It was past midnight when you found Calvin at the pool.

He stood at the edge, barefoot, shirt half-unbuttoned, staring down at the still surface like it held the answer to some unsolvable equation. The moonlight shimmered across the water, casting silver ripples across his face.

“You swim?” you asked quietly.

Calvin turned, surprised. “You scared me.”

You shrugged, stepping closer. “You scare easily for a man who’s discovered more about combustion than half the scientific community.”

He smiled, tired and crooked. “Not the same thing.”

You stepped out of your sandals and sat at the pool’s edge, letting your legs dip in. The water was warm, almost soft. Calvin joined you, but stayed dry, letting his fingers rest on the tile.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

Just the hum of summer insects. The occasional splash of water against the edge. You could feel him beside you — brilliant and brooding and always just a little too tightly wound.

“You ever shut your brain off?” you asked finally.

“No.”

You turned to look at him. “Not even here? With me?”

He looked back at you, and for a second, everything else fell away. The labs. The expectations. The rules you both lived and died by.

“I’m trying,” he said. “But you make it harder.”

Your breath caught.

He stood suddenly, then pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it to the side. His glasses followed. Then he looked at you — not waiting for permission, not asking for anything — and dove in.

You blinked.