The Pool Scene

Grayson

The house was too quiet. Mia had gone to meet some friends, texting a rushed goodbye and promising not to be too late. 

That left the house in a strange limbo of silence and open space. I tried reading, but the words blurred. I tried fixing the loose hinge in the guest bathroom, but my hands kept missing the screws.

Finally, I gave up.

I stepped outside with a cold drink, more out of habit than desire, and headed for the back porch. The late afternoon sun cast everything in honeyed gold. The trees rustled lazily in the breeze. Birds chirped and then I heard the splash.

My steps faltered.

There she was.

Callie.

Alone in the pool.

Her head broke the surface, water trailing down her face. She swam to the edge and leaned her arms on the side, tilting her head back to soak in the sun. Her hair slicked against her neck. Her bikini, black, minimal left little to the imagination.

I should’ve turned around.

I didn’t.

Instead, I sat down quietly on the top step of the porch, drink forgotten, and watched. The part of me that still had discipline tried to justify it. She was swimming in plain view. This wasn’t some secret voyeurism. Just a casual glance. Nothing more.

But that was a lie.

Because my eyes drank her in. The shape of her waist. The slow arc of her back when she kicked off the wall and swam another lap. She was graceful, like she belonged to the water.

She didn’t see me. Not yet.

But I saw something else.

A memory.

It had to be five years ago. Summer again. Mia and Callie were fourteen or fifteen. Laughing, splashing around in the same pool. I’d just gotten back from a conference, and Callie had slipped on the wet tiles. I remembered catching her, one arm around her waist, her wet hair clinging to my arm. She’d looked up at me with those same damn eyes.

And something had shifted in that moment. I buried it deep. Told myself she was just a kid. That it was paternal. Protective.

But now, looking at her, grown and gleaming and untouched by anyone who could possibly deserve her, I knew better.

She was no kid.

And I was no saint.

She finally noticed me.

She paused mid-stroke, then swam to the shallow end, standing with water just above her hips.

"Didn’t hear you come out," she said, brushing water from her face.

I cleared my throat, voice dry. "Didn’t want to interrupt."

She smirked. "You’re not interrupting. I like the company."

I shouldn’t have sat back. I shouldn’t have kept watching.

But I did.

"You always swim alone?" I asked.

She shrugged. "Only when Mia’s busy. I like the quiet."

The sun cast her in gold and silver. She looked like some mythic siren pulled from the sea.

"You were always a good swimmer," I said.

She laughed. "You remember that?"

"I remember everything," I muttered before I could stop myself.

Her smile faded, just slightly.

She waded toward the edge, rested her arms there again, and looked up at me.

"Even the time I fell and scraped my knee so bad you had to carry me inside?"

I nodded slowly. "You wouldn’t stop crying. Until I gave you ice cream."

"Strawberry," she said. "Your favorite."

We locked eyes.

Something twisted in my chest. That familiar ache, the one that started in my gut and bloomed out into every nerve ending. It wasn’t just lust. It was longing and that made it worse.

"I should get back inside," I said, standing abruptly.

"Why?"

I froze.

She tilted her head. "You always run away after we talk."

"I don’t"

"Yes, you do. You push, then pull. Set rules, then break them. You tell me I’m off-limits but look at me like I’m the only thing you want."

The words hit me like a slap. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

She climbed out of the pool slowly, water cascading down her skin, dripping from her fingers. Her bikini clung to every curve. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t shy away.

She stood there, soaked, eyes locked on mine.

"So which is it, Mr. Carter?" she asked quietly. "Are you going to run again... or are you going to admit what we both know?"

My fists clenched at my sides.

"You have no idea what you’re playing with, Callie."

"Then show me."

The air cracked between us. My breath came shallow, chest tight.

Then I turned and walked straight into the house.

Inside, I gripped the edge of the counter until my knuckles turned white.

I had to stop this.

Not just for her. For me 

Because if I gave in, I wouldn’t stop.

And I already knew I wouldn’t survive her.

I opened the fridge, grabbed the first bottle of water I saw, and chugged it like I’d run a marathon. My skin was hot. My thoughts were scattered. My self-control, always my strongest trait, was barely intact.

I leaned against the sink, staring at my reflection in the window, the ghost of a man I didn’t quite recognize. Somewhere between grief and guilt, I’d lost the version of myself I could trust.

And now she was here.

Complicating everything.

I heard the back door creak open and close softly. Footsteps. I didn’t have to turn to know it was her.

"Grayson," she said softly.

The sound of my name from her lips did something brutal to my resolve.

"Don’t," I said, voice low. "Just… don’t."

She didn’t respond. I finally turned to find her in a robe, hair still wet, face soft but unreadable.

"You can’t keep acting like I’m the only one feeling this," she said.

"Because you’re not," I ground out.

"Then why pretend?"

"Because I have to. Because I’m twice your age. Because you’re Mia’s best friend. Because this isn’t just forbidden, it’s wrong."

"Then why does it feel like the only thing that makes sense?"

I stared at her, heart pounding.

"You think I haven’t tried to ignore this? I’ve built walls, Callie. I’ve reinforced them. Every time you walk into a room, I remind myself what’s at stake. But you keep breaking through."

She stepped closer, gaze unwavering. "Then stop building walls."

"And what? Burn everything to the ground? You think Mia would forgive me? You think I could live with myself if I hurt you?"

She faltered slightly. "You’re already hurting me, Grayson. Just in a different way."

That landed deep. I looked away.

She didn’t say another word. She just left me there.

In silence.

In wreckage.

In want.