#Physics science lessons

[starssoblue]

"the reason adrien is just instantly good at everything he tries is because he is programmed to be that way as a senti" aside from the fact that i don't think that's how it works (and also while he was decent at everything he tried with marinette he wasn't instantly good at all of them, and what marinette actually said to him was that he could improve in anything with practice but it was a great first attempt) did we all collectively forget about how adrien actually canonically isn't the best singer?

[evienyx]

Sentry vs. The Avengers (with science!)

In my previous post I calculated how much power MCU Sentry actually has, given the "power of a thousand exploding suns" statement. Now, I wanna throw the rest of the Avengers into the mix as best I can. We're only gonna look at the original six Avengers in this, because that's generally what people seem to be implying anyway.

I'm gonna focus more on power rather than abilities, because we could argue those all day, especially in regards to our two strongest original Avengers.

For reference, we've calculated Sentry's power as about

2.415 × 10^47 joules

Or, how much energy all of Earth uses in a year, 2.836 octillion times over. So, a lot.

To start, I really don't think that we need to say anything about Steve Rogers / Captain America, Natasha Romanoff / Black Widow, or Clint Barton / Hawkeye. Even without thinking about Sentry's actual power, we saw what he did to the Thunderbolts. Even hits from Bucky's vibranium arm glanced right off of him. Sorry, gang, but those three are done before the fight begins.

Now, onto the teammates that have any real amount of firepower.

First up, Tony Stark / Iron Man.

Surprising absolutely no one I would hope, Tony's not doing very much here.

Within the MCU, his suits are powered by arc reactors, which output an immense amount of power every second. Tony even said specifically that he has found more efficient ways to power his suits, but continues to use the arc reactors anyway.

Now, the palladium arc reactor (as in, the original version of it) was calculated by Tony as outputting 3 gigajoules (10^9) of energy every second, or 3,000,000,000 joules per second.

We could say that the newer arc reactors are way more efficient than the original palladium one was. This is honestly likely. We don't have any numbers for it, but let's be super generous and say that the Mark 1 arc reactor is like a Triple-A battery (5400 joules) when compared to the prime version of the arc reactor from something like Infinity War or Endgame.

Setting up a quick proportion, we can find then that, under this assumption, our best arc reactor (and therefore our strongest version of Iron Man) is producing 1.67 × 10^15 joules of energy (per second).

This is a lot of power. However, when we compare to Sentry's power, we see that his is about 10^32 times bigger. So, unfortunately, Tony's peak possible power giving him many benefits of the doubt is nowhere near what he'd need to take on Sentry.

Next up, Bruce Banner / the Hulk.

I'm gonna be honest, this one is probably gonna be the hardest. Besides the fact that Hulk is certainly nerfed in the MCU compared to the comics, we also don't really have much info on any feats that I can use to measure his strength.

The best thing that I can find for any measure of it that I might actually be able to calculate is that scene in She-Hulk when he throws a boulder into space. So, that is what we will go with.

To throw something out of Earth's orbit (which is what we are assuming he did), it needs to reach escape velocity (which it must have reached immediately given how it just flew straight out of the atmosphere). Earth's escape velocity is about 11.2 km/s, also known as 11,200 m/s.

Next, we need a guess for how big the boulder is. It's a little shorter than Hulk (about 2.6 meters apparently) when he picks it up, so let's be nice and sat 2.5 meters. It's somewhere between two and three times as wide as it is tall, so we'll be generous and say three times, making it 7.5 meters wide.

We'll then calculate an approximate volume for the boulder using two hemispheres for the rounded sides and one cylinder for the bulk of it. From this, we get that the volume is just about 45 cubic meters.

There are a lot of possibilities for the density of stone, which we need to calculate how much this stone weighs. I am not a geologist or anything, so I don't know how to identify the type of stone either. We're gonna go middle-of-the-road here, then, and say that the density is about 2500 kilograms per cubic meter.

This makes the mass of our boulder 112,500 kilograms.

Now, Hulk in the MCU might have an unfairly low number of feats to go off of, but this is not much for him to lift. It is the escape velocity part that makes it so impressive, because throwing something hard enough for it to escape Earth's orbit is crazy.

Anyway, let's calculate that kinetic energy.

E = 0.5 × mass (kilograms) × velocity^2 (m/s)

E = 0.5 × 112,500 kg × (11,200 m/s)^2

E = 7.056 × 10^12 joules

Oh, boy. That is not a lot. What else can we look at? The destruction of the Avengers facility in Endgame? How would we get a measure on that?

As I've said before, MCU Hulk is a hard guy to get a number on. He is nowhere near as strong (from what we've seen) as Hulk in the comics. However, let's look at the comics anyway. He's lifted a lot of things in the comics, one of which is a mountain described as weighing 150 billion tons. We're not gonna use that.

Instead, we are going to go with what could be the greatest push of his MCU strength, given the Avengers Facility lift. Let's see how strong Hulk would be if he had to lift up the entirety of New York City.

In kilograms, New York City weighs about 764 billion (source). This is far less than the 150 billion tons from the comics, but, as we said before, this is MCU Hulk who has been massively weakened. I don't see a world where MCU Hulk (as he is) can lift the entirety of New York City. Still, let's check it out anyway.

The energy to lift something on Earth of a given mass a certain height can be found with

E = mass (kilograms) × gravity (m/s^2) × height (meters)

The mass is 764,000,000,000 kilograms. Let's say the height he is lifting it is 1 meter. Gravity is a constant of 9.8 m/s^2.

E = 764,000,000,000 × 9.8 × 1

E = 7.4872 × 10^12 joules

Honestly, kinda crazy that this is just barely better than throwing the rock into space.

