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WARREN

The water in the training pool is cold, clean, perfect.

I push through my stroke, arms cutting through the lane, each kick driving me forward. I’m fast, efficient, controlled. My breath is steady, my muscles tight but strong, each motion a carefully measured calculation of power and endurance.

I crave this. Savor it. The drag of water against my skin, the rhythmic churn of my body gliding forward, the momentary burn of oxygen deprivation before I roll for another breath.

It’s 5:04 a.m., and I’m already ten laps in.

I didn’t set an alarm. Didn’t need to. My body just knew. Years of training have made this muscle memory, instinct. I could do it in my sleep, could time my strokes without thinking, could pull myself through lap after lap while my brain stays blissfully blank.

No distractions, no noise, no unwanted thoughts slipping through the cracks.

Fifty meters. Flip turn. Fifty meters back.

The water dulls everything. Mutes the world, quiets my mind, forces me to focus on the mechanics. The rotation of my shoulders, the angle of my entry, the precision of my kick. This is what I know, what I trust. The one thing in my life that’s never let me down, never betrayed me, never left me standing in the wreckage of something I couldn’t put back together.

Five strokes, breathe. Five strokes, breathe.

I kick harder, propelling forward, lungs burning but steady, muscles tight but capable. I go until the strain in my limbs is the only thing I can feel, until my heartbeat drowns out the whisper of anything else trying to break through.

Because as long as I’m swimming, I’m not thinking.

I don’t stop until my arms are screaming and my pulse hammers in my throat. Until my body demands air in a way that makes it impossible to ignore. I grip the wall, fingers digging into the slick tile, drag in a lungful of breath, feel the tension in my chest ease just enough.

And just like that, she’s there.

Not physically. Not in any real, tangible way. But in my fucking head, where I don’t want her, where I refuse to let her take up space.

It’s quick. Just a flicker, a whisper, a flash of something unwelcome and unrelenting. Soft fingers pressing against my chest, dragging down the center of my sternum, her touch light but certain. The heat of her, flush against me, breath warm as she whispered my name like it was something to be savored.

“ Warren, please, baby . . . ”

I slam it down. Shut it off.

I pull myself up out of the water, bare feet slapping against the tile, water streaming off my body as I grab the towel from the bench and whip it over my shoulders. The thick cotton sticks to my skin, absorbing the heat from my workout, but it doesn’t do anything to wipe her from my head.

Fucking Quinn.

I don’t let myself linger on it. Not here. Not now.

I rake a hand through my wet hair, grab my gear, and make my way to the showers, flipping the nozzle straight to cold, letting the icy water crash over me in sharp, punishing relief. It works for about five seconds before she’s back again, uninvited, unwelcome, slipping through the cracks I didn’t realize had formed.

I don’t think about her. I mean, I haven’t for years. Okay, fuck , I’ve done my best not to think about her. And I never would have taken the job at Sycamore if I had known she’d eventually show face.

I would have picked something else, taken an internship I didn’t want, hell, even gone back to construction work if it meant not having to see her. Not having to deal with the reminder of something I’ve spent nearly three years trying to erase.

I scrub a hand over my jaw, let out a sharp breath, and flip the water off with more force than necessary. I don’t bother reaching for the cheap bodywash in my bag. I just stand there, dripping, watching the rivulets of water spiral down the drain like they might take the last twenty-four hours with them.

But they don’t. They never do.

The thing that gets me the most—the thing I can’t shake, no matter how much I try—is that someone should have told me. I’ve always had a good, if not at least amicable, relationship with the Sycamore manager, Robbie.

When I reached out about coming back for the summer, I asked him point-blank.

“Quinn still working there?”

“Nah,” he said. “She’s not coming back this summer.”

And that was the only reason I agreed.

But what he failed to mention—what he either forgot or chose not to tell me—was that she must have changed her mind. That somewhere along the way, her plans fell through, and they offered her a spot to finish out the last month of the season.

Now she’s back there, and I’m rattled.

Because if I’d known Quinn Rose was going to be walking around the same damn club, wearing the same uniform, working the same job, throwing the same smug little smirks at guys who don’t know any better—

I would have stayed far, far away.

