Chapter 9 #2
The natatorium is almost empty at this hour, all gold light and dark water, the big glass panels gone blue-black with evening. Quiet enough that every sound lands hard. The low hum of the filters. The soft slap of water against tile. My own breathing.
I strip down to my swim trunks, drop my clothes on the bench, and slide into the water without hesitation, letting the cold close over my skin.
I swim hard, long enough for my shoulders to burn, for the drag in my lungs to turn clean and sharp, for the water to smooth some of the edge off the thoughts I've been carrying around all damn day.
Not that I'm fooling myself into thinking I'm here for the exercise.
I know exactly whose hour this is, and I know exactly how much it's going to piss him off when he walks in and finds me already in the water, waiting for him.
That thought sits low and hot in my gut as I turn at the wall and cut back through the lane, slicking my hair out of my eyes when I surface at the far end.
Then the door opens, and in walks Rowan.
Come on, then, little mouse. Let's see if you run again.
Fuck me, what a sight he is—shirtless, punctual, pretending he doesn't know exactly what he does to me.
He stops just inside the door, slate in one hand, towel over his arm, freezing when he spots me already in the water.
Hooking both arms over the edge of the pool, I give him a lazy little wave. "Evening, pool partner."
His eyes flash. "What are you doing here?"
I grin. "Swimming."
"You know this is my time."
I drift a little closer, smiling. "Yeah, that's half the appeal. You're so much prettier when you're pissed off."
His mouth tightens, and a flush starts climbing high over his cheekbones. "This is my slot," he snaps. "I arranged this with Professor Halvern. You shouldn't be here."
"I shouldn't." I give him a one-shouldered shrug. "But where's the fun in that?"
He huffs like he's got three different insults lined up and hates all of them, then drops his towel on the nearest chair and squares his shoulders at me like he's gearing up for a fight.
That does deeply unhelpful things to my dick.
I let my gaze drag over him openly, because subtlety feels like a wasted talent tonight. "Are you leaving? Or are you going to stay and glare at me until one of us drowns?"
His jaw works, but after a second he shakes his head. "No. This is my slot. And I…"
He trails off, but he doesn't need to finish. I know what he means.
He needs the water.
For that stubborn little heart of his. For the shoulder he's still favoring. For whatever reason keeps dragging him down here at this exact hour like clockwork.
"Come on, hop on in. The water is delicious." I smile and watch him ignore me on purpose.
He sets his multi-slate down with maddening care, folds his towel beside it, and dives in cleanly, barely making a splash as he cuts straight through the water like he can pretend I'm not here.
And fuck me, he moves in one long, precise line, shoulders rolling under the surface, body sleek beneath the gold-lit water. Every inch of him pulled taut with that same furious control that keeps making my life harder than it needs to be.
That doesn't help.
So I push off after him and take the lane beside his.
He notices, and when he surfaces at the far end, swiping wet hair back from his forehead before turning his head, he finds me cutting through the water right beside him.
His eyes narrow, and then he pushes off harder, which is exactly what I want.
I match him, and for the next two laps neither of us says a word. Just swimming hard and turning sharp, back and forth, turn for turn. His strokes get meaner every time I close the distance, mine lengthening just enough to stay beside him, then just behind, then beside him again.
It becomes a silent competition neither of us is willing to name, and somewhere along the way it stops feeling like exercise.
When I hit the wall, I watch him arrive, then turn close enough that my foot brushes his calf under the surface.
He jerks and comes up with a sharp breath. "Watch it."
"You were in my space."
"I was in my lane."
I lift a shoulder. "The pool's big enough. Can't we share?"
"Share," he mutters, like the word is obscene, then pushes off again.
I grin and follow, but on the next turn I make sure to cut closer. My arm grazes his side under the water, slick skin against skin, and Rowan jerks hard enough to break rhythm before surfacing with a sharp inhale.
The surprise only lasts a second. Then his expression closes off completely. "Light, just get away from me."
I tread water beside him, smiling. "Why? The pool's big enough for two."
"That's exactly my point." He swipes wet hair out of his face and glares at me, green eyes bright with temper. "You think I don't notice? You're getting closer every lap."
"Maybe you're imagining things."