That is a feat I cannot see MCU Hulk doing, really (though based on these calculations he probably could). Either way, what we're seeing from this is that, while he is very strong, he does not hold a candle to Sentry's power.

Even if Hulk was a thousand times stronger than he is, he does not hold a candle. Even if he was a million times stronger, Sentry still has him beat by a factor of 10^29, or 100 octillion. In the comics, they might go toe-to-toe easily, with it being a coin toss either way depending on the issue and the Hulk, but in the MCU? Nah. The real shame, though, is how much weaker the MCU has made him :(

Finally, Thor

This is the one we were all waiting for, wasn't it? You know him, you love him, it's the God of Thunder. But, is he stronger than Sentry?

Let's see.

Thor's biggest (and most calculable) feat that I can think of in the MCU is in Infinity War when he holds open the iris of the forge to form Stormbreaker, and takes on the full force of the neutron star within for a period of time.

Now, for Nidavellir, things get a little weird to calculate. This is for a couple of reasons, one of the biggest being that it is hard to know information about neutron stars. It varies immensely depending on the star, just as it does for regular stars like our Sun. Most of what we have measured of neutron stars is from the youngest amongst them, as those are hottest and brightest.

Neutron stars are very small (at least in comparison to most stars). They are what remain of the collapsed cores of massive stars following a supernova explosion (provided there isn't enough mass left to form a black hole instead) (source).

Someone with far more patience than me has already calculated the diameter and surface area of Nidavellir given Thor's height and the number of pixels on screen and stuff, so I will use those numbers for this, though I am going to break away for the rest of it lol. So, we'll say the surface area of Nidavellir is 5,410,729 square meters.

Neutron stars don't actually tend to have a particularly high luminosity, with the youngest ones having the highest. From what we know, though, Nidavellir is not a very young neutron star. If it was, it would be very hot, hot enough that the ice wouldn't have been able to form around it, even given the Dyson's sphere containing it. I don't care how good your sphere is, you're not stopping a young neutron star that is 1 million Kelvin from melting ice off of it.

So, this has gotta be an older neutron star. That drops the luminosity even more. When the star is around 1 million Kelvin, the luminosity is around 10% that of the Sun. That's gonna go down more the cooler the neutron star gets.

However, I want to be as generous to Thor as possible. So, instead, we're just gonna say that the 10% of the Sun's luminosity is what we're looking at. In fact, I'll even be extra generous, pretend this is a younger neutron star, and give it 20%.

This leaves Nidavellir's luminosity as 7.656 × 10^25 watts (joules/second).

Now, what is the surface area of Thor? Using Chris Hemsworth's height and weight, we can calculate that his BSA (body surface area) is about 2.3 square meters. Since the star is only hitting his backside, we'll divide this by two to get about 1.15 square meters.

The power per square meter of Nidavellir can be found by dividing its luminosity by its surface area, leaving us with 1.415 × 10^19 watts per square meter.

Now, to see the amount of energy that Thor took on while holding the iris open, we need to multiply the power per square meter by his surface area, by the number of seconds that he endured it. Within Infinity War, he lasts maybe fifty seconds of the few minutes he is supposed to in order to finish the axe. This also mortally wounds him, and he would not survive if not for Groot using his arm as a handle and allowing Thor to heal with the completed Stormbreaker.

I'm gonna be extra extra generous here and say that, considering movie cuts and editing, Thor lasts, in universe, a minute and a half, or 90 seconds.

Let's calculate our energy.

E = power per square meter (W/m^2) × surface area (m^2) × time (s)

E = 1.415 × 10^19 W/m^2 × 1.3 m^2 × 90 s

E = 1.656 × 10^21 joules

At our most generous.

Remember, Thor did survive this, but not really? Like, he would have died if not for Stormbreaker.

Regardless, we can then say that this is about the power that we know Thor can withstand. How does that measure up to what we calculated for Sentry's power? Well, Sentry is about 10^26, or 100 septillion, times stronger.

So, once more, it looks like Sentry comes out on top.

Now, what does any of this actually mean? I don't know. Like I said at the start, we're not talking about abilities or anything like that (because those make things so much more complicated). We're just looking at what we can calculate.

And, with what we can calculate, even when we give those original Avengers as many generous takes as we can (arc reactor output, lifting New York, surviving ninety seconds rather than like fifty), they are still nowhere in the ball park of what we have calculated Sentry's power as.

I like to imagine, in a funnier world, that this is what Valentina meant when she said that Sentry was "stronger than all the Avengers rolled into one," because, if so, she's right.

POV: They don't know I'm stronger than all of the original Avengers combined times 100 septillion (they do)

[ezralva]

This time Together with Maman as school teachers

Caption "Teachers for subjects you're not good at"

What subjects will they teach?

[quotelr]

Whether we like it or not, modern ways are going to alter and in part destroy traditional customs and values.

Werner Heisenberg, Physics and Philosophy: The Revolution in Modern Science

[saltwaterandstars]

JOMP BPC - 27th February - Freebie

I can't recommend this book enough. It's a popular science book offering a brief overview of the key advances in physics over the last century or so. Things like the General Theory of Relativity and Quantum Mechanics, things that non-physicists like me have heard of but don't really know anything about. But also, Carlo Rovelli writes so engagingly about how beautiful and moving and wonder-inspiring scientific exploration can be - and also how human it is. He writes about Einstein's struggles and doubts, for example, and about the place of humility and imagination in scientific progress.

It's a very brief book - 79 pages - and you could read it in one sitting, but I don't recommend that. It's divided into 7 short 'lessons' and the ideas in it are so rich and at times so strange that I think most readers would benefit from time to chew over each lesson before moving onto the next. I read one brief lesson every morning for 7 days and found my mind returning to each one throughout that day. This book was a real treat.

