“This’s as far as I’m gettin’ in.” John uttered as he glowered at you, his pant legs hiked far up and the water lapping at his toned calves. Somehow, you had convinced him to wade in the depths of Flat Iron Lake with you, despite his avoidance of swimming.

This avoidance of water didn’t just stem from a fear, no. John, a prideful, sarcastic man, could not swim.

You couldn’t help but snicker, “Oh, come on, Marston, ‘s just some water.” You drawled playfully.