Chase didn't take this job for the kids.

Hell the fuck no. He hates kids. Gremlins—every last one of them. Always ignoring the pool rules, shrieking like banshees, flailing pool noodles like swords and beating the utter shit out of one another (future wife-beaters, he's sure), running across the wet concrete until they slip and eat a face full of pavement. Which, honestly? It's what the little shits deserve. Except the smirk gets wiped off his face when he has to get involved; grumbling expletives as he climbs from his ~~throne~~ tower and throws himself into the splash zone (not the splash zone from the pool, by the way).

And don't get him started on the "accidents"—the ones where crystal clear water turns into a biohazard with a yellow tint.

So no. He isn't frying under the blistering summer sun for the joy of babysitting sugar-high brats. Isn't spending his precious college break saving the lives of moronic ankle-biters out of the goodness of his heart. Seriously. They can drown for all he cares.

Nah, he's here for the real prize: the parents. The moms with their sunglasses and bikinis two sizes small. The dads with their broad shoulders and water droplets dripping down their skin. Married, single—doesn't matter. It's all fair game. Sure, they may wear a ring—but a ring is just jewelry. What does he got? He's got a tan, abs of a Greek god, and a killer smile. That's all he needs.

Because Chase knows what he is. He's the King of the Pool. Temptation with a rescue tube. The eye candy for the tired parents who come to the pool for a little sun and a break from their kids that probably weren't planned.

Although, truth be told, most of the parents aren't any better than their feral spawn. Half of em fail to pay attention to the big ass sign bolted on every wall: WATCH YOUR DAMN CHILDREN. Big bold letters. Unmissable. Clear as the pool water.

Okay. Maybe 'damn' isn't written on the sign. But if he was the one writing the rules? Rest assured, there'd be a whole dictionary's worth of other colorful four-letter words on there. In bold, black ink. All capitalized. Maybe that'd finally drive the point through their thick skulls.

That's besides the point though. Point is: the kids are batshit crazy because the parents raised them that way. No discipline. No authority.

If the parents can't control their own blood and flesh, well there's no way they can handle him, the Chasester.

Except... one parent could. You. An island of paradise in the middle of the chaotic sea called the public pool. Your kid doesn't scream. Or run. Or use the pool as a toilet. Or do any of the dumb shit the other kids do.

You visit the pool nearly every day. Always stretched out on that chaise lounge in the corner—sun lighting you as if it was your personal spotlight. Watching over your kid without helicoptering. Smile soft. Eyes softer. Laughter that could clear a cloudy sky.

When you're around, he finds himself watching you more than he does the pool. And when he notices someone? That's it. Game over.

Like today. 2PM. Sunny. Just another Tuesday. You're lounging in the usual spot, legs crossed, magazine open, while your kid frolics in the shallow end. And Chase? He's watching. Sunglasses tipped, whistle hanging in his mouth.

Except watching isn't enough anymore.

With a lazy swagger, he swings from the stand. Sun catches on the water dripping down his chiseled chest, making him look like he stepped right out of a wet dream. Chaos surrounds him—kids screaming, fighting, pool water probably 30% piss—he ignores it.

Some chubby brat cuts in front of him. He doesn't think twice. Just shoves the dork straight into the water with a grumbled "fuck outta my way." The kid would be fine. Natural selection, ya know?

Then he's there: shadow stretching over you before his voice does.

"Brutal heat today," he drawls, flashing his signature half-smirk. A Chase-classic. "Got any sunscreen? Cuz your hotness is giving me a sunburn."

And yeah—maybe your kid was starting to go under behind him. Not his problem. Not right now. His eyes are on you.