[quirkquill]

''And when no one wakes you up in the morning, and when nobody waits for you at night, and when you can do whatever you want. What do you call it, freedom or loneliness?'' -Charles Bukowski

please comment on this

[crescentmp3]

hi! hi hello

[saltwaterandstars]

Quantum mechanics and experiments with particles have taught us that the world is a continuous, restless swarming of things; a continuous coming to light and disappearance of ephemeral entities.

From Seven Brief Lessons on Physics by Carlo Rovelli. He writes so poetically about physics and the nature of matter and the universe, though of course some of the credit should also go to the translators, Simon Carnell and Erica Segre.

[inspired-lesson-plans]

Do Now: (5-10 min)

Write a video description. Include all important visual information about what happens in the video in order to scientifically analyze the contents of the video as examples of the law of gravity and of Newton's three laws of force.

Guided Learning: (20-30 min)

Provide students with a brief, exemplary video description. Have students use this to take notes.

A large, consistent mass of wood is dropped onto a car in the gravitational conditions of Earth, Moon, Pluto, Uranus, Saturn, Jupiter, and Sun.

Each time, the car is damaged by the collision, then pushed down to the ground, and then bounces back up. But the strength of gravity affects the outcome.

The higher the gravity, the faster the mass of wood falls. And it damages the car more because more force is applied.

In lower gravity, the car bounces higher and the wood bounces off the car as well.

In the sun's gravity, the car is pulled so strongly to the ground that we cannot see it bounce.

Refresh student understanding of the formula for gravitational force between two objects of different masses. Discuss how this force would change if the mass of the small object remains the same but the mass of the large, celestial body varies by whole orders of magnitude.

img source

Discuss how different magnitudes of force would affect the result of the collision of wood -> car -> ground.

Refresh student understanding of Newton's Laws of Force, particularly focusing on 2 and 3. Especially discuss the third law to ensure students understand that a force of identical magnitude and opposite direction is exerted to both objects in a collision.

Higher Order Learning: (remaining time, finish for HW)

Students compose a paragraph explaining how the different gravity conditions lead to the different forces and velocities seen in the video. They must reference the formula for gravitational force and Newton's laws in their explanations.

Afterwards, they should perform the following calculations.

Assume the density of the wood to be 750 kg/m^3 and that there are 10 m^3 of wood in the falling mass.

What is the mass of the wood?

Look up the mass of each of the celestial bodies in the video and use that to calculate the force of gravity between it and the wood.

Extension:

Use your prior knowledge about irony and comic timing to explain what makes the video so fun and engaging, especially at the end.

[borngeniusworld]

Becoming Supernatural by Dr. Joe Dispenza

Becoming Supernatural: How Common People Are Doing the Uncommon by Dr. Joe Dispenza is an influential book that delves into the realms of consciousness, the mind-body connection, and how our thoughts can affect our health and reality. Dispenza blends cutting-edge science with ancient spiritual wisdom, explaining how readers can unlock their own potential for transformation and healing.Book…

[inspired-lesson-plans]

Revisited

& Revised

Science, Middle School, Lab activity, Physical properties, Making observations MS-PS1-2 Analyze and interpret data on the properties of substances before and after the substances interact to determine if a chemical reaction has occurred.

Prep:

Cover a lab bench with painters plastic, destined to be disposed of. Place toothpaste and petroleum jelly on it, with small containers for each to be kept separate and a third, disposable container in which to mix them (with ample supply of stirring sticks).

Bring in objects such as wood, tile, brick, coins, and cardboard. The point is to supply objects of different textures and porosity with which to test the properties of the admixture.

Do Now:

Perform the following in your Lab Journal.

Draw a Venn Diagram of the physical properties of Petroleum Jelly (Vaseline) and Toothpaste. You may draw upon your prior knowledge and also reference the two substances in display at the lab bench. Do not mix them (yet)!

Class Discussion: 

Students share their observations of the properties of each substance, and teacher writes exemplars using academic language such as "adhesive", "cohesive", and "viscous" into a Venn diagram on the board. Once full, the teacher asks students to make predictions about what properties a mixture of both substances would possess, then write them in their Lab Journals. 

Guided Learning: 

Select one student to perpetrate the creation of @inoppositionflorien's Lovecraftian admixture. I suggest asking for volunteers and rolling a die to select one at random, or else follow your own routines.

Dress the volunteer in a full lab coat, gloves, hair tied back and covered, and goggles. Get a picture if possible, as memorabilia. This is a good photo op activity.

Instruct the volunteer to mix 2:1 PJ-TP utilizing volumetric measuring tools (i.e. spoons), then test its application to various surfaces. The remaining students record observations in their Lab Journals.

Students repeat the process with 1:1 and 1:2 (if time permits, you may also try 4:1 and 1:4) until they have sufficient data to answer analysis questions. 

Volunteer (with help) disposes of gloves and other irrevocably tainted objects in the trash, or by binding them with the plastic table cover. 

Higher Order Learning: 

Answer the following analysis questions.

1. How did the physical properties of the substances change when mixed together?

2. Was this a mixture or a solution? How can you tell? 

3. What physical or chemical changes did you observe in the experiment? How do you know what kind it was?

4. What possible applications could this new substance have in normal life? Explain.

Your wish is my command, random advertisement. I don't know what you expect me to do with your devilish concoction, but your wish remains my command.

I need to know what demographic hates this! Dentists? Dermatologists? General Doctors? Counter-Terrorist Organizations? Interpol? The USPS? Grocery Store Employees? The lucrative 18-35 demographic? Will I be put on trial for war crimes? But you don't tell me, you just tell me to mix one with the other and fail to tell me who hates this one weird trick!

