My pulse stutters. I turn toward the locker rooms, but Mason catches my wrist. My sneakers squeal against the tile as he pulls me to a stop.
“The pool’s closed. Nobody’s here. Just change out here.”
I hesitate. “Mase—“
“It’s just me, baby. I promise.”
My eyes flicker between his, uncertain. After a beat, I exhale and peel my shirt over my head. The air prickles across my skin, and every instinct screams at me to cross my arms, to cover myself. But I don’t.
I know I don’t need to hide—not with Mason.
“You’re sure we’re alone?” I ask, my fingers pausing at the button of my jeans.
“Yes, baby. Just us.”
I strip quickly, pulling on the swim trunks he brought. Mason slips his shirt off too, and my eyes betray me, lingering on the way his muscles shine faintly with sweat in the humidity.
He catches me staring and smirks. “You done checking me out, or should I flex for you too?”
My head jerks up. “I wasn’t—“
“You totally were.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, scowling.
He chuckles and steps closer, his voice pitched low. “Follow me, pretty boy,” he says softly, sliding his hand into mine. “We gotta rinse off before we get in the pool.”
He steers me beneath one of the shower heads. His palm rests warm and steady on the small of my back before he twists the knob. Ice-cold water blasts down, and I yelp, jerking away.
He bursts out laughing and fiddles with the handle until the temperature is tolerable. “Relax.”
I try, but it’s difficult when I can’t stop staring at the way the water beads and trickles over his abs, gliding across his tanned skin. We rinse off in silence before he leads me toward the poolside.
“Let’s practice your breast stroke,” Mason says.
He drops into the water with practiced ease. His curls slick back as he submerges, then resurfaces, dragging a hand down his face to wipe the water from his eyes.
“I’ll give you a demonstration first,” he says gently. “The breaststroke involves four main steps: pull, breathe, kick, and glide. Watch my movements.”
I sit at the edge of the lane, knees tucked tight against my chest. My bare feet dangle above the water as he pushes off from the wall.
He glides forward with impossible grace, every movement fluid and controlled. His arms cut through the surface in a wide, powerful sweep, his body surging forward with each kick. He makes it look effortless.
I rest my chin on my knees, transfixed by the strength, control, and confidence in every stroke. It hits me all over again that this is who he is: Mason Burke, the boy who grew up on the lake, who still carries the water in his veins.
When he reaches the far end, he flips underwater and pushes off again, returning to me in a smooth, unbroken rhythm. He finishes the lap and grips the edge of the pool, water streaming down his chest. His hazel eyes flick up to mine.
Then, without a word, he braces his palms on the concrete and hauls himself half out of the pool, leaning forward until his wet lips find mine. The kiss is quick but certain, water dripping onto my bare knees, my heart slamming against my ribs from a mixture of nerves and admiration.
“Your turn,” he murmurs, grinning as he pulls back.
I hesitate. “Mase, I dunno—“
“I’ll be by your side the whole time,” he assures me.
He holds me steady as I ease into the warm water. Thankfully, my feet can touch the bottom on this end of the pool. His hands anchor to my hips, and when he looks down at me, his eyes are soft and reassuring, his smile full of pride. I focus on him, tuning out the loud whir of the pool filter and the hum of fluorescent lights. There’s just him.
In the stillness, I realize that Mason didn’t just teach me how to swim this past summer. He taught me how to be unapologetically myself—louder, brighter, unafraid.
