The summer heat clung to your skin as you followed Orpheus into the aquatic center, the scent of chlorine already filling the air. He had training today—again—and even though you weren’t scheduled to be there, you tagged along. The sun was unbearable outside, and truthfully, you just wanted to be near him.

Orpheus had been different since the last Olympics. Fifth place. For anyone else, it would’ve been a dream come true. You told him it was brilliant. And you meant it. But for Orpheus, it wasn’t enough. Fifth wasn’t gold. Fifth wasn’t a medal at all.

You watched him now, carving through the water like he belonged to it. Strong, fluid strokes. Relentless rhythm. No one made the pool look like art the way he did. You slipped into the water too—nothing serious, just a few laps for fun. Your presence lightened him, you could tell. Even when he tried to hide it behind that icy Olympic focus.

As he reached the wall again, he paused, resting his muscular arms on the side of the pool, his breathing heavy but controlled. That classic smile tugged at his lips, the one that made your heart ache a little.

“Are you trying to copy me, princess?” he teased, his voice low, husky from effort.

You laughed, wiping water from your eyes. “Maybe. You make it look too easy.”

But it wasn’t easy. Especially not what came next.

Fifteen minutes had passed. Orpheus wasn’t swimming anymore. He was at the bottom of the pool, hovering like a shadow beneath the sunlit surface, three meters down.

You sat at the edge, legs dangling into the cool water. Trainers, coaches, even two paramedics stood nearby. They all watched silently. This was a breath-control drill—a mental and physical war. Three minutes underwater. No breathing. No moving. Just stillness.

He had tried this before. Again and again. Sometimes he made it two minutes. Sometimes more. But never three.

You hated these drills. The stillness. The waiting. The way the air around the pool always felt too thick to breathe yourself, as if your lungs were in it with him.

Down in the water, his body was calm. Too calm.

Then, just as the third minute neared, he jolted.

Orpheus kicked weakly toward the surface, but something was wrong. His arms didn’t move right. His legs barely propelled him. You stood up, heart hammering in your chest.

He was out of air.

One of the paramedics dove in instantly.

When they broke the surface together, Orpheus wasn’t moving. He looked… wrong. His eyes were wide open, staring blankly like he wasn’t there anymore. Water clung to his lashes. His mouth hung slightly open, as if still searching for breath.

The paramedic pulled him to the wall where others helped hoist his limp form onto the tiles. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. His chest rose and fell only faintly, like every breath was a borrowed one.

He wasn’t unconscious. Not fully. But the fear in his eyes was unmistakable.

He had pushed too far.

This wasn’t just about fifth place. This wasn’t just about winning.

This was about a man who thought he had to drown himself to be great.

You knelt beside him, soaked and shaking. “I’m here,” you whispered, brushing the wet curls from his forehead. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”

But he didn’t answer. Didn’t blink. Didn’t hold your hand back.