(Jisung’s POV)

I’ve always liked pools before they’re loud.

Before whistles and splashes and the way people pretend not to stare at each other. Early morning pools feel honest. The water doesn’t perform. It just waits.

I sit on the starting block with my towel slipping off one shoulder, feet dangling inches above the surface. The air smells like chlorine and sleep deprivation. I tell myself I’m only here to think—to let my head quiet down—but my eyes keep drifting to the same place.

Lane three.

He moves like the water belongs to him.

I don’t know his name yet, but I know the shape of his breathing. I know the way his shoulders break the surface for half a second before disappearing again. Each lap is clean, deliberate, like he’s erasing something with every turn.

I count without meaning to.

One. Two. Three.

By the fifth lap, my chest feels tight, like I’m the one holding my breath. By the tenth, I realize I’ve been staring.

So I look away.

The windows along the pool reflect a washed-out dawn, pale blue bleeding into grey. Somewhere, a door creaks open and shuts again. The building is waking up slowly, reluctantly. I pull my towel tighter around myself and try to remember why I came so early.

I told myself it was for practice.

I lied.

The truth is, water scares me in a quiet way. Not panic, not drowning nightmares—just the way it demands something from you. Breath. Control. Trust. I’ve never been good at giving any of those away.

A splash snaps me back.

Lane three turns sharp at the wall, water spraying higher than before. He’s closer now. Close enough that I can see the tension in his jaw when he surfaces, the way he exhales hard before going under again.

There’s something lonely about it.

Not sad—just focused. Like he’s racing something no one else can see.

I wonder what it feels like to be that certain of your body. To let it carry you without arguing back.

When he finally stops, it surprises me.

He grips the edge of the pool and stays there for a second, head down, wet hair dripping. I look away instinctively, like I’ve caught him doing something private. My fingers fidget with the frayed edge of my towel.

Footsteps echo.

I risk another glance.

He’s climbing out now, water streaming off his arms, breathing steady but deep. Up close, he looks sharper somehow—taller than I expected, eyes dark and focused even when he’s clearly tired.

He reaches for a bottle. Takes a drink.

Then—unfortunately for my nerves—he looks straight at me.

We lock eyes.

It’s not dramatic. No sparks, no lightning. Just a moment where the world narrows down to chlorine air and the sound of my own heartbeat thudding too loud in my ears.

I should look away.

I don’t.

His expression shifts—not annoyed, not curious. Just… aware. Like he’s been noticed for the first time all morning and isn’t sure what to do with it.

“Morning,” he says.

His voice is lower than I expect. Calm. Like the water.

“Oh—uh. Morning.” I clear my throat. Why do I always sound like I’ve been caught trespassing? “Sorry. I didn’t mean to stare.”

He blinks, then huffs a quiet laugh. “It’s fine. You’re not exactly subtle, though.”

Heat crawls up my neck. “Yeah. That tracks.”

There’s a pause. An awkward, floating kind of silence. I swing my legs slightly, toes skimming the water.

“You swim?” he asks, nodding at my feet.

“Trying to,” I admit. “Thinking about it counts, right?”

He smiles—not wide, not teasing. Just a small curve of his mouth that makes something in my chest loosen. “Only if you eventually get in.”

I glance down at the pool. The water looks deeper than it is. It always does. “Maybe later.”

He studies me for a second, then holds out his hand. “Minho.”

I stare at it, then at his face, like I’m making sure this is real. Then I take it.

“Jisung.”

His hand is warm. Solid. The kind of grip that doesn’t rush you.

We let go too quickly.

“Lane three’s free,” he says, gesturing behind him. “If you decide to stop thinking and start swimming.”

I laugh under my breath. “I’ll… consider the offer.”

Minho nods, grabbing his towel. As he walks past, the air feels different—charged, like the moment right before you dive in.

I watch the ripples settle where he was.

And for the first time, the water doesn’t look like something that wants to swallow me whole.

It looks like an invitation.

(Jisung’s POV)

I wait exactly three minutes after Minho disappears into the locker room before I move.

Not because I need time—because I need courage.

