"Same time tomorrow," Hale called from the launch, already turning toward the boathouse. "And eat something. Both of you look like you're running on caffeine."
We carried the double back to the racks in silence. Wiped it down. Hung it. The routine of boat care—methodical, physical, something to do with our hands that wasn't touching each other.
The bay was loud now. Both teams filtering back inside, the post-practice energy mixing with the smell of sweat and river water. Braden was at the trestles with Collins. Tyler wasstretching near the erg row. Derek had already disappeared upstairs.
Liam was three feet away from me, wiping down his oar handle. His forearms still flushed from the row. His t-shirt damp at the collar, clinging to his shoulders.
I wanted to touch him. The want was so specific it hurt—not even sexual, just my hand on his chest, the space between his shoulder blades, the place I'd pressed my forehead on his chest last night while we caught our breath.
Just to sayI'm here. That was real. We're real.
Liam looked up and caught my eye, just for a moment. It was all I needed. Small recognition of what we were. Then he hung his rag and headed to the toward the locker room. I followed. Ten paces behind. The distance we'd agreed to maintain.
The Kingswell locker rooms were mostly empty—just a few guys finishing up at the far end, the hiss of showers running, steam drifting over the tiled walls. Liam dropped his bag on a bench and pulled his shirt over his head.
I looked away. Had to. Because the sight of his chest and abs—the line of his obliques, the bruise on his hip from where the gunwale had caught him on a rough turn—would make my hands shake.
I pulled off my sweat and river soaked shirt and dropped it on the bench.
We were alone. Almost. One guy from the quad boat at the far lockers, back turned, earbuds in. The showers running loud enough to cover anything said at normal volume.
Liam sat on the bench. Elbows on his knees. Head down.
"That was good," he said, not looking at me. "Out there. The rowing."
"Yeah. It was." I sat on the bench next to him, a few feet of space between us.
Silence. The showers hissing. Someone's locker clanging shut at the far end.
"Hale watched us the whole session. Every stroke. He knows something's different about the way we row."
"Don't worry about it. He knows what he can do and different doesn't mean what he thinks it means."
"It means exactly what he thinks it means. We row like that because—"
I stopped.
Liam looked up. His eyes were dark.
"Because what?" He asked with a smirk.
The guy at the far end zipped his bag and walked out. The door swung shut.
Now, we were alone. The air between us changed. Thickened. Every sound sharper—the drip of a faucet, the hum of the ventilation, our breathing.
I could close this distance easily. Put my arm around his bare body, lean in, and kiss him.
Liam's eyes dropped to my mouth. Just for a second.
"Don't," he said. To me or to himself, I couldn't tell.
"I wasn't going to."
"You were thinking about it."
"I'm always thinking about it."
Something shifted in his expression, like my words hit him the way his hit me and made my chest warm.