I get dressed, shove my damp towel into my bag, and head for the exit. Outside the locker room, I inhale—slow and deep—then exhale just as steady, the way I was trained to do in the water. The way I always do when something creeps up on me that I don’t want to deal with.

I brace a hand against the doorframe, roll my shoulders, shake it off. Not my problem. Not anymore.

And then I get in my car, turn the ignition, and let muscle memory guide me to the last place I should be going right now. Oakview Assisted Living Facility.

The drive isn’t long. Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty, depending on traffic. It’s a straight shot from campus, one I used to make more often, back when the guilt got to be too much.

Now, I come here about once a month.

Enough to remind myself he’s still kicking.

Enough to remind myself that no matter what’s happened between us, the man inside is still my father. My blood.

But that doesn’t mean I forget. And visiting him doesn’t mean I forgive him. Doesn’t mean I let go of all the shit he put me through.

The missed pickups. The stolen money. The excuses that ran out long before I stopped answering his calls. The way I used to wait— always fucking wait —for him to change, to be better, to give a shit about anything other than his next fix.

But addiction doesn’t work like that. It chews people up and spits them out hollow, takes the good and replaces it with hunger. And even now, sitting in a place like Oakview, surrounded by four walls that are meant to keep him safe, I wonder if there’s still some part of him that’s looking for an escape.

I pull into the lot, cut the engine, and sit there for a second, fingers tight around the wheel. My shoulders stiff, tension coiled up between them.

I could leave. I could put the car in reverse, drive straight home, and pretend I didn’t feel the familiar pull of obligation, of duty, of some twisted sense of loyalty that never quite goes away.

But I wanted a distraction, and maybe this counts. Hell, maybe it’s the only thing that ever does.

So, I grab my bag, lock the door behind me, and head inside.

The place smells like sanitized air and stale coffee. It’s quiet, save for the low hum of a daytime talk show playing from the common room. The receptionist recognizes me, offers a small nod, but doesn’t stop me as I pass.

She knows why I’m here.

I make my way down the hall, shoes scuffing against linoleum, and push open the door to Room 114.

He’s sitting in his recliner, half-asleep, the TV blaring some old western at a volume far too loud. His hair is thinner than I remember, the deep-set lines in his face more pronounced.

For a second, he doesn’t notice me.

Then his head turns, bleary gray eyes locking on mine. The same gray eyes I used to see every day when I was a kid. The same ones I looked up to before I realized they were always looking past me, searching for something else. A fix. A way out. Another excuse.

And for a moment—a brief, fleeting second—I see something almost like relief in his expression before it hardens into something cooler, more familiar.

“Well, look who decided to show,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his jaw, eyes dropping to the cheap plastic watch on his wrist. “What’s it been this time? Three weeks?”

Four, actually . But I don’t say that. I drop my bag by the door, cross my arms over my chest, and say, “You need anything?”

It’s the same question I always ask. The safest one. The one that keeps us both from saying anything we don’t want to.

He shrugs, scratching at his wrist. “More smokes.”

I exhale sharply. “You know you can’t have those in here.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t want ’em.”

I don’t respond to that. Instead, I reach into my bag, pull out a pack of electrolyte drinks, a few high-protein snacks, the small things I know he’ll take, even if he pretends not to care. I set them on the table beside him.

He glances at them, then back at me. “Still swimming?”

“Yeah.”

He nods, slow, thoughtful. “You gonna make Nationals this year?”

I roll my shoulders. “Yeah, maybe.”

I’m a good swimmer. A great one, even. But I peaked early—back when I was fifteen, winning Junior Nationals and collecting medals like candy. Now? I’d be lucky to hit an A-cut during the regular season. The Olympics were never in the cards for me, not really. Those dreams belonged to a younger version of me who didn’t know better yet.

“That’s good, kid.”

The words land awkwardly, uncertainly, like he’s not sure if he should be saying them at all. Like he’s still trying to figure out what being a father is supposed to mean when you haven’t really been one in years.

