Archive of Our Own

The natatorium smells like chlorine, sweat, and wet concrete. Laurel stands behind starting block four with her cap already pulled tight over her hair. The air is heavy with echoes, splashes, whistles, the squeak of wet feet against the deck, but everything around her feels strangely distant today. Only a few months until the Olympics. The thought lives in her body now, not just in her head, in the ache of her shoulders when she wakes up at five in the morning, in the careful way she counts every meal, every hour of sleep, every tenth of a second. Everything is measured now.

The coach paces along the edge of the pool with a stopwatch in her palm. “fifty freestyle,” she calls out. “Race pace. I want clean turns and controlled breathing.”

Laurel rolls her shoulders once. Race pace. Not training pace. Not survival pace. Olympic pace. Beside her, Jacqui bounces lightly on the balls of her feet, loose and relaxed like she was born in the water. Laurel hates how effortless she makes it look. She knows it’s not; has been in the game for as long as her to know it’s not, but her stomach knots anyway. Because lately, Jacqui has been faster. Not by much; just enough to matter. Laurel steps onto the block. The textured surface presses against the soles of her feet. She bends forward, fingers curling over the edge, and suddenly the entire world narrows into simple things; the sharp chemical smell, the hum of fluorescent lights overhead, the water below her, dark blue and waiting, her heartbeat.

A few months ago, swimming still felt like freedom sometimes. Now it feels like pressure wrapped in discipline. Every practice matters, because every practice could be the difference between making the Olympic final or disappearing in preliminaries where nobody remembers your name. She thinks about the Olympic trials replay she watched at two in the morning last week instead of sleeping. Thinks about the fractions of seconds between gold medals and fourth place.

“Take your mark.” The coach raises her arm. Laurel crouches lower. The whistle shrills. She launches. For one perfect second, she flies. She cuts into the water cleanly, arms spearing forward as the cold crashes over her skin. Instantly her body switches into instinct. Kick. Pull. Reach. Breathe. The lane rope blurs beside her in streaks of blue and white. Her arms burn almost immediately, but Laurel ignores it. Pain is background noise now. She counts strokes instead. One-two-three-breathe. The water roars in her ears. She catches glimpses of movement in the neighboring lane, Jacqui already slightly ahead, her stroke longer, smoother. Laurel drives harder. Her fingertips slice forward aggressively, pulling deep water beneath her body. Legs hammer behind her. At the halfway turn, she flips hard against the wall, pushing off in a streamlined glide. Too slow; the thought flashes through her head instantly. Not the turn she wanted.

She surfaces again, lungs tightening. The second fifty always hurts more. The body starts bargaining with itself here. Slow down. Breathe more. You can make it up later. Laurel refuses every thought. She imagines the Olympic stadium instead; the impossible noise of the crowd, cameras tracking every movement, commentators discussing her chances in detached voices. She imagines touching the wall and seeing a number beside her name that proves she belongs there. Twenty-five meters left. She finally risks another glance sideways; Jacqui is ahead, not by a body length, just enough, which somehow feels worse. Laurel grits her teeth and sprints the final stretch, muscles unraveling with effort as the wall rushes toward her. The water feels heavier now, fighting every movement, then her hand slams into the touchpad. The whistle echoes through the natatorium.

“Jacqui, twenty-six,” the coach announces. “Laurel, thirty.” Her stomach sinks. Around her, swimmers haul themselves out of the pool or cling to the lane ropes, exhausted, but Laurel’s eyes drift immediately to the next lane over. Jacqui is already standing beside the coach, water streaming from her shoulders. She looks barely winded. “Twenty-six point eighty-seven. That’s Olympic qualifying pace right there.” The coach smiles proudly at Jacqui. Several teammates clap against the tiled walls. Someone mutters, “Damn.” Laurel’s fingers tighten around the edge of the pool. Four whole seconds ahead. “That turn was beautiful. Efficient. Aggressive. That’s exactly what I want to see,” the coach continues.

Jacqui gives a quick nod, though her eyes flick briefly toward Laurel’s lane. “Thanks, coach.”

Laurel pulls herself out of the water, shoulders heavy. Chlorine drips from her hair onto the cold tile. She knows thirty seconds is still fast—faster than most people will ever swim—but here, on this team, it suddenly feels painfully average. The coach walks down the line, stopping in front of Laurel. “You’re hesitating at the midpoint,” she tells her. “You lose momentum every breath cycle after the fifty.”

Laurel wipes water from her face. “I know.”

“You know,” the coach repeats, not unkindly, “but knowing isn’t fixing it.” She gestures toward Jacqui, who is stretching by the starting blocks. “Watch her recovery. She trusts the water. You fight it.” The words sting more than Laurel expects. Across the deck, Jacqui dives back into the pool for another warm-down lap, cutting through the water like a blade. Smooth. Fast. Certain. The coach claps once. “Again in five minutes. Olympic trials don’t care how tired you are.”

The swimmers groan softly, but Laurel barely hears them. Her pulse still pounds in her ears. She looks at the pool, then at Jacqui gliding effortlessly through another lap. Something sharp twists inside her chest, not exactly jealousy, not exactly admiration, but something dangerously close to both. Without another word, Laurel adjusts her goggles and steps back onto the starting block.

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The sun is already sinking by the time Laurel leaves the aquatic center. Her hair is still damp, the humidity of the sea nearby doesn’t help her curls, so she opts for a headband to keep what she can away from her face. Her muscles ache with the deep, heavy exhaustion that comes after hours in the pool. Every step feels slightly disconnected from her body, like she’s still moving through water instead of air. The beachside path stretches beside the ocean in fading gold light. Waves crash softly against the rocks below the railing, rhythmic and endless. Beside her, Jess walks with their hands shoved into the pockets of their shorts.

“You looked miserable today,” Jess finally says.

 “Straight to the point,” Laurel sighs.

“I’m efficient.”

“You’re annoying.” Laurel stares out at the water instead of them. The horizon is blurred orange and pink, smeared beneath low clouds. “I just had a bad session.”

Jess gives her a look. “Laurel, you practically glared at the pool like it insulted you personally.”

“That pool did insult me personally.”

Jess laughs softly at that, bumping their shoulder against hers. “You’re still obsessing over Jacqui’s time, huh? You know twenty-six seconds is freakishly fast, right? Most swimmers would sacrifice a limb for your thirty.”

“Yeah, well, the Olympics don’t hand out medals for a thirty,” Laurel mumbles. “Have you seen the records throughout the years, Jess?” She turns to look at her friend. “There’s twenty, twenty-one; numbers I’m pretty sure the so-called Aqua girl can easily accomplish with a bit more practice, and I …” She sighs. “I get why they call her that nickname.”

“Laurel,” Jess says carefully, “you act like every practice determines your entire future.”

“It kind of does.”

“No,” Jess replies. “Trials determine your future. Practice determines whether you spiral before then. And besides, you’re not an average. You’ve earned multiple scholarships; you’re currently enrolled in one of the finest universities because they value your skills and they see your potential. You’ve been carrying yourself like someone’s holding a gun to your head lately, and I’m just saying that you need to take a break.”

Laurel doesn’t reply, and she appreciates when Jess doesn’t push the topic further. They continue along the boardwalk until bright colors catch Jess’s eyes and they stop. A massive poster is plastered against the side of a bus stop near the beach entrance. There is a photograph of a woman underwater, suspended in deep blue light like some kind of mythological creature. Her dark hair floats weightlessly around her face, and crystals glitter along the sheer fabric wrapped around her body. “Wait,” Laurel squints her eyes at the woman. “I’ve seen her before.”

“That’s Talia Kane,” Jess answers for her. “She’s a very famous model; did a lot of contracts with swimwear and activewear. Most of her Instagram feed is honestly her next to some pool.”

“That fabric is a terrible idea underwater,” Laurel points out. “This is most definitely photoshopped. They’re selling a show just because of her face, and I bet she’s like a presenter or something.”

“Maybe,” Jess agrees. “They did very good on her makeup though,” they lean closer to the poster. “Another brand that sells those waterproof products, I’m sure.”

Laurel steps closer to the poster despite herself. Everything about it feels expensive. Elegant. Unreal, reminding her of a more professional people in her field that she wished to forget about. The water around her glows sapphire beneath stage lights, every movement graceful instead of punishing. Not like training. Not like stopwatch times and screaming shoulders and the coach barking corrections from the deck. This version of water looks beautiful. “I wonder what it’s like.”

“To be a supermodel?” Jess raises their brows.

“To swim without wanting to throw up afterward.”

“We should go,” Jess suggests, and Laurel turns to them with furrowed brows. “The date’s tonight, and I’m not allowing you to push your limits further doing a solo night practice.” Laurel turns to look at the poster again, and maybe there’s another version of the water she’s forgotten exists.

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The line outside the theater wraps halfway around the block.

Laurel stares at it in disbelief. “There’s no way we’re getting in.”

Beside her, Jess squints up at the glowing sign above the entrance; blue lights ripple across the building façade like reflections underwater, washing the crowd in shifting color. “Technically,” Jess says, “we only need two people to leave dramatically.”

“That’s your plan?” Laurel glances at her sideways.

“My plan was actually to guilt the ticket person with your Olympic swimmer face.”

“I don’t have an Olympic swimmer face.”

“You absolutely do. You walk around like somebody’s timing your existence.”

