"Like what?" I managed.
Instead of answering, he released me with a final splash that broke whatever spell had started building between us. "Like when to admit you're done for the day. Your arms are shaking."
He was right. Every muscle trembled with fatigue, but for the first time since entering the pool, I experienced something close to disappointment about leaving the water.
"Coffee?" I asked hopefully.
"After you shower." He steadied me as we waded toward the steps. "Unless you enjoy smelling like a chemistry experiment."
The locker room's fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows as I peeled off my wet clothes. Every muscle protested the movement, newfound aches making themselves known. The shower's spray hit my shoulders with surprising force, and I let my forehead rest against the cool tile, processing the morning's revelations.
I'd actually swum. Sort of. The thought competed with memories of Marcus's hands steady on my waist, his voice calm and sure as he guided me through each movement.
The sound of another shower starting broke through my contemplation. Despite our recent intimacy—or maybe because of it—I found myself watching Marcus through the steam. Water traced familiar paths down his back, following the ridges of muscle. I now knew every inch of that skin by touch, but seeing it bare still gave me a shiver.
"Water temperature good?" His voice echoed off the walls as he worked shampoo through his hair. "These old pipes can be temperamental."
"Fine," I managed, returning my attention to my shower. "Perfect, actually."
"Good. Because you're going to need hot water to work out those knots. Swimming uses muscle groups you probably haven't accessed in years."
He was right—tightness was already settling into my shoulders and back. The industrial soap stripped away chlorine but did nothing for the heat building under my skin.
When I finally emerged from the shower, Marcus was toweling off by his locker, completely unselfconscious about his nudity. He took his time drying off, the movement emphasizing every sculpted plane of his body, before finally wrapping the towel around his waist. The sight of him like that—water still beading on his shoulders, hair damp and messy—stopped me in my tracks.
He caught me looking and smiled. "See something interesting, Professor?"
"Just analyzing muscle recovery patterns after aquatic exercise."
"Is that what we're calling it?" He stepped closer, ostensibly reaching past me for his shirt, but his bare chest brushed my arm in a way that couldn't have been accidental. "And here I thought you were merely enjoying the view."
The smell of chlorine had faded in favor of his eucalyptus shampoo. I swallowed hard. "We should get dressed."
"Probably." He lingered a moment longer, close enough that I felt the warmth radiating from his skin. "Unless you had other ideas?"
Images of what other ideas might be on Marcus's mind flashed through my brain, but I forced them back. "Food first. You were insistent about proper nutrition after exercise."
He laughed and finally stepped back, reaching for his clothes. "Using my own words against me. That's cold, James."
I focused intently on getting dressed while he pulled on jeans and a fresh shirt. Our abandoned coffee cups sat on the bench, long since gone cold.
"The coffee—" I started, grateful for the distraction.
"Is cold and insufficient." He gathered our cups, dumping them in the nearby trash. "There's a place three blocks over. Best Eggs Benedict in Seattle, and their coffee tastes like coffee, not whatever this was."
The early city hum wrapped around us—delivery trucks idling at the curb, the rhythmic hiss of bus doors opening and closing, commuters clutching paper cups far superior to what we'd just discarded. Sidewalks gleamed from overnight rain, the air sharp with the scent of wet pavement.
The café's warmth wrapped around us as we claimed a corner table tucked away from the morning's first wave of customers. Steam curled from fresh cups of coffee. Rain painted abstract patterns on the windows, transforming the street into a watercolor of greys and blues.
Marcus shared memories of amusing times at the fire station. "So there I am, stuck halfway down the tower, while Walsh questions every life choice that led to that moment." He grinned over his coffee. "Michael never let me live it down."
"Your brother seems to have a talent for that."
"For what?"
"Remembering every mistake you've ever made."
Marcus's expression softened. "Yeah, well. After Dad died, he appointed himself guardian of the McCabe legacy. Keeping us in line became his mission."
