HANEUL SWIM TEAM.
Of course. Of course it involves water.
"Pay to Soak a Swimmer!" the banner screams in aggressive, comic sans font. Beneath it, a line of students—mostly Omegas, but plenty of Betas and Alphas too—are practically buzzing with excitement, clutching brightly colored water balloons like they’re hand grenades.
I stop dead, my boots scuffing against the pavement. "No."
Soyoung is already craning her neck, standing on her tiptoes to see over the wall of people. "Oh, come on. Don't tell me you aren't curious to see Seungchan get nailed in the face with a projectile."
"I have zero interest in wet t-shirt contests disguised as school spirit," I say, grabbing the back of her leather jacket to steer her away. "Let's go find the food trucks."
But the universe, as usual, hates me. Before we can retreat, a fresh wave of students surges forward from the main stage area, pressing in to see the spectacle. We get boxed in instantly. I’m shoved forward, my shoulder colliding with a guy holding a corn dog, and suddenly we’re not on the periphery anymore—we’re trapped in the second row, right against the rope barrier.
And there he is.
Oh Sihwan stands in the center of the "splash zone," looking like the cover of a bad romance novel come to life.
He’s wearing his team warmup gear—white shorts and a white t-shirt that I suspect was chosen with calculated malice because of how translucent it becomes when wet. He’s already soaked. The fabric is plastered to him, a second skin that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. It clings to the heavy swell of his pectorals, outlines the ridges of his abs, and dips into the V-lines of his hips.
He’s playing the crowd like a fiddle.
"Is that all you got?" Sihwan shouts, grinning wide as he wipes water from his eyes. He pushes his wet hair back from his forehead, sending a spray of droplets flying, and half the crowd swoons audibly. "My grandmother throws harder than that! Come on, who's next?"
He’s glowing. He’s loud, he’s brash, and he’s radiating that fake, polished "Golden Retriever" energy that usually makes me want to gag. He’s soaking up the attention like a sponge, preening under the gaze of a hundred strangers.
I should be disgusted. I should be rolling my eyes so hard they detach from my optic nerves. This is exactly the kind of shallow, validation-seeking behavior that drives me insane. He’s terrified to be seen with me—his actual bonded partner—but he’ll stand here and let strangers treat him like a piece of meat for five thousand won a pop.
I cross my arms over my chest, jaw clenched, ready to look away.
Then a girl in the front row winds up and hurls a red balloon.
It catches him square in the chest.Thwack.
The balloon bursts on impact, exploding in a cascade of water that drenches him from neck to navel. Sihwan stumbles back a step, laughing, his head thrown back, exposing the long, tan column of his throat. He shakes himself off like a dog, waterflying everywhere, his shirt now so wet it’s practically invisible, showing off the dark shadow of his nipples and the deep groove of his spine as he turns.
My breath hitches.
The annoyance in my gut curdles instantly, turning into something hot and heavy and sharp.
I stare at the water dripping from his chin. I watch a rivulet slide down the side of his neck, tracking over the pulse point, down the slope of his shoulder, and disappearing beneath the soaked collar of his shirt.
I know what that skin tastes like.
I know the sound he makes when that laugh turns into a gasp. I know that if I peeled that wet shirt off him right now, I’d find the faint, fading yellow bruise on his hip from where I gripped him too hard last weekend.
"Oh, damn," Soyoung mutters beside me, sounding appreciative. "Okay, I get it. The boy has tits."
I don't answer. I can't. My throat feels like I swallowed sandpaper.
Sihwan turns back to the crowd, beaming, shivering slightly in the cool autumn air. "Who's next? Come on, don't be shy!"
He looks happy. He looks free. And he looks completely untouchable.
But he’s not. He’smine.
The bond flares to life in my chest, a possessive, ugly roar. It infuriates me that he’s putting on this show for them. They don't know him. They just see the muscles and the smile. They don't know how pretty he looks when he’s unraveling, or how desperate he gets when he’s denied.
I watch him tease a group of Omegas, winking at them as they giggle and fumble with their wallets. He leans forward, hands on his knees, offering himself up as a target, the wet shorts pulling tight across his thighs.
