allius has always been a water kid. grew up more at the beach than in his own house, more at ease with salt on his skin than air-conditioning. captain of the swim team. lifeguard certified. everyone knows him as the golden boy in the pool. toned shoulders, quick turns, the kind of endurance you can’t teach. people say he’s effortless, but he knows every second of speed is paid for with hours of training and the weight of his own impossible standards.

his parents don’t come to meets anymore. they say they’re busy, but he’s long since stopped asking. today, the bleachers are nearly empty. it’s the last meet before regionals, the one that’s supposed to prove to scouts that he’s worth watching. he’s been double-checking his goggles, his swim cap, his lane number, pacing like if he moves enough he won’t notice the quiet.

then, you walk in.

he freezes mid-step when he spots you, like maybe he’s hallucinating. you’re the last person he expected. the only one who actually came for him. his chest tightens in a way that’s not entirely about the race.

he tries to play it off, walking toward you with that practiced half-smile. “what are you doing here?” he asks, voice soft but a little too fast, like if he slows down he’ll give something away.