The starting block is cold when I slide off it, bare feet pressing against wet tiles. Lane three stretches out in front of me, impossibly long, a blue promise I’m not sure I can keep. The water ripples gently, innocent. Like it hasn’t been the reason my chest tightens since I was twelve.

“Stop being dramatic,” I mutter to myself.

I ease in instead of jumping. The cold wraps around my ankles, my calves, my knees. Every inch feels like a negotiation. By the time the water reaches my waist, my breathing is already too fast.

I force myself lower.

Chlorine burns my nose. The pool hums around me, quiet but alert. I grip the edge, knuckles whitening, and remind myself that I’m not sinking. I’m standing. I’m fine.

Lane three, Minho said.

Of course he swims in the middle. Balanced. Confident. Like he knows exactly where he belongs.

I push off gently, staying close to the wall, arms moving awkwardly. My form is terrible—I know that—but I keep going. One stroke. Then another. The water pulls at me, heavy and insistent, and my thoughts start to spiral.

What if I can’t breathe.

What if I panic.

What if I—

“Jisung.”

I jerk so hard I swallow water.

Coughing, spluttering, I grab the edge again. When I look up, Minho is standing there, towel around his neck, concern written plainly across his face.

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I just—your breathing sounded off.”

Embarrassment crashes over me, hot and immediate. “Wow. Cool. Didn’t realize I was that loud.”

He crouches down so we’re closer to eye level. “You okay?”

I nod, then shake my head, then nod again. “Yeah. Just… rusty.”

He doesn’t call me out on the lie. I’m grateful for that.

“Can I help?” he asks.

The question is simple. Gentle. No pressure wrapped around it.

I hesitate. I’ve always hated needing help—especially with things that feel this basic. But the water presses against my chest, and for once, pretending feels harder than admitting the truth.

“I’m bad at this,” I say quietly. “Not the swimming part. The… breathing. Being under.”

Minho’s expression softens. Not pity. Understanding.

“Then we won’t go under,” he says. “Not today.”

Something about the certainty in his voice makes my shoulders drop. “Okay.”

He stands and steps into the pool with me, movements slower than before, careful. He stays an arm’s length away, close enough that I know he’s there, far enough that I don’t feel trapped.

“Watch me,” he says.

He demonstrates a simple rhythm—inhale, stroke, exhale—never fully submerging his head. He exaggerates the movements just enough for me to follow.

“Your lungs aren’t the enemy,” he adds. “They just panic when you stop listening to them.”

I snort. “Sounds like me.”

He smiles. “Exactly.”

We move together, slow laps, barely covering half the lane. My arms ache, my form collapses halfway through, but Minho doesn’t correct everything. Just the breathing. Always the breathing.

“In through your nose,” he reminds me. “Out through your mouth. Let the water carry the rest.”

And somehow… it does.

The pool doesn’t feel so deep anymore. My chest loosens. The tight coil of fear unwinds, just a little.

At the wall, I cling there, breathing hard but not panicked.

“You did good,” Minho says.

I laugh weakly. “That was… embarrassingly basic.”

“Basics keep you alive,” he replies. “Advanced stuff can wait.”

I look at him then—really look. His hair is damp again, eyes softer now that he’s not racing the clock. There’s patience there. And something else I can’t name yet.

“Thank you,” I say. “For not making it a thing.”

He shrugs. “Everyone’s got something they’re learning to breathe through.”

The words sink into me, heavier than the water.

We stay there for a moment, fingers gripping the same edge, our breaths slowly syncing without either of us trying.

Where our breaths meet underwater.

And for the first time, I think—maybe this pool isn’t where I’m going to drown.

Maybe it’s where I learn to stay.

(Minho’s POV)

I tell myself I’m only staying because I still have cooldown laps to finish.

That’s a lie.

Jisung clings to the edge of lane three like it might drift away if he lets go. He’s breathing steadily now—still uneven, but real. Progress. I pretend to focus on stretching my shoulders while keeping him in my peripheral vision.

He doesn’t notice at first.

Good. Pressure ruins things.

“You’re thinking too loud,” I say casually.

He jumps again. I swear it’s becoming a talent. “I—what?”

