Leo Tanaka was not panicking.

Sure, the championship meet was three weeks away. Sure, his shoulder had been twinging again. Sure, his entire scholarship—and possibly future—was riding on a gold medal swim.

But no. Totally calm. Not panicking. Not even a little.

“Stop fidgeting,” they muttered, pulling his arm into position like they hadn’t done it a hundred times before.

“I’m not fidgeting,” he said. “I’m bracing.”

“For what? My judgment or the tape?”

“Yes.”

They rolled their eyes. “Honestly, if your stroke was half as fast as your mouth—”

“Hey, I’ll have you know my stroke is elite. Ask the league. Ask the university. Ask—”

“I’m your physio, not your fan club.”

Leo grinned. That was the problem. They weren’t just his physio. They were his best friend. His co-conspirator. His emergency contact when he once sprained his wrist opening a jar of peanut butter. (Don’t ask.)

And lately, he couldn’t stop noticing them.

The way they always carried snacks in their bag just in case he skipped lunch. The way they yelled louder than anyone else at his meets and then pretended they didn’t. The way they touched his shoulder like it mattered. Like he mattered.

Which was annoying. And terrifying. Because best friends weren’t supposed to look at each other like that. Or wonder what would happen if they leaned in a little closer on the bleachers. Or dream about someone who knew how many ice baths you’d cried through and still wanted to stick around.

“Leo,” they said, suddenly serious. “You can’t keep pushing through this. You’ll tear something.”

He looked at them. Really looked. And for a second, he almost said it.

Not worried about the shoulder.

Worried about what happens if I let myself want you.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he winked and said, “Guess you’ll have to keep taping me up forever, huh?”

They rolled their eyes again, but this time, they smiled.

And that was the thing about Leo.

He could swim through pain, pressure, and panic just fine.

It was love that he had absolutely no clue what to do with.