag has come undone, and he can see parts of the worksheets he’s printed off for you. He attempts to pull away, “We really should be practicing your synthetic divi—” but you drag him back in by his collar. When you roll your hips against him, he stutters out the first thing he can think of. “We can play strip poker!”

The idea has you stopping.

“For every question you get right, I’ll take a piece of clothing off,” Seonghwa says.

You smirk and back away from him. “Okay,” is all you say, before you get off him and turn around to walk to the table. Seonghwa straightens his glasses and gets up from your couch. Using his bag as a shield, he covers his embarrassingly hard boner and follows you to the dining table. 

Once you’ve both sat, he takes the worksheet he’d so diligently prepared and his pens, sliding the worksheet towards you. You scan the ten questions on the paper and then look back at Seonghwa to eye him up and down. Grabbing a pencil from your cup, you begin to solve the first problem. 

Seonghwa takes a deep breath, air filling his lungs to capacity, before silently releasing. The strap of your top was slowly sliding down your shoulder, exposing the top of your chest. Get it together, he thinks, looking away. He focuses on the tick-tock of your clock, until you finish and pass the worksheet back to him. 

Clearing his throat, Seonghwa looks over your scribbled work, picking up his blue pen to draw a smiley face as he says, “Good job.” He lifts his denim beret off his heat and places it gently on your kitchen table. 

“No fair,” you pout, eyeing the many layers he’s worn in the middle of summer. “Aren’t you hot?”

“Not at all, next question,” he nods at the sheet. That was a lie, and Seonghwa dearly hoped you couldn’t tell. The warmth in his cheeks wouldn’t leave, and as you turn your attention back to the paper, he swallows heavily. His cock was straining in his boxers, and he was regretting his intricately layered outfit as he discretely squirmed in his chair. 

Some seconds later, you slide the paper back to him. He blinks through your answer, and to your surprise, picks up his red pen to circle your mistake. “You miscalculated when distributing the negative exponents.”

“What?” you snatch the paper back, running through the problem again. He was right. You look up at Seonghwa, and with a shrug, you slip your shirt over your head. 

“What are you doing?” Seonghwa asks, bewildered. 

Faking innocence,  you respond, “If I get one right, you take something off, but if I get one wrong, I take something off. It only seems fair.” 

You’d come to adore Seonghwa’s fashion in these past weeks. It exuded comfort and belonging, and his color combinations were never not admirable. It also helped that looked beautiful no matter what he wore. But today, despite the complementing oceanic and deep blues, you were frustrated at the amount of things he had on. You were simply speeding up the process and hoping that maybe having him equally or more horny than you would do the trick.

Seonghwa was struggling, and it was obvious. Your tits were right there, and god were they something. Seonghwa’s nails dig into his palms, wanting to touch you, squeeze you, something, anything. 

Alcohol bravened him, that much was a fact, but sitting here underneath your piercing gaze and barely covered body, Seonghwa felt like his own body was blazing. He couldn’t get rid of these clothes fast enough. So when you get the next question right, Seonghwa shrugs off his jean jacket and, to your pleasant surprise, unbuttons his dress shirt, letting it rest around his shoulders. 

You move on to the next problem, and Seonghwa’s knees begin to bounce in anticipation. His breathing was deeper, and now he was shamelessly staring. You couldn’t be more turned on even if you tried, yet you continue to solve the fourth problem. 

You’v nearly completed the problem, when Seonghwa watches you hesitate. You twirl the pencil between your fingers and with intention, turn your answer of 31x-4 into a 31x+4. Seonghwa’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “You had the correct answer?”

“Oh! Oops,” is all you say before you get up to kick off your sleep shorts. Now in only your sheer underwear, you sit back down and pick the pencil up once again. “Next question?” 

Seonghwa’s eyes trail down to your bare legs and back up your body. He only breathes out deeply, nodding. You decided you liked the game better like this. There was a searing heat radiating off Seonghwa, and you felt a rumbling warmth pooling in your stomach, aching for relief, but you only continued to solve the next problem. 

And get it wrong, of course. 

“You aren’t distributing properly,” Seonghwa says, his eyes glued to your nearly correct answer. He’s unable to look anywhere else, his pants are starting to feel extremely uncomfortable, and he knows you’re doing this on purpose. 

“Oh!” you exclaim again, faking your surprise and standing from your spot, and Seonghwa thinks you’re getting ready to peel off your sorry excuse for underwear, fists tightening at his side. If you were going to be sitting completely naked in front of him, he wouldn’t care if the worksheets got crumpled or if his textbooks were covered in cum, Seonghwa would take you right here, right now on your dining table. His patience was running dangerously thin, and he was, after all, just a man.

But what you did was much, MUCH worse. 

You pad over him, footsteps light, standing beside him. Bending down to look at the worksheet, you squint, moving closer into Seonghwa’s space, your knees bumping his own, until you’ve finally made enough space for yourself to sit snugly on his thighs. Oh, and his hard dick. “Show me where?”

“What?” His voice was strained, and you felt yourself pulsing, your desperation laughably evident. 

“Show me where I messed up,” you say, trying your best not to waver. 

For a moment, Seonghwa doesn’t move, and you’re afraid you’ve pushed too far again. Until his arm wraps around your waist and pulls you flush against his back. 

His jaw is clenched, voice strained, when he repeats, “You aren’t distributing properly,” breath fanning against your neck. Your eyes flutter shut at the warm sensation, thighs squeezing together in search for some form of pleasure. Seonghwa’s low, “Watch me,” has you opening them again, forcing attention to the red pen between his fingers that’s marking over your work. 

He circles the distribution mistakes, voicing his disapproval. “You did so well the week before last, what’s going on?”

“Maybe I just need to take a break. I’ve had a really long day, I think I deserve a break,” you ramble, pushing the worksheet away.

“We’ll keep going until you get one more right,” he pulls the sheet back in front of you. You groan in frustration, unintentionally grinding against Seonghwa. His hold on you tightens, his hips stuttering upwards. 

The friction his jeans creates against your thin panties feels too good to sit through god knows how many more problems, and you let him know, pushing your hips down harder and faster, rutting against the rough denim. You know you’ve wet the material, but embarrassment is the last thing on your mind when you can taste the end of your release.

Only to be stopped by Seonghwa. 

With gentle nips at your neck, he slows your pace, guiding your hips in a steady motion against his, your orgasm fading away. “Not until you get one right.” He’s just as desperate as you, and you revel in the fact, letting the insipid insecurities from the week melt away, before you turn back to the worksheet and start the next problem.

You hunker down as best as you can, the slowness of the pace Seonghwa’s set still distracting you. The stupidly large exponents mock your lack of focus while Seonghwa’s hands at your hips beg for your attention, but you persist, working through the problem. When you finish, you hand him the sheet, finally closing your eyes, relishing in the pleasure, pushing just a tiny bit harder and faster against Seonghwa’s hold.

And you’re so glad he lets you as he reads through your work, taking a longer time than he should be.  

The moment the words good job leave his lips, you’re turning around in his lap, raking your fingernails over his abdomen. His lips quickly find yours and if he weren’t keeping them occupied, you would sigh a big sigh of relief, finally able to have him as you please. 

You know you’re creating smudges on his glasses when your forehead bumps with his as you try to stand, but you can’t find it in yourself to care, dragging him to your couch as fast as you can. In the short distance, Seonghwa shoves his dirtied denim pants off and tosses them over the dining table chair. 

