Page 19 of Depths of Desire (The Saints of Westmont U #4)

THIRTEEN

OLIVER

The water was colder than usual that morning.

Not objectively. I knew the stats, the settings, the maintenance charts, but my body felt it differently now. Sharper. Cleaner. Like each stroke was slicing through more than just water.

Coach barked the interval, and I nodded, goggles already in place. I hit the water with a practiced dive, shoulders cutting in just right, form honed from years of repetition. One lap. Then another. Then more.

I didn’t count them anymore. Not like I used to.

For a while after last year’s Nationals, I had counted everything. Every meter, every calorie, every second lost or gained. I had cut myself down to the bone, trying to train the weakness out of me like it was something I could sweat away. And I got stronger. Fitter. Faster.

But never fast enough.

That ghost of defeat haunted every flip turn, every missed breath. Until now.

Because now, for the first time in forever, I wasn’t just swimming away from shame.

I was swimming toward something.

I hit the wall and pivoted into another lap. As I pulled, I imagined him—Lennox—standing at the far end of the pool. Hoodie sleeves shoved up to the elbows. Hair mussed. That grin he wore when he thought he was being subtle and absolutely wasn’t. Watching me. Waiting.

And my chest tightened—not with fear, but with something wild and electric. Something I hadn’t let myself feel in months.

Pride.

Not just mine. His.

I wanted him to see me fly across the water.

I wanted to climb out of the pool breathless and see that spark in his eyes that said fuck, you’re amazing.

I wanted to show him that all this pain, all this effort—it meant something.

That I wasn’t just a body chasing gold. I was a man worth watching. Worth wanting.

My arms burned. My legs ached. But something had shifted. The resistance I’d been fighting inside me—the knots, the doubts, the noise—quieted. I reached for the next wall, turned, and pushed off. Smooth and fluid. My heartbeat roared, but my mind was calm.

Half a lap in, I realized I was pacing Olympic time.

Three-quarters in, I realized I was beating it.

I hit the final wall and clung to the edge, panting, blinking water out of my lashes. Coach’s whistle pierced the air. I barely heard it. Everything was static. My pulse, my breath, the numbers echoing in my skull.

I hadn’t done that since the Olympics.

I hadn’t even come close.

And it wasn’t because I hated losing. It wasn’t because I feared failure. Not this time.

It was because he would’ve seen it.

Because I wanted him to.

And maybe, just maybe, that was what I’d needed all along.

The locker room shower hissed around me, steam curling up into the quiet corners of the tiled walls. I stood under the spray, arms braced against the slick surface, water sluicing down my back and legs, hot enough to sting.

I hadn’t even toweled off yet, just stripped my suit and stepped in. I closed my eyes, and there he was.

Lennox, barefoot in my apartment again, hoodie too big on him, sleeves shoved up past his elbows. Grinning like I was the only person in the world who’d ever made him feel weightless. Like being near me wasn’t work.

I pressed my forehead to the cool tile and let that image settle behind my ribs, let it bloom in the space I’d carved out over years of brutal silence and tunnel vision.

He would’ve clapped if he’d seen that swim. Not for show, nor because it was impressive. But because it was mine.

He would’ve lit up. Would’ve thrown his head back with that full-body laugh and told me, “See? You’ve always had it in you.”

And maybe I would’ve believed him.

The locker room was half-empty by the time I left the shower, steam still lingering in the corners like ghosts reluctant to leave.

I moved slower than usual, toweling off with quiet deliberation, dragging fabric over my arms, my chest, my hair.

Everything felt vivid and electric. Even the worn cotton of the towel registered differently against my skin, coarser, more present, as if it were a little more real than before.

I dressed one piece at a time. Compression shorts, then sweats.

Hoodie last, the sleeves bunching just slightly at the wrists.

I didn’t rush. The rush had already happened, in the pool, in my chest, in the way my lungs still expanded like there was more space in them now.

I felt lighter. Like something had burned out of me, and the air left behind was cleaner somehow.

The hum of the ceiling lights faded behind me as I stepped out into the early evening chill. My breath fogged faintly as I walked across campus, cutting through a strip of gray light that the sun left behind as it sank behind the skyline.

I didn’t pull my phone out until I was inside my apartment, the door locked behind me, shoes kicked off at the mat.

The air in the room was warm, still tinged with the faint smell of the garlic and onion I’d cooked with two nights ago.

My damp hair dripped slightly at the collar of my hoodie.

I padded into the kitchen and leaned against the counter.

Then, finally, I checked my phone.

Lennox had sent me a meme. Something stupid. A low-res screencap of two penguins holding flippers with the caption: “Me and the guy I made eye contact with for 0.5 seconds at Trader Joe’s.”

I stared at it for a second.

Then I laughed out loud. Just once. One honest, full-bodied, crack-through-the-silence laugh that echoed against the tiles and the cupboards.

God, he was ridiculous.

I opened the reply box, fingers poised. I started typing twice before deleting both drafts. Finally, I let myself text what I actually wanted to say.

Me: What are you doing tonight?

I didn’t pace. I didn’t hover over the screen like I usually did. I just waited, leaning against the counter, watching the sky outside turn lavender behind the buildings. And then the three dots appeared.

Lennox: Depends. Am I putting on pants or taking them off?

I huffed through my nose and shook my head. My fingers typed before I could second-guess it.

Me: Neither. Come over. Just hang out. Might make you a breakfast sandwich I never got from you.

The dots danced.

Lennox: I’ll take it on a technicality. Sandwich me.

Me: I’ll be here.

I placed the phone on the counter like it was something delicate. My heart was thudding again, but not the same way it had been in the pool. This wasn’t about time or performance or pushing through the ache. This was a different kind of burn. A softer one. A warmer one.

I turned to the kitchen, scanned it with a critical eye. Cleared the table. Wiped down the counters. I wasn’t trying to impress him. Not exactly. I just…wanted him to feel comfortable. Wanted him to feel wanted.

The fridge held the essentials. I pulled out eggs, bread, something resembling turkey bacon, and cheese. Enough for a passable sandwich if nothing else.

Then I moved to the bathroom, brushing my hair back and patting my face dry again. Changed into a fresh hoodie—one without chlorine stains—and black joggers that didn’t look like I’d slept in them. I looked in the mirror and pulled a face at myself.

Still me. But maybe not the same me.

Maybe this version knew how to open the door when someone knocked. Maybe this one didn’t need to be perfect to be worth coming home to.

I stepped back out into the kitchen just as my phone lit up again on the counter.

Lennox : On my way. Don’t burn the eggs.

Too late. I was already smiling.