Laurel groans softly as they move toward the entrance anyway. Inside, the lobby is packed shoulder-to-shoulder. Wealthy-looking guests drift beneath hanging glass chandeliers shaped like jellyfish, champagne glasses sparkling in their hands. Every digital screen flashes images of Talia, and Laurel cannot look away for a few seconds because the woman is gorgeous, somehow the giant screens make her look even more unreal. Dark hair. Sharp eyes. Perfect posture. The kind of beauty that seems engineered instead of accidental. There’s a reason why she’s a paid model signing contracts with high-end brands.

A woman at the front desk shakes her head before Laurel can even ask. “Sorry, we’re fully booked.”

“Told you,” Laurel mutters as she glances at Jess.

Jess leans forward immediately. “Any cancellations? Standing room? Floor seating? Emotional support corner?”

The woman actually laughs, then her earpiece crackles. She pauses, listens, then blinks in surprise. “…You’re kidding.”

“What?” Jess asks instantly.

The woman looks back at them. “Two balcony seats just opened up. Last-minute sponsor cancellation.”

Jess slaps a hand dramatically over their heart. “The universe loves me.”

“The universe tolerates you at best,” Laurel says.

Still, ten minutes later they’re being ushered through velvet curtains and up narrow stairs toward the balcony overlooking the theater, and Laurel immediately understands why people fought for tickets. The stage is enormous. No, not a stage; a gigantic transparent water tank dominates the center of the theater, stretching floor-to-ceiling beneath an intricate network of lights. Coral sculptures glow beneath the water in shades of violet and turquoise, while real tropical fish drift lazily through the tank. Above it all towers a diving platform so high it nearly disappears into darkness. Laurel’s swimmer instincts kick in immediately; too high. Way too high for theatrics in that kind of lighting.

“What if someone misses?” she murmurs.

“I think professional aquatic performers have already considered that possibility,” Jess replies.

The theater lights dim suddenly. A hush sweeps through the crowd, then music rises; soft strings layered over deep bass vibrations that seem to pulse through the floor itself. A spotlight ignites high above. Talia Kane stands at the top platform. The audience erupts instantly. Up close, Talia somehow looks even more majestic than the posters; her dress glitters beneath the spotlight like liquid silver, clinging tightly through the torso before unraveling into dozens of loose shimmering fabric strands from the waist down. They trail around her legs in waves every time she moves. Laurel immediately thinks that there is no way that outfit survives a dive. The fabric looks decorative, impractical, absurd.

“She knows exactly what she’s doing,” Jess whispers, as if reading Laurel’s mind.

Talia steps toward the edge of the platform with impossible calm; no hesitation, no visible nerves. Just complete confidence. Okay. Fine. Maybe she’s gorgeous, but diving professionally in that? Impossible. Then Talia jumps. The theater gasps as her body drops into darkness before twisting sharply midair. One flip. Then another. The loose strands of fabric spiral around her like ribbons in the spotlight while she rotates with terrifying precision making Laurel’s eyes widen. Oh, she’s actually good. Talia straightens at the exact final second before entry, body perfectly aligned. She slices into the water with barely a splash. The audience explodes. Even Laurel feels her stomach drop in stunned admiration. That entry was cleaner than some competitive divers she’s trained around.

Underwater lights flare alive beneath the tank. Talia moves through the glowing blue like she belongs there more than on land. The floating ribbons of her dress drift around her body as she spins weightlessly between schools of fish. And somehow, impossibly, the fish begin following her. Tiny silver pellets drift from delicate bands around Talia’s wrists, fish food hidden inside the costume. Every graceful sweep of her arm guides the fish in shimmering formations around her body like living choreography.

“That’s beautiful,” Jess comments.

Talia arches backward underwater, eyes open, expression serene. Not strained. Not desperate for air.

“Yeah,” Laurel agrees.

Competitive swimmers are taught efficiency. Speed. Survival. But Talia moves like water is art instead of combat. Her breath control is unreal. Nearly a full minute passes before she resurfaces, and when she does, she breaks through the water slowly, smiling toward the audience as if she hasn’t just done something physically brutal. People stand. Applause crashes through the theater. Talia spins once beneath the spotlight and gives an exaggerated playful pose at the edge of the tank, one hand at her waist while the glittering logo stitched along the side of her dress catches the light perfectly. Advertisement. Obviously. And yet somehow it works. Laurel joins the standing ovation, and she notices Jess glancing her way with a knowing smile. Below them, Talia blows a kiss toward the audience, radiant beneath the lights as cameras flash from every direction.

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The apartment is quiet except for the hum of the air conditioner and the distant crash of waves across the balcony door. Jess is already complaining about chlorine-damaged hair as they disappear into the bathroom, and Laurel lies sideways across her bed, phone balanced inside her hands while the glow from the screen reflects over her eyes. She’s probably already following her, she’s certain she had seen Talia’s face so many times before, but the search results shock her with the blue follow button, indication that in fact, she does not follow Talia on Instagram.

Her profile appears at the top with a verification badge, millions of followers, and a profile picture of Talia underwater again, eyes half-lidded beneath shimmering light. Post after post fills the screen. Talia on a yacht somewhere impossibly expensive, wearing a white swim set with gold jewelry against deeply tanned skin. Talia backstage at fashion week wrapped in silk robes while makeup artists hover around her. Talia underwater again, hair floating around her like dark ink while photographers capture her through glass tanks.

“She’s literally a mermaid,” Laurel mutters before she can stop herself. The thing that stands out the most is how different Talia looks depending on the shoot. For swimwear campaigns, she looks sunlit and wild, skin shining with seawater droplets while she stands barefoot on rocks or climbs out of pools with wet hair slicked down her back. Athletic. Untouchable. Like she was born in the ocean. But then Laurel swipes again and suddenly Talia is standing beneath crystal chandeliers modeling some luxury brand in a black satin gown, posture elegant enough to make everyone around her disappear. Another swipe. Lingerie campaign. Laurel freezes for half a second. The photos aren’t vulgar, just dangerously confident. Lace, silk, sharp eye contact directly into the camera like she knows exactly what effect she has on people. Laurel sinks lower into her pillow. “How pretty is this woman legally allowed to be?” she mumbles.

Jess walks back into the room drying their hair with a towel. “Very. That’s why they pay her.”

There are behind-the-scenes clips from the aqua show; videos of Talia practicing underwater choreography, laughing between takes while assistants wrap towels around her shoulders. One slow-motion clip shows the exact dive from tonight. From this angle, she can see the technical precision better; the tight core control, the clean alignment before entry, the absolute lack of hesitation. Talia isn’t just pretty, she’s disciplined. Every movement looks practiced down to the smallest detail, the same way elite swimmers perfect turns and starts until they become instinct. There’s a recent photo from tonight’s show; Talia stands at the edge of the glowing tank in that silver dress, water droplets sparkling across her skin beneath the stage lights while she smiles at the camera like she belongs entirely to another world. Laurel stares at it longer than she means to.

“Do you think she likes girls?”

“She’s very secretive about her private life,” Jess replies with one eyebrow raised at Laurel. “But she’s been seen with an equal number of boys and girls in her photos, so who knows?”

Laurel hums as she gets more comfortable on the bed, hitting that follow button just like she’s hit the like button on dozens of Talia’s posts. She sets her phone over the nightstand as Jess turns the lights out, but before the screen light could dim, a notification appears on the screen, and Laurel reaches with a finger to turn the screen towards her slightly, almost dropping the phone in shock as she sees the notification:

-Talia Kane followed you back!

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The pool is almost empty at night. Only the low emergency lights stay on, casting long reflections across the water that ripple like something alive in slow motion. The echo of Laurel’s strokes is sharper without the daytime noise; every kick, every breath, every slap of her hand into the water comes back at her like criticism. She pushes off again, harder this time. Her lungs burn faster than they should. She ignores it. One-two-three-breathe. The lane rope shudders beside her as she powers down the length of the pool, eyes locked on the far wall like she can force time itself to bend if she just commits enough effort into each stroke. Touch, flip, turn, push, again, again, again.

When she finally drags herself out, her arms feel like they don’t quite belong to her anymore. She stands barefoot on the wet tiles, chest heaving, and stares at the timer; the thirty glaring back at her. Still stuck where she was a couple of days ago. Laurel doesn’t move for a long time. The pool is silent except for the filtration system humming beneath the surface. Technique. Efficiency. Streamline. Turn timing. Breath control. She’s done all of that, so why is Jacqui still faster? Why does it feel like no matter how much she pushes, she’s running into something she can’t see? Her gaze drifts down to her body before she can stop it. Athlete’s awareness turns quickly into something sharper tonight. Critical. Unforgiving. She notices everything like it’s suddenly under a microscope—every ounce of fatigue, every trace of heaviness she imagines is slowing her down.

A thought forms before she fully agrees to it. It doesn’t feel like a decision so much as a logic problem her tired brain is trying to solve, so she grabs her bag without thinking too long about it. The gym is still open; It’s quieter than the pool, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Most people are gone except for a couple of night staff wiping down machines. The place smells like rubber mats and metal. Laurel walks straight to the treadmills. At first it feels productive. Controlled. Measurable. Something she can fix. But the longer she runs, the more the same frustration follows her from the pool. Her legs ache in a different way now, but the feeling is the same: she is still herself, still thirty seconds, still not enough. The machine beeps softly, counting rhythm like the pool timer did earlier.

“You look stressed.”

Laurel startles, almost falling off the treadmill, but she catches herself just in time to stop the machine and turn her head to the side. She was way too into her own head that she hadn’t noticed anyone approaching, but there, standing right at her arm’s reach, is the one and only, “You’re … Talia Kane.”

“You’re Laurel Kent,” Talia offers a polite smile, and Laurel blinks at her. “I like to watch the Olympics.” Talia shrugs.