You both land heavily on the couch, lips still intertwined, hands reaching for anything to grab. Seonghwa pulls you onto his lap and keeps your hips attached to his own, but when you feel his cock twitch, you moan, backing away. “Please let me suck you off.”

Heart beating out of his chest, Seonghwa only nods, and you hurriedly get off his lap and onto your knees between his legs. Sliding his boxers down, his dick finally springs free. 

Seonghwa was pretty, and you’d become familiar with the fact. What you weren’t expecting was how pretty his dick would be. He looked heavy, curving inwards towards his stomach, and the tip was a deep shade of pink, begging for attention. Seonghwa shakily breathes out above you, and just for the hell of it, you maintain eye contact as you move in closer to lick the underside of his cock, swirling your tongue when you reach the tip. 

Seonghwa’s only able to look at you for a few seconds before his head tilts back on the couch, eyes fluttering shut in pleasure. A soft moan leaves his lips, the sound different from anything you’ve ever heard from him before. He sounds better than he did in your deepest fantasies, and all you want is to hear more. 

So you get to work, adding your hands to the mix. Your swirl and suck, hollowing your mouth, taking as much of him down your throat as you could. 

“Fuck, oh my god, please,” his eyes open to look at you. He couldn’t believe he was here, in the dimmed lights of your living room so warm and cozy, the aroma of your home so comforting, and you, sitting so prettily between his legs, so eager to make him cum. 

Suddenly, as he’s deep in your throat, you reach for the balled fists at his sides. He uncurls them at your silent request, and his eyes widen as you drag them over to your head. He almost cums, but lets his fingers weave between your hair, simply resting there, letting you go at your own pace. 

But you’re unsatisfied with this, and as a result, suck a little bit harder and take him a little bit deeper. When he twitches again, you know you’ve got him. A long, drawn-out “Fuck,” leaves Seonghwa’s lips, his hands grip your hair tightens, holding you down on his cock as he cums. The sound resonates within you, the deepness of his voice making you drip on the floor. The taste of his cum collects in your mouth, and you swallow it all.

When he comes down from his high, his hands are quick to cup your face as you’re moving to sit beside him. “I’m sorry, I should’ve asked if I could—”

“Don’t worry, I wanted you to,” you tell him, catching your breath. 

At your response, he shyly looks away. The sight of Seonghwa makes you want to jump his bones. His pupils are blown out, and the fucked out expression on his face is beyond sexy. His usually neat hair is tousled into a poofy mess, and his lips are plump from your assault. But you wait for him to collect his thoughts before you make another move, his overwhelmed body inhaling and exhaling deeply. 

“Can I return the favor?” The confidence in his words was out of place, but you welcomed it with an eager smile. And with that, his lips find yours again. 

Your underwear is discarded quickly as Seonghwa makes his way down your neck and the valley of your breasts. He lifts one of your legs over his shoulder and places the other over the backrest of your couch.

“I’ve been wanting to do this for so long,” he says, reaching the skin of your thighs. “I’ve thought about you a lot more than I should have these past few weeks.” That was an understatement; he’d felt starved of you, only having his recollections and your LinkedIn to keep him satisfied. You’d been the only thing on his mind. 

“God, that’s so good to know,” you respond, rolling your hips against his face. 

This time, Seonghwa’s eyes widened, not in shock, but in realization. You’d thought about him as much as he did about you. In the pause, he looks at the messied sight of your drooling pussy and realizes that that was his doing. Overcome with vigor, he starts strong, licking deep into you, nose nudging your clit in the best way. 

The pleasure feels immediately overwhelming, and you tangle your hands through his already messy hair and tug at his scalp. “Fuck, Hwa,” you cry out, fingernails lightly scratching at his scalp.

The nickname has him wrapping his arms around your thighs and licking past your folds to suck on your clit, teeth gently grazing it. You sharply inhale at the euphoric feeling, crying out his name again and again and again. 

Your hips are stuttering, thighs shaking, trying to buck into Seonghwa’s face. The movement slightly irritates him, and he just wants you to stop moving, but he’s unable to back away from your addicting flavor. So in one selfish move, with his arms still tightly wrapped around your thighs, he lifts your hips upwards off the couch, coming to sit on his knees. 

You think you could have cum from the display of strength alone, but when Seonghwa starts repeatedly lapping away at your pussy, all you can do is whine, “Oh my god, yes, yes, yes!” Your eyes are rolling to the back of your head, and the unbearable string in your stomach is about to snap at the burning pleasure. 

Your moans are helpless and loudly unforgiving, and Seonghwa loves every minute of it. His prodding tongue explores inside of you and at your pulsing, Seonghwa sets you down gently on the cushions. He wraps his mouth around two of his own fingers and runs them along your pussy. You’re whining again, hips bucking upwards now that there’s nothing there to stop them. When his long fingers are nicely curled inside of you, you clamp down on them instantly with a cry. 

“More. Give me more please, Hwa.” And Seonghwa does. He repeatedly curls his fingers inside of you, applying pressure to your weeping gummy spot, and keeps his tongue busy at your throbbing clit. With his other hand, he alternately squeezes your tits. You feel like you’re on fire, every fiber of your being drowning in ecstasy. Your building orgasm is at its tipping point when Seonghwa once again grazes your clit with his teeth, and soon after, it spills over.

Your release has you seeing stars, and for a moment, your ears begin to ring. And throughout it all, Seonghwa doesn’t stop. While his fingers have left, his tongue keeps circling your folds, mumbling words you aren’t able to hear just yet against you. Your limbs feel limp, but your thighs begin to shake again at the overstimulation. When the ringing subsides, you hear, “You taste so fucking good, please.” His ardent need had you shaking, the same repetition of words falling from his lips, the vibration building your second orgasm already. 

You jolt at the stimulation, and Seonghwa eats you up, lapping, licking, and sucking until your thighs close around his head and you cum again.

This time, Seonghwa retreats from your pussy, letting you ride out your back-to-back orgasms, and places his small kisses up your thighs and around your stomach. You’re panting, trying to calm your beating heart. When you’ve come to, Seonghwa is sucking a hickey at your collarbones. 

You card your fingers through his hair and pull him towards your lips. He gladly kisses you back, allowing you to taste yourself on his tongue. 

He backs away, giving you a chaste peck before asking, “Was… that okay?” You don’t know where the man from a few moments ago has gone. Right now, Seonghwa’s blushing again, as if he hadn’t just given you the best orgasms of your life. 

“Yes, Professor,” you tease him. He nervously chuckles, and in genuine awe of him, you add “That was more than okay.” The red of his face deepens, and he looks to the marks he’s left on your body. When he looks down, you stop him. “Oh, your glasses,” you look at the smeared mess of fingerprints, sweat, and your cum on the frame and glass. You extend your hands to take them off, but Seonghwa stops you. 

“No, wait. I… I wanna be able to see you,” he says quietly. You pause to look at him, the adoration present in his eyes too endearing to take. This time, while you don’t have any words, he softly kisses you. The kiss turns desperate in no time, and the softness is short-lived when he backs away to spot the sight of your wet pussy again. 

Quick to grab a condom, he rolls it down his length, while lips darken the marks on your neck. He pulls back to look down at you. You were so much more beautiful than the confines of his imagination. You were just as, if not more, thoroughly fucked out. Bruises were sure to form on your thighs where Seonghwa’s strong grip had been, and the both of you were littered with love bites. 

With a deep breath, he runs his pretty cock along the length of your soaking folds, relishing your sharp gasp when he slows at your clit. 

