“Chapters 4–6 drop. Things escalate fast.”

It had taken me the entire weekend to recover. I had remained in the sanctuary of my room, letting the world shrink to its size. My proprioception suits, hours spent binging my favorite video clips on repeat, stimming with my weighted blanket and fidget cubes, sleeping in long, dreamless stretches, and minimal human interaction. I forced down healthy shakes, even when the texture made my skin crawl, and ate lamb galbi—the only meal I could stomach without a fight, that and vanilla mascarpone ice cream, cold and sweet and soothing on my tongue.

By Monday, I was functional again. The chauffeur had me at college on time, as always. Not just any college—Hwarang Academy, the most exclusive tertiary education institution in Busan, where the children of Korea’s elite learned the art of power. Here, classes included not only calculus and literature but also lessons on government manipulation, corporate strategy, and the subtle science of reading a room. My major was Mathematics and Information Technology. Numbers and patterns were my language, my safe place. They moved and danced for me, falling into place with a clarity that made the world make sense. My autistic brain had learned to solve complex equations by the time I was ten. It was the only thing my father ever got excited about, the only thing he boasted about to his friends. I was grateful for it—without my “savant”, who knew where he might have sent me? Some institution in faraway Seoul, maybe.

I stepped out of the Lamborghini, the gullwing door rising with a soft hiss. The campus was a parade of privilege: imported cars lined the drive, students in designer clothes, the air thick with the scent of expensive cologne and ambition. I kept my headphones around my neck, the world not yet loud enough to force them over my ears. I’m a Fourth-year senior, almost done with college, but it always felt like I was stepping into the school for the very first time every day! 

I’m impeccably dressed today – as always, in a crisp white Armani shirt, complete with a flawless grey tie and matching grey slacks—I wore a long black overcoat, not for the chill, but to hide my hands. I clutched and released them inside their pockets, my private stimming ritual to keep anxiety at bay. My noise cancelers hang around my neck – gold and black, customized.

Past the impressive reception area and down the west wing hall, I spot Dae, radiant as always, at our usual meeting spot. She stood with a cluster of friends, her blush-pink blouse with billowing sleeves perfectly tucked into a custom-pleated skirt tailored scandalously short. A sleeveless college sweater hugged her frame, diamond studs glittered in her ears and on her wrist, and her long grey socks disappeared into a pair of Christian Louboutin platforms – she always had to elevate her height somehow. I wondered, not for the first time, how she managed to walk in her array of platforms and six-inch heels without toppling over. She looked so pretty with her brown, straight hair pulled into a ponytail, slit-shaped, deep brown eyes, and bubblegum pink lipstick on her small mouth – like a pixie.

I didn’t see Hoon’s anywhere as I made my way toward her. The hum of conversation, the clatter of shoes on marble corridor floor, the distant roar of cars outside—all of it pressed in on me, but I kept moving, hands hidden, breath steady.

Suddenly, a hand closed around my elbow, halting me sharply mid-step, sending a jolt through me. My body tensed, every muscle going rigid. Hoon’s? He knew better. I spun around, heart pounding, and met those pair of startling green eyes that had haunted me all weekend; curious, uncertain, searching my face for a reaction. You again! The troublemaker from the club. He was smiling, but there was a flicker of hesitation there, as if he wasn’t sure if he’d crossed the line again.

“Hey, you bolted the other day….” He began.

His touch was so sudden, so unexpected, that my fight-or-flight response kicked in before I could stop it. I needed to ground myself, fast. My hand shot up, grabbing the back of his head, fingers tangling in his bleached white hair. My other hand, still trapped by his grip on my elbow, pushed hard against his chest. He stumbled back, startled, hitting the wall with a thud, a gasp escaping his lips. I caught a whiff of his breakfast—eggs, coffee, something spicy. Suddenly, everything was too loud, too fast, too bright! I squeezed my eyes shut, my nose was pressed into his neck as I tried to steady myself, humming and grunting, the vibrations grounding me. My hand squeezed his hair, the other pressed against his chest, desperate for something solid. His smell was mixed leather and tobacco, it overwhelmed my senses, but I couldn’t let go.

He stiffened, but didn’t struggle. Most people would have fought back, would have made this scene much worse, but he just stood there, letting me hold on even though it hurt. Odd. It made the moment less terrifying, more bearable.

I heard Dae’s voice, sharp with concern. “Jay!” Her footsteps pounded across the corridor. Thank God! She’d know what to do.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice featherlight, tickling my ear.

I forced my head up, meeting his gaze. He wasn’t smiling anymore, but he didn’t look scared either. Concern, maybe. And in pain. I squeezed again, feeling the tension in my body start to ebb, but I couldn’t unlock my fist. Embarrassment burned in my cheeks. I wanted to cry.