“Oh,” Laurel says after a beat. “I don’t really expect people to recognize any of the Olympians, honestly,” she offers a shrug of her own. “Well, unless you do something trend-worthy.” She rolls her eyes. “Maybe if I dyed my hair pink or something, it’ll flash against the waters.” And it makes Talia laugh.

“Please don’t.”

“Yeah, I probably wouldn’t look good in pink.”

“It would really suit your skin tone,” Talia argues. “But I like the black hair better.” Talia tilts her head to the side as her gaze flickers to Laurel’s hair. “Makes people recognize you for who you are.” Bold words coming from someone whose sales are purely based on the number of followers they keep, but Laurel doesn’t say those thoughts out loud. Someone calls Talia’s name, and for a brief second, Laurel notices that her skin glows even against the dim lights of the gym. Those photos aren’t filters, it seems. “I’ll have to go,” Talia says as she turns to look at Laurel again. “I’m here with a client, so …” She points behind her.

“Yeah, sure.” Laurel nods at her and offers a smile back before she watches Talia turn and walk away. Laurel stands there for a moment, chest rising and falling, staring at her reflection in the darkened window of the gym wall; faint, blurred, exhausted. Maybe it’s time she goes home.

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“Team beach day,” Jess announces at breakfast. “Coach’s idea of mental recovery training.”

Laurel narrows her eyes. “Is this just code for more laps in open water where I can’t see the bottom and question my life choices?”

Jess cracks a smile. “No. Actual beach. No timers. No yelling. No Jacqui breaking physics in Lane Three.” Laurel hums in thought. “And,” they add more gently, “you’re not wearing a team suit.”

Laurel blinks. “What?”

“Sporty black compression fabric that looks like you’re about to break world records in a lab experiment,” Jess interrupts. “Yes. You always wear that. You’re not wearing it today.”

Laurel sets her fork down slowly. “What am I supposed to wear then?”

Jess grins. “Something normal. Something that doesn’t scream I count my existence in split times.” Laurel sends a glare their way, though she still agrees to the shopping.

Jess drifts ahead through racks of swimsuits like they belong there more than she does. “Too neon,” they say, flicking one aside. “Too boring. Too… emotionally unavailable.” Laurel follows half-heartedly until something catches her eye. A swimsuit on a hanger near the back; soft pink. Not loud, not childish—just warm, muted, almost like sunset caught in fabric. The design is simple, but the cut is different from anything she usually wears. Less performance. More… existing. It reminds her of a Talia Kane post. One of the swimwear shoots; pink tones, ocean backdrop. Effortless posture like she isn’t thinking about water resistance or stroke mechanics at all.

Laurel hesitates. “It’s… not performance fabric.”

Jess shrugs. “Good. You’re not performing today. You’re going to the beach.” Laurel reaches to touch the fabric, already feeling how soft it would feel on her body, and she gives a nod to herself more than to anybody else. She’s buying this.

The beach is loud in a completely different way than the pool. No whistles. No echoes. Just wind, waves, and people laughing like time doesn’t exist in fractions of seconds. Laurel sits on the sand adjusting the straps of the pink swimsuit, suddenly hyperaware of how different she looks without a cap, without goggles, without anything that makes her feel like an athlete instead of just… a person. She notices Jacqui a few meters away, already taking photos with teammates. Phone raised. Angles adjusted. Laughing at something someone says. No competition today. She has to remind herself, but instead of forcing the bonding session their coach had suggested, she heads to the open sea instead, feeling the water at her fingertips before she’s fully submerging her body beneath. How does Talia feel when she’s underwater? Weightless? Or with all the world’s weight on her shoulders like Laurel feels? Coming back to the surface, Laurel believes that Talia would have probably made it into one of the Olympics teams and wonders if she was ever scouted.

Turning back to the beach, she notices Jess with their phone up, and she smiles, strikes a pose, and Jess smiles back as they take her picture. “That’s actually a very nice shot,” Jess compliments once Laurel joins them on the towel. “You should post this. You have important followers now.” Pink swimsuit. Wind in her hair. Sand behind her. Waves curling softly at her ankles like she’s part of the scene instead of fighting it. Yeah, Laurel believes it’s a good shot, too.

“Right.” Laurel rolls her eyes at Jess, but she posts the picture on Instagram before dropping the phone into the bag and standing up again. “Alright. Team bonding time.” She offers a hand to Jess, and soon the two are joining the rest of the team in their activities.

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When the alarm rings softly from the bedside table, Laurel groans and reaches for her phone to turn it off, finding a lot of new notifications across the screen. One name in particular catches her interest, and she rubs her eyes as she sits up properly on the bed.

-Talia Kane likes your photo.

-Talia Kane commented on your photo “You look cute in that fit!”

Laurel blinks a few more times at the comment then her eyes shift lower to check the time of the comment, and it’s oddly right now. With a hesitant tap, Laurel opens Talia’s account, and with a sudden sleepy surge of bravery, she decides to send her a message, seeing the online status turned on.

-Hey

-Hey ;)

-Looks like we’re both awake at odd times of the day.

-I have a wild schedule in summer. Today is an early beach photoshoot.

-Our residence is near the beach. The water is nice here. No high waves, so you can just enjoy your time. Would be perfect for a shooting.

-You’re staying near the beach? Send me the location.

-Laurel Kane shared a location.

-That’s actually very close to where I’m shooting! Wanna meet up?

Laurel stares at the message for a second too long before she types her answer and jumps out of bed to change her clothes. When she glances at the mirror, her hair is a mess, so she just ties a headband over it and leaves the room. Talia is standing where she said she would, and Laurel is momentarily concerned for her choice of clothing as she notices the high heeled sandals, already imagining the sand getting into them as she walks, but her radiant smile when she notices Laurel is enough to distract her from her feet. Talia’s height is almost as tall as her now when she’s wearing heels, but her gaze drifts higher to Laurel’s hair.

“Your hair looks better untied,” she comments, mostly referring to the image Laurel posted.

“It’s out of habit.” Laurel shrugs. “I have to tie it at most times, so …”

“You would totally rock a longer length.”

“Maybe.” Laurel shrugs again. “But it’s best to have it short to fit beneath the cap, and I’m constantly underwater that I feel like it would be just a tangle mess. Besides, I’m way better off without the extra weight.”

“So that’s why you were at the gym at one in the morning.” It’s not a question, and Laurel definitely notices her gaze flickering down for a brief second. Most girls would tell her that she’s naturally gifted, though Laurel isn’t entirely sure about that. Her cup size being the least of her worries. “You shouldn’t be too hard on yourself,” Talia tells her, and before they can resume their conversation, Talia’s phone rings. “Ah, that’s the photographer arriving. I better go.” She looks up at Laurel. “I feel like I’m ditching you twice now, and that it’s extremely rude.”

“No, I understand.” Laurel offers her a smile. “I have a practice round to catch up, too.” She points behind her, and Talia offers another smile at her.

“I’ll see you around.”

“See ya.” Laurel watches her back retreating back into the sand where her team is waiting for her, and can’t help but notice how poised she is yet so very fitting to any environment like she doesn’t only belong below the water, but air carries her body gracefully, too. The time on her phone tells her that she would be late if she stayed to stare after Talia Kane, so she turns to leave as well.

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Morning sunlight spills across the marina in sheets of pale gold, turning the water into rippling glass. Another ‘team bonding session’ seems to have been organized by the coach; this time, a yacht trip seep into the sea. The team bus pulls up beside the docks just after eight, brakes hissing softly as sleepy swimmers begin stumbling out one by one carrying backpacks, towels, and enough caffeine to revive a small country. The ocean air hits immediately—cold, salty, fresh in a way that feels completely different from the heavy chlorine atmosphere she’s used to breathing every day. Wind brushes through her short curls as she adjusts the strap of her duffel over one shoulder and looks out over the marina. Rows of yachts sway gently against the docks. Some are small and practical. Others are absurdly extravagant, polished white surfaces gleaming beneath the sun like they’ve never experienced actual human problems. The dock itself is alive with movement. Crew members carry supplies across narrow gangways. Ropes creak softly against wooden posts. Somewhere nearby, gulls cry overhead while waves slap rhythmically against the boats.

“Laurel!” Her name being called startles the entire group, and Laurel turns slowly to find none other than Talia Kane waving at her. There’s a wide brimmed hat on top of her head, a pair of sunglasses covering her eyes, and a golden bikini beneath a white coverup that compliments the shade of her skin too well.

“Is that Talia Kane?” Someone mumbles from behind her. “She knows Laurel? Our Laurel?” But the voices die down a little when Laurel walks towards Talia.

“Another shoot?”

“My schedule isn’t all business, you know,” Talia replies. “I’m just here to chill. Wanna comes along?” Talis points at one of the yachts, and Laurel just stares. The yacht waiting beside the far dock doesn’t even look real at first. It’s longer than most of the boats in the marina combined, its sleek black-and-white exterior gleaming beneath the morning sun without a single visible flaw. The hull curves smoothly through the water like something designed for speed rather than luxury, though every detail screams obscene amounts of money; chrome railings flash silver along the edges. Dark tinted windows wrap around the upper levels in seamless bands, reflecting the ocean in shifting blue light. Multiple decks rise above the waterline, each lined with soft cream seating and glass barriers so spotless they almost disappear entirely. Even the movement of the yacht feels elegant. It barely rocks against the dock while smaller boats nearby bob constantly in the waves.

“Um …” Laurel turns to look at her group, and Jess gives her a thumbs up. “Yeah.” She turns back to Talia. “Yeah, I would love that, actually.” And it makes another bright smile break across Talia’s face.