“Please Hwa. Please, please, please” you whine, rolling your hips into him. And Seonghwa gives you what you want, slowing his thick cock into you. The stretch feels heavenly, and the two of you sigh once he’s fully situated inside. Seonghwa feels drunk with your hot velvet walls pulsing around him, and he so badly wants to fuck into you thoughtlessly, getting lost in your walls. 

But he waits, controlling his breathing and keeping his lips occupied at the base of your neck and his hands at your hips. 

It doesn't take you too long to give him the go-ahead, and with that, Seonghwa starts moving. You rest wrap your hands around his pumped forearms and let your eyes shut. His thrusts are languid at first, letting you get used to him and him to you, but they speed up in no time, your orgasms building with ease. 

Soenghwa grinds into you, and beyond his glasses, you catch his perverse eyes. He wanted to live out every fantasy he had of you, and you of his, letting you do whatever you want to him and vice versa. He feels as if there isn’t enough time in the world each time he sinks into you, and with that, Seonghwa’s thrusts quicken. 

The curve of his cock reaches so deliciously deep inside you, you feel tears welling in your eyes. His grip on your hips is so tight, and the slap of your skin against his has you repeating Seonghwa’s name like a mantra.  

Sliding your hands down from his arms, you bring them to your stomach, and whimper exasperatedly at what you find. You take one of the hands he’s got gripping your hips and drag it up to your stomach, letting him feel what you felt. He gasps at the feeling, slowing his thrusts down, feeling his cock under your skin. When the realization simmers away, carnal hunger takes its place, and Seonghwa pumps into you harder, this time pressing down on where his cock bulges from your skin. 

You gasp at the feeling, eyes widening at the rough feeling. Seonghwa eyes your expression, and when finds nothing but desire, he hikes your legs up his shoulders and continues to bully his way into your pussy, wanting to mold you to the shape of every ridge of his cock, making you his. 

You whimper pathetically, completely at his mercy, letting your tears finally fall as you take everything he’s giving you diligently. 

After that, it doesn’t take long for either of you to cum. 

Sweat drips from the sloping tip of Seonghwa’s nose onto your chest, making you come to. Seonghwa’s awkwardly balanced on his elbows, trying to not put his body weight on you or fall off the couch. You scoff at the ridiculous position, and pull Seonghwa into your chest, eyes lulling with sleep. 

He can hear your heartbeat slow, and when it seems you’ve fully come down, Seonghwa says, “We should get cleaned up.”

“We will, just five more minutes,” you repeat. 

Seonghwa quietly laughs, relaxing against you. In the meantime, his hands find yours, fingertips ghosting your knuckles, sending a spark up your spine. “Can I do all the things I’ve been thinking about?” he asks, still shrouded by a thin veil of insecurity. 

Your arms tighten around, and you smile. “We’ve got the entire weekend, unless you’ve got somewhere else to be?” you tease, intertwining your hands in his. 

Seonghwa squeezes your hand, thumb brushing your wrists. “I don’t.”

“Then, yes,” you smile, placing a kiss on his forehead. 

His lips turn upwards, and he smiles. Kissing your neck, he rests his cheek against your chest. There’s a pregnant pause, before he says, “What if a couple of those things have to happen in my office?”

Author's Note II: Yay to those who made it all the way through! There will NOT be a second part or bonus parts for ToA, which technically makes this my first one-shot! I'm really proud of this fic would LOVE some feedback! Much love <3

updated 3/6/2024 with Gaza Wound Care & We Feed Gaza. I wanted to focus on Palestinian-run grassroots initiatives that will actually reach Gazans on the ground, so all of these except eSIMs, PCRF, MAP are by Palestinians. i have verified them but please feel free to do your own vets for your peace of mind.

when you signed your lease at your new apartment, you didn’t expect to sign up for a list of problems.

you desperately needed a new place to live, and with the measly budget you had for rent, all that was left available were slim pickings. so when you finally found a small 1 bedroom apartment that wasn’t double your desired price, you jumped at the opportunity. you applied for the place on the spot and were approved the same day. you didn’t really think anything of it, but when you finally got settled in and actually gave a good look at your newfound home… you were in for a fucking nightmare.

for starters, the window unit in the bedroom wouldn’t blow cool air. it’s right in the heat of the summer, so coming home after a long day only to sweat all night long was not cutting it for you. you put in a maintenance request through your tenant portal app the first day when you realized this.

another annoyance was the dishwasher. one of your biggest must-haves was to have an actual working one. maybe you were asking a bit much with your budget, but with the amount that you work, it was imperative. you were thrilled to see the dishwasher during the viewing, only to find a few days worth of dirty dishes later, that said dishwasher was rusty and moldy. literally unusable. so you put in another maintenance request.

last one, and maybe now you’re just getting picky because you’re pissed, but your shower water pressure sucked, and by the time you would finish a shower, the water would take forever to drain. another request sent.

all these maintenance requests and not a single one fixed. you started to wonder if the tenant portal app even worked, so you called your landlord, only to grapple with them on finding a time for them to fix it while you’re still home. you might want these things fixed asap, but you’re not willing to let a stranger in your space when you’re not there.

you started to fucking lose it. a few weeks with no cold air, shitty water pressure, and dishes piling up your sink, and not one thing being done about it. you call your landlord one more time, urging them to finally fix these issues, arguing that they should’ve been fixed before you even moved in. and with that last push, they finally caved and did their fucking job. they said they’re sending someone there first thing tomorrow.

so when you finally wake up and go about your day-off routine, you are constantly watching the clock. when they said “first thing tomorrow,” did they mean “first thing tomorrow once the maintenance man feels like it”? because it’s already pushing noon and you’re getting impatient. it’s obnoxious; you’re not able to run any errands (let alone actually go out and enjoy your day off) and you’re just waiting around for some dude to actually do the job you’ve been asking for for weeks.

just as you find yourself dialing the landlord’s number, you hear a knock at your door. fucking FINALLY. you jump off your couch, mind spewing profanities out of frustration. you walk towards the door, ready to give this stupid maintenance man a piece of your mind. you swing open the door, and your heart drops.

the maintenance man stands before you, with a tight black tank that hugged his muscular build and dirty worn jeans. he has a tool belt strapped to his (surprisingly small?) waist and a heavy tool box gripped in his hand. he’s a little dirty, and his chest is shiny with sweat due to the humid outside air. his rugged exterior is a huge juxtaposition to his face, however, with sharp yet kind eyes and a sweet smile.

“you need some maintenance done?” he asks.

“oh, uh, yes,” you stumble, suddenly at a loss for words. “come on in.” you hold the door open, allowing him to walk through to your living room.

“so you’re having issues with your water pressure?” he says, looking around the apartment.

“yeah, that and a few other things,” you reply. “but the biggest thing is the window unit in my room. it doesn’t blow any cold air.”

“i can fix that,” he looks at you with a grin. “which one’s the bedroom?”

you walk him to your room, thanking god he can’t see the blush forming on your face. he walks in and places his tool box down, promptly inspecting the window unit.

“i’ll just let you do your thing,” you say, twiddling your thumbs. “i’ll be in the living room if you need me.”

he nods, and you go back to sit on your couch. you mindlessly scroll through your phone, all while spiraling in your head. did your landlord hire this guy from a fucking modeling agency? he has the build for handyman work, that is certain. however, his face is what’s really getting to you. he could be on the cover of vogue and you wouldn’t bat an eye. but there he is, working on a shitty a/c window unit in your room.

you suddenly become hyper aware of the appearance of your bedroom. what does he think about your decor? is he cringing at the plushies sat on your bed? what if you left a pair of underwear out? oh my god, did you leave your nightstand drawer open, with your vibrator out for the whole world to see?