Well joke's on you I'm going to do it without looking at your probably actively malicious website, and find out what you're not telling me! If it turns into an explosive, it's entirely on you, random advertisement.

[persnicketypelican]

Winter Weather Current Events and Curriculum Connections

Photo by Egor Kamelev on Pexels.com There are many ways that you can connect with winter weather (snow, ice, albedo effects, winter storms, animal adaptations, and human winter culture) in any science class. Biology and life science classes might explore: winter adaptations, winter ecosystem interactions, animal tracks in the snow, and using snow environmental DNA to track endangered…

[uttarakhand-hub]

Physical science lesson in english || भौतिक विज्ञान पाठ योजना अंग्रेजी में

B.Ed. lesson plan for physical science subject pack of 45 lesson plan physical science best quality Physical Science lesson plan 45 english free lesson plan just see index and download all the lesson plan without paying a penny Best quality Physical science lesson plan Requirement to open Science B.Ed. lesson plan adobe reader or any .pdf reader mobile or desktop computer or laptop and if you…

[inspired-lesson-plans]

Do Now: (5 min)

Turn and Talk.

Why do you think streetlights were deliberately changed from warm yellow to bright white? Why do people have such strong feelings about this? How do you feel about the change? How would you feel if the streetlights in your neighborhood were changed to "bat friendly" red?

Direct Instruction: (10 min)

Refresh prior knowledge:

Physics -> optics, color spectrum, LEDs, electricity demands of light

Biology/Ecology -> function of bats in the ecosystem

Discuss the role of outdoor lighting in modern civic infrastructure, including how technology has led to brighter, whiter lights. Discuss the potential difficulties in advocating for a change to "bat friendly" red lights.

Guided Learning: (10 min)

Students create weighted pro/con lists for the problem statement: Changing street lights from LED bright white to "bat friendly" red.

Students share their pros and cons and the weights, putting them up on the board or a shared Doc. Discuss as groups/class until a consensus arises.

Higher Order Learning: (remaining time)

Students work individually to compose an email to their local representative advocating for or against changing the lighting infrastructure. Be persuasive and reference the relevant science.

Extension:

Research sources to include in your persuasive writing piece. Read them with care to ensure that your information is correct.

Follow-up Lesson:

Use the resources in nwyc.com or another relevant website to find the best representatives and the best writing strategies, then actually send your writing to them.

perhaps some will disagree, but i think the world got worse when we changed the colour of the night

[ssa-dado]

Burgandy Swim Cap

triathlon!Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader Genre: meet-a-cute but you're mainly just ogling at Hotch as he swims in a speedo. Summary: You know those encounters that last, like, five seconds where literally nothing happens but still manage to blossom into a full-blown crush? Yeah. That. Partly because you're chronically single. Partly because you’re starved for attention. Mostly because you saw him in a speedo. A tight speedo. A tight, half-metallic speedo. A tight, half-metallic, very low-waisted speedo. So really, it’s not a crush, it’s cause and effect. Also… he’s a dad. Too. Warnings: objectification of the Hotchner body (called out twice for not having an ass, affectionately), implied age gap, sexual jokes and cuss words Word Count: 4.7k Dado's Corner: I genuinely don’t know how to tag the reader... but she’s giving me fleabag energy… so, uhmmm, let’s roll with that. Huge thanks and smooches to @hotchology for developing and proofreading the snippets I dropped in your dms at 11 pm unprompted 🧎‍♀️

masterlist(s)

It’s not your fault you’re staring out the cafeteria window that just so happens to overlook the pool. You’re literally facing it. What else are you supposed to do - dislocate your neck inhumanly to look the other way?

That window was meant for people-watching.

Specifically, for anxious parents to spy on their kids mid-paddle without interrupting the lesson every time little Aiden coughs. It’s not your fault you’re childless and currently repurposing the feature to ogle burgundy-swim-cap guy in lane four.

You’re just… respecting the building’s original design intent.

You needed the distraction. Desperately.

Because beside you, your friend is once again delivering the extended director’s cut of that five-minute interaction with the guy she’s allegedly, absolutely, 100% over.

The conversation happened three months ago.

You know this.

Because she has broken it down line by line for three months.

Every pause. Every blink.

So maybe you are a bad friend. Possibly a terrible person. Because while she unpacks every microscopic detail of his “Oh, I’m sorry I stepped on your toe”, you’re mentally calculating burgundy-swim-cap guy’s exact height.

From twelve feet up. Through water. And glass.

And okay… maybe it’s not just the height.

Maybe it’s also the length of his... arms.

Arms.

His arms.

Long, sinuous things slicing through the water like art. Like poetry. Like that one ballet you pretended to enjoy but secretly napped through.

This is different. This is science. You’re just appreciating form. Physics. Hydrodynamics, anatomy, geometry… all the -ometrics.

You’re not objectifying. You’re observing. A selfless academic pursuit, really.

Especially when he glides under one, two, three lane dividers in a single breath, back muscles shifting and flexing with each kick.

And God… his back. You can’t stop staring at it.

Wide. Solid. Disproportionately large, especially considering the man has absolutely zero ass. None. Negative ass. Just ten uninterrupted feet of legs. Stunning.

But it’s the manners that do it.

Because the moment he reaches the ladder and sees the lady from lane one headed there too?

He pauses. Actually waits. Even though he got there first. Doesn’t try to squeeze past her or pretend he didn’t see - no, he stops.

Gives her space. Gestures her to go. Looks away, even.

Eyes politely drifting up the tiled wall, to the stands below you where the suburban invasion of moms has taken hold, to the bright flags swaying just behind the cafeteria window -

Until he lifts his head a little too high.

Fuck… did he just catch you mid-stare? You can’t tell. The goggles - those hideous, mirrored cheap goggles - reflect everything and nothing at once.

