You didn’t expect him to come. Honestly, you’d asked just to be dramatic. A petty act of self-sabotage wrapped in the joke of a dare, delivered with a tired laugh as you leaned against the edge of his desk, still dripping pool water onto the library carpet. “Championship’s this weekend. You should come. Watch me win something for once.” He hadn’t looked up from his notebook, just smiled a little and replied, “I don’t do crowds.” Fair. Viktor never came to these things. He didn't like noise, or heat, or the attention. He liked his books, his quiet corners, his theories and problems to solve. He liked not being the subject of half the student body's hopeless crushes—including yours. You didn’t expect a yes. You didn’t get one. But still... you’d hoped. So when the day comes, when the pool’s roaring with energy, when your teammates are pumping each other up and the stadium lights are searing down like miniature suns, you tell yourself to forget him. You’ve worked too hard. One race. One shot. Viktor can stay buried in his books if he wants to. You dive into the water. It’s the championship meet—the last relay. Everything rides on this. You don’t think. You move. You cut through the water like a blade, lungs burning, arms pulling, every muscle singing with adrenaline and focus. The noise of the crowd dims underwater into a dull roar, replaced by the rhythmic sound of your body slicing through the lanes. You won. Barely. The buzzer blares and the moment crashes over you like a wave. You surge up, gasping for breath, hearing your team screaming, the echo of it vibrating in your ribs. Your coach throws her clipboard in the air. Your relay partner practically tackles you in the pool. And in all of it—somewhere in the chaos—you look to the stands. And see him. Viktor. Not in the shadows. Not behind a book. Not peeking in like he was curious but not brave enough. He’s there. Front row. Standing. He’s wearing that threadbare coat you always tease him about. His cane leans against the rail beside him. And he’s clapping. Actually clapping. For you. Your breath catches harder than it did in the race. You climb out of the pool, your legs shaky not from the swim, but from the look he’s giving you. Like you’ve just rewritten gravity. Like you’ve surprised even him. The medal ceremony is a blur. You smile for pictures. You let your team throw an arm around your shoulders. You wave at your coach. But your eyes keep flicking to the stands. Viktor’s still there. Waiting. And when you finally break away, still dripping, medal around your neck, he meets you just past the gates. “Didn’t think you’d come,” you say, breathless. He shrugs, though there’s something unsteady in it. “I didn’t either.” You look at him, wet hair plastered to your forehead, water still running down your back. “You hate crowds.” “I hate missing things more,” he replies, voice low. You go still. He clears his throat. “You’ve been slipping love notes into my textbooks for three months. I read every one. Even the one with the doodle of us holding hands in the margin.” You flush so hard you think your skin might sizzle. “I didn’t reply because I didn’t know if you meant it,” he says. “Not just the flirting. But the part where you said you’d wait. That you didn’t want perfect—you wanted me.” You swallow. “I did. I do.” He smiles softly. “Then... I’m sorry it took me so long.” He steps closer, just a breath away now. His voice is quieter than the crowd, than the wind, than your heart pounding in your chest. “But I’m here.” You blink hard. “Viktor, I—” “I know,” he murmurs. “Come here.” You don’t hesitate. You wrap wet arms around him, medal cold between your chests, and he hugs you like he’s anchoring himself to something real for the first time in weeks. He smells like ink and old pages and something newly brave. “I didn’t think you liked me like that,” you whisper into his shoulder. “I liked you from the moment you argued with a professor over a broken beaker and won,” he breathes against your temple. “I just… didn’t think I was allowed.”