I grin. “Your face. It scrunches when you overthink. Very expressive.”

“That’s rude,” he mutters, but there’s no heat behind it.

“Honest,” I correct. “Also kind of impressive. Coaches would kill for that level of transparency.”

He rolls his eyes, pushing off the wall for another short lap. His strokes are still messy, timing off, but he doesn’t freeze anymore. That matters more.

I swim beside him, deliberately slower this time.

“Relax your shoulders,” I say. “You’re fighting the water.”

“I don’t trust it,” he replies.

“Water doesn’t need your trust,” I shrug. “It wins either way.”

He snorts despite himself.

We reach the wall together. He grips it, breathing hard. I don’t comment. Instead, I lean back against the tiles, arms resting on the edge, watching the ceiling lights ripple.

“You always this bossy?” he asks.

“Only before breakfast,” I answer. “After that, I charge.”

That gets a real laugh out of him—short, surprised. I count it as a win.

There’s something oddly grounding about teaching without trying to fix everything. I’ve spent most of my life chasing seconds, chasing perfection. With Jisung, the goal is simpler: don’t panic. Keep breathing. Stay afloat.

“You coming tomorrow?” I ask, like it’s no big deal.

He hesitates. Of course he does. Then nods. “Yeah. I think… yeah.”

I glance at him. “Good. Lane three’s mine, though.”

He smirks. “Didn’t realize lanes had owners.”

“They do when you swim fast enough,” I say, then add lightly, “You can borrow it. Supervised.”

“Wow. Generous,” he deadpans.

I push off the wall, swimming a slow lap, letting the water settle my thoughts. When I surface, he’s watching again—but this time, not like he’s afraid of what he’s seeing.

That’s enough for today.

“Don’t overdo it,” I tell him as I climb out. “You did better than you think.”

He looks up at me, eyes clearer than yesterday. “You say that to everyone?”

I pause, then smirk. “No. You’re just special.”

He groans. “You did not just say that.”

I toss my towel over my shoulder, already walking away. “Get used to it, Scrunchy-Face.”

His protest echoes after me, half-annoyed, half-amused.

No romance. No complications.

Just water, breathing, and a pace that finally feels right.

I don’t slow down when he calls after me.

“Scrunchy-face is not a nickname,” Jisung says loudly.

I lift a hand in acknowledgment without turning around. “Give it time.”

By the time I reach the lockers, I can still hear him muttering to himself. It’s… oddly satisfying. Not in a cruel way. More like I’ve nudged something loose and it didn’t break.

I shower quickly, the water hot enough to sting. My muscles unwind, but my mind doesn’t. It keeps circling back to lane three, to the way Jisung’s breathing finally evened out when he stopped watching the water like it might betray him.

Most people fight water with force. He fights it with thoughts.

When I step back out, hair damp, towel hanging loose around my neck, he’s sitting on the bench tying his shoes. Still wet. Still stubbornly present.

“You didn’t leave,” I note.

He shrugs without looking up. “Didn’t feel like rushing.”

“Careful,” I say. “Next thing you know, you’ll start enjoying mornings.”

He glances up at me. “Don’t push it.”

I smirk and sit a few feet away, giving him space. Silence settles—not awkward, just there. The kind you don’t feel pressured to fill.

“You swim competitions?” he asks suddenly.

“Yeah,” I answer. “Too many.”

“Do you like it?”

The question catches me off guard. Most people assume the answer.

“I like the water,” I say after a moment. “The rest is… noise.”

He nods, like that makes sense. Maybe it does.

“I used to think being good at something meant you never struggled,” he says quietly. “Watching you today… I think I got that wrong.”

I glance at him. “You didn’t see me when I was bad.”

He smiles faintly. “I’d like to.”

That’s… not what I expected.

I stand, slinging my bag over my shoulder. “Tomorrow,” I say. “Same time.”

He hesitates, then nods again—more certain this time. “Tomorrow.”

As I head for the exit, I catch my reflection in the glass: relaxed, faintly amused, lighter than usual.

Still no romance. Still no promises.

Just two people learning how to share a lane without losing their breath.