Page 52 of Depths of Desire
I turned my head a fraction and caught his profile in the dim light. The sharp bridge of his nose. The loose strands of hair the wind kept trying to ruffle. The way his lips looked soft, even when they were pursed in thought. I could’ve stared at him all night, honestly, but I played it cool.
A breeze slipped across my cheek, just strong enough to lift the hair at my temples, and it carried with it the music of the city. The hum of life below us: a distant horn, a low laugh, a radio playing something upbeat on the street. A train rumbled somewhere far off. Someone on the next rooftop coughed.
It made me smile, how alive it all was, how small we were up here, and how big the world still felt. As big as it had been when I was a boy.
“You see that one?” I asked, pointing lazily at the vague spatter of stars overhead. “The bright one? That’s… Chickenus Major.”
Oliver snorted. “Chickenus Major?”
“Yep. Legendary Roman constellation. Symbol of strength. And poor impulse control.”
He turned his head slightly, and I felt his gaze land on me before I even looked over. “I think I read about that in a very prestigious and totally real astronomy journal.”
“Peer-reviewed,” I added. “Of course.”
The corner of his mouth lifted into a smirk. “Naturally.”
I let the silence stretch again. It wasn’t uncomfortable. It was thick and soft, like fleece.
I didn’t feel like I needed to impress him up here.
I didn’t feel like I needed to earn my place.
“Do you ever wonder who you’d be without it?” he asked suddenly. His voice was low, soft, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.
“Without what?”
He was still looking up, watching nothing in particular. “The sport. The expectations. The pressure. Who we are without the stopwatch, the scoreboard, the identity that’s been branded on our backs since we were kids.”
I didn’t answer right away. Not because I didn’t know, but because I knew too well. And it wasn’t a pretty thought.
“I think I’d still be me,” I said eventually. “Just…quieter. Maybe lonelier. Maybe a barista with very strong opinions on milky coffee after lunch.”
“The acidity,” Oliver said in contempt of such horrors. He let out a small laugh, the kind that sounded like it startled even him by escaping.
I rolled onto my side to face him, propping my head up with one hand. “What about you?”
He let out a long breath, slow and ragged at the edges. “I don’t know. I’ve spent so long chasing something, I don’t think I ever stopped to figure out who I was outside of it. It’s always been about the next time, the better time, the record I haven’t broken yet. But lately…” He glanced over. “Lately, I think about more than just swimming.”
I felt something shift in my chest. Something delicate and dangerous.
I wanted to say something light. I wanted to flirt. But instead, all that came out was the truth. “I used to think people liked me because I was easy. Chill. Low drama. The guy who’d make them laugh and never ask too many questions.”
His brow furrowed, gentle concern in the crease. “Is that how you saw yourself?”
“Still kinda do.” I shrugged. “I mean, it works. But sometimes…I think I disappeared into that version of me. And nobody ever stopped to ask what else there was. Not until you.”
Silence again. This time thicker, more fragile.
And then his hand found mine.
Just a brush of fingers at first, like he was still asking if it was allowed. Like he was waiting for me to pull away. I didn’t. I laced my fingers through his slowly, deliberately, like weaving something sacred.
When I looked over again, he was already watching me.
His expression was open in a way I wasn’t used to from him. Honest. Raw. No shields, no guard, just that familiar storm behind his eyes that always made me feel like we were the only two people alive.
“I didn’t think I’d ever feel like this,” I said softly. “Like being close to someone wasn’t a risk.”
