Donghwa touches the wall.
He pops up, shaking water out of his hair, looking mildly winded at best.
I slam my hand into the wall a second later, gasping, choking on a mouthful of pool water and my own shattered ego.
"Twenty-four seconds," Donghwa says, glancing at the pace clock on the wall. He wipes water from his eyes, looking entirely too composed for someone in wet underwear. "Not bad for a warm-up."
I stare at him, chest heaving, water dripping from my nose. "You..." I wheeze. "You freak."
He beat me. He actually beat me. And he did it in boxers that are creating a ridiculous amount of drag.
"I told you," he says, leaning back against the wall, the water lapping at his chest, distorting the ink of the tiger so it looks like it’s moving. "I swam before."
"That wasn't swimming," I snap, ripping my goggles off. "That was witchcraft. You barely kicked!"
"It’s about leverage, Sihwan. You fight the water. You have to work with it."
"Shut up," I growl. I slap the water hard, sending a massive wave of chlorinated spray directly into his face.
It’s petty. It’s childish. It’s exactly the kind of thing a sore loser does.
Donghwa blinks, water dripping from his lashes. For a second, he looks stunned. Then, a laugh bubbles up out of him—low, genuine, and bright. It catches me off guard. I rarely hear him laugh like that. Usually, it’s a smirk or a dry chuckle at my expense. This is real.
"You are such a brat," he says, shaking his head.
Before I can splash him again, his hand shoots out underwater. He grabs the waistband of my jammers and yanks.
I yelp as I’m dragged forward, colliding with his chest. The water makes us weightless, and suddenly I’m bracketed between his arms, my chest heaving against his. The bond flares hot and instant, recognizing the contact, settling the irritation in my gut into something warmer, heavier.
"Get off," I mumble, though I don't push him away. My hands find purchase on his wet shoulders, fingers pressing into the skin over his tattoos.
"Relax," he murmurs, his face inches from mine. His eyes are dark, amused, dropping to my lips before flickering back up. "Look on the bright side. Now we have something else in common besides our bad attitudes."
"I don't have a bad attitude," I argue weakly. "I have a winning mindset."
"You lost," he points out, merciless.
"You're a ringer. A sleeper agent." I glare at him, but the heat is gone from it. I look at the way the water beads on his collarbone, the easy strength in the arms holding me.
I hate losing. I hate it more than anything. But looking at him, realizing that the lazy, artsy freshman who drives me crazy is actually a world-class athlete who just couldn't be bothered?
"You're fast," I admit, the words tasting like vinegar. "Your form is... okay. I guess."
Donghwa grins, squeezing my hip underwater. "High praise, sunbae."
"Don't let it go to your head," I mutter, looking away to hide the flush rising on my cheeks. "Next time, I'm wearing flippers."
"Next time," Donghwa agrees, and the promise in his voice has nothing to do with swimming.
The water laps at my chest as I shove off the wall, putting some distance between us before I do something stupid like climb him right there in the shallow end. My skin's buzzing, every nerve lit up from the race, the loss, the way his body felt slick and solid against mine. I hate how good it felt. Hate how my dick's already half-hard under the jammer, traitor that it is.
"Lockers," I mutter, hauling myself out first. Water sheets off me in rivers, pooling on the deck. I don't look back, but I hear him follow—quiet splashes, the soft thud of wet feet on tile.
The locker room's a ghost town. Meet's over, team's cleared out for victory beers or whatever. Just the echo of dripping faucets and the faint hum of fluorescents overhead. I grab my towel from the bench, snap it out, and head for the showers without a word. Adrenaline's still crashing through me like a freight train, mixing with the chlorine sting in my lungs and the low hum of the bond pulling at my gut.
Donghwa's right behind me. Close enough I feel the shift in the air when he moves.
Showers are open bay, no dividers, but it's empty so who gives a shit. I crank the faucet on the end stall, hot water blasting out in a punishing spray. Steam billows up fast, fogging the mirrors. I turn my back to him—some half-assed attempt at dignity after he just smoked me in my own pool—and hook my thumbs in the jammer waistband.