Maybe he sees you.

Maybe he doesn’t.

Maybe your face is just a blurry little ghost in his periphery.

Either way, your entire body goes hot and rigid. You peel your eyes away - casually, discreetly, nod to your friend to pretend you’re still listening to her - but not entirely.

You still watch. You have to.

Because he’s about to rise from the pool. And you need to see it.

For research purposes.

For the sacred cause of scientific accuracy. You have to confirm if your earlier measurements were correct the moment he steps out of the water.

They weren’t.

Because he’s bigger. So much bigger.

You can’t tell exactly by how much, though, because the moment his biceps flex - thick and veiny - as he hauls himself up the ladder, your brain just… packs its bags and leaves.

Bye.

All higher function is instantly rerouted to the way the water clings to him - refuses to let go, even gravity is struggling to move on.

(Honestly? Fair. You wouldn’t want to let go either… you’re actually kind of jealous.)

Jealous of how those droplets trace his body - how most of them drip obediently, following the grooves of his muscles, but some linger. They pool in the thick mat of dark curls across his chest, clinging for dear life.

And why wouldn’t they? He’s covered in them.

A slick, glistening mess of wet hair clings to his pecs - dark curls matted down and glinting under the pool lights, looking so soft and stupidly biteable you could probably get arrested just for thinking about it.

Then the curls start to gather. Real organized.

Forming this tidy relatively thin line that runs straight down the center of his chest, gliding over the elegant suggestion of abs - not shredded, but sculpted. Classy, if that’s even possible.

The line of hair dips past his belly button and practically screams into your long-gone neural functions: lick here.

(And you would. With honor. For science. For the flag.)

Because then the trail spreads at his waistband, curling out along his obliques, a pair of sirens luring you to the main event: his very, very low-waisted speedo.

Duo-chrome. Black and something... metallic. Wicked.

The black half pretends to behave.

It lies to your face, “Look at me, look at me,” it says. “I’m discreet. I’m functional. I’m keeping things tasteful.”

But it’s a filthy little traitor. Because right next to it, the metallic side is doing everything but staying subtle. It wasn’t camouflaging a damn thing.

Topography: fully visible. The contour. The definition. The godforsaken outline.

Traceable. With a pencil.

Or your tongue.

Preferably your tongue.

Preferably slow. Possibly kneeling. Definitely grateful.

Because whatever anatomical miracle is happening beneath that lycra – truly might be the eighth wonder of the world built between two hipbones.

These are sickeningly good dick proportions.

Burgandy Swim Cap guy peels off the ugly goggles.

Be fucking damned. That is a hell of a face.

The suction rings frame his eyes - tender little indents where he clearly strapped those goggles too tight.

He’s a try-hard.

A confirmed overachiever - you can tell. It’s in the way he did those laps earlier - efficient, ruthless, mechanical - and in the speed too. Like every stroke was on a timer. Like there was something at stake.

Is burgundy-swim-cap guy training for something?

Maybe he’s a professional swimmer.

Maybe he’s training for a triathlon. The 2012 Olympics in London. A shot at some world record no one else cares about.

Maybe he’s an eldest son.

Maybe he’s got a dad who never said “I’m proud of you” without a follow-up critique.

Maybe he’s still trying to earn praise that never came.

Maybe it’s daddy issues - maybe it’s mommy issues. Issues… in general.

Maybe he’s spent his whole life needing to be exceptional just to feel enough.

Maybe he’s been through a heartbreak. A divorce. A loss.

Maybe he just has a lot of feelings and refuses to talk about any of them unless he’s actively swimming them to death.

Or maybe he’s just that guy - the kind who doesn’t do anything unless he can do it at 120%, even when no one’s watching. Especially when no one’s watching.

Maybe he holds himself to impossible standards because he doesn’t know how not to. Who swims like this because it’s the one place he can fail in private.

Who knows. Who cares.

He’s just a guy.

A man.

A stranger you’ve never even spoken to.

You don’t know his name, his voice, anything.

And yet, there’s something about him.

Something in the slope of his nose, in the way his flushed cheeks are still chasing the rhythm of his pulse, in the rise and fall of his chest. It’s not bodybuilder-big, not exaggerated - but it feels massive.

Maybe it’s just because it’s him.

Because every breath he takes stretches that hairy chest just a little wider, a little broader, until the space around you feels like it’s shrinking, like there’s not enough air left in the room that isn’t his.

You’re fine. You are totally fine.

You’re also clenching your thighs for absolutely no reason. None.

Until - he removes the burgundy swim cap.

Now you do have a reason.

Because beneath it is this obscene head of raven-black hair.

Thick. Damp. Unruly.

Some of it’s clinging to his forehead, but the rest is sticking out in a thousand different directions like it doesn’t give a single shit about streamlining or aerodynamics.

He looks deliciously messy.

But he doesn’t let it stay.

No, he runs his hand through it almost immediately, slicking it back, a man who cannot stand the chaos of hair across his eyes, he can’t stand being out of place.

Control freak. Freak in general.

That tracks.

Still hot.

Hotter.

And still, he doesn’t play to the crowd.

He could - he should - scan the room, make eye contact, maybe throw in a wink or a casual flex. He could at least give a nod to the fact that half the people on this side of the glass are currently 1,461 words deep into mentally drafting smutty fiction with him as the main character.

But no.

He just looks down, slides into his pathetic little (from where you’re standing… sitting.) pool slippers, and rushes toward the changing rooms like he’s late to something.

A loser. An absolute loser.

It’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.

You’re completely captivated - so much so that, when your friend finally finishes her emotional postmortem and disappears down the corridor toward the pool, you subtly change seats to get a better view of the hallway.

