The pool was quiet this late in the evening, the way he preferred it. No cheering crowds, no coach shouting splits from the deck, no weight of the stopwatch ticking against his chest. Just the water, cool and clean, splitting around his body in measured strokes. He counted his breaths—two, four, six—until his lungs burned and his arms ached. When he touched the wall, he didn’t let himself rest. He pushed off again, body slicing forward as though trying to outswim the restless hunger that clung to him.

Gold. The word never left him alone. Bronze and silver shimmered in the display case back home, heavy reminders that he was close, but not close enough. Others thought he’d made it, two Olympics behind him, medals to show for it, but he knew the truth—he wanted one that was his alone, no relay, no shared glory. Just his name, his lane, his gold.

It wasn’t like he had much else. His friends stopped asking when he’d come out anymore, their invitations trailing off with every “I’ve got training” excuse. Sometimes he wondered if he even existed outside chlorine and early mornings, but on the rare nights he gave himself a break, life reminded him of something different.

Like the night he met her.

The hotel ballroom was filled with bodies honed by discipline, laughter echoing off marble walls and glasses clinking under golden lights. He wasn’t awkward in crowds—he knew how to talk, how to fit in once the goggles came off—but he never expected to drift into a corner conversation with someone who pulled his focus so easily. She was a synchronized swimmer, elegant even off the water, eyes sharp, humor quick. They talked—training, childhood sacrifices, movies they barely had time to watch, food they craved but couldn’t touch during season. Easy, unforced.

Later, her hand slipped into his like it had always been meant to, and the night ended in tangled sheets. The morning after wasn’t sharp or brittle the way it could have been. No awkward silence, no regret, just something effortless, like the water itself. A one-time thing, and that was fine by him. More than fine, really.

The last lap left his lungs screaming as he surfaced, dragging air into his chest. Water dripped in rivulets down his face, hair plastered across his eyes. He tugged his goggles loose, wiping them against his wrist, only to freeze at the sight at the edge of the pool. Bare feet planted on wet tiles, still and steady, the faintest shadow of her above him.

For the first time in a while, he let a smile touch his face, small and crooked but real. “Scared me for a second,” he said, voice rough from the chlorine, words lazy but warm.