Dae appeared at my side, her presence a lifeline. “Breathe, Jay. Breathe,” she reminded me, her voice low and steady.

I inhaled, exhaled, over and over, the rhythm a mantra. I heard his breath quicken, felt his chest rise and fall faster beneath my hand. Was he scared now? Why did he have to touch me?

“Breathe,” Dae whispered again, and I did.

Time lost all meaning. I didn’t know how long it had taken, but eventually my hands loosened their grip, and the world snapped back into focus. I met his eyes—this troublemaker who keeps unsettling my calm. His pupils were blown wide, and his lips parted as he breathed. I leaned in, so close our lips almost touched.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” I hissed, my voice trembling.

I disengaged and stepped away, aware of the crowd that had gathered. Dozens of students watched, their eyes wide, their whispers roaring in my ears. I pulled my noise-canceling headphones over my head, shutting them out, and strode towards class, knowing without looking that Dae was close; the thought brought me great comfort.

Jiwon stood frozen, still pressed against the wall, his scalp burning where the guy he'd been obsessing over all weekend had grabbed his hair, fingers twisting hard. His breath stuttered, lungs refusing to work properly, as if the corridor itself had been shocked silent. What the hell just happened?

The moment replayed in jagged flashes—him reaching out, acting on impulse, trying to bridge something unspoken—and then suddenly a force slamming into him, all heat and desperation. That face, so close it stole the air from his chest, lit with panic barely caged. Eyes wild. Raw. Ragged. Not anger.

A storm.

Feral and pleading, like the guy had been fighting something inside and was losing.

Jiwon could still feel it, the residual hum of it, pulsing in the space between them long after the contact had ended. Like static clinging to skin.

At least he had his name now, thanks to the girl who had swooped in and calmed him with her steady voice.

Don’t fucking touch me! His voice still lingered.

Jay!

Did Jay find him repulsive?

All he’d done was take off his headphones at the club and offer a greeting today. He hadn’t meant to startle him. Hadn’t meant to hurt him. The thought sat heavy in his chest, sour and unwelcome.

Or did Jay know he was from the notorious Kim family? Ruthless Businessmen

A chaebol bloodline that swallowed anything in its path.

Was there bad blood between their families? Some inherited resentment? Jiwon doubted it. 

Beneath the fear and the outburst, he’d sensed something else. Vulnerability. Fragility. Something stretched thin and barely holding. The way Jay’s body had trembled. The desperate grip of his hands. The humming sounds he’d made, low and broken, like he was trying to stitch himself back together in real time.

It hadn’t felt like rejection.

It had felt like survival.

The realization lodged under Jiwon’s ribs, sharp and unsettling.

Guilt followed close behind. Guilt for triggering that reaction. For invading Jay’s space again. For assuming he could step closer without consequence.

But fascination threaded through it all, hot and insistent.

What made Jay tick?

He tried to rein in his thoughts, but his body betrayed him. The scent of Jay’s skin—clean, sharp, citrus-bright—lingered like a ghost. The warmth of his breath. The electric charge that had jumped between them. The fire in Jay's eyes when he had delivered the warning.

Something primal stirred.

Jiwon shifted the leather bag on his shoulder, down in front of his stomach, subtly shielding his arousal, and leaned harder into the wall until the cold seeped through his shirt. He breathed through it, slow and deliberate, not caring about the curious glances still being thrown his way as the small crowd dispersed.

He didn’t care what they thought.

He cared that he couldn’t stop thinking about Jay.

He had to get to know him.

Not in passing. Not as an incident. Something longer, something deep.

He wanted to peel back Jay's layers, to see what lived beneath that reaction. Something about Jay—the intensity of his emotions, the way he burned so bright and then recoiled—had pulled him in from the moment they’d met at the club.

Walking away didn’t feel like an option.

Jiwon pushed himself off the wall, feeling calmer. He smoothened his rumpled black shirt and swung his backpack back on. He had a class to get to. He couldn't afford any report short of stellar, getting back to his father. 

And yet his mind stayed fixed on one thing.

How to approach him without appearing like a threat!

He watched Jay walk away, trailed by the girl with diamond studs and an air of quiet authority. She moved like a shield, sharp-eyed and protective, hovering close without crowding him.  He's sure that the chic trailing Jay knew things. She looked like someone who guarded his secrets—and maybe decided who earned them. She was his inlet into Jay's world, and God knows he wanted in - Bad! 

Jay glances back at him, briefly. Brows furrowed with - what was that look? Worry? Embarrassment? 

He looks away too quickly for Jiwon to decipher it. 

Jiwon's heart did a double-take. His lips curving slowly into a subtle smile.

Hwarang Academy, he thought, might actually be worth his time.

Authors Note:

“Three chapters up tonight. Read on…”