He almost didn’t notice you.

Not until you stepped onto the block—lane five, opposite team, goggles already down, cap stretched over your hair. Just another swimmer, same warm-up, same routine.

But then you adjusted your strap. Tilted your head. Took that breath—that breath. Your mannerisms were too familiar.

And something in him paused.

The kind of pause that lived deep in the ribs. Like your body forgets how to move because it remembers something it shouldn’t.

No. Someone.

Because suddenly, he did know you. Not from now. Not from anything recent. From last summer. Training camp. The blur of heat and chlorine and nights that shouldn’t have mattered to him as much as they did.

You were supposed to be temporary. A one-off. Someone who didn’t even swim competitively—just filled in for someone injured. Said it was nothing serious. Just “for fun.”

Except it hadn’t felt like “just fun.” Not when you beat him at a midnight 200 IM in an empty pool and grinned like you’d just dethroned Poseidon. Not when he kissed you underwater like it meant something. Not when your name got stuck under his tongue even after he left.

Now you were here. In his meet. In his lane.

And Atlas knew he was screwed.

He lost by half a breath.

Swam hard. Clean. No screw-ups, no slip-ups—just wasn’t enough. His focus was way off. You touched first.

He told himself it didn’t matter. Small comp. Off-season meet. Barely even ranked.

But he was still outside the building twenty minutes later, hoodie damp, knuckles tight around a bottle of orange Gatorade he hadn’t opened. Leaning against a vending machine like it might prop him up better than his own spine could.

He heard you before he saw you. Footsteps light on wet pavement. Too familiar.

Still, his head didn’t lift until you stopped in front of him.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he said, and let out a breathy laugh. “Lane five?”

His eyes flicked to yours. He didn’t smile, but his mouth twitched like it wanted to. “You’ve got some nerve showing up here and beating me in my own damn stroke.”

He took a slow sip of the Gatorade. Swallowed down pride like it was pool water in his lungs.

“You crushed that turn. Seriously. I saw it happen in real time and couldn’t even be mad. Just… impressed. Kinda pissed, but impressed. You’re just lucky I was off my game today.”

He tapped the bottle cap against his palm, the way he always did when he was trying to burn off nerves without looking like it.

“Funny,” he said after a moment. “Thought you didn’t take this whole swimming thing seriously.”

He finally looked at you then, for real this time. Looked at you like you were still that late-night blur from last July, the one who raced him just to feel something, who kissed him like a dare and left without warning.

“I didn’t forget,” he said, quieter. “That summer. You. Just didn’t think I’d be seeing you again. Here… of all places.”

He gave a half-laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“So what?” he asked. The question slipped out soft, not meant to trap, just… hover. “You’re competing professionally now? Did last summer change your opinion on swimming?”