Running to You | Park Han + JL + Steven | Haneulz + Stejay AU

Chapter 16: Predators on the Track

@chiwooz: How can someone that beautiful also dominate so hard? Is Chih En even real? His running form is gorgeous.

@woongkiupdates: Woongki isn't even competing today and he's already trending. Prince. Or Queen. No matter, we are his humble thralls.

----

The afternoon had softened into a lazy golden glow, shadows stretching long across the edges of the field as the sun dipped just slightly westward. The stands were still humming with murmurs and excited chatter, the smell of warm turf and sunbaked rubber hanging in the air. JL sat on the grass beneath a section of shade provided by the overhang of the media tent, his towel slung haphazardly over his head and shoulders, the edges damp from sweat and water. His body still hummed from the run, the burn in his legs not yet faded, but beneath it all was a steady, satisfying warmth -- the kind that only came when everything you trained for, aligned perfectly.

He tipped back a water bottle and sipped slowly, letting the coolness hit the back of his throat, then blinked when a second bottle appeared in front of him. Han was crouched beside him now, his forearm brushing JL's knee as he offered the drink, his other hand resting lazily on his thigh like he had all the time in the world.

"All good?" Han asked, voice low and even. There was a quiet cadence to the way he spoke now, gentler than usual -- like something had worn the edge off his reserve.

JL took the second bottle, their fingers grazing for a half second too long. "Yeah," he said, still catching his breath. "Felt good. Everything's lining up today. I don't know... it's like my body's just remembering exactly what it needs to do."

Han didn't answer right away. Instead, he sat down beside him properly, arms resting on his knees, profile sharp against the late sun. He was still damp from his own run, a bead of sweat sliding slowly from his jaw to his collarbone, catching the light before disappearing into the loose neckline of his black training shirt. JL found his gaze lingering.

"You're something else when you switch on," Han said at last, still not looking directly at him.

JL smiled faintly, the corners of his mouth tugging up as he looked down at the bottle in his hands. "I don't do it for the cameras."

Han's mouth twitched into something that wasn't quite a smirk, wasn't quite a smile -- more like a thought that escaped before it could be caught. "You couldn't rival me if you did."

It wasn't a challenge. It wasn't mockery. Just an acknowledgment, an offering, as if Han were saying: you're worthy. You belong here. You're someone I see.

JL didn't know what made him do it, but he flicked a drop of water in Han's direction, the motion light and teasing.

"And yet I'm still faster than you today," he said, trying to keep his voice casual, even as something warm bloomed under his skin.

Han didn't dodge the flicked water. He only looked over at JL, and for the briefest second, his expression softened -- less like the unreadable Golden Ace, more like someone caught in a moment he wasn't expecting.

His gaze dipped slightly toward JL's mouth and JL felt his breath catch. Then Han locked his gaze onto his.

"I guess we'll just have to keep checking who can outrun who from now on."

The heat creeping into JL's neck wasn't just from the sprint. JL shifted slightly, draping the towel back over his head to hide the sudden flush in his cheeks. He looked out over the field, pretending to study the runners warming up for the next event, but his mind was suddenly caught on a loop -- the way Han had looked at him. The way his fingers had brushed his. The way his voice had murmured, almost fond. The way his eyes had seem to see right through him.

And Han, ever composed, didn't say anything else. But his hand was still resting on his knee, the distance between their legs just a breath apart.

If Han noticed JL's blush, he made no comment. He just filed the moment away, in some place he couldn't name.

----

The meet surged forward with relentless momentum, each event flowing into the next like a well-conducted symphony. The crowd remained rapt, their cheers rising and falling like waves along the length of the track, mingling with the rustle of banners and the occasional screech of shoes against rubber. Heat shimmered off the track in mirage-like distortions, making the athletes look like ghosts moving through water -- ephemeral, almost otherworldly in their physical grace.

Steven stepped into the ring for shot put. His body was coiled, gaze locked with piercing intent. His form -- broad shoulders taut, veins raised along his forearms -- radiated power, but his face remained calm. He twisted, launched, and the metal sphere soared, arcing like a meteor through the air. When it landed, the digital board blinked and updated. He didn't pump his fists. He just exhaled, wiped his brow, and jogged off the field as if he hadn't just shattered the event's record. Odes were written online to his biceps.

A few moments later, Kyungho approached the high jump bar. The afternoon sun cast golden lines across his cheekbones and neck. Every step of his run-up was fluid, like a slow-burning fuse. He launched, and the crowd gasped. High jump was one of the most spectacular events in Track and Field, and Kyungho did not disappoint. His frame bent midair with a grace that seemed impossible for someone of his build. His houlders cleared and his hips followed, and feet flicked up last. The bar didn't even tremble. He landed with a soft thud, chest rising slowly as he stared up at the sky, as if waiting for gravity to catch up. Somewhere, a coach assistant wrote furiously on their clipboard and people in the stands bellowed approval.

Then came Shuaibo, already rolling his shoulders with a lazy elegance as he made his way toward the javelin sector, the long steel spear resting against his shoulder like it weighed nothing. His warm-up looked less like preparation and more like a performance, with slow stretches and arm swings. The officials gave the nod. Shuaibo twirled the javelin once in his hand.

Then -- he ran. At the final stride, his foot slammed down, his body coiled like a whip, and he let the javelin fly with a full-bodied twist. The javelin sailed in a high, sharp arc -- clean, deadly, perfect. It cut through the air, then thudded into the turf farther than any throw so far that day. The measurement hadn't even been called yet, but the crowd was already cheering.

Shuaibo turned, tossed a salute to the stands, and jogged off with the loose, loping gait of someone who had just committed violence with style.

Woongki said, "How could you not be obsessed with him?"

----

After all the events of the day, the media spotlight kept coming back to the same axis.

To JL.

To Han.

The cameras couldn't look away. Even when others were on the field, the lenses would tilt, pan, and return. JL with a towel draped loosely around his shoulders, cheeks flushed from the heat, glancing shyly at the camera before looking away. Han with his arms folded, jaw sharp, gaze cool and aloof, the picture of control. They weren't performing. That was the thing. They didn't need to. Something about the gravity between them drew every eye. Every time they stood near each other -- JL laughing, Han adjusting the fit of his sleeve -- there was a buzz in the crowd, a wave of attention that couldn't be redirected.

From the bleachers to the announcer's booth, whispers started to take on shape. Stan accounts speculated on chemistry. Because in a field brimming with talent and brilliance, there were two figures whose presence felt different. Sharper. Heavier. More inevitable.

JL, all kinetic charm and hidden fire, soft when you looked at him -- devastating when you didn't expect it. Han, quiet and sharp-edged, steady as a blade, precise in every movement -- until the rare moment he chose to soften.

They weren't just fast. They weren't just gifted. They were storybook myth in real time, and no one could look away.