"Bullshit."
He pushes off hard before I can answer, and I let him have half a length before I close the distance again.
By the fourth lap, he's all tight lines and controlled fury, every turn sharper than it needs to be, and none of it has anything to do with stamina.
It's me. It's the fact that every pass brings me close enough to touch him, that the water strips away all the neat distance he likes to keep between us and leaves us with nothing but wet skin, clipped breaths, and the certainty that he knows exactly what I'm doing.
And I'm fucking loving it.
Especially when he hits the wall and kicks hard into the turn. Gotcha.
I go under instead, cutting beneath him in one clean dive.
When I look up through the water he's right there above me, blurred in gold and blue, body stretched out in that taut, furious line that is going to ruin me if I keep staring.
The dark band at his wrist catches the light.
The pull through his stomach when he twists for air makes my body answer before my brain can keep pretending this is still a game.
Maybe it's time to stop pretending I play fair.
Angling up beneath him, I break the surface directly in front of him, close enough that he has to wrench himself short to keep from crashing into me. He comes up with a sharp, startled breath, water splashing between us. His eyes go wide for one bright second before the fury slams right back in.
"Good Light—"
I wipe water from my eyes, grinning. "What?"
"You can't just do that."
"Looks like I can."
His hand hits my shoulder, wet palm shoving hard enough to force space between us.
I let it move me just enough to feel the intent of it before catching his wrist under the water. I drag his hand down and press it flat against my chest.
I keep it there, feeling the exact moment he registers how hard my heart is pounding.
"You keep looking at me like you want to hit me," I murmur, holding his gaze. "Come on then. Do it properly."
"I don't want to fight you," he snaps, but the line comes out thin. When he tries to yank his hand back, his fingers flex against my chest instead, like his body forgot which part of this it was supposed to hate.
I keep his wrist pinned against me and drift in closer, both of us finding our footing without thinking about it.
The water shifts around us as his chest brushes mine for one stolen second before he catches himself, breath hitching, eyes fixed on mine like he's caught somewhere between bolting and doing something much worse.
"Why are you like this?" he asks, and this time there's nothing neat left in it, just breath and frustration and something that sounds dangerously close to desperation. "You can come here any time you want. Why does it have to be when I'm here?"
I tip my head, keep his hand where it is, and smile at him. "Have you really not figured that out yet?"
His lips part, and he looks genuinely thrown, his hand still splayed over my chest like he forgot I'm the one holding it there.
"I don't…" He swallows, eyes flicking down to where his hand is still spread over my chest before jerking back to my face. "I don't get why you keep doing this. I mean—why…"
Why me? The question hangs there between us, raw and unguarded enough that it hits harder than it should.
So I stop smiling, lean in until my mouth is close to his ear, and let my breath brush warm over his skin "You really want me to spell it out for you?"
His whole body tightens, and the hand I'm still holding against my chest flexes before he seems to realize what he's doing. He swallows, Adam's apple bobbing, and when he finally looks at me again there's something shaken in his face, anger split open by heat and confusion.
"I hate you," he says, like he needs the words out before something softer slips free instead.
I smile. "No, you don't."
His gaze hardens. "Yes, I do."
The lie lands between us, sharp and useless, and I don't bother answering because his hand is still spread over my chest, his fingers warm even through the water, curling into my shirt like his body can't decide whether to shove me off or drag me closer.
Slowly, watching his face the whole time, I lift my free hand.
He sees it coming. His green eyes sharpen, his nostrils flare, and his mouth parts just enough to show me teeth before he presses his lips together again like he can physically hold himself closed.
My fingertips skim his wrist first, then the dark medical band wrapped around it, tracing the sleek edge of it under the water. The second I touch it, the thing gives the faintest pulse against his skin, a tiny vibration I feel through my hand that makes his whole body go taut.
I follow the line anyway, dragging my fingers slowly up the inside of his arm, over wet skin and locked muscle, feeling the exact second his breathing turns shallow, feeling the exact second he stops even pretending he might swim away.
"Don't," he says, but it's breath more than warning, his chest already rising too fast, lashes fluttering once before he forces his eyes wide again and glares at me like he hates the fact that he's letting this happen.