14. James
Chapter fourteen
James
T he heavy door to UW's aquatic center clicked shut behind me, sealing away the pre-dawn darkness. Chlorine-scented air wrapped around me as my footsteps echoed off pale tile walls. The place felt different at 5 AM – caught between night and morning.
Marcus already stood at the pool's edge wearing a fire department t-shirt. I tried not to track the way the fabric clung to his shoulders, defining each muscle earned through years of hauling hose lines and climbing ladders. I failed spectacularly.
"Round two?" His lips quirked up at whatever he saw in my expression. "We'll stay in the shallow end."
My brain helpfully calculated the pool's precise depths – three feet where we stood, sloping to twelve at the diving end. The numbers did nothing to quiet my racing pulse, nor did my intimate knowledge of water's molecular structure or the exact chemical formula for sodium hypochlorite.
"I brought coffee." I gestured to the two cups steaming on the aluminum bleachers, condensation beading on their sides. "As promised."
"After." He stepped closer, one hand settling warm and steady against my back. "First, you're getting in."
"That wasn't our arrangement." But I was already unlacing my shoes, the textured tile rough against my bare feet. "The deal specified caffeine before potential drowning."
"No drowning allowed." His thumb traced small circles between my shoulder blades, grounding me. "House rules."
"Your house rules involve pre-dawn swimming?" I eyed the dark ripples spreading across the pool's surface, morning quiet broken only by the hum of the filtration system.
"Among other things." His hand stayed warm against my spine. "Stop stalling, Professor."
We both stripped down until all we wore were our trunks. My breath was shallow as I approached the water's edge. Our reflections wavered in the pool's surface—Marcus's solid presence beside my rigid posture.
"Small steps," he murmured. "Like last time."
The water met my ankles, warmer than expected. Marcus moved with me, matching my glacial pace without comment. His patience should have been embarrassing—a decorated firefighter coaxing an aquaphobic academic through basic flotation.
"You know," he said conversationally as we reached waist depth, "most people don't mentally calculate buoyancy coefficients while learning to swim."
"Most people aren't—" The words got caught in my throat as his hands settled on my waist, steadying me.
"Brilliant?" His voice softened. "Stubborn? Determined to quantify everything?"
"I was going to say 'still working through childhood trauma,' but your list works, too."
His quiet laugh echoed off the high ceiling. "Lean back. I've got you."
"From your story, that's what Tom Rogers said before—"
"James." The way he said my name cut through the spiral of memories. "Trust me."
I did. That was the terrifying part.
Slowly, I leaned back until the water lapped at my shoulders. Marcus's hands stayed firm, one supporting my lower back while the other steadied my neck. The position left me staring at the metal rafters overhead, counting rust spots while trying to regulate my breathing.
"See?" Pride colored his voice. "Physics works."
"Smartass."
I wanted to continue the argument by saying something coherent, but the water's gentle resistance was oddly soothing. My pulse slowed as Marcus guided me through basic floating positions, his touch simultaneously professional and intimate.
"You're doing great." His praise shouldn't have affected me so much. "Ready to try moving?"
"Absolutely not."
He laughed—that rich sound that seemed to bypass my defenses. "Too bad. Flutter kicks, on my count."
Marcus counted the kicks with the same steady rhythm he used directing his crew. "One-two-three-breathe. Keep your legs straight. Good. Again."
My muscles protested at the unfamiliar movement, but his hands stayed firm at my waist, supporting me as I fought against instinct. Water lapped at my chin with each kick.
"Better," he said after several sets. "Now, let's try arm movements. Keep floating on your back, and we'll work on backstroke technique."
I swallowed hard but nodded.
"Start by reaching one arm overhead and pulling through the water. Let your hand slice in, then sweep outward in a controlled motion."
He guided my right arm first, adjusting the angle of my wrist. "Think of making a small circle, pushing water past your hip before lifting your arm out again. Good—keep it steady."
I focused on the rhythm: reach, pull, recover. "Like this?"
"Exactly. Now alternate. Left arm up as your right arm comes down."
Coordinating both arms felt unnatural, and my strokes were uneven. I splashed more than I moved forward, the water sloshing against my face as I fumbled for control.
"You're rushing it," Marcus corrected, his hands skimming along my ribcage to adjust my balance. "Relax into it. Trust the rhythm."
"Sorry," I gasped, finding my feet. "I don't think physics is on my side today."
"Physics is fine. Your coordination, on the other hand..."
"Are you mocking my technique, Lieutenant?"
