Chapter Text
The pool belonged to her at that hour.
6 a.m.—no coach, no teammates, just the hum of the filters and the faint tremor of water against tile. Caitlyn moved through the stillness like ritual: bag down in the same corner, towel folded twice, waterproof earbuds in. The world narrowed to soft music and the sharp scent of chlorine.
Here, everything made sense. The lines stayed straight, the clock ticked evenly. The water obeyed. There were no voices reminding her that time was running out—not her mother’s clipped advice, not her father’s polite silence, not the endless questions about what comes next. The future felt smaller in the water, finally something she could keep in place.
She stretched until her muscles felt ready. Goggles on, nose clip set. The first touch of water always shocked before it soothed.
Lap after lap, she cut through the lane with mechanical precision—every turn clean, every motion rehearsed. The rhythm steadied her thoughts; here, control was a language her body understood.
When her limbs began to burn, she let herself sink—slowly, deliberately—until her toes brushed the floor. She counted the seconds in her head. Forty-two. The same as yesterday. Still not forty-five. The music dulled until her pulse took over. Light fractured above her, shifting with every breath she refused to take.
It wasn’t just peace she wanted; it was proof. Proof she could hold on longer than anyone expected her to.
She closed her eyes. Her lungs screamed quietly, but she didn’t move. Somewhere above, the world went on without her—messages waiting, calls she hadn’t returned, her mother’s text unopened but already loud in her mind. When are you going to take things seriously, Caitlyn? A corner of her mouth lifted. She’d take things seriously later. For now, the only thing that mattered was forty-five.
Then the surface broke.
A sudden ripple tore through the light—heavy, thoughtless. Caitlyn’s eyes snapped open. Bubbles spiraled above her as a body plunged in, shattering the calm. She surfaced with a sharp inhale—only to find another ripple breaking beside her.
“Oh—shit.” Vi’s voice broke across the lane, low and startled. “Didn’t think anyone was here.”
Caitlyn pulled up her goggles, blinking the water from her lashes, her pulse still unsettled from the dive.
“Most aren’t,” she said, her tone clipped. “It’s quite early.”
Vi wiped her face with the back of her hand. “Guess we’re both insane, huh?”
She pushed her hair back, unbothered. Water slid down the curve of her shoulders as she leaned against the edge, elbows hooked over the tiles—all quiet ease, as if she hadn’t just shattered someone else’s silence. She looked at home in a place Caitlyn had made sacred.
“Don’t mind me,” Vi added. “I’ll stay out of your way.”
Caitlyn wanted to tell her that solitude wasn’t something you could share, that it only worked when it was hers alone. Instead, she lifted her chin slightly, voice even but edged. “You’re supposed to wear a cap in the lanes. It keeps the filters from clogging.”
Vi paused, then shrugged. “Didn’t bring one.”
Caitlyn rolled her eyes, pushing herself up onto the edge of the pool. Droplets slipped down her arms as she reached for her towel. Her stillness was gone. No point in pretending otherwise.
“Hey,” Vi called after her, still drifting near the divider. “You don’t have to leave. We both need to train anyway.”
Caitlyn twisted the water from her hair, saying nothing.
Vi’s tone softened, quieter now. “C’mon. One warm-up set. Promise I’ll even let you set the pace.”
That earned her a look—sharp and dry. Caitlyn wasn’t sure if it was irritation or something else that made her pulse flicker.
“Afraid I’ll embarrass you?”
Caitlyn hesitated, fingers tightening around the towel. She couldn’t stand the confidence in Vi’s tone—worse because it wasn’t entirely undeserved. She could still feel it—that faint pull beneath her skin—and it unsettled her more than she’d admit.
Vi’s mouth twitched. “So I’ll take your silence as a yes?”
She didn’t bother answering; the towel hit the bench, gear already back in place.
“Two laps. That's it.”
Vi blinked, caught off guard, then straightened.“Didn’t think you’d actually—”
"Now."
Caitlyn dove cleanly into the lane beside her.
