Donghwa doesn't back off. He sticks to me like a second skin.
So much for avoiding contact. My plan to keep a safe, non-hormonal distance evaporates instantly. He’s right there, pressing into my personal space, his long legs tangling with mine as he jabs at the ball.
And goddammit, he smells incredible.
The exertion has spiked his body heat, and that crisp, wintry scent of ginseng and ink hits me in a concentrated wave. My brain screamsthreat, but my blood screamsmate. My heartdoes a stupid, stuttering double-beat, and the hair on my arms stands up. It’s Pavlovian. It’s humiliating.
I try to use my bulk to box him out, shoving my back into his chest to create space. It’s a mistake.
The moment my back hits his solid chest, a jolt of electricity zips right down my spine to my tailbone. It feels exactly like it did when he had me pinned to the mattress, heavy and dominant. My knees actually go weak for a microsecond.
Focus, you horny idiot!
I grit my teeth and drive my elbow back—legal, mostly—trying to pry him off. "Get your own ball, you leech!"
Donghwa absorbs the blow without even grunting. He’s not as heavy as me, but he’s got this irritating, wiry strength. He leans into me, using my own weight against me, his breath hot against the back of my neck.
"You're slow today, Hyung," he murmurs, his voice low enough that only I can hear it over the shouting of the other players.
The honorific sounds like a dirty joke coming from him.
"Shut up!" I roar, trying to dribble out of the trap.
I cut left. He’s there. I feint right. He’s there. He’s shadowing my every step, mirroring my movements with an infuriating fluidity. He’s not even looking at the ball half the time; he’s looking atme. His dark eyes are locked on my face, tracking my frustration, a small, smug quirk playing at the corner of his mouth.
He’s enjoying this. He remembers the last game where I tripped him, and he’s decided to make my life a living hell for ninety minutes.
I try to power through, driving my shoulder into him again, harder this time. I want to knock him down. I want to see him in the dirt.
Instead, he anticipates the hit. He shifts his weight at the last second, letting me slam into empty air, then steps in close, his hip checking mine. He steals the ball with an effortless flick of his foot while I’m busy trying to regain my balance.
"Too easy," he taunts, turning on his heel and taking off down the field withmyball.
I stand there for a second, chest heaving, hands clenched into fists. My skin is buzzing where we touched, my scent glands throbbing in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with soccer.
"I hate him," I gasp out, staring at his retreating back. "I actually hate him."
I take off sprinting after him.
I pump my legs, tearing up the turf, closing the distance between us. He’s fast, but I’m running on pure, unadulterated spite. I catch up to him just as he reaches the penalty box, and I don't hesitate. I throw my weight into a shoulder charge—legal, clean, but hard enough to rattle his teeth.
I expect the impact. I brace for the satisfying grunt of him losing the ball.
Instead, just as our bodies collide, the air around me thickens.
It’s not a gradual shift. It’s an explosion. A concentrated blast of cold winter air and heavy, dark ink floods my senses, so potent it makes my eyes water. It’s a command, silent and biological, slamming directly into the primitive part of my brain that I’ve been trying to ignore all week.
Down.
My knees buckle.
It’s humiliating. One second I’m a freight train of muscle, and the next, my legs turn to water. My breath hitches in a pathetic, strangled gasp, my lungs seizing up like I’ve just been dunked in ice water. The aggression bleeds out of me instantly, replaced by a terrifying, instinctual urge to bare my neck.
I stumble, my cleats catching in the grass as my body tries to obey a command my brain didn't authorize.
Donghwa doesn't stumble. He rides the contact, using my sudden weakness to pivot around me with insulting ease. He taps the ball once, twice, and then fires it into the bottom corner of the net while I’m still trying to remember how to stand upright.
"Goal!" someone shouts.