“You’ve loosened up your fit,” Talia points out, and Laurel looks down at the opened loosened tee she has chosen to wear without a bra.

“Yeah,” she agrees. “I like to take a break sometimes from sports bras.”

“Looks better on you,” Talia compliments before she’s turning towards her yacht and inviting Laurel to follow her.

A uniformed crew member steps forward immediately to steady the boarding ramp for them. offering a polite nod that somehow makes the entire experience even more surreal. Soft music drifts somewhere overhead. The main deck opens into what looks less like a boat interior and more like a luxury penthouse placed directly onto the ocean. Sunlight pours through enormous windows, spilling across cream-colored furniture and pale wood floors. Everything is soft curves and clean lines. White couches wrap around low glass tables decorated with fresh flowers. Gold accents glint subtly from shelves and light fixtures without feeling excessive. A marble countertop stretches through the open dining area beside a fully stocked kitchen bigger than Laurel’s parents’ apartment.

The windows are so large that the ocean seems stitched directly into the walls themselves, waves glittering outside from every angle. Laurel turns slowly, trying not to look visibly overwhelmed. Talia moves easily through the space, and Laurel realizes that she must own this boat. Without stage makeup or performance lighting, she somehow looks even prettier; less untouchable, more real. Which is arguably worse for Laurel’s ability to think normally.

“Come on,” Talia says, motioning her further inside. “You haven’t seen the best part yet.”

Laurel follows her toward the back deck. The entire rear section opens directly toward the ocean with descending platforms nearly level with the water itself. Lounge beds are tucked beneath shaded awnings, soft towels folded neatly nearby. At the very edge of the platform, waves crash gently against the yacht in sparkling bursts. Beyond it all stretches endless open sea. Blue in every direction.

Laurel lets out a quiet laugh of disbelief. “This is richer than anything I’ve ever even looked at.”

“Then you haven’t look at much,” Talia replies with a shrug as Laurel notices the yacht beginning to move away from the docks. “How comfortable are you with diving without equipment?”

“How you’re comfortable with any kind of clothing beneath waters is beyond me,” Laurel confesses, and it makes Talia laugh. “I can barely control my body with a fitting one-piece.”

“Would you protest so much if this boat sinks and you end up struggling for your life in the middle of the ocean?”

“That’s different.”

“Feels the same to me.” Talia shrugs. “If you’re not comfortable with your own body against anything, then you’re doing it the wrong way, but I mean, I used to be a professional diver, exploring the corals and such.” Oh. That explains a lot. Laurel watches her take the coverup, glasses, and hat off before she’s turning to look at Laurel. “Are you in or out?”

And it’s been a long while since Laurel had just swum for fun, so she takes the initiative and discards her shoes first before she’s diving right into the waters. When she resurfaces, she watches Talia diving in with a perfect pose; more perfect than she’s seen anyone doing it, and then she’s following her underneath.

Laurel can already see shadows of coral beneath the surface, branching shapes in faded golds, deep reds, soft purples. Fish flicker between them like scattered pieces of light. Salt presses against her skin as sunlight fractures above them in shifting patterns. Laurel kicks downward through the blue, opening her eyes despite the sting. The reef sprawls beneath them like another world. Coral rises in enormous formations from the ocean floor, layered with colors so vivid they almost look artificial. Tiny electric-blue fish dart between sea fans waving gently in the current while schools of silver fish move together in synchronized flashes. Talia glides ahead effortlessly; her dark hair streams weightlessly behind her while she twists through the reef with practiced ease, one hand brushing lightly through the water beside a cluster of coral.

Talia doesn’t move like an athlete exactly. Not like swimmers do in competition. There’s no aggression to it. No urgency. She moves like she’s listening to the water instead of fighting it. The fish seem drawn toward her naturally, swirling around her body in flashes of orange, silver, and blue while sunlight ripples over her skin. At one point she spins slowly beneath the surface, arms stretched outward while hundreds of tiny reflective scales shimmer around her like floating stars. The ocean feels endless here. Talia resurfaces, and Laurel follows her.

Talia floats on her back for a moment, sunlight pouring across her face while waves rock her gently. “You know,” she says, turning her head toward Laurel, “you swim like someone’s chasing you.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you’re always trying to beat the water.” Talia smiles faintly. “You don’t have to out here.” Laurel opens her mouth to reply, but nothing actually comes out, so instead, she glances back at the yacht, noticing how far they have strayed away from it.

“Race you back to the yacht?” She glances at Talia, and before the other girl gets to react as she angles her body vertically again, Laurel takes a head start, trying to force her body to its full speed, a training of some sort, and she counts the seconds in her head, hand gripping the edge of the yacht before she blinks away the water, but she is surprised when she sees Talia right there, sitting, waiting for her, and Laurel feels the breath knocked out of her lungs. Talia hadn’t splashed near her at all; that means that she was entirely underwater and was faster than Laurel … No, even faster than Jacqui the aqua girl herself, and she doesn’t look the least exhausted doing so. Laurel believes that Talia is secretly a fish in human form that might grow an invisible tail underwater.

“I can see those gears turning in your head,” Talia speaks softly. “This was just a fun activity, you don’t need to think about it too hard.”

“Yeah, no, I …” Laurel shakes her head and pulls her weight back onto the yacht.

“I get it,” Talia cuts her off. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t.” Laurel shakes her head. “I’m alright. Really.”

“Okay,” Talia says, though she doesn’t look convinced as she hands Laurel a towel to dry herself off. And perhaps its Laurel’s distant look that made Talia request that they head back to the docks, dropping Laurel off. Laurel decides to call it a day and get back to the team’s quarters.

════════

Laurel is in a terrible mood. Not dramatic, explosive anger. Worse. The quiet kind. The kind that settles heavy in her chest after a bad practice and follows her home like wet clothing she can’t peel off. She lies on her bed, eyes gazing up at the sky through the opened windows. Her damp hair is twisted into a messy bun that’s already half-falling apart. The coach spent nearly forty minutes correcting her breathing pattern while Jacqui casually pulled another sub-twenty-seven like she wasn’t violating several laws of physics. Laurel flops backward against the mattress with a groan, dragging both hands over her face. Everything feels wrong lately. Her brain keeps turning everything into numbers; time, weight, rankings, percentages.

Her phone buzzes suddenly beside her. Laurel barely glances at it at first, but when she does, she sees Talia Kane’s name popping up on the screen, and she slides the phone closer to her face. It’s a message, and Laurel slides it open.

-Does your building have a room number?

Laurel reads over the message with furrowed brows before she’s typing out a reply:

-Yes.

-What’s your room number?

-Are you coming to visit?

-I’m sending you a gift ;)

Laurel sits properly on the bed, fingers hovering nervously over her screen. Talia wants to send her a gift? Why?

-Hurry up, please. The delivery guy is literally standing outside awkwardly.

-By the way, you don’t need to pay him any tips, that’s already covered.

Laurel blinks at the message and quickly types out her room number. There’s barely a couple of minutes passing before they hear a knock on the door, and Laurel gets up to open it. The delivery guy offering a polite smile as he hands Laurel the package.

“Thanks,” Laurel says to the guy and he nods at her before he leaves. Jess pops their head from behind their phone and cocks an eyebrow at Laurel.

“You ordered something?”

“No,” Laurel replies as she sits down on the bed and opens the box. “Talia sent me this.”

“She sent you a gift after your date on the yacht?”

“It wasn’t a date.” Laurel rolls her eyes.

“Right, because you had to blow it.”

Laurel ignores them, and once she opens the box, there’s a handwritten note, a glittering blue ink that catches a purple hue when it’s reflecting light, and Laurel notices how elegant Talia’s handwriting is.

-I’m sorry for yesterday. I tried to catch the reflections in your eyes. Hope you like it x

The box opens to reveal a beautiful light blue dress; the fabric shimmering in the light to copy that purple hue from the note, and Laurel looks at it with a mesmerized gaze.

“Wow,” Jess speaks up from across of her. “Catch the reflections in your eyes? She noticed the purple in your eyes hidden between the layers of blue?”

“I …”

“And how on earth did she even get your measurements right?” Jess picks up the note. “Oh, wait, there’s more written on the back.” Laurel drops the dress back into the box and turns to see the note in Jess’s hands.

-If you accept my apology, then maybe we can meet for dinner?

“The address literally says it’s a villa. How were you able to honestly pull the Talia Kane?”

“I’m …” Laurel is at a loss for words again, but Jess is acting faster than her as they get up.

“Okay, girl, this is definitely a date invitation. And you’re definitely going.” They turn towards the dresser. “We have plenty of time, let me get your hair up in rollers.”

════════

Laurel stands at the wrought-iron gates of Talia’s villa with one hand curled around the strap of her purse, staring up at the sprawling estate washed in warm amber light. The house rises behind the walls like something carved out of a magazine spread; white stone, towering windows, balconies draped in flowering vines. Music hums faintly somewhere inside. She reaches with a hand to press on the bell, only waiting a few seconds until the gates are open, and Talia stands before her dressed in a floor-length red figure-hugging strapless dress and a matching bold red lipstick. The color compliments her tanned skin so well that Laurel forgets to speak for a moment. Laurel is wearing the blue dress she was gifted, fabric falling short above her knees, measurements oddly fitting her perfectly and making her chest stand out more than usual. The added high heels give her an extra few inches on Talia. She’s used to dressing up; family occasions, sports events, though not very often. Jess did make her hair look fabulous though, and Talia’s gaze surely catches up on all of that. Maybe this is a date.

“You look pretty,” Talia compliments.