The water closed over her like glass. Her strokes lost their earlier calm, sharpened by the pulse in her chest. For the first few lengths, Vi kept alongside her. Whenever Caitlyn breathed, that flicker of pink hair appeared in the corner of her vision—matching her pace, daring her to go faster.
Caitlyn adjusted, tightening her form, but Vi matched her perfectly, an echo too precise to ignore. The longer it went, the clearer it became—Vi wasn’t training; she was toying.
Caitlyn’s pulse climbed. She pushed harder, water slicing over her skin. The sound of their strokes merged into one rhythm, too close and loud.
Then, on the final turn, Vi broke from her. She surged off the wall with a sharp, perfect kick that tore through the lane’s calm. Her body cut the water like a blade, no hesitation, no restraint.
Caitlyn chased, arms burning, but the distance stretched. Vi touched the wall first, hard enough to make the tiles ring.
She twisted in the water, slick hair clinging to her temples, a faint grin breaking through her ragged breath. “Guess I can still keep up with the Piltover favorite.”
Caitlyn surfaced a second later, jaw tight, chest rising too fast. She wanted to correct her—outpace, not keep up—but the words stayed locked behind her teeth.
Vi’s grin eased into something quieter. “Not bad, though.”
Caitlyn’s lips pressed into a thin line. Her body ached, not from the swim but from effort wasted—she’d clung to control, and somehow Vi had made it look like a play. The realization bit deeper than she’d like to admit. She needed to get out before it showed.
She pivoted toward the ladder and climbed out, her body heavy now, cooling fast against the air. Vi’s gaze followed her—that lazy kind of attention that made her skin prickle.
“It’s just training,” Vi said, voice carrying easily across the water. “You don’t have to rush off.”
Caitlyn dried her face carefully, pretending the burn in her eyes came from chlorine. “I’m not—I just have class soon, and I’d rather not show up dripping.” She packed her things quickly, the zipper snagging twice before it gave.
“Right,” Vi said lightly. “Wouldn’t want to ruin the reputation.”
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing.” Vi rested her chin on her crossed arms at the divider. “Thought maybe you’d want a rematch tomorrow.”
Caitlyn straightened, forcing a calm she didn’t feel. “Some of us have schedules,” she said, slipping the strap over her shoulder. “I don’t plan my life around morning laps.”
Vi hummed, unbothered. “Didn’t say you had to. Just thought most people don’t walk away from a tie.”
“Clearly, it wasn’t a tie.”
“Exactly,” Vi said, grin tugging at her mouth. “So—same time tomorrow?”
Caitlyn stopped mid-step. Same time tomorrow. The nerve. As if she’d rearrange her routine for her. Absolutely not. She’d had her fill of distractions.
But the sound of Vi’s voice—so smug—rubbed at her ego in all the wrong ways.
She angled her head just enough to meet her gaze. “If you insist.”
“Good,” Vi said, amused. “Hope your schedule’s clearer tomorrow.”
Caitlyn nodded once, tight and final, then headed for the showers. The sound of her steps was crisp—each one an argument she refused to have.
The cafeteria buzzed with conversation and the clatter of trays—noise folding over itself in steady waves. Laptops hummed beneath the fluorescent lights, and every scrape of a chair echoed louder than it should have. Sunlight slanted through the tall windows in pale rectangles, turning floating dust into a slow drift.
Caitlyn preferred the window seats—furthest from the chaos, where she could watch the crowd move like a current: clusters forming, splitting, reforming, all without rhythm. It made her think of the water sometimes—except no one here cared about form.
Across from her, Maddie typed like a person fending off time itself. Her half-eaten sandwich leaned precariously over the edge of its wrapper, a streak of sauce drying across the bread.
“Tell me again,” Maddie said without looking up, “why we didn’t pick the easy elective?”
“Because you said you wanted to challenge yourself,” Caitlyn murmured, flipping through her notes.
“I say a lot of stupid things before coffee.” Maddie took a gulp of hers, grimaced, and pushed the cup away. “This is an act of cruelty.”