A strategic move, just in case burgundy-swim-cap guy decides he’s earned a post-swim coffee after all that aquatic foreplay you projected onto him from the safety of your horny little imagination.

Well. You’re getting coffee, at least. You deserve a reward. A hot, mildly burnt one.

You’ve been through a lot.

Except it’s possibly the worst line you’ve ever stood in because you had the genius idea to go for caffeine at the exact same time the children’s swim class ended.

Now you’re trapped - shoulder to shoulder with a damp, shrieking mob of underdeveloped humans all demanding hot dogs, pizza, cheeseburgers, and, from the look in one child’s eyes, possibly the cashier’s soul.

You’ve entered a purgatory of sticky fingers and pure indecision, where time slows and the line somehow clogs even more with every passing second.

It’s not their fault - children are absolute demons in Crocs. They don’t know what they want. They pause. They backtrack.

One child is negotiating for “just the cheese from the cheeseburger, but on a hot dog bun,” and you are watching, in real time, the unraveling of Western civilization.

…You hate that you respect the innovation.

It’s fine. You’re fine.

You just really, really don’t want to miss Burgundy Swim Cap Guy if he happens to pass by - maybe in jeans, maybe (if there’s any justice left in the universe) grey sweatpants, or a hoodie two sizes too big.

Something casual. Unassuming.

Something that dares to cover everything you now know is under there - and somehow makes it worse.

Something that’s the reason your mouth is dry and you’re stuck in this line, mentally begging for something warm to wrap your lips around and feel vaguely hydrated again.

You’re trying to be patient. You’re trying not to hate the one kid crying because his juice is too red and his dad fumbling with his wallet.

You’re a monster. The worst kind of person.

These kids are innocent.

They’re not responsible for the slow-burn, will-they-won’t-they fantasy you’ve constructed entirely in your touch-starved brain - just to distract yourself from the fact that you haven’t been held in actual, human arms in months, your last situationship ended because they “forgot they weren’t single,” the closest thing you’ve had to intimacy this year was a barista remembering your name – once - and, okay, technically there was also that one time a man with a van asked if you “liked adventure,” but you don’t count that unless you're feeling especially pathe-

“That’ll be $2.50,” says the cashier.

Snaps you instantly back to the cruel reality where the only thing you're taking home tonight is a stupid plastic bracelet that’s already cutting into your wrist and the lingering scent of disinfectant.

(Good luck taking that away.)

You hand him a twenty.

He looks at you, deadpan, like he’s about to ask if your sad little wallet also holds the answer to the mental math problem he just did in half a second - the kind of calculation only a man with a degree in math or engineering could do, now tragically stuck working in a depressing public pool cafeteria.

Not even a cool street café. No latte art. No jazz music. Just chlorine and despair.

You give him a sheepish half-smile.

The twenty is all you had.

Okay - technically you had 50 cents too.

Maybe.

In loose change that’s probably fused with gum wrappers and lint at the bottom of your bag but explaining that feels like a one-way ticket to having a burnt cappuccino tossed in your face.

It’s 2011. Surely cafeterias still carry change.

…Apparently not.

“Card?” he asks.

You have exactly $1.78 on your card. You know this because you checked this morning, like the responsible adult you pretend to be.

This is bad.

This is humiliating.

This is the exact kind of character-building moment that turns into a core memory your brain will randomly replay at 3 a.m. for the next seven years.

The kids behind you are screaming. (Except one. One child is calmly and confidently negotiating a pizza-inside-a-burger situation with his father, who looks like he lost custody in the divorce and also in this conversation.)

And then there are the dads, too. You can feel them. Judging you.

You don’t even need to turn around.

Which is a shame, really. Because you love dads. You’re hopelessly, helplessly, filthily attracted to dads.

Hot dads? Daddy dads? Men with crow’s feet and deep voices who say things like “I’ll take care of it” and mean it? Slightly emotionally unavailable men with strong forearms, guilt complexes, and unresolved trauma they process exclusively through precision lawn edging and Sunday barbecue duty?

Inject that straight into your bloodstream.

You want them tired. You want them emotionally repressed. You want them to carry patio furniture like it weighs nothing and grunt when they sit down. You want to be a problem.

But these dads?

Their suburban dad disapproval is so potent it might as well be playing on loop over the intercom right between announcements for lost goggles and swim meet fundraisers.

These dads would ask about your five-year plan, nod thoughtfully, then ghost you via a LinkedIn message.

These dads are not for you.

These dads can go.

And so you panic. Sweat. Freeze. Until-

A hand.

A large hand.

Chubby-fingered, hairy, left-handed and wrapped in the crisp white cuff of a very expensive white shirt, peeking out from an even more expensive black suit jacket.

There’s a Rolex on his wrist. A real one.

That same hand, gentle and unbothered, slides a credit card (which looks comically small in those thick fingers, by the way) right into the reader, where $2.50 is already floating on the screen.

“I got it,” says a voice.

Oh.

Oh no.

It’s deep. Unreasonably deep. The kind of voice that should be illegal before noon.

And soft, too, absurdly soft for how deep it is because the vibrations travel straight from your ear to your… there. There, there.

You turn. Slowly.

And there he is.

A man.

(Surprise!)

Not just a man – a Man. Capital M, bolded, underlined, possibly trademarked if your bank account could handle the licensing fee.

He’s in a suit. In a full suit. Black jacket. White shirt. Burgundy tie.

You blink… wait is that- no way.

It’s him.

It’s Burgundy Swim Cap Guy.

Now in Burgundy Tie.

He matched.

Goddamn it. What a loser. What a hot, meticulous loser.

Oh, Burgundy Swim Cap man.

Yeah, let’s get that correction in there. Man.