"Wouldn't dream of it, Professor." His eyes sparkled with mischief. "Though I have seen more graceful drowning victims."
I splashed him deliberately this time, sending a small wave toward his face. "I thought drowning wasn't allowed."
He retaliated with a precisely aimed splash that caught me square in the chest. "That's not drowning. That's karma."
"I'm pretty sure this violates proper instructor protocol." I was already plotting trajectories for maximum water displacement.
"You're thinking too much again." He moved faster than I expected, his hands catching my waist as I tried to dodge. "Some things you have to learn by feel."
The playful tension shifted as we moved closer together. Water beaded on his eyelashes, and his smile softened into something that made my breath catch.
"Like what?" I managed.
Instead of answering, he released me with a final splash that broke whatever spell had started building between us. "Like when to admit you're done for the day. Your arms are shaking."
He was right. Every muscle trembled with fatigue, but for the first time since entering the pool, I experienced something close to disappointment about leaving the water.
"Coffee?" I asked hopefully.
"After you shower." He steadied me as we waded toward the steps. "Unless you enjoy smelling like a chemistry experiment."
The locker room's fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows as I peeled off my wet clothes. Every muscle protested the movement, newfound aches making themselves known. The shower's spray hit my shoulders with surprising force, and I let my forehead rest against the cool tile, processing the morning's revelations.
I'd actually swum. Sort of. The thought competed with memories of Marcus's hands steady on my waist, his voice calm and sure as he guided me through each movement.
The sound of another shower starting broke through my contemplation. Despite our recent intimacy—or maybe because of it—I found myself watching Marcus through the steam. Water traced familiar paths down his back, following the ridges of muscle. I now knew every inch of that skin by touch, but seeing it bare still gave me a shiver.
"Water temperature good?" His voice echoed off the walls as he worked shampoo through his hair. "These old pipes can be temperamental."
"Fine," I managed, returning my attention to my shower. "Perfect, actually."
"Good. Because you're going to need hot water to work out those knots. Swimming uses muscle groups you probably haven't accessed in years."
He was right—tightness was already settling into my shoulders and back. The industrial soap stripped away chlorine but did nothing for the heat building under my skin.
When I finally emerged from the shower, Marcus was toweling off by his locker, completely unselfconscious about his nudity. He took his time drying off, the movement emphasizing every sculpted plane of his body, before finally wrapping the towel around his waist. The sight of him like that—water still beading on his shoulders, hair damp and messy—stopped me in my tracks.
He caught me looking and smiled. "See something interesting, Professor?"
"Just analyzing muscle recovery patterns after aquatic exercise."
"Is that what we're calling it?" He stepped closer, ostensibly reaching past me for his shirt, but his bare chest brushed my arm in a way that couldn't have been accidental. "And here I thought you were merely enjoying the view."
The smell of chlorine had faded in favor of his eucalyptus shampoo. I swallowed hard. "We should get dressed."
"Probably." He lingered a moment longer, close enough that I felt the warmth radiating from his skin. "Unless you had other ideas?"
Images of what other ideas might be on Marcus's mind flashed through my brain, but I forced them back. "Food first. You were insistent about proper nutrition after exercise."
He laughed and finally stepped back, reaching for his clothes. "Using my own words against me. That's cold, James."
I focused intently on getting dressed while he pulled on jeans and a fresh shirt. Our abandoned coffee cups sat on the bench, long since gone cold.
"The coffee—" I started, grateful for the distraction.
"Is cold and insufficient." He gathered our cups, dumping them in the nearby trash. "There's a place three blocks over. Best Eggs Benedict in Seattle, and their coffee tastes like coffee, not whatever this was."
The early city hum wrapped around us—delivery trucks idling at the curb, the rhythmic hiss of bus doors opening and closing, commuters clutching paper cups far superior to what we'd just discarded. Sidewalks gleamed from overnight rain, the air sharp with the scent of wet pavement.
The café's warmth wrapped around us as we claimed a corner table tucked away from the morning's first wave of customers. Steam curled from fresh cups of coffee. Rain painted abstract patterns on the windows, transforming the street into a watercolor of greys and blues.
Marcus shared memories of amusing times at the fire station. "So there I am, stuck halfway down the tower, while Walsh questions every life choice that led to that moment." He grinned over his coffee. "Michael never let me live it down."
"Your brother seems to have a talent for that."
"For what?"
"Remembering every mistake you've ever made."
Marcus's expression softened. "Yeah, well. After Dad died, he appointed himself guardian of the McCabe legacy. Keeping us in line became his mission."