“Thanks,” Laurel replies with a smile. “You look as beautiful as ever.” Laurel doubts if Talia can ever look anything but pretty.

“Come in,” Talia invites her inside, and Laurel steps past the gates as the close behind her. “I’m glad you accepted my apology. I didn’t mean to trouble you, Laurel.”

“You’re not at fault.” Laurel quickly shakes her head. It makes her curls bounce around her face, softer than she mostly has it. Talia’s hair doesn’t seem to be bothered by either humidity or the constant change of styles. Not even when she’s emerging out of water that it looks out of place. Laurel wonders if it’s simply genetics or a complete row of intensive care products.

The villa is even more excessive up close; marble floors polished like mirrors, enormous paintings lit by recessed lights, fresh orchids arranged on nearly every surface. Laurel catches herself staring at a chandelier large enough to belong in a palace. Talia gestures for Laurel to follow, leading her through the house instead of toward the dining room. Their footsteps echo softly through long corridors lined with glass walls. Beyond them, the backyard glows in shades of blue and gold. When Talia slides the final door open, warm night air spills over them. The garden stretches out before Laurel like a hidden resort. Lanterns hang from olive trees, casting pools of honey-colored light across trimmed hedges and stone pathways. At the center, an infinity pool gleams turquoise beneath the stars, its surface smooth as glass. And beside it sits a dinner table set for two. For a moment, all she hears is the soft lap of water against the pool’s edge and the distant chirp of crickets in the garden.

“Do you live here by yourself?”

“It’s a vacation house,” Talia explains. “My parents are a continent away.”

“Same,” Laurel replies. “I’m only here for the Olympics.”

Talia politely offers her a seat, and they sit quietly across each other. “The food portions are calculated,” Talia speaks up. “I know you must be on a diet for the Olympics.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Laurel smiles as she glances down at the food.

Grilled sea bass, delicately seasoned with lemon and herbs, arranged beside a measured portion of saffron rice and charred asparagus. Every element is plated beautifully, but not sparingly. Enough protein for recovery. Enough carbohydrates for endurance. Enough vegetables to satisfy nutrition without weighing her down. Their conversation never rises above the peaceful quiet surrounding them. It drifts instead, easy and unforced. Laurel talks about training schedules that start before sunrise, about the strange silence right before diving into water during competition. Talia listens with her chin resting lightly against her knuckles, watching Laurel more than she watches the food.

“And the Olympics?” Talia asks softly. “What does it feel like?”

Laurel exhales through a faint smile. “You walk into an arena with thousands of people screaming, cameras everywhere, entire countries expecting something from you.” She traces a fingertip against the rim of her glass. “And then suddenly it’s quiet underwater for a few seconds, and it’s just you and the clock.”

The candles flicker between them. Talia reaches for the bottle of sparkling water before Laurel can refill her own glass. It’s such a small gesture, practiced and attentive, but Laurel notices that too. Everything tonight feels measured in that same careful way. Not controlling. Caring. The pool glows beside them, casting blue light across Talia’s skin whenever she leans back in her chair. Laurel catches herself relaxing more with every passing minute, tension unwinding from muscles that are almost never allowed to rest.

She listens to Talia rambling about clients and boxes left unopened from sponsors that are still left inside the villa; an image Laurel can’t quite place since the whole place seems to have items be carefully positioned right where they belong. She figures they might be kept inside an empty storage room, with perhaps a servant or two going back and forth so Talia can review the items. And before she knows it, the night sky had taken a darker shade of blue, and the time on her phone tells her that she needs to go home.

“I have an early practice in the morning,” Laurel explains.

“Yeah, of course,” Talia replies, reaching quickly for her own phone and slides it across the table. “Give me your number. It’s a hassle having to check through my messages on Instagram every time we text.”

Laurel doesn’t know how it is, but she can only imagine Talia either going through hundreds of messages from clients and fans just to locate Laurel’s text, or that she literally has to type in Laurel’s name for her account to load. Both options make Laurel’s chest expand a little bit, and she smiles as she types in her number before giving Talia her phone back.

“This was very considerate of you. Thank you,” Laurel says when they’re at the door.

“I’ll see you around, Laurel,” Talia offers with a smile.

════════

“One final fifty. Race pace.”

Laurel climbs onto the starting block. Water slides down her calves. The textured surface digs into the soles of her feet as she crouches low, fingers curling over the edge. To her left, Jacqui settles into position. The entire world narrows to heartbeat and silence. The buzzer sounds. Laurel dives. The water swallows her whole in an instant—cold, pressurized quiet wrapping around her body as she cuts forward. Kick. Pull. Breathe. Her muscles burn immediately from the accumulated strain of practice, but she forces herself harder, faster. She surfaces into the turn already gasping. Jacqui is ahead. Laurel pushes off the wall hard enough to jar her shoulders and drives through the final stretch with everything left in her body, lungs screaming by the time her hand slams against the finish. The buzzer echoes dead through the building. Heads tilt upward toward the board.

“No way—” Laurel hears someone gasp, but she’s looking at the board, too. Eyes focused but her mind seemed to have shut down completely. The number next to Jacqui’s name look unreal to her; twenty-two, while Laurel’s record is still the same thirty. Four whole seconds further widening the gap between them, and for a split second, Laurel thinks of letting go of her body, allowing it to sink deep into the pool. Maybe no one would notice, but she knows better.

Jacqui grips the edge of the pool, breathing hard now, finally looking human as water streams down her face. But there’s a grin fighting at the corners of her mouth while teammates shout around her.

“Jesus, Jacqui,” someone says nearby. “That’s Olympic final timing.”

Jacqui laughs breathlessly. “Still gotta make it official.”

Laurel drags herself out of the pool in silence. Water pours off her body and spatters across the tiles. Her arms feel heavy suddenly, exhaustion sinking into her bones all at once.

“Again tomorrow. We lock that in,” the coach addresses Jacqui. Laurel grabs her towel from the bench and scrubs it over her hair harder than necessary. Around her, the others buzz with excitement, replaying Jacqui’s swim second by second like they’ve witnessed history. Maybe they have. Jacqui catches Laurel’s eye across the deck. For a moment, something uncertain flickers across her expression. Guilt, maybe. Or concern. Jacqui opens her mouth like she wants to say more, but the coach calls her name again, and they break eye contact.

By the time Laurel leaves the aquatic center, the sun has already disappeared behind the city skyline. The evening air feels colder than it should. She walks through the parking lot with her duffel bag slung over one shoulder, chlorine still clinging to her skin and hair despite the shower she barely remembers taking. Laurel shoves her earbuds in without turning music on. Laurel presses the heels of her palms against her eyes, then her phone buzzes; a notification flashes across the screen. Talia’s name is in bold letters, and Laurel remembers that she’s doing the aquatic shows. Realistically, she has Talia’s number, she could ask for a free entry, but she finds herself standing in line just like everybody else at the theatre, and surprisingly, she is able to get a ticket without an emergency call off.

Talia is wearing a different outfit tonight; silk ribbons trail from her neckline, curling around her body in hypnotic spirals as she dives and turns beneath the surface lights. Watching Talia feels like exhaling. The knot in Laurel’s chest loosens little by little. During the final sequence, Talia rises from the water onto the platform at the center of the pool, and pauses. Talia spots her, and offers a genuine smile that Laurel can’t help but replicate. All day, she has felt invisible beside someone faster, better, untouchable. But Talia looks at her like she was worth noticing among the seas of the crowd.

The moment Talia goes backstage and people start to move outside, Laurel’s phone dings with a notification, and she finds a message from Talia, through her direct number this time:

-Don’t leave yet. Wanna show you something.

So Laurel halts in her seat, waits until the rows are cleared before she starts descending towards the stage. Up close, the fish moving inside the large tank feel like they’re surrounding Laurel; like she’s back swimming with Talia in the open ocean, where they were supposed to have fun and Laure’s mood had ruined it.

Talia comes back to the stage a moment later, still dressed in her performance outfit, and Laurel takes a second to admire it closely. “You could have told me you’re coming. I would have provided a better seat for you.”

“It was a last-minute decision, actually,” Laurel admits with a sheepish smile. “The performance was beautiful. Like always, of course.”

“Thank you.” Talia smiles at her. “Want to have a dive in?” She nods her head towards the tank, and before Laurel can say that she’s tired from practice or complain about her clothes, Talia spins on her heels and starts ascending towards the edge of the tank, so Laurel follows her silently and they both dive in.

Light filters down in shifting waves while fish scatter around them in flashes of silver and gold. The noise of the world vanishes beneath the surface. Talia reaches for Laurel’s wrist gently and guides her deeper into the tank. At the bottom level, Talia opens one of the feeding containers attached to her belt. Tiny fish swarm immediately around her hands in glittering spirals. Talia offers the container to her and Laurel carefully opens it, releasing another handful of food into the water. Larger fish glide closer this time, scales flashing iridescent blue beneath the lights. Talia swims closer until they hover only inches apart beneath the blue light, and despite being underwater with her lungs slowly emptying out of air, Laurel feels like she can breathe. Talia grabs her wrist again to guide her up, back to the surface, back to the real world, and she laughs at Laurel once she’s able to get her voice back.

“You’re a little bit tense around fish.”

“You’re a professional diver,” Laurel reasons. “Meanwhile, I spend most of my days in controlled water.” Talia is the first to jump out of water, offering a hand to Laurel to get her out as well and leads her backstage where they can have a towel.

“I think you should change out of that,” Talia points out, and Laurel looks down at herself, at how the wet t-shirt clings to her skin, and sighs.

“It’s summer. It’ll dry out.”

