Maximoff swims like a bird cutting through air, graceful and effortless. Made to fly.

In a matter of seconds, he crosses the whole length of the indoor pool.

I lounge on the edge of the diving board, one leg hanging off, my other foot on the board. Water rolls off my chest, black swim shorts wet, and even though we’re alone, I’d still be hooked on Maximoff if the pool were jam-packed.

I have a perfect view when he switches to the butterfly stroke. Returning to my side of the pool, his grace transforms into power. His strong arms extend and then dig deep into the water, pulling half his chest and head above the surface.

Damn. My cock stirs.

Maximoff is known for his great butterfly technique. He started swimming really young, competed at junior levels first, then older with regional and national competitions. Security gossips often about how he could’ve qualified for an Olympic trial. But he didn’t do it.

Didn’t even try.

He chose to throw himself into his career. Into charity work. Every time he swims, I’m just reminded of how big his heart is.

Maximoff reaches my end, and instead of swimming another lap, he grabs onto the side of the diving board and does a pull-up with one arm. He yanks off his goggles and his cap, brown hair sticking up every which way.

It’s cute as fuck.

“You ready for a round five?” he asks, his chest rising and falling heavily like he ran a marathon. We’ve already raced four times. Yeah, I lost all four. No, my ego doesn’t bruise that easily.

My mouth stretches. “How about you catch your breath first?”

“Afraid of losing.” He smiles like he bested me.

“No,” I say. “I’m afraid I’m a bad influence. Hubris isn’t a good look on you.” I also add, “And I’m still taller. Right now and every day.”

“By one damn inch.” He tries to hoist himself up higher—just to make a point, but I push his chest. Hard enough that he falls back into the water.

I can’t stop laughing when he breaches the surface with two middle fingers. Then he captures my dangling ankle and yanks me into the pool. Shit.

I dunk below, the water glowing blue in the darkly lit room. I breach the surface with a growing smile. Maximoff treads water, facing me. His wet hair is darker, almost closer to his natural color.

We don’t touch yet.

My gaze pings to the security cameras. We’re at the Hale Co. high-rise, the offices closed for the night. He’s the son of the CEO, so he has his share of perks. Like getting access to the indoor pool after-hours. It helps that H.M.C. Philanthropies’ main offices are in this building.

Maximoff rarely pulls strings for himself, but whenever I see the look on his face when he dives into the water, it makes complete sense why he chooses to open the pool.

I swim to the corner of the ten-foot deep-end. The only blind-spot. I’ve been in Hale Co.’s security room and looked at the cam footage. I’m 100% positive.

Maximoff follows.

The second we reach the corner, we explode—his mouth crushes against my mouth, rough and strong like he saved energy for this sweltering moment. Submerged in the pool, water droplets bead and drip down our temples and jaws. Wet but hot—so fucking hot.

His rock-hard body screams closer and more. Bucking against me—damn.

Damn. This guy could fuck me all day. I grip the tiled edge and use my build to pin Maximoff to the corner. His head tilts back, arousal trying to turn his eyes. He groans with a sharp breath, “Fuck.”

I whisper rough in his ear, “Did you like that?” He responds with a hard kiss, his skilled tongue parting my lips. I massage his cock above his red knee-length Speedo, his erection growing beneath my palm.

Fuck, I’m throbbing. Beneath the water, lit by a soft blue pool light, he clasps my muscular waist—and he flips us. Pinning my shoulders to the corner.

His chiseled build pushes up against mine, and my hand roams the carved ridges of his abs.

Maximoff slows down, his breath deepening, and I watch him trace one of my tattoos with his fingers. Near my collarbone, a blood-red sparrow flies through the mast of a gray-scale ship.

He’s looking at me like I’m the treasured celebrity. As though I’m the most valuable one.

I skim the faint bruise on his sharpened cheekbone.

I hate seeing you hurt. And I’m not the only one. After the firecracker incident last week, all of his younger cousins and two of his siblings approached me at a family cookout. Behind Maximoff’s back.

Basically, they said, “Promise us you won’t let Moffy get hurt again.”

His brother added, “Or die.”

“He’s not going to die,” I said, assured of this. I still am.

“Then hurt,” they all said in unison.

“Promise us,” Audrey Cobalt, the youngest Cobalt of seven emphasized, a knife in her hand for a whole blood oath thing that I declined.

Eighteen times, I said, “I promise.” Until they believed me.

And I’ve never carried a promise like a burden, but here, now—remembering the pure, unconditional love those kids have for Maximoff, I feel the fucking need to at least caution him.

I run my hand down to his smooth jaw. “You need to be more careful.”

“I’m the same as I’ve always been.” His eyes dance over my mouth and cheeks. Maximoff has one arm out of the pool. And he uses his weight to cage me, keeping our shoulders above water. “So is this my bodyguard talking or my…?” He pauses.

“Wow.” My brows rise, a smile edging across my mouth. “He even can’t say what we are.”

“Are we…?” His chest rises in a bigger breath. Either he doesn’t want to say the word first or he’s not sure if it’s the “normal” time for labels.

I tilt my head. “Your virginity is showing.”