His road here was a slow descent. It started with drinking—heavy, often, and always justified. Then came the pills. And when those weren’t strong enough, he found something stronger. Meth, eventually. The kind of drug that doesn’t just ruin your life—it rewires it.

He had a few strokes not long after that. Drug-induced, the doctors said. One of them left him with hemiplegia. Partial paralysis on his left side.

After enough ER visits and too many botched attempts at rehab, Oakview became the only option left. A long-term care facility where they could monitor him full-time. Where he could be watched. Where he’ll probably spend the rest of his life.

“You leading the Sunday service today?” I ask dryly, nodding toward the Bible sitting untouched on his bedside table.

He lets out a raspy chuckle. “Wouldn’t that be a sight.”

I smirk, just a little. “I’d pay money to see it.”

His mouth twitches like he’s fighting a grin. “That the only way I’m getting you to church?”

“Maybe.”

He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Still a heathen.”

“Still your kid.”

A beat of silence. Something uneasy and unspoken settles between us, like it always does. The kind of silence that says everything we’re not ready to. Without offering more, without trying to fill it, I check my watch, pick up my bag, and step back toward the door.

“I’ll see you soon, Dad.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

I lift a hand in a half-hearted wave and step out into the hallway.

This is the way it always goes. Same conversation. Same unspoken bullshit hanging in the air. Same cycle of resentment, obligation, and something close to pity. It’s a shame we’re both too proud to call it what it is.

Outside, the air is thicker, hotter. I slide into my car, roll my shoulders, let out a slow breath, then pull out of the lot and head home.

There’s no clarity. No clean resolution. Just distance and whatever’s left behind it.

By the time I pull into the driveway, the sun has climbed higher, burning off the last traces of morning cool.

I step into the house, kick my shoes off by the entryway, drop my bag at the base of the stairs, and head straight to my room. It’s only 10:47 a.m., but I’m already exhausted. Emotionally, mentally, all of it.

I have the rest of the day ahead of me, but no real plan for how to spend it. I could go back to the pool, but I already put in my meters this morning—no point in overtraining. Could lift, but my muscles are still worn from the week—pushing too hard now means paying for it later.

What I should do is catch up on the grad school applications I’ve been putting off, but the thought of staring at another blank essay prompt makes my head ache. And not in the productive, push-through-it kind of way. More like shut-my-laptop-before-I-toss-it-out-the-window kind of way.

I need to figure out my next step. Need to lock in a plan and actually commit to something.

I’ve spent four years studying kinesiology, training like hell, working my ass off to keep my grades solid and my body stronger. I’ve done everything right—on paper.

But now that graduation’s creeping closer, I still don’t know if I want to go straight into grad school or take a shot at something else. Not the Olympics. I’m not that guy. But maybe something short-term. A club circuit. Training part-time while I coach. A way to stay in the water a little longer, just until I’m sure I’m ready to let it go.

It would be a good idea for me to sit down today and at least start an application. Pick a program, write the damn essay, get it over with.

Instead, I stretch out on my bed, muscles finally starting to loosen, and let my eyes close for a second. But then—soft footsteps, a thud against the wall, the quiet creak of Liam’s mattress. A low, familiar laugh.

My jaw tightens as I roll onto my side and yank my pillow over my head.

Birdie’s with him. I can hear it—the rustle of sheets, the way she murmurs something under her breath, his answering chuckle, the muffled press of lips meeting skin.

I sigh, dig the heel of my hand into my eye, force myself to shut it all out.

But my mind drifts anyway. To Quinn. To the sound of her laugh muffled against my neck, the scrape of her teeth as she smiled into a kiss, the heat of her bare legs tangled with mine under my sheets. Not just sex. It was never just sex. It was her. All of her. The best and worst of us, colliding.

I turn over again, restless. My ceiling fan spins in slow, useless circles.

There are a thousand things I should be worrying about instead.

Grad school. Swimming. My dad.

Not this.

Not her.

Not the feeling that creeps in when everything else goes quiet.

And definitely not the fact that, for the first time in a long time, it hits me just how fucking lonely I really am.