Just a brush. Then he pulled his hand back like it had burned him.

“Again,” he said.

I swam the length of the pool and back. When I returned he was standing now, towel in hand. I climbed out. He handed me the towel without a word. Our fingers brushed. The rough fabric of the towel felt soft compared to the calluses on his palm.

We stood there dripping on the deck. The pool lights reflected off the water and danced across his face. I could smell the faint sweat on his skin mixed with the chlorine.

“You should head home,” he said.

“I’m not tired.”

His eyes moved over...