"Is that what Sunday dinners are about? Keeping the legacy alive?"
"Partly." He traced a pattern in spilled sugar on the table. "It's also about making sure none of us disappear into the job like Dad did. Ma knows the signs—pushing too hard, training too much, and taking too many risks."
"Is that why she watches you so carefully?"
His finger paused. "You noticed that?"
"I notice everything about you." The admission slipped out before I could stop it.
"Your arms are shaking," Marcus observed, watching me struggle to lift my cup.
"Acute muscle fatigue from unaccustomed exercise." I flexed my fingers, fascinated by the unfamiliar tremor. "The repeated motion of the swimming strokes caused micro-tears in—"
"James." His foot nudged mine under the table. "You can say you're sore."
"I'm analyzing the physiological response."
"You're deflecting." He leaned forward, elbows on the table. "You did well today. Better than most people manage their second time in the water."
Heat crawled up my neck. "I flailed like a drunk octopus."
"You trusted me. That's not nothing."
The sincerity in his tone set off a wave of warmth spreading across my chest. "Yes, well. Your teaching technique is surprisingly effective."
"Surprisingly?" An eyebrow lifted. "I'll have you know I'm excellent at handling difficult cases."
"Is that what I am? A difficult case?"
"More like..." He paused, considering. "A challenge worth taking on."
I looked up to find him watching me with an intensity that made my pulse jump. "Is that why you suggested swimming lessons? As a challenge?"
"No." He reached across the table, his fingers brushing mine where they rested on my coffee cup. "I suggested them because you needed to face the water. And because I wanted to be the one helping you do it."
The casual intimacy of his touch sent an electrical charge up my arm. "Why?"
"Because you analyze everything except what scares you most." His thumb traced small circles on my wrist. "And because I like watching you discover you're stronger than you think."
"That's..." I swallowed hard. "Very insightful for 6:30 AM."
His laugh was warm and rich. "I have my moments. Speaking of analysis—you never finished telling me about the trace evidence Sarah found."
"Are we changing the subject?"
"Maintaining professional balance." His fingers didn't leave my wrist. "Though I'd rather hear about your academy story. The one you started to tell me yesterday at the station before the call came in."
"About the fire science seminar?"
"Where you corrected the instructor on flame propagation patterns." His eyes crinkled at the corners. "I bet that went over well."
"Actually..." I found myself sharing the story of my first attempt at teaching fire behavior, complete with the chaos that ensued when my demonstration accidentally set off the sprinkler system.
Marcus listened, really listened, in that way he had of making everything else fade into background noise. His thumb continued its absent pattern on my wrist while I described the dean's face when he found his antique desk soaked.
"So that's why you switched to theoretical research?" he asked when I finished.
"Partly. My practical demonstrations as an instructor proved hazardous to university property."
"Their loss." He squeezed my wrist gently. "Though I have to admit, I'm grateful for whatever brought you to Seattle."
The sincerity in his voice caught me off guard. "Even if it means dragging you to crime scenes at midnight?"
"Even then." His expression turned serious. "James, about that night after the dinner—"
My phone buzzed, shattering the moment. Sarah's name flashed on the screen with an update about trace evidence from the factory fire. Reality crashed back with bruising force.
"Work?" Marcus asked quietly.
I nodded, already pulling up the message. "Sarah found something in the debris analysis."
"Of course she did." He leaned back, professional distance sliding into place. "Duty calls."
As I gathered my things, his hand caught mine. "Same time tomorrow?"
I hesitated. "I should focus on the case—"
"James." His fingers tightened slightly. "The case will still be there at eight. Some things are worth making time for."
Like learning to float. Like quiet cafés on rainy mornings. Like the way he watched me when he thought I wasn't looking.
"Same time," I agreed, ignoring how my pulse jumped when he smiled.
Outside, the rain had settled into a steady rhythm. Marcus held the door, his shoulder brushing mine as we stepped onto the sidewalk. For a moment, we stood there, neither quite ready to break whatever fragile thing we'd found between swimming lessons and coffee.
Then his radio crackled—structure fire downtown. The real world beckoned with its dangers and demands. As he jogged toward his truck, he turned back once.
"Hey, Professor?"
"Yeah?"
"Your form's not bad." His grin flashed quick and bright. "For a beginner."
I watched him drive away, coffee cup cooling in my hands, trying to ignore how much I already anticipated tomorrow's lesson. Some forms of drowning, I was learning, had nothing to do with water.