“Pretty sure I lost my virginity a long time ago.”

“Relationship virginity.”

In the water, his hand dips down my swim shorts, rubbing my bare ass. I bite down, my pulse hammering. I tuck him closer to my chest, even if he’s the one anchoring me to the corner.

“How long is a long time ago?” I ask him. It’s not public knowledge, and he hasn’t really told me yet.

Maximoff stares at my lips for a long moment.

I splash water at his face.

He lets go of the edge just to wipe the water. “Thank you for that.”

“Stop imagining your cock inside my mouth.”

He feigns confusion. “How’d you know?”

“Wild guess.”

His voice lowers to a deep whisper. “When did you have your first sexual experience with someone?” He needs me to answer first.

I don’t mind. “Thirteen. I was young, and I mistook you have a great ass for love.” Some people are into casual hookups or NSA sex, but that’s not my favorite thing. I prefer getting to know the person before or during or after for a while—and I can’t stand open relationships.

While you fuck me, you only fuck me.

His lips lift, but then they fall in deep contemplation, mulling over my words: I was young, and I mistook ‘you have a great ass’ for love. And then he asks, “How do you know that’s not happening now?”

My brows jump. “That’s assuming I’m in love with y—” I cut myself off, reading his stiff, rigid body language clearly. His features start padlocking. Shutting me out. No. No. “Hey, I’m fucking with you, Maximoff. I’m an asshole.” I clutch his impassive face. My stomach twists. It’s extremely hard for him to be vulnerable. I know this.

I shouldn’t have made that joke.

“It’s fine,” he says, his voice void of emotion. “I get it.”

“No you don’t.” And I tell him bluntly, assuredly, without a fucking doubt, “You’re my boyfriend. And from the jump-start, this has always been more than just sex.” Yeah, we wanted to fuck each other’s brains out, but for Maximoff to take this risk, it had to be more than what he can get at a nightclub.

His shoulders try to loosen, and he starts to smile, water dripping off our wet hair. “Boyfriends. Are you sure that’s what we are?”

“A hundred percent.” I pause. “Are you?”

He nods strongly. “Yeah.”

I just fucking kiss him. He deepens the embrace, his hand rising from my ass to the back of my head.

When our lips break, he finally tells me, “Seventeen. That’s when I had sex for the first time.”

It makes sense. I’m about to speak, but his phone rings by the diving board. A call. Maximoff immediately swims over to the other side, and I pull myself out of the water.

He’s already sitting on the edge, phone in hand, when I reach him. “It’s Luna.” Concern hardens his face.

It’s one a.m. on a school night, late for Luna to call.

He clicks the speakerphone button. “Hey, what’s going on?”

She sniffles, and as soon as Maximoff has a mere hint of Luna crying, he stands up with the “we need to leave” face.

I grab our towels, dry clothes, my holstered gun, radio—all set. Water drips off us, creating puddles at our feet. But he won’t want to waste time changing.

By the time Luna speaks, we’re in the elevator descending to the parking deck.

“I just got my last test scores back before finals.” Her voice cracks. “Moffy, I failed three of my classes.” She starts crying. “Eliot and Tom did the calculations, and I’d…I’d have to make a hundred-and-ninety-three on my finals to even pass.”

Shit. I hook my radio to my damp swim shorts and fit the earpiece in my ear.

Maximoff grips the cell hard in his hand and pushes the elevator P3 button repeatedly. “What the hell happened, Luna? I thought you were doing better.”

“Hi, Luna,” I greet and catch his hand so he’ll stop punching the fucking button. And I keep his hand in mine for a long beat.

“Farrow, did you hear—”

“Yeah. Hang in there.”

“I’m trying.” Her voice shakes. “But it’s my fault. I missed too many quizzes. I skipped the classes where I’d have to see Jeffra.”

“What’d she do?” Maximoff almost growls.

“She made a rumor in August that I’m so weird, I eat shit for fun. I didn’t care. She could’ve called me anything, and I wouldn’t have cared.” Luna takes a short pause. “But someone put real shit in a paper bag in my locker, and I just couldn’t even look at her, it made me sick.”

My jaw muscle tics.

Maximoff’s eyes flash murderously. If he speaks, he may say something like, I’m going to kill someone.

I squeeze his hand. “It’s not your fault,” I tell her.

“I let her make me feel worse,” Luna says. “It’s my fault.”

“No,” Maximoff growls. “It’s not.”

“Where was your bodyguard?” I ask. Epsilon didn’t share this information with the whole team. Or else I would’ve known.

“He never saw. I just acted like it was my lunch and then threw it away. I didn’t want him to worry Mom and Dad.” Her words quiver. “Now I wish I had. Because then maybe I would’ve had the courage to face her in class. And I know I can repeat the school year or do homeschool like Xander, but I just wanted the cap-and-gown graduation for them. I saw how they looked at you, Moffy, when you graduated, and I wanted to give that to Mom and Dad. I wanted them to be proud of me. And I fucked it up.”

Maximoff glares at the phone. “Luna, listen to me. I love you. I’m coming over. We’ll figure out how to tell Mom and Dad then.”

The elevator dings. We’ve reached P3.