Chapter 5 Sweat on the Court

The basketball slammed into the asphalt with a thud as loud as Bima’s racing heartbeat. The 4:00 PM Jakarta sun was merciless, scorching skin and turning sweat into rivers that drenched his temples. Before him, Arka stood like a stone wall—solid, drenched in sweat, and giving Bima absolutely no room to breathe.

"Again, Bim. Don't go soft," Arka's voice was deep, raspy from thirst but filled with lethal provocation.

Bima smirked faintly, trying to steady his labored breathing. His white tank top was transparent with sweat, clinging tightly to his heaving chest. Bima lunged forward, executing a quick crossover to get past Arka. But Arka was too dominant. With one efficient, athletic movement, Arka cut off his path. Their bodies collided.

Bruk!

Skin met skin, both equally hot and damp. The friction created an instant burning sensation. Bima lost his balance, his foot caught on Arka’s oversized sneaker, and he sprawled onto the rough concrete court.

"Ow! Dammit..." Bima winced, clutching his left knee, which was already bleeding from the concrete scrape.

Arka didn’t hesitate. His blank expression shattered instantly, replaced by a flash of protectiveness that looked almost like rage—or perhaps sheer panic. He immediately knelt beside Bima, indifferent to his own knees hitting the hot cement. His large hands gripped Bima’s shoulders firmly, pulling him into a sitting position.

"What did I tell you? Focus, Bim. You’re being reckless," Arka growled. Though his tone sounded like a scolding, his hands moved with extreme care as he checked the wound on Bima’s knee.

"It’s just a scrape, Ka. You’re overreacting," Bima countered, trying to stand. But a sharp sting forced him to sit back down.

"Stay still. Don't move," Arka stood up, then easily slipped his arms under Bima’s armpits and the crook of his knees, hoisting him up in one fluid motion, bridal style.

Arka walked with long strides toward the edge of the court, carrying Bima toward the row of empty lockers. He sat Bima on a long wooden bench while he knelt between Bima’s parted thighs. Arka reached into his bag, pulling out a water bottle and antiseptic.

The atmosphere in the locker area was stuffy, hot, and filled only with the sound of their ragged breathing. The scent of Arka’s masculine sweat mixed with the smell of rubber sneakers created a suffocating atmosphere for Bima.

Bima stared at the top of Arka’s head as he bowed to clean the wound. I know you’re the culprit, Ka. But how can you be this concerned about me? Is this your way of atoning for killing my brother? Bima’s mind screamed, his eyes fixed on Arka with a cold, calculating gaze behind his weary expression.

"It stings, Ka," Bima complained softly, deliberately softening his voice to bait a reaction.

Arka looked up for a moment. His dark eyes locked onto Bima’s. At this proximity, a bead of sweat rolled from the tips of Arka’s hair, sliding down to his broad chest, visible beneath his tank top. Before applying the antiseptic cotton, Arka stared at Bima again. "Grab my shoulders if it hurts."

Bima complied. He gripped Arka’s hard, muscular shoulders. As the cotton touched the wound, Bima hissed sharply. Arka didn’t flinch. Instead, he leaned his face closer to Bima’s knee, blowing on the wound gently to ease the sting.

The touch of Arka’s breath on Bima’s thigh sent a different kind of shockwave through his nerves. Arka’s other hand didn’t stay still; it gripped Bima’s inner thigh to keep the leg from moving.

The grip was too strong. Possessive. Arka’s thumb began to move unconsciously, rubbing the smooth skin of Bima’s inner thigh in slow, demanding circles.

"Ka..." Bima’s voice shifted, low and trembling.

Arka stopped blowing on the wound. He shifted his position further forward, placing his body completely between Bima’s legs. He looked up, his gaze filled with raw desire and a hunger he had kept tightly locked away.

"Your knee is clean," Arka whispered, his voice sounding like a dangerous, low growl. "But I’m not done with you."

Arka stood up without breaking eye contact. He pulled Bima’s waist toward the edge of the bench, forcing their bodies to press together without a gap. Bima could feel the hardness of Arka’s athletic frame pressing against his own.

"You’re always the center of attention on the court, Bim," Arka’s hand crept up to the nape of Bima’s neck, squeezing the hair at the back of his head roughly, forcing Bima to look up fully. "Everyone watches you. Everyone wants to touch you. But only I have the right to treat you like this."

Bima grabbed the collar of Arka’s shirt, pulling him closer until their noses brushed. "So what do you want now, Ka? To keep protecting me, or something more?"

Arka smirked faintly—a lethal, predatory expression. "I don’t just want to protect you, Bim. I want to mark you, so everyone knows you’re mine alone."

Arka slammed his lips against Bima’s in a rough, demanding kiss. There was no gentleness there. Only a primal thirst. Bima groaned, his hands slipping under Arka’s shirt, touching the hot, muscular skin of Arka’s back. Bima deliberately returned the kiss wildly, letting Arka bask in the illusion that he had successfully conquered Bima completely.

Arka shoved Bima back until his back hit the row of metal lockers, creating a loud bang that echoed in the silent room. Arka lifted Bima’s legs and wrapped them around his waist.

"Ka... slow down..." Bima whispered in the space between their intoxicating kisses.

"Can't, Bim. You’re the one who provoked me first," Arka rasped. He buried his face in Bima’s neck, biting and sucking on the skin with intense force, leaving a purplishred mark that stood out against Bima’s pale skin. A permanent mark he intended to show the world.

"Hey! Arka! Bima! Where are you two? You left the ball in the middle of the court, dammit!"

The sound of the gym door opening and Radit’s shout made them jolt. His footsteps drew closer to the locker area.

Arka didn’t let go of Bima immediately. He pressed his body harder against Bima’s for one final second, planting a rough kiss on Bima’s forehead before setting his legs down. He stood straight, smoothing his shirt calmly as if nothing had happened, while Bima struggled to catch his breath in the shadows of the lockers.

"Over here," Arka replied flatly as Radit appeared at the end of the locker aisle.

Radit stopped, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the two of them. He took in Bima’s flushed face and Arka’s unnatural composure. Radit’s gaze dropped to Bima’s bandaged knee, then rose back to Bima’s neck, which was now being covered by Bima’s own hand.

"Took long enough to fix a little scrape," Radit commented suspiciously. "And why is your neck so red, Bim? Did a giant mosquito bite you?"

Bima laughed awkwardly, instantly putting on his usual cheerful mask. "Yeah, the mosquito was huge, Dit. Vicious, too."

Arka glanced at Bima with a profound look—a possessive gaze that believed Bima was already within his grasp. "Let's head back. I'm hungry," Arka said, clapping Radit firmly on the shoulder.

Arka walked ahead. As he passed Bima, he deliberately brushed the back of his hand against Bima’s—a brief contact that promised more to come. Bima walked behind Arka, staring at his broad back with a smile that slowly vanished from his face. Mark me all you want, Arka. But the moment your mask slips, I’ll be the one to make sure you’re destroyed.