“I’m not going to be responsible for you catching a cold right before the Olympics.” Talia picks a clean jacket from the various props that are kept backstage, one that fits Laurel’s slightly bigger frame, and Laurel takes off her shirt and replaces it with the jacket. It’s long; covering her shorts and keeping her warm, and then she notices Talia taking the wet t-shirt. “I’ll dry this for you.”

“You really needn’t,” Laurel tells her. “It’s only like a walking distance back to the team quarters.”

“You’re busy,” Talia retorts. “Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of it.” She offers a smile, and Laurel thanks her before she leaves.

════════

Back at the team quarters, Laurel stares at her reflection after taking a shower; her wet curls tickle her neck and she wonders if she should consider a pixie cut. It would be less of a hassle every day she decides to take a dip into the pool. Maybe she’ll check a wig first to see if the style can work for her face. The shared room is illuminated with a single lamp between the two beds. Jess is still up; the light coming from their phone screen adds more light reflecting on the walls behind them, and they look up at Laurel with wide eyes when she exits the bathroom.

“What?”

“Isn’t this your shirt?” Jess turns the phone in their hands, and Laurel bends over to see the screen. It’s Talia; taking a selfie in what she assumes is her bed, wearing Laurel’s shirt, a little too big on her, the neckline slid to one side fashionably, and tied neatly right below her chest. The light reflecting over the shirt makes Laurel focus on a nipple rippling the fabric. The caption reads: slowly becoming my favorite shirt 💋 “Okay, spit it out. When did you fuck?”

“What?!” Laurel straightens herself again. “We haven’t!” She defends herself, though with someone like Talia Kane, Laurel wouldn’t even dare say no when asked. Laurel wants her to ask. Would Talia ask though? Is this more than just a girl offering another girl some help with her life? “I went to see her show. We took a dive. My shirt got wet … She just offered to …” Her eyes look back to the phone, the screen starting to dim from inactivity. Jess raises their brows expectedly, but Laurel honestly doesn’t know what to say. “She might have liked it. I don’t know.”

“No offense, Laurel, but it’s a very basic graphic tee,” Jess turns the phone again towards them. “To someone like Talia Kane, that’s like a cheap item that she wouldn’t even glance at once, never minding wearing one.”

“I don’t know, Jess,” Laurel admits as she slumps down her own bed. “She’s just … nice.”

“And very pretty.”

“Very,” Laurel agrees, and Jess turns to her with a bright grin. “But nothing happened, okay?”

“Sure, okay.” Jess shrugs.

Laurel settles on her own bed and grabs her phone. Talia’s contact is still at the top of her messages from earlier, and she taps on it.

- Should I be worried about not having my shirt back?

Talia’s reply comes instantly.

-I might be open to an exchange 🤷🏽‍♀️

- I doubt any of your clothes would fit me though.

-Or is it an exchange for the dress?

- The dress is a gift and isn't up for an exchange x

-I might be thinking of something else that can fit you though ;)

Talia reads over that text twice. Is Talia … Flirting with her? The Talia Kane? It couldn’t possibly be, right?

-Do you wanna come over? I'm pulling up the snacks for a couch movie night.

Laurel glances up at the time and bites down on her lips before she’s typing a definite yes. Jess raises their brows at her when she gets up again, and Laurel sends a shrug their way.

“Just wish me luck that this could actually lead to something.”

“She’s a catch. You’d be missing on a lot if it doesn’t lead to something.”

Talia finds herself standing in front of a familiar gate, with Talia greeting her warmly into the villa. She’s in a lounge outfit; a simply cotton cream-colored pajama with a tiny heart pattern all over it. Laurel was lowkey expecting her to still have the shirt on, and the thought that Talia merely put it on for Laurel to notice her post makes her heart skip a beat.

“I missed having a girls night,” Talia pulls her out of her thoughts as they stand in the kitchen. She’s already planned everything; the popcorn, the chips, the various sauces and drinks placed on a tray that she carries over to the living room, or what Laurel thinks is the living room, anyway. It’s just as large and luxurious as the rest of the villa, and the couch is super comfortable to settle in once she sits down. “These are organic,” Talia points at the drinks. “No sugar added. Fruit imported directly from our farms.”

“You own a farm?” Laurel raises her brows at her.

“It’s not like a living estate,” Talia tells her. “More like a production farm that my family owes.”

“Oh … I was raised in a farm.”

“Really?” Talia turns fully to her as she grabs the remote.

“My parents moved to the city a few years after I was born, but my grandparents are still living in the farm. We visit from time to time.”

“Wow … Must be nice.” Talia turns her head to the T.V and picks a movie. “I personally like country life. I believe it’s very calm and refreshing.”

“It is,” Laurel confirms. “You should come visit. My grandma makes the best pies ever.”

“Maybe I will,” Talia replies with a smile as she glances at Laurel.

Laurel might have eaten too many snacks, but their taste was honestly way too good to pass on. And Talia was sitting way too close during the movie that Laurel might have missed half of what was on the screen anyway. At some point, she really wanted to reach out to touch her silky strands, but opted to leave her hand over the cushions instead. When the movie is ending, Laurel has to excuse herself so the coach wouldn’t think that she’s slacking off.

════════

The practice ends in exhausted silence. Water drips steadily from the swimmers as they cling to the edges of the pool catching their breath, shoulders trembling from the final sprint set the coach forced them through. The harsh overhead lights reflect across the lanes in fractured white streaks. Laurel barely feels her arms anymore. Every muscle in her body burns with the dull heaviness of overtraining, but it’s nothing compared to the exhaustion sitting inside her chest these days. Not after the timing trials. Not after watching the gap between herself and Jacqui become something impossible to ignore.

The coach stands at the center of the pool deck with a clipboard tucked under one arm. “Everybody out,” she calls. Wet footsteps echo across the tiles while swimmers wrap towels around their shoulders and gather nearby. Laurel hangs back slightly, dragging her goggles from her face as water trickles down her neck. “I got confirmation from the committee this morning,” The coach announces. “The Olympic board approved our final representative slot.” And Laurel catches on the coach’s gaze shifting from one girl to the other. “Jacqui will be competing as the solo representative for the team this summer!”

The words hit Laurel like a physical impact. Around her, teammates immediately break into congratulations. Hands clap against Jacqui’s shoulders while she looks momentarily stunned beneath the sudden attention. She manages a small smile, overwhelmed but unsurprised. Of course she isn’t surprised. Everyone saw this coming. Everyone except the stupid hopeful part of Laurel that kept believing hard work might still matter. The coach keeps talking about sponsorships and press schedules and upcoming media training, but Laurel stops hearing her after the word solo. Solo representative. Meaning there hadn’t even been room left for second place. The sound around her blurs strangely. Applause. Excited chatter. Locker doors opening somewhere in the background.

Laurel stares down at the water gathering around the drain beneath her feet. Years of training before sunrise. Torn muscles. Ice baths. Diets strict enough to make dinner feel like math homework. Every birthday missed. Every relationship sacrificed for fractions of improvement. And it still wasn’t enough.

“Laurel,” Jess’s voice reaches her gently through the noise. They step beside her, holding their towel around their shoulders, hair still damp against their forehead. Unlike everyone else crowding around Jacqui, Jess isn’t smiling. “You okay?”

Laurel merely manages a shrug in response. “It’s fine.” It isn’t fine.

Jess shifts closer beside her, lowering their voice. “Hey. This doesn’t erase everything you’ve done. There’s still the team rally. You’re still into that.” They reach out carefully and squeeze Laurel’s shoulder. “And you’re still one of the best athletes I know.”

“But not the best one they wanted.” The sentence lands heavy between them. Jess exhales slowly.

Jess studies her face for a long moment before speaking softly. “You shouldn’t be alone tonight.”

Laurel forces a small smile that doesn’t hold together properly. “I’m okay.”

“You’re very obviously not.”

“I just…” She swallows hard. “Need a minute.”

Jess hesitates. Laurel can tell they want to argue. But eventually they nod once. “Text me later?”

“Promise.”

Jess squeezes her shoulder one final time before heading toward the locker rooms with the rest of the team. And then Laurel is alone. The training center empties gradually around her until only the low hum of fluorescent lights remains. Water laps quietly against the pool walls in endless soft echoes. The giant Olympic banners hanging overhead suddenly feel cruel. Laurel sinks down onto one of the benches near lane four, elbows braced against her knees as she stares at the empty water. This pool used to feel like purpose. Now it just feels like proof that no matter how desperately she reaches for something … someone else will always get there first. With a deep sigh, she bends forward, burying her face into her arms as she pulls her knees up.

“Jess told me I’d find you here.”

Laurel whips her head back when she hears her voice, and is more than surprised to see Talia walking towards her. “They’re your closest friend on the team, I assume?” Talia looks behind her for a moment before she’s settling down next to Laurel on the bench. “I’ve seen you around them a lot.”

“You have such sharp eyes.”

“Wanna know what my eyes see right now?”

“Not really.” Laurel turns her head away. Talia doesn’t speak up, and Laurel finds her silent presence comforting. She gives Laurel time; her own pace, until Laurel is able to swallow the knot in her throat and finally manage to speak up. “I’m not fit for the Olympics.”