“it looks like you’ll need a whole new window unit,” he says from your room, interrupting your swarming thoughts. “this one doesn’t even have heat, and you’ll need that for winter.”

“oh, yeah,” you say, getting up and standing in your bedroom doorway. “how long will it take to get a new one? this heat has been brutal.”

“i should be able to bring one tomorrow, if you’re available,” he says, turning back to look at you as he closes up the tool box.

“i’m available,” you say all too quick. dude. be cool. “i mean, yeah, i can try to get off work a little earlier, maybe at like 3?”

“works for me,” he smiles, standing up. “can i get your number?”

you can’t hide your blush this time, nodding at the insinuation, but knowing it was just to iron out arrangements. “here,” you say, opening your phone messages so he can send himself a text.

he types away and hands your phone back. “you need a new dishwasher too, right?”

“i do,” you confirm.

“i can try and get you one by tomorrow too,” he says. “i’m off duty by like 5, so hopefully i’ll have enough time. now the shower?”

you nod and lead him to your bathroom. he examines the shower head, and you watch your cat approach him from behind.

“oh my god,” he says, startled at your cat rubbing against his leg. “this little dude came out of nowhere!” he reaches down to pet him, all while he’s purring up a storm.

“wow, he really likes you,” you stand shocked. your cat is always so standoffish to strangers, usually hiding under your bed or couch. but he’s rubbing against your maintenance man’s legs like he’s best friends with him.

“cats tend to really like me, i don’t know why,” he chuckles, scratching at your cat’s head. “what’s his name?”

“leo,” you say.

“like the zodiac sign?” he looks up at you while still petting him.

“yeah, i wanted to name him after his own sign but he’s a cancer, soooo…” you trail off, awkwardly fiddling with your hands.

“i’m a cancer!” he lights up, looking back down at leo. “no wonder we get along.”

you smile, and then realize you’re staring again. “i’ll go back in here so you can work.”

after distracting yourself with your phone again for a bit, you look up and see the man starting to walk out the bathroom doorway, already with his things together.

“okay, it should be good now, but let me know tomorrow if there’s any issues,” he says. you nod to him and lead him to the front door. you open the door and he walks out, but turns to you before he leaves. “so, i’ll see you tomorrow?” he has a smile on his face, with a hint of something behind it that you can’t quite read.

“yeah, tomorrow,” you say.

after locking the door behind him, you slump onto the couch with a big sigh. that was somehow the most nerve-wracking thing you’ve ever experienced. you remember he texted himself on your phone, so you open your messages and see the unsaved number.

sent 12:28 pm this is san :)

you can feel heat rising to your cheeks. even a stupid smiley face in a text has got you kicking your feet. you text him back, telling him your name and a quick thank you.

dear lord. this man didn’t even do anything, but he will be the death of you.

you come home early the next day, even earlier than you mentioned. partly because you wanted to clean up your place a bit, but the other part to prepare yourself mentally for a hot man in your apartment again. you clean up your room, tidying up so it looks a tad better than it did the day prior. once you’re done, you find yourself fixing up your makeup, realizing you’re putting way too much effort into seeing a fucking handyman fix your a/c.

are you really doing this? intentionally getting dolled up for this?? haha never! right….?

you hear a knock at your door and jump up. you check yourself in the mirror one last time, fixing the gloss on your lips. you go to open the door to reveal san, standing in front of you again with a familiar sweet smile on his face. you smile back too eagerly.

“i got your window unit!” he says, nodding down to the large box in his hands.

“oh, come in, that must be heavy!” you say, ushering him into your living room.

“mind if i go in your room?” he asks.

“of course, please,” you say, opening your bedroom door and letting him set the box down. you attempt to subtly watch his arms flex as he drops it. oh my god he is so hot.

you retreat to the living room as usual, allowing him to work in peace. you work on some things on your laptop to pass the time, but the thought of this man working on your a/c, muscles protruding, sweat glistening… it’s all too much of a distraction. you decide to put your ear buds in, trying to drown out your own perverse thoughts. you finally are able to hone in on your work, catching up on the things you couldn’t finish during your shift today since you left early.

you don’t realize that san finished installing the until you feel a hand on your shoulder, making you jump.

“oh!” you stammer, pulling a ear bud out. “sorry, what’s up?”

san has a smile creeping on his face. “my bad, i didn’t mean to scare you. i just wanted to let you know i finished putting in the unit.”

“that’s great, thank you so much,” you say, standing up. “did you get the dishwasher today too?”

“yeah i did,” he says, but then he checks his phone for the time. you realize it’s about to hit 5 pm, and he said he’s off by that time.

“you’re almost off, i forgot,” you say apologetically. “you can just come back another day?”

he checks him phone again, contemplating. “well… i mean i already have it in my truck, so i don’t mind working a little bit over my time.”

“you really don’t have to, san,” you plead.

“it’s okay,” he says. “i’ll be right back with it!”

he exits your apartment, giving you a moment to kick yourself. having a dishwasher that works would be so great right now, but you feel guilty for having him work past his time. another part of you wants him to go anyway, if it meant he would come back again.

you hear a loud noise outside your front door, so you open it to see san with the new dishwasher on a dolly. you hold the door open for him, allowing him to enter your apartment and bee-line to the kitchen. he props the dolly down to drop the box.

“i should be able to finish this in about an hour, is that okay?” he asks, already unboxing it.

“as long as you’re okay with working this late,” you shrug.

“i don’t mind at all,” he smiles, looking at you.

“okay, i’ll just be in here,” you point behind you, gesturing to the living room.

“alright, dishwasher is done,” san says, walking into the living room with a broken down empty box in one hand and dolly in the other.

“thank you so much,” you smile.

“is there anything else you need then?” he inquires, quirking up an eyebrow.

a moment of silence washes over the room momentarily, with you wracking your brain trying to find a reason for him to stay longer. but you push that away, knowing he’s been working way too long past his scheduled time.

“no, i think that will do it,” you sigh, unintentionally sounding disappointed.

“well,” he mumbles, toying with the box in his hand. “well you have my number, so if you need anything, feel free to shoot me a text.”

you walk him to the door, thanking him. he stands out in the hallway, you looking at him out your front door.

“really though,” he insists. “if you need anything.” with one last sweet smile, he leaves.

so what does he mean by that? “anything.” maybe you’re delusional for thinking there’s a hidden meaning behind that statement. as in, you can text him if you want him to fuck your brains out, “anything?” definitely not, but your mind wanders at the thought of it; that he’d drop everything and book it back to your apartment, heaving and sweaty, ready to take what’s his. you’re actually fucking crazy.

and to make yourself even crazier, the next few days you find yourself itching to get another reason to have him come back. you check your kitchen sink’s water pressure, it’s fine. you test out the stove for the first time and it cooked your food perfectly, no gas smell. then you find something. one of your kitchen drawers won’t close completely. it’s something small, but enough to put in a maintenance request. for the first time since you moved in, you feel grateful you live in a shitty apartment.

you swing the door open, happy to see the cute grin san always gives you the moment he sees you.

“sooo… a drawer, huh?” he quips with a hint of a teasing tone.

“y-yeah, i tried to fix it but i don’t know what i’m doing wrong,” you defend, rubbing the back of your neck.

“i can fix that,” he says, passing into the kitchen, tool box in hand. you’re ready to retreat to your living room as usual, but san stops you. “you know, you don’t have to wait around in your living room for me to finish. i like having company.”

