Rhys gave it an A- for “commitment to scale.”
But today isn’t drawing. Or therapy. Or fucking in weird configurations. Or arguing over whose turn it is to pick the movie while I sit in Benji’s lap and sneak bites of Rhys’s snacks.
Today is swim lessons.
My last swim lesson.
And I still haven’t swam without a kickboard or Benji’s hands on me. Or both. Usually both. Sometimes his hands drift. Sometimes I let them.
Sometimes Jett’s on the pool deck growling about how much attention I’m giving to “that fuckin’ floatie with muscles.”
Sometimes Rhys is on a lounge chair, pretending he’s not watching my ass.
But today if I can do it, really do it, kickboard-free, fully submerged, actually swim, then I think maybe I’ll let myself believe this is real. That the old version of me with all the sharp edges and desperate claws has finally stopped trying to pull me under.
That I get to swim forward, straight into the deep end, and trust that love, fucked up, tangled, chaotic, earned love, is what’s waiting for me on the other side.
Benji’s in the water when I get there, finishing up with some tiny old woman in a rainbow swim cap who’s calling him darling and sugarbean while gripping his bicep like she owns a timeshare in it. Fair.
He’s smiling. The kind of smile that lights up all the echoing tile and turns the pool into his kingdom. I almost trip watching it. He glows here. He always does. Water dripping down his chest, curls a little damp, his big hands soft and open and waiting for me like they always are.
On the deck, Rhys is in his usual chair, legs crossed, looking all professional even though there’s nothing clinical happening today. No journals. No therapy. No mandatory swimming milestones. Just me. My fear. My pride. My boys.
And god, I love his legs. He’s in slacks today, deep navy, perfectly pressed, sitting just right above those leather shoes like he didn’t mean to be the hottest man alive at the community center pool, but he is.
His shirt sleeves are rolled up. His tie is loose. His expression is warm, but still sharp enough to slice through my resolve.
I want him to scold me. I want him to praise me. I want him to see me do this.
“Hey, trouble.” Jett strolls up from behind, all swagger and scowl, dripping menace and horniness like usual. He’s got a small plastic bag in one hand and the desperate urge to touch vibrating off him.
He palms my hip. Nuzzles into my hair. Growls a little when someone else at the pool glances our way.
“I got you something,” he says, like he’s presenting me with a live grenade.
I raise an eyebrow. “If it’s a pink butt plug, I swear to god.”
He opens the bag and pulls out floaties. Little puffy inflatable ones. Fucking pink. Covered in glittery hearts and tiny cartoon mermaids.
“You didn’t,” I breathe, torn between laughter and melting into a puddle.
“Princess shit,” he confirms. “Like you like.”
He slides one on my arm with this intense concentration, then blows it up with three sharp puffs.
My arm bounces. I wheeze.
“Jett,” I whisper. “You realize I can’t go underwater with this, right?”
“Oh. Shit.” He yanks it off immediately, deflating it in a panic. “Fuck, I guess I fucked that up.”
“No,” I say, grinning so wide it hurts. “You did not fuck it up. I love them. And you.”
He goes so still. Like I stunned him mid-bite.
Then he kisses me. Hard and fast, a thank you and a panic attack rolled into one. “Okay, well, go let Benji do the magic lifeguard shit now. I’ll be over here. Watching.”
I laugh and start to step away when Rhys appears, silk and precision and heat at my side.
