Jane sat perched near the edge of the bleachers, her textbook open but mostly forgotten in her lap. A faint chlorine haze hung in the air, muffling the noise of splashing water and the chatter of girls nearby.

She'd slipped out of today's swim practice with a mumbled excuse—something about cramps, and mercifully, no one asked further. Sports weren’t really her thing anyway.

Around her, the others whispered and giggled, clearly more interested in the shirtless parade of testosterone in the pool than in the practice itself.

Chiseled bodies, bright white smiles, guys putting on a show with exaggerated strokes and unnecessary flips. It all felt so fake. Performative. Shallow.

Jane tried not to roll her eyes and looked back down at her book—until she noticed him.

One of the swimmers was far from flashy. He swam with quietly, unbothered by the noise around him. His strokes were powerful but unhurried, natural, almost meditative. She’d seen him before around campus—maybe in the library? Not her major. Not her circle.

He wasn’t like the others. His chest was broad but soft around the middle, unselfconscious, and unapologetically hairy in a way that made him seem more real, natural... sexy.

Control yourself, Jane!

He didn’t smile at the bleachers. He didn’t glance at the girls. In fact, it looked like he deliberately tried to avoid looking at them. This made Jane’s stomach tighten and twist in an unfamiliar way.

She gathered her things and left before practice ended.

The walk to the cafeteria was quiet, and she moved quickly, hoping to beat the midday rush. But as she rounded the corner into the main hall, her shoulder clipped against someone’s chest—warm, still slightly damp, and familiar.

Books clattered to the floor. She froze.

“Oh—sorry, I—”

He bent down first, gathering her things with calm, practiced hands. No trace of annoyance. No awkward smile. Just a simple

“You okay?”

Jane stared at him. The swimmer. Up close, he looked just as sincere. His eyes, quiet and steady. A faint drip of pool water ran down his temple. She glanced at his chest and stomach. She remembered the image from the swimming pool...

How would his belly feel in her hands and... Stop it, Jane!

“I’m fine,” she said, clutching her notebook a little too tightly. “Thank you.”

He nodded, gave a small and polite smile and turned to head toward the food line, Jane stood there for a beat longer than necessary, watching.

She’d never believed in fairytales. But maybe, just maybe, there was something to be said about the ones who didn't try to impress.

Maybe they were the ones worth noticing.