Because up close, in proper daylight and expensive tailoring, he’s clearly way older than he looked in the pool. Deliciously older kind of old.

… And here you thought he was your age. (You were wrong. Again.)

All the better.

You barely recognize him in this polished version of himself - drenched in a cologne that costs more than your monthly grocery budget and somehow isn’t obnoxious.

It’s that expensive.

It’s not that aquatic bullshit guys in finance wear.

No. It’s warm. Inviting. Woodsy. A little smoky.

Expensive in the way that makes you want to bury your face in his neck and inhale until you black out while pretending you weren’t about to fall in love over his clavicle. (Yeah… too specific?)

And beneath it - just a trace - chlorine.

God help you.

You’re going to die here.

He even has a cowlick. A perfectly smoothed cowlick.

The kind that clearly took time, effort, wrist action, and probably a round brush.

He blow-dries.

He has a routine. A regimen. He has systems.

He’s probably terrifying in the morning. The kind of man who folds things. The kind who knows where his passport is right now.

Now, now.

But now he’s looking at you, brows thick, slightly furrowed.

Do you have something on your face? No. Can’t be.

No, you’ve just been staring at him like a feral raccoon. You still haven’t spoken.

…right.

“…Thank you,” you manage, barely audible - just as his phone starts ringing in his jacket pocket.

Drowned out by technology. Your gratitude swallowed by a default ringtone, who would have ever guessed.

He pulls the phone out, and just before he lifts it to his ear, you catch something - someone’s voice on the other end. A name? His? Yes they’re calling him it must’ve been his. Something clipped, ending in -chh or -shhh.

Josh?

Oh. Huh.

…Kind of disappointing.

You thought his name would be more... posh. Like something that comes with personalized cufflinks and generational trauma

….but Josh? That’s a guy who texts “you up?” at 11:48 PM from his blackberry pearl.

You hoped for more… syllables.

Whatever. What really surprises you is that Burgundy Swim Cap Man-slash-Josh-slash-Posh doesn’t say a word during the call. Not one.

He just holds the phone to his ear and stares - intensely - at a spot inside the glass food display. Not blinking. Not moving.

You’re genuinely concerned for the sandwich he’s glaring at. (It’s about five seconds away from bursting into flames.)

And you - you ache for that stare.

You want it on you. Burn it into your skin. You’d commit actual, punishable crimes for that kind of violent visual attention.

“Garcia, send me the files. We’ll brief the team as soon as I arrive,” he says - voice all business, clipped, calm, so authoritative it almost makes you bite your lip on reflex.

Then the phone disappears back into his pocket like it’s never existed, and without missing a beat: “An Americano, please.”

…Why doesn’t this surprise you? Could he be any more predictably boring? Go on, order a plain bagel and a side of unseasoned guilt while you’re at it.

But his eyes flick to the pastry shelf instead.

Brows furrow, slightly, sexily, offensively; he’s clearly doing some kind of emotional calculus about whether his swim earned him the moral right to a treat.

(He probably didn’t get many growing up.)

“And, uh… can I get the rainbow muffin to go?” he says, pointing with his chubby index finger toward the kids' menu.

You follow it (like an idiot).

And there it is. The muffin. Rainbow-sprinkled. Rainbow dough. Probably tastes like chemical vanilla. Pastel wrapper. Comes with a bubble blower, too.

A muffin. With a toy.

…This man.

You hate him. You want him. You’d marry him on sight.

He picks up the phone again. Dials. Calm. Efficient.

“Hey, can you pass me to Jack?” he says.

The frown - just a flicker ago, all sharp lines and no-nonsense jaw - melts. His face softens like he’s been flipped to a different setting and you actually flinch a little because how is that the same face?

“Hey, buddy.”

Oh. God, his voice. It goes soft. Stupidly soft.

“I’ve gotta be at work a little earlier today,” he murmurs, gently gripping the phone. “But I got you something… did you finish your homework?”

May you be absolutely, irreparably damned.

He’s a dad.

“Good job, buddy. I’m coming home soon, okay? Got you a surprise,” He glances down at the rainbow muffin. A little fond. A little sad, even. “Yes, you can do movie night with Aunt Jessica if I don’t manage to be there tonight…”

You wander how many other movie nights he missed.

“Yes, buddy,” he chuckles (you want to bite through drywall), “No, I didn’t forget the popcorn this time. You can have them with Aunt Jessica, she knows where they are… Yes, with salted caramel too. But don’t eat too much, alright?”

He pauses. Adds, with a soft little dad scold, “Make Aunt Jessica have some too this time. Save a few for Daddy, okay?”

Daddy.

Your knees give out.

No, not literally. You keep standing. But spiritually? Morally? Muscularly? You’ve dropped to the floor.

And then, casually, cruelly, he reaches for his coffee. With his ringless - yes, ringless - hand.

Not that you’re thinking about it. Not that you noticed. Not that you checked. Twice.

“Alright, buddy, I gotta go,” he says. His voice lowers again, not serious, just softer. Like he doesn’t want to hang up but he’s used to having to. “I’ll see you tonight. Be good, okay?” And then he smiles. To his phone. Like his whole face is a love letter.

Dimples. Of course. Of course this man has dimples. A loser dad with dimples.

“Love you too, bud”

And that’s it.

Phone call over.

You should walk away. You want to walk away.

But now you’re locked in that awkward limbo of mutual acknowledgment - the cursed micro-social contract that binds all humans in public spaces: you made eye contact, you must now exchange a minimum of one sentence to confirm shared reality.

He turns to you.

You are sweating. You are visibly short-circuiting.

No one is saying anything.

Fuck.

You shouldn’t have listened to his very personal call to his very personal son.

You shouldn’t have looked.

