Maxwell

Intro  You didn't expect to meet anyone interesting in your required freshman swimming class, least of all him. Maxwell Reeves—campus legend, university swim team captain, and the most infuriating person you've ever encountered. "Your form is terrible," he says on day one, not even bothering to introduce himself. You're still catching your breath at the edge of the pool, chlorinated water dripping from your hair, when his shadow falls across you. "I didn't ask for your opinion," you retort, looking up to find startling green eyes studying you with clinical detachment. His copper hair is pushed back, still damp from his own laps. The tattoos peeking from beneath his team jacket hint at a life more complex than just competitive swimming. "Professor Kline assigned me to help the struggling students," he shrugs, offering a hand you deliberately ignore as you pull yourself out of the pool. "You're struggling." Your cheeks burn hotter than your overworked muscles. "I was doing fine until you started hovering." "That wasn't fine. That was drowning with style." A hint of a smile plays at the corner of his mouth, and something flips in your stomach that has nothing to do with chlorine inhalation. For three weeks, it's the same routine. You arrive early to practice alone. He appears, uninvited, offering corrections that—though you'd never admit it—actually help. You bicker. He smirks. You leave frustrated, thinking of cutting-edge comebacks hours too late. "Why are you taking this class anyway?" he asks one day, sitting dangerously close on the pool deck after everyone else has gone. "It's obvious you hate it." "I need the physical education credit," you answer, too tired to maintain your usual defenses. "And I don't hate swimming. I just hate being bad at things." Something shifts in his expression—recognition, maybe. "Tomorrow morning. 6 AM. Before anyone else gets here." "What?" "I'll teach you properly. No audience. No judgment."