He called it Chaos, I called it Love

The sun was high and the pool sparkled, clear and inviting, like it knew what kind of day it was going to be. Anthony had brought his swim trunks in a backpack, towel slung over his shoulder, eyes already scanning the water like it was daring him to dive in.

“You’re going down,” he said, tossing the bag aside.

I raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“We’re making a whirlpool. Winner gets bragging rights. And possibly a popsicle.”

“Oh, well then,” I said, walking to the edge, water lapping at my toes, “prepare to lose.”

We got in and immediately started the game — swimming along the edge of the pool in one continuous circle, picking up speed with every lap. Water began to spiral around us, dragging at our limbs, churning beneath our feet. It felt silly and childish and perfect. Like something out of a summer I never wanted to end.

Once the current felt strong enough, Anthony shouted, “Switch!”

We turned, trying to push against the current we’d just created. It was harder than it looked. My legs fought the water, laughter spilling out of me as I slipped, flailed, grabbed for the edge.

And that’s when it happened.

I felt a soft tug at my shoulder. Then… nothing.

The strap.

I froze.

One side of my bikini top had come completely undone, floating loose and useless beneath the water.

“Crap,” I whispered, hands shooting up to cover myself.

Anthony noticed immediately. His smile shifted — still playful, but with a flicker of something else. Awareness. Teasing. Hunger restrained.

“Uh oh,” he said, swimming over slowly. “Looks like you’re falling apart.”

“Not funny.”

“Oh, it’s very funny,” he said, stopping just in front of me. His eyes held mine for a beat before flicking downward, but not in a crude way — more like he was savoring the moment without taking it too far.

“Don’t just stare,” I hissed, cheeks blazing. “Help me!”

He raised his hands in surrender. “Permission to touch the holy strap?”

“Permission granted. Just hurry.”

He moved behind me, hands sliding gently over my shoulders, slow and deliberate. I felt his fingers fumble slightly as he grabbed the loose ends of the strap.

“You know,” he whispered near my ear, “you should really write about this in that little diary of yours.”

“Anthony.”

“I’m just saying,” he murmured, tugging the strings taut before knotting them, “a strapless moment, a panicked girl, a helpful boy with wandering hands… very poetic.”

His fingertips brushed my shoulder blades. Just a little. Just enough to make me shiver.

“There,” he said, voice lower now. “Good as new. But if it happens again, I’ll have no choice but to rescue you… mouth first.”

I turned around quickly, splashing him in the face.

He laughed, wiping water from his eyes. “That’s the thanks I get?”

“Yes. And now I’m hungry.”

We got out of the pool, towels wrapped tightly around us, the sun warming our damp skin as we padded inside. I flicked on the kitchen fan and pulled open the fridge.

“I’m making my grandma’s chicken casserole,” I said, tossing a dish towel at him. “You can help or just look pretty.”

“I can do both,” he said, grabbing a spoon.

The kitchen filled with the sound of clattering pans, my phone playing some old early-2010s pop song through the Bluetooth speaker, and the smell of sautéing onions. It was domestic, chaotic, and weirdly comforting.

I explained each step to him as we went — how the onions needed to get translucent, how the shredded chicken had to be pre-cooked just right, how the secret was in the dash of cayenne.

“You sound like someone’s wife,” he said, stirring slowly.

“I sound like someone’s granddaughter,” I corrected.

He nodded. “Same thing. Old soul. Soft hands. Secret spice.”

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t stop the smile tugging at my mouth.

We danced between kitchen steps — literally. During the ten-minute simmer, Anthony grabbed my hand and spun me in a lazy circle, then pulled me in, swaying side to side. He smelled like chlorine and sunshine, and my heart thudded hard against my ribs.

“I could get used to this,” he said softly.

“To dancing in damp towels and cooking like married people?”

He tilted his head. “Yeah. Kind of.”

The timer went off, and I stepped away before the moment got too serious. He let me go, but not without brushing his hand lightly down my arm as I passed.

After we cleaned up, we grabbed plates of casserole, two sodas, and made our way to my room. I switched on The Vampire Diaries — because it was nostalgic and overdramatic and perfect for cuddling.

We curled up on my bed, still damp-haired and sun-kissed, plates balanced on knees. By episode three, we were tangled in each other, heads resting against shoulders, his hand absentmindedly stroking the side of my leg through the blanket.

I didn’t even realize how tired I was until my eyes started to flutter. Warm. Safe. Full.

That’s when I heard the front door open.

“Lila? We’re home!”

My mom’s voice.

I jolted up slightly, and Anthony chuckled. “Busted.”

“It’s fine,” I said, smoothing my hair. “They know you’re here.”

A minute later, there was a gentle knock on the door. My mom peeked in and smiled.

“Hey you two. Dinner smells great.”

“Leftovers in the fridge,” I said.

She gave me a look — half mom, half amused woman who remembers being a teen — then disappeared.

Anthony chuckled again, pulling me back into the crook of his arm. “She likes me.”

“She doesn’t not like you.”

“Progress,” he whispered.

The episode kept playing, but I barely watched. I was too focused on the way his thumb traced slow circles on my side. The way his breathing had slowed. The way I felt like I could finally rest — not just physically, but emotionally.

Like I didn’t have to be anyone else but this.

Here. With him.

I don’t know exactly when I fell asleep.

Just that when I woke up briefly later, the room was dark except for the soft flicker of the TV. And Anthony was still beside me. Not kissing. Not teasing. Just holding.

His hand was in my hair. His other arm was tucked around me, and his head leaned back against the wall.

He didn’t say anything when I stirred. Just opened his eyes, kissed my forehead, and whispered, “Sleep, angel. I’m not going anywhere.”

And I believed him.