The sky is dark midnight blue. The water still. A faint breeze stirs the trees.
You've come to the pool alone.
You hadn't planned to swim—you only meant to sit at the edge, legs in the water, shawl slipping down your shoulders. The night air causes a shiver down your spine, the silence meditative.
You hadn't noticed him on the balcony above. Not at first.
But he's there. Watching. Quietly. As always.
He doesn't call out.
Doesn't interrupt.
Just observes, arms crossed loosely, face unreadable.
Then it happens.
You shift, reaching for your sandal without looking—and your foot slips.
In an instant, your balance tilts—The water rushes up.
A splash—sudden, jarring.
You go under.
It isn't deep, but the fall knocks the breath from you. Disorients you.
And then—
Another splash.
He's in the water before your mind can catch up. Fully clothed. No hesitation.
His arm wraps around you, firm and steady, guiding you up to the surface.
"Breathe," he says. Not panicked. But close. Too close.
You gasp. Cough. Eyes blinking against the sunlight and shock.
You're not hurt. Just rattled.
But your hands cling to him anyway—reflex more than choice.
He holds you. In the water. One arm around your back, the other steadying your wrist.
Your bodies are pressed together—his shirt heavy with water, clinging to the shape of him. His hair wet, dark, drops trailing down his jaw.
You both freeze.
Your eyes meet.
And for a moment, there's nothing in the world but that stare.
The proximity.
The unspoken questions.
The way your fingers tighten slightly on his arm before you realize.
He speaks first—quietly, like he's still catching his breath, though he never lost it
"Are you alright?"
You nod.
But you don't move away.
Neither does he.
The water ripples around you, soft and slow.
You sit, towel heavy on your shoulders, fingers curled around the edge of the cushion. The room is dim. The air still smells faintly of chlorine and rain-wet fabric.
You expect him to leave.
He doesn't.
He remains standing a few steps away, wet clothes clinging to his frame, his breathing steady but shallow—like he's holding something back.
Neither of you speak.
The silence stretches.
You glance up, just briefly, expecting him to finally turn away.
But he's still looking at you.
Not expectantly.
Not apologetically.
Just… looking.
Noticing.
Then slowly, almost absently, he sits in the chair across from you. Not beside. Not close. But facing you.
The distance is respectful.
The tension is not.
His hands rest on his thighs, long fingers curled loosely. His shirt is still soaked, clinging to the curve of his shoulder, his chest. A single droplet trails from his hair, down the line of his jaw.
You don't speak.
Neither does he.
But the room is full.
His gaze drops to your knees—bare beneath the towel. He doesn't linger. Just notices.
You shift the towel, not to cover up, but to breathe.
He leans forward just slightly, elbows on his knees now, hands laced.
Still silent.
Still present.
You feel your pulse tick in your throat.
Not because he touched you in the water.
Because he's still here.
And he doesn't know what he's doing here either.
That's the most honest thing in the room.
The silence holds a weight of its own—so thick neither of you wants to break it.
But you do.
Softly.
Not looking at him.
"You'll catch cold if you don't change."
His gaze flickers toward you, but he doesn't move.
Not yet.
You rise, not in a rush, towel still draped around your shoulders. Your skin is damp, your clothes cling in places, but your steps are steady.
You walk past him.
You don't ask where his clothes are.
You already know.
You've never been inside his room properly—not like this—but you find yourself walking the quiet hallway toward it, barefoot, not thinking too much.
The door opens with a quiet push. The room is cool, shadowed. Spare.
You step inside.
You don't linger.
You move to the wardrobe, fingers brushing over neatly arranged hangers. You pick something warm—dark cotton, soft. A long-sleeved sweatshirt and pants folded beside it.
It feels strangely intimate.
But not invasive.
You carry them back.
When you return to the sitting room, he hasn't moved.
He lifts his eyes as you enter. There's something unreadable in them—but softer than before.
You hold out the clothes.
"You can change here if you want. I won't look."
You're half-teasing, but your voice is low. Honest.
You place the clothes on the back of the chair. Then, without waiting, you turn—slow, deliberate—and walk toward the hallway again.
You don't close the door.
You don't wait.
But you feel his gaze on your back the entire way.
And somewhere behind you, a breath leaves him—one he didn't know he was holding.