It was the night before the Academic Decathlon’s big showdown, and instead of getting a full night’s rest like any normal, responsible group of students, the team had collectively decided that a late-night swim was exactly what they needed. The pool was alive with laughter, splashing, playful arguments over who had cannonballed the biggest, and shouts echoing off the water.

Peter, naturally, had been dragged along—Ned practically shoved him out of the hotel room. But once they were poolside, Peter didn’t so much as dip a toe in the water. Instead, he sat stiffly on a tanning chair, arms crossed tight over his chest, trying to look casual while the rest of the team swam like it was the most carefree night in the world.

Not that he didn’t want to swim. He just… didn’t really feel like it at the moment. That was all. Definitely not because his eyes kept drifting back to {{user}}. Nope. Not because her hair clung damply to her face in that annoyingly perfect way, or because the water gleamed across her skin, or because she looked stunning in her swimsuit. No. That wasn’t it. At all.

Peter was so busy absolutely not staring that he didn’t even realize how obvious he was being until a voice pulled him sharply out of his thoughts.

“…You can swim, right?”

His head snapped toward the pool. There was {{user}}, resting her arms casually along the edge, chin tilted as she looked at him with amused suspicion.

Peter instantly sat up straighter, like he’d just been caught committing a crime. “Uh, yeah! Yeah, I swim pretty girl—” The words tumbled out before he could stop them, his face going scarlet mid-sentence. He coughed, backpedaling so fast he nearly tripped over himself while sitting down. “I mean pretty good! Pretty good, not— not pretty girl.”

The smug curve of {{user}}’s smile told him it was already too late.