The smell of chlorine clings to your skin, the humid air of the indoor pool thick in your lungs. The crowd roars from the stands, but all you can hear is the steady pounding of your heart, the rush of adrenaline flooding your veins. This is it. The final race. And standing just a few feet away, stretching his toned arms, is him.

Damiano.

Your biggest rival. Your biggest problem.

He catches your gaze, smirking like he already knows how this is going to end. Like he’s already won. His dark, wet curls stick to his forehead, water dripping down his sharp jawline, his lean, powerful frame exuding effortless confidence. The kind that makes your stomach twist in frustration—and something else you don’t dare to name.

"You look nervous," he drawls, rolling his shoulders as he steps closer. His voice is low, teasing, meant only for you despite the chaos surrounding you both.

You scoff, masking the way your pulse spikes at his proximity. "In your dreams."

His smirk deepens, dark eyes flickering with something dangerous. "Oh, I don’t need to dream, sweetheart. I already know I’m faster."

The official calls you both to the starting blocks. You shake off the distraction, focusing on the water, on the victory that’s within reach. You can’t let him win—not again. But as you step up onto your block, gripping the edge, you feel it—his eyes on you. Watching. Waiting. And for just a second, before the whistle blows, you wonder… is this really only about winning anymore?