My hands curl into fists in my pockets. I want to vault the barrier. I want to march up there, grab him by that soaked shirt, and drag him out of here. I want to shove him against the nearest wall and remind him that the only person allowed to make him a mess is me.
I hate that I want him. I hate that even now, when I’m furious with him for being a coward, my body is reacting to him with traitorous enthusiasm.
Sihwan laughs again as another balloon clips his shoulder, spinning him around. He catches his balance, grinning, water dripping from his eyelashes.
He looks beautiful. He looks cheap.
I stare at him, feeling a dark, gnawing hunger hollow out my stomach.
The air shifts before the crowd does. The collective mood curdles from mindless entertainment to something sharper, hungrier, and the source of the rot walks right up to the velvet rope.
Yoon Heesung.
He doesn't wait in line. He glides to the front, holding a neon green water balloon in one hand like it’s an oversized emerald. He smiles at the swimmers, a predator looking at a tank of feeder fish, and the noise of the crowd dips just enough to let his voice carry.
"Boring," Heesung singsongs, tossing the balloon lightly in the air and catching it. "I thought this was supposed to be a show. Why are you all hiding under those wet rags?"
I stiffen, my boots feeling heavy on the pavement. Beside me, Soyoung stops chewing her gum.
"Oh, he's starting shit," she murmurs, sounding delighted.
On the platform, Seungchan blinks, wiping water from his eyes. "Uh, what?"
"The shirts," Heesung says, gesturing vaguely with the balloon. He turns to the crowd, flashing a conspiratorial grin that dazzles the front row. "We didn't pay five thousand won to look at laundry, did we? If you want our money, shouldn't the 'Alphas' of the swim team show us what they're actually working with?"
The crowd erupts. It’s instantaneous. A roar of approval, a chant starting from the back—Take it off! Take it off!—fueled by cheap beer and festival adrenaline.
My jaw locks tight enough to crack a molar. I see exactly what Heesung is doing. He’s bored, he’s petty, and he’s weaponizing the crowd’s thirst to humiliate them. Or maybe he’s just fishing. Maybe he suspects something and wants to see what swims to the surface when he drains the water.
"Don't do it," I mutter under my breath, my eyes fixed on Sihwan. "Don't be an idiot."
But Sihwan is an idiot. He’s a glorious, validation-starved idiot who is currently high on the adoration of two hundred people.
He looks at Heesung, then at the screaming crowd. He doesn't see a trap. He sees a challenge. He sees an opportunity to prove, once again, that he is the biggest, baddest, most desirable stud on campus. The hesitation on his face lasts for a millisecond before his ego overrides his survival instinct.
Sihwan grins, a cocky, lopsided thing that usually works on me, too. He drops into a pose, hands going to the hem of his soaked white t-shirt.
"You want a show?" he shouts, his voice booming over the chant. "Fine! But you better have good aim!"
The crowd screams.
"No," I say, the word sharp, involuntary.
I take a step forward, intending to do what—yell? Cause a scene? But I’m boxed in by a wall of engineering students, and it’s already too late.
Sihwan grips the fabric and yanks it upward.
The wet cotton peels away from his skin with a wet sound I can’t hear but can imagine perfectly. He pulls it over his head in one fluid motion, shaking his hair out as he tosses the sodden shirt into the corner of the booth.
The reaction is visceral. A collective intake of breath followed by a deafening shriek of appreciation. And admittedly, he looks incredible. Tanned skin, broad shoulders, water sluicing down the definition of his abs to soak into the waistband of his low-slung shorts. He flexes, basking in it, turning to high-five a reluctant Seungchan.
Heesung isn't cheering. He’s watching. His eyes are narrowed, laser-focused, scanning Sihwan’s body like he’s reading a barcode.
"Now that's better!" Heesung calls out. He winds up and hurls the green balloon.
It’s a vicious throw, aimed low. Sihwan sees it coming. He laughs, pivoting on his heel with athletic grace, spinning his body to the left to let the balloon sail harmlessly past him.
The movement is smooth. Perfect.
