Chapter Eighteen #2
"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 was boring.
A flare of genuine irritation spikes through the bond, mixing with the adrenaline still coursing through my veins.
I busted my ass 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 was bored?
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."
"I have eyes, Sihwan," he says softly. "And you make it very hard not to look."
"Prove it," I snap.
He blinks. "Prove what?"
"That you were any good." I gesture to the empty lanes of the warm-up pool. "Get in."
Donghwa looks at the water, then back at me, an eyebrow raised. "I’m wearing cashmere."
"So take it off," I challenge, my voice dropping. The air between us thickens, charged and heavy. "Unless you're scared. Maybe you quit because you couldn't hack it. Maybe you’re all talk."
I know I’m baiting him. I know this is childish. But the monster in my chest is roaring, wanting to compete, wanting to dominate, wanting to see him stripped down and vulnerable in my element.
Donghwa stares at me for a long moment. Then, slowly, he starts to unbutton his coat.
"If I win," he says, his voice smooth as silk, "you stop wearing those ridiculous neon shirts to class."
I grin, sharp and predatory. "And if I win, you have to admit—loudly, in the canteen—that I’m the superior Alpha."
Donghwa’s coat slides off his shoulders, hitting the tiled floor with a soft thud. He holds my gaze, his fingers moving to the hem of his shirt.
"You're on."
I regret the challenge immediately. Not because I think I’ll lose—I’m still high on my gold medal win—but because watching Kang Donghwa strip is dangerous for my blood pressure.
He pulls the black long-sleeve over his head in one fluid motion, and my mouth goes dry.
It’s not like I haven’t seen him naked. I’ve seen him naked, sweaty, and making faces that would ruin his stoic reputation if anyone else saw them.
I’ve memorized the map of ink on his skin—the snarling tiger on his chest, the plum blossoms winding over his shoulder, the heavy blackwork that screams gangster rather than chaebol heir.
But seeing it here, under the harsh fluorescent lights of the pool deck, hits different. It feels illicit. Like bringing a Ferrari to a demolition derby.
He kicks off his trousers, revealing black boxer briefs that cling to his thighs. He’s lean, cut like glass, with none of the bulk I carry, but the power is there. It’s coiled in the long lines of his muscles.
"Ready to eat your words?" I ask, my voice cracking slightly. I clear my throat, scowling to cover it up.
Donghwa doesn't answer. He just steps up to the edge of the pool, toes curling over the lip. No starting block for him. He doesn't need it.
"On three," I say, crouching next to him. "One. Two. Three."
We launch.
His dive is irritatingly perfect. Minimal splash, maximum distance. He enters the water like a needle. I hit the water with more force, relying on my explosive power to propel me forward.
The water is cool, shocking my heated skin. I surface and immediately start digging. I’m going all out. I’m kicking hard enough to boil the water behind me, my arms windmilling, my lats engaging with every pull. I am the campus champion. I just swam a personal best. I am a machine.
I glance to my left on a breath.
Donghwa is right there.
He’s not thrashing. He’s not fighting the water. He’s... gliding. His stroke is long, lazy, and terrifyingly smooth. He catches the water and pulls himself past it, riding the line of the surface tension. It looks like he’s barely trying, like he’s out for a Sunday stroll, yet he’s pulling ahead.
No way.
I grit my teeth, putting my head down and hammering the kick. My lungs burn—I’m already gassed from the meet, though I’d die before admitting it—but I push harder. I need this. I need to wipe that calm expression off his face.
I hit the wall for the turn, execute a frantic flip, and push off.
When I surface, he’s half a body length ahead of me.
Panic flares in my chest. I redline it. I throw everything I have into the last twenty-five meters. I’m churning water, gasping for air, muscles screaming.
Donghwa touches the wall.
He pops up, shaking water out of his hair, looking mildly winded at best.
I slam my hand into the wall a second later, gasping, choking on a mouthful of pool water and my own shattered ego.
"Twenty-four seconds," Donghwa says, glancing at the pace clock on the wall. He wipes water from his eyes, looking entirely too composed for someone in wet underwear. "Not bad for a warm-up."
I stare at him, chest heaving, water dripping from my nose. "You..." I wheeze. "You freak."
He beat me. He actually beat me. And he did it in boxers that are creating a ridiculous amount of drag.
"I told you," he says, leaning back against the wall, the water lapping at his chest, distorting the ink of the tiger so it looks like it’s moving. "I swam before."
"That wasn't swimming," I snap, ripping my goggles off. "That was witchcraft. You barely kicked!"
"It’s about leverage, Sihwan. You fight the water. You have to work with it."
"Shut up," I growl. I slap the water hard, sending a massive wave of chlorinated spray directly into his face.
It’s petty. It’s childish. It’s exactly the kind of thing a sore loser does.
Donghwa blinks, water dripping from his lashes. For a second, he looks stunned. Then, a laugh bubbles up out of him—low, genuine, and bright. It catches me off guard. I rarely hear him laugh like that. Usually, it’s a smirk or a dry chuckle at my expense. This is real.
"You are such a brat," he says, shaking his head.
Before I can splash him again, his hand shoots out underwater. He grabs the waistband of my jammers and yanks.
I yelp as I’m dragged forward, colliding with his chest. The water makes us weightless, and suddenly I’m bracketed between his arms, my chest heaving against his. The bond flares hot and instant, recognizing the contact, settling the irritation in my gut into something warmer, heavier.
"Get off," I mumble, though I don't push him away. My hands find purchase on his wet shoulders, fingers pressing into the skin over his tattoos.
"Relax," he murmurs, his face inches from mine. His eyes are dark, amused, dropping to my lips before flickering back up. "Look on the bright side. Now we have something else in common besides our bad attitudes."
"I don't have a bad attitude," I argue weakly. "I have a winning mindset."
"You lost," he points out, merciless.
"You're a ringer. A sleeper agent." I glare at him, but the heat is gone from it. I look at the way the water beads on his collarbone, the easy strength in the arms holding me.
I hate losing. I hate it more than anything. But looking at him, realizing that the lazy, artsy freshman who drives me crazy is actually a world-class athlete who just couldn't be bothered?