“oh,” you mumble, turning around. “i thought you might want privacy while you work.”

“no, it’s okay,” he says, opening his tool box to grab a few items. “if you wanted, you can hang around. i like learning about the tenants i’m working for.”

“okay,” you murmur. you open a kitchen cabinet to grab two mugs. “do you want some tea?”

“i would love some tea,” he says.

you put the kettle on the stove, heating up some water. you chat with san about work, how many units he has to visit in a day, about the interesting tenants he meets, how long he’s been doing this. once the kettle starts whistling, san is already finished fixing the drawer, placing it back into it’s assigned slot. you can’t help but feel disappointed that your time with him is almost up. you put the tea bags in the mugs of hot water, offering one to san.

“i know you’re done, but if you still want it,” you say, and he accepts the drink with a grin. you both sit at your kitchen table, continuing to chat. your cat leo enters the kitchen, going to straight to san’s legs to rub against him.

“there’s my boy,” san coos, scratching leo’s head.

“i still can’t get over how much he likes you,” you laugh. “he’s never this friendly, he’s only like this with me.”

“he seems friendly to me,” san says. “maybe he just has good taste in people.”

you chuckle, wondering in the back of your mind if he meant that about you too.

san checks his phone, realizing the time. he sets down his tea and stands. “i should probably get out of here, there’s another tenant waiting for me.”

“i didn’t mean to keep you—”

“no no,” san interrupts. “it’s okay. i really liked this. not a lot of people are this welcoming.”

“of course,” you reply, standing up with him. “i—i really liked this too.”

san smiles, biting a bit at his lip. you look at each other for a moment, feeling an intriguing tension in the air. he finally shakes head, going to grab his things to go. you walk him to your front door. you say another thank you, about to close the door.

“like i said,” he repeats, leaning against the door frame. “anything.”

you hadn’t seen san in over a week. it was driving you mad. you became addicted to his energy, to his warm greeting at your front door, to the lingering gazes you shared. you didn’t have any reason to see him again, and you needed to find another. so you did something you’re not entirely proud of… something that an actual crazy person would do. you loosened a bolt on a pipe under your kitchen sink, allowing water to trickle the smallest amount in the lower cabinet.

listen. you know it’s bizarre at this point, but you had to see him again. it’s not like anything would happen; he’d probably just fix it up, have another nice chat with you, and be on his way. is it so bad that you meddled with your sink just to see him?

when san arrives, he has that all-knowing grin on his face the moment you open the door.

“the sink now, hm?” he asks.

“yeah,” you chuckle anxiously. “the sink.”

he goes to the kitchen and inspects the pipes under the sink. you lean against the counter, hoping to god he doesn’t notice that the pipe didn’t magically get loose.

“ah i see,” he laughs to himself. “it’s just a loose bolt. easy fix.” he tightens it with his tools, quickly finishing.

“oh, haha,” you say, nerves bubbling in your stomach. “i guess i could’ve done that.”

“you know, it’s so interesting…” he trails off, standing up to face you, running a hand through his hair.

“what?” you ask.

“i’ve never had to do so much maintenance work for one tenant before,” he says, sly grin across his face. fuck. do you think he knows?

“and i swear, that bolt kinda looked like it was loosened by a wrench…” he trails off again, stepping closer to you. HE KNOWS.

“n-no, i would never,” you defend, feeling backed against the counter.

your eyes are locked on san, wandering over his built frame, over his sharp features. he’s inching closer and closer, and you feel your breath hitch. he catches your trailing eyes as if to ask for permission, and leans in to kiss you.

finally, the thing you’ve been wanting so bad from him, to feel his lips against yours. he cups your cheek with one hand, letting you melt into his touch. your lips part to allow his tongue to slide in, deepening the kiss with fervor. his form pushes against yours, pressing you against the kitchen counter. his hands begin to wander, grazing from the side of your face down to your waist. he holds you in a tight grip, pulling your hips forward to meet his. you can feel him harden in his jeans as he lets out a groan against your lips.

“you did this on purpose, hm?” san says, separating from your lips. he lifts you up and places you to sit on the kitchen counter in one swift motion. he kneels to the floor, grabbing at the waist of your pants. “just to see me?”

you nod emphatically, watching as he pulls down your pants and underwear. the cold air hits your core and you try to close your legs, but san pushes them back open to admire you. putting your legs over his shoulders, he runs his fingers against your folds, eyes drinking in the sight of you. you shudder at the feeling, knowing all too well that he’s already got you soaked.

“you like seeing me like this, hm?” he whispers, looking up at you. “i bet you imagined me like this, between your legs.” when his fingertips graze over your clit, your body lets out a shake, and he knows he found what he wanted.

he attaches his mouth to your core and places a firm hold on your outer thighs. licking stripes up to your clit, each stroke of his tongue feels like heaven. he dips down to your hole, dragging your slick upwards. he moans at the taste of you, devouring at you with more passion. your hands grasp at his hair, relishing the stimulation.

he tugs his head back, looking as pussy-drunk as ever. “i imagined you like this too,” he moans, lips still hovering over you. you unintentionally tug at his hair, yearning for his mouth back on you. “i wanted you so bad the moment i saw you.”

he releases a hand off your thigh and snakes it back between your legs, teasing at your hole as he goes back to circle his tongue around your clit. he looks up at you as he slides his middle finger in, watching you crumble at the feeling. once he can tell you’re comfortable, he slides in another, slowly starting to pump them into you. you whimper at the feeling, walls contracting around his fingers.

your moans are uncontrollable, and he matches them, letting the vibrations enhance the stimulation. he curls his fingers into you, hitting that perfect spot. he can feel your core clenching more erratically, causing him to pick up the pace, but maintaining a steady rhythm. his tongue flicks at your clit just right, making you squeeze your eyes shut and tighten the grip on his hair.

“s-san,” you let out. “i’m gonna cum.”

he detaches from you briefly, still finger fucking you. “cum for me, baby, i want to taste you.” he immediately latches back onto you, eating you like his life depends on it.

you feel a wave of pleasure wash over your body, feeling like chills. you’re shaking now, unable to control the sheer amount of bliss your body is experiencing. you moan out to san, coming undone on his tongue. he continues to work at you, allowing you to ride out the entirety of your orgasm.

he finally disconnects from you, pulling out his fingers coated in your essence. he licks them clean, looking up at you with the same look of desire. he stands up, promptly placing his lips on yours in a passionate kiss. you can taste yourself on his fucked-out lips, and it makes it that much hotter. you can hear him fumbling with his belt, and your hands reach down to help. you place your palm over his bulge, it twitching at the contact.

san separates from you, letting out a heavy sigh. he pulls himself out from his underwear, rubbing the tip at your spent pussy. he looks down and lets a string of his spit hit his throbbing cock, spreading it around the expanse of it with his hand. he angles himself into you, and slowly starts pushing in. you gasp at the size, him stretching you out much more than his fingers initially did. he takes it slow, acknowledging the whimpers leaving your lips.

once he’s fully inside, he groans. “god, you’re so fucking tight.”

he watches himself enter you as he starts rolling his hips into you. he places a hand on the back of your neck, pushing you towards him for a messy kiss. he starts to pick up his pace, earning a sharp hiss on his lips in between kisses.

“you feel so good,” he murmurs to you. “i knew you would feel good.”

you moan in response, completely unable to form any words. all you know is that the stretch of his cock is deliciously painful, and the sweet kisses he’s peppering over your neck gives you goosebumps all over. you can’t even believe this is happening right now, that your fantasy of fucking your maintenance man is coming true, and it feels even better than you imagined.