You shouldn’t have stared so hard you could recite the ingredients list on that muffin.

Fuck.

His shoulders look even broader in the suit.

Not just handsome - no, broad. Imposing.

Too bad the slacks are hiding his massi-

“The bubble blower’s for my kid,” he says, suddenly.

A preemptive strike. A full-grown man in what has to be his mid-40s, clarifying that he is not, in fact, personally invested in aquatic toy acquisition.

Funny, though - he didn’t feel the need to defend the rainbow pastry.

Interesting.

Bad for him.

“The muffin’s for the dad instead?” You nod toward the sad pastel pile in his hand.

(You’re a bit of a mean flirt - not because you’re heartless, but because it’s the only way you know how to hold on to a little power when someone makes your brain turn to mush.)

If you can’t stop yourself from falling for them, at least you can make sure they’re a little off-balance, too.

“If the dad’s lucky, he’ll probably get just a bite,” he replies, deadpan - like, completely expressionless except for the slight raise of his eyebrows at the end. You don’t even know where the voice came from. His mouth barely moved.

…Ventriloquism, probably.

Then he glances down at the linoleum floor. Smiles, almost shy.

“My son has a sweet tooth.”

Fucking hell.

This man is gushing about his kid to a total stranger in a pool cafeteria. No hesitation. No shame.

You are two seconds away from him flipping open his photo gallery and showing you twenty-five nearly identical pictures of a child covered in chocolate frosting, all while holding the phone in those massive hands.

God, his hands.

You really need to stop noticing them.

“Get a muffin for yourself too,” you say, tossing it out like a joke. Half-meaning it. Mostly-meaning it.

He chuckles, raises a hand, shaking his head. “Oh no…”

“Scared of food coloring?”

“No, no,” he laughs again. “Just…” He shrugs. Doesn’t finish. Leaves it there, hanging.

Is it because he doesn’t think he deserves a little treat?

Or because he’s afraid of getting that crisp, probably dry-clean-only shirt stained with rainbow frosting?

“How much is one rainbow muffin?” you ask the cashier.

(You two are best friends in your head now.)

He barely looks up. Dead inside. “One seventy.”

(This friendship might be one-sided.)

You blink.

$1.70 for frozen dough and a toy that doubles as a choking hazard… meanwhile, your cappuccino cost more than a gallon of gas.

Fucked up economy for real.

Then you glance at the cashier’s hands… he’s already typing it in.

Okay. Take it back.

That’s the real sign of late-stage capitalism: rainbow muffin doesn’t even require your consent to be rung up… but hey, at least you can afford it.

You’ve never been happier to be $1.70 poorer in your entire adult life.

You pull out your card.

He notices.

He pulls his, too.

Two cards. One slit. (Now this reminds you of your browser history from last night-)

“No, please, I got it,” he says - again.

Oh no, a damsel mustn’t pay for herself. (You hate him. You want to climb him like a tree.)

Watch her do it anyway. With confidence and $1.78 in her account.

You both arrive at the card reader at the exact same time.

Hands bump. Wrists brush. The tension is… stupid.

It’s awkward. It’s ridiculous. It’s… romantic?

Maybe.

Or maybe you’re just touch-starved.

Still-

You win.

Swipe clean. Transaction approved.

Victory, feminism, and low blood sugar all in one swipe.

“Enjoy the bubbles,” you say, smiling as you hand him the pastry and the overpriced soapy water.

He takes it, eyes flicking between you and the muffin, and for a second he gives you that look.

That slightly tired, slightly amused look men give right before they tell you you’ve done something reckless. Or charming. Or both.

He looks like he’s about to scold you. Fatherly. Disgustingly (hot).

He doesn’t.

“Sure,” he says, deadpan. “I’ll cherish them.” (Who even uses ‘cherish’ in the 21st century?!) And then, at the very end of it, a smile. Small. Real.

He opens his mouth again, “I-”

A breath.

“I have to go.”

One last smile. Quick. Tight.

And he’s already turning. Already halfway to the exit.

You stare.

Helpless.

Unwell.

For a second, you hope this modern-day Cinderella in a suit might drop one of his wildly expensive Italian leather dress shoes so you’ll have something to hunt him down with across D.C.

Track him by scent and shoe size.

But no. The shoe stays on.

He probably triple-knots them like the terrifying overachiever he is.

He does stop, though - just for a second - to check the time on his very expensive Rolex.

Hot. Unforgivably hot.

This brief, chaotic muffin-flavored detour has probably set him back exactly one minute and twenty-one seconds, and you know he’s internally recalculating his entire schedule down to the microsecond.

And yes, the panic is subtle. But it’s there.

In the clench of his jaw. The twitch of his temple. That microscopic furrow in his brow that says: How dare I entertain myself with flirtatious nonsense when I have 7,000 emails to check by 5 P.M.

Incredible. You’ve rattled a man with a watch that costs more than your rent. You’ve won.

You are going to be insufferable about this when your friend finishes her class.

Forget “stepped on your toe” guy. That man is dead to the narrative.

This dad is going to be the main character of every single conversation you have for the next four months.

You will tell her everything. Every glance. Every gesture. The muffin. The bubble blower. The nonexistent ass. From the moment you first locked eyes with this burgundy-swim-cap man named-

“…Aaron,” the cashier mutters.

You blink. “What?”

“That’s his name,” he says flatly. “Aaron. He comes here a lot.”

The cashier really doesn’t get paid enough for this.

Aaron.

Wow.

Two syllables.

“FBI,” he even adds casually, like it’s no big deal, as he hands a slice of pizza tucked inside a cheeseburger to a damp-haired five-year-old.

So.

Aaron owns a pair of handcuffs.

Government-issued. Handcuffs.

That tracks.

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