Donghwa hasn't moved. He’s still sitting there, legs crossed, chin resting on his knuckles. But he’s leaning forward now. Just an inch.
I tilt my head back, sucking in air, and let a wide, arrogant grin split my face. I flex my arms on the lane line, letting my triceps pop, making sure he sees the width of my shoulders, the power in my chest.
See that?I project the thought at him, fueled by the bond and my own massive ego.That’s an Alpha. That’s me.
I’m not just some soft thing he can roll over in bed. I’m a champion. And for the first time in weeks, I feel like I’m actually the one on top.
The noise of the main natatorium fades as I push through the double doors into the warm-up pool area. It’s quieter here, the air thick and muggy, the water a flat, glass-like sheet compared to the churned-up violence of the competition lanes.
I’m still buzzing. My skin feels tight, sensitive, the chlorine stinging in a way that usually annoys me but right now feels like a badge of honor. I scrub a towel over my hair, water dripping down my back.
I round the corner, intending to do a few cool-down laps to flush the lactic acid from my quads, and stop dead.
Donghwa is standing by the edge of the empty pool.
He looks ridiculous. In a room full of humidity, condensation dripping down the tiled walls, and the smell of bleach, he’s standing there in immaculate black trousers and long sleeves, hands shoved into the pockets of a thick coat. He looks like he took a wrong turn on his way to an art gallery or a funeral.
He watches me approach, his expression unreadable.
"You lost?" I ask, tossing my towel onto a bench. I stride toward him, making sure to keep my posture straight, letting him see exactly what a gold-medal physique looks like. "The exit is that way. Unless you’re here to steal my shampoo."
Donghwa’s eyes track me. He doesn't look at my face first. He looks at my chest, then down to my abs, then lower, lingering for a split second on the low-slung waistband of my jammers before lazily dragging his gaze back up to my eyes.
My heart does a stupid, traitorous double-thump against my ribs.
"You were fast," he says. His voice is low, carrying easily over the hum of the filtration system.
I pause, my hand on my hip. I expected a snarky comment. I expected him to ask if I was done showing off. I didn't expect... that.
"Yeah, well," I huff, trying to sound dismissive, but I can feel the heat rising up my neck that has nothing to do with the room temperature. "I trained for it. Unlike some people who just coast on genetics."
"Your turnover rate is solid," he continues, ignoring my jab. He steps closer, the scent of winter air and ink cutting through the chemical smell of the pool. My stomach flips. "And your catch is aggressive. You waste very little energy on the entry."
I stare at him. It’s a technical compliment. It’s specific. And coming from him—from the guy who usually looks at me like I’m a loud insect he can’t be bothered to squash—it hits me harder than it should. It feels heavy, settling in my gut, warm and satisfying.
I hate it. I hate that his approval makes my knees feel a little less steady.
"Since when do you know anything about swimming?" I scoff, crossing my arms over my chest to hide the way my nipples are hardening. "I thought your only sport was competitive brooding."
Donghwa smirks, a small, irritating quirk of his lips. "I swam. Before."
"Before what? Before you decided exercise was for peasants?"
"Before high school," he says, stopping right in front of me. He’s taller, even with me in my slides, and he uses it. "I was on the youth national development squad for a year. Breaststroke and Free."
I blink. My brain stutters, trying to process this. The National Development Squad? That’s the pipeline. That’s where the prodigies go. I tried out for that squad. I didn't make the cut.
"Bullshit," I say, the laugh coming out harsh. "You? Mr. 'I-Hate-Sweating'? No way."
"Believe what you want," he says, shrugging one shoulder. "I quit. It was boring. Staring at a black line on the bottom of a pool for four hours a day didn't appeal to my... artistic sensibilities."
Boring. He quit because it wasboring.
A flare of genuine irritation spikes through the bond, mixing with the adrenaline still coursing through my veins. I busted myass for years to get where I am. I fought for every millisecond. And this guy, this absolute menace of a human being, just walked away from elite status because he wasbored?
I look him up and down. He’s fully clothed, dry, and arrogant. And I am suddenly seized by a need to wipe that calm, superior look off his face. I want to see him struggling for breath. I want to see him wet.
"You think you're hot shit, don't you?" I say, stepping into his space. I’m close enough to feel the heat radiating off him, close enough to see the faint dilation of his pupils as he scents me. "Talking about my form like you’re the expert."