“you wanted this so bad,” san teases, continuing to piston into you. “for me to fuck you like this. you probably imagined it, touching yourself the moment i left.”

and he’s right, you found yourself needy and horny after every visit he made. you couldn’t stop yourself from grabbing your vibrator and pretending he was the one fucking you, not yourself. but the feeling of the real thing was much different, much more euphoric. to have his chest heaving in front of you, sweating beading on his temple, desperate energy emanating from his body, saying i want to have all of you.

suddenly, he lifts you from the kitchen counter, holding your thighs firmly with his cock still in you. something about the fact that he can completely hold you up, still bouncing you on him even… you feel like his little play toy that he’s throwing around. he takes you to the bedroom, dropping you down on your bed and landing on top of you.

he wastes no time in sliding back into you, desperate to continue feeling your tight walls around him. his body is hovering over yours, your legs tangled as he thrusts into you. he pecks around your neck, hand ghosting over your throat as if seeking permission. you place your hand over his, allowing him to choke you until you’re lost in a euphoric haze.

his thrusts become more intense and forceful, each stroke sending chills down your spine as his length reaches deeper inside you. you swear you’re shaking the whole bed, the headboard repeatedly slamming against the wall. you’re so clouded by pleasure that you barely even notice he’s fucking you so hard that he’s pushing a dent into the wall from your bed frame.

“i can fix that,” san whispers with a smile, not even bothering to stop.

you let out a chuckle, then press a soft kiss to his lips. his hips begin to slow, as though he’s really taking his time to melt into you, to feel every part of you. he then lifts up to hit a new angle inside you, gripping your waist and slamming your hips into his with powerful, deliberate motions. you move your hand to your clit, feeling your walls tighten around his throbbing cock. your vision blurs, tears starting to well up in your eyes from the overwhelming pleasure.

“you gonna cum for me?” san asks, sensing the irregular pulsing of your core. you nod up at him, eyebrows furrowed and lip caught between your teeth. “cum on my cock, baby, let me feel you.”

your orgasm builds to a peak and then cascades over you, sending you into a state of pure bliss. san is still fucking into you, extending your orgasm while still chasing his own. it’s not until his hips begin to falter that you feel him shoot ropes of his cum into you, filling you completely. his moans echo yours, his hips gradually slowing until he finally comes to a stop.

he pulls out of you, falling next to you on the bed. the room is filled with the sound of your heavy breathing as it gradually returns to a normal pace. you look at each other, smiling with a shared understanding of the unexpected moment you just experienced. he wraps his arm around you, drawing your head to his chest to where you can hear his heartbeat.

“sooo…” you chuckle softly, pointing at the dent in your wall. “you’re gonna fix that, right?”

san grins, pulling you closer. “i mean, i can, but then i’d have no reason to come back tomorrow.”

“now that i think of it,” you say, chuckling. “i think there’s probably a few more things that could be fixed…”

“anything you need,” he says. “anything.”

a/n: guys this was so fun to write, i hope u enjoyed it too!! something about san lately oml... plz leave feeback as i'm new to writing, and reblog to support me! it motivates me to write more!

"Jina!" You yanked your best friend, the bride, into the bathroom and locked the door before anyone else came in.

"Are you okay?"

"No! Why didn't I know that we were sitting together?!" You asked her.

She looked at you with a confused look. "Huh?"

"Me and Yunho!" You explained.

"Of course you're sitting at the same table with Yunho. He's Yeosang's best man, just like you’re my maid of honor." She said it as if it made sense to her, but she couldn't figure out why you weren't making any sense either.

"Jina, he's the man I told you that I drooled all over on the plane." You told her the whole story, starting from when you started feeling depressed from being single during take-off, to having one too many drinks and until you woke up later on to find yourself face down on Yunho's shoulder, drooling.

"Oh my god." Jina covered her mouth with her hand. "Oh my god."

She kept repeating herself over and over again while you finished your story. When you were done, Jina leaned against the sink counter and looked at you with wide eyes. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"How was I supposed to know that he was Yeosang's best man?" You groaned. "He's the only one of Yeosang's friends that I haven't met yet."

"So? Who cares? Do you think Yunho will be mad that you drooled on him? If anything he'll probably be flattered."

You rolled your eyes. "There's no way he'll be flattered. Who would be flattered by someone drooling all over them?"

"And you're worried about what he thinks about you? Seriously Y/N, this isn't high school where everyone has the same circle of friends. People come here for weddings alone. You need to start meeting new people or you're going to end up an old maid at this rate." Jina scolded you. "Look, go talk to him."

"I can't do that!" You protested. "I've been running away from him ever since the reception started."

"Why? Because he looks good in a suit? Or maybe because he smells really nice and his voice makes you shiver every time you hear him speak?" Jina teased. "Come on Y/N, don't make this harder than it already is. Talk to him and get this awkward moment over with. I know Yunho. He won't think you're weird, so don't worry about that."

You sighed. "Fine."

After straightening yourself out and silently cursing Jina for making you wear this sexy cocktail dress, you headed towards the table where Yunho sat with the rest of the wedding party. Okay, you had to admit that he was stupidly, insanely hot in a suit. And you also knew that his smoky brown eyes would have caught the attention of most women around him. However, none of that mattered right now. All that mattered was getting past this first conversation with him and praying that it would go smoothly.

When you reached the table, you realized that the only empty seats were beside Yunho, so you went to sit down next to him without even thinking twice about it. As soon as your butt hit the chair, you noticed that Yunho slowly turned his head to face you. You gulped nervously and looked away quickly. This was not happening. Not after everything that happened on the plane. It was too soon. You had to get out of here. Now.

But then, before you could make a move, Yunho moved closer to you and leaned forward to place his left arm around the back of your chair. Your heart skipped a beat and you felt your cheeks burning bright red under his intense stare.

What did you say? What did you say?! But then, before you could figure out how to escape this situation, Yunho spoke. "If you're worried about what happened on the plane, don't worry about it."

His voice was smooth and silky like silk. It was almost hypnotic. The last thing you wanted to do was fall under his spell. "Okay," you replied and slowly turned your head to face him. "Thanks."

Yunho nodded and smiled slightly. His eyes scanned your body, lingering on certain parts of you. "You look really beautiful tonight."

You blinked a few times, dumbfounded by his compliment. You stared back at him and realized that he still hadn't let go of your chair. Oh god.

"Are you alright?" He asked you.

"I'm still mentally embarrassed about the whole plane incident." You said sheepishly.

"Don't worry about it." Yunho assured you. "Besides, you looked cute sleeping on my shoulder."

"Even with all the drool?" You frowned.

"Yes." Yunho confirmed. "You looked very pretty. Even with all the drool."

The corner of your lips twitched up and you realized that you actually liked hearing those words from him. So you decided to take the conversation further. "Well...I didn't know you were the best man until I saw you standing next to Yeosang earlier today. As soon as I saw you, I wanted to avoid you at all costs."

“Well if it makes you feel better, I didn’t know you were the maid of honor until a few hours ago.” Yunho laughed. “It all makes sense why you kept running when someone tried to introduce us to each other. What made you change your mind?"

"The bride." You mumbled.

Yunho laughed and you couldn't help but smile at his cute chuckle. Damn, he had such a gorgeous laugh. You could listen to it forever.

"I'm sure Jina told Yeosang because they look like they're staring at us nonstop." Yunho said, nudging you gently. "But hey, I'm glad you changed your mind and talked to me. I'm really glad to finally meet you."

