The image hits my brain uninvited—me on top, Donghwa beneath me. The ratio is skewed so heavily in the other direction that the word feels like a lie tasting of ash in my mouth.
If Seungchan knew the truth he wouldn’t be looking at me with hero worship. He’d be laughing until he puked.
But he doesn't know. Nobody knows except the guy currently being mobbed by Omegas across the lawn.
"You sly dog," Seungchan says, misinterpreting my bright red face for modesty or maybe a dirty memory. He punches my arm, hard. "No wonder you’ve been ignoring the Omegas. Once you’ve had prime rib, you don't go back to spam, right?"
I swallow hard, my throat dry. The guilt is there, prickling at the back of my neck, but the relief is stronger. It’s a heavy, intoxicating drug. I don't have to be the victim here. I don't have to be the bottom. I get to keep my crown.
So I don't correct him. I don't say a word.
I just look down at the grass, scuffing my bare toe against the dirt, and let out a shaky, self-deprecating huff that they can interpret however they want.
It takes me twenty minutes to extricate myself from the adoring mob.
I have to shake hands, accept back-slaps that rattle my teeth, and nod along to at least a dozen variations of "I knew you had that dawg in you." By the time I finally slip away near the food trucks, dodging a group of freshmen girls who are looking at me with terrifying new interest, I feel like a fraud wrapped in a lie deep-fried in anxiety.
I need to find Donghwa.
I check the usual spots first—the quiet corner behind the library, the empty lecture hall we sometimes sneak into, even the parking lot where his flashy car usually sits. Nothing. The campus is buzzing with the festival, noise bleeding into every corner, and panic starts to prick at the back of my neck again. Did he leave? Did he drop that bomb on my reputation and then just drive off into the sunset, leaving me to deal with the fallout alone?
Then something occurs to me.
I turn on my heel and jog toward the athletic complex. The heavy double doors to the natatorium are unlocked, and as soon as I slip inside, the noise of the festival cuts out, replaced by the low, rhythmic hum of the filtration system and the echoing drip of water.
It’s empty. The water in the Olympic-sized pool is glass-smooth, reflecting the overhead lights in wavering blue lines.
And there he is.
Sitting halfway up the bleachers, legs stretched out over the row in front of him, leaning back on his elbows like he’s lounging on a beach in the Maldives instead of a humid, concrete box. He’s not looking at his phone. He’s just watching the water, looking infuriatingly peaceful.
He hears the door click shut, but he doesn't turn around. He just tilts his head slightly, a slow, lazy acknowledgment that he knows exactly who it is.
I walk over, my sneakers squeaking loudly on the tile. The walk up the bleacher stairs feels like a march to the gallows, which is ridiculous, considering I’m technically the "winner" of the day.
When I reach his row, I stop. Donghwa looks up at me.
He is the picture of smug satisfaction. There’s a little curl to his lip, a glint in those dark eyes that saysI told you sowithout him having to utter a single syllable. He looks unbothered, untouched, and annoyingly handsome in his black henley, contrasting sharply with my disheveled, half-naked state—I’m still shirtless, clutching my wadded-up jersey in one hand.
"Enjoying your victory lap,Top?" he draws out the word, lacing it with so much sarcasm it’s practically dripping.
I wince, dropping down onto the metal bench beside him. I put a safe foot of distance between us, then immediately closeit, leaning my elbows on my knees and putting my head in my hands.
"Shut up," I groan into my palms.
"I thought it went well," Donghwa muses, sounding far too cheerful. "Seungchan seemed very impressed. I believe he called you a 'legend.' That’s a step up from 'meathead,' isn't it?"
I stare at my sneakers. They’re scuffed at the toes, grass-stained from the field, and looking about as pathetic as I feel right now.
"I owe you for that," I say. My voice sounds rough, scraping against the quiet hum of the pool filters. "Big time."
I squeeze the wadded-up jersey in my hands until my knuckles turn white. It’s ridiculous. I’m the upperclassman. I’m the one who’s supposed to be in charge, the one with the experience and the status. But here I am, sitting next to a freshman who just nuked his own reputation without blinking, all to protect the one thing that’s been ruining us from the start.
"My stupid pride," I mutter, shaking my head. "It’s the only reason I’ve been pushing you away. I was so terrified of people finding out... finding out I wasn't the one on top."
I risk a glance at him. Donghwa hasn't moved. He’s just watching me, his expression unreadable, but he’s listening. He’s not mocking me now.
"I think I knew," I admit, forcing the words out past the lump in my throat. "Early on. Maybe even right after the first time. I knew this... whatever this is between us... wasn't just physical. It wasn't just the bond or the hormones or the sex."