Caitlyn smiled faintly, more at the complaint than the joke. She’d barely touched her salad—the lettuce wilting, the dressing pooling like oil in one corner. They’d been at it for an hour, eating only when their brains hit a wall.
The sound of keys slowed. Maddie leaned back in her chair, stretching. “Break time. My neurons are staging a walkout.”
Caitlyn set her fork down. “You said that twenty minutes ago.”
“I did. But this time I mean it.” Maddie tore what was left of her sandwich in half and shoved one piece toward Caitlyn. “Eat something. You’re going to disappear on me.”
Caitlyn rolled her eyes but took a bite anyway, chewing absently. She reached up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, only to feel the snag—a small knot, rough between her fingers. She pulled gently, and a few strands came loose, dark against her skin. She swept them quickly under the table, hiding them with the napkin.
Her heart gave a small, traitorous kick.
She knew this too well. Her body had always spoken first when the pressure rose—the tension headaches, the sleepless nights, the way things started to slip. It had happened before, back when grades decided her worth. She’d cracked under it once, then learned how not to—how to outpace the fear by planning faster and neater.
High school, after that, had been simple. Predictable. Something she could master through sheer precision. But college was different. The rules shifted every week; effort didn’t always equal reward. And no amount of discipline could prepare her for the quiet dread of realizing that.
Her gaze drifted over the room, a sea of people. Everyone here carried something heavy; she wasn’t naive enough to think otherwise. Her own struggle felt small by comparison, cushioned by comfort, by privilege she’d been taught not to mention.
Still, envy had a way of finding its mark.
Across the room, a bright streak of pink caught her attention. Vi sat with a few teammates from the swim division, her laugh wide and careless, posture unconcerned. She looked as if belonging came naturally to her, as if the world bent just enough to make space. Caitlyn’s chest tightened, sharp and quiet.
“Are you even listening?” Maddie asked, leaning forward on her elbows.
Caitlyn blinked, pulled abruptly back from where her thoughts had drifted. Maddie’s face came into focus—raised brows, half a smile, the kind of scrutiny that always made Caitlyn feel transparent.
“Sorry,” Caitlyn said, reaching for the napkin. She scrunched it in her hand, then slipped it into her back pocket. “What did you say?”
Maddie hummed, her short, sunlit hair shifting with the shake of her head. “You’re really distracted, Cait. What’s going on?”
“It’s nothing.” She waved it off, eyes already dropping back to her food.
“Right,” Maddie said, dragging the word. “And I’m majoring in astrophysics.”
“It’s just college and… someone.”
That earned Maddie’s full attention. “Oh? Someone like someone?”
“No,” Caitlyn said too quickly. “Not like that.” She shifted in her chair, regretting the words already. “The new girl. From Zaun.”
“Oh, yeah, I’ve seen her around. What about her?”
“My team’s been training with the Zaun division for a few months now,” she started, keeping her voice low. “And that girl—Violet—she’s… good.” The word came out thinner than she meant, because confessing it felt like conceding ground. “Too good.”
Maddie tilted her head. “Define too good.”
“She’s been getting a lot of attention from the coaches lately. And… it feels like I’ve fallen behind.”
Maddie scoffed, leaning back in her chair. “Please. They probably just like the idea of charity—makes this place look good.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Not everything’s a crisis, Cait.”
Caitlyn didn’t answer right away. Maddie’s words should’ve comforted her, but they didn’t. Something in the way she said charity sat wrong.
Vi wasn’t some goodwill project. She’d earned the attention—steady, deserved. Even in the few sessions they’d shared, Caitlyn had seen it: power held in check, a drive that didn’t need refining. The kind coaches remembered. The kind that could steal the spotlight when the championships came.
“Still—she’s a natural. Wouldn’t shock me if she gets picked over me next season.”
Maddie huffed, unimpressed. “Relax. You always peak when it counts. Let her have her moment now.”
Caitlyn smiled—at the irony. Maddie spoke as if balance and composure were things anyone could just decide to have. As if Caitlyn hadn’t spent years building hers, stroke by stroke.
“Yeah,” she murmured. “Maybe.”
