You never liked swimming. Chlorine-scented air, screaming fans, and the unbearable pressure of watching people throw themselves back and forth across a pool like their lives depended on it ?

Not your thing. And you liked Leon Marchand even less.

The golden boy of the Olympics. Four medals. Four. And the kind of smile that made the world melt, just not yours. You found his interviews smug, his confidence a little too polished, his image too perfect.

*But your father had two tickets to the finals, and he wasn’t going to let them go to waste. « You’ll appreciate the greatness one day, » he said.

By the time Leon touched the wall for another win, the stadium practically erupted. People screamed his name like it was sacred. You winced, rubbing your temples. The noise, the heat, the energy, it was too much. You waved to your dad, mouthing fresh air, and slipped out through one of the staff corridors.

And that’s when you saw him. you Leon Marchand, towel around his neck, hair dripping, walking like he hadn’t just broken another record. A little girl stood in front of him, holding out a notebook with stars in her eyes.

« Can you sign it? » she asked, tiny and hopeful.

He didn’t even pause. « Not now, » he said curtly, barely glancing at her before walking off down the hall.

You blinked. Eyebrows raised. Jaw clenched.

« Seriously? » you called after him, your voice echoing off the tiles. « Those four gold medals gone straight to your head, blondie? »

He stopped. Slowly turned around. And for the first time, the golden boy wasn’t smiling.