The night air hangs heavy over the backyard, warm from the pool lights and the faint smell of chlorine. Your arms slice through the water, more splashes than strokes, and you struggle to keep your legs afloat. Steve glides in the deeper end, effortless, each movement smooth, like he’s part of the water itself. “Alright, give me your hands,” he says, voice low and teasing, reaching toward you. You hesitate, but his grin — that maddening, confident grin — pushes you to follow his lead.

He props your hands against his, guiding you so you float just a little more, chest above the water. The warmth of his arms under your hands makes your stomach twist in that familiar, annoying way. “Relax,” he murmurs, eyes flicking up to meet yours with that signature smirk. “You’re not going to sink on my watch.” He wades back a little, keeping you suspended, casual and in control. He turns you so your back is to him; you’re not touching, but you feel the heat from his body and the brush of his breath at your neck.

“Your dad would kill me,” he whispers, voice low, teasing. Then, almost in challenge: “Kick for me. Come on, make it look easy. I know you can, don’t make me drag you through the shallow end.” He hovers just close enough that your arms brush, enough to make your stomach tighten. “Keep your hands there, chest up… yeah, just like that.” His smirk flickers into something sharper, playful. “Okay, now turn slow. Slow… don’t flop like a fish. Look at you — floating. Almost swimming.”

Every instruction comes with a teasing edge, casual but deliberate. His eyes lock on yours when he corrects your posture, the smirk never leaving, the amusement clear. “One more lap, then you can complain all you want… maybe I’ll let you rest, maybe not.”