Sejun is gone. The rivalry is dead. And I’m starting to realize that losing to Donghwa might be the only win I’m actually interested in.
The pool becomes my sanctuary.
It’s the only place on campus where the air smells like chemicals instead of hormones. Underwater, everything is muffled—the gossip, the expectations, the terrifying reality that my biology has been rewired by a freshman with a God complex. I throw myself into training with a manic intensity that even Coach finds concerning. Lap after lap, I burn off the restless energy Donghwa leaves under my skin, letting the chlorine scrub me clean until my eyes sting and my muscles scream.
On dry land, however, I have to become a master tactician.
Navigating the campus used to be a victory lap; now it’s a minefield. Every time an Omega gets within five feet of me, my stomach does a treacherous flip, threatening to empty my lunch right onto their designer shoes. I get really good at holdingmy breath without looking like I’m suffocating. I develop a sixth sense for avoiding the "hot spots" where the cute ones congregate, taking long, scenic detours to class that add ten minutes to my commute but save me from gagging in public.
My friends, naturally, start asking questions. Seungchan, bless his simple, protein-shake-addled brain, corners me after practice one Tuesday.
"You've been ghosting us, man," he says, snapping his towel at my leg. "Are you secretly dating someone? Or did you finally realize you're too old for clubbing?"
I don't miss a beat. I’ve had the lie holstered and ready for days.
"I wish it was that interesting," I groan, leaning back against the lockers and putting on my bestburdened-heirface. "My dad. He’s finally decided it’s time for me to step up at the company. He’s got me shadowing the regional managers at the hotels every weekend and drowning in spreadsheets on weeknights. 'Succession planning,' he calls it."
It’s the perfect cover. In our circle, "family business" is the ultimate trump card. It implies wealth, responsibility, and a level of stress that regular students can't touch.
Seungchan’s eyes widen with immediate, sympathetic respect. "Shit, really? The Chairman is pulling you in already? That’s heavy."
"Tell me about it," I lie through my teeth, checking my phone as if expecting an angry email from corporate. "So if I bail on drinks or leave early, just know I’m probably heading to a conference call or reviewing quarterly reports."
"Dude, you're practically a CEO," another teammate chimes in, clapping me on the shoulder.
I smirk, masking the relief washing over me. "Something like that."
The irony isn't lost on me. I’m using a fake corporate promotion to hide the fact that I’m actually spending my free time getting knotted by a younger student, but hey—image is everything. And if they think I’m busy running an empire instead of running from my own pheromones, who am I to correct them?
A few weeks go by without incident. Then one morning I wake up feeling like I’ve swallowed a handful of lit matches.
It’s barely 8:00 AM on a Saturday, a time that should be illegal for anyone to be conscious, let alone sweating through their sheets. My skin feels too tight for my body, my gums itch—a distinct, primal irritation that makes me want to bite something—and there’s a dull, heavy throb low in my gut that ibuprofen isn't going to touch.
I groan, rolling over and tangling my legs in the comforter. The air in my bedroom smells thick and tangible, heavy with my own scent.Scorched earth.It smells like burning wood and aggression.
My rut.
I stare at the ceiling, counting backward in my head. It’s been exactly six weeks since my last one. Like clockwork. Stupid, biological clockwork.
I know what I have to do. I have to pick up my phone, swallow my pride, and text the freshman who has effectively hijacked my life. I have to type out the words,“Get over here,”and admit that I need him.
I reach for my phone on the nightstand. I stare at the black screen.
I’ll do it in an hour,I tell myself, dropping the phone back onto the mattress.I just need a cold shower first. Maybe a coffee. I can handle the first few hours solo. I’m not desperate.
I drag myself out of bed, shivering despite the heat radiating off my skin. I’m halfway to the bathroom, boxer briefs clinging uncomfortably to my hips, when the doorbell rings.
I freeze.
It rings again. Impatient. Knowing.
I stomp to the front door, ready to rip the head off whatever delivery driver or neighbor has decided to bother me at this ungodly hour. I check the monitor, and the breath leaves my lungs in a rush.
It’s him.
I unlock the door and yank it open. Donghwa is leaning against the doorframe, looking infuriatingly fresh. He’s wearing a black coat over a grey hoodie, looking like he just stepped out of a winter fashion editorial, while I’m standing here half-naked, sweating, and smelling like a forest fire.
He’s holding a plastic bag from the convenience store in one hand and a carrier with two coffees in the other.
