"I have eyes, Sihwan," he says softly. "And you make it very hard not to look."
"Prove it," I snap.
He blinks. "Prove what?"
"That you were any good." I gesture to the empty lanes of the warm-up pool. "Get in."
Donghwa looks at the water, then back at me, an eyebrow raised. "I’m wearing cashmere."
"So take it off," I challenge, my voice dropping. The air between us thickens, charged and heavy. "Unless you're scared. Maybe you quit because you couldn't hack it. Maybe you’re all talk."
I know I’m baiting him. I know this is childish. But the monster in my chest is roaring, wanting to compete, wanting to dominate, wanting to see him stripped down and vulnerable inmyelement.
Donghwa stares at me for a long moment. Then, slowly, he starts to unbutton his coat.
"If I win," he says, his voice smooth as silk, "you stop wearing those ridiculous neon shirts to class."
I grin, sharp and predatory. "And if I win, you have to admit—loudly, in the canteen—that I’m the superior Alpha."
Donghwa’s coat slides off his shoulders, hitting the tiled floor with a soft thud. He holds my gaze, his fingers moving to the hem of his shirt.
"You're on."
I regret the challenge immediately. Not because I think I’ll lose—I’m still high on my gold medal win—but because watching Kang Donghwa strip is dangerous for my blood pressure.
He pulls the black long-sleeve over his head in one fluid motion, and my mouth goes dry. It’s not like I haven’t seen him naked. I’ve seen him naked, sweaty, and making faces that would ruin his stoic reputation if anyone else saw them. I’ve memorized the map of ink on his skin—the snarling tiger on his chest, the plum blossoms winding over his shoulder, the heavy blackwork that screamsgangsterrather thanchaebol heir.
But seeing it here, under the harsh fluorescent lights of the pool deck, hits different. It feels illicit. Like bringing a Ferrari to a demolition derby.
He kicks off his trousers, revealing black boxer briefs that cling to his thighs. He’s lean, cut like glass, with none of the bulk I carry, but the power is there. It’s coiled in the long lines of his muscles.
"Ready to eat your words?" I ask, my voice cracking slightly. I clear my throat, scowling to cover it up.
Donghwa doesn't answer. He just steps up to the edge of the pool, toes curling over the lip. No starting block for him. He doesn't need it.
"On three," I say, crouching next to him. "One. Two. Three."
We launch.
His dive is irritatingly perfect. Minimal splash, maximum distance. He enters the water like a needle. I hit the water with more force, relying on my explosive power to propel me forward.
The water is cool, shocking my heated skin. I surface and immediately start digging. I’m going all out. I’m kicking hardenough to boil the water behind me, my arms windmilling, my lats engaging with every pull. I am the campus champion. I just swam a personal best. I am a machine.
I glance to my left on a breath.
Donghwa is right there.
He’s not thrashing. He’s not fighting the water. He’s... gliding. His stroke is long, lazy, and terrifyingly smooth. He catches the water and pulls himself past it, riding the line of the surface tension. It looks like he’s barely trying, like he’s out for a Sunday stroll, yet he’s pulling ahead.
No way.
I grit my teeth, putting my head down and hammering the kick. My lungs burn—I’m already gassed from the meet, though I’d die before admitting it—but I push harder. I need this. I need to wipe that calm expression off his face.
I hit the wall for the turn, execute a frantic flip, and push off.
When I surface, he’s half a body length ahead of me.
Panic flares in my chest. I redline it. I throw everything I have into the last twenty-five meters. I’m churning water, gasping for air, muscles screaming.