Talia doesn’t reply back right away, looking ahead of them at the pool instead. “When I was young, out of a lot of lessons my parents were signing me for back then, there was one that I couldn’t exactly understand, despite all of my peers could comprehend perfectly, and I thought … It must be me, right? I’m doing this the wrong way?” She inhales deeply. “I couldn’t tell my parents. I didn’t want them to believe I was stupid, but they noticed anyway, and they changed my tutor, and I thought; this is a horrible idea. What would my colleagues think of me when the learn that I dropped out of one course and took a private class because my mind wasn’t accepting any more information? I was falling behind, and my grades would certainly not please my parents.” Talia turns to look at her again. “But you know what changed? My new tutor’s way of explaining things. It was different; unique in a way that perhaps my peers wouldn’t even understand, but humans learn differently, and just because the way you were taught that information didn’t work out for you, doesn’t necessarily mean that you can’t process such information.” Laurel turns her head towards her. “It’s not your fault that you got stuck with a coach who thinks that everyone on the team should be treated alike.” Talia stands up and starts discarding her outer layers.

“What are you doing?”

“Speaking your language,” Talia replies with a smile. “C’mon!” She walks backwards towards the pool, and despite this being Talia’s first time inside this building, she doesn’t even stumble once as she stops at a calculated distance and does an impressive back flip into the pool, leaving Laurel in awe. She always does that. A smile breaks on Laurel’s face despite everything happening, and since she hasn’t yet changed out of her swimwear, she dives right in after Talia.

Talia keeps correcting things Laurel has spent years perfecting under Olympic coaching; her shoulder tension, the angle of her kick, how rigidly she cuts through the water. Talia swims closer until she’s directly beside Laurel in the lane. Even floating still, she moves with impossible ease, body shifting naturally with every ripple instead of resisting it. Talia reaches out suddenly and presses two fingers lightly against Laurel’s shoulder. “Stop holding yourself up. You’re bracing, not floating.”

Laurel opens her mouth to argue, then pauses, because Talia’s right; Every muscle in her body is tight even now. Core locked. Legs engaged. Shoulders tense. As if she’s constantly preparing for impact instead of existing in the water. Talia’s gaze softens slightly when Laurel realizes it. “There,” she murmurs. “You feel it.” Talia slips behind her then, one hand hovering carefully near Laurel’s waist without quite touching. “The water already wants to carry you,” she says quietly near Laurel’s ear. “You waste energy fighting for control you already have.” The words send an odd shiver down Laurel’s spine. “Close your eyes.”

Laurel does as she’s told; at first, she hears only water shifting softly around them, then … more. Tiny changes in pressure against her skin. Currents rebounding off the pool walls. The subtle pull of displaced water every time Talia moves nearby. It’s faint, but it’s there. “The water talks,” Talia says softly. “Every movement creates an answer. Most swimmers ignore it because they’re obsessed with overpowering the clock.” Laurel opens her eyes slowly. “I dance with it.”

“Yeah, I have seen that.” And it makes Talia laugh.

Talia drifts backward through the water and gestures toward the lane. “One lap.”

“You’ve been saying weird mermaid poetry for an hour and now I’m supposed to magically become faster?”

Talia grins. “Go!”

Laurel inhales deeply and positions herself at the wall. For once, she doesn’t tense immediately. Instead, she remembers the feeling of the water shifting around her body. Carrying instead of resisting. Moving with her instead of against her. She dives. The difference is immediate; not because she’s stronger, but because suddenly nothing feels wasted. Her body cuts cleaner through the water. Her rotation loosens naturally instead of forcing every stroke into rigid precision. The current rolling off her fingertips seems to guide the next movement automatically. For the first time in years, Swimming feels light. Laurel pushes through the turn and accelerates hard into the final stretch, not fighting the water now but leaning into it, using every wave rebounding through the lane to propel herself forward. Her hand slams against the wall. She surfaces breathing hard.

Talia is already standing nearby at the pool edge holding the stopwatch. Laurel wipes water from her eyes. “Okay, what’s the damage?” Talia purses her lips together before she’s turning the stopwatch to show it to Laurel. Laurel freezes. “That’s not funny,” she says immediately. Laurel grabs the stopwatch from her hand and looks again. “That’s—”

“Jacqui’s range,” Talia says with a light tone. “I haven’t manipulated the result. You can dive back in for a second round and set your own watch if you want.”

“You know Jacqui?” Laurel shifts her gaze from the stopwatch to Talia with furrowed brows.

“Jess mentioned her; the solo representative of the team that her record got you super sad.”

“But how … One lesson-”

Talia crouches carefully at the pool’s edge, eyes steady on hers. “No,” she says softly. “One moment where you stopped treating yourself like something broken that needed to be beaten into perfection.” Laurel stares at the glowing numbers again, breath uneven now for reasons that have nothing to do with swimming. For weeks, she has felt like she was drowning beneath everyone else’s expectations. Coaches demanding more. Timers mocking her. Jacqui disappearing farther ahead every day. And somehow, Talia stepped into the water with her once, and showed her there had been another way to move all along, or perhaps she was already showing Laurel from the first time they met, but Laurel was too blind to see, more focused on how wrong Talia is moving instead of trying to learn how to move like her. Talia tilts her head slightly, a smile tugging gently at her mouth. “The water likes you better when you stop trying to conquer it.”

Laurel laughs once in disbelief, half breathless and half overwhelmed. “I get three invitations to the Olympics. My parents would be there. Sadly, my grandparents wouldn’t be able to make it, so that leaves one spot open.” She glances up at Talia who raises her brows at her. “Would you like … to come see me? I’m still in the rally race. If the coach hadn’t changed their mind.” She looks away. “There’s still a couple of weeks; I can try to perfect this record, see if I can do a better one, even.”

“I would love to come see you at the Olympics,” Talia replies with a bright smile.

════════

Laurel still keeps her training private just to make sure that she is able to perfect that score without a single drop, and she keeps at it for a whole week. No one from the team bothers to say anything about it; the coach had already made the solo announcement, but every decision can be revoked, and Laurel plans to change the coach’s view on her. At the end of the week, Laurel stares at the timer with wide blue eyes; the time reads twenty seconds, a whole two seconds differentiating her from Jacquie, and the first thing she does is to run straight back to Talia’s villa, watching her confused expression as Laurel can’t even stand straight from excitement.

“Laurel? You didn’t say you’d come.”

“Am I invading your privacy?”

“No …” Talia opens the gates wider for Laurel to get inside. “You’re always welcomed.” She notices Laurel’s skip in her steps and raises her eyebrows higher in her forehead. “You’re too giddy.”

“I scored twenty seconds!” Laurel literally squeaks.

“You’re serious?” Talia smiles, but still with a questionable gaze. “How did the coach react?”

“No one had actually seen me yet doing it,” Laurel confesses. “The last week we were training for the rally, so …” They stand there awkwardly for a minute before Talia shakes her head with a laugh and invites Laurel inside.

“Be careful not to overload your body too much. You might break,” Talia tells her as they approach the back garden with the pool. “I was about to have a warm dip. This will help your muscles relax. Come on,” she invites Laurel, and Laurel doesn’t attempt to even remove her outer layers this time, jumping straight in and surprising Talia who shakes her head at her before she’s joining her in a striking green two-piece set. Every color looks so beautiful on Talia, and the more they spend time together, the more Laurel just can’t stray her gaze away.

“That’s like … All I ever wanted.”

“Don’t zoom in on just one aspect of your life,” Talia advises, but Laurel wasn’t talking about just the Olympics. “But if this what you truly want, then I’m supporting you through it.” Talia looks at her with one of her gentle smiles, and Laurel couldn’t agree more. It’s one more week to the Olympics; one more week to pull off an act or disappear forever, and Laurel doesn’t want to lose her chances, so she pushes herself off the edge until she’s swimming closer to Talia, keeping one hand on the tiles as she reaches with the other to touch Talia’s cheek, and it's as soft as it looks.

Perhaps it wasn’t the softest kiss she had envisioned in her mind, but it surely sends sparks across her eyes as she presses her lips against Talia, surprised, but nevertheless pleased when Talia kisses her back almost instantly, and it encourages Laurel to push in further, pressing Talia’s back against the tiles as Laurel holds Talia’s face between both hands and feels Talia’s hands pressing at her waist before they trail up and her thumbs graze the sides of her breast, fingers hooking below the fabric of her shirt and bra, and Laurel trails her hands down Talia’s neck and collarbones, then lower until she’s pulling at her panties, and she pulls back from the kiss to look into Talia’s eyes; a beautiful shade of green with specks of gold and a reflection of Laurel’s face painted inside; the silent gaze speaks volumes of yes, yes, yes, and Laurel dips her fingers lower, between Talia’s legs, and presses, watching Talia’s eyes flutter shut and head tilting back, so Laurel kisses at her throat instead, fingers working in as fast as they can underwater until she slides the fabric to the side and presses two fingers inside, keeping her thumb a steady pressure at the clit, and Talia gasps beautifully.

Two more fingers join past Talia’s folds as Laurel works on a hickey that both would look beautiful and ugly across Talia’s flawless skin, but she hopes Talia would post another selfie with it, with Laurel’s shirt on, making the comment section go crazy over who might be her partner. Partner. Can Laurel even call herself that? Talia shakes with an orgasm; legs closing in on Laure’s hand, and Laurel fingers her through it, noticing how Talia slides down the pool, unable to hold herself up anymore, but Laure’s other hand is there to support it. When Talia is breathing normally again and her eyes open, Laurel removes her hand slowly.

“Maybe we should get out of the water first,” Talia suggests, and Laurel steps back just enough for Talia to pull herself back up and out of the pool, and despite all the times Laurel had watched her do it effortlessly, it seems that past-orgasm Talia is more sensitive that most as she sits on the tiles on the poolside, and Laurel’s eyelevel is met with a beautiful image of her unclothed pussy, the fabric still pulled to the side. Laurel pulls herself out as well, but it’s only a few more seconds before she’s kissing Talia again against the tiles.

