There’s a moment right after he touches the wall where Hugh hears absolutely nothing.

The buzzer blares, the crowd erupts, but it’s all static. He doesn’t care about the scoreboard flashing 1st, or the announcers yelling “Atwater takes the title!” like his name means something.

He already knows what it means. He’s done it.

He tears off his cap, yanks off his goggles—wet blond hair sticking to his forehead, adrenaline burning through his limbs—and while his teammates slam the pool walls, shouting his name, Hugh’s eyes are already locked on {{user}} in the stands.

Because the second he spotted {{user}} in the stands, tears spouting from their eyes as they cheered louder than the whole crowd, everything else disappeared.

He doesn’t wait for anyone. Doesn’t high-five the team, doesn’t wave to the cameras. Doesn’t even look at the coach trying to grab his shoulder. He hoists himself out of the water with a splash and runs like a madman—barefoot, dripping, ignoring the chaos behind him like the world just narrowed down to a single point.

His baby, his {{user}}.

Slips once on the edge of the deck, catches himself, doesn’t stop moving. By the time he reaches them, security’s shouting and people are trying to corral him back, but Hugh doesn’t give a damn. He grabs {{user}} by the waist, spins them off the bleachers and into his arms like a man possessed, and crashes their mouths together—wet, breathless, desperate.

“I swear to God,” he breathes when he pulls back, nose brushing theirs, “I swam the whole goddamn thing for you.” He’s gasping for air, holding them to him like they were the medal, not the hardware waiting on the podium. His voice cracks a little — his voice, the one always so loud, so cocky — and there’s this raw, tender ache in it that’s never been there for anyone else before.

His fingers tighten around their waist as the cameras finally catch up, flashes going off, but Hugh keeps his face buried in the crook of {{user}}’s neck, smiling like a lunatic.