I found James crouched beside the remains of an elliptical, those elegant hands of his sketching invisible patterns in the air as he traced the fire's path. The furrow between his brows deepened as he chewed his lower lip, lost in whatever puzzle the destruction revealed to him.
He moved with an understated grace that caught my eye—not an athlete's swagger, but something more deliberate and refined. The morning light through the broken windows caught the angles of his face, highlighting cheekbones that could have been carved by an artist's chisel. Even his perpetually rumpled dress shirt somehow suited him, making him look less disheveled and more like a Renaissance scholar too absorbed in his work to care about appearances.
"More deliberate patterns." His professor's voice blended academic precision and genuine fascination.
"See how the aluminum support beams liquefied here? They'd need temperatures above 1200 degrees Fahrenheit, precisely controlled. The plasma cutting effect in the metal shows they understood thermal dynamics."
He gestured to where a curve of molten steel had frozen mid-drip. "The arc mirrors swimming dynamics—the entry, catch, and pull-through."
"You know a lot about swimming technique for someone who doesn't swim," I observed, keeping my tone casual.
James's fingers paused mid-gesture. "The physics fascinates me, actually. Fluid dynamics, propulsion mechanics, the interplay of forces." His analytical tone softened slightly.
"I did my undergraduate thesis on competitive swimming biomechanics. I spent hours filming the university team, breaking down every movement into its component parts. But I've never..." James shook his head. "I've never been in water over my head since childhood."
Something in his expression made me wait rather than respond. After a moment, he continued, eyes fixed on the burn patterns before us.
"There was this quarry back home in Vermont. All the local kids would swim there in summer. My older cousin was watching me one afternoon—I must have been six or seven. Some older boys thought it would be funny to..."
His precise hands sketched smaller patterns now, almost unconsciously. "They grabbed me off the shallow ledge and said they would teach me to swim the fast way. I remember the water was so cold and dark when they threw me in. I couldn't tell which way was up."
The intensity of my protective surge surprised me. His voice remained academically distant, but I saw the tension in his shoulders.
"My cousin got me out quickly enough. No real harm done, except..." He let out a small, self-deprecating laugh. "Except I haven't been able to put my face in the water since. Not even in a bathtub. I understand the mechanics perfectly—thrust coefficients, drag reduction, and optimal stroke patterns. I just can't..." His hands finally stopped. "It's ridiculous, really. A grown man, a scientist, unable to even take basic swimming lessons because of some childhood incident."
"It's not ridiculous," I said quietly. "Fear doesn't care about academic credentials."
He glanced at me, surprise flickering across his features. The furrow between his brows deepened. "No, I suppose it doesn't." A pause, then softer: "Though sometimes I wish it did. There's so much beauty in the physics of it, in the way a body moves through water. I just can't... participate in it."
I blurted out words before I could second-guess them: "The UW pool opens at five. Private, quiet, no audience. And I'm told I'm a patient teacher. Had a similar incident to yours, but I guess—"
His startled look hid more than professional interest. "You'd be willing to—"
"If you want to try." I kept my voice steady and neutral. "No pressure. But sometimes understanding the mechanics is only half the journey."
The silence stretched between us. Finally, he nodded, that endearing furrow appearing between his brows again. "I'll bring coffee?"
"Deal."
The moment stretched between us until a distant crash from the cardio room snapped us back to the present. James cleared his throat, reaching for his messenger bag with precise movements. He used them to rebuild his professional distance quickly.
"I should examine the letter more closely." He pulled out a pair of nitrile gloves, the blue material stark against the ash-dusted floor. "The paper quality might tell us something about..." He trailed off, head tilting as he lifted the letter to the light streaming through the broken windows.
I moved closer, telling myself it was a better position to see what had caught his attention. The morning light put his profile in sharp relief, highlighting the refined line of his jaw. Hisdark hair fell forward slightly as he leaned in, and I fought an inexplicable urge to brush it back.
"This is archival quality. It's acid-free, probably a hundred percent cotton fiber. The kind of paper conservators use for documents meant to last centuries." He turned the letter carefully, examining the edges. "See these subtle markings in the grain? This is handmade from one of those traditional artisan mills. Probably European."
"Expensive?"
"Very." The professor's cadence crept back into his voice, but it was softer, meant for an audience of one. "The ink is similarly archival grade. It's the kind used in museum-quality documents. Pieces meant to be preserved and studied—"
"And exhibited," I finished.
He glanced up, startled perhaps by how close we'd drawn together over the evidence. For a moment, I saw past his professional mask—something warm and uncertain. Then, he blinked, and the analytical armor slid back into place, though not quite as thoroughly as before.
"Yes. They're crafting a collection."
I forced myself to step back and focus on the investigation rather than how James's hands moved through the air or how his voice had softened when sharing his fear of water. "Everything carefully composed."