“Can I take this off?” Laurel asks with her hands hooked around the panties, and Talia nods in agreement, so Laurel sits back up to discard Talia’s panties, thumbs pressing against her folds and looking up at Talia for permission that she easily gives, and Laurel doesn’t wait any longer, spreading Talia’s labia and pressing a flat tongue against her; flickering at her clit before she dives two thumbs in and sucks at her clit, making Talia whine in a higher tone than usual, hands tangling themselves in Laure’s curls as she dives her tongue inside her walls and alters her thumbs to play with Talia’s clit instead. It doesn’t take long until Talia is orgasming again, and Laurel is met with a sweet taste despite the chemicals of the pool having a salty effect on their skin.

When Laurel sits back up, Talia asks, “Do you wanna go up to my room?”

“Yeah.” Laurel nods so fast, and helps Talia back on her feet before they’re heading inside the villa, up the stairs, and into Talia’s room. Laurel takes a moment to appreciate her choice of decoration, but then Talia is pulling at her face to kiss her, hands grabbing at her wet shirt to lift it up higher, and Laurel breaks the kiss so she can take off her clothes as Talia discards the top piece of her outfit as well. Laurel stares; they’re small and round, perfectly sized for grabbing, and her nipples are a dark shade of brown that Laurel wants to suck on so badly, but is distracted by Talia grabbing onto Laure’s breast first.

“They’re softer than I imagined,” Talia speaks up. “Shouldn’t be constantly hidden beneath your sporty bras.” Talia flicks a finger against Laurel’s nipples, a pinkish color tainting them, before she’s stepping back and opening a drawer from the bedside table. Laurel crouches down next to her, seeing all kinds of different toys Talia keeps, and her eyes catch on a purple dildo with bumps on the outside and on the tip, and the base being perfectly fitting for a strap. Her eyes also catch on a black strap. “It’s a bit on the shorter side from one end-”

“I don’t mind,” Laurel cuts her off as she picks both items. “I don’t usually orgasm from penetration.” Laurel’s fingers trail the slope of the dildo’s base, the length perfect to hit her g-spot. “It’s heavies than I thought.”

“It has a remote vibrator,” Talia explains. “Designed specifically to activate when the length gets stroked.” She touches her fingernails to the bumps. They’re soft, Laurel can squish them. “You know, giving a bit of a realistic feel.” There’s another bump at the base slope, designed to perfectly hit the clit and Laurel stands back up with both items, dropping them on the bed before she takes off her shorts and panties as well, and Talia’s gaze drops down, eyes widening a little at seeing Laurel’s pumped out clit. “Well, appreciate a girl who knows how to love her body right.”

Talia waits for her on her bed, and yes, Laurel confirms that the selfie was indeed on her bed. She secures the strap around the dildo’s base, positioning it to fit inside her and against her clit, and Talia welcomes her with opened legs, her vagina already wet from the foreplay they had at the pool, and Laurel kisses her again, gentler this time, pushing the dildo inside of Talia until their bodies are squished together; the contrast of their skin color and body shapes blending in beautifully, and even though she can’t quite feel what Talia is probably feeling inside of herself, Talia is very expressive with her face during sex, and the more she thrusts the dildo inside, the more the vibrators start to work, surprising both of them when they hit, and increasing in volume that make their moans echo across the empty space louder, and Laurel shakes from an orgasm when the vibrators hit just right, the weight of the dildo providing an added pleasure, and Laurel pushes herself against the feeling, making the dildo dive in deeper into Talia in the process, and Talia shakes from an orgasm as well. When Laurel is able to move her limbs again, she finds out that Talia had just squirted when the dildo hit too deep into her without even touching her clit, and just like what she noticed at the pool, her body grows more sensitive with each passing orgasm, and it's absolutely cute. Laurel wants to pull out another orgasm of her just to see it happening again. Just for her to see it happening again.

“I think we might have skipped a step,” Laurel says as Talia comes down from her high, the dildo still buried between her folds. “Do you wanna be my girlfriend?”

Talia blinks at her, slowly, fucked up, and Laurel loves this image of her just like any other. “I might consider it after two more orgasms.”

Laurel laughs. “Make it three.”

════════

The timing board still glows above the pool long after the race ends. Lane four. Twenty seconds. Laurel’s name sits beside it in sharp digital lettering, impossible to ignore. Faster. The fastest she has ever been. Teammates glance toward Laurel in surprise, disbelief, admiration. The coach stands rigid near the edge of the pool with her jaw locked tight, clipboard tucked hard beneath her arm. Laurel watches her expression shift; not pride, not excitement. Fear. Muted voices filter through frosted glass while Laurel sits alone outside the office in her damp team jacket, hair dripping against her shoulders. Inside the office, accusations move quietly enough, and she hears the words; too sudden, unnatural progression. Just fear of embarrassment. Fear that if they gamble on Laurel and something goes wrong, the entire organization suffers for it. So the decision stays unchanged; Jacqui remains the solo representative. Safe. Proven. Predictable. For a moment, she simply stands there beneath the fluorescent lights with the folded decision sheet resting in her hand, then she exhales, and lets it go. Because strangely, it no longer feels like the end of her world.

The relay race takes place a week later. The stadium roars with noise and flashing lights as countries fill the arena in oceans of color. Massive screens ripple with introductions while cameras sweep across the competitors standing behind the starting blocks. Laurel rolls her shoulders slowly beneath her team jacket, gaze fixed on the water ahead. This time, there is no crushing desperation in her chest, no obsession with proving herself worthy, just the quiet steady pulse of anticipation.

In the stands above, her parents wave frantically the second she glances upward. Her mother has tears already threatening in her eyes. Her father claps loudly enough to embarrass entire sections nearby. Laurel catches sight of homemade signs folded against the railing; glitter crooked across the cardboard. She laughs softly before she can stop herself. And beside them, Talia; elegant even in the chaos of an Olympic stadium, dark hair falling loose around her shoulders, hands clasped tightly as she watches Laurel with unmistakable pride glowing across her face.

The announcer’s voice booms through the arena. Swimmers step onto the blocks. Laurel bends forward into position. For one brief second, the noise disappears beneath the memory of Talia’s voice inside the quiet villa. The buzzer sounds. Laurel dives. Everything becomes movement; clean, effortless, sharp. She feels the currents shifting around her body instantly now, the rebound of waves against lane dividers, the subtle rise and fall of displaced water beneath every stroke. Instead of fighting through it, she lets the momentum guide her forward. Her body knows what to do. When she surfaces after the turn, the crowd becomes thunder overhead.

The relay exchanges blur together in explosions of speed and water until the final swimmer slams into the wall. The scoreboard flashes. Second place. Silver medal. Laurel bursts out laughing as teammates crash into her from every direction, drenched and breathless and screaming in disbelief. Arms wrap around her shoulders. Water splashes everywhere. Cameras flash wildly across the celebration. And through all of it, Laurel looks toward the stands; her mother is openly crying now, her father looks like he might explode from pride, and Talia is smiling with her entire heart reflecting in her eyes. Not the poised, polished smile she gives audiences. Something softer. Something overwhelmingly relieved. Like seeing Laurel happy matters more to her than medals or rankings or Olympic politics ever could. Laurel feels it across the distance between them; that warmth, that certainty.

The silver medal settles cold and heavy around Laurel’s neck moments later, gleaming beneath the stadium lights. Not gold. Not the solo race she spent years chasing. But standing there soaked in chlorine and surrounded by her team’s joy, Laurel realizes something quietly astonishing; she is still happy. Maybe for the first time in a very long while.

In the same year, Laurel graduates from university. Sunlight spills across the university courtyard in warm gold, catching against hundreds of black graduation gowns moving through the campus like drifting ink. The ceremony ends beneath a sky so blue it almost reminds Laurel of the Olympics. Families crowd the stone pathways carrying flowers, cameras, balloons tied with curling ribbons. Laughter rises everywhere in bright bursts while graduates cling to one another for photos and tearful embraces. Her graduation cap sits slightly crooked from where classmates kept hugging her afterward. Sunlight glints against the silver medal charm hanging subtly from her wrist; a tiny keepsake someone on the relay team gifted all of them after the Olympics. Photos follow endlessly; Laurel holding her diploma, Laurel squeezed between her parents while tassels and flower bouquets blur around them, and then, movement catches her eye beyond the crowd; standing right there looking like the supermodel she is, is Talia, with a bright smile and another bouquet of flowers for Laurel to hold.

Talia looks almost out of place among the chaotic celebration surrounding the campus—elegant cream-colored suit catching softly in the afternoon breeze, dark sunglasses pushed back into her hair, one hand curled around an enormous bouquet of white lilies and blue hydrangeas.

“Talia!” Laurel calls her name as she approaches, a hug coming in before Talia could react, and Talia laughs as she stumbles backwards slightly.

“My flight was a bit late. Sorry.” Laurel steps back to gather the bouquet into her arms. “You look happier,” Talia notes.

“Well, I might not have won a golden medal in the Olympics, but I have, for sure, won a golden girl.” Laurel places a kiss over Talia’s lips as the latter’s stretch into a wide smile before returning the kiss.

Around them, graduation celebrations continue in waves of applause and camera flashes and music drifting across campus lawns, but Laurel barely hears any of it anymore. Because standing beneath the summer sunlight with a diploma in her hands and chlorine scars faded pale against her skin, she suddenly realizes how much her life has changed since the night she first wandered into Talia’s performance theater feeling like she was drowning.

Now, when Talia reaches out and gently straightens Laurel’s crooked graduation cap, Laurel only smiles.

Easy.

Certain.

Happy.