He sticks out like a sore thumb—or a bruise, which is fitting considering he gave me plenty of those. He’s wearing a black long sleeve and a jacket, looking completely overdressed for a humid natatorium, sitting with his legs crossed at the knee. He looks like he’s attending a funeral for his own patience. The guy hates noise. He hates crowds. He hates "pointless displays of physical exertion," as he called it when I mentioned going to work out to burn off stress yesterday.
So what the hell is he doing here?
As if he feels my gaze—or maybe he smells my confusion, who knows with this bond crap—his head snaps toward me.
Our eyes lock. The noise of the crowd doesn't fade, and time doesn't slow down—I hate those clichés—but the air definitely gets heavier. He’s not looking at the pool. He’s not looking at the scoreboard. He’s looking right at me. His expression is bored, but his eyes are dark, heavy, and tracking my every move.
A jolt goes through me, hot and electric. It’s not fear. It’s definitely not the nausea I get from omegas now. It’s a challenge.
You came to watch?I think, a smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth.Fine.
He thinks he owns me because he pinned me to a mattress for twelve hours? He thinks because I whined and took it that I’m weak?
I turn away, facing the water, and bite down on the inside of my cheek. The pain in my body suddenly feels less like an injury and more like fuel. I’m the King of this campus. This is my water. My lane.
I crouch on the starting block, fingers gripping the edge until my knuckles turn white.
Watch this, you arrogant prick.
The buzzer screams, and I launch.
For a split second, I’m airborne, suspended in that perfect, weightless gap between the noise of the deck and the silence of the pool. Then I shatter the surface. The cold shock of the water hits me like a slap to the face, instantly numbing the ache in my lower back and the throb in my shoulder.
I stay under as long as my lungs allow, dolphin-kicking with a violence that feels personal.Power.That’s what I have. I might not have Donghwa’s effortless, annoying "functional strength" or his lean leverage, but I have horsepower. I have mass.
I break the surface and tear into the freestyle stroke.
My arms are pistons. Dig, pull, push. Dig, pull, push. The water churns around me, a chaotic white noise that drowns out everything—the crowd, the humiliation of the last forty-eighthours, the memory of my legs shaking in a penthouse bedroom. Here, I’m not the guy who got pinned and knotted. I’m the guy who eats distance for breakfast.
I see the splash of the swimmer in lane three out of the corner of my fogged-up goggles. He’s close. Too close.
No.
I grit my teeth around the mouthpiece of air I snatch during the rotation. My shoulder screams in protest—the rotator cuff straining against the tape, the bite mark beneath it pulsing with every rotation—but I shove the pain down into the furnace in my gut. I use it. I use the anger. I use the embarrassment.
Watch me,I think, slamming my hand into the wall for the turn.Look at this.
I tuck, flip, and push off with enough force to crack the concrete. My quads burn, but it’s a good burn. It’s the burn of exertion, not submission. I stream past the guy in lane three. I’m thrashing, maybe not graceful, maybe "lacking natural elegance" like that judge told me years ago, but I am fast. I am forcing the water to get out of my way.
The final stretch is pure agony. My lungs are screaming for oxygen, my lat muscles feel like they’re shredding, but I don’t slow down. I speed up. I imagine the finish wall is Donghwa’s face and I want to punch it.
I slam my hand against the touch pad.
I surface, gasping, ripping my goggles off my face as I whip my head around to the scoreboard. The red numbers blaze overhead.
1. OH SIHWAN - LANE 4
TIME: 22.14
A roar goes up from the stands, but I barely hear it over the pounding of my own heart. Personal best. I didn't just win; I crushed it. I shaved nearly a full second off my time.
I hook my arms over the lane line, chest heaving, water streaming down my face. I feel huge. I feel invincible. The adrenaline high is better than any drug, better than alcohol, maybe even better than sex—okay, maybe notthatsex, but it’s close.
I don't look at my teammates. I don't look at the coach.
I look up.
My eyes cut through the crowd, ignoring the cheering students and the waving banners, locking instantly onto the dark figure in all black.