She pulled her notebook closer, eyes on the page she’d left half-finished.
Maddie caught the cue and turned back to her screen. “Guess break’s over,” she said with a faint smile.
Caitlyn’s pen hovered for a moment, then found its way back to the lines. Routine always did.
The dorm was too quiet when she opened the door.
The lock clicked behind her, sealing off the corridor noise. The air smelled faintly of linen spray and paper—sterile, like everything her parents paid for. Her bag slid from her shoulder, landing with a dull thud.
She didn’t bother with the lights. The window let in a thin wash of campus glow—enough to outline the desk, the unmade bed, the empty mug by the lamp. A single dorm. Her parents had called it a space to focus, but Caitlyn knew better: a leash disguised as independence.
She tossed her jacket over the chair and opened her laptop. The screen lit the room in cold blue, the cursor blinking in a half-done presentation. She scrolled, skimmed, highlighted. The words slid past without meaning. Another tab. Then another. Notes piling over notes, blurring into noise.
Eventually, her focus gave. She reached for her phone. A few unread messages. Group-chat chatter she didn’t care to open. And then three missed calls from her mother, two days old. The sight stopped her cold.
Guilt came in small waves—steady, familiar. She’d never gone this long without calling home. Even now, nearly twenty, she still felt that childish tug—the one that made silence feel like defiance.
She stared until the glow dimmed and her reflection surfaced in the dark glass: drawn eyes, a tight mouth. A shallow breath slipped out. She turned the phone over, pressing it flat against the desk, as if the gesture alone could quiet the weight of it.
She pushed the chair back and went to the bathroom. The light flared on, too bright, and she blinked through it. One by one, she peeled off the day.
As she unclasped her bra, the mirror caught her. She paused, unwilling to meet her own eyes and yet unable to look away.
Her gaze drifted upward first, dark smudges slipping past the concealer, cheekbones drawn high and sharp. Then lower, tracing the slope of her collarbone to the faint shadow of ribs beneath her skin. She turned slightly, the light catching on the jut of her hipbones, the thin line of her waist. Her back muscles barely showed; she flexed an arm, hard, but the shape refused to change.
How was she supposed to keep up like this?
She knew the answer—meals skipped, strength work postponed, her body running on half its fuel. Maybe she was burning out. Maybe she’d let it happen. Her teammates never looked this worn. Even Vi—rough-edged, from a place that wasn’t meant to breed champions—had a frame built for the water: broad shoulders, narrow waist, muscle carved from purpose. A body made to win. Caitlyn’s felt engineered for restraint.
She tore her gaze away and twisted the faucet. Steam rose, swallowing the mirror in seconds. The heat stung, but the comparison clung tighter. She scrubbed, shaved out of habit, fingers skimming over skin too smooth. When she worked shampoo through her hair, she kept her eyes shut. She didn’t want to watch the stray strands slide down the drain.
Afterward, she towel-dried quickly and pulled on the first shirt within reach. The bed was waiting—messy but merciful. She dropped onto it, the dark swallowing her again. Her mind, stubborn as always, began cataloging the week ahead: papers, readings, training schedules. Her stomach growled. She ignored it.
She drew the covers close, as if that could muffle thought. When the noise in her head refused to fade, she reached for the drawer, fingers tracing the familiar shape of the blister pack until they found the hollowed corner—the part she always started from. Two left in that row. She pressed them free and swallowed dry. The taste lingered, bitter and chalky. A groan slipped out—relief and defeat in equal measures.
She slid the pack back inside and shut the drawer too fast. The phone, balanced at the edge, slipped and hit the carpet with a muffled sound. Caitlyn bent to pick it up, the screen flaring to life.
She opened the clock app, the list of alarms already waiting—lined like sentries, same as every night. Her thumb hovered over the last one: 5:30 a.m. The one she’d set that morning. For peace. For control.
She hesitated. Would Vi even bother showing up? Would she care enough to?
Caitlyn huffed, a quiet sound that could’ve been a laugh or a sigh. Then she tapped the alarm on.
Fuck it.
Vi or not, she’d be there.