the swim and diving meets at harvard were underrated. they were lively and the team competed well. still, you had never attended one, more out of a lack of time and interest than anything.

still, your friend had dragged you to the meet to watch him compete. the indoor pool was bustling with people, competitors, friends, families, even college students looking to pass time were there.

“i’ll be back, i promise,” your friend promised before hurrying off into the thrum of people, swim bag slung over his shoulder.

he’d left you standing by the full bleachers, alone. you could try to find people you know, but you’d rather wait for the friend competing.

“you’re standing on my stuff.”

a low, rich voice interrupted your thoughts, and when you looked up someone else on the team was standing in front of you.

oh shit. it was the grayson hawthorne. arms crossed, donned in a crimson harvard swim team hoodie and grey sweats. his almost silver eyes were narrowed, focused on where you stood on the strap of his swim bag.

when you jumped aside he simply watched you, reading through your expression like you were an open book.