Your stomach suddenly churned and butterflies started fluttering inside your chest. Even though you just officially met Yunho a few minutes ago, you were strangely attracted to him. How strange was that? You always thought of yourself as a hopeless romantic, but the feeling that you were currently experiencing right now was something entirely different. And it scared you more than anything.

"Do you want to dance?" Yunho asked, getiing up from his seat.

"And give the newlyweds even more ammo to tease us?" You asked him.

Yunho gave you a soft smile. "It's fine if you don't want to dance with me."

"But I DO want to dance with you." You countered. "I promise I won't make a fool of myself."

"Then come on." Yunho grabbed your hand and pulled you up from your chair. "Let's dance."

You knew he was tall. But you didn't think he was this tall. Sure, you were wearing like four inch heels, but he still towered over you like an oak tree. And when he wrapped his strong arms around your waist, your knees felt weak and shaky. The entire time you were walking, your heart raced faster than ever before. What the hell was wrong with you? How was it possible for someone to make you feel this way within seconds of meeting them?

The dance floor was filled with people of all ages. An upbeat song played in the background, filling the room with music and laughter. You smiled as you watched Jina and Yeosang dancing. They looked so happy. You noticed Seonghwa, Mingi and Jongho, three of the groomsmen, dancing in a corner while the other groomsmen and bridesmaids laughed.

He was so close to you. You could feel Yunho's warmth radiating from his body, causing goosebumps to form all over your skin. Every movement that he made was like poetry to your ears. Every breath he took sounded so perfect. You closed your eyes and listened to his voice wash over you. For a second, you forgot who you were, what you were doing, and who you were talking to. Everything just faded away except for Yunho and his amazing presence.

As the music slowed down and into a romantic melody, Yunho moved his hands closer to your body and slid his right hand around your lower back. You sucked in a sharp breath and pressed yourself against him, enjoying the sensation of his hard muscles against yours. Your heart pounded rapidly and the entire world disappeared except for the two of you. You were falling. Falling into this incredible dream.

"Is this alright?" Yunho whispered into your ear.

"More than alright." You breathed out, still clinging onto him for dear life. "Perfect."

He continued to hold you in his arms, swaying to the tune of the song. His hand stayed low on your back while his other hand held onto your wrist. He never let go of you.

After dancing with Yunho for a while, you excused yourself to use the restroom. On your way to the bathroom, you ran into Jina who was heading towards the restrooms as well. She stopped short and looked at you with a wide grin.

"So...looks like you and Yunho are hitting it off." She teased. "I don't even know why you were so freaked out about him earlier."

You let out a laugh and hugged her. "Thank you, Jina. For pushing me to go talk to him."

"Y/N, you're my best friend. Of course I'm going to push you to do things you're afraid of." Jina explained. "I want you to be just as happy as I am. So I know you two officially just met but what do you think of him? Yeosang and I were saying earlier that you two looked cute together."

"I don't know why..." You bit your bottom lip. "But I'm having all these weird feelings that I've never had with other guys before. Like...a sense of...home."

Jina smiled. "That's good, Y/N. Trust your gut. If something feels right, it probably is. And besides, who says you need to rush things? You should be able to enjoy this special time in your life."

"Yeah, but this isn't supposed to happen." You complained. "How does someone fall in love so fast?"

"They don't." Jina shrugged. "You just meet the person that you're meant to be with and things fall into place naturally."

You let out a small sigh and turned around to walk towards the restroom. "I never asked but did you feel this way about Yeosang?"

Jina laughed. "When I first laid eyes on Yeosang, I knew I was going to marry that man."

You stopped and turned around again. "Really?"

"Oh yeah." Jina grinned widely. "I knew we were meant to be together since the day I met him."

You smiled as well. "Wow. That's awesome."

"Now you understand what I mean about trusting your gut, right?" Jina said, clapping you on the back.

You glanced at her out of the corner of your eye and nodded. "Yeah, I think I get it."

Before you entered the restroom, Jina leaned in close and whispered into your ear, "You'll find him too, Y/N. Don't lose hope."

Once you finished using the restroom, you headed back to where you and Yunho were sitting. He let out a smile when he saw you coming. Your eyes lingered on his lips for a brief moment and then snapped back up to his face. "Did you get lost?" He asked you.

"No." You shook your head and sat down next to him. "I ran into Jina and we talked for a bit."

Yunho laughed. "Let me guess. She asked about us."

"Yep." You replied. "She said that we looked cute together."

"And do you think we look cute together?" He asked, cocking his head at you.

"A little too early to tell." You let out a laugh. "But I'd like to keep this momentum going. Only if you want to, though."

"Of course I want to keep this momentum going." Yunho replied and let out a laugh. "I'm a fan of momentum."

Before you knew it, you found yourself holding his hand. Not because you were drunk or high, but because you genuinely wanted to. Maybe he did awaken a dormant desire deep inside you, or maybe you just wanted to have fun with a cute boy and this was the best opportunity to do so. Whatever the reason was, you were completely okay with it. And surprisingly enough, neither of you let go of each other's hand.

"Mmmm..." You let out a small moan of satisfaction as you snuggled close to Yunho's body.

The air conditioner hummed softly and the windows were tightly shut, blocking out any noise from outside. There wasn't a lot of light in the room; the only source of light came from the moonlight shining through the window. But that wasn't what caught your attention. It was the warmth of his body that surrounded you that caused goosebumps to appear on your skin. You reached out to touch his shoulder and his arm tightened around your waist, preventing you from moving further. He shifted slightly to turn you on your side, wrapping his arm around your body and pulling you closer.

It had been months since Jina's and Yeosang's wedding and here you were, wrapped in Yunho's embrace. You had your first official date a few days after the wedding and it ended in the most intense kiss you had ever experienced in your life. From that moment onwards, your life was flipped upside down and you didn't regret one thing about it.

Your friends were ecstatic that you and Yunho made it exclusively official. Jina and Yeosang even joked that if you two were going to get married in the near future, that they would have to be part of your wedding party. You weren't even thinking of marriage yet. All you wanted was to enjoy your time with him without worrying about making a mistake. And the fact that you could call him 'my boyfriend' was simply icing on the cake.

When Yunho suggested that you stay the night, you jumped at the chance. As much as you loved spending time with him during the day, nothing beat being curled up with him in bed. Being this close to him made you forget everything else in the world.

You closed your eyes and sighed contently. In that moment, nothing mattered except for you and Yunho.

"Y/N?" A soft voice spoke into your ear. "Are you asleep?"

Your eyelids fluttered open and you turned to see Yunho staring at you with adoration. His hair fell into his eyes and his cheeks were rosy red. His smile made your heart skip a beat. God, he was such a beautiful man.

You shook your head, burrowing your face deeper into his chest. "Not anymore."

Yunho chuckled and lightly kissed your forehead. "You're too cute, babe."

"Mmm...keep calling me cute." You pouted playfully.

Yunho wrapped his arm tighter around you and pulled you closer. "Cute. My girlfriend is cute. So precious. Cute, precious, sweet, adorable, perfect, gorgeous, hot, sexy, beautiful. That pretty much covers every adjective there is when describing you."

Your cheeks blushed. "Gosh, Yunho. What will I ever do with you?"

"There's only one answer to that question." Yunho replied and started tracing random patterns on your stomach. "Take care of me."

