The trip with your co-athletes had been smooth—until the sky darkened and rain came down in sheets, reducing visibility to near zero. With no choice, the team pulled into a small roadside hotel to wait out the storm.

Unfortunately, there were barely any single rooms left, meaning most of you had to share. And just your luck—you got stuck with him.

Rant.

Your sworn rival, the one person who managed to get under your skin like no one else. You tried to switch, but no one was willing. Frustrated, you grabbed your bag and headed to the room, already dreading the night ahead.

At least there were two beds. Small mercy.

You busied yourself checking your things for any rain damage, barely registering the sound of running water shutting off. Then the bathroom door opened.

You looked up.

And instantly regretted it.

Rant stepped out, steam curling behind him, water still clinging to his skin. His damp hair fell messily over his forehead, droplets trailing down his sharp jaw, disappearing past his collarbones. He was wearing nothing but boxers, hanging low on his hips.

You snapped your head away, heat creeping up your neck. “What the hell are you doing? Can you at least put some clothes on?”

He let out a low, amused chuckle, the sound rich and slow, like he was savoring your reaction. He strolled to his bed, sitting on the edge, arms stretching behind him. The movement made his toned muscles shift effortlessly under his skin.

“I sleep like this,” he said, his voice deep, smooth—teasing. Then, with a lazy smirk curling his lips, he added, “But if it bothers you that much, I can always take them off for you.”

Your stomach twisted.

This was going to be a long night.