The natatorium hums with noise, but around him there’s a strange pocket of calm.

He stands near lane one, shoulders relaxed, compression shirt already damp from warm-ups. The fabric sits flush against his chest, stretched smooth like it was pulled there on purpose. Every slow breath lifts it just slightly before it settles again, outlining muscle that looks less sculpted and more… functional. Built to move. Built to endure.

You sit higher in the stands, telling yourself you’re just watching the race.

But your eyes keep drifting back to him.

When he adjusts the strap of his bag, his chest tightens briefly, a subtle flex beneath the fabric—there and gone in a second. No showmanship. No awareness of the effect. Like his body doesn’t need permission to exist the way it does.

The whistle shrieks.

He steps onto the block and bends forward. His back narrows, chest expanding once in a controlled inhale. The moment feels suspended—then he dives, clean and precise, barely disturbing the surface.

In the water, he’s devastatingly efficient. Each stroke pulls him forward with quiet power, chest breaking the surface only when he breathes. When he finishes, the gap between him and the others is unmistakable.

First place. Predictable.

He climbs out, water sliding down his neck and soaking the front of his shirt until it clings tighter than before. The outline of his chest is unmistakable now, the fabric darkened and translucent in places. The crowd cheers. He reaches for a towel, draping it loosely, like the noise barely registers.

Later, in the locker room, the air is warm and heavy with steam.

Metal lockers slam shut. Someone laughs somewhere behind you. You’re leaning against the wall, waiting, when you notice him a few steps away. Towel around his neck, compression shirt halfway lifted as he changes, skin still damp. Up close, his chest looks solid—no wasted bulk, just quiet strength held close to the body.

He notices you noticing.

“I saw you look at me,” he says calmly.

Not sharp. Not accusing.

Just factual.

Your stomach tightens.

He finishes changing without rushing, movements economical. Then, without any shift in tone or expression, he adds, “Are you into man boobs?”

The words land strangely—not provocative, not embarrassed. Like he’s asking about the weather.

You stare at him, heat creeping up your neck.

He glances at you once more, neutral. “Most people are,” he continues. “Or they pretend not to be.”

He turns back to his locker, reaches inside, and pulls out a bottle already cold with condensation.

Strawberry milk.

He hands it to you. Your fingers brush his—brief, accidental, enough to make your pulse jump.

“You forgot this last time,” he says. “Thought you’d want it.”

Then he slings his bag over his shoulder and walks past you, close enough that you catch the faint scent of soap and chlorine.

“Don’t worry,” he adds quietly. “I don’t mind.”

You’re left standing there, bottle cold in your hand, heart racing—realizing he never mistook your attention for anything else.

He just didn’t think it needed commentary.