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Jeff killed the engine and sat in the driveway, letting the silence of the old neighborhood settle over him like dust. The trip from campus had been eight hours of interstate and bad coffee, and every mile had felt like dragging his bones home. One month. Thirty-one days of sleeping past dawn, eating real food, and pretending the ache in his shoulders was only from the drive. He leaned his forehead against the steering wheel for a second, breathing in the faint chlorine smell that still clung to his skin no matter how many times he showered.

The swim coaches had owned him since August—six a.m. practices, weight room, lectures, code labs until midnight. The scholarship didn't care that his lungs burned or that his GPA hovered on the wrong side of safe. It only cared that he kept winning. The porch light flicked on. Dad, right on cue.Jeff grabbed his duffel from the back seat and stepped out into the warm June night. Crickets thrummed in the hedges his mother used to trim into perfect green boxes. Five years since the cancer took her at forty-one, and the yard still looked exactly the same, like the house had frozen the day she left it.

He could almost hear her laughing from the kitchen window, calling him "my little fish" even when he'd outgrown the nickname by a foot and fifty pounds of muscle. She'd had this way of lighting up rooms, of making everyone feel like the best version of themselves. Dad had never been like that. John Hargrove was concrete and right angles—former Marine, factory foreman, a man who believed love was shown through ...

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