Your heart skipped a beat as Yunho lowered his head and placed a gentle kiss on your lips. You leaned forward and cupped his cheek, wanting desperately to deepen the kiss. His mouth was warm and his lips felt so soft against yours. You couldn't help but moan as his tongue slowly brushed against your lips.

Your hands gripped onto his shirt and before you knew it, you were straddling his lap, moaning loudly as he continued kissing your neck. One of his hands ran up and down your thigh while the other caressed your cheek. The intensity between you two grew as the kisses became more heated. You grabbed his face with both hands and crushed your lips against his, giving him full access to explore your mouth. Both of your tongues intertwined and you moaned into his mouth, sending chills throughout your body.

His hands traveled up your legs and you quickly lifted your body off of his, leaving him breathless. "Yunho..." You breathed heavily, running your fingers through his hair.

"What do you want, baby?" He asked with lust-filled eyes.

"I need you." You confessed. "Don't you need me?"

Yunho smiled mischievously. "Every damn minute of the day."

You slid your hand underneath his t-shirt, running your fingers over his stomach. He groaned as your fingers pressed firmly against his skin. He moved his hands to cup your face and pull you in for another kiss. His fingers dug into your hips, pulling you tighter to him. Yunho sat up, tugging his shirt off before grabbing the hem of the t-shirt you borrowed from him and pulled it over your head. He threw it on the floor and admired your naked chest. You licked your lips, breathing heavily as he ran his hands up and down your sides, resting them on your breasts. He pulled your nipples into his fingertips and pinched gently, causing a low moan to escape your throat. He chuckled and planted a firm kiss on your lips.

You rolled over onto your back and pulled him on top of you, wrapping your arms around his neck. He ran his hands over your exposed skin and slowly slid your shorts and panties down your legs. Once you were completely naked, he took off his remaining clothes and lay down next to you, continuing to run his hands over your skin. He traced his fingers across your collarbone, dipping lower until he reached your breasts. You arched your back and grabbed hold of his hair, letting out a loud moan as he circled your nipples with his thumb and forefinger. His fingers pinched your nipple lightly, causing you to arch your back even more.

He licked his lips as he stared hungrily at your naked form. "God, you're so fucking sexy." He muttered under his breath.

Your breathing increased as he explored every inch of your body with his hands. You ran your fingers through his hair and watched as his dark eyes searched for yours. You tilted your head to the side and sucked on your bottom lip as he trailed kisses along your jawline. You closed your eyes and let out a moan as he covered your breast with his mouth, sucking hard on your nipple. Your nails dug into his scalp as he began to trail kisses down your stomach. He pushed himself up on his elbows and looked at you, waiting for you to tell him whether he should continue.

"Please." You whispered.

Yunho grinned wickedly and buried his face between your legs. You tensed as he ran his tongue along your wet slit, lightly brushing your clit. "Oh god..." You moaned as he placed small kisses all along your pussy, stopping briefly to tease your sensitive nub. You squeezed your thighs together, squeezing his head as his tongue ran along your clit.

He let out a little laugh against your inner thigh. "Babe, you’re going to suffocate me.”

You laughed, reaching out to grab his hair again. “I can’t help it. It feels so good.”

Yunho licked his lips. “Then don’t fight it, baby. Just enjoy the ride.”

You whimpered as he flicked his tongue against your clit, causing you to buck your hips. His mouth wrapped around your clit and suckled gently, causing an explosion of pleasure to flow through your body. You cried out and dug your fingernails into his scalp as you bucked harder and harder against his mouth.

"Yunho!" You cried out, unable to take it anymore.

Yunho removed his mouth from your dripping sex and stared at you with hooded eyes. "Let go, Y/N." He whispered. "Just let go."

With one last thrust of his tongue, you lost control and let out a scream as waves of ecstasy flooded through your entire body. You clutched Yunho's head, crying out as your orgasm exploded inside of you. Yunho continued licking your pussy until your orgasms subsided, kissing you tenderly afterwards. You laid there with your eyes closed, taking deep breaths as your heart slowed down.

Yunho propped himself up on his elbow and placed a soft kiss on your lips. "You okay?”

You nodded and placed a kiss on his cheek. "I am now."

Yunho laid next to you and you couldn’t help but straddle him again, tugging his pants down to free his cock. With one hand wrapped around his cock, you positioned yourself above him, lowering yourself slowly onto him. The way he gripped your ass made you gasp as you lowered yourself, allowing him to enter you. You held onto his shoulders tightly as he filled you up, his hips grinding against yours. You leaned forward and ran your tongue along his neck and shoulder, loving how his muscles tightened around you.

"Can't get over how good you feel inside me." You whispered.

Yunho smiled. "Feels good to be inside you, baby."

You wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed him deeply, enjoying the feeling of him filling you up. He let out a deep sigh as you rocked your hips back and forth. Every movement sent delicious sensations coursing through your body.

Yunho leaned his head back and closed his eyes, groaning softly. "Fuck, I love it when you ride me like this."

"Yunho." You gasped, biting his lower lip as you rode him faster.

"I know, baby." He whispered, tightening his grip on your waist. "I love watching you ride me. Love how you look so fucking hot riding my dick."

"Oh god..." You whispered as he pinched your nipples. "Please...Yunho...don't stop."

You could feel his cock pulsating inside of you and Yunho couldn't help but flip you over unto your back, pinning you down on the mattress. You bit your lip as he ground his hips into yours, causing another surge of pleasure to rush through your body. His mouth found its way to your breast and he kissed it roughly. He took his time sucking on your nipple, making you squirm beneath him. His teeth scraped against your sensitive skin and you arched your back, gripping his hair tightly as he pleasured your breast.

"You're driving me crazy, baby." He whispered against your skin. "Tell me what you want."

You bit your lip and glanced up at him. "Yunho...please..."

"Tell me what you want, baby." He said, still teasing your nipple with his teeth.

You let out a frustrated groan and dug your nails into his shoulders. "Yunho...fuck me...harder...please..."

He growled and slammed into you hard, burying himself to the hilt. "That's it, babe. Take my cock. Take everything I give you."

Yunho grabbed hold of your hips and pounded into you with every thrust, making you cry out in pleasure. His large hands grabbed onto your waist and held you in place as he pumped you harder and harder. You wrapped your legs around his waist, clutching his body close to yours. He moved his mouth to your ear and placed soft kisses against your earlobe. "God, you feel so fucking good. Feels so damn good."

He kept pounding into you until you felt the pressure build up inside of you. "Yunho...oh god...I'm gonna come!" You cried out as you clamped down on him, milking his cock.

"Fuck! Fuck! !" He yelled, pumping his hips faster as he came inside of you. You cried out as you climaxed with him, your body trembling as you fought to keep your legs still. You clung onto him tightly as he slowly pulled out of you, gasping for air as he collapsed next to you.

Yunho looked down at you with glazed eyes. "That was...one hell of a fuck." He whispered, caressing your cheek with his hand.

You laughed weakly and shook your head. "Mmmhmm."

"Glad I could be of service, ma'am." He teased, stroking your bare hip with his thumb.

"Uh huh." You giggled, running your fingers through his hair. "Anytime."

You snuggled closer to him and he wrapped his arm around you. "How'd I ever get so lucky?" He whispered against your temple.

You cuddled closer to him and ran your hand down his chest. "We both know it wasn't luck." You whispered. "This has always been meant to be."

Yunho smiled. "Meant to be. Sounds right to me."

"You know Seonghwa invited us to his wedding..." You looked up at him. "You wanna go?"

"Depends." Yunho gave you a teasing smile. "You gonna drool on me again?"

"Maybe..." You smirked.